Читать книгу Detective Carson Ryder Thriller Series Books 4-6: Blood Brother, In the Blood, Little Girls Lost - J. Kerley A. - Страница 22

I stepped to the front of the room, feeling the stares.

“First order of business …” I said. “Forget the homeless camp; he’ll be a forever no-show. Then shitcan any searches in the other boroughs. Ridgecliff won’t leave Manhattan.”

Bullard said, “Total bullshit. The loony will hide wherever he can find a –”

“Zip it, Detective,” Folger said. She shot a glance at Waltz, then dropped the big eyes back on me. “Waltz told me your hunch that Ridgecliff would stay in Manhattan. I didn’t believe Waltz then, I don’t believe you now. Here’s your chance to change my mind with actual proof.”

“There is no proof with Ridgecliff, Lieutenant. You get my gut instincts. Right now they’re the best thing you’ve got.”

Bullard slapped the desk. “We’re the fucking NYPD, Ryder. We don’t need your gut inst—”

“Shut up,” Folger snapped at Bullard. “Tell me about Ridgecliff, Ryder. Have your gut sing me a song.”

I started pacing the floor, snapping my fingers, skin tingling, hairs prickling on the back of my neck, a hunger in my innards that had nothing to do with food. I had what Harry called the predator’s rush, the mind energizing the body for the hunt.

“Ridgecliff will only leave Manhattan if he’s cornered. He’s not cornered, so he’s here. To leave would be perceived as a loss of face.”

Bullard said, “Makes no fucking sense. Why would Brooklyn or Queens be a loss of face?”

“It would be a retreat, signifying we had control.”

“The ego thing,” Waltz affirmed.

Folger said, “Refresh my memory. How much time did you spend with this guy over the years?”

I pretended to make calculations in my head. “Upwards of a hundred hours, Lieutenant. Enough to know how he thinks.”

Bullard snorted. “How Ridgecliff thinks? Christ. How long are we going to listen to this psychobubba bullshit?”

Folger said, “Get out, Detective Bullard.”

“Huh?”

“Out. Go work one of your other cases.”

Bullard reddened, started to argue. Folger held her finger up like a warning flare and Bullard slunk away, shooting me angry backward glances, like everything was my fault. Folger closed the door at Bullard’s back. She leaned against the green wall and crossed her arms, aiming the liquid browns at me.

“OK, Ryder, you own the floor. Give us your take.”

“Forget the bum disguise, he’d consider it demeaning. Plus it positions him in a social stratum often targeted by law enforcement. He’ll pick a social station above police work.”

When Cluff grunted disbelief, I said, “Who would you rather roust: a skid-row crackhead or a guy wearing an Armani suit?”

Cluff nodded grudgingly. “The suit might have a wise-ass lawyer to make my life miserable.”

“Ridgecliff knows that. And that dressing like money might buy him time to book.”

“Or push a knife in your heart,” Cluff noted.

Folger said, “So no blue-collar disguise either?”

“He’ll be a businessman type. It’s a broad category, but it’ll allow him to dress upscale. There’s another reason: Ridgecliff’s been forced to wear variations on pajamas and sweatsuits for fourteen years, institutional clothing. He wants to look good.”

“Ego again,” Waltz said. “I’m beginning to get it.”

For the first time since I’d landed at LaGuardia, I felt in control. Of my mind. Of my choices. Of my direction. Fear, guilt, sorrow, self-pity, all had somehow been pushed to the walls, and the electricity of the hunt danced alone on center floor.

“What color suit is he wearing right now?” Cluff asked, sarcasm thick in his voice. “Solid? Pinstripe?”

“How about double breasted?” Waltz said. “It worked for George Metesky.”

Cluff frowned. “Metesky? The Mad Bomber?”

“It was 1956. The Mad Bomber had been on the loose for over fifteen years. The NYPD, completely lost, asked psychiatrist James Brussel to profile the Bomber. Brussel suggested the perp’s approximate age, demeanor, origin … even predicted the Bomber would be wearing a double-breasted suit when he got nailed.”

Cluff held up his hands in protest. “You ain’t gonna tell me that really happened.”

“It didn’t. When Metesky was arrested at his home, he was wearing pajamas.”

Cluff said, “Ha!”

“It was before being taken to jail,” Waltz added, “that Metesky slipped into the double-breasted suit he always wore.”

Cluff looked at Waltz, then at me. He held up his hands again, but this time it was more like surrender.

Folger said, “Does your gut explain how Ridgecliff’s paying for this little vacation, Ryder? We’ve been keeping an eye on credit-card thefts, can’t tie anything to him. And I don’t recall any big bank robberies lately. It’s not like he can go to the ATM and take fifty grand from his account.”

“The money isn’t important, Lieutenant. He’ll have come up with it. Probably through a scam, a con game.”

“An insane guy can build a big con in a few days?”

I said, “You’re thinking of a man who’s crazy first, logical second. Ridgecliff’s in reverse. He’s logical, brilliant, a superb conversationalist and utterly charming. He knows people inside and out. Knows how to press their buttons.”

“The smart guy gets what he wants, then the demon pops out and starts killing?” Folger said.

I nodded. “I think it’s come to that.”