Читать книгу Detective Carson Ryder Thriller Series Books 4-6: Blood Brother, In the Blood, Little Girls Lost - J. Kerley A. - Страница 28

I went back to the hotel that night reflecting on my brief time with a living, breathing, happy Folger. I had felt an attraction to her, I realized, a roiling in my guts that I didn’t in any way need.

For a year or so, I’d kept close company with Clair Peltier, the head of pathology for the Alabama Bureau of Forensics. Our early fires had banked into warm coals these days, as we discovered we were closer as friends than as lovers. Still, the physical relationship was something we’d had to experience in order to discover we were destined to be friends. New Age-y sorts would call us soul mates I suppose, beings who have crossed several lifetimes together, and who can now communicate about everything through a glance and a gesture.

I’d called her earlier to see if she’d speak to Waltz’s NYPD forensics guy. Our conversation made me recall how comfortable we were, and that the relationship was what I enjoyed at the moment.

Still, thinking of Folger made my heart race. So I pulled on my running shoes and shorts. Time to switch my head off, wear my body down. I did a few minutes of cleansing breathing, trying to regain the calm I’d felt at Alice Folger’s house, then beat feet from the hotel aiming south, picking up speed, feeling the night slide by like cool water.

My calves gave out about the time my breath did and I pulled up short on a slender street somewhere in the East Village or Lower East Side. My hands were on my knees and I was sucking hard breaths when my phone rang.

“Yeh-he?” I wheezed instead of spoke, sounding like Cluff.

“Ryder? Is that you? I didn’t hear what you said.”

“Folger?” I gasped.

“You OK? You sound –”

“Running. Winded. Gimme sec.”

“Where are you?”

“South of … hotel somewhere. Zig-zagged all over. Probably lost.”

“Check a street sign. Hurry.”

I half-jogged, half-limped to a pair of street signs. “I’m at Prince and Elizabeth. I see a church spire a block down.”

“Old Saint Pat’s, northwest of you. Can you grab a cab? There’ll be cabs on Houston, north of Prince.”

I saw a flow of headlights and taillights a block away. “I see the traffic. Could you tell me what this is –”

“Hustle, please. Here’s the address …”

Folger answered my shave-and-a-haircut knock dressed in exercise shorts and a filmy sleeveless top. Brown leather moccasins on her feet. There was a nine millimeter semi-auto in her hand, aimed at the floor.

“You always arm yourself for company?” I said.

She put her hand on my back to usher me into the living room, then leaned out the door, her eyes scanning the street in both directions before ducking inside.

“I saw a face at the window. Someone was looking inside. When I checked, no one was there. But look …”

She set the nine down and picked up a high-intensity flashlight from a small table. She opened the door and steadied the beam on the deadbolt. I scoped out the left keyhole, saw scratches cut through the faux-antique finish.

“Lock pick, you think?” she asked. “Sure looks like it to me.”

I slid my fingernail over the scratches. Fairly deep, considering the hardness of the finish. “What were you doing when it happened?” I asked.

“Checking the weather before taking a shower and tottering off to beddy-bye. I’ve been tracking an ENSO and it’s –”

“ENSO?”

“El Nino-Southern Oscillation episode, a disruption of normal tropical precipitation that …” She caught herself, shifted back to the problem at hand. “I had the Weather Channel on. When I shut down the computer and turned off the TV, I heard the scratches. I heard someone yell, ‘Hey you! I see you!’ A deep, hard voice. Scary. I went for my weapon, crept low toward the windows. Looked out and saw nothing. It took thirty, forty seconds for me to get from the desk to the door.”

“You see who called out?”

“No. A guy with a big voice. Probably saw someone at the door, yelled. Didn’t want to hang around and get involved. Good for him, anyway.”

“Why didn’t you call your people? Bullard. Cluff. Anyone. You’ve got the whole NYPD at your beck and call.” I paused, had one of those cartoon-lightbulb-over-the-head moments, smiled gently. “You didn’t want to seem upset in front of your people, so you called the Mobile Police.”

“No … I mean, yes. It would have been embarrassing. There’s been strangeness happening for a couple of weeks.” Her eyes studied mine. “You’ve got the sense, right? The tingle when things aren’t what they seem?”

“The cop sense? I have my share.”

The cop sense is when you know things by the feel of the air. Or a shiver in the spine. Or a twitching in the gut that says something’s off. Harry hears a distant siren in his head.

Folger’s long bare legs scissored across the room to the window. She was dressed for lazing around the house, braless, her tidy breasts bobbing beneath the thin fabric. She studied the street, turned to me.

“I’ve had a screwy feeling. Like I’m being watched.”

“Found anything to back it up?”

“I saw a parked car someone might be watching from, but it zoomed off. I feel eyes. But when I turn my head, nothing.” Folger spun a finger at her temple. “Maybe I should run you back to your hotel before they lock me in the loony bin.”

“You never saw anyone?”

“Just shadows. A few days back I was running in the park and the feeling was strong as it gets. I lost my cool and acted like an idiot. When I spun and saw a big guy jump behind some bushes, I ran over and dragged him out.”

“What happened?”

“Guy had a terrified look on his face and a leash in his hand. His mutt had jumped at a cat, broke the leash clip. The poor bastard was trying to find his dog.” She hung her head. “I’m not kidding, Ryder. Maybe I am going nuts.”

“Thinking you’re going crazy is the best protection against going crazy. You recently have a tough breakup with a significant other?”

She pushed a loose lock of dark hair behind an ear and laughed without humor. “I vaguely recall dating. Isn’t there a movie involved? Dinner?”

“You piss off anyone in the line of duty?”

“Almost daily. Perps and colleagues both. But I racked my mind on perps and ruled it out. That leaves going bonkers.”

She sat on the couch heavily, dropped her chin in her hands, sighed. I sat beside her, on my own separate couch cushion. As per Old South tradition, one could have fitted a Bible between our respective thighs, making it proper. A stack of holy tomes, however, would have done nothing to blunt the scent of her perfume as it mingled with the scent of her fear, an olfactory cannonball that blasted me into dizziness. I turned my eyes from her hands, her thighs, her lap, spoke to the far wall.

“Shelly tells me you’re very smart and intuitive. I think you’d know whether or not you’re being followed.”

“That’s sweet of Waltz. I think he’s amazing. I just wish he seemed happier.”

I told her Koslowski’s story about how a laughing Waltz used to brighten a bar by walking through the door.

“What made him so unhappy?”

“Koslowski didn’t know, just that the Waltz of long ago was a lot happier than the Waltz of today.”

She put her feet up on the coffee table, shifted her body an inch my way. “I guess everyone has secrets,” she said. “Even Shelly Waltz. Speaking of secrets, I don’t expect to hear anyone talking about my weather obsession. Thanks in advance.”

“You just lost me,” I said.

“After you left this afternoon, I realized how goofy it must have seemed – me chattering about frontal systems, getting lost in the weather. I figured you’d tell people on the force. Like, ‘Hey, guys, you won’t believe what Folger does at home. She’s queer for clouds.’ Then I realized you’re not like that. I misjudged you and I apologize.”

“You didn’t know me. And love of weather isn’t an obsession, Alice. It’s cool.”

She tipped my way another inch or so. “You really, truly don’t think it’s weird?”

I picked up her hand, held it between mine. “You’re fascinated by the science of climatology. Weather’s everywhere.”

She looked at our hands. Her body tipped closer until our shoulders touched and I felt her warmth, smelled the wild spices of her body. Her lips softened. “Whoops. Here’s honest-to-gosh proof I’m weirding out.”

“What’s that?” I whispered.

Her lips parted and moved toward mine.

Jeremy Ridgecliff leaned forward and tapped the taxi driver on the shoulder.

“We can go now, Ludis. I think it’s time for a repast.”

“Re-what?”

“I’m hungry. I’m so very hungry lately.”

“YOU SEE WHAT YOU WANT HERE AGAIN? FOR YOUR MOVIE?”

“I think some pivotal scenes will be shot here. Take me to a restaurant. Italian. Candlelight.”

“We drive in LITTLE ITALY! Look in restaurant windows for candles, how that work? Maybe see PRETTY GIRLS. I know you LOVE looking at the girls.”

Ridgecliff studied the streets, shops, houses, entranced at what was there for the seeing.

“Beauty, Ludis. There’s so much of it out here.”

“WHAT YOU MEAN? Out here where?”

“On this side of the wall. No, don’t ask. Find me some candles.”

As the cab pulled from the curb, Jeremy Ridgecliff took a final glance at the brownstone with the lovely window boxes. His stomach growled, and he laughed.