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

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ said, “How so, Detective Bullard?”

      “Prowse was under Ridgecliff’s total control, right? Who doesn’t believe that? Show of hands.”

      No hands went up. Bullard continued.

      “I saw the reports from the nut basket, the Institute or whatever. Ridgecliff’s a whack job, but he’s probably the Einstein of whack jobs.”

      “Your point, Detective?” Folger said.

      “In the video recording, Prowse looks scared. What if Prowse didn’t make the recording on her own? What if Ridgecliff was behind the camera flashing one of those knives he loves?”

      “It’s a possibility,” Folger nodded. “Maybe a big one. And?”

      “Then it wasn’t Prowse that wanted Ryder here. Ridgecliff did.”

      I felt the sudden weight of every eye in the room. Bullard’s point was a damn good one, and I realized he might be a jerk, but he wasn’t a dim bulb.

      “Reflections on that idea, Ryder?” Folger asked, arms crossed. “That it’s Ridgecliff who wants you here?”

      “A good theory,” I said, nodding to Bullard, credit where credit’s due. “But if Ridgecliff’s so smart, why would he want me in New York? I was the one who ID’d him, after all.”

      “He sent the blind guy to you,” Bullard said. “Why?”

      “Once he saw the picture in the Watcher and knew I was here, he had to make contact. It was pure hubris.”

      “Pure whatsis?”

      “Pride,” Waltz interrupted. “Sociopaths are ego machines, part of their delusion being they’re smarter than everyone else.” He paused. “Ridgecliff has some actual claim there.”

      “He was pissing on my shoes,” I explained. “Rubbing my face in the fact that he knows I’m here and he thinks there’s nothing I can do.”

      But Jeremy always had a subtext. Was it my brother’s way of saying good-bye, a last fond knock on the kid’s head before he slipped into the persona that was consuming him? What, exactly, had my brother tried to convey through Parks’s message?

      “We might also consider the opposite,” Waltz said. “Let’s say Ridgecliff believes you’re the only one outside of Dr Prowse who knows how he thinks. Maybe he does want you here. He can’t do a thing if you’re in Mobile.”

      I stared, not grasping the implication.

      “Don’t be obtuse, Ryder,” Folger said. “Waltz is suggesting Ridgecliff brought you here to kill you.”

      “What? Why?”

      “Maybe he figures he’ll be free from then on.”

      The door banged open. A dick named Perlstein ran into the room, breathless, waving a page of notes. “We got a fix on him. Ridgecliff. Or at least we know where Ridgecliff’s been hiding. A homeless shanty town by the docks. Sleeping in a box. The precinct cops found people who remember him. Forensics just pulled his prints off a cereal box and a pop bottle.”

      “He’s trying to blend in with the homeless,” Cluff said. “He can add or lose clothes, fatten his shape or go skinnier, hide his face. He can eat at churches, soup kitchens. Panhandle money.”

      “I’ll update the BOLO,” Folger said. “What was he last seen wearing?”

      Perlstein frowned at his notes. “It keeps changing. A green raincoat. A pair of overalls. A blue sweater and plaid pants. Black boots. Leather sandals. Purple running shoes.”

      “That covers half the homeless in New York,” Waltz noted, not hiding skepticism.

      “We’ve got a basic fix,” Folger defended. “Check every bum on the street. The info on Ridgecliff keeps mentioning his big baby blues. If a bum’s got blue eyes, hold him until he’s cleared five ways from Sunday. Exercise extreme caution. This guy thinks fast, kills like a machine. If he even smells like he’s gonna pull something, put three in his center ring, no regrets. Got that?”

      Nothing but assent.

      The news that Jeremy had been spotted scattered everyone in different directions. Folger went to update the info in the Be On the LookOut broadcasts. Cluff, Bullard and two others headed to the shanty town. That left just Waltz and me.

      “What can I do?” I asked. “Give me something to do.”

      “Maybe you should leave the city. If this guy feels some kind of bond with you, you’re in more danger than you recogni—”

      His cell went off. He checked the number, muttered, “Pelham’s HQ.” Put the phone to his ear. I listened unobtrusively, hearing the words Doll? and When? and We’ll be right there, the last words spoken while looking at me.

      “We received it today,” Pelham’s adjutant, the petite, square-jawed woman named Sarah Wensley said, looking over reading glasses at Waltz and me. “It came to Cynthia personally, but addressed to the campaign headquarters.”

      We were back in the small room to the side of the rah-rah phone-bank operation up front. A knock hit the door before it opened and Pelham scooted in, dressed in a red pantsuit, a white neck scarf billowing in her wake. She looked delighted to see a room with fewer than a hundred people inside.

      “I’m just back from my third lunch today. If I push any more chicken salad in circles, I swear I’ll go crazy. What’s happening, people?”

      Wensley said, “I’m showing the detectives the weird doll.”

      She pulled a rotund, vase-shaped doll from the bag. I was close and took it from her, latex gloves now covering my hands. The doll was maybe six inches tall. I opened the doll at the waist, empty. It should have revealed a smaller doll inside, and so on, for several dolls. I’d seen them in gift catalogs.

      “It’s one of those stacking dolls or whatever,” Pelham said. “They’re all over Russia. But usually there are other dolls inside.”

      I considered the cartoonish face. “Why no mouth?” I asked.

      “That’s what made it kinda strange,” Wensley said. “Detective Waltz said call if anything was even a little odd.”

      “No mouth?” Waltz said, pulling on his own gloves. “Pass it over.”

      Waltz studied the flesh-pink paint below the nose. “The mouth has been painted over. Nice job of matching the color.”

      I said, “Do you have Russian followers, ma’am? Or enemies?”

      Pelham shook her head. “I’ve been to Russia three times, junkets, trade assemblies. Part of a crowd of officials meeting a crowd of officials, everyone mouthing platitudes. I’ve never taken any sort of volatile position concerning Russia or member states of the former Soviet Union.”

      Wensley said, “There’s something creepy about it.”

      Waltz СКАЧАТЬ