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

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      Jeremy Ridgecliff was crossing Canal Street, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand, two shopping bags in the other. He’d been to electronics marts, gourmet shops, and import outlets. New York had something for every taste.

      “You, sir. Stop right there.”

      He turned to see a jowly uniformed cop leaning out the window of a blue-and-white cruiser. The fiftyish cop was looking over his sunglasses, brown eyes vacuuming in every nuance and detail. Jeremy felt angry that a stranger could so brazenly attempt to take his measure. He pictured the cop’s head rent with a sturdy axe, a ten-pounder. Crunch went the cranium. The picture and sound calmed Jeremy’s anger.

      “Que?” Jeremy asked softly, stepping on to the sidewalk.

      “Please stop walking, sir.”

      Jeremy halted and pointed to his motionless shoes, like You mean this?

      “Yes, dammit. I mean, si.” The cop exited the cruiser, an older guy, heavy. His equipment squeaked and rattled on his leather belt. Another cop, much younger, sat in the driver’s seat looking between a photo on the computer screen in the car and Jeremy. He made a motion at his hip Jeremy interpreted as unstrapping his weapon.

      The driver opened his door and stepped out, watching across the hood of the car, one hand dangling by his sidearm. The heavy cop kept a half-dozen paces between him and Jeremy.

      “Please set the cup on the ground, sir.”

      Jeremy affected puzzlement, though he felt a sizzle of anger arcing across his gut. The cop jabbed a finger at the cup, then at the ground, meaning, Set it down, now! Jeremy complied, bending his knees, setting the coffee on the sidewalk, straightening. He kept his hands away from his body; Carson had said cops liked hands kept far from pockets.

      “Now,” the cop said, “may I see some ID? Slowly, please.”

      Crunch, the axe repeated.

      “High-Dee?” Jeremy said, stretching puzzlement across his face. “Oh, iden-ti-ficacion. Um momento por favor. Está em meu revestimento.”

      Jeremy reached toward his jacket, the cop watching the hand like a hawk focused on a field mouse. Jeremy retrieved his dog-eared passport, handed it over. The cop stared past Jeremy’s glasses and into his eyes, then studied him and the ID with equal scrutiny.

       Crunch, crunch …

      Jeremy pretended to watch a burst of pigeons overhead, not overly concerned with the verisimilitude of the passport. His neighbor down the hall in the Institute, Ismael Rogmann, had been a forger in addition to his habit of collecting human hands. Rogmann knew his competition, naturally, a good businessman. He’d traded the name of another master forger for thirteen plaster renditions of Albrecht Dürer’s Praying Hands sculpture. Rogmann had arrayed them on the floor and slept in their midst, a happy man.

      The cop relaxed. Shot a stand-down glance at the driver. Handed back the Portuguese passport. “Thank you – I mean, Gracias, Señor Caldiera. We’re just doing some checking.”

      “Chic-king? Muito bom.”

      The driver of the cruiser, who looked in his mid-twenties, shook his head, thumped the roof of the cruiser. “Come on, Pinelli. He ain’t close to the Ridgecliff guy. Let’s grab some chow.”

      The older cop grunted as he climbed into the car. “He fit the height and weight. Same face shape, too. Chances are Ridgecliff’s fifty blocks away and looking like a bum, but everyone’s guilty until I check ‘em out.”

      “Tarde boa, chefe.” Jeremy said, waving at the departing cruiser. He picked up his cup, tucked his axe away, and continued down the sidewalk deep in thought. It was a minor incident, but it had made him aware of the sudden increase in cops on the street. Some of them would be like the guy he’d just dealt with, a street animal, seen it all, suspicious of it all. Carson had said there were cops who could smell guilt on a perp’s breath.

      He decided it would be good to keep a weapon in reserve in case something or someone got in the way of his plans. Nothing so primitive as an axe, of course, though the hands-on aspect was a pleasant thought. He needed something bigger, totally unexpected …

      And as powerful as lightning.