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

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СКАЧАТЬ a bit about your upbringing.”

      My internal ears pricked up, hearing the alarm that sounds whenever my past is a topic.

      “Upbringing?”

      “Where you grew up, family ties, that sort of thing. You kind of moved around as a kid, right? No daddy, your mama an army nurse? I couldn’t really remember.”

      Because I suggested a false story of my past once, Tom. Then never mentioned it again, wanting only the impression to remain.

      I faked a yawn. “Not a whole lot to tell.”

      “No close relatives, anything like that?”

      “Hmmp? Shelly ask that, too?”

      I heard Tom sip from the coffee mug ever-present in his hand. He yelled something across the room, listened to the response, came back on the line.

      “Just family stuff. You from a big family, little family? Tight or scattered around? Any brothers or sisters that went into law enforcement? The usual questions about what made a country kid want to become a city cop.”

      “What’d you tell him?”

      “That I never recalled you mentioning much about family and I thought you might have been an only kid. That’s right, isn’t it?”

      It’s strange the allowances I make to retain a semblance of integrity. I didn’t lie, I suggested. I never led down the primrose path, I let someone make assumptions. I never dodged, I distracted.

      “Aw crap,” I yelped, looking at my watch, a method actor.

      “What?”

      “I just looked at my watch. Late for a meeting. I gotta go.”

      “I heard about them New York minutes. You take care and don’t let ’em run you ragged. Oh, Carson?”

      “Yeah, Tom?”

      His voice dropped into serious. My mind’s eye saw concern furrowing his brow. “You’re gonna nail that sumbitch, right? That Ridgecliff fella?”

      “Ridgecliff’s all I think about, Tom. Day and night.”

      “Get him, boy. Take him down.”

      We hung up. Though the room was cool, sweat peppered my forehead, drew my shirt tight to my sides. Shelly’s questioning Tom Mason about my history was in all likelihood totally innocent, two cops talking about the only thing they had in common: me. But any questions involving my past sent my heart rate soaring, and now was no exception.

      I hit the street at a run, making it to the precinct house at nine fifteen. The crew was in what had been dubbed “the Ridgecliff Room”, the conference room displaying the timelines and photos. Bullard and Cluff were drinking coffee and pushing sleep from their faces. I shot a look at Alice Folger, got a smile back, a split-second wink. Waltz was sifting through the night’s reports. He looked up.

      “You took over yesterday, Detective. You felt strongly about Ridgecliff, obviously.”

      “Things started to come together, Shelly.”

      “You’re fully convinced Ridgecliff’s looking upscale? Everyone else had him pegged for low end.”

      “He thinks he’s being slick, but he’s also programmed in several ways.”

      “Like wanting GQ clothes and shoes after years of uniforms and slippers?”

      “Not wanting, needing. He needs to be the opposite of what he was in the Institute.”

      Bullard said, “I don’t see how Ridgecliff has a choice in the situation.” He shot a glance at Folger to make sure his tone was suitably professional.

      I waved it away, no. “We have to stop thinking of Ridgecliff’s situation as controlling him. We have to figure he’s controlling the situation.”

      Bullard grunted dissent. “He can’t control the situation when we’re on his ass.”

      “You kept the surveillance in place at the homeless camp, right?”

      “I wasn’t going to take your word that –”

      “He didn’t show, did he?”

      Bullard reddened and looked away. Cluff stepped into the circle. “You’re saying …”

      “We have to picture Jeremy Ridgecliff as a rich man on vacation in New York. That’s the life he’s living.”

      Bullard shook his head. “Except now and then something makes him want to cut a woman apart?”

      “Yes.”

      Bullard was reaching his limit again. “I don’t give a fuck how smart Ridgecliff is, he’s still a loony. Where’s he getting money? We checked Prowse’s accounts, no major withdrawals in the past six months. Ryder says Ridgecliff’s scamming the money, but won’t say how.” He jutted his chin at me like a challenge.

      I said, “You’ve never known anyone like Ridgecliff, Detective. He’s a different order of magnitude.”

      “What? He pulls gold coins out his ass? How’s he paying for all these fancy suits and Park Avenue apartments and whatever else you think he’s doing?”

      I froze. Gold coins? A conversation from days ago played in my head, the two dicks in Property Crimes discussing a paranoid schizophrenic.

      “Seems Gerald came home last night, snuck in the husband’s office safe and grabbed forty-seven grand’s worth of Krugerrands the investment guy had stashed … Said he was buying his freedom from the CIA.”

      “Don’t move,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

      I sprinted to Property Crimes, eyes following like I’d frazzled my wires. Two minutes later I was back, a puzzled cop on my heels, Sergeant Brian Hedley.

      “Tell them, Sergeant. About the investment guy who got ripped off by his paranoid brother-in-law.”

      A bemused Hedley reprised his tale of the paranoid conspiracy theorist who had been convinced to steal tens of thousands of dollars in Krugerrands and cash by a man posing as a fellow object of governmental harassment.

      Waltz said, “You’re saying Ridgecliff is the perp here?”

      Bullard grinned and clapped his hands. “We can check this one out, Ryder. The limb’s gonna bust off under you, and I’m gonna laugh the loudest.”

      “It won’t take long to verify,” Waltz said, grabbing his hat.

       Chapter 22

      A rolled photo under his arm, Harry Nautilus strode into the morgue, more correctly the pathology department of the Alabama СКАЧАТЬ