"We still need the gun and the bolt cutter," Aiden reminded Mac as they left Hawkes laboratory. "And she's probably gotten rid of them."
"Probably," Mac agreed. "But not definitely. We have three important things on our side. First, she knows where they are. And second, she doesn't know how much we know or how much we can discover at a crime scene."
"And third?" Aiden asked.
"The bolt cutter," he said. "She used it in one of the first three novels, one she wrote. All the trophies in her library are from the first three novels. She'd probably want to keep the bolt cutter."
"Probably," said Aiden.
"Possibly," said Mac. "She doesn't know we can match a bolt cutter to whatever it cut."
"Let's hope not," she said. "Even if we find it, we still need the gun."
"One piece of evidence at a time," said Mac.
Getting away was not an option. Big Stevie knew that. He didn't have the money or the smarts for it, and both the police and Dario's people were looking for him.
The cab driver kept eyeing him in the mirror. Stevie didn't care.
Stevie had picked up the cab at a stand near Penn Station. The driver had been sitting behind the wheel reading a paperback novel. He had looked over his shoulder when Stevie closed the door and saw more than he wanted to see.
If Stevie had hailed him on the street, the driver, Omar Zumbadie, would not have picked him up.
The hulking old white man needed a shave. He needed some fresh clothes. And he reeked of something foul. Omar prayed that the old man would not throw up. He didn't look drunk, just tired and in a head-bobbing trance.
The cabbie took Riverside Drive north to the George Washington Bridge, toward the Cross Bronx Expressway. Big Stevie counted his money. He had forty-three dollars and he was bleeding again through the make-shift bandage the Jockey had wrapped tightly around his leg.
If Stevie were a vindictive man, he would have killed the detective who had come to the Jockey's apartment. It would have been easy. The detective, whose name was Don Flack, according to the card he had given to the Jockey, had shot Big Stevie. Birthday greetings from New York's finest, a bullet in the leg. The bullet wasn't there anymore, but it hurt, and the hurt was spreading. Big Stevie ignored it. It would be over soon, and, if he were lucky, which he probably wouldn't be, he'd have some money and get Dario Marco off his back.
Life was unfair, Stevie thought as the cab got off at the Castle Hill exit. Stevie accepted that, but Dario's betrayal of him by sending the two bakery hacks to kill him was beyond unfair. Stevie had been a good soldier, a good truck driver. Customers on his route liked him. He got along great with kids, even Dario's grandkids, who at the ages of nine and fourteen looked like their father and trusted no one.
Forget unfair. Now it was about making things even and maybe staying alive. The other option was calling the cop whose card he held, calling him, and imagining hours, days of grilling, betraying, putting on a suit and going to Dario's trial, being made to look like an idiot by one of Dario's lawyers. And then prison. It didn't matter how long. It would be long enough, and he was already an old man.
No, the way he was going was the only way to go.
"Mister," said Omar.
Stevie kept looking out the window. He had put the detective's card back in his pocket and now had his hand wrapped around the small painted animal Lilly had made him.
"Mister," Omar repeated, being careful to not sound in the least bit irritated.
Stevie looked up.
"We're here," said Omar.
Stevie refocused and recognized the corner where they had stopped. He grunted and reached into his pocket.
"How much?"
"Twenty dollars and sixty cents," said Omar.
Stevie reached through the slightly fogged, supposedly bulletproof slider which Omar slid open and handed the driver a twenty and a five dollar bill.
"No change," said Stevie.
Omar stared at the bills as Stevie got out of the cab. It wasn't easy. His remaining good leg had to do all the work along with his hands. But Stevie's hands were strong.
"Thanks," said Omar.
The bills in his hand both had bloody fingerprints on them, fingerprints that looked fresh.
Omar waited till Stevie had cleared the cab and shut the door before he sped away. He placed the two bills on top of the paperback novel in the seat next to him.
The smart thing to do, Omar thought, was to clean the bills as best he could and forget the big man. He was sure most drivers would do that, but Omar had seen blood on men's hands in Somalia, and in Somalia there had been almost no one willing to stand up and denounce the slayers of women and children, and there had been, really, no one to denounce them to. To seek justice, he thought as he drove, one risked his own and his family's death.
But this was America. He was here legally. Things were not perfect, not always safe especially for a cab driver.
Omar was a good Muslim. He did what he was sure a good Muslim should do. He reached for his cab radio and called the dispatcher.
"Were your shoes on or off?" asked Stella, sitting with eyes closed behind the desk, a cup of black coffee in front of her. She held the phone to her left ear, her right hand on the coffee cup. She had a chill.
"Off," Ed Taxx said into the phone in his living room. "We had just gotten up, pulled on our pants and shirts and socks."
"You're sure?" asked Stella.
"Are you all right?" asked Taxx.
Everyone was asking her that now.
"I'm fine," she said. "Thanks."
"That's it?" Taxx asked. "That's all you want to know?"
"For now," said Stella.
"Fine," said Taxx. "Take fifteen aspirin and call me in the morning."
"I will," said Stella flatly.
"I was joking," said Taxx.
"I know," said Stella, "but it was almost good advice anyway."
She hung up the phone.
15
NOAH PEASE, Louisa Cormier's new high-profile lawyer, reminded Mac of one of Edgar Lee Masters's Spoon River characters, clean-shaven and imperially slim.
Pease was about fifty, roughly good-looking with a deep voice that, in addition to his record representing high-profile corporate figures, athletes, and actors in criminal cases, made him perfect for Court TV.
Next to Pease, lean, nattily dressed in a well-pressed suit, on the sofa, her back to the window with the broad panoramic view of the city, sat Louisa Cormier. Across from them sat Mac Taylor and Joelle Fineberg, a green-suited petite woman, who had been with the District Attorney's office for a little over a year. She looked as if she was young enough for a Sweet Sixteen party.
The total practical legal experience in Louisa Cormier's living room was twenty-seven years. One of those years belonged to Joelle Fineberg.
"You realize, Ms. Fineberg," said Pease slowly, "Ms. Cormier is cooperating fully. At this point there is nothing that compels her to talk to you unless you are prepared to bring charges."
"I understand," said Fineberg, her voice and smile indicating that she appreciated the cooperation.
"No one knows about your investigation or that of the police and…" Pease said, looking at Mac. "Your Crime Scene unit. Detective Taylor's accusation that my client didn't write her own books cannot be made public. If it is, in any way, we shall bring suit against the City of New York and Detective Taylor for eighteen million dollars. And I'm confident we can get that figure. You understand what I'm saying?"
"Perfectly," said Fineberg, hands folded atop the briefcase in her lap. "Your client is more interested in her reputation than in the fact that we are building a murder charge against her."
"My client murdered no one," said Pease.
Louisa, obviously under orders from her attorney, said nothing, didn't react to Fineberg's accusation.
"We believe she did," said Fineberg.