The second, a BlackBerry, was for work. Claire S. Parker, as her byline read, was a national affairs reporter for the New York Times.
Her third phone, an old Motorola, was also for work. Except this phone and its number were for a very small and select group. Her sources.
Which was another reason why the Stopper was a good name for this phone. The identity of these sources stopped with her, cold, end of story. Not her editor, not the executive editor, not even Judge Reginald McCabe had ever been told the name of a single source of Claire’s.
As far as that last guy, Judge McCabe of the United States District Court, was concerned, he went so far as to charge Claire with contempt when she refused to identify a source after being subpoenaed in a criminal homicide case involving an American military attaché assigned to the UN. That got her thirty-six days and nights at the Taconic Correctional Facility in Bedford Hills, New York. I have to say, she rocked the orange jumpsuit they made her wear.
“Hello?” Claire answered.
The unwritten ground rules for when she took these calls were simple. If I had been at her place downtown, I’d have gotten up and given her some privacy. Since we were at my place, though, I had squatter’s rights. If she needed privacy, she’d be the one leaving the bedroom.
But she remained sitting there on the edge of the bed. Naked, no less.
She listened for a few moments, the beat-up old flip phone pressed tight against her ear. Then, her voice high-pitched with surprise, she asked, “Wait, you’re here in the city?” Quickly, she began tapping her thumb and forefinger together, twisting her wrist in the air. If I’d been a waiter in a restaurant, I would’ve been bringing her the check. But I knew what she actually wanted.
I leaned over to the bedside table closest to me, pulling out the drawer. After handing her a pen, I was about to offer up some paper when I saw her reach for a yellow legal pad that was sitting atop a tall stack of books on the floor, also known as my to-read pile. Mostly biographies. Some historical fiction mixed in as well.
As Claire scribbled something on the pad, I stared at the freckles on the curve of her shoulders, hundreds of them. My eyes drifted down her spine and I smiled, thinking of the trip we took to Block Island a few summers ago, when I rubbed suntan lotion on her bikinied back and sneakily left bare a small stretch of real estate spelling out my initials, TM.
“Trevor Mann!” she screamed later that afternoon when she caught a glimpse in the mirror as she stepped out of the shower. After delivering a punch to my shoulder — with more wallop than her thin frame would ever have suggested — she broke up laughing. “I’ve been trademarked!”
Even now, squinting a bit in the dimness of my bedroom, I could still sort of see most of the T and some of the M. Or so I’d convinced myself.
“Okay, don’t go anywhere,” Claire said into the phone.
Damn.
I was hoping she’d hang up, turn around, and say, “Now, where were we?” but I knew that was beyond wishful thinking. By the time she looked back at me over her shoulder and all those freckles, I already knew.
“You have to go, don’t you?” I said.
She leaned over and kissed me. “I’m sorry.”
Those same unwritten ground rules had it that I wasn’t supposed to pry. But as I watched her dress, and saw the bounce in her step, I couldn’t help myself.
“You’ve got something, don’t you?” I asked. “Something good.”
She nodded with a touch of giddiness.
I stared at her, waiting for something, anything that hinted at what it might be. I must have looked like a dog sitting at the edge of the dinner table, silently begging for scraps.
“I know,” she said finally. “But we have to keep some mystery between us, don’t we?”
Buttoning the last button on her navy-blue blouse, she returned to the side of the bed and kissed me one last time before leaving.
“Call me in the morning,” I said.
She smiled. “Promise.”
A little over two hours later, I was jolted awake by the sound of my phone. It was just shy of one a.m.
Claire’s older sister was calling from Boston. She was crying and couldn’t get the words out. She didn’t have to. It was as if I knew the second I picked up the phone. There was a certain something simpatico between Claire and me.
Something terrible had happened.
Chapter 3
Detective Dave Lamont shook my hand firmly in the front waiting area of the Midtown North Precinct on West Fifty-Fourth Street and led me upstairs to the far back corner of a squad room that was empty and silent, save for the baritone hum of the fluorescent lighting overhead.
“Have a seat,” he said, pointing to a folding metal chair in front of his desk. “You want some coffee?”
“No, I’m okay. Thanks.”
He grabbed a mug with a faded New York Giants logo on it that was sitting on top of some overstuffed folders. “I’ll be right back.”
I watched him as he walked off. Lamont was a tall man, filled out by age, but still with a build that suggested a degree of athleticism somewhere in his past. Given the Giants mug, I was thinking there was probably an old high school yearbook out there with the word linebacker next to his name.
Claire once showed me her high school yearbook. Her senior quote was from Andrew Marvelclass="underline" “Had we but world enough and time...”
Christ, this is really happening, isn’t it? She’s really gone. Just like that. I feel numb. No, that’s not right. I feel everything. And it’s hurting like hell.
Claire’s sister, Ellen, had given me Detective Lamont’s name and number. He’d made the call to her up in Boston, breaking the news.
I wasn’t next of kin, husband or fiancé, or even the last person to see Claire alive, but when I’d told Lamont my name over the phone I’d been pretty sure he’d agree to see me right away.
“You were that ADA, weren’t you?” he asked.
“Yeah, that was me,” I answered.
Me, as in that former Manhattan assistant district attorney. Back when I played for the home team. Before I changed jerseys.
Before I got disbarred.
I knew he knew the story. Most every cop in the city did, at least the veterans. It was the kind of story they wouldn’t forget.
Lamont came back now and sat behind his desk with a full mug of coffee. He took a sip as he pulled Claire’s file in front of him, the steam momentarily fogging the bottom half of his drugstore-variety glasses.
Then he shook his head slowly and simply stared at me for a moment, unblinking.
“Fuckin’ random,” he said finally.
I nodded as he flipped open the file to his notes in anticipation of my questions. I had a lot of them.
Christ. The pain is only going to get worse, isn’t it?
Chapter 4
“Where exactly did it happen?” I asked.
“West End Avenue at Seventy-Third. The taxi was stopped at a red light,” said Lamont. “The assailant smashed the driver’s side window, pistol-whipped the driver until he was knocked out cold, and grabbed his money bag. He then robbed Ms. Parker at gunpoint.”
“Claire,” I said.
“Excuse me?”
“Please call her Claire.”
I knew it was a weird thing for me to say, but weirder still was hearing Lamont refer to Claire as Ms. Parker, not that I blamed him. Victims are always Mr., Mrs., or Ms. for a detective. He was supposed to call her that. I just wasn’t ready to hear it.
“I apologize,” I said. “It’s just that—”