As he turned down Spruce Street, he remembered a park by the river at the very end and checked the clock on the dashboard. It was after midnight, the temperature well below freezing. Not many people would be sitting on the benches enjoying the view of the South Street Bridge.
He made a left on Twenty-fifth Street, pulled over and killed the lights. Then he sat back, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness and unwrapping his first grape Tootsie Pop in three days. The candy would’ve tasted better if he’d had a little peace and quiet. The grunts and groans coming from the backseat were hard to ignore. So was the smell inside the cafe manager’s car. At first he thought it was stale coffee. But when he turned and saw the man staring at him from the backseat, he realized it was urine. The idiot manager had wet his pants.
Eddie checked the windows. No one was in the park or on the street. When he glanced about at the cars, everyone of them appeared empty. This end of the city looked as if it were asleep for the night and safely tucked away in dreamland.
He got out and opened the back door. Yanking the man out of the car, he pushed him into the park. The man stumbled toward a bench, slipping and sliding across the snow.
“Have a seat,” Eddie said, pushing him down.
The man stared back at him, tugging on the belt holding his arms in place behind him.
“We’re gonna have a little chat,” Eddie said. “Then we’re gonna have some fun. You’re doing the talking. When you’re done, I’ll decide on the fun. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
The man nodded, shivering in his bones.
“I want to know what you said to them. I want to know what’s going on. You ready?”
The man nodded again, eager to please. Eddie removed the gag.
“Please don’t do this. Please don’t do this.”
The guy was crying. Eddie checked the park. They were alone.
“Stop whining, and tell me what you said to them.”
“I’ll tell you everything. Anything. Just leave me alone.”
“Start talking,” Eddie said, bearing his rotten teeth.
And the man did. He told him everything from a worm’s point of view. His name was Harris Carmichael. He’d singled Eddie out and given them an accurate description. They knew he had Rosemary and they were looking for him. Searching him out. Eddie wondered if Carmichael wasn’t lying at times, or even using amateur psychology. Carmichael said that they didn’t know his name, but it was only a matter of time. He thought Eddie should leave him and the girl alone. If he had any brains, it was time to run.
Eddie thought it over, sorting through the man’s message to the gist of the deal. But when he looked back, it was too late. Carmichael was snorting like a cornered bull, driving his head into Eddie’s stomach and knocking him down.
The blow felt like he’d been hit by a freight train, and Eddie almost swallowed the Tootsie Pop. As he lay in the snow, the thought of accidently choking to death on his favorite candy brought on the rage. He struggled to catch his breath, watching the cafe manager scurry into the night with his arms bound behind his back.
Eddie took a deep breath and sprung to his feet. He was fast and agile, and he grabbed Carmichael by the back of his neck and yanked him down on the ground. The man started screaming, yelping. Eddie pushed his face into the snow, holding him down with the weight of his body as he opened the tube of Crazy Glue and pierced the top with the sharp end of the cap. When Carmichael came up for air, Eddie squirted the glue into both nostrils and pinched the man’s nose.
Carmichael didn’t know what was happening at first. He seemed confused, even stunned by Eddie’s creativity. He shook his head back and forth, broke out in a heavy sweat, even shit his fucking pants. As he turned back, he flashed a hard look into Eddie’s eyes as if he’d just met a fortune teller and his fate seemed to dawn on him. Eddie emptied the rest of tube all over Carmichael’s lips and pressed them together. Ten seconds passed, then twenty and thirty until he finally let go.
It’s what you did to a talker, Eddie thought. You closed their mouth and let go.
Carmichael appeared panic stricken. Eddie unwrapped the belt, releasing the man’s hands and watching him squirm in the snow. He was twisting and turning at Eddie’s feet, pulling at his mouth and struggling to rip it open. He was staring at Eddie with those big, cartoon eyes of his. They looked so swollen, they might pop or even explode right out of his head. But in the end, his lips were sealed. When Carmichael’s face turned blue and he finally stopped moving, Eddie couldn’t help but think of a balloon. He opened his pocket knife, knelt down and got started. It was a small knife, but it would have to do.
FORTY-SEVEN
It had been a strange request….
Worried about Barnett’s condition, Teddy had called him last night at the hospital to see how he was making out. Barnett thanked him for the call, but kept it short saying that the pain was getting to him and he still felt like shit. After making a few more calls over a couple of beers, Teddy grabbed a third bottle and went upstairs, checking his voice mail before he closed out the night. Among the list of messages was one left by Alan Andrews himself. The district attorney wanted a meeting in the morning just as Jill said he did. Teddy’s first thought had been that the FBI was off to an early start. Rather than wait until morning, agents had approached Andrews the moment Dr. Westbrook called to brief them on the case. But Andrews didn’t want to meet at his office. Instead, he’d given Teddy another address. The Museum of Art, he said. Nine sharp.
Teddy entered the Conservation Department, spotting Andrews and Powell with a group of men and women from the museum. The room had the look and feel of a modern laboratory. As he approached them, he noticed several canvases leaning against the wall and recognized them.
They were the work of Oscar Holmes. The paintings Teddy had seen in his client’s apartment with Detective Jackson standing over his shoulder. Obviously, Jackson had reported Teddy’s interest in the paintings to his boss when he reached his favorite watering hole.
Andrews smiled like a snake and shook Teddy’s hand. He had a twinkle in his eye. Powell stood beside him and seemed unusually subdued. Something had happened and Teddy could hear the telltale rattle. Andrews was ready to strike.
“Thanks for fitting us into your busy schedule,” Andrews said. “You’re five minutes late.”
Teddy ignored the hit. Then Andrews introduced him to the curator of the Modern Contemporary Department, two conservators and the conservation photographer. From the looks on their faces, it was clear to Teddy that he was the odd man out. Everyone there knew something he didn’t.
He glanced about the lab, taking in the room in quick bites. He noticed one of Holmes’s paintings on an easel set before a high-resolution video camera. Behind Andrews he saw a long row of light tables covered with sheets of X-ray film.
“Why don’t we get started,” Andrews said to the curator.
They were standing beside a computer. One of the conservators sat down at the keyboard and clicked open a window. As everyone moved in for a closer look at the monitor, the curator filled them in on what they had done over the last two days.
“X-rays were taken of each of the paintings and scanned into the computer,” she said. “What you’re looking at is a negative image of the surface of the canvas.”
Teddy studied the black-and-white image on the monitor, realizing it was the same painting he’d seen on the easel. A peaceful landscape. A view of rolling hills with the shadows of a man and woman stretching over a field.
“But there’s an image underneath,” the curator said.
As if on cue, the conservator at the keyboard clicked an option on the menu. Teddy watched as the peaceful landscape began to fade and a second image gradually appeared. In spite of the curator’s gentle voice and easy manner, Teddy felt a whip of fear snap against his spine right between the should blades. It was a nude. A young woman with blond hair who looked as if she was being consumed by her emotions. There was a sadness to the work. An oppressive stillness.
Teddy didn’t recognize the model’s face. As he thought about the missing persons bulletins tacked to the wall
