The commissioner shook his head. “They don’t see the blood.”
The phone on da Vinci’s desk began to buzz.
“Go ahead and answer,” the commissioner said. “There’s something else I want to talk to you about before I go, regarding the progress of the investigation.”
“Yes, sir.” Da Vinci picked up the phone.
The commissioner seemed to sense bad news on the line. Bad news da Vinci would have no choice but to relate to him immediately, without having time to figure out how best to present it. Why did this call have to come in now and not five minutes later? Da Vinci silently asked himself that question over and over as he listened to one of his trusted lieutenants on the other end of the connection.
When he’d thanked the lieutenant and hung up, the commissioner said, “Trouble, Andy?”
“Carl Dudman was killed while getting into his limo in front of his apartment building. Apparently someone shot him from a passing car, using a silencer.”
The commissioner was very still, thinking. “Dudman…The real estate Dudman?”
“Yes, sir. He was also jury foreman in the Genelle Dixon Central Park slaying trial six years ago.”
“The defendant walked,” the commissioner said, rubbing his clean-shaven chin and recollecting. “Guilty bastard, too. We messed up with the evidence. Unlawful search, as I recall.”
“Yes, sir. Dudman’s security guard was nearby at the time of the shooting. He didn’t have time to react to the gunman, didn’t even see him, but when he realized Dudman was shot he helped him all the way into the limo then got in and instructed the driver to go like hell to the nearest hospital. Dudman was dead by the time they arrived.”
Da Vinci was getting more and more uneasy, with the commissioner standing there staring down at him.
“Something else, Andy?”
“Yes, sir. After the limo pulled away, we found a brown-tinted plastic pharmaceutical vial, the kind prescription medicine comes in. We think it was tossed from the car as it drove past and the shot was fired.”
“Tell me it has the names of the killer and his doctor on it,” the commissioner said.
“It was unlabeled, sir. And empty except for a rolled up slip of paper with a red letter J printed on it in felt tip pen.”
The commissioner stood quietly, and when he spoke it was calmly and softly. “The Justice Killer, Adelaide Starr, the media wolves, they’re all making goddamned fools of us, Andy.”
Without bothering to look at da Vinci or say goodbye, he turned slowly and left the office.
Da Vinci thought it had been nice of the commissioner to say us.
Beam double parked his Lincoln in front of Things Past, not bothering to put up the NYPD placard. He ignored the closed sign hanging in the shop window and pushed in through the door. Lucky it was unlocked, as Nola had said, or he might have punched out the glass with his shoulder, so eager was he to get inside the shop.
He didn’t know what to expect, but he saw that there was no one behind the counter. The shop was empty.
Damn it!
He was headed toward the back room when he noticed Nola. She was standing to his left and slightly behind him, staring at him with wide dark eyes.
“What is it?” Beam asked, moving toward her sideways so he wouldn’t knock anything breakable off the shelves. “What’s wrong?”
“That.” Nola’s gaze lowered to fix on something on one of the shelves, and she pointed.
Beam sidestepped around a mannequin wearing a fake fur jacket and twenties feathered hat, and saw where Nola was pointing.
On the shelf before her was a man’s ring. It drew Beam’s attention, as it had drawn Nola’s, because the shop’s jewelry, the good stuff, was all displayed in a glass case near the register to prevent shoplifting. A key, held by Nola, was needed to get into the case.
At first Beam didn’t understand the significance of the ring. Then, when he did, his blood went cold.
It was Harry Lima’s trademark ring. No mistaking it. Large, gold, gaudy, a dusting of diamonds in the shape of a dollar sign, flanked by rubies and Harry’s initials.
The ring Harry was wearing when he was buried.
45
The air was warm and reeked of fried onions. Seated in the diner down the street from Things Past, Beam said nothing until Nola had a cup of coffee and a glass of ice water in front of her. They were in a back booth near a door to the kitchen. They wouldn’t be overheard here by the dozen other customers at tables or seated at the counter.
Nola took a sip of water, then looked at Beam as she never had before-as if she trusted him-or had to trust him because they were in something together. Something that scared the hell out of her.
“How could it get there?” Nola asked
Beam didn’t have to ask her what it was. Ten years ago, the ring had been found six blocks away from where the rest of Harry’s dead body lay wrapped in black plastic in a dumpster. It was on the ring finger of Harry’s severed right hand. The dead hand was clutching a dollar bill, a clear message as to why Harry was killed: he’d talked for money. To stay out of prison, too, but mainly for money. Harry had always done everything mainly for money. The news photos served as a ghoulish and striking warning to others in his business who might inform.
The warning had worked. Information on the streets in that part of the city became almost nonexistent. No new snitches could be cultivated, and regular snitches disappeared. Either they left town voluntarily, or they had help along the way and would never return.
“I was about to ask you how it could have found its way into your shop,” Beam said. “It was buried with Harry.”
“Of course it was.”
“The mortuary,” Beam suggested. “Robbing the dead.”
Nola was shaking her head. “It was on Harry’s finger when the coffin lid was closed, then the coffin was transported directly to the cemetery. I rode in the hearse with it. The coffin never left my sight until it was in the grave.”
“You saw it lowered into the grave?”
“No, they never do that. They wait until the funeral service is over and the mourners have left. To spare everyone the pain.”
“Maybe-”
“Are you telling me Harry’s coffin was opened?” Nola asked.
“I’m telling you I don’t know. When did you first notice the ring?”
“Right before I phoned you. I even checked to make sure it wasn’t listed as part of the shop’s inventory. Someone must have planted it there within the past week. I don’t think it could have been there more than a day or two, though, or I would have noticed it.” Tears welled in her dark eyes. “Looking at the damned thing nearly stopped my heart.”
“Someone must have put the ring there. One of your customers. Do you remember anyone suspicious?”
“No. Customers come and go. They browse, sometimes buy something. Most of the time they leave empty- handed.”
“This time one of them left something behind,” Beam said.
Nola was staring hard at him. “Beam, do you know anything about this you’re not telling me?”
“For God’s sake, no, Nola!”
The horrified tone of his voice must have impressed her. She nodded and sat back, sipping hot coffee. Maybe burning her tongue and not noticing.
“Why would anyone plant Harry’s ring in the shop?” she asked, lowering her cup.
A part of Beam’s mind had been sorting through the possibilities.
