Split Second

too big for her hand.”

“Focus on the ring. Describe it to us.”

After a couple of moments, Thomas opened his eyes. “You know, I saw a flash, so yes, there was some sort of stone on top of the ring. An emerald, I think, but that’s only a feeling, I can’t be one hundred percent sure.”

“Did you see this ring again when she was shouting at you outside the bar? That’s right, close your eyes, picture her.”

“She’s waving both arms around. She’s wearing rings on both hands. Do you know, I think the rings are the same.” He opened his eyes. “Why would she wear the same ring on both hands? I’ve got to be wrong.”

Sherlock leaned over and patted his hand. “Maybe not, Thomas, maybe not. Do you think you could describe the guy sitting at her table to a police artist?”

“I can try, Agent Sherlock.”

Detective Alba came in while Thomas Hurley was working with the police sketch artist, Daniel Gibbs. She stepped forward quietly to take a look over his shoulder.

Detective Alba said, “What’s this? We already have a photo of Bundy’s daughter. Why waste time with another sketch?”

Sherlock never looked away from the man’s face that was slowly taking shape under Daniel’s talented fingers. “This isn’t Kirsten Bolger. This is a sketch of the guy who was sitting across from Monica in her booth at Enrico’s.”

Celinda felt a punch of surprise, followed quickly by an icy wave of rage. “What?” She looked ready to beat Thomas into the floor. “Hurley, you never bothered to tell us about any guy sitting with her? You made this up, didn’t you, to impress her?”

Thomas shrank back. “No, I didn’t make it up!”

Sherlock said easily, “Detective Alba, would you please step outside with me?”

Celinda didn’t want to; she wanted to take a strip off the little twerp.

“Detective, now, if you please.”

Once outside, Sherlock quietly closed the door behind her. “Did you ever ask him, Detective?”

“No, but he should have—”

“I’ve found—surely you have as well—that witnesses like Mr. Hurley who’ve been very close to violence are frankly traumatized, so much stuff swimming in their brains, it helps to guide them very slowly, very thoroughly. And in case you hadn’t noticed, he’s exhausted.”

“Well, yeah, of course, he’s a little tired, but that’s not the point.”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at her. “You know, Detective, I really don’t know what the point is, except finding out as much as we can from this witness and catching this monster.”

“Well, yes, of course—”

Sherlock paid her no more attention. She opened the interview-room door, stepped inside, and closed the door again. She wished there was a lock. She looked down at Mr. Gibbs’s sketch. Nearly there.

A few more minutes passed, then Daniel Gibbs said, “Is this the guy, Mr. Hurley?”

Thomas Hurley studied the sketch, blinked, and said, “That’s amazing what you did.” He looked at Sherlock. “I really didn’t think I’d paid that much attention to him, but—that’s the guy. You believe me, don’t you?”

Sherlock couldn’t believe it, yet it made a weird sort of sense. The man staring up at her was George Lansford’s aide. Dillon was thorough, never forgot to close the circle on anything, no matter how seemingly minor, and so he’d pulled up photos and names of all the participants in that meeting with George Lansford and passed them around the unit. This sketch was the aide who’d ushered Dillon, Lucy, and Coop into the suite, never saying a word, Dillon had told her. She’d swear this was the same guy, right down to the aviator glasses on his nose. What was his name? Something unusual, like that old movie Coma, but what? Then she had it —his name was Bruce Comafield. She couldn’t wait to show the sketch to Coop. Talk about a surprise.

She smiled at Thomas Hurley, gave his hand a big shake. “I cannot emphasize what a great help you’ve been, Mr. Hurley. When we catch Monica, it will be in large part because of how good your visual memory is.”

Celinda Alba walked in again, this time preceding her entrance with a little warning knock. She looked down at the sketch. “Who’s this clown with the glasses?”

“Mr. Gibbs is very talented, Detective. They’re aviator glasses; he must wear them all the time.”

“How would you know that? Wait, you’re saying you know this guy? There’s no way, no way at all.”

Sherlock gave her a really big smile. “As a matter of fact, Detective, I do know him; haven’t met him, but I’ve seen his photo.

“Thank you, Mr. Gibbs, and thank you, Mr. Hurley; you’ve done a great job.” She shook both their hands, gently laid the sketch flat in her briefcase, and walked past Detective Alba without a word.

“But wait, who is he? We’ve got a right to know, we’ve—”

“Later,” Sherlock called over her shoulder.

CHAPTER 32

Sherlock took a taxi to meet Coop at Enrico’s to talk to Big Ed. The driver gave her a look, shrugged. “Whatever you say, lady.” Not three minutes later, he pulled up in front of Enrico’s. She laughed, gave the driver a big tip.

When she stepped inside the dimly lit bar, she heard a man’s voice. “You heard me, Agent McKnight, my real name is Eduardo Ribbins, and what kind of name is that? I hate giving it out, especially at the bar. I sure hate it that that sweet girl—Genny’s her name? Yeah, Genny, tragic thing, horrible thing—nothing like that’s ever happened here. You got that woman yet who killed her?”

He looked up to see Sherlock, didn’t for a minute think she was a customer, and motioned her over. Sherlock introduced herself, sat down at the bar, motioned for him to continue. Big Ed said, “I’ve thought and thought about it, Agent McKnight, but I never got a good look at her. I remember once when I went on break for ten minutes, I happened to look back and saw her coming up to the bar. You’ve got to ask Bonnie; she took over for me.” Big Ed turned and shouted, “Bonnie, get out here!”

Bonnie came out of the back, wiping her hands on an apron. When they asked about Monica, she said, “Yeah, I remember her. Thin as a stick, that one, and she was snooty to me. She had this long blond hair.”

Coop said, “Do you think it was a wig?”

“Hmmm, you know, maybe so, yeah, I think you’re right.”

Coop pulled out the photo and showed it to both Big Ed and Bonnie. “Make her hair blond. Is this her?”

It took some lip chewing and lots of frowns, but Bonnie finally said, “Yeah, that’s her. I’m sure.” Big Ed nodded, eyes slitting as he stared down at Kirsten Bolger.

Coop said to Bonnie, “When she came to the bar, what did she do?”

“She gave me this look, like, you know, I’m some sort of rodent in her path, didn’t order a single thing. She just stood there. Thomas was in the men’s room, I think, but somebody else started singing at the top of his lungs, and everyone was singing along and clapping, and it was real loud and Genny was weaving around on her bar stool, and then I got real busy. When I looked back up, she’d gone back to her table, table seven by the wall.” Bonnie frowned. “I wonder why she came up if she didn’t want to order anything?”

Coop said, “Did you notice the guy she was with?”

Bonnie shook her head. “That’s Ms. Darlene’s section. Ms. Darlene! Come on out here.”

And blessed be, Ms. Darlene, who was Big Ed’s mother and pushing seventy, said, “I remember him. He was a young guy, good-looking, conservative dresser, like most of the yuppie Wall Street types we get in here. Looked real sexy in those aviator glasses of his. Oh, yes, he had some tan; he was really dark.”

Sherlock pulled the sketch of Bruce Comafield out of her briefcase. “Ms. Darlene, is this the guy?”

Coop sucked in his breath but kept quiet as Ms. Darlene looked down and did a double take. “Yeah, that’s him. What is he, a stockbroker?”

“Actually, he’s an assistant to a very important man. Ms. Darlene, do you remember the blonde leaving