Grace stared at the headline. “He was murdered?” Cora nodded.
“How?”
“Bob Dodd was shot in the head in front of his wife. Gangland style, they called it, whatever that means.”
“They catch who did it?”
“Nope.”
“When?”
“When was he murdered?”
“Yeah, when?”
“Four days after Jack called him.”
Cora moved back toward the computer. Grace considered the date.
“It couldn’t have been Jack.”
“Uh huh.”
“It would be impossible. Jack hasn’t traveled out of the state in more than a month.”
“You say so.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing, Grace. I’m on your side, okay? I don’t think Jack killed anybody either, but c’mon, let’s get a grip here.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning stop with the ‘hasn’t traveled out of state’ nonsense. New Hampshire is hardly California. You can drive up in four hours. You can fly up in one.”
Grace rubbed her eyes.
“Something else,” Cora went on. “I know why he’s listed as Bob, not Robert.”
“Why?”
“He’s a reporter. That’s his byline. Bob Dodd. Google listed one hundred and twenty-six hits on his name over the past three years for the
“And you don’t think that’s the case?”
“Who knows? But skimming through his articles, I’d say Bob Dodd was more like an ‘On Your Side’ reporter, you know-he finds dishwasher repairmen scamming old ladies, wedding photographers who bail out with the deposit, that sorta thing.”
“He could have pissed someone off.”
Cora’s tone was flat. “Yup, could have. And, what, you think it’s a coincidence-Jack calling the guy before he died?”
“No, there’s no coincidence here.” Grace tried to process what she was hearing. “Hold up.”
“What?”
“That photograph. There were five people in it. Two women, three men. This is a long shot…”
Cora was already typing. “But maybe Bob Dodd is one of them?”
“There are image search engines, right?”
“Already there.”
Her fingers flew, her cursor pointed, her mouse slid. There were two pages, a total of twelve picture hits for Bob Dodd. The first page featured a hunter with the same name living out in Wisconsin. On the second page-the eleventh hit-they found a table photograph taken at a charity function in Bristol, New Hampshire.
Bob Dodd, a reporter for the
They didn’t need to study it closely. Bob Dodd was African-American. Everyone in the mystery photograph was white.
Grace frowned. “There still has to be a connection.”
“Let me see if I can dig up a bio on him. Maybe they went to college together or something.”
There was a gentle rapping at the front door. Grace and Cora looked at each other. “Late,” Cora said.
The knocking came again, still soft. There was a doorbell. Whoever was there had chosen not to use it. Must know she had kids. Grace rose and Cora followed. At the door she flicked on the outside light and peered out the window on the side of the door. She should have been more surprised, but Grace guessed that maybe she was beyond that.
“Who’s that?” Cora asked.
“The man who changed my life,” Grace said softly.
She opened the door. Jimmy X stood on the stoop looking down.
• • •
Wu had to smile.
That woman. As soon as he saw those siren lights, he put it together. Her ingenuity was both admirable and grating.
No time for that.
What to do…?
Jack Lawson was tied up in the trunk. Wu realized now that he should have fled the moment he saw that hide-a-key. Another mistake. How many more could he afford?
Minimize the damage. That was the key here. There was no way to prevent it all-the damage, that is. He would be hurt here. It would cost him. His fingerprints were in the house. The woman next door had probably already given the police a description. Sykes, alive or dead, would be found. There was nothing he could do about that either.
Conclusion: If he was caught, he would go to jail for a very long time.
The police cruiser pulled into the driveway.
Wu snapped into survival mode. He hurried downstairs. Through the window he saw the cruiser glide to a stop. It was dark out now, but the street was well lit. A tall black man in full uniform came out. He put on his police cap. His gun remained in his holster.
That was good.
The black police officer was barely on the walk when Wu opened the front door and smiled widely. “Something I can do for you, Officer?”
He did not draw his weapon. Wu had counted on that. This was a family neighborhood in the great American expanse known as the suburbs. A Ho-Ho-Kus police officer probably responds to several hundred possible burglaries during his career. Most, if not all, were false alarms.
“We got a call about a possible break-in,” the officer said.
Wu frowned, feigning confusion. He took a step outside but kept his distance. Not yet, he thought. Be nonthreatening. Wu’s moves were intentionally laconic, setting a slow pace. “Wait, I know. I forgot my key. Someone probably saw me going in through the back.”
“You live here, Mr…?”
“Chang,” Wu said. “Yes, I do. Oh, but it’s not my house, if that’s what you mean. It belongs to my partner, Frederick Sykes.”
Now Wu risked another step.
“I see,” the officer said. “And Mr. Sykes is…?”
“Upstairs.”
“May I see him please?”
“Sure, come on in.” Wu turned his back to the officer and yelled up the stairs. “Freddy? Freddy, throw something on. The police are here.”
Wu did not have to turn around. He knew the tall black man was moving up behind him. He was only five yards away now. Wu stepped back into the house. He held the door open and gave the officer what he thought was an effeminate smile. The officer-his name tag read Richardson-moved toward the door.
When he was only a yard away, Wu uncoiled.
Office Richardson had hesitated, perhaps sensing something, but it was too late. The blow, aimed for the center of his gut, was a palm strike. Richardson folded in half like a deck chair. Wu moved closer. He wanted to disable. He did not want to kill.
An injured policeman produces heat. A dead policeman raises the temperature tenfold.
The cop was doubled over. Wu hit him behind the legs. Richardson dropped to his knees. Wu used a pressure point technique. He dug the knuckles of his index fingers into both sides of Richardson’s head, up and into the ear cavity under the cartilage, an area known as Triple Warmer 17. You need to get the right angle. Go full strength and you could kill someone. You needed precision here.
Richardson’s eyes went white. Wu released the hold. Richardson dropped like a marionette with its strings cut.
The knockout would not last long. Wu took the handcuffs from the man’s belt and cuffed his wrist to the stairwell. He ripped the radio from his shoulder.
Wu considered the woman next door. She’d be watching.
She would surely call the police again. He wondered about that, but there was no time. If he tried to attack, she would see him and lock the door. It would take too long. His best bet was to use time and surprise here. He hurried to the garage and got into Jack Lawson’s minivan. He checked the cargo area in the back.
Jack Lawson was there.
