Yeah. That and maybe… the Key to the future…
"The point is, if he means to harm her, he'd have grabbed the money, done his harm, and taken off. But he chose not to."
She sniffed. "I have to tell you, Jack, that baffles me. 1 know it sounds awful for a mother to say, but what does this guy see in Dawnie? Don't get me wrong, she has a sweet nature—although it's not too evident at the moment—and she's a smart, smart kid, but that's just it: She's a kid, and a naive one at that. What does he see in her?"
Good question. Especially in light of the fact that Bolton had insisted on being relocated in Rego Park. Had he chosen the town out of the air, or did he have a specific reason? Like being next to Forest Hills?
Could Dawn have been that reason?
… the Key to the future…
But Bolton had been behind bars before Dawn was born. As far as Jack knew, she'd never been a media figure like the Long Island Lolita of yore, so how would he have even heard of her?
So if not Dawn, then what was it? What was so special about Rego Park?
He said, "I don't know what's going on in his head, so I can't answer that. But I think his refusing the money is a good sign that we're not in a dangerous situation here."
"Not yet."
"My point is, you've got to back off now. Sit tight, do your day trades, and let me do what I do."
"You've got something planned?"
"I do."
"What?"
"If 1 works out, you'll know. If not, it won't matter. Do you know Bethlehem's address?"
"I should. I've driven by it often enough."
She gave him directions to his townhouse and to the diner where Dawn worked.
Jack hung up just in time to turn into the Ardsley service area. He found a parking spot and watched the entry ramp. He hadn't seen anyone following him, and the only car that pulled in after him was a Dodge minivan. It parked near the food court and a horde of tweeny girls in soccer uniforms piled out.
Satisfied, Jack backed up to where Bolton had parked two nights ago. He grabbed an electric screwdriver and one of his real-fake license plates from under the front seat. He slipped around to the back and opened the trunk. While pretending to be searching for something, he substituted it for the fake-fake tag he'd put on this afternoon—one of half a dozen he'd bought from Sal Vituolo's junkyard on Staten Island. Then he reparked the car nose in, opened the hood, and switched the front plate.
No use in giving anything away to any curious types in Rathburg.
He got back behind the wheel and headed for Queens.
8
Jack had driven by Bolton's townhouse. Lots of lights on but was anyone home? He needed to be sure before he broke in. He'd checked the Tower Diner—brick walls, canopied windows, pillars at the entrance, and a clock tower, for Christ sake. What kind of a diner looked like that? More like a bank.
He'd looked through one of the windows and seen Dawn, but no sign of Bolton.
The next and last stop was Work. If he didn't find Bolton there, he'd have to assume he was home and put off the break-in for another night.
The place was crowded, with someone singing off-key over distorted guitars blasting from the sound system, but what did he expect on a Saturday night?
Jack wove through the crowd and made his way to the bar. He wasn't look-ing for a drink, just a vantage point. He reached the corner and started looking around. He'd brought his camera just in case he found Bolton in a corner with a lip lock on one of the waitresses. A photo of that might pry Dawn out of his bed.
He did a slow scan of the front end—no sign of him here—and was starting toward the pool tables at the rear, when someone grabbed his arm.
Jack looked and found himself in the grip of a short but beefy biker type whose breath reeked of Jack Daniels. He had a balding head and a huge red handlebar mustache. Jack half expected him to shout, Great horny toads! or call him a varmint.
"My girl says you was starin at her, you sonuvabitch!"
Jack could barely hear him over the music, but he knew the drill with these guys. They got to feeling mean after a few shots and looked for any excuse to throw a few punches. If you admit looking at his girl, he punches you. If you deny looking at his girl, he accuses you of calling him a liar and punches you. A no-win situation.
The last thing Jack wanted was to draw attention to himself. He gave him a close look.
"Sam?" he shouted over the music. "Is that you?"
The guy looked confused. "What?"
"You're not Yosemite Sam?"
"Ain't no kinda Sam, and you was starin at my girl."
"You might be right, but truth is, Sam, I don't know who your girl is."
"I ain't Sam, and that's her, right there."
He pointed to a busty babe in a skimpy black leather halter top watching them with glittery eyes and a nasty smile.
"Oh, her. Her name wouldn't happen to be Cindy, would it?"
"Cindy? Hell, no. It's Roxanne."
"Weird, man. She's a dead ringer for a girl I knew in high school. I thought it might be Cindy Patterson but I guess not."
As Sam digested these departures from the usual script, Jack looked around for a way out. That was when he spotted Bolton leaning with his back against the bar, staring off into space.
Thinking about the Key to the future, maybe?
And then a whole scenario leaped to full-blown life.
"But listen, Sam," he said, leaning close.
"I ain't Sam, goddammit."
"Oh, right. There's a guy down there been giving Roxanne the eye all night. And I can't be sure, but I think she's been eyeing him back. You know, like they know each other."
He cocked a hst. "You tryin to tell me—?"
"Hey-hey, I could be wrong. But if you and I get into a fight and get thrown out, that'll leave a certain someone a clear field with Roxanne."
He looked around. "Where is this guy?"
Jack nodded toward Bolton. "Down there—tall guy in the denims and cowboy boots. Watch out. He looks tough."
"He looks like a pussy]" he growled. "You wanna see what tough looks like, you watch!"
He started nosing through the crowd like a rottweiler called to dinner.
Go, Sam. Get that there varmint.
Jack watched him step up to Bolton and say something, saw Bolton shake his head and respond with a condescending smile. Sam's fist flashed out but Bolton dodged it and swung a fist of his own.
After that, things got confusing as women screamed and men shouted, some fleeing the fight, some moving toward it, a pair of bouncers homing in, and an infuriated, red-faced, out-of-control Bolton swinging a pool cue at a bloody and astonished-looking Sam. He checked the bartenders but none of them was calling the cops. Probably hoping their guys could control it.
Jack pulled out his officialdom phone and headed for the door.
Somebody had to be a good citizen and phone in this terrible, frightful melee before someone was seriously hurt.
9
Aaron Levy settled at his desk in his Creighton office and opened Hank Thompson's file. No easy task to find it. The clerical staff was long gone. The only people left were the skeleton medical crew and night security. And since Thompson's stay here had begun and ended before Creighton had gone digital, he wasn't in the computer. Aaron had had to retrieve the physical chart from the basement archives himself.
He shuffled quickly to the lab results.
Hmmm. Thompson had been a strong reactor to the fluorescent antibody test. Interesting. Newer tests could better quantify the content, but Hank Thompson might well be a contender for the upper echelons of the oDNA rankings.
It shouldn't be a problem to check. If everyone had done their job down through the years, blood and tissue samples from Hank Thompson should be sitting in the freezer.