“Little bird sang.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“I went to see Peter. He was drunk and he let slip where he thought you were. Relax! I see that look. I didn’t tell nobody! I’ve kept everything a secret all these years.” Artie snickered. “That Peter, just can’t keep his mouth shut.”
“No, he can’t. That’s true.”
Artie was looking around, impressed. The hotel room was twice the size of Artie’s entire apartment. His shabby shoes left mud stains on the carpet.
“So?” Thomas asked because the script called for it.
“We’re adults, right, Chris? Businessmen?”
“No. I am, and you’re nothing. Now get to the point.”
“Ha. Funny. Okay, I know that some shit is going to hit the fan pretty soon. I want to get out of the country.”
“And you want the number for the airport shuttle.”
Artie’s face hardened. “You know what I’m here about.”
“Money, of course. So you’re blackmailing me.”
Artie paused, as if offended. “I just want to be compensated, like everybody else.”
“You already have been.”
“But not enough.” Artie grinned, cocky.
“How much?”
“Enough to live on for the rest of my life.”
“That could be pocket change.”
Artie’s eyes widened and he blurted, “If you hurt me, there’s a letter I’ve written and given to… to somebody. If anything happens, it gets delivered. It’s got everything in it, Chris-faking your death, getting the body into the iron maiden, shipping it off to Germany.”
“Well, I’m not in the mood to argue with you. How much are you talking?”
People invariably underbid themselves.
“Five million.”
Thomas adamantly shook his head. “You’re crazy. I could do one, maybe.”
“Three.”
“Two.”
Artie grumbled, “Okay. But cash.”
“I can get it.”
“No way, José. I mean now.”
“Why do you use all those clichés? ‘José’?”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. Um, Artie, I mean, I can get the money from the other room. Now.”
The man blinked.
Thomas added, “But the problem is this letter you were mentioning. You spend the two million and you’re going to come back for more.”
“No, I won’t.”
“You say that but of course you would.” A frown. “Wait. Here’s a thought. I’ll pay you two million now. Then when you’re safe somewhere, I’ll meet this guy who has the letter-your brother-in-law or lawyer or… whoever-”
“Yeah, yeah, it’s… a lawyer I know.”
“I’ll meet him, and if he gives me the letter unopened, I’ll give him another million for you. How’s that sound?”
“Yeah?” Artie rubbed his face and looked like a kid who’d just been told school was canceled for the day. “Deal.” He stuck out an unclean hand.
Thomas ignored the gesture. Walking into the bedroom, he heard Artie say, “Man, that’s one kick-ass bar. You mind if I help myself to a short one?”
“Go right ahead.”
Christopher Thomas did have several million dollars in the bedroom-an amount that probably weighed more than scrawny Artie was able to lift, let alone cart off. But instead of the money, Thomas walked to his dresser and withdrew a Colt Python.357 Magnum. Though the diameter of the bullet was smaller than a.38,.44, or.45, the load was massive, and the hollow-point slug would mushroom instantly upon hitting human flesh and fling the victim to the floor as if struck by a car.
Hand at his side, he returned to the living room, where he found Artie not with a “short one” but with a glass full to the rim with single-malt scotch that cost $800 a bottle. He was slavering like a spaniel.
“For a dead man, you got some nice shit here-” Artie gasped as he saw the gun. The glass crashed to the floor. “No! Don’t shoot me!”
“I’ve often said people should die just because they’re stupid… Blackmailing me, Artie?”
“The letter! I’m not kidding. It tells everything!”
Thomas could only laugh. A minute ago Artie had told him how to find the letter-if there even was a letter. And later in the night, before anybody noticed Artie was missing and Thomas was long gone, he would have some of his minders comb through Artie’s apartment and get the name of every lawyer he’d ever had contact with. The muscle would make sure the letter, if it existed, was recovered unopened.
Or maybe they’d just kill the shyster.
Either way…
Thomas drew back the hammer of the weapon with a click and aimed.
“No! Please!”
He began to pull the trigger.
30 Jeff Abbott
The gathering last night had felt haunted by the restless ghosts of Rosemary and Christopher Thomas. Now the forensic anthropologist’s words had shoved one of those ghosts from shadow into light, dissolving him. Because Christopher Thomas might well still walk the earth.
Jon Nunn felt breath surge back into his chest. The numbness that had clutched him since he’d realized Rosemary could well have been innocent began to ease its awful grip.
But if Christopher Thomas wasn’t dead, where was he?
The meeting had now broken up, and everyone had begun to drift away, and Nunn knew that too many questions and uncertainties clouded their minds. He watched them go, not wanting to talk to anyone. No one spoke to him, no one met his gaze. What kind of detective was he that he could have been fooled? Never mind the evidence. He’d always doubted Rosemary’s guilt, but he’d ignored the doubts. Full speed ahead to conviction, to make everyone except himself-and Rosemary, tragically-content and certain that justice had been served.
A hot, sudden anger at the waste of it all tore through him and he leaned against the wall. He closed his eyes, then opened them again.
A painting hung to his left, a wild, modernist smear of blue and orange and white in a chaotic tango. A painting, a creation, with a meaning and a pattern he didn’t understand.
Creation. Pattern. Death. Rosemary’s death, and the death of his own marriage and career, that extraordinary lie had been someone’s creation, crafted with the careful touch of an artist, with an underlying pattern, a foundation, that he’d failed to see.
Why?
A framing of this sort implied cold calculation, not passion. And for such a crime, he had one rule that he should always have obeyed with unbending focus: follow the money.
In this case, the money took the form of one sodden, rotten Peter Heusen.
Nunn stepped away from the chaotic modernist painting. He looked around, everyone was gone: the living and the ghosts of the twisted, lying past. Maybe everyone had fled from him, the cop who had built the case against Rosemary, the cop who had been so wrong. He must smell of failure and regret and incompetence. A wave of nausea surged through him and he thought, I am going to find out the truth. An ember suddenly fanned into flame in his heart. I am going to find out the truth.
Maybe Rosemary was innocent. Maybe Rosemary had killed the person the world assumed was Christopher.
He wanted to know.
Follow the money. He wanted to talk to Peter.
His footsteps echoed in the emptiness. The painting watched him as though measuring his resolve. He nodded at the security guard waiting for him to leave. He exited the McFall, out into the damp, foggy blanket of night. The wet chill cut through him. The glowing stars were smears behind the clouds.
He saw a figure in the shadows of the looming art museum. Along the deserted sidewalk, walking with a momentary unsteadiness: Peter?
Nunn hurried forward, walking on the balls of his feet, silently.
The fog parted, cut by a knife of streetlight, and he saw it wasn’t Peter, it was Stan Ballard, reaching into his pocket for a cell phone, bringing it up to his face.