Play Dead (24 page)

FORTY-THREE
L

illy sat on the ground near the Franklin Institute, her back against the low stone wall. She was still high, crashing fast, and still a little freaked out about the incident on the corner. Had the kid’s face really been on fire?

Regardless, all of that was rearview mirror. She was broke, she had nowhere to stay, and everybody she met was worse off than her.
But she would not give up. She had made a promise, and that was something she rarely did. It
would
be honored.
Before she could formulate a new plan, she looked up to see a man coming toward her. He walked all the way across the street, motoring fast, his eyes on her the whole time. She looked away a few times, but every time she glanced back he was staring at her. And getting closer.
He was dressed in a white shirt and black pants. He was blond, had pretty cool hair, light blue eyes, a nice face. He stopped right in front of her, smiled. He was kind of cute, actually.
But he was still a stranger.
“Hi,” he said.
Lilly didn’t answer. The guy didn’t leave. Instead, he waited a few seconds, then reached into his back pocket.
Now what?
Lilly thought. Jehovah’s Witness? Human resource director for a strip club?
“My name is Josh Bontrager,” he said. “I’m with the Philadelphia Police department.”
He showed her a gold badge and ID card, but Lilly didn’t really see it. She felt the blood rushing in her ears, felt her heart start beating like a racehorse. This was it, she thought. This was how it was going to end. She had come to Philadelphia with a purpose, and now she was going to jail. All she could see was that sick twist, Mr. Mushroom Teeth, laying in that alley, drooling on the pavement.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
His voice brought her spiraling back to reality. She looked around, a little surprised to see all the people. She had forgotten where she was for a moment.
“Lilly.”
Her voice sounded small, even from the inside. She sounded like a wounded mouse.
“I’m sorry?”
“Lilly.”
“Ah, okay. Nice to meet you, Lilly. Great day, huh?”
Lilly just stared at the ground.
“Right. Well. I’d like to talk to you for a few seconds, if that’s okay.”
She looked up. He didn’t look mad, or threatening or anything. Actually, he looked a little bit like a farm boy at a school dance. “What about?” she asked.
He put his badge back into his pocket, held up an envelope. “I won’t take up too much of your time. I promise.”
He got on the ground next to her, sat down, back against the wall. He put his feet out in front of him, crossed his legs. If he was going to arrest her, put her in handcuffs and haul her away, this was a pretty friggin’ weird way of going about it. They never played it this way on
Law & Order.
Not even on
COPS.
“Now, first off, I’m not going to ask you anything about your life, okay? I’m not going to ask you where you’re from, why you’re here, or what you’re doing. I’m not even going to ask you your last name. Deal?”
For some reason, this made Lilly even more nervous. But getting up and running didn’t really seem like an option. This guy looked to be in pretty good shape. He’d catch her for sure. Whatever this was about, she would have to play along.
“I guess.”
“Good. I just want you to know that you’re not in any trouble, and you’re not going to get
into
any trouble for anything you tell me.”
He opened the envelope, took out a pair of pictures.
“I just want to ask you if you recognize a couple of people. If you could do that, it would really help me out.”
He was lying to her. She
knew
it. All that business about not getting into trouble was bullshit. He was going to show her a picture of Mr. Mushroom Teeth, and a picture of that skateboard asshole by the bus station. She was going to get arrested for kneeing some pervert in the balls and burning that kid’s face, too. And she didn’t even do that one.
Double
assault and battery. She was going away for life.
When he flipped over the first picture, Lilly felt a cool breeze blowing across her heart. It wasn’t Mr. Mushroom Teeth in all his creepy glory after all. It was a picture of a girl. Kind of heavyset, but she had on a pair of great hoop earrings and a killer necklace.
“Do you recognize this girl?” he asked. “Her name is Monica.”
Lilly took the picture from him, looked closely. The girl in the photograph looked like a girl she had gone to school with, Trish Carbone, but Trish had smaller eyes. Snake eyes. She didn’t like Trish Carbone. “No,” she said. “I don’t recognize her. Sorry.”
“No sweat.” He put the picture back into the envelope, flipped over the other picture. This one was of a blond girl. She was really pretty. Like
model
pretty.
“What about her?” he asked. “Have you ever seen her before?”
Lilly scanned the photo. She didn’t know too many girls this pretty. Sure, there were girls at her school who looked good—rich girls from Rivercrest and Pine Hollow—but they were all haters. Mean Girls, Inc. This girl looked like someone she could hang out with. “No. Sorry again.”
“That’s okay. You tried, and I appreciate it.”
He slipped the second picture into the envelope, closed the clasp.
“Just one more thing, and I’ll leave you to this beautiful day,” he said. “I want to give you a few names, see if they sound familiar.”
“Okay.”
“Daria.”
Lilly shook her head.
“Starlight.”
“No,” she said, absolutely positive her face would give her away. It didn’t.
“Govinda.”
“Is that a girl?”
“I think so.”
Lilly shrugged. “Don’t know her either.”
“Okay.”
He gathered his things together, preparing to leave.
“I wasn’t much help, was I?”
“Don’t worry about it. You did great,” he said. “Some people won’t even talk to me.”
“Well that’s just plain rude.”
He laughed. He had dimples. “It surely is. Back in Berks County, where I’m from? People are more than happy to conversate. Well, maybe not in Reading so much, but in Bechtelsville you can’t shut them up.”
This guy is from Berks, Lilly thought. She knew there was something farm boy about him. She’d always been a sucker for farm boys. For a second she wanted him to stay and talk to her, but she knew that wasn’t going to happen.
He stood up, brushed off his pants. “Well, thanks again. It is most appreciated.” He reached into his pocket and took out a little black wallet. He pulled out a card, handed it to her. “If you remember anything, or run into anyone who might have known these girls, please give me a call.”
“I will.”
He smiled, turned, and walked across the sidewalk. He waited for the light.
“What was her name?” Lilly asked.
Detective Joshua Bontrager spun around. “I’m sorry?”
“The girl in the picture. The blond girl. You never told me her name.”
“Oh,” he said. “Sorry. Great cop I am. It was Caitlin. Her name was Caitlin O’Riordan.”
Lilly felt dizzy. It felt as if the earth was falling away beneath her, as if she had just chugged a fifth of bad whiskey and gotten on a Tilt- AWhirl. And he was going to notice. He was going to notice something was wrong and ask her if she was okay and she was going to blurt everything out. Then she was going to jail for sure.
But that’s not what happened. Although it felt as if her ears were jammed with wet cotton, it sounded like he said, “Have a great day.” She watched him walk away. There were a pair of teenage boys in the small park across North Twentieth Street. He was going to start all over with them.
Lilly took a pair of deep, slow breaths. She felt like she was at the top of the first hill on a roller coaster, about to plunge toward the earth.
Caitlin O’Riordan.
They knew. And they would be watching her. She would have to act fast.
She would have to trust somebody.

FORTY-FOUR
T

hey’d struck out. Between South Street and the bus station they had talked to more than a hundred teenagers, passed out over a hundred cards. On their way out of the station Byrne saw four cards in the trash. He saw three more on the sidewalk.

Street work paid off more than it didn’t, but it was exhausting. And sometimes, on days like this, fruitless. Byrne hadn’t expected much, and that’s what they got.

On the way back to the Roundhouse, Byrne’s cell phone rang. “Byrne.”
“Detective Byrne, my name is David Sinclair.”
Byrne rummaged his memory. Then it clicked. “The author.” “Yes sir.”
“I appreciate you getting back to us.”
“Well, it’s not every day I’m asked to call the police. How can I help

you?”
“We’d like to meet with you if we could. We have a few questions
about your books that we think may impact on a case we’re working
on.”
Silence. “My books?”
“I’ll explain more when we meet.”
“Okay. Sure. When would you like to get together?” “Today, if possible.”
“Wow. Okay, I can meet you at Chester County Books if you like.
Do you know it?”
“We’ll find it.”
“I can be there in an hour,” Sinclair said.
“That will be fine.” Byrne glanced at his watch. “Before I let you
go, can I ask if you know a woman named Laura Somerville?” “Somerville?”
“That’s right.”
A few silent seconds. “No, I’m afraid it doesn’t ring a bell.” “Okay. We’ll see you in an hour.”
Byrne called the boss, got the go- ahead. He and Jessica decided to
split up for the afternoon. Jessica was going to continue her canvass on
a few of the college campuses. They decided to meet in Manayunk in a
few hours. Byrne dropped Jessica off at the Roundhouse, then headed
toward Chester County.

Chester County, along with Philadelphia and Bucks, was one of the three original counties created by William Penn in 1682. Although originally named for Cheshire, England, it had long been known around these parts as Chesco.

The bookstore, on Paoli Pike, was one of the largest independent bookstores in the country, covering more than 38,000 square feet and stocking over a quarter million titles. It also featured the Magnolia Grill, a New Orleans fare restaurant.

Sinclair was waiting at one of the tables in the Magnolia Grill when Byrne arrived. When he saw Byrne enter, he stood up, waved him over. Byrne guessed he really did look like a cop, even in his trust- us- we’rethe- good- guys attire.

Byrne didn’t know what to expect, physically, of David Sinclair. He hadn’t met too many authors. Perhaps he expected someone about sixty or so, someone who looked like Albert Finney or Michael Caine, somebody in corduroy or tweed, a man who wore vest sweaters and Oxford button- down shirts and horizontally striped knit ties. Someone who smoked a meerschaum.

Instead, Sinclair was about thirty- five, and wore Levi’s, a leather blazer, and a Ramones
Gabba Gabba Hey
T-shirt. Along with a New York Yankees cap.

“David Sinclair,” the man said, extending a hand.
“Kevin Byrne.” They shook hands. “I appreciate you coming.” Sinclair smiled. “Well, I have to admit, I’m intrigued.” They sat down. Byrne glanced at the menu. He resisted, even

though the aromas coming from the kitchen were maddeningly enticing—crawfish étouffée, shrimp Creole, jambalaya. He ordered coffee.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you too much at this time,” Byrne said. “I understand.”
“What I’d like to do is get an overview of what you do, and who

your readers are.”

Sinclair looked at Byrne, his eyes firing up. Here was a police officer asking an author to talk about his books. His face all but inquired: How much time do you have?

“Wow. Okay,” Sinclair said. “I’m not sure where to start. What I mean is, the world of games and puzzles is huge. Not to mention ancient. Where would you like me to begin?”

“Why do people pick certain games and not others?” “That’s hard to say. I believe people like to be good at what they do, especially in the pursuit of leisure. I think we’re drawn to the challenges we have at least a chance of winning. For example, I’ve been playing golf my whole life and, quite honestly, I’ve never gotten any better at it. But each time out I hit one or two great shots, and it keeps me coming back. I think we all enjoy a contest that grows and evolves, something that is not fully understood too easily.”
“Why do people play games to begin with?”
“People have a gaming instinct, I believe. Even if you rule out professional sports, and I often do—there is a fine line between what is a sporting contest and what is a game—there are thousands upon thousands of ways to challenge a person’s mind and hands. Crosswords, Rubik’s cubes, video games, backgammon, poker, jigsaw puzzles, chess, darts, cribbage, croquet, billiards. It’s virtually endless. Look at the Sudoku madness. Look at
Vegas.
I read recently that Hollywood is making feature- length films based on Monopoly, Candy Land, and Battleship. We are a game- obsessed culture.”
“How far back do organized games go?”
“As far back as language itself. Maybe farther. The best- selling book of the entire medieval period was the
Book of Games,
commissioned by King Alfonso X. In fact, the first IQ test was a puzzle. The Riddle of the Sphinx. If you wanted to enter Thebes, you had to answer the riddle correctly. If not, the Sphinx killed you on the spot.”
“What was the riddle?”
“You want to play?”
“Sure.”
“The Riddle of the Sphinx: What is it that has four feet in the morning, two at noon, and three at night?”
Sinclair looked at Byrne, his eyes sparkling with the game.
“Is there a time limit?” Byrne asked.
Sinclair smiled. “The riddle is probably five thousand years old. I can give you a few minutes.”
Byrne took thirty seconds. “The answer is ‘man.’ He crawls on all fours as a baby, walks on two legs as an adult and—”
“Walks with the aid of a cane in old age.
Ve r y
good.”
Byrne shrugged. “I had a foot patrol in Thebes back in the day.”
Sinclair laughed. Byrne sipped his coffee. It had gotten cold.
“Who designs games and puzzles?” Byrne asked. “I mean, who makes these things up?”
“They come from all walks, really. Some games are based on design, some on logic, some on bringing order out of chaos. Most can be boiled down to the language arts or math sciences. Look at billiards. Pure geometry. There is a game called
Wei Qi,
or Go as its known here, and it is the most mathematically elegant game ever invented. Far more complex than chess. Millions of people play it every day.”
“What about tangram?”
“Once again, pure geometry.” Sinclair smiled. “Are you a fan?”
“I’ve really just done one puzzle,” Byrne said.
“Do you remember the problem?”
“The problem?
“In tangram, the diagram is called the problem.”
“Ah, okay. I believe it was something called a wedding drinking cup.”
Sinclair nodded enthusiastically. “I know it well. Fairly complex. Did you solve it?”
“Yes.”
“Most impressive,” Sinclair said. “Oddly enough, Philadelphia has a role in the history of tangram.”
“How so?”
“The tangram puzzle first came to the US in 1816, courtesy of Captain Edward Donnaldson and his ship
Trader.
The first American tangram book was published here the next year.”
“How many people are into it?”
“Oh, gosh. It’s known all over the world. It was a craze for a while. Kind of like Trivial Pursuit was. Tangram enthusiasts included Edgar Allan Poe, Napoleon, John Quincy Adams, Lewis Carroll—”
“Lewis Carroll?” Byrne asked. “The author?”
“Oh, yeah. Carroll was a big fan.”
Byrne thought,
2917 Dodgson Street.
He made a few notes.
For the next half hour, David Sinclair gave Byrne an overview of the history of tangram, from the earliest incarnations to the modern, computerized versions. Not for the first time, Byrne was astounded that there were so many areas of life, so many subcultures about which he was not, and never would be, knowledgeable.
Byrne closed his notebook, glanced at his watch. “I have one more question, if that’s okay.”
“Sure.”
“Is there a dark side to all this?”
“A dark side?”
“What I mean is, is there a history of people who have taken games or puzzles and twisted their meanings? Their purpose?”
Sinclair thought about this for a few moments. “I imagine so. People will twist anything, won’t they? Of course, board games like Risk and Stratego are
based
on warfare strategies. And God knows how many video games are predicated on violence.”
Byrne grabbed the check, stood. “Once again, I really appreciate your time.”
“It was my pleasure. I could talk about this stuff all day. I have, in fact.”
“I might have a few more questions,” Byrne said. “Would it be all right if I called you?”
“Absolutely,” Sinclair said. Byrne handed him his notebook, his pen. David Sinclair wrote his number. “This is my cell phone. You can always reach me on it.”
“Thanks.” Byrne put his notebook away. “By the way, are your books available here?”
Sinclair smiled. “They are.”
Ten minutes later, as Byrne stood at the register, buying three of David Sinclair’s books, he glanced back at the table. Sinclair was working on the
New York Times
crossword puzzle. He didn’t look up.