Split Second (15 page)

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 Enrico’s?”

“No, sorry. When I checked on the table a couple minutes later, she and the guy were both gone.”

Bonnie said, “I saw her go out the front door to catch Genny, but the guy? I guess he could have gone out the emergency door, but there’s a god-awful racket if anyone uses it.”

Big Ed nodded to Ms. Darlene. “Mom’s right, the guy couldn’t have gone out the emergency door out back; everyone would have had their hands over their ears.” Big Ed walked across the bar to a door with a red light over the lintel, next to the signs for the men’s and women’s rooms. He was shaking his head when he walked back to them. “The main alarm wire’s been cut clean through. It had to be your guy who did that. Right, Mom? Otherwise, you’d have seen him.”

Ms. Darlene’s eyes shone with excitement. “Sure, he cut the wire, then it’s a clean shot out the door into the alley. Do you think he hooked up with Monica and Genny? Maybe helped her kill Genny Connelly?” She turned on her son. “Eduardo, you always turn off the alarm when you come in. Didn’t you realize it was off this morning? What happened?”

Big Ed suddenly looked like he was twelve years old. “Ah, Ma, I just flipped the switch, didn’t really look at it.”

Ms. Darlene smacked him on the arm.

CHAPTER 33

As soon as they stepped outside Enrico’s to walk back to the First Precinct, Sherlock gave Coop a huge smile and pulled out the sketch. “You remember him, don’t you, Coop? His name is Bruce Comafield.”

He studied it again, and said, “When you showed it to Ms. Darlene, I tell you, Sherlock, I couldn’t believe it. You got this out of Thomas?”

She nodded.

“When you think about it, it’s not so surprising Mr. Lansford’s aide would know his stepdaughter. So he and Kirsten—do you think they’re both involved in this killing spree?”

“No clue, but we’re going to find out.”

“So, he went out the back? Where did he go? Did he meet up with Kirsten, before or after she’d killed Genny Connelly?”

“Good questions. I could give Thomas Hurley a big kiss, but he might put me in one of his poems.”

When they faced Captain Slaughter, at his request, ten minutes later, he said immediately, “Detective Alba here tells me you got Daniel Gibbs to do a sketch, supposedly of a guy sitting with Kirsten Bolger.”

Detective Alba said, “We could have gotten that sketch, too, if Hurley had told us about the guy.”

Captain Slaughter waved her away and looked down at the sketch Sherlock laid on his desktop.

Detective Alba jerked her head toward Sherlock. “She says she recognizes him, sir.”

Captain Slaughter raised a salt-and-pepper eyebrow.

Sherlock handed him the sketch. “If you would make a copy of the sketch and fax it to the homicide divisions in San Francisco, Chicago, Cleveland, and Philadelphia, I’d appreciate it. Then we’ll check it out. If it’s really the guy we think it is, you’ll know it right away.” Captain Slaughter handed off the sketch.

Detective Henry Norris said, “At least we know for sure it isn’t a sketch of Kirsten Bolger’s daddy; we can all give thanks for that.”

“Amen to that,” Sherlock said, and smiled at Norris. “Thank you for your assistance. Please send all your ideas and further interviews to us. We certainly appreciate it.”

“Yes, indeed,” Captain Slaughter said. “You’re smiling, Agent Sherlock. You’ve got something up your sleeve?” He handed the sketch back to her and she gently laid it flat in her briefcase.

She patted his arm. “Yes, sir, I believe I do.”

“You should tell us who you think this guy is,” Detective Alba called after them. “I told you, we’ve got a right to know.”

“Once we’re certain,” Sherlock said again, and finger-waved her good-bye, never looking back. She felt rather small about it, but Detective Alba was a pain. She’d been tempted for a moment to tell her they’d have gotten the same information at Enrico’s Bar—if they’d thought to ask. She’d give Captain Slaughter a heads-up when she got back to Washington.

CHAPTER 34

Chevy Chase, Maryland
Tuesday afternoon

Lucy drove back toward Chevy Chase so excited she could practically fly. She hit traffic, and each time she stopped, she stared at the envelope on the passenger seat beside her, saw the bulging lump of the ring.

When she reached her grandmother’s house, she carried the envelope into the library, as carefully as she would fine bone china. She set it atop the desk and stood there, looking at it. Slowly, she opened the envelope and turned it downward into her palm. A large, heavy gold ring fell out, pure gold, yes, and it was ugly and clumsylooking. She looked closely, saw the top of it came to nearly a point in the very center. Three rubies formed a triangle around the crest. No, they weren’t rubies, they were carnelians, flat, no luster at all. She rubbed them on her pants leg, but they still looked dull, no sparkle or shine. So this was the ring her grandfather had taken from her grandmother? This ring was why she’d stabbed him to death?

She took her grandfather’s letter from the envelope and read it again.

My dearest Lucy,

I know, my darling, that you are grieving mightily as you read this, at your father’s death. I am sure you know he loved you as much as is possible for a person to love, as do I, my dearest.

Forgive the shock of reading these words from my hand, no doubt a very long time since I held you last. I write after long thought and with your welfare in mind. You are probably reading this letter in your middle years, and wondering why I didn’t tell you all of this when you were younger. It was for your own protection, and because of my respect for your father, and my only son. While he lived, I know he would not have approved of my writing to you, nor giving you this ring. This is why I instructed the ring and letter not to be given to you until after his death.

You are no doubt looking at or holding an old ring in your hand. It is an odd-looking ring, is it not? It is indeed very old and heavy—ugly, really—with its mysterious inscriptions and its few dull stones. But it is much more than that—it is your birthright.

I first saw it when you were about two years old, the night your mother, Claudine, was taken from us in that terrible auto accident. Your grandmother and I saw the accident because we were driving directly behind her, on our way to a Whistler showing at the Ralston Gallery. Your grandmother was devastated, and she was drunk, a nearly empty bottle of vodka sticking out from beneath her pillow. I had never seen her drink like that before.

She said over and over that she didn’t deserve to be alive if our daughter-in-law, Claudine, was dead. She was suffering so much, I feared she would try to harm herself, but instead she started talking about the ring, how if she’d only been wearing it she could have stopped the accident and Claudine would still be alive. “A ring?” I asked her. “What difference could a ring have possibly made?” I asked her again when she didn’t answer. She looked at me, her face blotched from her weeping, her eyes dead with despair, and then she took this strange old ring with the dull red stones wrapped in a sock out of the bottom drawer in her bedside table. I thought it was the ugliest ring I’d ever seen, and I asked her what it was. She said her own mother had given it to her before she died, and made her swear not to tell anyone about it except her own daughter, and that meant you, in this case—her granddaughter—when her time came to pass the ring along. Helen was crying, choking on her own words. She said the ring was magic. She said she’d always been afraid of it and had kept it hidden, and so Claudine’s death was her fault, since if she’d been wearing it she could have saved Claudine. I thought she was having a breakdown, could no longer bear to be in touch with reality, but then, you see, she showed me what the ring can do.

Your grandmother never really recovered, was never herself again, at least to me, after that night. She kept the ring with her, wouldn’t let it out of her sight, until she seemed obsessed with it, hardly talked to me of anything else. I grew to fear what she might try to do with it, fear who else she might tell and what would happen to her if she did. But I feared most of all for her sanity.

I thought I must get rid of the thing, but then I thought about how different our lives would be if she had managed to save Claudine. I thought of Josh, numb with grief that night, huddled next to you, Lucy. I thought of you, only two years old and destined to grow up without a mother because an idiot drunk had smashed his car into hers and killed her instantly.

And so, my dear Lucy, I waited four more years to decide that I must remove the ring from your grandmother. You are now only five years old, and you have no idea what awaits you in the future. The ring will be yours. It can be used for great good, but it is not my place to tell you how. You see, if you have your grandmother’s gift, you will soon discover that for yourself, and if you do not, you will never believe me in any case. For your own safety, tell no one you would not trust with your very life. If anyone deserves this ring, it is you, my dear Lucy.

I find myself wondering as I write this letter to you how long I knew you before I went to my reward. I also find myself wondering how old you are as you read this. You see, my instructions were for you to be given this letter and ring upon the death of your father. I hope Josh lived a long, satisfying life and you, my dear, are middle-aged, and you have gained wisdom and insight into yourself and your fellow man. Do you yourself have a daughter?

I wish you joy, and love, and fulfillment in your life, Lucy. I will love you always.

Your Grandfather, Milton Xavier Carlyle

Lucy laid the letter on the desk, picked up the ring, and laid it on her palm. She slowly closed her hand around it. To her surprise, she felt warmth from it, and more, the ring felt quite natural in her hand.

Without thinking, she slipped the ring onto her middle finger. Since it was so large, she curled her fingers to keep it on. She turned on the desk lamp and held it close to the light. She saw symbols etched beneath the three carnelians—a half circle, flat side up; a circle with an inverted cross coming out of it, like an incomplete symbol of Venus or woman; and two small isosceles triangles with nothing at all unusual about them. She had to concentrate to make the symbols out clearly, they were so shallow and faded in the gold. What did the symbols mean? Were they pictographs from a long-ago language? She looked on the inside of the ring. There, in letters large enough for her to see clearly, was a single word etched in black letters: SEFYLL.

Was that Welsh? She whispered the word aloud, stumbling over the sound.

She whispered the word again, changing how she said it until the word flowed more smoothly out of her mouth, as if she had the right pronunciation. She said the word aloud, and she would swear there was a gentle rippling in the light from the desk lamp. Strange, but simply a play of the light—nothing, really.

Her cell phone rang, once, twice, three times, but she ignored it, pressed speaker, and let it go to voice mail. She heard Dillon’s deep voice speaking, but she paid no attention.

She stroked the ring with her thumb, then said the word again: “SEFYLL.”

Dillon stopped speaking in mid-sentence. It seemed to Lucy that the very air stopped, but only for a moment, and then her cell blared out the racing trumpet call again, then rang—one ring, two rings, three rings. And there was Dillon’s voice, and he was repeating what he’d said before.

Like a rubber band snapping back.
She fell into the big leather wing chair, heart pounding, too confused to be frightened. What had happened? Dillon was speaking the same words he’d been saying before. She blinked when she heard him say, “So, bottom line, it was Kirsten who struck on Wall Street last night, and she had an accomplice. Call me.”

It was the oddest feeling, listening to him, knowing what he would say. Had he been cut off, called her twice, repeated the same message? She grabbed her cell. What had he said? “Dillon? Lucy here. Ah, you said there was an accomplice with Kirsten last night?”

There was a moment of silence, then, “Are you okay, Lucy?”

“What? Oh, yes, sure, I’m okay.”

Another brief pause, then, “I know Dr. Judd contacted you about the findings of the autopsy. I’m sorry.”

So, he’d called Dillon, too. Well, no surprise there. “Thank you, Dillon.”

“Coop asked me to call you, said you weren’t picking up. They’ve been interviewing Thomas Hurley, and they’ve got a police artist making a sketch.”

But Lucy couldn’t stop staring at the huge ring still sitting comfortably on her middle finger.

“Lucy?”

“I’m sorry, Dillon. Would you tell me something? Did you call me twice just now, get cut off maybe, and called again, or did you call only once?”

“Just once, and you called me right back.”

“I must have been mistaken, then. Don’t worry about it. I guess it has been quite a week, Dillon. I’m okay, though.”

Dillon wondered for an instant if Lucy was drunk, but no, that couldn’t be right. She sounded like she wasn’t really there, like she wasn’t hearing him, or didn’t care. Something was wrong.

“Lucy, is there something you want to tell me?”

Tell him? And look mad?
Tell him this ring and this letter were scaring her to her toes?
Say something!

“I’m fine, really. The house is no longer a crime scene, they cleared it this morning, but I’m not about to visit the attic, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Tell you what, Lucy, you stay right there, and I’ll be over with some takeout, all right? Sherlock and Coop won’t be back until late, a flight delay. I’ll call you later.”

She scarcely heard him. She punched off her cell and stared at the ring. That word—SEFYLL—when she’d said it aloud, when she’d said it correctly, time seemed to stop dead for a second or two, then replay itself. That sounded ridiculous. Was she being crazy? Maybe saying the word right on the ring conjured up some sort of weird hypnotic suggestion that made it appear that way.

Lucy took a deep breath, picked up the Chinese lamp that stood atop a side table, and flung it against the fireplace. As it shattered, she said clearly, “SEFYLL.”

Everything stopped, and suddenly the lamp was back on the end table, whole, untouched. She saw what seemed to be a small shudder in time itself. Another couple of seconds passed—nothing happened. She ran to the lamp, put her hands on it, and waited. More seconds passed, and still nothing happened, nothing at all. The Chinese lamp she’d hurled against the fireplace and smashed into a gazillion pieces was sitting, solid and unharmed, on the tabletop. She sat down in the large leather chair at her grandmother’s desk and stared in front of her. She wasn’t crazy, and if something unbelievable was happening, something incredible, she wouldn’t let it scare her stupid. She would understand it.

She began to experiment.

She held the ring—she learned she had to be holding it in her hand—and said the word clearly. Each time she did, the digital clock on her cell phone stopped, showed a time exactly eight seconds before, and with no pause, began to tick forward again. She hurled the lamp against the fireplace three more times just as she had before, and kept her eye on the second hand of her watch. As before, the lamp seemed to reassemble itself and the second hand on her watch always turned backward exactly eight seconds until it swept forward again.

Could she change anything she wanted in those eight seconds?

Lucy sat back down in the leather chair, her grandmother’s ring still on her middle finger, her hand fisted to keep it in place. Her grandfather had stolen it, hidden it, so she couldn’t use it again. Because he was afraid of what she would do with it? No, because she was going crazy, that was why. But her grandfather hadn’t been sure Lucy could make it work. Did it work for her only because it had been her grandmother’s? Evidently so.

Her father had seen his mother stab his father to death, but had he known about the ring? He must have known something about it; she’d heard her grandmother screaming about it to him the day her grandfather died.

The doorbell rang, but she ignored it, barely heard it.

Then someone was pounding on the door. She heard Dillon’s voice calling out, “Lucy! Come, open the door!”

She looked over at the giant clock in the corner. It was well past six o’clock. It was dark.

She slid the ring off her finger and quickly slipped it onto the gold chain she wore about her neck, stuffed it into her shirt. She realized as she ran to the door that her middle finger, once warm where she’d worn the ring, now felt cold.

“Lucy, open this door or I’m breaking in.”

“I’m coming, Dillon, I’m coming.” And she thought, tears stinging her eyes,
Grandmother, if only you’d had the ring with you when my mother was hit by that drunk. If only.