Part 7 (1/2)

”No such luck,” he said, pointing at the table between the two beds. Winston Smith had called from the phone in the room.

The kid was still alive, and we still had no way of contacting him.

Like a kick in the head, though, it occurred to me. What about the people who wanted to kill him? What about contacting them?

I took out my own phone, quickly sending an anonymous text to a number I knew by heart.

Lamont's eyes narrowed to a suspicious squint. ”What are you doing?” he asked.

Something you're definitely not going to like, Detective.

CHAPTER 21.

ONE GOOD setup deserved another. Only mine had to be better, because I'd already discovered theirs.

Less than three hours later, I was sitting on one of the concrete benches lining the perimeter of Bethesda Terrace by the Lake in Central Park. I'd tried to get a little sleep beforehand back in the spare bedroom at my apartment, but it was impossible. Closing my eyes just seemed to magnify everything, if that makes any sense.

In my lap now was a Nikon D4, the 300mm lens peeking out beneath the bottom of the Daily News. With the weather warm and breezy and no clouds in sight, I couldn't have asked for a more picture-perfect day.

About thirty yards in front of me was the famous fountain known as the Angel of the Waters, the lily being held in the bronze statue's left hand representing the purity of the circular pool around her. Claire had told me that. I suspected it was why I'd chosen the location. That, and the crowds of people. There were joggers pa.s.sing by, locals sipping coffee and hanging out, even some early-bird tourists looking in their guidebooks or just looking lost. All in all, safety in numbers.

Claire had cleverly hidden the Stopper behind her seat in the taxi, but her other two phones had been in her purse, which had disappeared with her killer. He sure didn't have it when he showed up dead in the tub at the Lucinda. Question was, who had the phones now?

I'd sent the text to Claire's BlackBerry, the phone provided and paid for by the Times. I was posing as a confidant-someone she knew and trusted-and as roles go, it was hardly a stretch. The tough part, in every sense, was acting as if she were still alive. Timing was everything. The text had to be sent before her death had made the morning news. Same thing for the meeting.

R u up yet? Need to c u asap. Think kid might be telling u the truth. Meet me in park, far end of Bethesda Fount at 9. Something to show u.

Ten minutes later, after I'd left the Lucinda, the reply came. A text from Claire's BlackBerry.

Ok, c u there.

Even if Claire had still been alive, I would've known the reply wasn't from her. She hated the shorthand of texting, countless times complaining to me that it was dumbing down kids and adults alike. Not only would she never use shorthand, but she made fun of me whenever I did.

Ok, see you there, she would've typed. Not a vowel or consonant less.

Either way, the time and place had been set. All that was left was the guest list. My end was simple. It was just me. I could've told Lamont about it, but that would've changed everything.

Police detectives might not have the equivalent of a Hippocratic oath, but there was no way Lamont would've allowed me to set this trap alone. He'd either have to handcuff me to a large inanimate object far from the park or be right next to me by the fountain. Most definitely with backup.

That was the difference, really. Why I hadn't told him. His job was to arrest people for what they did, not why they did it. If I had involved him, he'd immediately have brought this person in for questioning. Possession of stolen goods, at the bare minimum, with an eye toward accessory to murder.

Or was it accessories? Who knew who could show up, or how many? That was their end of the guest list.

So I had to be patient. Take pictures. Not take them in for questioning. Be their shadow. Identify them, follow them, and figure out the why. Because if you want to get some real answers from people, the last thing you do is let them know you're watching them.

I pulled back my s.h.i.+rtsleeves, checking my watch. Two minutes after nine. As much as I didn't know who I was looking for, I knew it wasn't the elderly man and woman deep in conversation who'd been sitting by the far side of the fountain since I'd arrived.

Turning the page of the Daily News spread between my hands, I continued to pretend to read. Through dark sungla.s.ses, I kept peeking above the paper, my eyes scanning for anyone who might be approaching, or at least looking in the direction of, the elderly couple on the bench.

The minutes kept ticking away. No one looked suspicious or out of place. Then again, neither did I. Or so I thought.

I was about to check the time again when I felt the quick, short vibration of my cell. It was an incoming text. Only it wasn't from Claire's phone. In fact, I didn't know whose phone it was from. The sender was anonymous.

Get out of there! it read.

But it was too late.

CHAPTER 22.

HE CAME out of nowhere. A man wearing sungla.s.ses even darker than mine, walking around the curve of the fountain and heading straight toward me.

Not fast. Not slow. Just walking. The click of his heels with each step now the only sound in the world.

How had I missed him?

He was dressed in a dark suit with an open-collared white s.h.i.+rt. He looked to be in his thirties. Short-cropped blond hair and in good shape. I couldn't see his eyes behind those sungla.s.ses, but I had little doubt they weren't aimed at anyone else. I could literally feel his stare.

Or was it just the rush of fear shooting up my spine?

Suddenly, I didn't know what to do with any part of my body. My feet were stuck to the ground, my hands frozen and locked in the air, the newspaper pinched between my fingertips feeling as heavy as one of those lead blankets they cover you with before an X-ray.

He had a newspaper, too.

I didn't see it at first, the way it was tucked neatly under his left arm. Now it was all I could look at. There was something about it, how it was folded so tightly as if there was something ... s.h.i.+t.

Inside it.

His right arm was a blur as it swung across his body, his hand outstretched with his fingers spread. All at once, his left arm loosened, the paper holster sliding down to his elbow while beginning to open. The way he caught the gun in midair, I was instantly sure of two things. One, he'd done this before. And two, I was simply done.

It's not true what they say. You don't see your life flash before your eyes. You see your death. In slow motion, no less.

He'd come to a complete stop, ten merciless feet in front of me, with the Angel of the Waters rising up behind him. But she wasn't looking my way.

Others were, though. There was a woman screaming to my left, her high pitch and volume sending nearby pigeons scattering in the air. To my right, there was the sound of feet scampering, someone literally running for his life. Gun! Gun! Gun!