River of Glass (22 page)

I
CALLED
Jay, brought him up to speed.

“I’ll take care of the horses for you,” he said.

“Thanks. And . . . thanks for what you did for Paul.”

“I was happy to do it.”

“I’m sorry you had to.”

“I’m sorry a woman might be being tortured somewhere and no one can seem to find her. You do what you need to do.”

When I hung up, Khanh said, “He good man.”

“The best.”

“But many ghost.”

“Again with the ghosts.”

“Both you. Many ghost.”

“You can’t live thirty-six years and not have a few ghosts.” I said it lightly, but she was right.

I set the Nikon on the seat beside me and we settled in to wait. She was good at waiting. Most people have to fill the silence with chatter, but she seemed comfortable in it. Maybe sustaining a conversation in English was a strain, or maybe she’d just spent a lot of time in her own company.

A woman in a green jogging suit came out wearing headphones. I zoomed in and snapped her picture. A man in a rumpled brown suit went in carrying a briefcase. Zoom and snap.

A little after two, Savitch pulled up in a Yellow Cab and went inside. People came and went, and my Nikon recorded them all. By eight that evening, it was clear Savitch had settled in for the night. I taught Khanh how to use the camera. Then she and I spelled each other, one watching while the other dozed or walked down the block for coffee or a bathroom break. Out back, Billy and Tommy did the same.

Monday night passed, and all day Tuesday. Every few hours, I turned on the news, and we listened to the escalating hunt for the Executioner. One pundit suggested putting everyone on the list under the same roof and under heavy guard. Another said that would just give the Executioner a single target. Another suggested putting the cops and attorneys under guard and letting the drug dealers fend for themselves. There was something appealing about that option, but it wasn’t civilized to say so.

On Wednesday morning, I got a text message from Maria’s cell phone. It said:
[Heart] Daddy.

My son had discovered emoticons.

I texted back:
[Heart], Paul.

A moment later:
[Heart, smiley face] Daddy.

I texted back:
[Heart, smiley face], Paul.

Then:
[Heart, smiley face, horse, sheep, cat, balloons, fireworks] Daddy.

I wasn’t sure if he was trying to send a meaningful message or just sending icons that appealed to him. I sent him a string of Emojis I thought he’d like. A few minutes later, another text came in:

At the pediatrician’s. Not serious, just a little worried about this respiratory thing. Will keep you posted. [Heart]. Maria.

The heart made my pulse quicken.

At noon, Billy called and said, “Hell, Cowboy, Howard Hughes got out more than this guy. We bailing or staying the course?”

I looked up at Savitch’s window. Curtains closed. No movement. I hadn’t expected any, but I had a bad feeling all the same. I said, “This guy didn’t have much of a social life. Could be that’s all this is. Or getting arrested spooked him and he’s hunkered down.”

“You’re the boss.” After a moment, he said, “How you taking all this?”

“I’m taking it fine. Boredom is my life.”

“You know what I mean,” he said. “It was a different world over there. Sometimes you needed someone to get you through the nights, you know? Some reason for getting out of the bunk in the morning. It wasn’t that you didn’t love the girl back home. It was just that she was . . .”

“Back home?” I finished for him.

“Exactly. You get what I’m saying?”

“I get it.”

“When all this is over, come by. I’ll crack us open a couple of beers.”

“When all this is over.”

Khanh shifted in the passenger seat. “Over soon,” she said. “I hope.”

At seven, Billy called again. “You sure this guy is going to lead us to Tuyet? ’Cause he don’t seem to know it.”

“Maybe he slipped out and we missed him.”

“We didn’t miss him on our end. Somebody stacked some boxes and crap in front of the back door. It’s still there.”

“Must make for a very interesting surveillance.”

“I ought to charge you double for boredom. I haven’t even gotten to use my fancy phone camera.”

I called Malone. “Something’s wrong here at Savitch’s place. He went in Monday around two and he still hasn’t come out.”

“You’re sure you didn’t just miss him? Maybe he’s just out getting laid somewhere.”

“We didn’t miss him.”

“Look, he’s not under arrest anymore. He can go anywhere he wants or stay home under the blankets if that’s what he prefers. I can’t go barging into his apartment just because you have a bad feeling.”

“Are you guys even watching him?”

“What guys? Half the force is on that damn list and the other half is trying to keep them alive. Besides . . .” She heaved a heavy sigh. “I’m getting a lot of flak from upstairs. The DNA debacle really hurt us.”

“He knows where Tuyet is.”

“And he’s going to lead you there. Yeah, yeah. I hope you’re right.”

“But you don’t think so.”

“No, I think you probably are. But don’t do anything stupid. If you do find her and she’s not gift wrapped and waiting on the sidewalk for you, I want you to call me and let me know.”

“Gift wrapped and waiting on the sidewalk, we’ll probably need the bomb squad. But don’t worry. I won’t do anything stupid.”

Her laugh took the sting out of her words. “That would be a great favor, if you can manage it.”

After I’d hung up, Khanh looked at me. I answered before she could ask. “Give him until tonight. If he still hasn’t come out, I’m going in.”

28

D
arkness fell. The sliver of moon shed little light, but the street lamps lit the block with a pale glow. Just before nine, I walked down to Fido and picked up four coffees and four pieces of carrot cake. I ate mine on the way back, then gave one of each to Khahn. While she nibbled at the cake, I tucked my gloves and a set of lockpicks into my jacket pocket.

“Be careful,” she said. “He very bad man.”

I gave her a reassuring grin. “Maybe he should be careful. Weren’t you the one who said I was dangerous?”

“Be careful anyway. Dangerous not same as lucky.”

“Neither is careful. Maybe you should tell me to be lucky.”

G
EOFFREY THE
security guard was sitting in his usual place. This time he was reading a Philip K. Dick novel and munching from a bag of Hot Fries. He picked up a bottle of Tabasco sauce and splashed it on a fry, popped it into his mouth.

“Mrs. Wentworth?” he said, around the fry.

I held up the bag and the cups. “I brought her these. Thought you might like some too.”

“What is it?”

“Coffee and carrot cake.”

“Oh, Lord. Carrot cake.” He rubbed his belly. Eyed the bag. “Fido’s is the best.”

I left the coffee and cake on his desk, then took the stairs up to two. I left Mrs. Wentworth’s in front of her door, glanced around to make sure the hall was empty, and knocked on Savitch’s door. No answer. Tried the doorknob. Locked. I pulled on my gloves and took out my lockpicks.

Savitch had four locks—the doorknob lock, the dead bolt that had come with the apartment, and another pair of dead bolts. I picked the doorknob lock easily, found all three dead bolts unlocked.

Inside, the smell of blood and shit was strong, and beneath that, cigarette smoke and the smell of a body just beginning to ripen. It was dark inside, the only light streaming through the slats of the living room window, but I didn’t need light to know someone had died here. I slipped inside, pushed the door closed, and glanced around.

A man slumped on the sofa, presumably the source of the stench. I touched two fingers to his neck. Cold to the touch. I pulled my key chain out of my pocket, used the tiny LED flashlight on my key ring to shine a light on his face. Thick brows, heavy jaw, manticore tattoo running from just above his right eye to the edge of his jawline. Karlo Savitch.

The LED light showed a deep wound to the base of the skull. Gunshot wound, from the look of it. Blood had soaked into the shoulders of his shirt and made a saddle-shaped stain along the back of the sofa.

I pulled out my phone and dialed the first two digits of 911. Stopped. With Frank and Harry under guard, odds were that the scene would be processed by a couple of guys who’d never even seen a corpse. They might miss the thing that could lead us to Tuyet, or—more likely—find it and fail to recognize its significance. Besides, they’d be working a murder scene. I just wanted something that would push me in a direction.

I did a quick walk-through of the apartment, careful not to disturb anything. Savitch’s furniture was functional but worn, his clothing unremarkable. Work boots. Work pants in khaki, navy, and gray. Solid-colored button-front shirts. Three pullover sweaters, one gray, one blue, one brown. Wool pea coat with lined gloves stuffed in the pocket.

Obviously, a man who didn’t care about appearances. But he indulged himself in other ways. Top-of-the-line CD player with an extensive collection of classical and baroque CDs. On the kitchen counter, a bottle of Auchentoshan Scotch single-malt and a bottle of Pear Williams Eau de Vie Pear Brandy, along with a basket of Asian pears. In the fridge, shrimp cocktail, a couple of Kobe beef steaks, a porterhouse, some top-of-the-line fillets. In the cabinet, a bottle of ice wine and an expensive French white.

On the coffee table in front of the body were a box of gourmet Danish chocolates and a pack of Ronhill Croatian cigarettes. Car keys. Cell phone.

I moved to the next room, the library. Ran my gloved finger lightly over the titles—on one shelf, books on history, weapons, war, and mercenary life; on another, psychology books on brainwashing and mind control.

His workout room was extensive. Weight machines, free weights, treadmill, NordicTrack, rowing machine.

In every room, always near at hand, strapped beneath a table or tucked into a drawer, was a combat knife or a pistol. The one in the drawer of the bedside table took my breath away—a Korth semiautomatic, tactical model, high-polish blue. Its German manufacturer called it raw steel transformed into precision and priced it upwards of six thousand dollars. I’d never seen one outside of a gun show, and for a moment, the temptation to slip it into my waistband was almost overwhelming. I put my hands in my pockets and moved on.

There was nothing there that would tell me where Tuyet might be. But it did raise the question: how did a man with a weapon in every nook and cranny end up shot in the back of the head in his own living room?

I went back into the living room and picked up the dead man’s cell phone, careful not to smudge any prints that might be there. It was the old fashioned kind with buttons. Using a pen to push them, I pulled up the call history. There wasn’t much, just a series of calls to his sister and a few to a nearby Chinese restaurant. Probably, like Frank said, he used a throwaway phone for business.

I turned off the phone and put it back where I’d found it, glanced around to make sure I hadn’t left anything behind, then stepped into the hall and closed the door. Across the hall, a stream of light came from under the door and lit the plastic cup and the bag with the carrot cake inside. I pulled off my gloves and put them in my pocket, then picked up the cup and bag and knocked on the door.

When it opened, I held out the bag and the cup. “I wanted you to have this, because I sort of used you to get in here. But things are about to get exciting around here, so . . .”

“Mr. Savitch?” She peered around me at the door across the hall as if she could see through it. “You didn’t . . .?”

“Of course not.”

“But someone did.”

“I’m afraid so.”

I called 911, then Malone. Texted Jay. Then I went downstairs.

Geoffrey looked up from his book. “Mrs. Wentworth like her carrot cake?”

I showed him my license, and a flush crept up his neck and toward his hairline. “So that carrot cake—”

“—was a genuine gesture.”

“So what was it you were doing here?”

“Guy named Karlo Savitch. Second floor.”