Page 79 of Kill For Me Kill For You
‘Are you a cop?’ she asked.
‘Do I look like a cop?’ he asked, with a smile.
The smile seemed genuine. Amanda took a moment to look him over. He wore a blue sports coat, blue jeans and a button-down white shirt. He had a pinkie ring on his little finger. Gold, bright, but not ostentatious. His skin was lightly tanned, his teeth white and clean. He smelled good. He wore his brown hair short, gelled to make it look a little messy. Amanda thought he looked quite handsome for an older man, but not in roguish way. Not the kind of guy she would go for. Billy had soft brown eyes, and there was a kindness in them. The car was clean and an expensive high-spec model. It had a leather interior and smelled as if it had just rolled out of the showroom that day. Billy looked like a rich New Yorker who’d just dropped out of the sky to help her. In a way, he did kind of look like a cop – certainly his posture. Upright. Back straight. Not slouched behind the wheel with one wrist flopped on top. He held the wheel two-handed – at two o’clock and ten o’clock – like a driving instructor.
‘Cops don’t dress like you,’ she said.
‘I guess not. I’m a retired captain. United States Marine Corps. I’m looking for a woman I met online. The same one you’re looking for, I’m guessing.’
Amanda sat up, shook her head. As she moved, she felt the bark of pain from her knee and winced.
‘You need to get that knee looked at,’ he said.
‘Never mind about my knee. I need to know what the fuck is going on.’
She felt in her coat pocket, put her hand round the knife.
‘The woman you’re looking for lied to you. You trusted her and she betrayed you. And now you want answers. Well, we have a lot in common. I say we go find a diner. Somewhere crowded. Nice and public. Some place you feel safe. Then we’ll talk. You don’t know me and you’ve no reason to trust me. I get that. I know this is all super weird right now. Same for me, but I need to find this woman before she hurts someone else.’
Billy said no more. He hit the power button on the console in the center of the dash, bringing the radio to life. Amanda held the knife tight, her eyes never leaving Billy.
They drove on, just the sound of the stereo in the car, the volume low. A country-and-western song.
Amanda got her breathing under control, but kept a firm grip on the knife as Billy pulled up outside a diner on Second Avenue and 51stStreet.
44
Ruth
There was a press conference starting on TV. Three cops. All male. Two detectives that neither Ruth nor Scott recognized. The third cop was in uniform. They were on a stage, with a table in front of them, facing the crowd. There were three chairs set at the table, and three microphones. One of the detectives stayed to the left of stage. The uniform and the other detective, a small man in a beige suit, took a seat at the table, each of them in front of a mic. The cop who stayed on his feet ushered a young woman to the table. She sat in the middle. A brunette with a haunted look. The cameras at the press conference flashed all over her. The skin below her eyes was red and swollen. She hung her head, shielding her face with her hair, trying to keep the cameras from blinding her.
The uniform began speaking.
‘Thank you for attending, ladies and gentlemen. Another senseless murder in our city and we need the help of all New Yorkers and anyone who was staying at the Paramount Hotel last night to come forward and speak to our officers. We are setting up a toll-free number dedicated to gathering as much information as we can to help solve this crime. My colleague from the press corps will give out that number at the end of this press conference. I’m joined on my right by Detective John Starkey, and on my left is Michelle Travers, Patrick’s widow, who wants to send out a personal appeal for witnesses in this case. First, Detective Starkey will explain where we are so far in this developing investigation. John . . .’
Starkey cleared his throat, leaned forward and spoke into the microphone.
‘Thank you, Captain Roberts. Holidays can be a tough time for families, and there’s one family that won’t have a son and a husband at the Thanksgiving table tomorrow. This is a heinous crime, and we will catch the perpetrators. We can tell you that at approximately ten thirty last evening we were contacted by staff at the Paramount Hotel. A maid noticed a substance, a chemical of some kind, leaking from under the door to a guest’s room. She knocked, got no answer, entered the room and discovered a body on the floor, covered in what smelled like bleach. She quickly realized the person was deceased. We can tell you that the victim in this case was Mr. Patrick Travers. A forty-three-year-old adviser to the mayor’s office.’
The murder rate in New York is nothing compared to what it used to be, but most weeks there will be some shootings, stabbings, robberies, something that will result in the loss of life. The victims don’t ordinarily get a press conference. But if you knock off someone from the Mayor’s office you can expect the full force of the law marshalled and sent in your direction with all speed.
‘Fuck,’ said Scott, running his hands through his hair. He then linked his fingers together behind his neck, let his elbows fall together and cursed some more.
Ruth turned back to the TV.
The detective spoke in a throaty, hoarse voice – a voice that was no stranger to hard liquor and long cold nights.
‘We do have some security-camera footage from last night, and we are keen to speak to this man. If you recognize him, or know who he is, please call the precinct or use the toll-free number, which we will give out at the conclusion of this briefing . . .’
The screen changed, and Scott moved towards it.
Footage from a security camera showed a hallway in the hotel with a man in the frame. It was Scott. But only from the back. The other image that flashed up was from the front, but he was looking away and his face wasn’t visible to the camera.
Ruth would know her husband anywhere, but she wondered if anyone else might be able to ID Scott from this footage. Probably not, she thought.
‘If you recognize this individual, please contact NYPD immediately. This is our main suspect. All avenues of inquiry remain open, including possible links to organized crime. Now I’d like to ask Michelle to say a few words,’ said the detective.
The camera shifted, pulled in close to the grieving partner. She kept her head low, her hair covering most of her face. Only her eyes seemed visible. She had that look of a life derailed. Grief is an injury. Ruth knew that look.
