Catherine Coulter - Split Second

Thomas leaned forward. “Yes. She accused me of putting a roofie in Genny’s drink. I couldn’t believe that. A roofie ! It was a lie, you know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, we know. She was the one who managed to drug Ms. Connelly’s mojito without anyone noticing. Do you remember Monica coming close to where you were sitting? At the bar, right?”

“I swear I never saw her before she came running out of Enrico’s, yelling for me to stop.”

“How many times did you go to the men’s room, Mr. Hurley?”

He thought for a moment. “Only once, I think, but Genny was there, so how could Monica—?”

“Distraction, Mr. Hurley,” Coop said. “Think about it. It’s not hard to make people look away, focus on something else. You said Monica had very long blond hair. Think back now. Do you think it was a wig?”

“A wig? Detective Norris mentioned that, but I wasn’t thinking about that at the time, so I can’t be sure one way or the other. It all happened really fast, and Genny was hitting me, and I went down, and Monica was calling me a creep and a lowlife, and Genny wouldn’t listen to me. Sweet Mary and Joseph, Genny’s dead.” He gulped back tears. After a moment, he said, “Do you know Genny was only at Enrico’s because her boyfriend was gambling in Atlantic City, had a gambling problem she’d just found out about that night? Anyway, she was depressed and mad, and she wanted to get drunk, to forget the guy.” He bowed his head, started clenching and unclenching his hands on the tabletop. “She was sweet, you know? I really liked her. If her idiot boyfriend had walked in the door, I swear I would have decked him.” He looked at both of them, helpless, eyes blank. “And now she’s dead, just dead. Gone, and nothing will ever matter to her again.

“Murdered by Ted Bundy’s daughter, that’s what Detective Alba told me. I think she believes I knew Monica, that maybe I helped her kill Genny, but that isn’t true, it isn’t.”

“We know, Mr. Hurley,” Coop said. “We know you didn’t have anything to do with Genny’s murder.”

“Bundy’s daughter—it’s so hard to believe, to make yourself believe, you know? It’s like it really can’t be real; it’s like something someone made up, like one of my poems. You’re certain this Monica is really, truly Ted Bundy’s daughter? I mean, really, Ted Bundy?”

Coop nodded. “I’m afraid that’s true, Mr. Hurley. I’d like to try jogging your memory a little differently. I’d like you to close your eyes and relax. Are you with me? Yes, that’s right, lean back in that uncomfortable chair, take a couple of deep breaths, and picture Monica in your mind. When you’ve got her clear, tell us what you see.”

Thomas kept his eyes closed and let his chin drop down, and for a moment, Coop and Sherlock thought he’d fallen asleep. Then his eyes popped open, and both Sherlock and Coop saw anger. Anger was good, it would help him focus. “She’s thin, her chin’s pointed, not as pointed as Reese Witherspoon’s or Jennifer Aniston’s, but sort of pointed. That hair of hers, it’s really thick and blond, and it’s hanging halfway down her back, more straight than not. Her face is white, like she uses face powder to make it even whiter. Her eyes are really dark. She’s wearing lots of clothes, so I can’t see any other part of her, except her legs. Thin legs, and tall black boots, the kind that fit really snug against your calf. Her eyes are set far apart, and her mouth’s on the small side, sort of pinched. But still, she’s somehow pretty. I’d look at her twice if I passed her in the street.”

“Her daddy was good-looking, so why not?” Coop said as he took a photo of Kirsten Bolger out of his briefcase. “Is this Monica?”

“This is the same photo Detective Norris showed me. I told him at first I didn’t think so, because this woman’s hair is black.”

Coop said, “But he told you to lose the hair, right?”

“Yes, he did. And yes, when I did that, I recognized her. Yes, that’s Monica. I heard the other detectives talking about how she’s killed lots of women before poor Genny.”

Sherlock nodded. “Mr. Hurley, think back now. You’re having fun, trying to cheer Genny up, singing, entertaining the crowd. You’re sitting at the bar. When you turn out on your stool, you can see everyone in Enrico’s, right?”

“Yes, just about.”

“Look around the bar; look closely at the people. Do you see Monica? No, don’t shake your head, keep looking. Scan the room slowly, the booths, the tables. Anybody dancing?”

“No, no dancing.” Thomas fell quiet for a long time. He didn’t move, not even his hands. Finally he looked her straight in the eye and said, “Yes, I remember now, I did see her. She was sitting in a booth against the far wall.”

“Was she alone?”

He reared back in his chair a bit, looked surprised. “Well, wait, I don’t know—no, she wasn’t alone. There was a guy with her, kind of in the shadows, but I remember seeing him; he even sang along with me on a song. I don’t think Monica ever sang.”

“Describe what you see, Mr. Hurley.”

“She’s sitting at a table, a glass in front of her, but you know, it looks like plain old water to me. She’s not even eating the peanuts Big Ed puts in these little bowls on all the tables. She’s sitting there, her elbows on the table, her chin resting on her folded hands, and she’s looking at me, watching me.”

Sherlock lightly laid her hands over his. “Was she watching you or Genny?”

For a moment, Thomas simply couldn’t deal with it. “Oh, sweet Mary and Joseph, she could be watching Genny.”

She kept her voice smooth, infinitely calm. “You said her elbows are on the table, her chin’s resting on her hands.”

“Yes.”

“I want you to close your eyes again. Yes, that’s right. Good. Look at her hands, Thomas. Do you see any rings? Bracelets? A watch?”

Thomas’s eyes were still closed when he said, “I can’t make anything out—wait, she’s waving at the waitress. She’s probably going to order another beer for the guy.”

“Which arm?”

“Her right arm.”

Sherlock lightly rubbed her fingers over the backs of his hands. “Thomas, focus on her right hand. Do you see any jewelry?”

He shook his head, then, “Yes, there’s a ring on her finger, a big silver ring; it looks kind of weird, because it’s too big for her hand.”

“Focus on the ring. Describe it to us.”

After a couple of moments, Thomas opened his eyes. “You know, I saw a flash, so yes, there was some sort of stone on top of the ring. An emerald, I think, but that’s only a feeling, I can’t be one hundred percent sure.”

“Did you see this ring again when she was shouting at you outside the bar? That’s right, close your eyes, picture her.”

“She’s waving both arms around. She’s wearing rings on both hands. Do you know, I think the rings are the same.” He opened his eyes. “Why would she wear the same ring on both hands? I’ve got to be wrong.”

Sherlock leaned over and patted his hand. “Maybe not, Thomas, maybe not. Do you think you could describe the guy sitting at her table to a police artist?”

“I can try, Agent Sherlock.”

Detective Alba came in while Thomas Hurley was working with the police sketch artist, Daniel Gibbs. She stepped forward quietly to take a look over his shoulder.

Detective Alba said, “What’s this? We already have a photo of Bundy’s daughter. Why waste time with another sketch?”

Sherlock never looked away from the man’s face that was slowly taking shape under Daniel’s talented fingers. “This isn’t Kirsten Bolger. This is a sketch of the guy who was sitting across from Monica in her booth at Enrico’s.”