Джеймс Паттерсон - Three Women Disappear

Back at the Jeep, I pulled out a flask from under the spare tire and did some drinking of my own. Then I spent an hour circling the block until a spot opened up directly across from Símon’s building. Serena had been there. She’d been staying there. Date night or not, there was a chance she might come back. The fact that she’d hidden her belongings behind a tree on the balcony only confirmed she was on the run. Whether she’d done something or was afraid of being blamed for something remained to be seen.

Unlike most cops, I love a good stakeout. There’s an adrenaline rush that comes with putting yourself in a position to see what nobody wants you to see. The adrenaline helps me think. And I had a hell of a lot to think about, starting with how I’d play it when Serena made her appearance. I couldn’t, despite direct orders, turn her over to Vincent. I’d be disposing of the person most likely to swear up and down that Sarah was no killer.

The more I thought about it, the more I became convinced I could pin it on the brother—whether he’d done it or not. All I needed was a little time to build the case. Meanwhile, I had to get word to Heidi’s three main suspects. Apart from the fact that they ran, Heidi had nothing on them. Nothing concrete. All they had to do was point the finger at each other, keep my ex-partner turning in circles. I’d tell them exactly what to say. Have Sarah implicate Serena, Anna implicate Sarah, Serena implicate Anna. Or maybe have each of them implicate the other two. Heidi would be blinded with reasonable doubt. Sarah would remain free.

A plan was starting to take shape. I worked it out one piece at a time. The siblings were my ticket back to a humdrum life. First, find Serena and put in a call to the tip line; second, hand Símon over to Vincent with a note that read “He killed your nephew.” It would be awfully damn convenient to have Símon disappear while Serena was in the box with Heidi. He’d look like a man who knew his sister was about to flip. And when Heidi’s team searched Símon’s condo, they’d find a few of Anthony’s prized possessions sitting on the top shelf of his bedroom closet.

Little by little, the lights went out in the buildings around me. I found myself kicking around the same question into the wee hours: did the fact that Serena was staying with Símon make it more or less likely that he killed Anthony? I mean actually killed Anthony. And if not him, then who? It wasn’t one of Vincent’s men. The killing was too personal, too sloppy. A pro wouldn’t stab him twenty-seven times, then leave the body behind. Who else had the motive and strength? Maybe Serena found herself a boyfriend. Maybe Anna had taken a lover. Maybe Sarah had, for that matter: I’d have been too checked out to notice.

But why dwell on maybes when there was a flesh-and-blood brother tailor-made for the part? The truth didn’t matter at all next to what I could prove. And if I could just find Serena, I was pretty sure I could prove that my wife hadn’t killed Anthony Costello.

CHAPTER 19

SARAH ROBERTS-WALSH

October 15

8:30 a.m .

Interview Room C

I DROVE out of Aunt Lindsey’s little township before sunup, bleary from lack of sleep and feeling as though my calf might combust at any moment. I had nothing with me but Anna’s collection. Not even a change of clothes. I’d thought about leaving Aunt Linds a diamond or a sapphire, but if Sean or his cronies came back with a warrant, they’d lock her up for receiving stolen property. They’d do it just to draw me out. And it would work. I’m not brave or strong or fierce or healthy, but no way could I let my aunt spend even one night in jail.

First things first: I needed to convert those jewels into cash. A week ago that would have been easy. Anthony knew people. Sean knew people. A half million dollars’ worth of jewels would have fetched a half million dollars in bills.

But now everything had changed. I’d have to take whatever a pawnshop was willing to give me.

There’s a long string of cash-for-goods joints on Hillsborough Avenue, mixed in with the liquor stores and tattoo parlors, but unfortunately pawnbrokers don’t tend to be early risers. Not as early as Aunt Lindsey, anyway. The best I could find was an 8:00 a.m. open. That left me with two hours to kill. Two hours is a long time when you can’t be seen in public.

I bought a latte and two slices of lemon pound cake at the drive-in window of a Starbucks, then sat in the parking lot sipping and nibbling. The sugar and caffeine made me queasy, but at least there’d be no chance of my drifting off. I wouldn’t let myself sleep again until I found a bed in a town or city where I knew nobody, and where nobody who knew me would think to look.

At 8:00 a.m. sharp, a skeletal man with a slick comb-over and a bad case of scoliosis opened the door to Quick Money Pawn & Gun. I gave him ten minutes to get settled, then followed him inside, tote bag hanging from my right shoulder. The place was a junkyard with a roof over its head. You couldn’t take a step without tripping over an appliance or a box of comic books. Rifles and guitars hung side by side on every wall. Bicycles dangled from the ceiling. Power tools filled a metal shelving unit stuck precariously in the center of the store. Boxes of cheap cigars stood ten deep at the far end of the counter.

The owner was smoking one now, eyeing me from behind a glass display case cluttered with knives and watches and the kind of costume jewelry Anna Costello wouldn’t be caught dead wearing. I walked over to him, set the bag on the counter, kept the straps drawn tight.

“My first of the day,” he said, turning his head to blow out a ring of very rank-smelling smoke. “What can I do you for?”

I had to wonder how many sad and desperate women had been here before, standing where I now stood, hoping this greasy stick figure of a man would pay enough for their baubles to get them out of town.

“I’ve got something—some things—I’d like to sell,” I said.

I stopped there. I had a whole sales pitch planned, but my voice was quaking, and I knew the more I talked the more I’d give myself away. Instead, I just opened the bag.

He took a long look inside, and while he looked it dawned on me that he might very well have ties to the Costello family. Pawnshops need protection. More protection than most businesses. On top of which they’re an invaluable source of intel. A handgun just came in? Who sold it, and who got clipped the night before? Someone pawned a sixty-four-inch TV and a set of silver steak knives? Who got robbed, and how much would they pay to get their stuff back? I cursed myself for the risk I was taking, but it was too late now. Besides, I didn’t exactly have an abundance of options.

“Interesting,” the man said. “Very interesting.”

Interesting? It had to be the biggest haul his little shop had ever seen.

“You are looking to sell all of this?” he asked.

I nodded.

He started sifting through the bag, cautiously at first, but then two pieces in particular caught his attention: Anna’s antique silver locket, and a high-clarity blue sapphire pendant that Anthony had given her quite publicly at a banquet celebrating their tenth anniversary. The broker set them on his palm, held them up to the light.

“I need to look at these under the glass,” he said. “Please wait here—I’ll just be a moment.”

I started to protest, but before I could get out a word he’d turned his back to me and slipped into a side room. I thought about sacrificing those two pieces and running off with the rest. What if he was on the phone to the police? To Vincent? Maybe he’d recognized the sapphire. Maybe he’d been at that banquet.