David ed. - Face Off (2014) Anthology

“I hate being used like this,” said Jenny.

“You think I like it? I had an obligation to defend Mustaffa to the best of my ability. But suborning perjury was not included among my services.”

“So what do we do?” said Jenny.

“You got me,” said Paul. “We could go to the trial judge and the DA and explain what happened. Of course, what good is that? Even if Mustaffa were alive he would be beyond the reach of the court, double jeopardy being what it is, which is redundant in this case since he’s dead.”

“Rashid is a coconspirator,” said Jenny. “He’s still liable.”

“Try and find him,” said Paul. “He’s busy peddling his wares, little golden statues, remember?”

“Yes, I heard about them,” said Jenny. She thought for a moment. There was a twinkle in her eye. “That’s it!”

“What?”

“The answer.”

“The answer to what?” said Paul.

“A woman scorned. Alex will want a hand in this. Maybe the DA will listen to her now.”

EIGHT DAYS LATER A SLEEK Gulfstream G650 touched down on the runway at the heavily guarded airport just outside Pyongyang, the capital of North Korea. It taxied to a stop in front of a large hangar as the stairway was wheeled up next to the door. It swung open and a man stepped out onto the platform. He was carrying a small wooden box under one arm.

The man who called himself Samir Rashid looked down at the official entourage waiting for him at the foot of the steps, behind them the line of shiny black limousines and security cars waiting to escort him to the government house, what is called the Grand People’s Study House.

Rashid walked briskly down the steps until he reached the tarmac, where he extended his right hand in greeting toward the general who was first in line. Before the officer could take it, a guard stepped around him and quickly slapped the cold, hard metal of handcuffs around Rashid’s right wrist. Another guard took possession of the wooden box while they manacled Rashid’s other hand.

“What is this? What are you doing?”

“Silence,” said the general. “You will come with me. Is this the statue?” He gestured toward the box.

“It is, and your leader will be very angry with you for the manner in which I am being treated. There is no excuse for this. I had an arrangement with his father and have an understanding with your Dear Leader. I assure you he will be very upset when I speak to him about this.”

“Yes,” said the general. “Perhaps you can explain the meaning of this to him.” The officer reached for something handed to him by one of his subordinates standing next to him. It was a newspaper, two of them actually, copies of the New York Times and the Los Angeles Times, each of them one day old. Blaring headlines just below the fold from New York:

AUDACIOUS THEFT FROM CAIRO MUSEUM

ATTEMPT TO SELL BOGUS TUT STATUES

From Los Angeles the revelation:

PROSECUTOR UNVEILS ELABORATE FRAUD IN SPINOVA MURDER TRIAL, COCONSPIRATOR ON THE LAM

Rashid’s eyes raced over the newsprint trying to absorb the full impact of the words. Adrenaline flooded his heart as glimpses of his fate revealed themselves here and there in the words on the page—“golden knockoffs”—“North Korean dictator”—“unsuspecting buyers”—“fraud”—“murder,” the last of which seemed to be the least of Rashid’s worries. In that instant, the man who had called himself Samir Rashid knew that he would never leave North Korea alive.

It is true what they say: justice is a funny thing. It comes in many different forms.

JEFFERY DEAVER

VS. JOHN SANDFORD

Combining Lincoln Rhyme and Lucas Davenport in a single adventure seemed an insurmountable problem. Rhyme, the hero of Jeffery Deaver’s series that began with The Bone Collector (1997), is a quadriplegic and, of necessity, sticks close to home in New York City. Davenport, the star of John Sandford’s Prey series, is an ace investigator living in Minnesota—working presently for that state’s Bureau of Criminal Apprehension.

How could the two ever meet?

Fortunately, Davenport’s talents as a no-nonsense, take-no-prisoners cop have transported him to the Big Apple before. In Silent Prey (1992), NYPD Detective Lily Rothenburg enlisted Davenport’s aid in nailing the psychotic killer Dr. Michael Bekker, who was prowling the streets of Manhattan. Rhyme, too, has a partner, Detective Amelia Sachs, so Jeff and John decided it was a natural fit for this foursome to join forces to tackle the case of a murderous sculptor for whom art and death are inextricably—and gruesomely—intertwined.

The combination of these four was particularly harmonious since Lucas Davenport and Lily Rothenburg are known for their streetwise policing and skill at psychological profiling—while Lincoln Rhyme and Amelia Sachs ply the complementary skill of forensic science. Together, they take on the task of figuring out who’s doing what and why to victims in Lower Manhattan’s chic art scene.

The process of writing this story was seamless. Both John and Jeff are experienced at this sort of thing. Together, they developed an outline, comprising about eight scenes, then divided up the task of writing each one. Jeff handled the crime scene and forensics-oriented portions, John the undercover and street investigations. Rather than writing serially—one section after the other, sending the finished portions to each other—amazingly, they worked simultaneously. When the rough story was finished, they each polished the completed manuscript, combined edits, and, voila, they had a story.

It’s a chilling tale, one filled with each author’s trademark reversals and twists. You’ll think twice about ever walking into an art gallery again.

And heaven help you if you ever strike up a conversation with a stranger in a bar.

Rhymes with Prey

THE NIGHT WAS HOT, AND close, and the midsummer perfume of Central Park West—the odor of melted bubble gum, mixed with discarded cheese pretzels and rotten bananas, or something just like that—seeped into the backseat of the taxi as it cleared Fifty-seventh Street and headed north.

The taxi driver was Pakistani, from Karachi, he said, a slender, mild-mannered man who smelled lightly of cumin with an overlay of Drakkar Noir cologne. He listened to what might have been Pakistani jazz, or Afghani rap, or something even more exotic; the couple in the backseat wouldn’t have known the difference, if there was any difference. When the male passenger asked how big Karachi was, the driver said, “More big than New York City, but more small than New York City if includes the suburgers.”

The woman said, “Really,” with an edge of skepticism.

The Pakistani picked up the skepticism and said, “I look in Wiki, and this is what Wiki say.”

The male passenger was from Minnesota and, not knowing any better, or because he was rich and didn’t care, overtipped the driver as he and the woman got out of the cab. As it moved away, he said to her, “I could use a suburger right now. With catsup and fries.”

“You just don’t want to deal with Rhyme,” she said. “He makes you nervous.”

Lucas Davenport looked up at Lincoln Rhyme’s town house, a Victorian pile facing the park, with a weak, old-fashioned light over the doorway. “I’m getting over it. When I first went in there, I had a hard time looking at him. That pissed him off. I could feel it, and I feel kinda bad about it.”

“Didn’t have any trouble looking at Amelia,” said Lily Rothenburg.

“Be nice,” Lucas said, as they walked toward the front steps. “I’m happily married.”