He had a football player’s build and a sickly-pale complexion, like a fish belly rotting in the sun. His hair was a razor-cut shock of canary-yellow dye. Now Seelie knew who the woman was and why she was waiting; these two were never far apart.
“Get in the car, kid.”
“Hackett,” Seelie said, then nodded to the Pontiac. “And Barr. Or was it the other way around? I was never really clear on that.”
“Your dad’s tired of your shit. Get in the car. You’re going home. There’s a change of clothes in the back seat.”
She thought she could bluff her way past, show a little bravado and saunter on by, but all it took was a word. Dad. Seelie fought to keep the nonchalant look on her face while her shoulder muscles went tight enough to make her eyes water.
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
Hackett sighed. In the car, his partner was on her cell phone, her eyes a pair of empty-pit blurs behind her sunglasses.
“Look,” Hackett said, “tell you the truth, I don’t care if you live or die. But your father’s paying us to haul your ass home to Buffalo, so we’re hauling your ass home to Buffalo.”
“And if I say no, you’re going to do…what, exactly?”
He gave her a dismissive snort. “You really want to make it worse for yourself? Fine. One call to the cops and you’re going back the hard way. Those are your two options: you get cuffed and delivered home anyway, or you can ride with us, smooth and easy. I’ll tell you what, we’ll even stop and grab dinner on the way. What do you want, McDonald’s? KFC? You name it.”
Hackett was half-right. He could call the police and make things a lot worse for Seelie, just not the way he thought. If they’d found her prints at Arthur’s condo, if anyone had seen her fleeing from the scene of the crime, she might not be going home at all.
Not an option. Getting in the car wasn’t an option either. She would choose a prison cell over her father’s roof. She’d choose worse fates than that if it came down to it. Seelie thought fast, hunting for another way out. Then she risked everything on a roll of the dice.
“Do it,” she said.
Hackett squinted at her.
“Huh?”
“Do it. Call the cops. Tell them I’m a runaway.”
“You don’t think I will?”
“I know you won’t,” she said, wishing she could be that certain.
He hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. “How’s that?”
“Because he didn’t call the police. He sent you two looking for me instead. We both know how touchy he is about media attention, especially when he has a big deal going down. I’m betting he told you to keep it quiet. No distractions, nothing that might embarrass him.”
There was a guilty shift in Hackett’s eyes. Direct hit. Feeling bolder now, Seelie kept going.
“Go ahead and call the cops,” she told him. “And I promise you, I’ll make so much noise it’ll be network news. Picture it: George Barron’s daughter, sitting in the back seat of a squad car, live on TV. Now, I don’t want to tell you how to do your job or anything, but I don’t think that’d be good for your long-term career prospects.”
Some people, when faced with a tricky problem, could evaluate and adjust their strategy. Hackett wasn’t one of them. He stared at Seelie for a moment, almost robotic.
“Get in the damn car.”
There was something mean in his eyes, brutish and uncoiling, and Seelie saw what was coming next. She darted left as he lunged for her. Not fast enough. Hackett’s hand clamped down on her arm and twisted it, squeezing like his thick fingers were made of cold iron. The Pontiac’s engine fired to life. He dragged her toward the car and she kicked at him, digging the heel of her sneaker into his shin until he grunted. He pulled her another step, almost yanking her off her feet.
“Hey,” a man shouted, his accent pure Brooklyn. “The fuck you think you’re doin’?”
One of the construction workers stormed out of the job site, gripping a wrench in his beefy fist. A few of his buddies heard the shout and ran up, following in his wake.
“Mind your own business,” Hackett snarled. Inside the Pontiac, Barr was drumming her hands on the steering wheel and slouching low, checking the rearview mirror.
Two more hard hats circled around, getting between him and the car door. The worker pointed his wrench like a magic wand.
“Let the kid go, asshole. Ain’t gonna tell you twice.”
Behind the wheel, Barr made a helpless shrugging gesture at her partner. Hackett glared at the men around him, looking like he was thinking about taking them all on, with his bottom lip stuck out in a Neanderthal pout.
Then he let Seelie go. He gave her arm a petulant shove.
“You’re just making it harder on yourself,” he told her.
The construction workers stood close, a protective cordon around Seelie until Hackett got in the car. She heard him and his partner shouting at each other. Barr stomped the gas and sent the car lurching out into the flow of traffic. She rubbed her arm, wincing at the reddened skin.
“You okay, kid?” asked the guy with the wrench.
Sure. She was fine. This day just kept getting better and better.
10.
Two hundred dollars bought Nell an arcane map, a path through the city marked in the intersection of invisible points. Once she learned the language, it wasn’t hard to follow the mystery woman’s trail. It pointed her toward Avenue D, Alphabet City.
She knew she had the right address when she saw the police cars. Three of them and an ambulance lined up outside a rat-trap apartment building. She took out her phone and typed with her thumbs, texting as she walked.
Get me another log trace, she wrote.
You sure? Tyler shot back. That’s another $200.
Our witness is dead and her killer has the phone, or she’s still one step ahead of him. Either way, get me another log trace.
She sent over the money. Then she climbed the rickety steps outside the apartment building and let herself in.
They hadn’t put a guard on the door. She walked right up, quiet as a church mouse, and stole a peek at the scene. Outlines and folding number cards on the floor to mark the evidence, a shattered television set, blood spatter on grime-caked linoleum. A door hung on a single twisted hinge, wood warped like someone had kicked it in. Her nose wrinkled at the coppery, sour milk stench in the air, death odor trapped in the muggy heat. She was about to chance a closer look when a voice barked from behind her.
“Bluth. The hell are you doing here?”
Detective Jordan stomped up the hall, relentless as a steam engine. She pointed at the apartment threshold.
“Technically I’m not trespassing.”
“Not what I asked.”
“Just doing my job,” she told him.
“Funny thing. Last I checked, you don’t work the crime blotter at your paper. And yet here I find you, at my second murder scene of the day. You going to tell me they were informants of yours, too?”
They, she thought. Victims in the plural.
“You pull prints on Arthur Wendt’s lover?” she asked, changing the subject.
“Whoever she is, she’s not in the system. Once we have a suspect in custody, we can make a match. Now answer my question.”