Riptide
Page 68
“May I please speak to your mother?”
“You don’t know? No, I guess not. My mother was killed two weeks ago.”
Sherlock didn’t drop the phone, but she felt a great roiling pain through her stomach, up to her throat, and she swallowed convulsively. “Can you give me any details, please?”
“Who are you?”
“I’m Gladys Martin with the Social Security Administration in Washington.”
“I know my husband called Social Security. What do you want?”
“We’re required to fill out papers, ma’am. Are you her daughter?”
“Yes, I am. What kind of papers?”
“Statistics, nothing more. Is there someone else I can speak to about this? I don’t want to upset you.”
There was a moment of silence, then, “No, it’s all right. Ask the questions. We don’t want the government to go away mad.”
“Thank you, ma’am. You said your mother was killed? Was this an auto accident?”
“No, someone hit her on the head when she was going out to her car at the shopping mall. He stole her car.”
“Oh, dear, I’m so very sorry. Please tell me that the man who did this has been caught?”
The woman’s voice hardened up immediately. “No, he wasn’t. The cops put out a description of her car, but no one has reported back with anything as yet. They think he painted the car a different color and changed the license plates. He’s gone. Even the New York City cops don’t know where he is. She was an old woman, too, so who cares?” The bitterness in the daughter’s voice was bone-deep, her pain, disbelief, anger still raw.
“Was there anything distinctive about the car the man stole?”
“Yes, the windows were tinted dark because my mother had very sensitive eyes. Too much sunlight really hurt her.”
“I see. What was the color of the car?”
“White with gray interior. There was a small dent above the left rear tire.”
“I see. Did you say that there were other than just the local cops there?”
“Oh, yes. Of all things, they were from New York City. They should have caught this guy. We don’t know why the New York City police are involved. Do you? Is that really why you’re calling? You want to pump me for information?”
“No, of course not. This is simply statistical information that we need.”
“Are there any more questions, Ms. Martin? I’m sorting through my mother’s things and I have to be down at St. Paul’s charities in a half hour.”
“No, ma’am. I’m very sorry for your loss. I’ll take care of everything here.” Sherlock turned to see all eyes focused on her. “The killer painted a white car black and stole another license plate. The New York City cops were there. They know. Oh, yeah, the windows are tinted dark because Mrs. Bailey had sensitive eyes.”
“Son of a bitch,” Hatch said and groped in his pocket for his cigarettes. “How come nobody told me that the cops knew about that damned car?”
Adam just gave him a look and said, “They’ve got a real lid on that one. My guess is they’re keeping it from the Feds, don’t want to get aced out. And the victim loses. What the New York cops don’t know is that our killer is here in Maine. Shall we tell them?”
Savich said, “Not the New York cops, but I can call Tellie Hawley, the SAC of the office in New York City. He’ll see that it gets to where it needs to go.”
“Yeah,” Adam said, “why not? Anyone think of a good reason why not?”
“How specific should we be?” Becca asked. She was wringing her hands, and Adam frowned.
Savich rolled it around in his brain and said, “Let’s just tell him the guy’s been seen on the coast. How’s that? It’s the truth.”
“We’ve got to get him,” Becca said. “If we don’t, then we have to call this Thomas person who seems to know everyone and direct everything, and tell him to bring in the Marines.”
***
“He hasn’t called,” Becca said, and took a bite of her hot dog. “Why hasn’t hecalled?”
Adam said as he chewed a potato chip, “I think he’s going to lie low for a while. He’s not stupid. He’s going to dig in somewhere else, give you some time to chew your fingernails, make all of us jumpy as hell, then jump back into the game—his game.”
They were all eating hot dogs with relish and mustard, the team of guys outside coming in one at a time. Special Agent Rollo Dempsey said to Adam, “I knew your name but I couldn’t remember where I’d heard it. Now I do. You saved Senator Dashworth’s life last year when that crazy tried to stick a knife in his ribs.”
“You don’t know? No, I guess not. My mother was killed two weeks ago.”
Sherlock didn’t drop the phone, but she felt a great roiling pain through her stomach, up to her throat, and she swallowed convulsively. “Can you give me any details, please?”
“Who are you?”
“I’m Gladys Martin with the Social Security Administration in Washington.”
“I know my husband called Social Security. What do you want?”
“We’re required to fill out papers, ma’am. Are you her daughter?”
“Yes, I am. What kind of papers?”
“Statistics, nothing more. Is there someone else I can speak to about this? I don’t want to upset you.”
There was a moment of silence, then, “No, it’s all right. Ask the questions. We don’t want the government to go away mad.”
“Thank you, ma’am. You said your mother was killed? Was this an auto accident?”
“No, someone hit her on the head when she was going out to her car at the shopping mall. He stole her car.”
“Oh, dear, I’m so very sorry. Please tell me that the man who did this has been caught?”
The woman’s voice hardened up immediately. “No, he wasn’t. The cops put out a description of her car, but no one has reported back with anything as yet. They think he painted the car a different color and changed the license plates. He’s gone. Even the New York City cops don’t know where he is. She was an old woman, too, so who cares?” The bitterness in the daughter’s voice was bone-deep, her pain, disbelief, anger still raw.
“Was there anything distinctive about the car the man stole?”
“Yes, the windows were tinted dark because my mother had very sensitive eyes. Too much sunlight really hurt her.”
“I see. What was the color of the car?”
“White with gray interior. There was a small dent above the left rear tire.”
“I see. Did you say that there were other than just the local cops there?”
“Oh, yes. Of all things, they were from New York City. They should have caught this guy. We don’t know why the New York City police are involved. Do you? Is that really why you’re calling? You want to pump me for information?”
“No, of course not. This is simply statistical information that we need.”
“Are there any more questions, Ms. Martin? I’m sorting through my mother’s things and I have to be down at St. Paul’s charities in a half hour.”
“No, ma’am. I’m very sorry for your loss. I’ll take care of everything here.” Sherlock turned to see all eyes focused on her. “The killer painted a white car black and stole another license plate. The New York City cops were there. They know. Oh, yeah, the windows are tinted dark because Mrs. Bailey had sensitive eyes.”
“Son of a bitch,” Hatch said and groped in his pocket for his cigarettes. “How come nobody told me that the cops knew about that damned car?”
Adam just gave him a look and said, “They’ve got a real lid on that one. My guess is they’re keeping it from the Feds, don’t want to get aced out. And the victim loses. What the New York cops don’t know is that our killer is here in Maine. Shall we tell them?”
Savich said, “Not the New York cops, but I can call Tellie Hawley, the SAC of the office in New York City. He’ll see that it gets to where it needs to go.”
“Yeah,” Adam said, “why not? Anyone think of a good reason why not?”
“How specific should we be?” Becca asked. She was wringing her hands, and Adam frowned.
Savich rolled it around in his brain and said, “Let’s just tell him the guy’s been seen on the coast. How’s that? It’s the truth.”
“We’ve got to get him,” Becca said. “If we don’t, then we have to call this Thomas person who seems to know everyone and direct everything, and tell him to bring in the Marines.”
***
“He hasn’t called,” Becca said, and took a bite of her hot dog. “Why hasn’t hecalled?”
Adam said as he chewed a potato chip, “I think he’s going to lie low for a while. He’s not stupid. He’s going to dig in somewhere else, give you some time to chew your fingernails, make all of us jumpy as hell, then jump back into the game—his game.”
They were all eating hot dogs with relish and mustard, the team of guys outside coming in one at a time. Special Agent Rollo Dempsey said to Adam, “I knew your name but I couldn’t remember where I’d heard it. Now I do. You saved Senator Dashworth’s life last year when that crazy tried to stick a knife in his ribs.”
