Split Second
Page 51
Lucy put her face in her hands and cried, not for herself but for her father.
Coop laid his hand on her shoulder until she quieted. He said matter-of-factly, “Maybe that’s why you stayed with your grandmother; your father was taking care of both of you.”
Lucy raised her face to his. “Do you know, now that I remember back, my dad never left me alone with my grandmother. I remember now that when she read with me sitting next to her, Dad was always nearby.”
Savich said, “At last you know. Now you have to let it go.”
Dr. Hicks patted her arm. “You will be all right, Lucy Carlyle. You’re a survivor, and you see things and people clearly. Yes, you will be fine.”
Lucy gave him a twisted smile. “Me, see people clearly? I don’t think so, sir. I really don’t think so.”
Dr. Hicks lightly squeezed her hand. “You will come to see I am right. Now, why don’t you let Agent Savich and Agent McKnight buy you a pizza in the boardroom, let your mind settle a bit?”
“It’s been a long time since I was in the academy.” But as she spoke, the words died in her throat. “How can things be all right?”
“I forbid you to worry about it right now, Lucy. It’s too much to take in. That’s what these two gentlemen are for. Let them stew and fret. Not you, all right?”
Lucy nodded finally, but Coop knew she couldn’t help but stew about it.
Lucy turned to Savich. “Dillon, do you think they’ve completed the autopsy?”
“Let’s see.” When Savich slipped his cell back into his pocket a few seconds later, he said, “Dr. Judd will call you himself when they’re finished, Lucy.”
“She—she really stabbed him. It’s still so difficult to imagine. And they were fighting over a ring? How could a ring be so important?”
“We may never know that, Lucy,” Savich said. “You know that.”
She nodded.
Coop raised her to her feet. “Let’s go have that pizza.”
CHAPTER 28
Wall Street, New York City
Enrico’s Bar
Monday night
“‘It’s a long, long way to Tipperary, but my heart’s right there.’”
“I really like that song.” Genevieve Connelly toasted Thomas, the young man she’d just met. He grinned at her; then, hearing some applause, he turned on his bar stool and bowed from the waist.
Genny took another sip of her mojito. “I don’t even know where Tipperary is.” She sounded too sharp, simply too sober, and took another drink. She wanted to get drunk, had to get drunk, even though it was Monday night, and a work night. She saw herself hugging the toilet bowl, but it didn’t matter. She was too angry, too depressed, to worry about it. She took another drink and smiled at Thomas when he told the bartender, Big Ed, to serve her up another mojito. Before long, she knew Thomas was from Montreal, worked sixty hours a week as a waiter at the Fifth Wheel in the East 80s, and wrote poetry at night, a twenty-first-century e. e. cummings in the making, he told her, and he seemed perfectly serious.
She found herself telling him she’d very nearly been engaged, but that wasn’t going to happen now, because Lenny was a jerk with an addiction she hadn’t even known about. Yeah, a jerk who was in Atlantic City gambling right now.
Genny wanted to work up a mad, but the mojitos were making her mellow instead. “I trucked over to Morrie’s after work to meet Lenny for dinner, only he never showed. I finally called his mother, and do you know what she said?” And Genny, an accomplished mimic, recited in a soft, sad voice, with a hint of a whine, ‘Since he stole four hundred dollars out of my purse, dear, I’ll bet he’s in Atlantic City again. I guess he hasn’t told you about his little problem?’
“His little problem? I mean, which one? He was a thief and a gambler, right? Well, I couldn’t take it in, and so I hung up. I don’t think she ever liked me much, and now it doesn’t matter, does it? She calls it a little problem?”
“My brother gambles,” Thomas said. “Our parents finally kicked him out.”
“He never told me,” Genny said, and stared into the mirror behind the bar, watching herself drink the rest of her third mojito. “Time to powder my nose, Thomas,” she said, and headed off to the women’s room.
Five minutes later, when she slid back onto her stool, her lipstick new and shiny, her hair freshly combed, Thomas said, “Okay, Genny, you know I’m a poet who’s wasting his youth flinging high-priced spaghetti to yuppies on the Upper East Side. What do you do?”
Coop laid his hand on her shoulder until she quieted. He said matter-of-factly, “Maybe that’s why you stayed with your grandmother; your father was taking care of both of you.”
Lucy raised her face to his. “Do you know, now that I remember back, my dad never left me alone with my grandmother. I remember now that when she read with me sitting next to her, Dad was always nearby.”
Savich said, “At last you know. Now you have to let it go.”
Dr. Hicks patted her arm. “You will be all right, Lucy Carlyle. You’re a survivor, and you see things and people clearly. Yes, you will be fine.”
Lucy gave him a twisted smile. “Me, see people clearly? I don’t think so, sir. I really don’t think so.”
Dr. Hicks lightly squeezed her hand. “You will come to see I am right. Now, why don’t you let Agent Savich and Agent McKnight buy you a pizza in the boardroom, let your mind settle a bit?”
“It’s been a long time since I was in the academy.” But as she spoke, the words died in her throat. “How can things be all right?”
“I forbid you to worry about it right now, Lucy. It’s too much to take in. That’s what these two gentlemen are for. Let them stew and fret. Not you, all right?”
Lucy nodded finally, but Coop knew she couldn’t help but stew about it.
Lucy turned to Savich. “Dillon, do you think they’ve completed the autopsy?”
“Let’s see.” When Savich slipped his cell back into his pocket a few seconds later, he said, “Dr. Judd will call you himself when they’re finished, Lucy.”
“She—she really stabbed him. It’s still so difficult to imagine. And they were fighting over a ring? How could a ring be so important?”
“We may never know that, Lucy,” Savich said. “You know that.”
She nodded.
Coop raised her to her feet. “Let’s go have that pizza.”
CHAPTER 28
Wall Street, New York City
Enrico’s Bar
Monday night
“‘It’s a long, long way to Tipperary, but my heart’s right there.’”
“I really like that song.” Genevieve Connelly toasted Thomas, the young man she’d just met. He grinned at her; then, hearing some applause, he turned on his bar stool and bowed from the waist.
Genny took another sip of her mojito. “I don’t even know where Tipperary is.” She sounded too sharp, simply too sober, and took another drink. She wanted to get drunk, had to get drunk, even though it was Monday night, and a work night. She saw herself hugging the toilet bowl, but it didn’t matter. She was too angry, too depressed, to worry about it. She took another drink and smiled at Thomas when he told the bartender, Big Ed, to serve her up another mojito. Before long, she knew Thomas was from Montreal, worked sixty hours a week as a waiter at the Fifth Wheel in the East 80s, and wrote poetry at night, a twenty-first-century e. e. cummings in the making, he told her, and he seemed perfectly serious.
She found herself telling him she’d very nearly been engaged, but that wasn’t going to happen now, because Lenny was a jerk with an addiction she hadn’t even known about. Yeah, a jerk who was in Atlantic City gambling right now.
Genny wanted to work up a mad, but the mojitos were making her mellow instead. “I trucked over to Morrie’s after work to meet Lenny for dinner, only he never showed. I finally called his mother, and do you know what she said?” And Genny, an accomplished mimic, recited in a soft, sad voice, with a hint of a whine, ‘Since he stole four hundred dollars out of my purse, dear, I’ll bet he’s in Atlantic City again. I guess he hasn’t told you about his little problem?’
“His little problem? I mean, which one? He was a thief and a gambler, right? Well, I couldn’t take it in, and so I hung up. I don’t think she ever liked me much, and now it doesn’t matter, does it? She calls it a little problem?”
“My brother gambles,” Thomas said. “Our parents finally kicked him out.”
“He never told me,” Genny said, and stared into the mirror behind the bar, watching herself drink the rest of her third mojito. “Time to powder my nose, Thomas,” she said, and headed off to the women’s room.
Five minutes later, when she slid back onto her stool, her lipstick new and shiny, her hair freshly combed, Thomas said, “Okay, Genny, you know I’m a poet who’s wasting his youth flinging high-priced spaghetti to yuppies on the Upper East Side. What do you do?”
