Split Second
Page 58
“Describe what you see, Mr. Hurley.”
“She’s sitting at a table, a glass in front of her, but you know, it looks like plain old water to me. She’s not even eating the peanuts Big Ed puts in these little bowls on all the tables. She’s sitting there, her elbows on the table, her chin resting on her folded hands, and she’s looking at me, watching me.”
Sherlock lightly laid her hands over his. “Was she watching you or Genny?”
For a moment, Thomas simply couldn’t deal with it. “Oh, sweet Mary and Joseph, she could be watching Genny.”
She kept her voice smooth, infinitely calm. “You said her elbows are on the table, her chin’s resting on her hands.”
“Yes.”
“I want you to close your eyes again. Yes, that’s right. Good. Look at her hands, Thomas. Do you see any rings? Bracelets? A watch?”
Thomas’s eyes were still closed when he said, “I can’t make anything out—wait, she’s waving at the waitress. She’s probably going to order another beer for the guy.”
“Which arm?”
“Her right arm.”
Sherlock lightly rubbed her fingers over the backs of his hands. “Thomas, focus on her right hand. Do you see any jewelry?”
He shook his head, then, “Yes, there’s a ring on her finger, a big silver ring; it looks kind of weird, because it’s too big for her hand.”
“Focus on the ring. Describe it to us.”
After a couple of moments, Thomas opened his eyes. “You know, I saw a flash, so yes, there was some sort of stone on top of the ring. An emerald, I think, but that’s only a feeling, I can’t be one hundred percent sure.”
“Did you see this ring again when she was shouting at you outside the bar? That’s right, close your eyes, picture her.”
“She’s waving both arms around. She’s wearing rings on both hands. Do you know, I think the rings are the same.” He opened his eyes. “Why would she wear the same ring on both hands? I’ve got to be wrong.”
Sherlock leaned over and patted his hand. “Maybe not, Thomas, maybe not. Do you think you could describe the guy sitting at her table to a police artist?”
“I can try, Agent Sherlock.”
Detective Alba came in while Thomas Hurley was working with the police sketch artist, Daniel Gibbs. She stepped forward quietly to take a look over his shoulder.
Detective Alba said, “What’s this? We already have a photo of Bundy’s daughter. Why waste time with another sketch?”
Sherlock never looked away from the man’s face that was slowly taking shape under Daniel’s talented fingers. “This isn’t Kirsten Bolger. This is a sketch of the guy who was sitting across from Monica in her booth at Enrico’s.”
Celinda felt a punch of surprise, followed quickly by an icy wave of rage. “What?” She looked ready to beat Thomas into the floor. “Hurley, you never bothered to tell us about any guy sitting with her? You made this up, didn’t you, to impress her?”
Thomas shrank back. “No, I didn’t make it up!”
Sherlock said easily, “Detective Alba, would you please step outside with me?”
Celinda didn’t want to; she wanted to take a strip off the little twerp.
“Detective, now, if you please.”
Once outside, Sherlock quietly closed the door behind her. “Did you ever ask him, Detective?”
“No, but he should have—”
“I’ve found—surely you have as well—that witnesses like Mr. Hurley who’ve been very close to violence are frankly traumatized, so much stuff swimming in their brains, it helps to guide them very slowly, very thoroughly. And in case you hadn’t noticed, he’s exhausted.”
“Well, yeah, of course, he’s a little tired, but that’s not the point.”
Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at her. “You know, Detective, I really don’t know what the point is, except finding out as much as we can from this witness and catching this monster.”
“Well, yes, of course—”
Sherlock paid her no more attention. She opened the interview-room door, stepped inside, and closed the door again. She wished there was a lock. She looked down at Mr. Gibbs’s sketch. Nearly there.
A few more minutes passed, then Daniel Gibbs said, “Is this the guy, Mr. Hurley?”
Thomas Hurley studied the sketch, blinked, and said, “That’s amazing what you did.” He looked at Sherlock. “I really didn’t think I’d paid that much attention to him, but—that’s the guy. You believe me, don’t you?”
“She’s sitting at a table, a glass in front of her, but you know, it looks like plain old water to me. She’s not even eating the peanuts Big Ed puts in these little bowls on all the tables. She’s sitting there, her elbows on the table, her chin resting on her folded hands, and she’s looking at me, watching me.”
Sherlock lightly laid her hands over his. “Was she watching you or Genny?”
For a moment, Thomas simply couldn’t deal with it. “Oh, sweet Mary and Joseph, she could be watching Genny.”
She kept her voice smooth, infinitely calm. “You said her elbows are on the table, her chin’s resting on her hands.”
“Yes.”
“I want you to close your eyes again. Yes, that’s right. Good. Look at her hands, Thomas. Do you see any rings? Bracelets? A watch?”
Thomas’s eyes were still closed when he said, “I can’t make anything out—wait, she’s waving at the waitress. She’s probably going to order another beer for the guy.”
“Which arm?”
“Her right arm.”
Sherlock lightly rubbed her fingers over the backs of his hands. “Thomas, focus on her right hand. Do you see any jewelry?”
He shook his head, then, “Yes, there’s a ring on her finger, a big silver ring; it looks kind of weird, because it’s too big for her hand.”
“Focus on the ring. Describe it to us.”
After a couple of moments, Thomas opened his eyes. “You know, I saw a flash, so yes, there was some sort of stone on top of the ring. An emerald, I think, but that’s only a feeling, I can’t be one hundred percent sure.”
“Did you see this ring again when she was shouting at you outside the bar? That’s right, close your eyes, picture her.”
“She’s waving both arms around. She’s wearing rings on both hands. Do you know, I think the rings are the same.” He opened his eyes. “Why would she wear the same ring on both hands? I’ve got to be wrong.”
Sherlock leaned over and patted his hand. “Maybe not, Thomas, maybe not. Do you think you could describe the guy sitting at her table to a police artist?”
“I can try, Agent Sherlock.”
Detective Alba came in while Thomas Hurley was working with the police sketch artist, Daniel Gibbs. She stepped forward quietly to take a look over his shoulder.
Detective Alba said, “What’s this? We already have a photo of Bundy’s daughter. Why waste time with another sketch?”
Sherlock never looked away from the man’s face that was slowly taking shape under Daniel’s talented fingers. “This isn’t Kirsten Bolger. This is a sketch of the guy who was sitting across from Monica in her booth at Enrico’s.”
Celinda felt a punch of surprise, followed quickly by an icy wave of rage. “What?” She looked ready to beat Thomas into the floor. “Hurley, you never bothered to tell us about any guy sitting with her? You made this up, didn’t you, to impress her?”
Thomas shrank back. “No, I didn’t make it up!”
Sherlock said easily, “Detective Alba, would you please step outside with me?”
Celinda didn’t want to; she wanted to take a strip off the little twerp.
“Detective, now, if you please.”
Once outside, Sherlock quietly closed the door behind her. “Did you ever ask him, Detective?”
“No, but he should have—”
“I’ve found—surely you have as well—that witnesses like Mr. Hurley who’ve been very close to violence are frankly traumatized, so much stuff swimming in their brains, it helps to guide them very slowly, very thoroughly. And in case you hadn’t noticed, he’s exhausted.”
“Well, yeah, of course, he’s a little tired, but that’s not the point.”
Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at her. “You know, Detective, I really don’t know what the point is, except finding out as much as we can from this witness and catching this monster.”
“Well, yes, of course—”
Sherlock paid her no more attention. She opened the interview-room door, stepped inside, and closed the door again. She wished there was a lock. She looked down at Mr. Gibbs’s sketch. Nearly there.
A few more minutes passed, then Daniel Gibbs said, “Is this the guy, Mr. Hurley?”
Thomas Hurley studied the sketch, blinked, and said, “That’s amazing what you did.” He looked at Sherlock. “I really didn’t think I’d paid that much attention to him, but—that’s the guy. You believe me, don’t you?”
