Nona.”
“Thank me when I get you something you can use.”
Forty minutes later, he had the taxi drop him off on Phaholyothin Road, in Soi Aree. There, he found the area jammed with an insane number of people, jostling and laughing, hurrying, hanging out and smoking. He joined the flow, finding it impossible to go at his own pace. Within a four-block radius, he spotted six massage parlors, any one of which could have been visited by Leroy Connaston, Pyotr Legere’s murdered contact, before their fateful rendezvous. He didn’t want to go poking inside them until he had as much intel on Connaston as he could get.
Dusk had laid its velvet hand across the city, the neon lights brightening the streets in a rainbow of flashing colors. He chose a small restaurant because it was playing American rock music through its tinny speakers, went in, and sat down. He decided that he might as well take advantage of the wait to fill his stomach, which had started growling the moment he had successfully passed ghost-like through the airport.
A stick-thin waitress, who might have been twelve or eighteen, dropped a laminated menu onto the table. He ordered a beer. A cursory glance at the offerings was all he needed, and when she returned to set the bottle in front of him, he pointed to the dishes he wanted. She swept the menu up and took it away.
Opening the photo of Connaston, he stared at it again. It was far from ideal, a smudgy copy of the already blurred newspaper picture, but for the moment it was all he had and it would have to do.
He was still staring at Connaston’s face when Otis Redding began to sing “I’ve Been Loving You Too Long (To Stop Now).” It had been one of Emma’s favorite songs. He remembered listening to it on her iPod for months after she had died. Like a film he couldn’t stop playing in slow motion, he saw the car she had been driving smashed into a huge tree off the side of the road. He had arrived just after the paramedics had used the jaws of life to pry her out of the wreck. It didn’t matter; his daughter was gone the moment her car struck the tree. Staring down at her bloody face, fending off the paramedics, all he could think of was her voice on the phone, just—what?—forty-five minutes before, asking for his help. But he had been up to his eyeballs coordinating an ATF raid and had not concentrated on what she was telling him. How many times since then had he played that scene over and over, hoping this time he would listen, that he would save her.
“I love you, I love you in so many different ways…” Otis sang, and Jack wept bitter tears for all he had lost.
* * *
“Leaving us so soon?” Police Commissioner Lincoln Dye said with one eyebrow lifted.
Nona Heroe, at the head of the alley in NW Washington, turned back. “I won’t be long.” She glanced at the three bodies in the midst of the crime scene she had been studying for the last fifteen minutes. A triple homicide involving Senator Herren’s aide; no wonder Dye had made an appearance. “I’ve got as much as I’m going to get until the autopsies come back.” She glanced over her shoulder at the gathering news media. “Anyway, it’s your press conference, not mine.”
Dye shook his head. “Uh-uh. I want you by my side when I step up to the podium.”
He was a solid-looking individual, whose face the camera loved. Being telegenic was part of his job description, but Nona, checking up on him, had been impressed with his CV, which included stints at a prestigious law firm and with IA. It was a cliché that everyone hated internal affairs, but the truth was the dirty cops hated them the most. Dye seemed cut from a different bolt of cloth, at least so far as she could observe.
“The department needs a united front,” Dye continued. “That was part of the problem with my predecessor, he had no idea how to get all the gears to mesh.” He checked his watch. “We’re on in ten minutes. That’s all I can give
“Thank me when I get you something you can use.”
Forty minutes later, he had the taxi drop him off on Phaholyothin Road, in Soi Aree. There, he found the area jammed with an insane number of people, jostling and laughing, hurrying, hanging out and smoking. He joined the flow, finding it impossible to go at his own pace. Within a four-block radius, he spotted six massage parlors, any one of which could have been visited by Leroy Connaston, Pyotr Legere’s murdered contact, before their fateful rendezvous. He didn’t want to go poking inside them until he had as much intel on Connaston as he could get.
Dusk had laid its velvet hand across the city, the neon lights brightening the streets in a rainbow of flashing colors. He chose a small restaurant because it was playing American rock music through its tinny speakers, went in, and sat down. He decided that he might as well take advantage of the wait to fill his stomach, which had started growling the moment he had successfully passed ghost-like through the airport.
A stick-thin waitress, who might have been twelve or eighteen, dropped a laminated menu onto the table. He ordered a beer. A cursory glance at the offerings was all he needed, and when she returned to set the bottle in front of him, he pointed to the dishes he wanted. She swept the menu up and took it away.
Opening the photo of Connaston, he stared at it again. It was far from ideal, a smudgy copy of the already blurred newspaper picture, but for the moment it was all he had and it would have to do.
He was still staring at Connaston’s face when Otis Redding began to sing “I’ve Been Loving You Too Long (To Stop Now).” It had been one of Emma’s favorite songs. He remembered listening to it on her iPod for months after she had died. Like a film he couldn’t stop playing in slow motion, he saw the car she had been driving smashed into a huge tree off the side of the road. He had arrived just after the paramedics had used the jaws of life to pry her out of the wreck. It didn’t matter; his daughter was gone the moment her car struck the tree. Staring down at her bloody face, fending off the paramedics, all he could think of was her voice on the phone, just—what?—forty-five minutes before, asking for his help. But he had been up to his eyeballs coordinating an ATF raid and had not concentrated on what she was telling him. How many times since then had he played that scene over and over, hoping this time he would listen, that he would save her.
“I love you, I love you in so many different ways…” Otis sang, and Jack wept bitter tears for all he had lost.
* * *
“Leaving us so soon?” Police Commissioner Lincoln Dye said with one eyebrow lifted.
Nona Heroe, at the head of the alley in NW Washington, turned back. “I won’t be long.” She glanced at the three bodies in the midst of the crime scene she had been studying for the last fifteen minutes. A triple homicide involving Senator Herren’s aide; no wonder Dye had made an appearance. “I’ve got as much as I’m going to get until the autopsies come back.” She glanced over her shoulder at the gathering news media. “Anyway, it’s your press conference, not mine.”
Dye shook his head. “Uh-uh. I want you by my side when I step up to the podium.”
He was a solid-looking individual, whose face the camera loved. Being telegenic was part of his job description, but Nona, checking up on him, had been impressed with his CV, which included stints at a prestigious law firm and with IA. It was a cliché that everyone hated internal affairs, but the truth was the dirty cops hated them the most. Dye seemed cut from a different bolt of cloth, at least so far as she could observe.
“The department needs a united front,” Dye continued. “That was part of the problem with my predecessor, he had no idea how to get all the gears to mesh.” He checked his watch. “We’re on in ten minutes. That’s all I can give
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