picked his way through fallen plaster and puddles of water to the staircase and climbed all the way to the top, where the door to the building’s flat roof hung on a single hinge.
The cluster of brick chimneys had been collapsed by the explosion and the roof had caved in around them, exposing blackened beams. Stone skirted the hole, played the beam of the flashlight over the waist-high brickwork at the front of the roof but found nothing of interest, then clambered onto the roof of the neighbouring brownstone, the one that Tom Waverly had broken into.
Stone paced the perimeter of the roof, shoes crunching on gravel, flicked the beam of the flashlight this way and that. There were fresh cigarette butts and a crumpled soft-drink can by the dividing wall, probably dropped by the police sharpshooters. There was a junked air conditioner. And there was an aluminium lawn chair set beside the balustrade at the front of the roof.
Although there could be a perfectly ordinary reason why there was a chair up here - perhaps someone liked to sit on the roof on fine summer days, taking in the view across the river to New Jersey and catching some rays - Stone got a little chill when he saw it. He walked over to the balustrade and looked down at the road, the chain of streetlights, the sawhorses blocking off the sidewalk in front of the brownstone, the taxi parked in front, its roof the colour of an old bruise in the sodium light. He sat in the chair, looked at the trees in the long narrow park, the streetlights of the Hudson Parkway, the New Jersey shore twinkling across the river . . . And remembered Tom Waverly sitting in a similar chair on his lawn at one or another of his barbecues, a drunkenly benevolent potentate watching his daughter search on her hands and knees for the coins he’d hidden in the grass. The chair set in what Tom claimed to be his favourite spot on Earth, where he liked to drink beer while watching the sun go down beyond the little lake; the search for coins scattered around it a little game that he and Linda loved to play.
A treasure hunt.
Stone trailed his fingers in the gravel either side of the chair, then dug deeper, his fingertips scraping tar paper beneath the gravel, finding nothing. But Tom had hidden coins under his chair too. Stone set the chair to one side and started to sift through the patch of gravel. Almost immediately, he found a scrap of thin card: the cover torn off a book of matches. It must have been placed there recently, because it was unwrinkled by time and weather. Chills chased up and down Stone’s spine when he held it in the beam of the flashlight and saw what was written there.
4
‘Is it your father’s handwriting?’
‘Definitely.’
Linda Waverly was examining the matchbook cover by the taxi’s interior light, holding it by its edges between thumb and forefinger. Printed in blue ballpoint on red card, half obscuring the logo of a bar, were a New York telephone number, the next day’s date, and 9.30 a.m . On the reverse, in the same blue ink: Adam - be there .
‘How could he be sure you’d find it?’ she said.
‘He knows how I work. He knew I would want to check out the scene, and guessed I’d spot that lawn chair and remember the game he used to play with you. It’s an easy reach,’ Stone said, and took the matchbook cover from her and dropped it into the breast pocket of his jacket.
He was excited and also - this he hadn’t expected - happy. Happy to be back in the field, happy to discover that his tradecraft wasn’t as rusty as he had feared. Although he’d only been in this sheaf for a few hours, he’d confirmed that Tom Waverly wanted to make contact, and had found a way of reaching out to him. Perhaps Tom wanted to turn himself in. Perhaps, in a day or two, Stone would be able to go back to New Amsterdam, and Susan and Petey.
Linda said, ‘We could call that number right now. See if he’s at home.’
‘It doesn’t say “Call me”. It says, “Be
The cluster of brick chimneys had been collapsed by the explosion and the roof had caved in around them, exposing blackened beams. Stone skirted the hole, played the beam of the flashlight over the waist-high brickwork at the front of the roof but found nothing of interest, then clambered onto the roof of the neighbouring brownstone, the one that Tom Waverly had broken into.
Stone paced the perimeter of the roof, shoes crunching on gravel, flicked the beam of the flashlight this way and that. There were fresh cigarette butts and a crumpled soft-drink can by the dividing wall, probably dropped by the police sharpshooters. There was a junked air conditioner. And there was an aluminium lawn chair set beside the balustrade at the front of the roof.
Although there could be a perfectly ordinary reason why there was a chair up here - perhaps someone liked to sit on the roof on fine summer days, taking in the view across the river to New Jersey and catching some rays - Stone got a little chill when he saw it. He walked over to the balustrade and looked down at the road, the chain of streetlights, the sawhorses blocking off the sidewalk in front of the brownstone, the taxi parked in front, its roof the colour of an old bruise in the sodium light. He sat in the chair, looked at the trees in the long narrow park, the streetlights of the Hudson Parkway, the New Jersey shore twinkling across the river . . . And remembered Tom Waverly sitting in a similar chair on his lawn at one or another of his barbecues, a drunkenly benevolent potentate watching his daughter search on her hands and knees for the coins he’d hidden in the grass. The chair set in what Tom claimed to be his favourite spot on Earth, where he liked to drink beer while watching the sun go down beyond the little lake; the search for coins scattered around it a little game that he and Linda loved to play.
A treasure hunt.
Stone trailed his fingers in the gravel either side of the chair, then dug deeper, his fingertips scraping tar paper beneath the gravel, finding nothing. But Tom had hidden coins under his chair too. Stone set the chair to one side and started to sift through the patch of gravel. Almost immediately, he found a scrap of thin card: the cover torn off a book of matches. It must have been placed there recently, because it was unwrinkled by time and weather. Chills chased up and down Stone’s spine when he held it in the beam of the flashlight and saw what was written there.
4
‘Is it your father’s handwriting?’
‘Definitely.’
Linda Waverly was examining the matchbook cover by the taxi’s interior light, holding it by its edges between thumb and forefinger. Printed in blue ballpoint on red card, half obscuring the logo of a bar, were a New York telephone number, the next day’s date, and 9.30 a.m . On the reverse, in the same blue ink: Adam - be there .
‘How could he be sure you’d find it?’ she said.
‘He knows how I work. He knew I would want to check out the scene, and guessed I’d spot that lawn chair and remember the game he used to play with you. It’s an easy reach,’ Stone said, and took the matchbook cover from her and dropped it into the breast pocket of his jacket.
He was excited and also - this he hadn’t expected - happy. Happy to be back in the field, happy to discover that his tradecraft wasn’t as rusty as he had feared. Although he’d only been in this sheaf for a few hours, he’d confirmed that Tom Waverly wanted to make contact, and had found a way of reaching out to him. Perhaps Tom wanted to turn himself in. Perhaps, in a day or two, Stone would be able to go back to New Amsterdam, and Susan and Petey.
Linda said, ‘We could call that number right now. See if he’s at home.’
‘It doesn’t say “Call me”. It says, “Be
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