any. It might have been an attractive combination: her warmth and people skills with his analytical mind and drive. On the other hand, he thought, surveying his desk, they might have ended up overweight slobs like him with the added handicap of their mom’s driving abilities.
After the call he sat with the phone in his hands. He was kidding himself. The call to Adrienne had been a distraction, a way of stalling.
This Purkiss. Not Grosvenor’s killer, because he’d arrived the day after her murder. Did he have an accomplice? It was the only explanation that made sense.
Giordano heaved himself over the desk, picked up the phone.
.
Sixteen
New York City
Monday 20 May, 4.05 pm
The trick, Purkiss had learned, was to fix on a distant point and allow it to dwindle so that it became a pinpoint, then to focus your vision on it so intently that the rest of the visual field seemed to expand around it.
He chose the Statue of Liberty. The green figure, so familiar even to those who hadn’t seen it, stretched skywards over to his left. It drew his gaze and held it.
The movement from his left was both seen and felt. At the same time, his heightened awareness told him something was happening behind him and on his right.
Two men approaching. At least.
Purkiss did what would be least expected and instead of turning one way or the other, stepped backwards and rightwards. He collided with the man just as the one on the left moved fully into view, and brought his elbow round as he did so. He felt it collide with the solid bulk of a torso and heard a gasp.
The blow came so suddenly and unexpectedly that Purkiss didn’t even make an effort to parry it: a knuckle strike to the left side of his neck that seemed to punch all voluntary control from his body so that he was inhabiting it but unable to manipulate it in any way. He saw the railing rush towards him, the water tilting beyond; felt hands grab each arm and jerk him back before he collided with the rail; heard shrieks on either side along the esplanade. He was dropped to his knees, the hard concrete of the walkway biting through the material of his trouser legs, and lowered only fractionally more gently to the ground so that his face was turned sideways and through his swimming, roiling vision he identified a pair of tasselled loafers inches from his face.
His arms were jerked behind his back and he felt the ratcheting grind of cuffs being clamped shut around his wrists. Hands hauled him to a sitting position against the railing. He tipped sideways a little and vomited thinly. Around him people were backing away, in some cases running.
Above him, limned by the bright afternoon sun, stood two men. They kaleidoscoped in and out of focus but he made out that one was white and curly-haired – the man Kendrick had identified earlier – and the other was African-American with a shaved head. Both wore dark suits and sunglasses. The black man was holding up some sort of ID, a badge in a leather casing. He brandished it from left to right for the benefit of the passersby, then pushed it towards Purkiss. Purkiss couldn’t make out the details, apart from the arching words Central Intelligence Agency .
He tried to speak but the words came out as a slurry of sounds unintelligible even to him. The men didn’t read him the familiar Miranda rights. When they seemed satisfied he wasn’t going to vomit again or pass out they seized his arms and pulled him upright once more. He swayed but kept his balance. One on either side of him, they began to march him back across the park.
*
He stumbled towards the entrance between the two men, the crowds peeling aside, their fascinated stares lingering. The men had done a brief, professional frisk but had left the phone in his pocket. It was useless to him there.
Beyond the park entrance, in the sudden shadow of the city once more, they reached a slate-grey Crown Victoria, a standard government issue car. The shaven-headed man
After the call he sat with the phone in his hands. He was kidding himself. The call to Adrienne had been a distraction, a way of stalling.
This Purkiss. Not Grosvenor’s killer, because he’d arrived the day after her murder. Did he have an accomplice? It was the only explanation that made sense.
Giordano heaved himself over the desk, picked up the phone.
.
Sixteen
New York City
Monday 20 May, 4.05 pm
The trick, Purkiss had learned, was to fix on a distant point and allow it to dwindle so that it became a pinpoint, then to focus your vision on it so intently that the rest of the visual field seemed to expand around it.
He chose the Statue of Liberty. The green figure, so familiar even to those who hadn’t seen it, stretched skywards over to his left. It drew his gaze and held it.
The movement from his left was both seen and felt. At the same time, his heightened awareness told him something was happening behind him and on his right.
Two men approaching. At least.
Purkiss did what would be least expected and instead of turning one way or the other, stepped backwards and rightwards. He collided with the man just as the one on the left moved fully into view, and brought his elbow round as he did so. He felt it collide with the solid bulk of a torso and heard a gasp.
The blow came so suddenly and unexpectedly that Purkiss didn’t even make an effort to parry it: a knuckle strike to the left side of his neck that seemed to punch all voluntary control from his body so that he was inhabiting it but unable to manipulate it in any way. He saw the railing rush towards him, the water tilting beyond; felt hands grab each arm and jerk him back before he collided with the rail; heard shrieks on either side along the esplanade. He was dropped to his knees, the hard concrete of the walkway biting through the material of his trouser legs, and lowered only fractionally more gently to the ground so that his face was turned sideways and through his swimming, roiling vision he identified a pair of tasselled loafers inches from his face.
His arms were jerked behind his back and he felt the ratcheting grind of cuffs being clamped shut around his wrists. Hands hauled him to a sitting position against the railing. He tipped sideways a little and vomited thinly. Around him people were backing away, in some cases running.
Above him, limned by the bright afternoon sun, stood two men. They kaleidoscoped in and out of focus but he made out that one was white and curly-haired – the man Kendrick had identified earlier – and the other was African-American with a shaved head. Both wore dark suits and sunglasses. The black man was holding up some sort of ID, a badge in a leather casing. He brandished it from left to right for the benefit of the passersby, then pushed it towards Purkiss. Purkiss couldn’t make out the details, apart from the arching words Central Intelligence Agency .
He tried to speak but the words came out as a slurry of sounds unintelligible even to him. The men didn’t read him the familiar Miranda rights. When they seemed satisfied he wasn’t going to vomit again or pass out they seized his arms and pulled him upright once more. He swayed but kept his balance. One on either side of him, they began to march him back across the park.
*
He stumbled towards the entrance between the two men, the crowds peeling aside, their fascinated stares lingering. The men had done a brief, professional frisk but had left the phone in his pocket. It was useless to him there.
Beyond the park entrance, in the sudden shadow of the city once more, they reached a slate-grey Crown Victoria, a standard government issue car. The shaven-headed man
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