tomorrow…tomorrow when I see you,” he said. “Hopefully, I’ll be back by the morning. The doctor needs to talk to me now. I’ll call you later.”
“One more thing—” She needed to know.
“What, sweetheart?”
“It’s connected to the gaming box, isn’t it?”
Chapter 19
New York City
Saturday, April 26 th —9:45 a.m.
L ucian Glass and ACT’s supervisor, Douglas Comley, sat behind a two-way mirror watching NYPD Detective Barry Branch talk to Malachai Samuels. On the scarred table between them was a slim, navy leather booklet approximately five inches square. On the front, stamped in gold letters, was the word Passport, the eagle insignia, and in smaller type: The United States of America .
Malachai hadn’t reached for it or looked down at it once. Lucian knew that because he’d been sketching the myriad expressions that had been passing over the reincarnationist’s face.
Over the past several months he’d seen Malachai almost every day, but there had been few opportunities to study his subject this closely. Now he was mesmerized by the man’s inscrutable gaze and self-possessed manner. Malachai was too calm. Even the innocent were nervous when the police questioned them. Was it possible thatMalachai had hypnotized himself to sustain this level of equanimity? He was, after all, a master hypnotist who used the technique regularly when he regressed his young patients.
Lucian turned a page and started a new sketch.
“And so we’re officially closing our investigation.” Detective Branch sounded annoyed, as if he blamed Malachai for this. He pushed the passport ferociously over an invisible halfway line on the table.
Unhurriedly, Malachai pocketed the booklet without once looking at it. “So, you’ve finally found your villain? Who did it turn out to be?”
For months Lucian had listened to Malachai’s mellifluous voice and still found something unsettling in the slow, measured way the doctor spoke. It was too premeditated. Like the man’s relaxed manner, it was designed to conceal. The way he sat there, he could have been a seventeenth-century Spanish nobleman painted by Van Dyck, all authority and aristocracy. Lucian was convinced that everything about Malachai was a deliberate and elaborate smoke screen. What people saw was what Malachai wanted them to see: a dedicated psychologist and an iconoclastic researcher. Behind the self-assured, pretentious facade Lucian saw a troubled man desperate for…what? Lucian could only see the desire, not what was desired.
“I can’t give you that information until the suspect has been arraigned,” Detective Branch said.
“He deserves the worst punishment you can mete out. This man was responsible for several atrocious crimes.”
Lucian was riveted by the compassion that flared in Malachai’s black eyes, so sincere, no one would ever suspect this important renowned psychologist and scionof a prestigious old New York family was capable of ordering anyone’s death.
Branch, who was in his late fifties and had the physique of someone with a desk job, put his hands on the table and gave himself a boost up. “Let me show you out, Mr. Samuels.”
On the other side of the mirror Douglas Comley also rose. “You’d better not be wrong about this, Mr. Painter Man. I’m supposed to be shutting you down in ten days, not approving additional funding. I’m going out on a limb for you. Again.”
“How often has that proved a mistake?” Lucian asked.
“But you’ve always had something for me in exchange. Something…dare I call it evidence?”
“I know this man. I’ve watched him and listened to him for months. Malachai won’t be able to resist the promise of tracking down a second memory tool.”
“He won’t? Or you won’t?” Comley asked skeptically.
There was no time to protest. Malachai had his walking papers and would be leaving the building soon, and wherever Malachai went, Lucian followed. At least for the next ten days. And
“One more thing—” She needed to know.
“What, sweetheart?”
“It’s connected to the gaming box, isn’t it?”
Chapter 19
New York City
Saturday, April 26 th —9:45 a.m.
L ucian Glass and ACT’s supervisor, Douglas Comley, sat behind a two-way mirror watching NYPD Detective Barry Branch talk to Malachai Samuels. On the scarred table between them was a slim, navy leather booklet approximately five inches square. On the front, stamped in gold letters, was the word Passport, the eagle insignia, and in smaller type: The United States of America .
Malachai hadn’t reached for it or looked down at it once. Lucian knew that because he’d been sketching the myriad expressions that had been passing over the reincarnationist’s face.
Over the past several months he’d seen Malachai almost every day, but there had been few opportunities to study his subject this closely. Now he was mesmerized by the man’s inscrutable gaze and self-possessed manner. Malachai was too calm. Even the innocent were nervous when the police questioned them. Was it possible thatMalachai had hypnotized himself to sustain this level of equanimity? He was, after all, a master hypnotist who used the technique regularly when he regressed his young patients.
Lucian turned a page and started a new sketch.
“And so we’re officially closing our investigation.” Detective Branch sounded annoyed, as if he blamed Malachai for this. He pushed the passport ferociously over an invisible halfway line on the table.
Unhurriedly, Malachai pocketed the booklet without once looking at it. “So, you’ve finally found your villain? Who did it turn out to be?”
For months Lucian had listened to Malachai’s mellifluous voice and still found something unsettling in the slow, measured way the doctor spoke. It was too premeditated. Like the man’s relaxed manner, it was designed to conceal. The way he sat there, he could have been a seventeenth-century Spanish nobleman painted by Van Dyck, all authority and aristocracy. Lucian was convinced that everything about Malachai was a deliberate and elaborate smoke screen. What people saw was what Malachai wanted them to see: a dedicated psychologist and an iconoclastic researcher. Behind the self-assured, pretentious facade Lucian saw a troubled man desperate for…what? Lucian could only see the desire, not what was desired.
“I can’t give you that information until the suspect has been arraigned,” Detective Branch said.
“He deserves the worst punishment you can mete out. This man was responsible for several atrocious crimes.”
Lucian was riveted by the compassion that flared in Malachai’s black eyes, so sincere, no one would ever suspect this important renowned psychologist and scionof a prestigious old New York family was capable of ordering anyone’s death.
Branch, who was in his late fifties and had the physique of someone with a desk job, put his hands on the table and gave himself a boost up. “Let me show you out, Mr. Samuels.”
On the other side of the mirror Douglas Comley also rose. “You’d better not be wrong about this, Mr. Painter Man. I’m supposed to be shutting you down in ten days, not approving additional funding. I’m going out on a limb for you. Again.”
“How often has that proved a mistake?” Lucian asked.
“But you’ve always had something for me in exchange. Something…dare I call it evidence?”
“I know this man. I’ve watched him and listened to him for months. Malachai won’t be able to resist the promise of tracking down a second memory tool.”
“He won’t? Or you won’t?” Comley asked skeptically.
There was no time to protest. Malachai had his walking papers and would be leaving the building soon, and wherever Malachai went, Lucian followed. At least for the next ten days. And
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