You can get onto the grounds without going through the front office and there's no CCTV outside. Which makes my life a lot easier. We check out Larkin's unit. It's off by itself and there are some bushes in front that'll be good cover for us going in. There's no gray Ford here now so he's probably at the hospital. In a way I'll be doing him a favor because when my mother went it was pretty bad. The pain.
We wait a little and he doesn't show so we head off to Applebee's and have some food and a beer but only one because we have to stay sharp. We drive back and Dave is all chatty. "You know what an aardvark is?" he asks me.
I sort of do. An animal of some kind. But I just look at him.
"I just think it's neat. Not the thing itself. No. What's neat is it's the first word in the dictionary. I read the dictionary. I like to do it. You learn things."
This is pretty crazy to me, both reading the dictionary for fun and telling me he reads the dictionary.
"What's the last word?" I ask him.
"I don't know. I haven't got there yet."
I wonder what letter he's on but decide not to ask.
Dave says, "So you've never bagged anybody before."
"No."
"I'll do it, you want. I've done six."
He's sort of bragging maybe. I can't tell.
"Naw, Papa wanted me to."
"Like a test. Like a chemistry test."
I don't know if Dave's laughing at me but I don't think he is so I don't say anything. Maybe he's trying to make me feel comfortable.
But we stop talking because we pull into the parking lot and there's Larkin's Ford. He came back when we were eating.
If he's inside we may have to wait. We park a ways away and get out and put our weapons and the booties and gloves and bonnets in a grocery bag and walk to the big landscaped area in the middle of the place, which is all grass and gardens and sidewalks. We're both wearing golf caps again and we keep our heads down. Larkin knows what we look like and even if it was over a month ago we're pretty distinctive with Dave big and me kind of short and looking like a wolf. He'd wonder what the hell are these guys doing here and might even call the heat. Or beat the shit out of us with his special forces and karate or whatever.
We pause at the gate leading to the courtyard and see he's not here. There's an old guy in a sweat suit and a woman getting their mail at one of those racks of mailboxes and a couple kids on skateboards. Nobody pays any attention to us.
"Let's go." I nod toward Larkin's unit. We walk across the courtyard and up to the front door and I peek through the window and can see through a gap in the blinds. It looks deserted. "Don't see anything."
We pull on the gloves and take the guns and chamber rounds but keep them under our jackets and knock on the door.
Both of us are ready to push inside and I remind Dave to be careful because of the special forces stuff again.
But Larkin doesn't answer. I give it a few minutes in case of the shower and knock again. Nothing.
"Pick it," I say to Dave.
And he does. In a minute we're inside and cover each other while we get on the bonnets and booties. We search fast and see the place is empty.
"Where is he?" Dave asks.
That cocktail hour starts in five minutes. I say maybe he's there.
"Where should we be when he comes in?" Dave asks.
I look around then walk to the door and glance out through the peephole to see if Larkin is on his way but he isn't.
"Come on in here." I nod toward the kitchen.
"It's your ball game. You want me in the kitchen?"
"Yeah."
Dave joins me and I pull a long filleting knife from the butcher block and shove it into Dave's chest. At the same time I grab his Glock with my other hand and take it. Then for good measure I slash his throat then step back fast from the spray.
"What, what, what . . . ?"
And after he collapses on the floor I bend down, minding the blood, and I tell him what Papa told me to tell him before he dies when Papa and me met about the job. "You dumb shit. When you came to pick us up at the jobsite the day of the heist you shouldn'ta brought the Porsche. If you'd come in stolen wheels like you shoulda you'd still be alive."
He makes some wicked throat noises and pretty soon he's dead and I walk back to the peephole. Still no sign of Larkin. I go through Dave's pockets and get his phone and anything else from his pockets and his wallet that'll link him to Papa or me or Marco or anybody else in the organization.
This's the plan that Papa and me figured out. Dave and Larkin fought and Larkin stabbed him but before he died Dave shot Larkin.
I glance down at Dave.
I think I should be feeling something bad but I don't.
I sit down to wait for Larkin.
But then I hear them. Sirens. Getting closer.
Probably nothing.
Except a minute later they're really close and I look out the kitchen window and see police cars and there are three of them pulling into the parking lot of the Welcome Inn.
Did somebody see us break in?
Hell. Maybe. I've gotta leave. I'll figure out something about Larkin later. I put Dave's gun and phone and other stuff in the grocery bag and walk fast to the front door and glance out through the peephole. No police. Just the woman with the mail walking back from the reception area of the inn with a glass of wine. She's not looking this way just at the sound of the sirens.
I open the door and leave, then pull off the booties and bonnet and gloves fast. I keep my head down and walk along the sidewalk toward the gate and the parking lot. I relax some because the sirens are in a different part of the complex. Still I want to get out of there. I pass the woman and I'm looking away and I'm glad she doesn't say anything 'cause I don't want to have to answer. Then just as I pass she tosses away the wine and turns and lifts my left arm straight up in the air really hard and, Jesus, she kicks my legs out from under me. I mean, serious martial arts. I land hard on my back and my breath is knocked completely from my lungs and I can't move.
***
Two minutes later I'm sitting in Larkin's unit again and I'm fighting to breathe.
Which isn't easy.
The woman--pretty and as hot as I remember--has emptied my pockets and is looking over everything that was in the bag with one hand. And she's holding my Glock in the other like she knows what she's doing. She's looking through my phone and Dave's and writing down the numbers. I go all cold because that'll lead her to Papa. I make a move but she has the gun up in an instant and I sit back. At first I think she's a cop. But if that was the case she would've kept me on the ground and cuffed me or called for backup.
And then I think: Wait. She had Larkin's key since here we are.
"Who the hell . . . ?" And then my voice stops.
And I see the she isn't really a she.
Holy Christ.
She's Jonathan Larkin, the tan jacket guy.
I close my eyes for a second or two and then look closely.
He's nodding--yeah, I have to think of him as a him. I just do. And he says, "It was me at the jobsite in Detroit. When you got that Nissan stuck in the pothole." The voice is feminine but low. He's got tits and smooth legs his hair still short but it's kind of tinted. He's got makeup on.
I say, "You were at that protest in the park. The gay people, the trans people."
He nods. "I hadn't started the treatment yet."
That's what he was doing here at the hospital. Not cancer. He's here to take medicine and do that surgery thing to become a woman. So the clothes and cosmetics we found in his apartment in Detroit weren't a girlfriend's. They were his.
Larkin says, "Let me figure this out. You two come here to kill me because I was a witness. I can associate that Nissan with his Porsche." A nod to Dave, dead and real bloody. Larkin doesn't seem very upset at the sight. He comes back to me. "The police look up all the yellow nine eleven turbos and find him and they figure out he was the one who did, what? A robbery? A hit?"
br />
I shrug. "We boosted some shit."
"Boosted?"
"Robbery."
"Ah. And your boss told you to kill the Porsche guy." Another look at poor Dave. "Because he was stupid enough to bring that car to pick you up."
"Something like that."
"You double-crossed him."
I nod and for some reason Larkin starts laughing his head off. "Whole new meaning." He gestures toward the dress, which is white with little blue flowers on it. "Double cross."
I don't get it but I'm smiling too just because.
Then Larkin says, "It's funny about this sex change thing. The hormones, you know."
I just wait. He's smiling.
"A month ago, this had happened, I'd've beaten the crap out of you. I mean, broken things. Serious. And I know how to do it."
Another nod.
"But now I'm not--I don't know--I'm not pissed off. It's not a mano-a-mano thing. A woman would look at this whole thing and say, well, I came pretty close to getting killed but it's all right. Nothing to get too worked up about. A woman would find the calmest way to handle it. Least confrontational, you know."
Which I'm totally relieved at because I know he's thinking he'll let me go. He doesn't want the publicity of police coming here and reporters asking him questions when he's dressed like that.
Larkin lifts the Glock and shoots me right in the center of the chest.
I fly into the back of the couch. The shock of the impact becomes this burning and that starts to spread outward but then it's pretty numb.
I whisper, "But . . ."
Larkin frowns, looking down at a fleck of blood on his dress. Then he stands up and with a napkin picks up the knife I used on Dave and sets it in my hand. I drop it but it doesn't matter. My prints are on it.
"No, come on . . ."
He aims the gun at my forehead. I see his finger tighten on the trigger and
TEASER CHAPTER FROM
THE BURIAL HOUR (2017)
Excerpt from The Burial Hour copyright (c) 2017 by Gunner Publications, LLC
Lincoln Rhyme returns in Jeffery Deaver's thrilling new novel, The Burial Hour, available online and in bookstores everywhere April 11, 2017. Please turn the page for an exciting sneak preview.
www.JefferyDeaver.com/Novel/The-Burial-Hour
I
THE HANGMAN'S WALTZ
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 20
Chapter 1
"Mommy."
"In a minute."
They trooped doggedly along the quiet street on the Upper East Side, the sun low this cool autumn morning. Red leaves, yellow leaves spiraled from sparse branches.
Mother and daughter, burdened with the baggage that children now carted to school.
In my day . . .
Claire was texting furiously. Her housekeeper had--wouldn't you know it?--gotten sick, no, possibly gotten sick, on the day of the dinner party! The party. And Alan had to work late. Possibly had to work late.
As if I could ever count on him anyway.
Ding.
The response from her friend: Sorry, Carmellas busy tnight.
Jesus. A tearful emoji accompanied the missive. Why not type the goddamn "o" in "tonight"? Did it save you a precious millisecond? And remember apostrophes?
"But, Mommy . . ." A nine-year-old's singsongy tone.
"A minute, Morgynn. You heard me." Claire's voice was a benign monotone. Not the least angry, not the least peeved or piqued. Thinking of the weekly sessions: Sitting in the chair, not lying back on the couch--the good doctor didn't even have a couch in his office--Claire attacked her nemeses, the anger and impatience, and she had studiously worked to avoid snapping or shouting when her daughter was annoying (even when she behaved that way intentionally, which, Claire calculated, was easily one-quarter of the girl's waking hours).
And I'm doing a damn good job of keeping a lid on it.
Reasonable. Mature. "A minute," she repeated, sensing the girl was about to speak.
Claire slowed to a stop, flipping through her phone's address book, lost in the maelstrom of approaching disaster. It was early but the day would vanish fast and the party would be on her like a nearby Uber. Wasn't there someone, anyone, in the borough of Manhattan who might have decent help she could borrow to wait a party? A party for ten friggin' people! That was nothing. How hard could it be?
She debated. Her sister?
Nope. She wasn't invited.
Sally from the club?
Nope. Out of town. And a bitch, to boot.
Morgynn had slowed and Claire was aware of her daughter turning around. Had she dropped something? Apparently so. She ran back to pick it up.
Better not be her phone. She'd already broken one. The screen had cost $187 to fix.
Honestly. Children.
Then Claire was back to scrolling, praying for waitperson salvation. Look at all these names. Need to clean out this damn contact list. Don't know half these people. Don't like a good chunk of the rest. Off went another beseeching message.
The child returned to her side and said firmly, "Mommy, look--"
"Ssssh." Hissing now. But there was nothing wrong with an edge occasionally, of course, she told herself. It was a form of education. Children had to learn. Even the cutest of puppies needed collar-jerk correction from time to time.
Another ding of iPhone.
Another no.
Goddamn it.
Well, what about that woman that Terri from the office had used? Hispanic, or Latino . . . Latina. Whatever those people called themselves now. The cheerful woman had been the star of Terri's daughter's graduation party.
Claire found Terri's number and dialed a voice call.
"Hello?"
"Terri! It's Claire. How are you?"
A hesitation then Terri said, "Hi, there. How're you doing?"
"I'm--"
At which point Morgynn interrupted yet again. "Mommy!"
Snap. Claire spun around and glared down at the petite blonde, hair in braids, wearing a snug pink leather Armani Junior jacket. She raged, "I am on the phone! Are you blind? What have I told you about that? When I'm on the phone? What is so f--" Okay, watch the language, she told herself. Claire offered a labored smile. "What's so . . . important, dear?"
"I'm trying to tell you. This man back there?" The girl nodded up the street. "He came up to another man and hit him or something and pushed him in the trunk."
"What?"
Morgynn tossed a braid, which ended in a tiny bunny clip, off her shoulder. "He left this on the ground and then drove away." She held up a cord or thin rope. What was it?
Claire gasped. In her daughter's petite hand was a miniature hangman's noose.
Morgynn replied, "That's what's so--" She paused and her tiny lips curled into a smile of their own. "Important."
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo (c) Jerry Bauer
A former journalist, folksinger, and attorney, Jeffery Deaver is an international number-one bestselling author. His novels have appeared on bestseller lists around the world, including the New York Times, the Times of London, Italy's Corriere della Sera, the Sydney Morning Herald, and the Los Angeles Times. His books are sold in 150 countries and translated into twenty-five languages.
The author of thirty-nine novels, three collections of short stories, and a nonfiction law book, and a lyricist of a country-western album, he's received or been short-listed for dozens of awards.
His The Bodies Left Behind was named Novel of the Year by the International Thriller Writers association, and his Lincoln Rhyme thriller The Broken Window and a stand-alone, Edge, were also nominated for that prize, as was a short story published recently. He has been awarded the Ian Fleming Steel Dagger and the Short Story Dagger from the British Crime Writers' Association and the Nero Award, and he is a winner of the British Thumping Good Read Award. The Cold Moon was named the Book of the Year by the Mystery Writers Association of Japan. In addition, the Japanese Adventure Fiction Association awa
rded The Cold Moon and Carte Blanche their annual Grand Prix award. His book The Kill Room was awarded the Political Thriller of the Year by Killer Nashville. And his collection of short stories, Trouble in Mind, was nominated for best anthology by that organization, as well.
Deaver has been honored with the Lifetime Achievement Award by the Bouchercon World Mystery Convention and the Raymond Chandler Award for lifetime achievement in Italy. The Strand Magazine also has presented him with a Lifetime Achievement Award.
Deaver has been nominated for seven Edgar Awards from the Mystery Writers of America, an Anthony, a Shamus, and a Gumshoe.
His The Starling Project, starring Alfred Molina and produced by Audible, won the Audie Award for best original audiobook of the year in 2016.
He contributed to the anthology In the Company of Sherlock Holmes and Books to Die For, which won the Anthony. Books to Die For recently won the Agatha, as well.
His most recent novels are The Steel Kiss, a Lincoln Rhyme novel, Solitude Creek, a Kathryn Dance thriller, and The October List, a thriller told in reverse. For the Dance novel XO Deaver wrote an album of country-western songs, available on iTunes and as a CD; before that, he wrote Carte Blanche, a James Bond continuation novel, a number-one international bestseller.
His book A Maiden's Grave was made into an HBO movie starring James Garner and Marlee Matlin, and his novel The Bone Collector was a feature release from Universal Pictures, starring Denzel Washington and Angelina Jolie. Lifetime aired an adaptation of his book The Devil's Teardrop. And, yes, the rumors are true; he did appear as a corrupt reporter on his favorite soap opera, As the World Turns. He was born outside Chicago and has a bachelor of journalism degree from the University of Missouri and a law degree from Fordham University.
Readers can visit his website at www.jefferydeaver.com.
Jeffery Deaver, Double Cross
(Series: # )
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net