Very odd . . . dripping water?
No, it was mechanical. Metal . . .
Weird. It sounded like a ticking clock. Where was it coming from? The workshop had a large wall clock in the back but it was electric and didn't tick. Joanne looked around. The noise, she decided, was coming from a small, windowless work area just beyond the refrigerated room. She'd check it out in a minute.
Joanne bent down to repair the hook.
Chapter 13
Amelia Sachs skidded to a stop in front of Ron Pulaski. After he jumped in she pointed the car north and gunned the engine.
The rookie gave her the details of the meeting with Jordan Kessler. He added, "He seemed legit. Nice guy. But I just thought I ought to check with Mrs. Creeley myself to confirm everything--about what Kessler gets because of Creeley's death. She said she trusts him and everything's on the up-and-up. But I still wasn't sure so I called Creeley's lawyer. Hope that was okay."
"Why wouldn't it be okay?"
"Don't know. Just thought I'd ask."
"It's always okay to do too much work in this business," Sachs told him. "The problems're when somebody doesn't do enough."
Pulaski shook his head. "Hard to imagine somebody working for Lincoln and being lazy."
She gave a cryptic laugh. "And what'd the lawyer say?"
"Basically the same thing Kessler and the wife said. He buys out Creeley's share at fair market value. It's all legit. Kessler said his partner had been drinking more and had taken up gambling. His wife told me she was surprised he did that. Never was an Atlantic City kind of guy."
Sachs nodded. "Gambling--maybe some mob connections there. Dealing to them, or just taking along recreational drugs. Money laundering maybe. He win or lose, you know?"
"Dropped some big money, seems like. I was wondering if he hit a loan shark to cover the loss. But his wife said the losses were no big deal, what with his income and everything. A couple hundred thousand didn't hurt much. She wasn't real happy about it, you can imagine. . . . Kessler said he had a good relationship with all his clients. But I asked for a list. I think we ought to talk to them ourselves."
"Good," Sachs told him. Then she added, "Things're getting gluier. There was another death. Murder/robbery, maybe." She explained about her meeting with Gerte and told him about Frank Sarkowski. "I need you to track down the file."
"You bet."
"I--"
She stopped speaking. She'd glanced into the rearview mirror and felt a tug in her gut. "Hm."
"What?" Pulaski asked.
She didn't answer but made a leisurely turn to the right, went several blocks more and then made a sharp left. "Okay, we may have a tail. Saw it a few minutes ago. Merc made those turns with us just now. No, don't look."
It was a black Mercedes with darkened windows.
She turned again, abruptly, and braked to a stop. The rookie grunted at the tug from the belt. The Merc kept going. Sachs glanced back, missed the tag but saw that the car was an AMG, the expensive, souped-up version of the German car.
She spun the Camaro in a U-turn but just then a delivery truck double-parked in front of her. By the time she got around it the Merc was gone.
"Who do you think it was?"
Sachs shifted hard. "Probably a coincidence. Real rare to get tailed. And, believe me, it never happens by some dude in a hundred-and-forty-thousand-dollar car."
Touching the cold body, the florist lying on the concrete, her face as pale as white roses scattered on the floor.
The cold body, cold as the Cold Moon, but still soft; the hardness of death had not yet set in.
Cutting the cloth off, the blouse, the bra . . .
Touching . . .