“The Ferrington Water Clock. That building, it was the Carnegie Iron Works. The CEO—no, notthatCarnegie—wanted a public relations gimmick. His radiators and car parts weren’t sexy enough to get traction. So he had it commissioned. It ran on the river’s current. People’d come from all over the state to see it and get pictures of themselves with the clock in the background.”
“When did it stop? And I’ve got the ten-to-two part.”
She laughed. “Long time after Carnegie did. The city kept it going, but money dried up. Probably twenty years ago. The hands: people call them the ‘Angel Wings.’ ”
The SUV accelerated fast, then turned away from the river at the next intersection. She told him she had a pub in mind she thought he might like.
She was wearing aviator shades. He’d tried to get a look at her eyes. He really wanted to know if the color was from genes or from plastic.
After some silence he asked a common silence-breaking question. “How’d you end up here?”
“Now, that is a long story. I’ll trim.” Her voice, enwrapped in that lovely Southern accent, was low. The wordsultrycame to mind. “I wanted to—yes, see the world—so I joined up. Did a couple tours in Hawaii and California. Met a boy, also from Birmingham. After our hitches, we went home, got married. Yeah, ‘hitched!’ That didn’t work out... Not his fault. I’m a tough person to live with.”
The confession amused him. It seemed almost like a warning.
“I wanted to stay in security. A job recruiter told me about an opening at Harmon Energy. I liked the product, liked Marty’s mission—helping save the poor. So. Here I am. Sorry you asked, aren’t you?”
“Think you trimmed just right.”
A car passed at speed—and she was well over the limit. The Acura SUV had tinted windows. A problem?
Nilsson said, “It’s good.” Her eyes had been following the car’s trajectory too. “Any threat would have presented by now.”
More miles rolled by: brown and flat. Shaw had grown up surrounded by mountains.
“When my friend Tom called about the job, I thought ‘Ferrington’ was familiar. Something in the news. Crime, I think.”
“The corruption cases Marty was talking about?”
“No, violent.”
“Oh, the Street Cleaner? Serial killer.”
“That’s it.”
“Few years ago, somebody was shooting street people—a homeless guy, tweakers, a woman in the sex trade. Mostly around Manufacturers Row.”
Shaw remembered those people he’d seen around the riverwalk, after the S.I.T. operation.
She added, “Still an open case. Whoever it was, was smart. Cleaned up afterward. You ever work a case with a psycho?”
Shaw called them “jobs” not “cases” but felt no need to explain. “Once. Killed four women. Brilliant. Medical student. The police caught him but he got away. Vanished completely. After a month, the county posted a reward.”
“You found him?”
“I did.”
“How?”
“Staked out plastic surgeons.”
She gave a laugh. “Smart.”
Shaw’s eyes were drawn to a gaudy yellow billboard.
Braxton Headley Law Firm
Specialists in toxin-poisoning claims.