“Young man,” Lucy-Anne Westervelt asked as the bus nosed to a stop on the upper-level ramp of the Port Authority, “would you help me with my bag?”
“Sure.” The boy pulled her suitcase from the overhead rack. They joined the passengers filing out.
“I suppose you’re heading down to the Village?”
“Eventually.” The boy seemed to be scanning the crowd, searching for someone.
“Can I give you a lift in a cab?” Lucy-Anne suggested. She stepped onto the down escalator.
The boy followed. Lucy-Anne knew he didn’t want to come with her; but he was holding her bag, and he was well brought-up.
“Which way are you headed?” he said.
“Downtown,” Lucy-Anne lied.
Down on the first level the scene was bad: kids with opportunistic, purse-snatching gazes, loitering in running shoes. Beggars stationed at newsstands and candy and soda machines, rattling cups. Homeless men curled up in corners on nests of Big Mac wrappings and thrown-away newspaper. Crazies screaming conversations with themselves. Lucy-Anne smelled crack deals and concealed firearms and children lured into prostitution.
“I’m not going downtown right away.” The boy stopped. He set Lucy-Anne’s suitcase down. It became a rock of stillness in a sea of hurrying feet. “It was nice meeting you.”
Lucy-Anne was aware of another population in the bus terminal—cops circulating everywhere, male and female, officers barely twenty years old, with holster-heavy hips and the cynical eyes of octogenarians.
“I have to go uptown first.” She picked up her suitcase. “I can drop you off anywhere you’re going.”
“Thanks, but I’d better not.” The boy’s eyes had stopped searching. He was staring at something.
Lucy-Anne turned, following the direction of his gaze.
A man with a shaved head was standing thirty feet away in front of a Dunkin’ Donuts window, staring back at the boy.
Lucy-Anne didn’t like it; she didn’t like it one bit. She reached out her free hand and caught the elbow of the nearest cop. “Officer!”
The cop whirled, one hand on his holster.
“This little boy—”
The officer’s face tightened. A red, rough-textured face. “Is the kid bothering you, lady?”
“This little boy is a truant—he should be in school.”
Something slammed into Lucy-Anne’s suitcase, knocking it from her surprised hand. The boy dove into the crowd. “Young man!” she called.
The suitcase spun across the floor. She ran and caught it, but when she turned around, the little boy was gone. Her eye went to Dunkin’ Donuts.
The man with the shaved head had vanished too.
TWENTY-SIX
12:07 P.M.
L
IEUTENANT BILL BENTON ANGLED
his wrist. The hands of his watch pointed to 12:07—9:07 in Seattle. Somebody ought to be answering that company phone in Seattle by now.
He found the envelope he’d written the number on. The call clicked through and a woman with an upbeat voice and a bad head cold answered. “Gurney and Gurney, attorneys-at-law. May I help you?”
“Could I speak with Catch Talbot, please?”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“Lieutenant William Benton, Scotsville Police, New Jersey.”
“Just a moment, I’ll put you through.”
Bill Benton’s fingertips danced on the edge of his desk.
“Yes, Lieutenant.” The male voice was bemused. “This is Catch Talbot. How can I help you?”
The minute he heard that voice, Bill Benton had a sinking feeling how this talk was going to go. “Mr. Talbot, were you by any chance in Scotsville, New Jersey, last night?” He didn’t bother asking
or two hours ago
? That would have sounded too crazy.
“Last night? Are you kidding?”
“No, sir, I’m not kidding.”
“I’ve never been in Scotsville in my life.”
“Have you lost a wallet recently or any I.D.s—charge cards, driver’s license?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Do you have an eleven-year-old son by the name of Toby?”
“Yes, I do.” The voice tightened. “Is something the matter? Is Toby in some kind of trouble?”
“No, sir. Someone tried to use your I.D. and we’re just checking.”
“I don’t understand. What does Toby have to do with this?”
“You’ve cleared the matter up, Mr. Talbot. Thank you.” Bill Benton snapped a finger down on the disconnect bar.
Sondra van Orden sat with her legs crossed, foot arcing slowly back and forth. She was staring at the toe of her shoe, avoiding Benton’s eyes.
“Sondra, honey …” He pushed to standing. “You and me and that polygraph are in deep doodoo.”
“
How long can they hang on
?” the high-voiced male said.
“
Only God knows that
,” the woman said.
The voices came from the pocket-size tape recorder that Tess diAngeli held in her hand. She walked slowly along the jury box, moving as if she were carved of flowing water.
“
If they’re not dead by September fifteenth
,” the deep-voiced male said, “
we’ll be in a bad financial way
.”
DiAngeli stopped the tape. A shudder of silence passed. “Do you recognize this tape?”
“I do,” Jeptha Randolf said. “That tape was recorded by Yolanda Lopez two years ago, August fourth.”
“Objection!” Dotson Elihu rose angrily. “The People have introduced no evidence that Ms. Lopez recorded that tape.”
“Sustained. Counselor, lay a foundation.”
DiAngeli snapped the cassette out of the recorder. “Do you have reason to believe this tape was recorded by your agent Yolanda Lopez?”
“I do.” Jeptha Randolf nodded. “Yolanda Lopez gave me that tape in compliance with my request for tapes of her conversations with Corey Lyle.”
“Can you identify the voices on the tape?”
“The woman’s voice is Yolie’s—Yolanda’s. The deeper male voice is Corey’s. The other is—”
“Your Honor, I object.” Dotson Elihu was working very hard at appearing shocked. “The People have submitted absolutely no proof as to the identity of any of the voices on that tape.”
“Surely a government expert can be trusted,” diAngeli said, “to identify the voice of his own operative on a tape of his own operation?”
“Your Honor,” Elihu cried, “a witness who admits hiring amateur sleuths could just as easily hire amateur actors.”
Judge Bernheim’s eyes shot staples into Elihu. “Overruled. The witness is competent to identify the voice of his own agent.”
DiAngeli removed the tape from the recorder and inserted a second. “Mr. Randolf, would you listen to this tape and tell me if you recognize it?”
“
They’re near
,” the deep male voice said. “
Very near
.”
“
Thank the merciful Lord
,” the woman’s voice said.
“
We have to keep a vigil over them
,” the man said. “
We want his wife to live forty-eight hours longer than him
.”
DiAngeli stopped the tape. “Do you recognize this conversation?”
“I do. That tape was given to me by Yolanda Lopez on August twelfth, two years ago, in compliance with my request for records of her conversations with Corey Lyle.”
“Had you heard any of these voices before?”
“Yes, I’d heard them on Ms. Lopez’s previous tape.”
DiAngeli turned to the bench. “The People request permission to introduce these tapes as People’s Exhibits fifty-two and fifty-three.”
“Let them be so marked,” Judge Bernheim said.
DiAngeli turned toward her witness. “Did Yolanda Lopez attempt to contact you Labor Day weekend?”
“Yes. At six
A.M.
Saturday, she phoned headquarters and left a message on the answering machine.”
“With the court’s permission,” diAngeli said, “I would like the witness to tell the jury if this is a recording of that message.”
“
This is Yolanda.
” The woman’s voice was screaming. “
I’m in the Briars’ apartment
—
Saturday morning. Send somebody up
—
it’s an emergency
—
Corey’s hypnotized Mickey
—
Mickey’s gone crazy
—
he’s killed John and he says he’s going to kill Amalia. I’ve locked her bedroom and I’m in here with her
—
but that door won’t keep him out. Send help! Please! Oh, God!
”
There was a click and silence.
“That’s the message,” Randolf said.
Tess diAngeli asked that the tape be introduced into evidence. She again faced her witness. “Did Ms. Lopez attempt to contact you a second time that Labor Day weekend?”
“She phoned again eleven
A.M.
Sunday and left a message.”
The voice had reached hysteria. “
This is Yolanda—Sunday morning
—
Mickey’s locked me out of the apartment
—
he’s murdered John and he’s in there murdering Amalia
—
you’ve got to send help!
”
“Did Ms. Lopez attempt to contact you again that weekend?”
“She phoned at eleven
A.M.
Monday and left a third message.”
The voice was drained. “
This is Yolanda
—
I’m at the Briars’
—
John and Amalia have died.
”
“Hi. You’ve reached the office of Ding-a-ling Music, Anne Bingham, CEO. If you’d care to leave a message at the beep, I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. That’s a promise. Thanks.”
“Hi. This is Lieutenant Vince Cardozo at the Twenty-second Precinct again. Calling Monday afternoon.”
Something rapped sharply on the open cubicle door. Cardozo turned and saw Greg Monteleone. He signaled Greg to hold on just a second.
“I’d appreciate it if you’d phone me at your earliest convenience.” He left his number. “Thank you.” He looked up. “What have you got, Greg?”
Greg stepped into the cubicle and the air swooned with Old Spice aftershave. Today he was wearing a bright turquoise shirt with cowboy-style mother-of-pearl buttons. “There seems to be just one Catch Talbot in the U.S.A. Hope it’s the right one.” He laid a fax on the desk. “Lives in Seattle and has a Visa card.”
Cardozo’s eye zigzagged in a quick sampling scan over the column of computerized laser print. Right away something puzzled him. “You double-checked this, Greg? Because according to these dates, Catch Talbot was charging dessert in Seattle and dinner in New York City on the same day.”
Greg nodded. “Thursday last week. I noticed that too.”
Cardozo lifted the top sheet. A second sheet listed Catch Talbot’s home address, his business address, his home and work phones. “Even if there was a Concorde flying between Seattle and New York, that would still take some very fast jetting.” He tapped the work number into the phone. A secretary in Seattle with a bad head cold put him through to Talbot.
“Catch Talbot.” A honey-edged baritone. The voice of a man pitching blue-chip annuities.
“Mr. Talbot, this is Lieutenant Vince Cardozo of the Twenty-second Precinct in New York City.”
“How can I help you, Lieutenant?”
“Were you by any chance in New York this past week?”
“I’ve been right here in Seattle for the last three months. You’re the second call I’ve had from East Coast police—a New Jersey lieutenant wanted to know if I’d been in Jersey last night.”
Cardozo grabbed a pen. “Do you recall the lieutenant’s name or the town he was calling from?”
“Bill Benton, Scotsville. Would you care to tell me what’s going on?”
“Are you the holder of Visa card 444-467-894?”
“Let me check. … Yes, I am. Is there a problem?”
“Are you aware that someone in New York has been using your card?”
“I’ll stop that card immediately. Thank you. You New York police are certainly alert.”
“Just one other question, Mr. Talbot. Do you have a son studying at the École Française in New York City?”
A beat of silence. “Yes, I do, and the officer from New Jersey asked about Toby too.”
“When did you last see your son?”
“Around this time last year.”
“When were you last in touch with your ex-wife?”
“She phoned Friday the thirteenth and said a custody hearing had to be canceled. Four days later her lawyer phoned and said the same thing.” An edge of alarm was creeping into his voice. “Look, I’d like to know why you’re so interested in my son and my ex-wife.”
“A policewoman is dead. Your son spoke to her the afternoon she died and we need to question him. To do that we need your ex-wife’s permission, but she’s on jury duty and I haven’t been able to reach her.”
A beat of silence. “Lieutenant, what’s going on? Should I fly East?”
“At this point I don’t see that it would serve much purpose.”
“You’ll tell me if there’s anything I should know?”
“You can count on it. Thanks for your help, Mr. Talbot.”
Cardozo dialed Mademoiselle de Gramont at the École Française. “Has Toby Talbot come to school today?”
“He has not.” She sounded personally offended. “We’ve had no word about him and no one’s answering his home phone.”
Just to double-check, Cardozo dialed Kyra Talbot’s apartment. A machine picked up.
“Hi. This is Kyra. There’s no one home.” The recorded female voice oozed cultivation and competence. “If you want to speak to me, or Toby, or Juliana, please leave a message at the beep and one of us will get back to you.”
He left his name and number, broke the connection, and dialed the precinct in Scotsville, New Jersey. “Lieutenant Bill Benton, please.”
“How much of the taxpayers’ money”—Dotson Elihu strode to the witness box—“has the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms squandered in its pursuit of Dr. Lyle?”
“Objection,” Tess diAngeli cried. “Counsel knows that federal law prohibits such disclosure.”
“Sustained,” Judge Bernheim said.
Elihu turned. “Mr. Randolf … strictly speaking, is child pornography part of BATF’s mandate?”
Jeptha Randolf nodded regretfully. “Whenever it’s accompanied by alcohol and firearm abuse.”
“Well and good, but where in the BATF charter does it say that child abuse is the province of your department rather than of the Justice Department?”