Split Second

CHAPTER 31

Coop nodded. “I’m afraid that’s true, Mr. Hurley. I’d like to try jogging your memory a little differently. I’d like you to close your eyes and relax. Are you with me? Yes, that’s right, lean back in that uncomfortable chair, take a couple of deep breaths, and picture Monica in your mind. When you’ve got her clear, tell us what you see.”

Thomas kept his eyes closed and let his chin drop down, and for a moment, Coop and Sherlock thought he’d fallen asleep. Then his eyes popped open, and both Sherlock and Coop saw anger. Anger was good, it would help him focus. “She’s thin, her chin’s pointed, not as pointed as Reese Witherspoon’s or Jennifer Aniston’s, but sort of pointed. That hair of hers, it’s really thick and blond, and it’s hanging halfway down her back, more straight than not. Her face is white, like she uses face powder to make it even whiter. Her eyes are really dark. She’s wearing lots of clothes, so I can’t see any other part of her, except her legs. Thin legs, and tall black boots, the kind that fit really snug against your calf. Her eyes are set far apart, and her mouth’s on the small side, sort of pinched. But still, she’s somehow pretty. I’d look at her twice if I passed her in the street.”

“Her daddy was good-looking, so why not?” Coop said as he took a photo of Kirsten Bolger out of his briefcase. “Is this Monica?”

“This is the same photo Detective Norris showed me. I told him at first I didn’t think so, because this woman’s hair is black.”

Coop said, “But he told you to lose the hair, right?”

“Yes, he did. And yes, when I did that, I recognized her. Yes, that’s Monica. I heard the other detectives talking about how she’s killed lots of women before poor Genny.”

Sherlock nodded. “Mr. Hurley, think back now. You’re having fun, trying to cheer Genny up, singing, entertaining the crowd. You’re sitting at the bar. When you turn out on your stool, you can see everyone in Enrico’s, right?”

“Yes, just about.”

“Look around the bar; look closely at the people. Do you see Monica? No, don’t shake your head, keep looking. Scan the room slowly, the booths, the tables. Anybody dancing?”

“No, no dancing.” Thomas fell quiet for a long time. He didn’t move, not even his hands. Finally he looked her straight in the eye and said, “Yes, I remember now, I did see her. She was sitting in a booth against the far wall.”

“Was she alone?”

He reared back in his chair a bit, looked surprised. “Well, wait, I don’t know—no, she wasn’t alone. There was a guy with her, kind of in the shadows, but I remember seeing him; he even sang along with me on a song. I don’t think Monica ever sang.”

“Describe what you see, Mr. Hurley.”

“She’s sitting at a table, a glass in front of her, but you know, it looks like plain old water to me. She’s not even eating the peanuts Big Ed puts in these little bowls on all the tables. She’s sitting there, her elbows on the table, her chin resting on her folded hands, and she’s looking at me, watching me.”

Sherlock lightly laid her hands over his. “Was she watching you or Genny?”

For a moment, Thomas simply couldn’t deal with it. “Oh, sweet Mary and Joseph, she could be watching Genny.”

She kept her voice smooth, infinitely calm. “You said her elbows are on the table, her chin’s resting on her hands.”

“Yes.”

“I want you to close your eyes again. Yes, that’s right. Good. Look at her hands, Thomas. Do you see any rings? Bracelets? A watch?”

Thomas’s eyes were still closed when he said, “I can’t make anything out—wait, she’s waving at the waitress. She’s probably going to order another beer for the guy.”

“Which arm?”

“Her right arm.”

Sherlock lightly rubbed her fingers over the backs of his hands. “Thomas, focus on her right hand. Do you see any jewelry?”

He shook his head, then, “Yes, there’s a ring on her finger, a big silver ring; it looks kind of weird, because it’s too big for her hand.”

“Focus on the ring. Describe it to us.”

After a couple of moments, Thomas opened his eyes. “You know, I saw a flash, so yes, there was some sort of stone on top of the ring. An emerald, I think, but that’s only a feeling, I can’t be one hundred percent sure.”

“Did you see this ring again when she was shouting at you outside the bar? That’s right, close your eyes, picture her.”

“She’s waving both arms around. She’s wearing rings on both hands. Do you know, I think the rings are the same.” He opened his eyes. “Why would she wear the same ring on both hands? I’ve got to be wrong.”

Sherlock leaned over and patted his hand. “Maybe not, Thomas, maybe not. Do you think you could describe the guy sitting at her table to a police artist?”

“I can try, Agent Sherlock.”

Detective Alba came in while Thomas Hurley was working with the police sketch artist, Daniel Gibbs. She stepped forward quietly to take a look over his shoulder.

Detective Alba said, “What’s this? We already have a photo of Bundy’s daughter. Why waste time with another sketch?”

Sherlock never looked away from the man’s face that was slowly taking shape under Daniel’s talented fingers. “This isn’t Kirsten Bolger. This is a sketch of the guy who was sitting across from Monica in her booth at Enrico’s.”

Celinda felt a punch of surprise, followed quickly by an icy wave of rage. “What?” She looked ready to beat Thomas into the floor. “Hurley, you never bothered to tell us about any guy sitting with her? You made this up, didn’t you, to impress her?”

Thomas shrank back. “No, I didn’t make it up!”

Sherlock said easily, “Detective Alba, would you please step outside with me?”

Celinda didn’t want to; she wanted to take a strip off the little twerp.

“Detective, now, if you please.”

Once outside, Sherlock quietly closed the door behind her. “Did you ever ask him, Detective?”

“No, but he should have—”

“I’ve found—surely you have as well—that witnesses like Mr. Hurley who’ve been very close to violence are frankly traumatized, so much stuff swimming in their brains, it helps to guide them very slowly, very thoroughly. And in case you hadn’t noticed, he’s exhausted.”

“Well, yeah, of course, he’s a little tired, but that’s not the point.”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at her. “You know, Detective, I really don’t know what the point is, except finding out as much as we can from this witness and catching this monster.”

“Well, yes, of course—”

Sherlock paid her no more attention. She opened the interview-room door, stepped inside, and closed the door again. She wished there was a lock. She looked down at Mr. Gibbs’s sketch. Nearly there.

A few more minutes passed, then Daniel Gibbs said, “Is this the guy, Mr. Hurley?”

Thomas Hurley studied the sketch, blinked, and said, “That’s amazing what you did.” He looked at Sherlock. “I really didn’t think I’d paid that much attention to him, but—that’s the guy. You believe me, don’t you?”

Sherlock couldn’t believe it, yet it made a weird sort of sense. The man staring up at her was George Lansford’s aide. Dillon was thorough, never forgot to close the circle on anything, no matter how seemingly minor, and so he’d pulled up photos and names of all the participants in that meeting with George Lansford and passed them around the unit. This sketch was the aide who’d ushered Dillon, Lucy, and Coop into the suite, never saying a word, Dillon had told her. She’d swear this was the same guy, right down to the aviator glasses on his nose. What was his name? Something unusual, like that old movie Coma, but what? Then she had it—his name was Bruce Comafield. She couldn’t wait to show the sketch to Coop. Talk about a surprise.

She smiled at Thomas Hurley, gave his hand a big shake. “I cannot emphasize what a great help you’ve been, Mr. Hurley. When we catch Monica, it will be in large part because of how good your visual memory is.”

Celinda Alba walked in again, this time preceding her entrance with a little warning knock. She looked down at the sketch. “Who’s this clown with the glasses?”

“Mr. Gibbs is very talented, Detective. They’re aviator glasses; he must wear them all the time.”

“How would you know that? Wait, you’re saying you know this guy? There’s no way, no way at all.”

Sherlock gave her a really big smile. “As a matter of fact, Detective, I do know him; haven’t met him, but I’ve seen his photo.

“Thank you, Mr. Gibbs, and thank you, Mr. Hurley; you’ve done a great job.” She shook both their hands, gently laid the sketch flat in her briefcase, and walked past Detective Alba without a word.

“But wait, who is he? We’ve got a right to know, we’ve—”

“Later,” Sherlock called over her shoulder.