Cuts Through Bone (6 page)

The ambitious people were already gone from the shelter, looking for work at day jobs or hooking cans. A man along the edge of the lot drifted toward them. He had dark, wavy hair, a pale and sunken chest, and icy blue eyes with a fanatic stare. He was clean-shaven, almost baby-faced. His intense gaze slid across Vasquez as if she wasn't even there. He slowed in front of Guthrie but didn't quite stop. His feet kept shuffling, turning him in an orbit that would have circled a manhole, if the manhole could slide along the ground at random every few seconds.

“Ain't seen you since before the summer started.” The man's perfect teeth seemed wildly out of place. Looking at his ragged clothing and bent posture simply created an expectation of broken, dirty fangs.

“I been busy, Black-haired John,” Guthrie said.

“We been hungry this summer.”

The little detective looked skeptical. “You could've called.”

“Maybe.” Black-haired John kicked at the gravel crunching beneath him. “If we still had that phone you give us.”

Guthrie folded his arms and frowned.

“I give it to Cindy! I don't know what she done with it. Probably throwed it at somebody.”

“Figures,” Guthrie said before pulling a cheap cell phone from his pocket and wrapping some fifty-dollar bills around it. “Here.”

The drifter edged forward and took the package on a pass-by. He stared at it, then looked mistrustfully at Guthrie. “We ain't hungry right now.”

“Buy ice cream for the kids, John.”

He nodded slowly and examined the phone. “Press
one
?”

“Just like always.” Guthrie shot a glance along the fence line, then continued: “I'm looking for somebody.”

“I know 'im?” His gaze drifted aimlessly, like a cloud.

“You might. He's on the streets, drinks, maybe by the bridge down from the Polo Grounds. Where that girl was just killed.”

“Seen plenty of dead girls. We all have. Young ones, old ones, pretty ones, yellow ones…” He paused for a moment, then reversed his orbit into counterclockwise circles. “Cindy! Come here!”

A slender young woman with dirty blond hair detached herself from the shady fence and walked over. Black-haired John handed her the money. “Maybe some ice cream?” he said.

The blonde smiled. She was pretty in a dreamy-eyed sort of way. She tucked the money into a pocket of her ragged jeans. “Sure, John. Soon as you ready.” She eased away, pausing to scowl at Vasquez.

Black-haired John reverse-orbited. “Where did you say?”

“Down from the Polo Grounds—”

“Yeah, lots of lights a week ago. I remember. Screaming racket and whines near dawn.”

“Okay, that's the place. Is someone over there?”

He nodded. “You're looking for Ghost Eddy. He ain't friendly.”

“I don't want to run him off; I just want to know what he saw. No police.”

“Huh.”

Guthrie watched him orbit for a minute. The young blonde was surrounded by a cluster of kids. Some old people peered down at them from the upstairs windows of the shelter.

“He's an old solo, Ghost Eddy. Big white beard, stiff like hog bristles. He's a heavy man, but he's fast. Don't mess with him.” Black-haired John wiped his mouth, then continued: “We'll look for him for you. You been good.”

“All right. I'll come by in a day or so.”

John nodded, but he was already moving away. The kids closed around him, trailing the young blonde. Guthrie gave Vasquez the keys to the Ford and climbed into the passenger seat. He pointed which way he wanted to go, and she went south on Amsterdam. The morning was still young.

The little detective had been working with the street families for years. He warned her that they could smell bullshit. Luckily, Black-haired John had given them a handle to work from; that would help when they asked around. The drifter would look, too. He had a big family among the hard-core faction, because he didn't abuse or use. Cindy had John's back. She threw rocks, and could knock the cap from a bottle at a hundred feet. The kids had her back. On the north end of Manhattan, not much moved around without their seeing or finding out.

“They were strange,” Vasquez said. “I thought they were crackheads.”

“No, they just don't fit into the machine.”

*   *   *

Vasquez drove down into Morningside as the morning stretched out. Soon, she felt like a pinball, because Guthrie kept chasing from corner to corner and pausing to peer down alleys and into lots. She crossed and recrossed Broadway and Amsterdam Avenue between 170th Street and the mid 140's. The little detective found the street people he knew would talk—and have something to talk about. Along the way, he broke fresh ground where he could. He handed out sodas, cigarettes, and small bills. The street people knew Ghost Eddy's name. He was a mean drunk, and drew careful watching. Even garbage gangsters that faked bravado backpedaled their feet while they talked about the big graybeard.

On the corner of 153rd and Eighth, they found Mother Mary, a fat old woman in a paisley dress. She made hex gestures over the drifter's name. No good would come of looking for him, she warned—or, worse, finding him. She gave Guthrie a pat on the head, picked up her bags, and hustled down the avenue. The little detective shrugged. He kicked around on the corner for a minute, as if she might come back, but she didn't.

Later, Guthrie gave a half carton of Camels to a skinny old man named Wheezy. The vagrant wore suspenders and short-legged blue jeans that showed off mismatched socks. His voice was a breathy rasp, almost completely covered by the noise of traffic. Ghost Eddy wouldn't catch easy, he said. A pair of patrol cops tried to take him in one time. The gray drifter waited until one of them had a grip, then suddenly used him to bludgeon the other cop. He trotted away while they were dazed. The skinny old man laughed and rubbed at his unshaven chin.

Guthrie left behind a trail of promises from people to keep an eye out, but the morning didn't seem encouraging. He pointed Vasquez to turn from Broadway a last time and park in a visitor's lot at Columbia University. The campus seemed cool and inviting after the hardscape in the Heights. The little detective began his search with campus security.

The campus cops in the administration building started an immediate whitewash when they heard the names Bowman and Olsen. After all, the killing didn't happen on campus. Guthrie went along with them without objecting that the victim and suspect were both students. The oldest campus cop held back, catching Guthrie's eye a few times while he pulled permission to examine Olsen's dorm room and took some visitor passes. The cop made grim faces when the rest of them joked about Olsen, then volunteered to show them the room in Livingston Hall.

“Mike Hines,” he said, offering a handshake to Guthrie after they were outside. The campus cop was tall and a little overweight. A bushy gray mustache underlined a red nose that came from years of heavy drinking. He slid a hat onto his head and squinted at the sunshine.

“They went over the line, trying to make Greg Olsen seem obvious,” he said. “We never had a complaint about him, though you could say he hadn't been here for long.” He frowned.

“Is there some more to that story?” Guthrie asked.

“I don't figure him like that,” Hines replied. “Come on, let's walk over. I'll get it lined up in my head.”

Guthrie and Vasquez followed him. The campus was lightly populated. Most of the undergraduates avoided the summer session unless they needed to make up course work. Livingston Hall was quiet because of that. Over the summer, the students remaining were usually more serious. Hines paused once they were back inside the air conditioning.

“Olsen's a good man,” he said. “I guess I got to explain that. Most of what we got here is kids. They don't know who they are or what they want. Olsen does. He's not a girl-chaser type, or a partyer. He was real focused on his studies.”

“Yeah?” Guthrie asked. “Where do you get that?”

Hines shrugged. “We got a support group that runs out of the One hundred and Eighty-third Regiment of the Guard. That's where I talked to him the first time. I kinda realized he was a student, but he didn't know I worked here. He saw that later. But the group isn't for the school. It's vet stuff. The young wolves I work with, they're quick to pile on, even when they don't know what they're talking about.”

“You figure him for that solid?”

“I ain't the only one. Ask around. I'll be seriously floored if he did kill that girl.”

“What about her? You knew her?”

Hines shook his head. “Never noticed. Sorry.”

The campus cop led them upstairs and opened Olsen's dorm room for them. After a glance around inside, he shrugged. The room was almost entirely bare. He explained that the NYPD had come and gone. The school administration hadn't decided what to do with the room, now that Olsen had been arrested, but they would probably pack his meager belongings and store them until they were claimed. He shrugged again and told Guthrie to lock the door once he'd nosed around.

Guthrie and Vasquez needed only a few minutes to search the small room. Olsen had a single because he was older. A few books, notebooks with classwork, some clothes, and a few toiletries were the only signs of habitation. Olsen traveled light, or he actually lived somewhere else. Vasquez dropped his notebooks back onto the desktop just before a big young man rushed to the door.

“Yes!” he said. “I missed you guys last time.” He stopped suddenly and stared. He wore dark sunglasses, jeans, and a T-shirt. A shock of unruly black hair made him seem as tall as the door frame. His gaze fixed on Vasquez. “You're here about Holy, right?”

“You mean Greg Olsen?” Vasquez asked.

The young man grinned. “Yeah. You guys got that all wrong. No way he killed Cammie.”

“He was with you that night?” Guthrie asked.

“No, man. I'm just saying he wasn't like that. I mean, other nights we clubbed—he was like my wingman.”

Vasquez challenged him with a look. “Okay, so why'd you need a wingman?”

He smiled. “That wasn't the plan—it was just how it worked out, you know? Holy didn't run with the Greeks—frats—so he was like a godsend. Man, they hated him. They wanted him, and so they hated him. I was just lucky he liked me, you know?”

“How's that?” Guthrie prompted.

“The girls chased him.” He looked at the little detective like he might be retarded. “That's why I started calling him Holy, because he didn't mess with them. And it rhymed with Oly, like Olsen.”

“So the girls dropped off on you?” Vasquez asked. “You were good with second?”

He laughed. “This is college, Dick Tracy. It's all fun except for class. Anyway, he didn't kill Cammie, for real.”

“That's what we're here for,” Guthrie said. “Didn't catch your name, by the way. We work for Greg Olsen's lawyer.”

“Whoa!” the young man said. He took off his sunglasses and looked at both of them again. “You're not cops?”

“No. We're working for his lawyer, James Rondell,” Guthrie said. “That change your mind about talking to us?”

“No way! Maybe that's better, you know?” He frowned. “I'm Robert Deaton.”

Guthrie handed him a card. “Maybe you got some foundation for saying Olsen didn't kill Camille Bowman?”

Deaton paused a moment, then stepped in and closed the door. “He didn't need to freak over her, because he had her. She was serious about him, right? She dumped all that Greek stuff for him, and she was like a serious princess.”

“So he was a good guy, and like that?”

“Okay, I get it,” Deaton said. “Just the facts, man. Right? Holy had one weird thing about his scene—the mouse.” He took a long look at Vasquez, and continued: “See, you're not a mouse.”

Guthrie shrugged. “Okay, I'll bite. What's a mouse?”

“A plain girl. Holy drew girls, you know? Some girls just know they ain't got a chance with some guys, you know? Too much competition. So they fade when the pretty ones show up. But Holy had a mouse.” He frowned. “Or maybe it was Cammie. I don't know. The mouse was always running behind both of them, so I guess I really can't say who she was chasing.”

“The mouse have a name?” Guthrie asked.

“Michelle something. She was a grad student, I think, because I never ran into her in classes.”

“Maybe she was a friend?” Vasquez suggested.

“No way. After he hooked up with Cammie, Holy didn't use this room much. So I noticed when he did, you know? So when the two'd go in, cuddled up and making out, the mouse would tumble after. They were cramming, but not for a test. That wasn't like Holy, except for Cammie and this mouse.”

“Maybe that's what you wanted to see?” Guthrie asked.

Deaton frowned and ran a hand over his unruly hair. “No way. This was just the one weird thing. Don't matter if he got something going—it's just how I saw it, you know?” He shrugged. “Anyway, what's going to happen to Holy?” He aimed the question at Guthrie.

“We're looking at it,” Guthrie said. “Don't be shook up if the lawyers give you a call.”

 

CHAPTER FIVE

The midday sunshine was blinding after the darkness of Livingston Hall. Guthrie was quiet, thinking to himself, while Vasquez had a quicker step. She wanted to move faster, but the little man kept pausing to rearrange his fedora on his head. She took their visitor IDs and ran them to administration to give him time to reach the car without making her wait. The detective was sitting in the passenger seat when she walked up to the Ford. She climbed in, watched him for a moment, and decided he was bothered about something. His expression was the same as on the elevator ride down from the ISU lab, after Tommy Johnson landed in the crosshairs.