Gray Night (4 page)

 There was a whispered argument on the other end and then a new voice.

 “This is Detective Harris with the NYPD. We would appreciate your cooperation in coming down and helping sort some things out. I’ll send a unit to get you so it’s no trouble.”

 Crap. What the hell was going on at the museum that would involve the police? And why would they, and Walker, involve me?

 “It’s no trouble. I’m already in town. I can be there in about twenty minutes.”

 “Twenty minutes.” He hung up the phone. I put mine away.

 Awesome. I wondered what the feds would think of me being involved in another police investigation. Not a pleasant thought, but since I was already doing this thing, I needed to get it over with. If everything went right—hey, it could happen—I’d still have most of the day to make my rounds in the South Bronx.

 Thinking about Ruby and Thomas brought me the scent of labelia flowers. Too many old memories. Too much stimulus I wasn’t counting on. I had taken my last pill after coming home from the museum last night and it was past time for another. I caught movement outside in the hall just beyond the office door. My natural instinct was to go for my gun, but I stopped when I saw the flash of long beautiful hair. Brunette with streaks of youthful gold. Fan-freakin-tastic.

Chapter Four

 I choked back a sob and brushed the hair out of my face. It kept sticking to the tears on my cheek. John handed Eric his phone back.

 “He’ll be here in twenty minutes. I have guys watching him. He goes anywhere but here they’ll pick him up,” Detective John Harris said.

 Eric Walker, the treasurer of the board for the museum, took his phone back and walked off, pissed, to finish his conversation with Richard. He was the only one mad. Everyone else was in shock, terrified and confused. I wasn’t anything at all. If I let go too soon I wouldn’t recover in time to be of any use to anyone. I could wait twenty more minutes, for Henry.

 Which was foolish. Seeing Adrian Knight wouldn’t tell me anything. But John had agreed when he saw the look on my face. George Wilkins was his friend, a mentor back when they served on the force together. Wilkins retired and came here; John became Detective Harris. I forced myself to go numb at the thought of John investigating the death of a friend.

 John led us down the hall toward the main lobby away from the flashing cameras of the forensic analysts in Henry’s office.

 “How you doing, Claire?” he asked, stopping in the empty lobby.

 He reached out for my hand to pull me in close but I channeled the cold nothingness that filled me into a stare, in answer to both his idiotic question and his embrace. I might have wanted that from him six months ago, but now it felt like adding insult to injury. “You don’t get to comfort me. You lost that, remember?”

 He let go and turned away, sighing. “You don’t have to do this, you know. You don’t need to be here.” He added, “I don’t know why you think you need to see him.”

 “For the same reason you agreed to have him brought here instead of an interrogation room. You want to see his reaction. The look on his face.”

 He flashed a wicked grin. “Yeah. I want to see him. Talk of that man ruined several nice evenings. Remember? Never could believe the museum would work with a man like that.”

 “I remember,” I said, thinking of the past. I’d been in Central America the past three months, but before that, John Harris and I had been… something. I never really could say what. It ended before I left. He’d crossed a line with me, but for him nothing really seemed resolved.

 “And if it turns out he’s a murdering bastard instead of a regular bastard, well, I’m going to lock him in a hole so deep he’ll spend the next two lifetimes with nothing but his memories,” he said, in his familiar angry tone.

 None of this was his fault. I could tell by looking at him how much he was hiding. And that was one of his faults. So much hate. I wondered if he was the best person to lead the investigation. Sometimes passion led to over-reactions; violent, destructive over-reactions. He’d done it before. Under the calm exterior, John seethed inside, and my presence made it worse. He needed to calm down and think straight. I stepped forward and hugged him tightly, only for a moment, but pulled away before he could return it.

 John closed his eyes. “All right. Let’s go over this again. I need everything you can remember when I talk to this bastard, Knight.”

 I nodded and began pacing around the lobby. He hadn’t calmed down but at least the wild look in his eyes had faded. I needed to keep him focused. If he lost control, he’d jeopardize the investigation and indulge his rage. This was about Henry. And George. I needed to remember that. Adrian Knight could be innocent. Don’t interject personal feelings into researching the facts. Henry taught me that.

 From the beginning then. “I left the museum around eleven o’clock last night. George brought me to the security office and called me a cab. Right before that I’d seen Henry and Knight arguing and it looked like Knight had a wad of cash in his hands, but I don’t know. That was when I was still on the dais greeting everyone at the end of the reception.”

 John lifted his hand. “And who else was in the room that could have seen the two of them arguing, or might have overheard?” he asked.

 “I don’t know who could have seen them. Guests were leaving by the far hallway, but no one was in the banquet area below. Security kept watch over the pieces we were showing and then locked them up. I caught George a couple of minutes later outside Henry’s office and he said Henry wasn’t to be disturbed. There didn’t seem to be any problem he was aware of.”

 “So you didn’t see Henry or Knight again?” he asked.

 “No. That was it. I went straight home,” I said. “George called me a cab,” I repeated, pointing to the security office in one corner of the lobby while my eyes burned. John moved toward me, but I kept pacing.

 “The museum was scheduled to open at noon today,” I said. “Henry was working through the night in his office in storage to have everything ready for display this morning.”

 “Which is where you found them,” he said.

 I nodded trying to ignore the memory. “Yes. I came in early to talk to Henry about last night and maybe see if he needed any help. I came in one of the back doors using my own keys.”

 “What time this morning was that exactly?”

 “Nine o’clock maybe, not more than nine-fifteen.”

 “And you didn’t notice anything coming in that way?” he asked.

 “No, nothing, but I wasn’t looking. I didn’t notice anything at all until…until I…” I shut my eyes. Don’t be afraid, I told myself. You know what you saw. It’s important. “Until I got to the door outside Henry’s office.”

 “Was the door open or closed?” he asked.

 “Open. It was open. I never touched it. It’s like it is now. It didn’t look broken into or anything like that so, I walked in.”

 “You didn’t notice the bloody boot prints out in the hall?” he asked.

 “No, the back hallway is always a mess, being outside the workshop like that. It’s always dirty or stained or whatever, and I don’t even remember looking at it. But, then I walked in. I don’t know if I saw all the blood first…or if I smelled it.” I rubbed at my nose as if to get the scent out. John waited. “I saw Henry first. Straight back, lying on the floor at the base of the back shelves. He was…it took me a moment to recognize him.” I shivered, but if I stopped talking, I may not be able to begin again. “I ran to him. There was no way he was alive, but I checked anyway. There was so much blood. I’ve seen… I’ve seen men… killed. Accidents on a dig site. Or, when I was young in my grandpa’s oil field, there was a young man that… once, my team and I, deep in the jungle, we came across remains, rebels tortured and left as example.” I paused again refocusing. “There was too much blood, too much for one person. That’s what I noticed while I was with Henry. I walked around the desk and saw a man in a shredded security uniform lying on the floor. There were shards of broken glass everywhere, and the body… the body was… mutilated. John, he was… torn. I didn’t know it was George until the police came and showed me his wallet.” I felt the flood of tears building and thought I didn’t have it in me to hold them back again, when I heard someone running down the hall toward us. It was a policeman.

 John turned and waited as the man came over. “Detective Harris,” the man said. “He’s here, sir.”

 “Thanks, Jim. Let’s bring him around the other side so he comes in through the lobby here first.”

 The officer nodded and ran off before someone else brought Knight back into storage.

 John and I waited in the lobby outside George’s office and I could see the phone book still open on his desk where he’d called me a cab last night. His last phone call had been for me. Right there. That was silly and shouldn’t bother me. But it did. I paced around some more to take it out of my view. Losing sight of my last memory of a person I’d never see again hurt me and, at the exact same time, relieved me to not have it stare back. Footsteps echoed through the main lobby a minute later.

 John smiled. “Let’s see what the good sir Knight has to say for himself.”

 I don’t know what I expected. Maybe to see him strut in with that gazillion dollar suit on he always wore and his hands covered in blood. Or maybe some other new way of showing off how much money he was taking from the museum. But he didn’t. He walked in. No strut. That was annoying. What was he wearing? Dark brown buckled combat boots, jeans, a plain white T-shirt in a bistre leather vest, and a medium length leather jacket with brass buttons along wide lapels and small buckles around the cuffs that matched. Oh, and no blood on his hands.

 Officer Jim escorted Knight in, and then left the room. Knight gave me a worried smile that I didn’t return, and then jerked his head around to stare out the windows over my shoulder at something on the other side. I turned on reflex to see what would cause such a reaction but nothing was there.

 “Adrian Knight,” John said.

 I turned back and Adrian still looked out the window. He gave it another moment and whipped around to face John with a weary look.

 “That’s me. Detective Harris, I presume,” he said, offering his hand to John.

 “Follow me,” John ignored his hand. “We have a situation here we are hoping you can help with.”

 “Who’s
we
? You and the museum? You and the police? You and Claire?” asked Adrian as we followed John down the hall towards the crime scene.

 “Yes.”

 “And the situation?”

 “I was hoping maybe you could tell us about that, Mr. Knight.”

 Adrian gave John’s back a fake, tight-lipped grin and asked, “Guess that’s got something to do with me coming in the long way around. That’s great. Where’s Wilkins?”

 “He’s back in the storage area. Henry’s office,” John said, giving back his own tight-lipped pseudo-smile.

 “So why am I talking to you?” Adrian asked. “And why is she here?” he asked, nodding to me.

 I was about to tell him why I was there, when he stopped for a second, closed his eyes, and tilted his head to sniff the air. When he opened his eyes, he looked right into mine and, for a split second, they widened in comprehension. He took off down the hall, shoving John aside, and swinging around the open doorway to Henry’s office. I smelled it three feet later. There was no mistaking the acrid, metallic scent of warm blood.

 Adrian stared for a moment, took it all in, then pulled back and leaned against the outer wall.

 John kept staring right at him, getting angrier. And, to be honest, I was too, ever since he walked in, but he did seem genuinely… I don’t know… surprised.

 “That’s George isn’t it? By the desk,” Adrian asked, looking at the floor.

 I didn’t trust my voice to speak, so I nodded. John said nothing.

 “And the other?” asked Adrian.

 “We’ll get to that, Mr. Knight. Don’t you worry,” John said.

 “We’ll get to it?” Adrian snapped. “What the hell…” he trailed off, staring into space and muttering to himself. “Wilkins was working last night. Training a new guy, he said. Rollins? Wilkins is dead,” he looked at John. “In Henry’s office,” Adrian turned to me looking worried. “Where’s Henry?”

 Any other time and I’d have given an arm and a leg to see that cold, arrogant mask of his slip. Only, I could hear it in his voice. He was scared to hear my answer. He didn’t know.

 “Adrian, it’s Henry,” I said softly. I had meant to slam him with it, but I couldn’t. A sadistic killer was walking around my city covered in Henry and George’s blood. I didn’t have enough hate left in me to use on Adrian Knight just then.

 To his credit, all he did was lean his head back to the wall and groan, “Ahh, Henry.”

 John took that moment to stare daggers at me for not backing him up and sticking it to Knight. He was still too angry to see it. If Adrian played nice, we could all get out of this quickly and start looking in other directions for the real killer. Small chance of that, though. It wasn’t a match made in heaven. John was the kind of guy that’d get pissed at the drop of a hat. And Adrian seemed to have a talent for hat dropping.

 John rounded on him. “Mr. Knight, where were you between three-thirty and four-thirty a.m.?”

 Adrian’s face went blank, and he gave John the deadest stare I’d ever seen. “Here,” he said after a moment, reaching in his pocket and grabbing a business card. He held it out to John. “They’ll verify my whereabouts this morning.”

 “Let’s see about that shall we,” he said, grabbing the card. He got out his cell and turned his back to make his call, as we listened.

 “Say again?” Harris said. “Yes sir, this is Detective Harris with the NYPD. I’m calling to inquire on the whereabouts of an Adrian Knight this morning. Yes sir, he’s the one who gave me your number. Uh huh. I see. Yes, I understand.”

 Adrian knelt to the ground, drawing in the air above the floor with his finger.

 “What is it?” I asked.

 Without looking, he reached out and motioned for me to kneel. He pointed to the floor and traced out patterns. “Yes,” I said. “Those are some of the footprints forensics tagged earlier. I hadn’t noticed them the first time.”