The Book of Names (16 page)

“What's the deal, pal? Your backup team hasn't shown yet.”

Hutch again. A voice of reason.

“That's because they're dead. Someone blew them up over the Atlantic, but another team should be there any time now. Think you can hold the fort?”

“Can a bear crap in the woods?”

“Listen. I'm leaving the country as soon as I can book a flight out. Just for a few days. Your backup team is Israeli.
Make sure they say a few prayers in Hebrew before you let them in the door.”

“Like
“Hava Nagila,” shalom
and
oy
?”

“Smart ass. Those aren't prayers.” David closed his eyes as the cab made a hard right turn, narrowly missing a bicycle messenger. “I'm trusting you with everything, Hutch. You know that, right?”

“Like I know my own blood type.”

David shoved his cell back in his pocket.

“She was crying,” he said.

Yael's hand touched his, resting lightly on his fingers. “David, I'm sorry. It's awful.”

Her touch was gentle as a feather, yet warmth flowed from her fingertips. It seemed to melt a little of the cold dread inside him.

“With any luck, we'll get onto a flight leaving JFK tonight,” she said.

Luck.
Was that all it came down to? Luck? Wishbones? Four leaf clovers?

God only knows
, he thought darkly as the Riverside Tower came into view.

 

GEORGETOWN UNIVERSITY

Tom McIntyre jumped from his chair, nearly toppling his coffee mug across the quizzes he'd been grading as two uniformed police officers charged into the office.

“Are you David Shepherd?” The younger officer advanced toward his desk and waved a search warrant in his face.

What a cocky SOB.
Tom's hackles rose instantly.
With those pink cheeks, the regulation crew cut, and the show-off physique of a lifeguard. And the eyes
, Tom noted.
Pure cop.

“No. Tom McIntyre,” he said, ignoring the search warrant. “What's this all about?”

“Do you know where David Shepherd is?”

“Why do you want to know?” Tom met the cop eye to eye. He couldn't imagine any scenario in which the police would come looking for his office mate, especially with a search warrant. David's best friend was a priest, for God's sake, and his father had been a U.S. senator. How much more of a straight arrow could he be?

“When did you last see him?”

Tom hesitated a second, trying to gather his thoughts.

“Uh, several days, I guess. Monday or Tuesday of last week . . . I can't really remember.”

“This is his office, isn't it?”

“Yes. And mine. Look, why don't you tell me what this is all about?”

“Murder.” The second cop finally opened his mouth.

Tom hoped his shock didn't register on his face.

“David Shepherd's housekeeper was found murdered in his home, Professor McIntyre,” the second officer continued, his voice as gritty as his appearance, with his square jaw and aggressive stance. “We need to ascertain that Professor Shepherd is all right.”

Officer Cocky took over. “We can't get an answer on his cell phone. Would you know if this is the correct number?” He pushed a slip of paper under Tom's nose.

It was David's number all right.

“That's it.” Shaken, and trying not to look it, Tom moistened his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. “He went to New York for a few days—on personal business. As you know, the power's been down there, the phones, everything. That's probably why you didn't get an answer.”

The young officer studied him evenly. “Probably.”

The second cop had already begun riffling through
David's desk drawers. He yanked up the framed picture of Stacy and showed it to his partner, who nodded in recognition.

“Do you know who she is?” the second cop demanded.

“Yeah. That's his stepdaughter.”

Tom gave them Stacy's name and Meredith's. His stomach rose into his chest as the police asked where they lived.

“Listen, I've got to tell you, David Shepherd would never kill anybody. I mean, he plays a mean game of squash, but that's as ferocious as the guy gets.” Against his instincts, Tom sank back down into his chair.

“Professor,” Officer Cocky began, condescension dripping from his tongue, “we aren't accusing your roommate of murdering anyone. We just want to talk to him, okay? Make sure he's not a victim of foul play himself. So if you know where he is, it would be in his best interests, and yours, to share that with us.”

“All I know is he went to New York.” Tom hated the fact that David could regularly beat him at squash and could outclimb him. Granted, there were times he secretly itched to see David take a fall. But he didn't wish this on him. Officer Cocky looked like he was champing to earn his stripes.
Or to put David in some.

For the better part of an hour, they tore through David's desk, files, bookshelves, even the test papers in the top drawer.

When they were done they handed Tom a card with a case number and their contact information. The cocky one left Tom with the strong “suggestion” that he call them immediately if he heard from David.

He waited until he was sure they'd started down the stairs before he closed the door and went for his phone.

 

Officer Scott Conrad typed the date on the APB in between bites of a ham and cheese sandwich he'd grabbed from the University deli on the way back to the station.

His partner, Lou Minelli, had returned to the victim's house to interview her adult daughter once again. Conrad wished him luck. They'd gone together to fill out the initial report and he'd had to stifle his impatience as the daughter sobbed so hard she was almost incoherent.

By her account, Eva Smolensky had left a stew simmering in the Crock-Pot before she left for Shepherd's house. The daughter's dinner. The bereaved was a thirty-year-old CVS photo clerk. Mother had called daughter at work, letting her know she was going to clean Shepherd's home and not to wait dinner for her. That was the last time the cleaning woman's daughter heard her mother's voice.

Conrad liked this case. He liked it a lot. He'd like it even better when Dr. Shepherd was sitting across the interrogation table from him.

Eyes narrowed, his fingers drummed the keyboard.

Attention all police departments and agencies. Be on the look-out for subject wanted in the questioning of a homicide at 233 D Street NE, Washington, D.C.

Looking for Professor David Shepherd, white male, thirty-three years old, six foot two, 188 lbs., brown hair, hazel eyes, no distinguishing characteristics. DOB: August 15, 1973. Residing at 233 D Street NE, Washington, DC.

Conrad slugged back a swallow of Dr Pepper and wiped his mouth with a flimsy paper napkin. He scanned the computer screen for typos, then continued.

Subject said to be in New York City. May be traveling by plane, train, or rented vehicle. Please detain and immediately contact the Washington, D.C., Police Department.

Officer Conrad hit the
SEND
key, dispatching the All Points Bulletin to the New York City Police Department and to the Transportation Safety Board for immediate distribution to all New York and New Jersey airports.

Once the communication centers there circulated the APB, Conrad told himself, it would simply be a matter of time.

 

“David—” Yael's voice was sharp with apprehension as she looked at his stunned expression. “Who was that? What did they say?”

He shook his head in disbelief, his mouth opening and closing in sync with the clenching of his jaw.

“Tell me what's wrong,” she demanded, jumping up from the chair where she'd been watching CNN coverage of one disaster after the next. She stopped before him, wondering what had turned his complexion to ash.

“Eva's dead.”

“Who's Eva?”

“My housekeeper. Someone murdered her—in my house.”

He closed his eyes a moment and saw the baggy-lidded eyes and tired smile of the diligent woman who'd scoured his house once a week for the past seven years.

He opened his eyes and looked straight at Yael. “The police are looking for me.”

“Oh my God.” Her face tightened. “When did they find her?”

“I have no idea. That was Tom McIntyre—we share an
office at Georgetown. They came with a search warrant and tore apart my desk. They know I'm in New York.” Nausea churned in his stomach.

“This means we can't wait for morning—we have to get to the airport right now and get you through security before your picture is plastered all over JFK.”

David stared at her blankly, still too overcome with shock to think clearly. “First I have to check in with the police—”

“No”
Yael pushed him into the chair. “Think about it, David. Whoever killed Eva might have been there looking for
you.
If you contact the police, they won't let you leave the country until they make an arrest.”

He knew she was right. Still, he wavered.

Yael was already gathering up her toiletries, her movements swift and sure. “We're going to have to spend the night at the airport. I'm taking a quick shower while you pack.”

When the bathroom door had shut behind her, David paced the room, his thoughts racing.

It's my fault for asking Eva to meet Dillon there
, he thought.
But Dillon had said she was gone before he got there. And the vacuum cleaner hadn't been put away. . . .

Because she was dead already
, David realized. He stopped pacing, staring blindly out the window.

So why didn't Dillon find her body?

Sweat dripped from his armpits. Dillon and the killer had probably been there within moments of each other. Dillon's the one who might be able to help the police. . . .

But Dillon's out of the country
, he remembered.

His stomach dropped. Dillon was his best friend. He could have been killed along with Eva.
Because they were after me?

He strode to his duffel and tossed it on the bed, then
rolled up the shirt he'd worn yesterday and stuffed it in. As the flickering image on the television caught his eyes, he grabbed the remote and canceled the “mute” command.

“The wind has shifted here in Arizona,” a long-haired female correspondent reported. “A hundred thousand acres have already burned and now the fire has changed direction, advancing on Flagstaff, heading away from the backfires intentionally set behind it. This is a tremendous blow to the efforts of firefighters who have battled around the clock for the past thirty-six hours. The sheriff's department is advising residents to be prepared to evacuate should that become necessary. This is Dana Landau, reporting live from Flagstaff.”

Terror slammed him. Meredith had shouted something about wildfires, but he'd paid scant attention.

Hutch will have to move them, and David knew what that meant. Hutch had taught him years ago, while guarding his family, that being on the move upped the danger quotient.

Suddenly, he needed to hear Stacy's voice again. One more time before his plane left the runway tomorrow morning.

There was something he hadn't told her. Meredith had grabbed the phone away before he'd had the chance.

One more time, before he left the country, before the world ended, he needed to make sure Stacy knew how much he loved her.

 

Yael turned on the shower full blast and thought about David being wanted by the police.
His brand-new passport is worthless.

As she waited for the water temperature to stabilize,
she leaned against the counter and considered their options. She'd known Avi for fifteen years and for fifteen years she'd listened to him boast about his unlimited ingenuity.

It was time to call him on it.

 

Staring down from the hotel window at the freighters on the Hudson, tension seared across David's shoulders. It was déjà vu all over again. Hutch, Meredith, and Stacy weren't answering their cells.

He'd muted the sound again on the TV, but still the images of raging wildfire and black smoke blazed across the screen.

The backfires weren't helping. Nothing was. He could only hope that Hutch could dodge the path of the fire.

He heard Yael switch off the bathroom faucet, but another part of his brain heard Stacy screaming his name in terror.

No.
He switched off that nightmare tape and reminded himself that Karl Hutchinson was the best at what he did—no one could get by Hutch to hurt Stacy and Meredith, not even a Dark Angel.

“None of them are picking up,” he called to Yael. “I've got a bad feeling about it.” He turned from the window and stopped cold.

Yael stood at the foot of her unmade bed. Her terry cloth hotel robe hung half-open, her green eyes looked
translucent with fear. Beside her, the blond monolith pressed a four-inch hunting knife to her throat.

I
never heard a thing.

Up close, David realized the guy was just a kid—a massive kid. Broad as a football player with a face like a gung-ho ROTC cadet. There was something off with his eyes. They were pale blue, almost colorless, and as empty of emotion as a pair of Ping-Pong balls.
He looks like a cross between a college linebacker and a contract killer.

“Let her go,” David said. He licked his lips. The two gemstones in his pocket suddenly burned like hot coals, scalding against his thigh. He stared at the vein in Yael's throat pulsing mere millimeters from where the blade pressed against her skin.

How do you reason with a Dark Angel?

“I'm sure the two of us can reach some sort of agreement if you don't hurt her,” he began, taking a slow step forward. “First of all, you have to let her go.”