Page 7 of Go Now
He knew she was there.
Cox had sat in enough interview suites in his time; he knew that the mirror was more than a mirror.Why would they put a mirror in an interview room anyway?So that everyone could fix their hair and their make-up?He knew the score.And he was good at enough at reading people to have picked up a good half-dozen tells from the shrinks: he’d have caught the micro-glances in Kate’s direction, the sense, in the way they positioned themselves, held their heads, adjusted their volume, of there being another body in the room.Dammit.The bastard knew.
The psychs had had enough of asking and not being answered, and they finally called for the Guard.Two of them came in and started to chain Cox up; he didn’t fight them, but he made sure he was always staring right at Kate as the cuffs and the leg chains went on.Staring right into her soul until they hauled him out of the room, he started to mouth some words.She couldn’t lip-read, but that didn’t matter; the effect was still, deeply unsettling.
She made it as far as the car park before she was violently sick. Got back to the car, drank some water, felt a little better.Realised she’d had three missed calls from Marcus.She drank some more, splashed her face and then she rang him back.
‘Heard of Brandon Ashworth?’Reid asked, or rather shouted.He sounded like he was somewhere busy: crowds, sirens, music.
‘Rings a bell.Dead country star?’
‘Nowhere near.’The noise died away, suggesting that Marcus had gone somewhere quieter.‘He’s a controversial artist. Or rather hewasa controversial artist.Now he’s a body, in Brooklyn.’
‘And why are we involved?’
‘He’s had death threats from various quarters before, making it a federal case.How soon can you get here?’
‘Let me search up flights, then I’ll get back to you with an E.T.A.’
‘Okay.Er… Kate?’
She knew there’d be more to it. This was how it went with Marcus.There was the job.Then there was the thing he didn’t want to tell you about the job.And there was always something.
‘What is it?’
‘There could be a religious angle.The victim was… heappearsto have been stoned to death.’
CHAPTER THREE
It was a breezy lunchtime in the Big Apple: the sun filtered pleasantly through the trees on 18thavenue, but Kate tied her scarf tighter to ward off the chill.Around her were the signs of a lively, multicultural neighborhood halfway through its day.A crocodile of First Graders with satchels snaked past an Italian bakery, from whose portals there issued a fantastic array of smells.Across the street, some old moustaches swapped the same jokes and insults they’d been trading since the Seventies, while a Chinese grandmother wheeled past them with a full basket of vegetables.
Kate spied Marcus up ahead outside the precinct building – his Yankees cap at a jaunty angle, his hands thrust deep into his SEALS windcheater.Kate waved, but he didn’t see her.A kid whizzed past on a skateboard.Not a kid, Kate realised, the guy was probably her age, en route between a bagel shop and his wildly creative job in a ‘workspace’.
‘How do you feel about the invasion?’Kate asked.
Marcus responded with a brief, upward, inquiring jerk of the chin.It was amazing how quickly he resorted to his old mannerisms.You could take the boy out of Brooklyn…
‘Hipsters in Bensonhust,’ Kate explained, jabbing a thumb in the direction of the departing skateboarder.
Marcus grinned.‘We’re a very tolerant and accepting bunch,’ he replied.‘As long as you support the Yankees.’
‘Is it good to be back in the old neighborhood?’
‘Kinda,’ he said, with a shrug.‘I don’t know.Everyone moved out, practically.And I never really felt the same about the place since… you know.’
Katedidn’tknow, not really, but she knew it was connected to Marcus’s time in the military, a hinterland he rarely discussed.It sounded like there was a ‘before’ and an ‘after’, and perhaps that was all Kate needed to understand.
'I'll introduce you to the PD Homicide liaison.She's a good person.'
They went up the steps of the brownstone together.The layout was like every cop show Kate had seen on TV: a front desk managed by a veteran cop, a central cage occupied by three, heavily-inked gang-members, battered lockers lining the walls, and detectives at desks, solo or in pairs, typing with agonising slowness.
‘We’re with Detective Sarah Chen,’ Marcus told the front desk guy.
The desk cop looked like the sort of guy who had a wisecrack for every occasion, but today must have been an off-day, because he just gestured behind him with a pen, and then lifted up part of the counter so they could come through. Marcus introduced Sarah Chen to Kate. Petite, with her hair tied back in a short, practical pony-tail, she cut an attractive figure, dark eyes shining with intelligence and a mouth ever-ready to smile.Kate suspected they were going to get along.
‘Welcome to the 62nd,’ Chen said, shaking her hand.‘The crime scene’s just a walk away, and it’s not a pretty sight. I’ve just heard from the team there.They’re pretty much done.I asked them to hang ten so you can see it all in situ.’
‘Thanks.’ Kate dropped her suitcase, Chen donned an NYPD jacket, and they headed out.
