Read Online A Visible Darkness by Jonathon King - Free Book Online Page B

Murray greeted me at the desk. Murray was a trim, balding man who always dressed in a suit and tie and spoke with a clipped and efficient English accent. Billy once did a computer dossier on him and discovered Murray had been born and raised in Brooklyn. But if quizzed, he could give you the specific walking directions from London’s Hermitage to the Suffolk House and estimate the time it would take to get there based on the gait and stride you used crossing his lobby. He was a sort of concierge and security man for the building. The residents paid him well.
    “Good day, Mr. Freeman.”
    “Murray. How you doin’,” I said.
    “Mr. Manchester has called ahead. Please do go up, sir. I shall unlock the doors electronically.”
    “Thanks for the lift, Murray.”
    Ever since Billy had told me about the Brooklyn thing I’d had to stifle the urge to mock his accent. Instead I’d just try to get a rise. It never worked.
    At the twelfth floor the elevator doors opened onto Billy’s private vestibule. The double doors to his apartment were of dark wood. The carpet was thick. The flowers in a vase against the wall were fresh. I heard the electronic snick of the lock and went in. The air was cool and sanitized. The place was immaculate and like always I found myself moving through it like a visitor in a museum. I went straight to the open kitchen and started coffee brewing. Then I slid open a door to the patio and stood at the rail, my nose into the wind.
    The sun was high and white and the wind had set down a corduroy pattern on the ocean surface. From this height the varied water depths showed in shades of turquoise, cerulean and then a cobalt blue that spread to the horizon. The narrow strip of beach had shrunk since the last time I’d visited. The tide and wave action had eaten away at least fifteen yards. I didn’t relish the idea of doing three miles in that soft sand. The thought of it made me lean into the rail and stretch my calves. But some of my best grinding came while I was running or paddling, and it was going to take some grinding to determine where to go with Billy’s dead women.
    I went to the guest bedroom, found some running shorts, a T-shirt and the running shoes that Billy held here for me. I changed and poured another cup of coffee, and carried it to the rail. The wind was stiffening. I swung a heel up on the rail and stretched. Bent. Counted. Swung the other leg up.
    Would someone kill old women for money? Of course.
    How would he know who to kill? Inside job. List of names.
    Do it himself, or contract it? Money guys don’t do the dirty work.
    How does the racial angle fit? It might never fit.
    I still wasn’t sold on the whole premise and now I was bringing Richards into it. It was how conspiracy theories were started. Look out Oliver Stone.
    I put my palms on the floor, propped my toes on the seat of the chaise lounge and did fifty pushups. The blood was singing in my ears when I stood up and exhaled. I took a deep swig of coffee. Time to plow the sand.

10
    E ddie felt the cop car turn around. He’d watched it pass, keeping his head down, pushing his cart, willing himself invisible. But after the green and white prowl car had passed by he heard the wheels slow and then crunch the stone, first on one shoulder and then the other. He heard the U-turn and now he thought he could feel the heat of the engine on his back.
    The chrome bumper pulled even with him, then the green fender, then the white, smiling face.
    “Hey, junk man,” said the young officer in the passenger seat. Eddie said nothing.
    “Wassaaaaap?” the officer wailed, his tongue sticking out, his partner grinning.
    Eddie had heard the blatting before, followed by laughter. He wondered why only white people did it.
    “I do not know,” Eddie answered and stopped his pushing.
    The prowl car stopped with him.
    “What you got in the cart today, junk man? Anything in there you shouldn’t have?”
    Eddie had talked with the police