Read Online Secret of the Seventh Son by Glenn Cooper - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Glenn Cooper
Ads: Link
lieutenant called through the bedroom door, "Mr. Robertson, could you come out, sir? We got the FBI here to see you."
Through the door: "All right, I'm coming."
Robertson looked like a weary traveler, thin and stooped, shuffling out from his bedroom in slippers, loose trousers, Chambray shirt and a thin yellow cardigan. He was an old-looking sixty-six. The lines on his face were so deep you could lose a dime in a fold. His skin tones were pure black without a hint of brown except on the palms of his long-fingered hands, which were pale, cafe-au-lait. His hair and beard were close-cropped, more salt than pepper.
He spotted the new faces. "How do you do?" he said to Will and Nancy. "I'm sorry to cause so much fuss."
Will and Nancy formally introduced themselves.
"Please don't call me Mr. Robertson," the man protested. "My friends call me Clive."
Before long the police cleared out. The sun was low over the Hudson and began deepening and expanding like a fat blood orange. Will closed the curtains in the living room and pulled the blinds in Clive's bedroom. There hadn't been a sniper shooting yet but the Doomsday killer was mixing things up. He and Nancy reinspected every inch of the apartment, and while she remained with Clive, Will swept the hallway and stairwell.
The formal interview was straightforward--there wasn't much to tell. Clive had gotten back into town mid-afternoon from a three-city tour with his quintet. No one had a key to his apartment and to the best of his knowledge nothing had been disturbed in his absence. After an uneventful flight from Chicago, he took a yellow cab directly from the airport to his building, where he found the postcard buried in a week's accumulation of mail. He immediately recognized it for what it was, called 911, and that was that.
Nancy walked him through the names and addresses of the Doomsday victims but Clive shook his head sadly at each mention. He didn't know any of them. "Why would this fellow want to harm me?" he lamented in his gravelly drawl. "I'm just a piano player."
Nancy shut her notebook and Will shrugged. They were done. It was almost eight o'clock. Four hours to go before Doomsday was up.
"My refrigerator's empty 'cause I been away. Otherwise I'd offer you two somethin' to eat."
"We'll order out," Will said. "What's good around here?" Then quickly, "It's on the government."
Clive suggested the ribs from Charley's on Frederick Douglass Boulevard, got on the phone and painstakingly placed a complicated order with five different sides. "Use my name," Will whispered, writing it out for Clive in block letters.
While they waited, they agreed on a plan. Clive wouldn't leave their sight till midnight. He wouldn't answer the phone. While he slept, they would keep vigil in the living room, and come morning they'd reevaluate the threat level and work out a new protection scheme.
Then they sat in silence, Clive fidgeting in his favorite armchair, frowning, scratching at his beard. He wasn't comfortable with visitors, especially straitlaced FBI agents who might as well have beamed into his living room from another planet.
Nancy craned her neck and studied his paintings until her eyebrows suddenly rose and she exclaimed, "Is that a de Kooning?" She was pointing at a large canvas with abstract bursts and smudges of primary colors.
"Very good, young lady, that's exactly what that is. You know your art."
"It's amazing," she gushed. "It must be worth a fortune."
Will squinted at it. To his eye, it looked like the kind of thing a kid brought home to stick on the refrigerator.
"It is very valuable," Clive said. "Willem gave it to me many years ago. I named a piece of music after him so we were all square, but I think I got the better deal."
That set the two of them off, jabbering about modern art, a subject about which Nancy seemed quite knowledgeable. Will loosened his tie, checked his watch, and listened to his belly rumbling. It had already been a long day. If not for
Through the door: "All right, I'm coming."
Robertson looked like a weary traveler, thin and stooped, shuffling out from his bedroom in slippers, loose trousers, Chambray shirt and a thin yellow cardigan. He was an old-looking sixty-six. The lines on his face were so deep you could lose a dime in a fold. His skin tones were pure black without a hint of brown except on the palms of his long-fingered hands, which were pale, cafe-au-lait. His hair and beard were close-cropped, more salt than pepper.
He spotted the new faces. "How do you do?" he said to Will and Nancy. "I'm sorry to cause so much fuss."
Will and Nancy formally introduced themselves.
"Please don't call me Mr. Robertson," the man protested. "My friends call me Clive."
Before long the police cleared out. The sun was low over the Hudson and began deepening and expanding like a fat blood orange. Will closed the curtains in the living room and pulled the blinds in Clive's bedroom. There hadn't been a sniper shooting yet but the Doomsday killer was mixing things up. He and Nancy reinspected every inch of the apartment, and while she remained with Clive, Will swept the hallway and stairwell.
The formal interview was straightforward--there wasn't much to tell. Clive had gotten back into town mid-afternoon from a three-city tour with his quintet. No one had a key to his apartment and to the best of his knowledge nothing had been disturbed in his absence. After an uneventful flight from Chicago, he took a yellow cab directly from the airport to his building, where he found the postcard buried in a week's accumulation of mail. He immediately recognized it for what it was, called 911, and that was that.
Nancy walked him through the names and addresses of the Doomsday victims but Clive shook his head sadly at each mention. He didn't know any of them. "Why would this fellow want to harm me?" he lamented in his gravelly drawl. "I'm just a piano player."
Nancy shut her notebook and Will shrugged. They were done. It was almost eight o'clock. Four hours to go before Doomsday was up.
"My refrigerator's empty 'cause I been away. Otherwise I'd offer you two somethin' to eat."
"We'll order out," Will said. "What's good around here?" Then quickly, "It's on the government."
Clive suggested the ribs from Charley's on Frederick Douglass Boulevard, got on the phone and painstakingly placed a complicated order with five different sides. "Use my name," Will whispered, writing it out for Clive in block letters.
While they waited, they agreed on a plan. Clive wouldn't leave their sight till midnight. He wouldn't answer the phone. While he slept, they would keep vigil in the living room, and come morning they'd reevaluate the threat level and work out a new protection scheme.
Then they sat in silence, Clive fidgeting in his favorite armchair, frowning, scratching at his beard. He wasn't comfortable with visitors, especially straitlaced FBI agents who might as well have beamed into his living room from another planet.
Nancy craned her neck and studied his paintings until her eyebrows suddenly rose and she exclaimed, "Is that a de Kooning?" She was pointing at a large canvas with abstract bursts and smudges of primary colors.
"Very good, young lady, that's exactly what that is. You know your art."
"It's amazing," she gushed. "It must be worth a fortune."
Will squinted at it. To his eye, it looked like the kind of thing a kid brought home to stick on the refrigerator.
"It is very valuable," Clive said. "Willem gave it to me many years ago. I named a piece of music after him so we were all square, but I think I got the better deal."
That set the two of them off, jabbering about modern art, a subject about which Nancy seemed quite knowledgeable. Will loosened his tie, checked his watch, and listened to his belly rumbling. It had already been a long day. If not for
Similar Books
