Read Online The Coffin Dancer by Jeffery Deaver - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jeffery Deaver
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hard. Yep, yep. U.S. marshals use it for the crème de la crème in witness protection. Only thing is, we need somebody from NYPD for baby-sitting detail. Somebody who knows and appreciates the Dancer.”
And just then Jerry Banks looked up, wondering why everybody was staring at him. “What?” he asked. “What?” And tried in vain to pat down his persistent cowlick.
Stephen Kall, talker of soldier talk, shooter of soldier guns, had never in fact been a soldier.
But he now said to Sheila Horowitz, “I’m proud of my military heritage. And that’s the truth.”
“Some people don’t—”
“No,” he interrupted, “some people don’t respect you for it. But that’s their problem.”
“It is their problem,” Sheila echoed.
“You have a nice place here.” He looked around the dump, filled with Conran’s markdowns.
“Thank you, friend. Uhm, you, like, want something to drink? Oopsie, there I go using that old preposition the wrong way. Mom’s always after me. Watching too much TV. Like, like, like. Shamie shamie.”
What the fuck is she talking about?
“You live here alone?” he asked with a pleasant smile of curiosity.
“Yep, just me and the dynamic trio. I don’t know why they’re hiding. Those silly-billy scamps.” Sheila nervously pinched the fine hem of her vest. And because he hadn’t answered, she repeated, “So? Something to drink?”
“Sure.”
He saw a single bottle of wine, dust encrusted, sitting on top of her refrigerator. Saved for that special occasion. Was this it?
Apparently not. She broke out the diet Dr Pepper.
He strolled to the window and looked out. No police on the street here. And only a half block to a subway stop. The apartment was on the second floor, and though she had grates on the back windows they were unlocked and if he had to he could climb down the fire escape and disappear onto Lexington Avenue, which was always crowded . . .
She had a telephone and a PC. Good.
He glanced at a wall calendar—pictures of angels. There were a few notations but nothing for this weekend.
“Hey, Sheila, would you—” He caught himself and shook his head, fell silent.
“Uhm, what?”
“Well, it’s . . . I know it’s stupid to ask. I mean, it’s such short notice and everything. I was just wondering if you had plans for the next couple of days.”
Cautious here. “Oh, I, uhm, I was supposed to see my mother.”
Stephen wrinkled his face in disappointment. “Too bad. See, I have this place in Cape May—”
“The Jersey shore!”
“Right. I’m going out there—”
“After you get Buddy?”
Who the fuck was Buddy?
Oh, the cat. “Right. If you weren’t doing anything, I thought you might like to come out.”
“You have . . . ?”
“My mom’s going to be there, some of her girlfriends.”
“Well, golly. I don’t know.”
“So, why don’t you call your mother and tell her she’ll have to live without you for the weekend?”
“Well . . . I don’t really have to call. If I don’t show up it’s, like, no big deal. It was like, maybe I’ll go, maybe I won’t.”
So she’d been lying. An empty weekend. Nobody’d miss her for the next few days.
A cat jumped up next to him, stuck her face into his. He pictured a thousand worms spraying over his body. He pictured the worms squirming through Sheila’s hair. Her wormy fingers. Stephen began to detest this woman. He wanted to scream.
“Ooo, say hello to our new friend, Andrea. She likes you, Sam.”
He stood up, looking around the apartment. Thinking:
Remember, boy, anything can kill.
Some things kill fast and some things kill slow. But anything can kill.
“Say,” he asked, “you have any packing tape?”
“Uhm, for . . . ?” Her mind raced. “For . . . ?”
“The instruments I have in the bag? I need to tape one of the drums back together.”
“Oh, sure, I’ve got some in here.” She walked into the hallway. “I send my aunties packages all the
And just then Jerry Banks looked up, wondering why everybody was staring at him. “What?” he asked. “What?” And tried in vain to pat down his persistent cowlick.
Stephen Kall, talker of soldier talk, shooter of soldier guns, had never in fact been a soldier.
But he now said to Sheila Horowitz, “I’m proud of my military heritage. And that’s the truth.”
“Some people don’t—”
“No,” he interrupted, “some people don’t respect you for it. But that’s their problem.”
“It is their problem,” Sheila echoed.
“You have a nice place here.” He looked around the dump, filled with Conran’s markdowns.
“Thank you, friend. Uhm, you, like, want something to drink? Oopsie, there I go using that old preposition the wrong way. Mom’s always after me. Watching too much TV. Like, like, like. Shamie shamie.”
What the fuck is she talking about?
“You live here alone?” he asked with a pleasant smile of curiosity.
“Yep, just me and the dynamic trio. I don’t know why they’re hiding. Those silly-billy scamps.” Sheila nervously pinched the fine hem of her vest. And because he hadn’t answered, she repeated, “So? Something to drink?”
“Sure.”
He saw a single bottle of wine, dust encrusted, sitting on top of her refrigerator. Saved for that special occasion. Was this it?
Apparently not. She broke out the diet Dr Pepper.
He strolled to the window and looked out. No police on the street here. And only a half block to a subway stop. The apartment was on the second floor, and though she had grates on the back windows they were unlocked and if he had to he could climb down the fire escape and disappear onto Lexington Avenue, which was always crowded . . .
She had a telephone and a PC. Good.
He glanced at a wall calendar—pictures of angels. There were a few notations but nothing for this weekend.
“Hey, Sheila, would you—” He caught himself and shook his head, fell silent.
“Uhm, what?”
“Well, it’s . . . I know it’s stupid to ask. I mean, it’s such short notice and everything. I was just wondering if you had plans for the next couple of days.”
Cautious here. “Oh, I, uhm, I was supposed to see my mother.”
Stephen wrinkled his face in disappointment. “Too bad. See, I have this place in Cape May—”
“The Jersey shore!”
“Right. I’m going out there—”
“After you get Buddy?”
Who the fuck was Buddy?
Oh, the cat. “Right. If you weren’t doing anything, I thought you might like to come out.”
“You have . . . ?”
“My mom’s going to be there, some of her girlfriends.”
“Well, golly. I don’t know.”
“So, why don’t you call your mother and tell her she’ll have to live without you for the weekend?”
“Well . . . I don’t really have to call. If I don’t show up it’s, like, no big deal. It was like, maybe I’ll go, maybe I won’t.”
So she’d been lying. An empty weekend. Nobody’d miss her for the next few days.
A cat jumped up next to him, stuck her face into his. He pictured a thousand worms spraying over his body. He pictured the worms squirming through Sheila’s hair. Her wormy fingers. Stephen began to detest this woman. He wanted to scream.
“Ooo, say hello to our new friend, Andrea. She likes you, Sam.”
He stood up, looking around the apartment. Thinking:
Remember, boy, anything can kill.
Some things kill fast and some things kill slow. But anything can kill.
“Say,” he asked, “you have any packing tape?”
“Uhm, for . . . ?” Her mind raced. “For . . . ?”
“The instruments I have in the bag? I need to tape one of the drums back together.”
“Oh, sure, I’ve got some in here.” She walked into the hallway. “I send my aunties packages all the
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