Текст книги "Missing You"

Автор книги: Harlan Coben

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

Chapter 28

Titus was lying on the grass, staring up into the perfect night sky. Before he moved to this farm, he half believed that stars and constellations were the stuff of fairy tales. He wondered whether the stars simply didn’t shine in the big city or if he had just never taken the time to lie down like this, his fingers interlaced behind his head, and look up. He’d found a constellations map online and printed it out. For a while, he would bring it out here with him. He didn’t need it now.

Dana Phelps was back in her box.

She was tougher than most, but in the end, when the lies and distortions and threats and confusion do not guarantee cooperation, all Titus had to do was hold up a picture of a child, and a parent fell in line.

Dana had made the call. Eventually, they always do. There had been one man who tried to warn the caller. Titus had cut him off immediately. He had debated killing the man right then and there, but instead, he let Reynaldo work on him with the old Amish pruning saw in the barn. The blade was dull, but that just made Reynaldo enjoy himself more. Three days later, Reynaldo brought him back. The man begged on his knees to cooperate. He would have clasped his hands in prayer position, but all his fingers were gone.

And so it goes.

Titus heard the footsteps. He kept his eyes on the stars until Reynaldo loomed over him.

“Is everything okay with the new arrival?” Titus asked.

“Yes. She’s in her box.”

“Did she pack her laptop?”

“No.”

Not surprising. Martha Paquet had been more reticent than others. Her getaway to this farm hadn’t been a week to some reclusive warm-weather locale. They had instead broken her in with something more digestible—two nights at a bed-and-breakfast in Ephrata, Pennsylvania. It had seemed at first as though Martha wouldn’t take them up on it—no matter, you just cut the bait and move on—but she eventually acquiesced.

Having her laptop would have been helpful. Most people have their lives on theirs. Dmitry could go through it and find bank accounts and passwords. They would check her smartphone, but he didn’t like to leave it on too long—though unlikely, a phone that was powered on could be traced. It was why he not only took the phones but removed the batteries.

The other difficulty was, of course, that Titus had less time to work with her. She didn’t have much family, just a sister who had been encouraging Martha to take this chance. The sister might buy it if Martha decided to stay a few extra days, but there was still a small degree of urgency.

Sometimes, when they first arrived at the farm, Titus liked to keep them locked in the underground box for hours or even days. It softened them up. But other times—and Titus was still experimenting here—it was best to get on with it and use the shock to his advantage. Eight hours ago, Martha Paquet had left her house, believing she was on her way to find true love. Since then, she had been locked in a car, assaulted when she got out of hand, stripped of her clothes, and buried in a dark box.

Hopelessness was much more potent when it started out as hope. Think about it: If you want to drop something so it lands hard and cracks, you first have to lift it up as high as possible.

Put more simply, there has to be hope in order to take it away.

Titus stood in one fluid motion. “Send her up the path.”

He made his way back to the farmhouse. Dmitry was waiting for him. He had the computer up. Dmitry was computer savvy, but his expertise didn’t factor into this work all that much. It was Titus’s job to get their account numbers, their e-mails, their passwords—all the information. Once you had that, all you needed to do was plug them into the proper prompts.

Reynaldo would be pulling Martha Paquet out of her box now. He would make her hose off and then give her the jumpsuit. Titus checked the time. He still had about ten minutes. He grabbed a snack from the kitchen—he loved rice crackers with almond butter—and put a kettle of boiling water on the stove.

There were various ways for Titus to bleed his “guests” dry. For the most part, he tried to do it slowly so no one, to keep within the metaphor, applied a tourniquet too early. Over the first few days, he would have them transfer amounts close to ten thousand dollars to various accounts he had set up overseas. The moment any money arrived, Titus transferred it to another account, then another, then another. In short, he made it virtually impossible to track.

Just like in the old days when he watched a girl getting off a bus at the Port Authority, Titus knew that patience was key. You had to wait, letting some targets go by, so that you could find ones more ideal. With the buses, Titus would hope to encounter maybe one or two potential marks per week. But the Internet made the possibilities endless. He could hunt from a steady pool of targets on various dating sites. Many were deemed worthless immediately, but that was okay because there were so many more out there. It took time. It took patience. He wanted to make sure they didn’t have much family. He wanted to make sure that a lot of people wouldn’t miss them. He wanted to make sure they had adequate funds to make the enterprise profitable.

Sometimes the mark bit. Sometimes they didn’t. C’est la vie.

Take Martha for example. She had inherited money recently from her deceased mother. She told only her sister about Michael Craig. Since their rendezvous was over a weekend, there was no reason for Martha even to tell her bosses at NRG. That would have to change, of course, but once Titus got her e-mail password, it would be easy for “Martha” to inform her employer that she had decided to take a few days off. With Gerard Remington, it was even easier. He had planned a full ten-day vacation-cum-honeymoon with Vanessa. He had notified the pharmaceutical company that he was taking some of his much accrued vacation time. Gerard was a lifelong bachelor and had virtually no family. Transferring the bulk of his account was easy to explain, and while his financial adviser had asked plenty of questions, there was really no serious issue.

Once that was done—once Titus had taken as much as he could from Gerard or any mark—they were useless to him. They were the rind of a just-eaten orange. He obviously couldn’t let them go. That would be far too risky. The safest and neatest solution? Make the person disappear forever. How?

Put a bullet in their brains and bury them in the woods.

A live person leaves a lot of clues. A dead body leaves some clues. But with a person simply missing, supposedly alive and seeking contentment, there were virtually no clues. There was nothing for anyone, especially overworked law enforcement officers, to investigate.

Eventually, family members might wonder and worry. They might, weeks or months later, go to the authorities. The authorities might investigate, but in the end, these “missing” people were consenting adults who had claimed they wanted to start anew.

There were no signs of foul play. The adults in question had given reasonable explanations for their supposed disappearance—they’d been sad and lonely and had fallen in love and wanted to start a new life.

Who couldn’t relate to that fantasy?

On the rare occasion that someone might not buy it—that some ambitious law enforcement officer or family member might want to investigate further—what would they find? The trail was weeks old. It would never lead to an Amish farm in rural Pennsylvania, one that was still registered to Mark Kadison, an Amish farmer, who had sold the land for cash.

Titus stood in the doorway. In the darkness, he saw the familiar movement on his left. A few seconds later, Martha shuffled into view.

Titus was always careful. He kept his crew small and paid them well. He didn’t make mistakes. And when a mistake was made, like Claude’s idiotic petty greed with the ATM, Titus cut all ties and removed the threat. It was harsh perhaps, but everyone who worked here understood the rules from day one.

Martha took another step. Titus put on a warm smile and beckoned for her to follow him inside. She made her way toward the porch, hugging herself, shivering from either cold or fear, though more likely a toxic combination of both. Her hair was wet. Her eyes had that look Titus had seen plenty of times before—like two shattered marbles.

Titus sat in the big chair. Dmitry sat by his computer, wearing, as always, his knit cap and dashiki.

“My name is Titus,” he said in his soothing voice when she entered. “Please sit down.”

She did so. Many of them started to ask questions at this point. Some, like Gerard, clung to the belief that their newly found loved one was still out there. Titus could use that, of course. Gerard had refused to cooperate until Titus threatened to hurt Vanessa. Others see immediately what is going on.

That seemed to be the case with Martha Paquet.

Titus looked toward Dmitry. “Ready?”

Dmitry adjusted his tinted glasses and nodded.

“We have some questions for you, Martha. You are going to answer them.”

A lone tear ran down Martha’s cheek.

“We know your e-mail address. You wrote to Michael Craig often enough. What is the account’s password?”

Martha said nothing.

Titus kept his voice low and measured. There was no need to shout. “You’re going to tell us, Martha. It is just a question of time. With some people, we keep them in that box for hours or days or even weeks. With some people, we turn on the kitchen stove and hold their hand against the burner until we can’t stand the smell. I don’t like to do that. If we leave too many scars on a person, it means we will need to get rid of the evidence eventually. Do you understand?”

Martha stayed still.

Titus rose and moved toward her. “Most people—and yes, we’ve done this quite a few times—understand exactly what is going to happen here. We are going to rob you. If you cooperate, you will go home somewhat poorer but in perfect health. You will continue to live your life as though nothing ever happened.”

He sat on the arm of her chair. Martha blinked and shuddered.

“In fact,” Titus continued, “three months ago, we did this with someone you know. I won’t mention her name because that’s part of the deal. But if you think hard enough, you might figure it out. She told everyone she was going away for the weekend, but really, she was here. She gave up all the information we needed right away and we sent her home.”

This almost always worked. Titus tried not to smile as he saw the wheels in Martha’s head start to work. It was a lie, of course. No one ever left the farm. But again, it wasn’t merely about tearing someone down. You had to give them hope.

“Martha?”

He put his hand gently on her wrist. She almost screamed.

“What’s the password on your e-mail?” he asked with a smile.

And Martha gave it to him.

Chapter 29

Since Kat had to return the Chick Trawler anyway, she and Stacy decided to meet up in the lobby of the Lock-Horne Building. Stacy wore a black turtleneck, sprayed-on blue jeans, and cowboy boots. Her hair cascaded down in ideal just-mussed waves, as if she simply got out of bed, shook her head, and voilà, perfection.

If Kat didn’t love Stacy, she’d hate her so much.

It was near midnight. Two women, one petite and lovely, the other huge and dressed flamboyantly, exited an elevator. Outside of them, the only person in the lobby was a security guard.

“Where should we talk?” Kat asked.

“Follow me.”

Stacy showed her ID to the security guard, who pointed to an elevator alone on the left. The interior was velvet lined with a padded bench. There were no buttons to press. No lights told them what floor they were approaching. Kat looked a question at Stacy. Stacy shrugged.

The elevator stopped—Kat didn’t have a clue on what floor—and they stepped onto an open-space trading floor. Dozens, maybe hundreds, of desks were laid out in neat rows. The lights were out, but the computer screens provided enough illumination to give the whole place a sinister glow.

“What are we doing here?” Kat whispered.

Stacy started down the corridor. “You don’t have to whisper. We’re alone.”

Stacy stopped in front of the door with a keypad. She typed in a code and the door unlocked with an audible click. Kat entered. It was a corner office with a pretty great view up Park Avenue. Stacy flicked on the lights. The office was done in early American Elitism. Rich burgundy leather chairs with gold buttons sat atop a forest-green oriental carpet. Paintings of foxhunts hung on dark wood paneling. The expansive desk was pure oak. A large antique globe rested next to it.

“Someone has serious cash,” Kat said.

“My friend who owns the place.”

A wistful look crossed her face. The media had a short period of speculation about the CEO of Lock-Horne Investments and Securities, but like all stories, it died out when nothing new fed it.

“What really happened to him?” Kat asked.

“He just”—she spread her arms and shrugged—“checked out, I guess.”

“Nervous breakdown?”

A funny smile came to Stacy’s face. “I don’t think so.”

“Then what?”

“I don’t know. His business used to take up six floors. With him gone and all the layoffs, it’s down to four.”

Kat realized she was asking too many questions, but she pushed past that. “You care about him.”

“I do. But it wasn’t meant to be.”

“Why not?”

“He is handsome, rich, charming, romantic, a great lover.”

“I hear a but.”

“But you can’t reach him. No woman can.”

“Yet here you are,” Kat said.

“After he and I were, uh, together, he put my name on the list.”

“The list?”

“It’s complicated. Once a woman is on it, they have access to certain spaces, in case they need time alone or whatever.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“How many women would you guess are on this list?”

“I don’t know,” Stacy said. “But I’d guess there are quite a few.”

“He sounds like a nutjob.”

Stacy shook her head. “There you go again.”

“What?”

“Judging people without knowing them.”

“I don’t do that.”

“Yeah, you do,” Stacy said. “What was your first impression of me?”

Airheaded bimbo, Kat thought. “Well, what was your first impression of me?”

“I thought you were cool and smart,” Stacy replied.

“You were right.”

“Kat?”

“Yes?”

“You’re asking me all these questions because you’re stalling.”

“And you’re answering them all because you’re stalling too.”

“Touché,” Stacy said.

“So where is Jeff?”

“Near as I can tell, Montauk.”

Kat’s heart felt as though it’d been kicked. “On Long Island?”

“Do you know another Montauk?” Then in a softer voice: “You could use a drink.”

Kat shoved the memory away. “I’m fine.”

Stacy moved toward the antique globe and lifted a handle, revealing a crystal decanter and snifters. “Do you drink cognac?”

“Not really.”

“He only drinks the best.”

“I’m not sure I’m comfortable drinking his expensive cognac.”

Another sad smile—Stacy really liked this guy—hit her face. “He would be upset if he knew that we were here and didn’t imbibe.”

“Pour, then.”

Stacy did so. Kat took a sip and managed not to gasp in ecstasy. The cognac was God’s nectar.

“Well?” Stacy asked.

“That’s the closest thing I’ve had to an orgasm in liquid form.”

Stacy laughed. Kat had never considered herself materialistic or someone who reveled in expensive tastes, but between the Macallan 25 and this cognac, tonight was definitely changing her thinking, at least on the alcohol front.

“You okay?” Stacy asked.

“Fine.”

“When I said Montauk—”

“We were there once,” Kat said quickly, “in Amagansett, not Montauk, it was wonderful, I’m over it, move on.”

“Good,” Stacy said. “So here’s the deal. Eighteen years ago, Jeff Raynes leaves New York City and moves to Cincinnati. We know that he got into a brawl at a bar called Longsworth’s.”

“I remember that place. He took me there once. It used to be a firehouse.”

“Wow, great story,” Stacy said.

“Was that sarcasm?”

“It was, yes. Mind if I continue?”

“Please.”

“Jeff was arrested, but he pleaded down to a misdemeanor and paid a fine. No big deal. But here is where things get a little hairy.”

Kat took another sip. The brown liquor warmed her chest.

“There is absolutely no sign of Jeff Raynes after the plea. Whatever made him change his name, it must have had something to do with the fight.”

“Who did he fight with?”

“Whom.”

“Shut up.”

“Sorry. Two other men were arrested that night. They were friends, I guess. Grew up together in Anderson Township. Both also pleaded down to a misdemeanor and paid a fine. According to the arrest report, all three men were inebriated. It started when one of the guys was being rude to his girlfriend. He may have grabbed her arm hard; the testimony is a little fuzzy on that. Anyway, Jeff stepped in and told him to knock it off.”

“How chivalrous,” Kat said.

“To quote you, ‘Was that sarcasm?’”

“I guess so, yeah.”

“Because it sounds a little like bitterness.”

“What’s the difference?” Kat asked.

“Fair point. Anyway, Jeff steps in to protect the girl. The drunk boyfriend, who’s been arrested before for these kinds of altercations, snapped back with the classic mind-your-own-business-or-else. Jeff said he’ll mind his own business if he leaves the lady alone. You know how it goes.”

Kat did. Her earlier comment may have been sarcastic or bitter, but misguided chivalry too often leads to brawls. “So who threw the first punch?”

“Reportedly, the drunk boyfriend. But Jeff supposedly retaliated with a fury. Broke the guy’s orbital bone and two ribs. Surprised?”

“Not really,” Kat said. “Were there any lawsuits?”

“No. But not long after this, Jeff Raynes quits his job—he was working at The Cincinnati Post—and is pretty much never heard from again. Two years later, I have the first sign of Ron Kochman in a byline in something called Vibe magazine.”

“And now he lives in Montauk?”

“All signs point that way. The thing is, he has a sixteen-year-old daughter.”

Kat blinked and took a deeper sip.

“There’s no sign of a wife.”

“On YouAreJustMyType.com, it says he’s a widow.”

“That might be true, but I can’t say for sure. I only know he has a daughter named Melinda. She attends East Hampton High School, so I was able to access their address via the school records.”

Kat and Stacy both stood there, at midnight, alone in some master of the universe’s opulent office. Stacy dug into her pocket and took out a slip of paper.

“Do you want me to give you the address, Kat?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because he’s done his damnedest not to be found. He changed not only his name, but he’s created an entirely new ID. He doesn’t use credit cards. He doesn’t have bank accounts.”

“Yet he went on Facebook and YouAreJustMyType.”

“Using aliases, right?”

“No. I mean, he used an alias on YouAreJustMyType. Brandon said his mom called him Jack. But on Facebook, he was Ron Kochman. How do you explain that?”

“I don’t know.”

Kat nodded. “But either way, your point remains. Jeff doesn’t want to be found.”

“Right.”

“And when I contacted him on YouAreJustMyType, he said that he didn’t want to talk to me and that he needed a fresh start.”

“Right again.”

“So driving up to Montauk out of the blue would be irrational.”

“Totally.”

Kat stuck out her hand. “So why am I going first thing in the morning?”

Stacy handed her the address. “Because the heart don’t know from rational.”

Chapter 30

Kat’s bottle of Jack tasted like fish ass after the cognac and Macallan 25.

She didn’t sleep. She barely tried. She just lay in bed and let all the possibilities swirl in her head. She tried to sort through them, tried to figure a way they could make sense, and every time she came up with an answer about what to do next, she’d close her eyes and the swirling would start again and she’d change her mind.

She got out of bed at five in the morning. She could wait and go to Aqua’s class—that might help clear her head—but with the way he’d been freaking out lately, it might do more to muddy the waters. Besides, in the end, Kat was again stalling. There really was only one choice here.

She had to drive out to Montauk and figure out what happened to Jeff.

Yes, she could list a million reasons why that was a dumb move, but the truth was, until she knew all, Kat could never let Jeff go. She might be able to resist taking the drive for a month, maybe two, but it would be that proverbial itch that would eventually need to be scratched raw. The choice had been made for her. She didn’t have the discipline to stay away forever.

There had never been closure with Jeff. There had never been closure with her father. She had let that stand for eighteen years.

No more.

There was no reason to put it off, either. She would drive to Montauk today, right now even. Chaz had already agreed to loan her his car. It was in the garage on 68th Street, waiting for her. She had no idea what she’d find in Montauk. Jeff probably wasn’t even there. She could wait to make the trip until . . . until what? He may never return, right? Weren’t they moving to Costa Rica?

It might be denial, but she still wasn’t buying that. She was missing something here.

Didn’t matter. Kat had the time. If Jeff had gone away with Dana Phelps, Kat could find out where and clear up that little mystery too. She grabbed a cup of coffee at the Starbucks on Columbus Avenue and started the drive. She was halfway to Montauk when she realized she had no plan. Would she simply knock on his door? Would she wait till he appeared in his yard or something?

She had no idea.

Kat was driving through East Hampton—she and Jeff had walked these very streets a lifetime ago—when her cell phone trilled. She put it on speaker and said hello.

“I did that image search you wanted,” Brandon said. “Wow, do you know this chick personally?”

Men. Or should she yet again say boys. “No.”

“She’s, uh . . .”

“Yeah, I know what she is, Brandon. What did the image search dig up?”

“Her name is Vanessa Moreau. She’s a model. She specializes in bikinis.”

Terrific. “Anything else?”

“What else do you want to know? She’s five-eight, weight one hundred twelve pounds. Her measurements are thirty-eight, twenty-four, thirty-six; she’s a D cup.”

Kat kept her hands on the wheel. “Is she married?”

“It doesn’t say. I found her modeling portfolio. The picture you sent me is from a website called Mucho Models. They do casting, I guess. It gives her measurements and hair color and says if she’ll do nudes or not—she does, by the way. . . .”

“Good to know.”

“They also have a part where the model writes a bio.”

“What does hers say?”

“Currently looking for paid gigs only. Will travel if expenses paid.”

“What else?”

“That’s it.”

“Home address?”

“Nope, nothing.”

So Vanessa was the woman’s real name. Kat wasn’t sure what to make of that. “Could I ask you another favor?”

“I guess.”

“Could you break back into YouAreJustMyType again and access Jeff’s communication?”

“That will be harder.”

“Why?”

“You can’t stay on long. Sites are always changing their passwords and looking for hacking. So I would go in, take a brief look, go out. I never stayed long. The hard part is initially getting in—finding the first portal. Theirs is password protected. It took us a few hours to get past it, but now that I’m out, I’d have to start again.”

“Could you do it?” Kat said.

“I can try, I guess, but I don’t really think it’s a good idea. I mean, maybe you were right. I was invading my mother’s privacy. I don’t really want to read more of that.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

“Then, what?”

“You said that when Jeff was first with your mom, he was still talking with other women.”

“Including you,” Brandon added.

“Right, including me. What I want to know is if he’s still talking to other women.”

“You think he’s, what, cheating on my mom?”

“You don’t have to look at the specific communications. I just need to know if he’s communicating with any other women and their names.”

Silence.

“Brandon?”

“You still think something is wrong, don’t you, Kat?”

“How did your mother sound on the phone?”

“She sounded fine.”

“Did she sound happy?”

“I wouldn’t go that far. What do you think is going on?”

“I don’t know. It’s why I’m asking you to check.”

Brandon sighed. “On it.”

They hung up.

Montauk is located on the far tip of the South Fork of Long Island. It’s a hamlet, not a town, and part somehow of East Hampton. Kat made her way to Deforest Road and slowed down. She let the car slide past the address Stacy had given her. The house was what realtors would probably label a cozy Cape Cod with cedar shingles. Two vehicles were in the driveway, a black Dodge Ram pickup truck loaded up with what appeared to be fishing gear, and a blue Toyota RAV4. Neither was fly yellow. One point for the Kochmans.

Jeff’s daughter, Melinda, was sixteen. You don’t get your full license in New York State until you are seventeen. So why two vehicles? Both could belong to Jeff, of course. A pickup truck for hobby or work—wait, was he a fisherman now?—and the Toyota for general travel.

So now what?

She parked down the end of the block and waited. She tried to imagine a car less suited for surveillance work than a fly-yellow Ferrari, but nothing came to mind.

It still wasn’t yet eight A.M. Wherever Jeff aka Ron spent his days, there was a decent chance he hadn’t gone to it yet. She could wait here a little while and keep watch. But no. There was no reason to waste time. She might as well get out of the Chick Trawler and walk right up to his house.

The front door opened.

Kat wasn’t sure what to do. She started to duck down but stopped herself. She was probably a hundred yards away. With the morning glare, no one would be able to see inside the car. She kept her eyes on the door.

A teenage girl appeared.

Could it be . . . ?

The girl turned behind her, waved good-bye to someone in the house, and started down the path. She carried a maroon backpack. Her ponytail sneaked out the back of a baseball cap. Kat wanted to get closer. She wanted to see whether there was any resemblance between the teen with the awkward gait and her old fiancé.

But how?

She didn’t know or really care. She didn’t think it through. She started up the Ferrari and drove toward her.

It didn’t matter. If she blew her cover—though maybe in this car, she could disguise herself as a middle-aged man with erectile dysfunction—so be it.

The girl’s steps became more like dance movements. As Kat got closer, she could see that Melinda—why not call her that in her mind?—was wearing white earbuds. The cord dangled past her waist, doing its own little dance.

Melinda turned suddenly and met Kat’s eye. Kat looked for a resemblance, an echo of Jeff, but even if she did see one, that could simply be her imagination.

The girl stopped and stared.

Kat tried to play it cool. “Uh, excuse me,” Kat called out. “How do I get to the lighthouse?”

The girl kept a safe distance. “You just get back on Montauk Highway. Keep driving until the end. You can’t miss it.”

Kat smiled. “Thanks.”

“Nice car.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not mine. It’s my boyfriend’s.”

“He must be rich.”

“I guess so.”

The girl started walking away. Kat wasn’t sure what to do here. She didn’t want to lose this lead, but cruising alongside the girl was getting creepy. The girl picked up speed. Up ahead, a school bus made the turn. The girl started to hurry toward it.

Now or never, Kat thought.

“You’re Ron Kochman’s girl, Melinda, right?”

The girl’s face lost color. Something close to panic filled her eyes. She nearly sprinted away now, jumping on the bus without so much as a wave good-bye. The bus door closed and whisked her away.

Well, well, Kat thought.

The bus disappeared down the road. Kat turned the Ferrari around so it faced the Kochman home again. She had clearly spooked the kid. If that meant anything—if she had spooked the girl because she had something to hide or if the girl’s reaction had something to do with a weird woman quasi-stalking her—it was hard to say.

Kat waited, wondering if someone else was going to emerge from the house. She took it a step further, moving the car and parking it directly in front of the Kochman home. She waited a few more minutes.

Nothing.

The hell with waiting.

She got out of the car and headed straight up the walk. She hit the doorbell once and knocked firmly for good measure. There was beaded glass on either side of the door. Kat couldn’t make anything out through it, but she could see movement.

Someone had passed by the door.

She knocked hard again and, with an internal shoulder shrug of why not, called out, “This is Detective Donovan from the New York Police Department. Could you please open the door?”

Footsteps.

Kat backed off and braced herself. She absentmindedly smoothed out her shirt and even—God, help her—patted down her hair. She saw the knob turn and the door opened.

It wasn’t Jeff.

A man Kat would estimate to be around seventy years old peered down at her. “Who are you?’

“Detective Donovan, NYPD.”

“Let me see some identification.”

Kat reached into her pocket and pulled out her badge. She flipped it open. That was usually enough, but the old man reached out and took hold of it. He examined it closely. Kat waited. He squinted and kept examining it. Kat half expected him to break out one of those jeweler’s magnifying glasses. Finally, he handed it back to her and gave her the full-on stink-eye.

“What do you want?”

He wore a brown flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow, Wrangler jeans, and brown soft-toe work boots. He was good-looking in a weathered way, the kind of guy you imagined had spent the majority of his life working outdoors and it agreed with him. His hands were gnarly. His forearms were the kind of sinewy you get from life, not a gym.

“May I ask your name, sir?” Kat said.

“You knocked on my door, remember?”

“I do. And I’ve given you my name. I’d very much appreciate it if you’d extend me the same courtesy.”

“Appreciate my ass,” he said.

“I would, really,” Kat said, “but those jeans are a little baggy.”

His mouth twitched. “You messing with me?”

“Not as much as you’re messing with me,” Kat said.

“My name ain’t important,” he snapped. “What do you want?”

There was no reason to play around with this guy. “I’m looking for Ron Kochman,” she said.