On the way back to his car, Joe realized with a touch of anxiety that there were no messages on his phone. He’d thought he’d simply missed Leslie’s call while he was out of cell range down in the crypt, but it looked as if she hadn’t called him back at all.
His association with her had apparently given him free access to the site, so he’d decided it wouldn’t be a bad idea to check out the work being done in the crypt for himself, just to make sure there wouldn’t be any more “accidents” of any kind down there. He wondered how happy Laymon would have been to find out that the people working the find considered it to be far more Leslie’s dig than his. He was certain Laymon wouldn’t appreciate the fact that he was prowling around on his own.
The crypt yielded no clues to anything, though he stood there just looking around for a long time. While he stood there, he found himself talking aloud to his dead cousin again. “What’s going on here, Matt? What the hell am I looking for?”
Damn it, Joe, don’t you think I’d be doing more if I knew? It’s a mystery to me, too. It has something to do with what’s happening underground, I know that much. I mean, that room where I died is right over the basement, and there are bones in the basement…Watch out for her, Joe.
Was that his own wishful thinking talking? Yeah, Matt, give me your blessing. She was the love of your life, and she’s still in love with you, but I’ve got to be near her, at least. And I hope to God I’m helping.
After a while he decided he’d spent too much time by himself in a hole in the earth carrying on an imaginary conversation with his dead cousin, so he left and headed for his car. Once there, he looked at his watch, thought about what traffic was going to be like, swore and decided on the subway. As he was waiting on the platform, he found himself deep in thought again. He couldn’t guarantee yesterday’s whereabouts of any of the men who were becoming suspects in his mind. To imagine that any one of them could be an unbelievably crafty killer was beyond imagination. And yet, he was convinced that the missing hookers, the missing heiress and the explosion were all connected and that all he had to do was get the dots connected in the right order. He considered the possibilities as he stepped onto the train and grabbed the pole for support. The cops: Ken Dryer and Robert Adair. He’d known Robert forever, and it was Robert who’d connected him with Eileen Brideswell. Robert was a good old nose-to-the-pavement detective. Dryer was a peacock. Good at his job, though, a job that took him all over the city. The others: Hank Smith…the builder. He would know a lot about basements. Laymon. Seriously, did the man ever think about anything other than his work? Then again, maybe still waters ran deep, as the saying went. Laymon was so dedicated during his working hours that maybe he went off like dynamite when he wasn’t digging. And Brad. Both Brad and Laymon had been working in Virginia when several of the disappearances had occurred. But the distance from New York wasn’t that great.
The subway rattled on, the lights occasionally blinking off, then back on. They were deep underground. You had to love Manhattan. What it couldn’t supply above—speedy transportation—it did beneath. Dark, damp and deserted, the tunnels down here seemed to stretch forever.
Had it been an accident when Leslie was pitched onto the tracks? It was actually surprising that things like that didn’t happen more often than they did. So many people, a wave of humanity. The only way it could have been intentional was if someone had been following her. And he hadn’t been able to clear any of his suspects; none of them had been at the dig.
So Leslie was very likely a target now, he thought.
What if she’d been the actual target all along, not Matt?
But why?
Because she had an eerie ability to find human remains.
He reached his stop and made his way up through the crowds to the street, then the photo shop on Christopher Street. The storefront was simple, with cameras on display. It was narrow and looked like a hole-in-the-wall, but it stretched back forever. Cops and P.I.s used Harry constantly; he had a unique way with photos, no matter what their source.
“Hey,” Harry said, seeing him when he entered. He had been helping an elderly lady with her cat photos, and while she was busy oohing and aahing, Harry was able to excuse himself. “Joe. How are you?”
Harry pumped his hand. Harry always reminded Joe of Dr. Bunsen Honeydew from the Muppets. He had a thatch of white hair that stood straight out to all sides, huge glasses, and was impossibly tall and thin. And he always wore a lab coat.
“Did you find anything?”
“Maybe. It would’ve been easier with a digital image, but I’ve been playing with it. Come on back and I’ll show you what I’ve got.”
Harry led Joe along a narrow hallway to the rooms behind the public area. They entered an office to the left.
“I’ve run off a few copies for you,” Harry explained, sitting down at his computer. “But I thought you might want to see it on screen.”
“Thanks.”