KINGSLEY WOKE UP ALONE IN HIS BED. SAM HAD AL ready gone. She’d left his shirt on the bed in her place along with a note. He unfolded the paper and read.
King-I didn’t love you and leave you. I had an idea when we were talking last night, and I want to go look into it. I might be on to something with Fuller.
Love,
Sam
P.S. You look like a little boy when you sleep. Almost innocent. I might have taken incriminating pictures.
P.P.S. Don’t forget you have a game at noon today. P.P.P.S. Thanks for the weed.
He f lipped the note over, making sure there were no further postscripts.
Game? Oh, yes, he did have a game today. Rematch with First Presbyterian. If he missed it, S?ren would kill him and Kingsley was fairly certain the priest would do a more thorough job of that than the last men who’d tried to do him in.
When he rolled out of bed he was met with a full-body ache. A few days out of Mistress Felicia’s bed would do him good. He took a shower and dressed in his soccer clothes. He’d been scouted at age fifteen by Paris Saint-Germain Football Club, and here he was, suiting up to play church-league soccer. Still he laced on his cleats and pulled on his “Sacred Heart” T-shirt with his last name on the back and a number eight beneath it. The T in the Sacred Heart was even in the form of a cross. How quaint.
“Why did you make me number eight?” Kingsley had asked S?ren when he’d been given his official “uniform.”
“In Biblical mysticism, the eight symbolizes rebirth and new beginnings and Christ’s resurrections.”
“That’s why I’m an eight?” Kingsley had been touched by the thoughtfulness.
“Actually, it was the only number between one and twenty we weren’t using.”
“I know seventy-two different ways to kill a man,” Kingsley had said to S?ren. “Three of them involve deploying T-shirts as weapons.”
Kingsley finished dressing and pulled his hair back in a ponytail. He didn’t need hair in his face when running on a field. He headed for the door of his bedroom but stopped when he heard his private phone line ringing. Five people alone had that number—S?ren, Blaise, his lawyer, Sam and a “friend” on the police force—and none of them ever called him on that number for no good reason. Except S?ren.
But it wasn’t S?ren on the line or any of his other private five.
“Mr. Edge?”
“Who is this?” Kingsley asked, instantly alert.
“This is Reverend James Fuller.”
Kingsley stiffened, his grip on the phone tightening.
“How did you get this number?” Kingsley asked.
“Doesn’t matter. I have it. And I’m using it to invite you to my office today. I think we should talk.”
“I’m busy today,” Kingsley said.
“Oh, yes, soccer game.”
“Football,” Kingsley said evenly, not letting his tone betray his surprise that Fuller knew so much about him. “I’m French. It’s football.”
“You’re in America now, Mr. Edge. We do things differently here. When men have a dispute, they look each other in the eyes and talk about it.”
“Well, I am half American. I can look you halfway in the eyes.”
“Good. I’m in my office now. I’m sure you have the address in Stamford. Come see me. I won’t take up much of your time. You won’t even be late for your game.”