Mrs Jones - Tommy Connell Mystery #1
Lizzie Jones arrives in New York to deliver a package.
Witnessing a hit and run is bad enough, but when the deceased is the person she was supposed to meet and the driver wants the package bad enough to kill for it, what’s a girl to do? Dialling 911 probably isn’t her smartest idea, particularly when she’s hiding secrets of her own. But fearing for her life all she can do is stick with the cop.
Detective Tommy Connell is a single dad with a string of bad breaks and he needs a bust to keep his job. He reckons cute little Lizzie might be just the ticket but first he needs her to tell the truth and she’s not very good at that. Connell has a way with the ladies but as he soon learns, Lizzie Jones is like no lady he’s ever met.
Why did she see a hit and run when everyone else saw an accident? Why is she travelling on someone else’s counterfeit passport? Why is Connell’s own nemesis the albino mobster Mo Pater so interested in Mrs Jones from England and just what is the story with the mysterious Mr Jones?
Setting out to solve the puzzle, Connell is inexplicably drawn back to his own chequered past and the murder of the mother of his child. Realising that the two cases are connected and that Lizzie is the witness who may help him finally obtain justice, he wonders whether justice is enough, when revenge is what he craves.
Available here:
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Read the first chapter here:
Chapter One
She answered the door on the sixth knock.
He knew that because he had counted.
Six knocks, thirty seconds between knocks, three minutes.
He’d raised his hand to give her the seventh, seeing as how seven was his lucky number and three and half minutes was as long as he was prepared to wait, but she’d beaten him to it. All the same, six knocks. These weren’t palatial penthouse apartments, they were studios. What had taken her so long? Delays in answering the door in this neighborhood were usually accompanied by the sounds of flushed toilets. On this occasion there was silence.
When the door finally opened, she left the chain on, which he supposed was smart, but didn’t make his job any easier or quicker. He had a hot date waiting. He checked his watch. If she was still waiting that is.
Taking out his badge, he flashed it through the crack in the door. “Ma’am, New York Police Department, Detective Connell.” He made an effort to speak slowly and clearly, wondering if they were old and whether that explained the delay in answering. “You called in a report about a hit and run. I’d like to speak with you, ask you a few questions.”
He pulled his badge away just in time to avoid his hand being jammed as the door slammed closed. Rolling his eyes, he checked his watch again. She definitely wouldn’t be waiting now. She’d be on her way home and deleting his number from her phone. That was twice he’d stood her up; she wouldn’t let him make it three. And that was a shame - she was a sweet looking lady, and no fool either. No matter he told himself that it was probably for the best in the long run.
He was about to give her the seventh knock, when he heard the chain being slid. Placing a hand on the weapon holstered under his left arm, he watched as the door swung slowly inwards. All he needed now was some geriatric cop-hater to come barrelling out with a sawed-off walking cane, so he stood off to one side of the door, just in case.
Connell had drawn the short straw on this case. Everyone else on the squad had more important things to do on a Friday night than chase down old ladies who may or may not have seen an accident. He had more important things to do too. He’d been close to getting laid after all. But he was on thin ice and his arrest rate was looking grim. He’d been spending far too much time on impossible cases and this looked like an easy one. Find the old lady, confirm her statement and sign off on the case. Maybe his date would wait. Maybe pigs would fly.
“Honey, is your mom at home?” he asked the young girl who peered anxiously at him from behind the door. She was slender and pale, with a mop of unruly dark curls and wide dark eyes. Her feet, resting one atop the other, were bare, her toenails painted a vivid pink. She wore faded jeans with holes at the knees and a baggy grey T-shirt.
Connell took in her slight frame in seconds and discarded her. It was a necessary skill - identify and eliminate any risks - certainly in this neighborhood. “I’m looking for a … ” He pulled out his notebook and checked the name he’d scrawled down back at the station “ … Mrs. Jones, Mrs. Elizabeth Jones.”
The girl nodded, opened the door wide and he realized his gift for on-the-spot identification was slipping. She wasn’t a young girl; she was a young woman who looked like she hadn’t been sleeping too well and he knew exactly how that felt.
“I’m Mrs. Jones,” she said hesitantly in a soft, British accent. “You’d better come in.”
Connell wasn’t often surprised. In his line of work it was a necessary requirement to be cool and shock proof, or at the very least to give that appearance to the public, but she was definitely not what he’d been expecting. She was far too young to begin with, she didn’t look old enough to be Mrs. Anybody and she didn’t sound like the voice on the tape. The voice had been muffled, admittedly, but had sounded older and certainly not British. Either she hadn’t made the call or the voice had been deliberately disguised. He narrowed his eyes. The first of his inner alarm bells had just gone off.
He followed her into the room. If she wasn’t what he’d expected, then the room certainly was. It was typical of a thousand more in the neighborhood. Close your eyes, stick a pin in a map and you couldn’t fail to come up with a place like this. Short-term, low-rent housing where absentee landlords turned a blind eye and made a killing off the backs of the poor. Shabby without the chic, it consisted of a studio apartment complete with bathroom. The furniture was old, the carpet thin, and the hotplate that passed for a stove should’ve been condemned. There was a moldy smell overlaid by a thin scent of perfume. He knew nothing about this girl, yet he knew that she didn’t belong here.
He held out his hand, left it hanging in midair for a matter of seconds and withdrew it with an awkward shrug when she shifted her gaze, avoiding his eyes and his shake. She was nervous and he wondered why. He wasn’t a scary guy, though there were plenty in his squad that were. He made allowances for the fact that nobody liked to have cops at the door. She didn’t sound like a local and she’d just witnessed a death.
“I was expecting someone older,” he said.
“Oh.”
No explanation, just “oh”, as if that was all that was needed. She was waiting for him to continue and he recognized the type: polite, reserved and intelligent, and apparently not much of a talker, especially to the police. He’d initiated this visit and it was obvious she intended to let him do all the work. He wondered why she’d called it in if she didn’t want to get involved.
“You made a 911 call about a hit and run. I’m just here to take some more details.” He tried a smile, the infamous Connell charm offensive. It seemed to work as she smiled back at him nervously. “It was you who made the call?” he added uncertainly.
“Yes, it was. How did you find me?” she asked. “I didn’t leave my address.”
“We traced your call. You called from the lobby downstairs. It wasn’t difficult.”
The janitor had been very helpful, particularly when offered ten bucks. Sure there was a Mrs. Jones, third floor, apartment 13A. He smiled again - he really wanted to ask her why she didn’t have a cell phone, why she’d chosen to leave no contact details, why she didn’t really want to be found - but decided to leave those questions for later.
“Please have a seat,” she said, good manners returning. As there was only one, piled with books, he sat on the edge of the bed to the accompaniment of creaking iron springs. “Would you like some tea?” she asked with forced brightness, her cheeks a little flushed, her eyes showing the merest glimmer of alarm. “Or perhaps you’d prefer coffee. I have both.”
Glancing at the stack of free sample packets on the counter top, he wondered if she’d filled her pockets at the local diner. “Tea is fine, ma’am, if it’s no trouble.” His date was undoubtedly blown out of the water by now. He had no reason to hurry and his curiosity was piqued. There was something about her manner that was odd and Connell found anything odd intriguing.
Connell scanned the room as she filled the kettle and turned on the gas beneath the aged hotplate, wincing as the gas ignited, thankful that it didn’t explode. She only had one cup that he could see, and apart from the freebie tea and coffee, he couldn’t see any food. So she ate out a lot. That wasn’t a crime, but again it was odd. In this part of the city people tended to stay indoors after dark.
There were three books on the chair and a small suitcase under the bed that he could feel against foot. No TV, no radio, not even a clock. He glanced through the open door at the ancient bathroom. A lone toothbrush stood propped on the cracked porcelain sink, her coat hung on the back of the door, but other than that, there was nothing personal at all, and certainly nothing to suggest a long stay or a Mr. Jones.
He took out his notebook again. He’d found that most people were happier talking to the cops if you made it look official. “Mrs. Jones, Elizabeth. Can I call you Elizabeth?”
“Lizzie is fine,” she replied. Her small delicate hands shook slightly as she handed him his tea. “I’m sorry, I don’t have any milk or biscuits either.” She flushed, seemingly embarrassed to be so ill-prepared for visitors. Obviously didn’t get many.
She didn’t have another cup either, so she did without, moving the books from the single chair to sit cross-legged upon it, her feet tucked in somehow in some weird yoga position, the books in her lap. He thought he was a pretty fit guy, light on his feet, no stranger to the gym, but he knew he could never tangle himself up like that. Respect to her agility, he would have fallen off the chair.
He liked her voice. The softness made a welcome change from the nasal New York accent he was used to. He decided it was time he heard some more of it. “So what brings you to New York, Lizzie?”
It was one of those ice breakers. He could’ve chosen the weather if the weather had been remarkable in any way, or the football results if the Yankee’s had played recently, anything to put the witness at ease. He’d chosen the fact she was obviously a visitor because he thought it would give them a safe topic of conversation where maybe she would tell him she was taking a year off after college and was travelling the world, and he would confess in turn that it was something he wished he could have done. In the process he would size her up and get a handle on who she was and whether she was a credible witness.
But the look on her face when he asked the question told him far more than he’d hoped. She hesitated, just for a moment, but it was enough to set off his second alarm.
“You said you needed more details about the hit and run,” she said, ignoring his question. “There’s really not much more to tell. A man got knocked down and I called 911. That’s it, really.” She pulled at her hair, stretching and twirling at the curls nervously.
He made a note in his book to check with immigration and raised his head and looked at her; wrong answer. But if that was the way she wanted to play it, he could cut the small talk and get straight down to business, only he liked small talk and she was cute.
“How long have you been in the country?” he asked directly.
“Five days,” she replied and he threw her a glance. Only five days, he hadn’t expected that.
“So you witnessed the incident on the day you arrived? Quite a welcome, huh?”
“Mm, these things happen, I suppose.” She shrugged delicately and he watched as she began to chew at her bottom lip. He was glad he wasn’t in a hurry anymore. This was going to take awhile. He loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. “Why did you call it in?”
She looked a little surprised at his question. “Because it was the right thing to do, wasn’t it?”
Good answer, honest answer. He hoped it was the first of many. “Sure it was,” he replied, “but not everyone is so public spirited. Most people would just turn the other way and keep on walking.”
“Oh.” Again, with the “Oh”, but this time he translated it as Wish I’d thought of that.
“I see you like to read.”
“Sorry?”
He’d thrown her by his change of direction and he’d continue to do so until she told him what he wanted to know. He gestured to her lap. “What are you reading?” He could see that one was an A to Z of New York. God, that would put anyone to sleep, but necessary to find your way around a strange city. Actually, strike that! If he needed to find his way around a strange city, he’d just grab a cab.
“Oh, nothing special.” She patted the paperbacks gently with her hand and gave another little shrug. “They’re just what I picked up for the journey to while away the time.”
All three books were well thumbed, including the A to Z. Three books, in five days, that was pretty quick. “So you haven’t done much sightseeing yet?”
“Um, no, not really,” she replied.
She kept glancing toward the door. She either wanted out of it or she was expecting someone to come through it, he wasn’t sure which. But her nervousness was catching and he found himself tensing slightly in case it was the latter. He paused, let her sit a moment and took his time drinking his tea. “Have you been anywhere since you got here?” he asked.
“Um, no, not really,”
He could hear the reluctant admittance in her voice. She found his questions invasive but good manners prevented her from saying so. Why she would find questions about her visit uncomfortable interested him. Why she’d stayed in her room for five whole days interested him more.
“Okay, so you flew in five days ago, from where?”
“London.”
“London Heathrow?” he asked and she nodded. “You got any I.D.?”
“I.D.?”
He wondered if she was being deliberately vague or maybe she was a little slow. “Identity details, drivers licence, passport?” He tried another smile. “You know how it works. I show you mine and you show me yours.”
She missed the joke entirely. “Oh, yes, sorry.” She unfolded her legs, and with visible reluctance got down from the chair. He moved his feet as she slipped her bag from under the bed. The bag wasn’t huge and she dug around in it quickly before pulling out the passport. He noticed the soft inhalation of a held breath as she handed the document to him.
Connell flicked through it, noted the passport was new, that she hadn’t travelled anywhere prior to arriving in the US, and although her photo didn’t do her justice, the likeness wasn’t bad. Better than his, anyway. He did a quick calculation with her date of birth and decided she looked younger than thirty, way younger. He flicked his gaze between the girl and her photo; good genes maybe. Turning the passport over in his hands, he felt the material it was made from, flicked through the empty pages again, noted the travel documents stuffed in the back, had absolutely no reason to doubt its validity, but …
“I’ll hang on to this, if you don’t mind.” He slipped it into his jacket and took note as her breath quickened with poorly masked alarm.
“Is that allowed?” she asked casually as she resumed her seat.
He cocked his head, trying to memorize the sequence in which she tangled her knees and feet, but she did it so quickly that he didn’t quite get it.
“Sure it’s allowed,” he replied with a smile. “If you’d stayed at a hotel you’d have had to leave it at the desk anyway.” He wondered fleetingly whether she’d believe his bluff on that or not. He knew it was true in Europe and hoped she hadn’t been to any hotels and didn’t know it didn’t apply here. “You’ll get it back, don’t worry.”
“What do you need it for?” she asked.
She was a little too anxious. “Just procedure,” he answered vaguely.
“Okay,” she replied. He was sure she wasn’t okay but was too polite to refuse. “But what if someone asks to see it in the meantime?”
“Are you planning on going somewhere in the meantime?” He was interested in where that might be, considering her apparent reluctance to leave her room. She shook her head. No, he didn’t think so. “So, you came straight from the airport to this place, and on the way here, you witnessed a hit and run.”
“Um, yes.”
“Were you traveling alone Mrs. Jones - Lizzie?” He could easily check but he wanted to ask. He was interested in her reactions and was rewarded by further hesitation. Strike three on his alarm register.
“Yes, I was.”
“No Mr. Jones?”
“No.”
“Why here? Why, this neighborhood?”
“Why not?”
“It’s pretty rough around here. We don’t see many tourists. Why not go to a hotel?”
She stared into space for a moment and he could tell she was asking herself the same question, and finding difficulty coming up with an answer. “I just ended up here … I’m not really sure how. Does that sound odd?” She looked back at him and blinked slowly. She had the longest eyelashes he’d ever seen, but she could quit with the fluttering, he hadn’t been born yesterday.
Of course it sounded odd, but he almost swallowed it. There was a strange innocence about her that made him think, yeah, that might have happened. She could have just wandered all the way from the airport and just happened to stroll through one of the roughest areas in the city, seen a man get killed and somehow managed to rent herself into the nearest ghetto apartment she saw. Yeah sure! Those pigs were flying again.
“Not at all. Did you get a cab from the airport?” Again it was easy to check.
“Yes.”
“And where did you get dropped off?”
She began to fiddle with the closest book on her lap, folding down the corner of the first page and then unfolding it again. “I can’t really remember. Is it relevant?” she asked. Connell smiled again and shook his head. He could check that as well.
“No, not really, I’m just trying to understand what brought you to the spot where you witnessed what you saw. Just building a picture in my mind, that’s all.”
“Oh.” Again that single word, which came out almost as a sigh - relief, maybe? Just what was she relieved about.
Time to get down to business. “Tell me what you saw.”
She took a breath. “I was waiting to cross the road; it was busy and noisy. I’m not used to so much traffic. It was a little scary.”
“Isn’t London busy?” he asked.
“I flew from London, but I’m not from London, I don’t live there.”
“Where are you from?” he asked. She had walked into that one without realizing it.
“The middle of nowhere.” She smiled wistfully. “We don’t even have a bus service.”
She had a sweet smile, he decided, with little dimples in her cheeks.
“So what brought you here?” Back to his first question. It had taken some time but he had her now.
“This and that,” she replied, and the smile vanished along with the dimples. Okay, so he didn’t have her yet.
“So you were waiting at the crosswalk.”
“Yes, and everyone surged across. People were pushing and shoving rather rudely and I hesitated. The cars were still coming.”
He knew what she meant. You literally took your life in your hands crossing streets in this town. Usually it was easier to go with the flow. The trick was to make sure you were in the middle, out of harm’s way, and if someone pushed, then you pushed back even harder. It wasn’t rude, it was survival, though he couldn’t imagine her pushing anyone. “And then what?”
“He was on the other side, coming toward me, and he hesitated too.” She gazed into space and Connell watched her carefully, recognizing the look of someone who was choosing their words thoughtfully, walking a narrow line with extreme caution. It distracted him. She distracted him. “Then suddenly he stepped out and a car hit him … ” She faltered and he noted how her eyes widened as she relived the moment. “He was flung into the air and landed on the bonnet.”
That part was real, he decided. Even if everything else she’d said was a pile of crap, she couldn’t have faked that look in her eyes. He’d seen it before, many times - shock, disbelief, and a touch of fear.
“So you saw him before he was hit and by bonnet do you mean the hood, the front of the car?” Out of all of those people waiting on the opposite curb, she had zeroed in on him. That was quite a coincidence.
She hesitated. “Well, yes, I mean yes to both, I saw him before and yes it was on the hood as you call it.”
“How did he look?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know what you mean. He just looked normal, a man waiting to cross the road.” Her pale cheeks reddened slightly and she dipped her head as if aware of the change, and anxious that he shouldn’t notice.
Oh yeah, she was definitely playing him along now. He just couldn’t figure out why.
“Did he look distracted, happy, scared? Did he speak to anyone waiting with him at the curb? Did he look like he was about to throw himself under a car?” Why him?
“As I said, he hesitated and so did I, so he sort of caught my eye. I didn’t notice anything else about him.”
He considered her reply for a moment and decided to let it go. There was more than one way to find out the truth, and he was an expert at most of them.
“Okay, what kind of car?”
“I’ve no idea. I’m not good with cars.” She arched one eyebrow. “A big American car.”
“What color?”
“Black.”
“A big black American car,” he confirmed. “Could it have been a limousine?” He knew that it was. He had other witnesses who’d given the exact make and model, but he wanted to know what she’d seen and why she was the only one who’d called it a hit and run. Everyone else had simply seen an accident.
“Possibly.”
“Did you get a look at the driver?” Another hesitation and he was up to alarm bell level number four. Normally people were hauled in, or shot, by the time they got to four. He wasn’t known for his patience, but as seven was his lucky number and he didn’t have anything better to do, he decided to let her go on.
“No, the windows were tinted.” She shifted her gaze, looked at her feet, the books in her lap, anywhere but at him. And he so wanted to squeeze, just a little, to see what she would do. But he gave a lazy smile instead, and continued, “He didn’t stop and get out, and check if the man was okay?” He knew that he had. The other witnesses had confirmed it. He even had the name of the guy who’d been driving. He’d waited around for the ambulance and police to arrive and given a complete statement.
“No, I didn’t see anything else.”
Connell looked at what he’d written. There were only three words, each punctuated by a question mark:
Immigration?
Fear?
Lies?
Not much, but it was enough to go on. He’d also doodled four alarm bells.
He changed tack. “I’d like to speak with Mr. Jones.”
“Mr. Jones?”
“Yes, your husband - Mr. Jones.”
“I told you, he’s not here,” she replied quickly, too quickly, and the corner of the page came away in her hand. She looked at the fragment held between finger and thumb as if unsure what to do next. Tucking it back inside the cover of the book, she lowered her lashes and tried to avoid his gaze once more.
Well, of course he wasn’t here unless he was hiding under the bed. If he was here, and he was any kind of a man at all, she wouldn’t have read three books in five days. Maybe he’d just left. Maybe that explained the dark circles under her eyes. Maybe that explained the fear in her eyes. He’d seen too much in his line of work not to jump to the occasional conclusion.
“Was he with you when you witnessed the accident?”
“No, he wasn’t,” she replied, and reddened a little more.
“Where is he now?” he asked.
She was trying very hard not to look him in the eye and he tried very hard to make her. “He’s not here.”
“You said that already.” He waited for her to say 'Oh' again.
“He’s gone.”
Maybe not, maybe she’d run out of Oh's. “Okay, when will he be back?”
“I’m not sure.”
Well, that pretty much summed it up; she wasn’t sure of anything. He tried again. “Do you expect him to come back?”
“Not really, no.”
Connell added two more words to his list - Mr. Jones? - and underlined them. He gazed at her, giving her his most reassuring smile and one more opportunity to come clean. “Can you think of anything else you think I should know?”
“I’m not sure what it is that you think you should know.”
Now that was a little too clever and evasive for a little English cutie, and despite the cuteness, he was getting a little tired of the evasiveness. He sighed, folded his notebook and replaced it in his inside jacket pocket beside her passport. As he did, his jacket opened to reveal his holstered gun and he noticed how her eyes widened nervously when she caught sight of it. Okay, so she was English. English cops weren’t armed, so he could understand her reaction, but despite making allowances for her, he decided to leave his jacket open. It couldn’t hurt for her to realize that it was a mistake to play games with New York’s finest, and she was definitely playing something, probably him.
“Okay, Lizzie, let’s get this out in the open.” He rose from the bed, shoved his hands in his pants pockets and leaned casually against the back of the door. “I need to know why you saw a hit and run and everyone else saw an accident; why you didn’t see the driver and everyone else did; and why you’re lying to me. I don’t give a shit about why you’re here in the U.S., or whether your old man has taken off or not, but I do need to know what you saw, and I need the non-fiction version, not the one you made up when I walked in the door.”
Her mouth actually dropped open with shock. He’d never seen a reaction like that; that wasn’t a con. It looked real to him, and for a moment he thought he’d been wrong and that she’d been telling the truth after all. Then she snapped that sweet little mouth shut and he knew he was on the money.
She swallowed and glanced nervously past him at the door. He figured she was considering making a run for it which is exactly why he stayed where he was. No, he hadn’t gotten it wrong. She looked at the window, but he’d already written that off as a sorry plan. She was obviously in decent shape if her yoga moves were any indicator and it was possible that she might have the agility to make it out of the window and down the fire escape ahead of him, but no way did she have the muscle to raise it up and run because that sucker was painted shut.
He studied her expression as she considered her options, counted the seconds in his head and got to number seven, which was kinda weird, seven being his lucky number and all, and saw the exact moment when she gave it up.
Relief settled in her eyes as she gave a slight, hopeless shrug. “He was white, with white blond hair and sunglasses, an albino maybe, and he saw me, looked straight at me–and I ran.” It came out in a rush, as if she’d been hanging onto it with some effort.
“Who are we talking about here?”
“The driver.”
Connell paused, took a breath and continued. “Why did you run?”
“Because he saw me and I was scared that he’d come after me.”
He’d knocked a guy over. Big deal, it happened all the time, tragic, probably avoidable but an accident nonetheless. It wasn’t usual for drivers to jump out of their cars and set off after innocent witnesses. “Why would he come after you? It was just an accident.”
“No, it wasn’t, it was a hit and run and I saw what he did.”
“Do you know what a hit and run is?” Maybe it meant something else in England’s rural backwaters.
She looked at him squarely, raised an eyebrow, and he saw the tiniest glimmer of attitude sparkle in her dark eyes. “I’m English, not stupid. Of course I know what a hit and run is. It’s when someone hits someone else and then makes off so they don’t get caught.”
“But he didn’t make off, I mean take off. He waited around for the police and ambulance.”
“No, he didn’t. He got out of the car and disappeared into the crowd, but, before he did, he ran over the man twice to make sure he was dead.”
Connell stopped her with a raised palm. “Hang on, back up. You’re saying this albino guy knocks this man over, reversed over him on a busy street, then calmly got out of the car and walked away.”
“Not reversed, the man ….” she paused as if recalling the details. “… the man bounced off the bonnet, excuse me the hood, and landed in front of the car. The driver stopped, looked at me and then drove over him again.”
Connell tried to picture it, the guy bouncing off the hood. It seemed unlikely somehow. “How did you know he was dead?”
“Sorry?”
“You said he ran over him twice to make sure he was dead. How did you know he was dead?”
The girl blinked, uncertain, fearful almost. “Isn’t he dead?”
“Sure he’s dead, but how did you know that?”
She visibly relaxed, which he found strange considering they were discussing the death of a total stranger.
“He … he had no face left … afterwards, just lots of blood.”
He winced, yeah, that would do it. “Okay, but how come no one but you saw what the driver did?”
She shrugged again and he wished that she hadn’t. He was beginning to find the casual movement distracting. “I only know what I saw. I can’t speak for your witnesses.”
Connell wondered who the other witnesses were, made a mental note to check the file when he got back. He was starting to realize this wasn’t going to be the easy in and out case he’d been promised. “Do you think this guy got a good look at you?”
“Yes, he ... smiled at me.”
“He smiled at you?”
“Yes, but not in a nice way.” She closed her eyes briefly and winced. “More of a sneer, really. He had a gold tooth.”
Connell pulled his attention away from her shadowy downcast eyelids, evidence of many sleepless nights. “You were so close you could see his teeth?”
“I’d started to cross the road after the others. I stopped in the middle when it happened and he looked at me.”
“Did he say anything, do anything else?”
She hesitated a second, and when she replied there was a catch in her throat. “He did this.” She held up her right hand in the shape of a gun and the barrel of the gun shook.
No wonder she’d run, no wonder she was holed up here like someone in hiding, she probably was in hiding. “Do you believe that you might be in danger from him?”
There was a significant pause before her response. Connell suppressed a wry smile as he read the flush sweeping her face as she finally got her story straight and answered.
“You tell me. New York is a big place. I thought perhaps he wouldn’t be able to find me.”
“I found you easily enough.”
“But you’re the police.”
Connell looked away. If there was any truth at all in what she’d said and the albino was involved, then she was in more trouble than she imagined.
He knew of only one albino, Mo Pater, a man with glittering teeth. Connell knew all about Mo Pater and the organization he ran. Mo Pater was not the driver who’d waited for the emergency services, he knew that already. The guy who’d waited was a Clifford Reay, fifty-four years old, first day on the job and he was going to lose his licence. He’d been so upset about the accident, ended up going to the ER in the back of the ambulance, but anyone could be bought with enough money, including witnesses.
He knew that all too well.
He needed to look into the victim, wasn’t sure whether he’d been I.D.’d yet. Why would Mo want to kill some random guy? It didn’t make sense. But, then again, neither did Mrs. Jones.
Pulling away from the door, he crossed to the window. She had a wonderful view here, lots of fire escapes and garbage cans.
“What are you really doing here?” he asked again.
“Waiting,” she replied.
“For what?” He looked at her when she failed to answer. She had amassed a small pile of shredded paper on her lap. Her hands were still shaking.
“For someone to help me,” she whispered and she drew up her knees, wrapped her shaking hands around them and hugged them tightly.
He looked around again at the room. There was nothing here. Had she been holed up here for the last five days with nothing to eat and no one to turn to? She’d done the right thing. She’d called it in and then waited five whole days for someone to find her. He felt a twist in his gut. “Do you know anyone in New York?”
“No.”
“What about Mr. Jones?”
“He’s not coming back.”
“Why not?”
She replied with that little shrug again. He decided it said far more than any words she could have uttered. She was scared and alone, and a long way from home. Not a good place to be.
“Then we need to get you out of here.”
“I can’t go home,” she said. “Not yet.” She scrubbed at her eyes with the heel of her hand. He hadn’t noticed that she’d been crying. The tears had rolled silently down her cheeks while he’d been trying to trip her up. Probably relief, but she needn’t have worried. No way was she going home. Not yet, anyway. He had her passport.
More importantly, if she was telling the truth - and that was one hell of an if - she was the witness he’d dreamed about for the last two years. She was the witness who was going to help him close the biggest case of his career and the worst chapter of his life.
He stepped to the door, cracked it open and looked down the hall. It was empty. He crossed the landing and looked down the stairwell. He was being paranoid - there was no one there - but she’d just jumped to number ten on his alarm system, and by rights that meant she should be dead already. “Well, you can’t stay here,” he added as he came back into the room. “Get your stuff, you’re coming with me.”
“Where to?”
“Somewhere safe”
“Is there such a place … somewhere safe?”
“Sure there is. As long as you’re with me, you’re somewhere safe.”
.......................................................................................................................................
Lizzie Jones arrives in New York to deliver a package.
Witnessing a hit and run is bad enough, but when the deceased is the person she was supposed to meet and the driver wants the package bad enough to kill for it, what’s a girl to do? Dialling 911 probably isn’t her smartest idea, particularly when she’s hiding secrets of her own. But fearing for her life all she can do is stick with the cop.
Detective Tommy Connell is a single dad with a string of bad breaks and he needs a bust to keep his job. He reckons cute little Lizzie might be just the ticket but first he needs her to tell the truth and she’s not very good at that. Connell has a way with the ladies but as he soon learns, Lizzie Jones is like no lady he’s ever met.
Why did she see a hit and run when everyone else saw an accident? Why is she travelling on someone else’s counterfeit passport? Why is Connell’s own nemesis the albino mobster Mo Pater so interested in Mrs Jones from England and just what is the story with the mysterious Mr Jones?
Setting out to solve the puzzle, Connell is inexplicably drawn back to his own chequered past and the murder of the mother of his child. Realising that the two cases are connected and that Lizzie is the witness who may help him finally obtain justice, he wonders whether justice is enough, when revenge is what he craves.
Available here:
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Read the first chapter here:
Chapter One
She answered the door on the sixth knock.
He knew that because he had counted.
Six knocks, thirty seconds between knocks, three minutes.
He’d raised his hand to give her the seventh, seeing as how seven was his lucky number and three and half minutes was as long as he was prepared to wait, but she’d beaten him to it. All the same, six knocks. These weren’t palatial penthouse apartments, they were studios. What had taken her so long? Delays in answering the door in this neighborhood were usually accompanied by the sounds of flushed toilets. On this occasion there was silence.
When the door finally opened, she left the chain on, which he supposed was smart, but didn’t make his job any easier or quicker. He had a hot date waiting. He checked his watch. If she was still waiting that is.
Taking out his badge, he flashed it through the crack in the door. “Ma’am, New York Police Department, Detective Connell.” He made an effort to speak slowly and clearly, wondering if they were old and whether that explained the delay in answering. “You called in a report about a hit and run. I’d like to speak with you, ask you a few questions.”
He pulled his badge away just in time to avoid his hand being jammed as the door slammed closed. Rolling his eyes, he checked his watch again. She definitely wouldn’t be waiting now. She’d be on her way home and deleting his number from her phone. That was twice he’d stood her up; she wouldn’t let him make it three. And that was a shame - she was a sweet looking lady, and no fool either. No matter he told himself that it was probably for the best in the long run.
He was about to give her the seventh knock, when he heard the chain being slid. Placing a hand on the weapon holstered under his left arm, he watched as the door swung slowly inwards. All he needed now was some geriatric cop-hater to come barrelling out with a sawed-off walking cane, so he stood off to one side of the door, just in case.
Connell had drawn the short straw on this case. Everyone else on the squad had more important things to do on a Friday night than chase down old ladies who may or may not have seen an accident. He had more important things to do too. He’d been close to getting laid after all. But he was on thin ice and his arrest rate was looking grim. He’d been spending far too much time on impossible cases and this looked like an easy one. Find the old lady, confirm her statement and sign off on the case. Maybe his date would wait. Maybe pigs would fly.
“Honey, is your mom at home?” he asked the young girl who peered anxiously at him from behind the door. She was slender and pale, with a mop of unruly dark curls and wide dark eyes. Her feet, resting one atop the other, were bare, her toenails painted a vivid pink. She wore faded jeans with holes at the knees and a baggy grey T-shirt.
Connell took in her slight frame in seconds and discarded her. It was a necessary skill - identify and eliminate any risks - certainly in this neighborhood. “I’m looking for a … ” He pulled out his notebook and checked the name he’d scrawled down back at the station “ … Mrs. Jones, Mrs. Elizabeth Jones.”
The girl nodded, opened the door wide and he realized his gift for on-the-spot identification was slipping. She wasn’t a young girl; she was a young woman who looked like she hadn’t been sleeping too well and he knew exactly how that felt.
“I’m Mrs. Jones,” she said hesitantly in a soft, British accent. “You’d better come in.”
Connell wasn’t often surprised. In his line of work it was a necessary requirement to be cool and shock proof, or at the very least to give that appearance to the public, but she was definitely not what he’d been expecting. She was far too young to begin with, she didn’t look old enough to be Mrs. Anybody and she didn’t sound like the voice on the tape. The voice had been muffled, admittedly, but had sounded older and certainly not British. Either she hadn’t made the call or the voice had been deliberately disguised. He narrowed his eyes. The first of his inner alarm bells had just gone off.
He followed her into the room. If she wasn’t what he’d expected, then the room certainly was. It was typical of a thousand more in the neighborhood. Close your eyes, stick a pin in a map and you couldn’t fail to come up with a place like this. Short-term, low-rent housing where absentee landlords turned a blind eye and made a killing off the backs of the poor. Shabby without the chic, it consisted of a studio apartment complete with bathroom. The furniture was old, the carpet thin, and the hotplate that passed for a stove should’ve been condemned. There was a moldy smell overlaid by a thin scent of perfume. He knew nothing about this girl, yet he knew that she didn’t belong here.
He held out his hand, left it hanging in midair for a matter of seconds and withdrew it with an awkward shrug when she shifted her gaze, avoiding his eyes and his shake. She was nervous and he wondered why. He wasn’t a scary guy, though there were plenty in his squad that were. He made allowances for the fact that nobody liked to have cops at the door. She didn’t sound like a local and she’d just witnessed a death.
“I was expecting someone older,” he said.
“Oh.”
No explanation, just “oh”, as if that was all that was needed. She was waiting for him to continue and he recognized the type: polite, reserved and intelligent, and apparently not much of a talker, especially to the police. He’d initiated this visit and it was obvious she intended to let him do all the work. He wondered why she’d called it in if she didn’t want to get involved.
“You made a 911 call about a hit and run. I’m just here to take some more details.” He tried a smile, the infamous Connell charm offensive. It seemed to work as she smiled back at him nervously. “It was you who made the call?” he added uncertainly.
“Yes, it was. How did you find me?” she asked. “I didn’t leave my address.”
“We traced your call. You called from the lobby downstairs. It wasn’t difficult.”
The janitor had been very helpful, particularly when offered ten bucks. Sure there was a Mrs. Jones, third floor, apartment 13A. He smiled again - he really wanted to ask her why she didn’t have a cell phone, why she’d chosen to leave no contact details, why she didn’t really want to be found - but decided to leave those questions for later.
“Please have a seat,” she said, good manners returning. As there was only one, piled with books, he sat on the edge of the bed to the accompaniment of creaking iron springs. “Would you like some tea?” she asked with forced brightness, her cheeks a little flushed, her eyes showing the merest glimmer of alarm. “Or perhaps you’d prefer coffee. I have both.”
Glancing at the stack of free sample packets on the counter top, he wondered if she’d filled her pockets at the local diner. “Tea is fine, ma’am, if it’s no trouble.” His date was undoubtedly blown out of the water by now. He had no reason to hurry and his curiosity was piqued. There was something about her manner that was odd and Connell found anything odd intriguing.
Connell scanned the room as she filled the kettle and turned on the gas beneath the aged hotplate, wincing as the gas ignited, thankful that it didn’t explode. She only had one cup that he could see, and apart from the freebie tea and coffee, he couldn’t see any food. So she ate out a lot. That wasn’t a crime, but again it was odd. In this part of the city people tended to stay indoors after dark.
There were three books on the chair and a small suitcase under the bed that he could feel against foot. No TV, no radio, not even a clock. He glanced through the open door at the ancient bathroom. A lone toothbrush stood propped on the cracked porcelain sink, her coat hung on the back of the door, but other than that, there was nothing personal at all, and certainly nothing to suggest a long stay or a Mr. Jones.
He took out his notebook again. He’d found that most people were happier talking to the cops if you made it look official. “Mrs. Jones, Elizabeth. Can I call you Elizabeth?”
“Lizzie is fine,” she replied. Her small delicate hands shook slightly as she handed him his tea. “I’m sorry, I don’t have any milk or biscuits either.” She flushed, seemingly embarrassed to be so ill-prepared for visitors. Obviously didn’t get many.
She didn’t have another cup either, so she did without, moving the books from the single chair to sit cross-legged upon it, her feet tucked in somehow in some weird yoga position, the books in her lap. He thought he was a pretty fit guy, light on his feet, no stranger to the gym, but he knew he could never tangle himself up like that. Respect to her agility, he would have fallen off the chair.
He liked her voice. The softness made a welcome change from the nasal New York accent he was used to. He decided it was time he heard some more of it. “So what brings you to New York, Lizzie?”
It was one of those ice breakers. He could’ve chosen the weather if the weather had been remarkable in any way, or the football results if the Yankee’s had played recently, anything to put the witness at ease. He’d chosen the fact she was obviously a visitor because he thought it would give them a safe topic of conversation where maybe she would tell him she was taking a year off after college and was travelling the world, and he would confess in turn that it was something he wished he could have done. In the process he would size her up and get a handle on who she was and whether she was a credible witness.
But the look on her face when he asked the question told him far more than he’d hoped. She hesitated, just for a moment, but it was enough to set off his second alarm.
“You said you needed more details about the hit and run,” she said, ignoring his question. “There’s really not much more to tell. A man got knocked down and I called 911. That’s it, really.” She pulled at her hair, stretching and twirling at the curls nervously.
He made a note in his book to check with immigration and raised his head and looked at her; wrong answer. But if that was the way she wanted to play it, he could cut the small talk and get straight down to business, only he liked small talk and she was cute.
“How long have you been in the country?” he asked directly.
“Five days,” she replied and he threw her a glance. Only five days, he hadn’t expected that.
“So you witnessed the incident on the day you arrived? Quite a welcome, huh?”
“Mm, these things happen, I suppose.” She shrugged delicately and he watched as she began to chew at her bottom lip. He was glad he wasn’t in a hurry anymore. This was going to take awhile. He loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. “Why did you call it in?”
She looked a little surprised at his question. “Because it was the right thing to do, wasn’t it?”
Good answer, honest answer. He hoped it was the first of many. “Sure it was,” he replied, “but not everyone is so public spirited. Most people would just turn the other way and keep on walking.”
“Oh.” Again, with the “Oh”, but this time he translated it as Wish I’d thought of that.
“I see you like to read.”
“Sorry?”
He’d thrown her by his change of direction and he’d continue to do so until she told him what he wanted to know. He gestured to her lap. “What are you reading?” He could see that one was an A to Z of New York. God, that would put anyone to sleep, but necessary to find your way around a strange city. Actually, strike that! If he needed to find his way around a strange city, he’d just grab a cab.
“Oh, nothing special.” She patted the paperbacks gently with her hand and gave another little shrug. “They’re just what I picked up for the journey to while away the time.”
All three books were well thumbed, including the A to Z. Three books, in five days, that was pretty quick. “So you haven’t done much sightseeing yet?”
“Um, no, not really,” she replied.
She kept glancing toward the door. She either wanted out of it or she was expecting someone to come through it, he wasn’t sure which. But her nervousness was catching and he found himself tensing slightly in case it was the latter. He paused, let her sit a moment and took his time drinking his tea. “Have you been anywhere since you got here?” he asked.
“Um, no, not really,”
He could hear the reluctant admittance in her voice. She found his questions invasive but good manners prevented her from saying so. Why she would find questions about her visit uncomfortable interested him. Why she’d stayed in her room for five whole days interested him more.
“Okay, so you flew in five days ago, from where?”
“London.”
“London Heathrow?” he asked and she nodded. “You got any I.D.?”
“I.D.?”
He wondered if she was being deliberately vague or maybe she was a little slow. “Identity details, drivers licence, passport?” He tried another smile. “You know how it works. I show you mine and you show me yours.”
She missed the joke entirely. “Oh, yes, sorry.” She unfolded her legs, and with visible reluctance got down from the chair. He moved his feet as she slipped her bag from under the bed. The bag wasn’t huge and she dug around in it quickly before pulling out the passport. He noticed the soft inhalation of a held breath as she handed the document to him.
Connell flicked through it, noted the passport was new, that she hadn’t travelled anywhere prior to arriving in the US, and although her photo didn’t do her justice, the likeness wasn’t bad. Better than his, anyway. He did a quick calculation with her date of birth and decided she looked younger than thirty, way younger. He flicked his gaze between the girl and her photo; good genes maybe. Turning the passport over in his hands, he felt the material it was made from, flicked through the empty pages again, noted the travel documents stuffed in the back, had absolutely no reason to doubt its validity, but …
“I’ll hang on to this, if you don’t mind.” He slipped it into his jacket and took note as her breath quickened with poorly masked alarm.
“Is that allowed?” she asked casually as she resumed her seat.
He cocked his head, trying to memorize the sequence in which she tangled her knees and feet, but she did it so quickly that he didn’t quite get it.
“Sure it’s allowed,” he replied with a smile. “If you’d stayed at a hotel you’d have had to leave it at the desk anyway.” He wondered fleetingly whether she’d believe his bluff on that or not. He knew it was true in Europe and hoped she hadn’t been to any hotels and didn’t know it didn’t apply here. “You’ll get it back, don’t worry.”
“What do you need it for?” she asked.
She was a little too anxious. “Just procedure,” he answered vaguely.
“Okay,” she replied. He was sure she wasn’t okay but was too polite to refuse. “But what if someone asks to see it in the meantime?”
“Are you planning on going somewhere in the meantime?” He was interested in where that might be, considering her apparent reluctance to leave her room. She shook her head. No, he didn’t think so. “So, you came straight from the airport to this place, and on the way here, you witnessed a hit and run.”
“Um, yes.”
“Were you traveling alone Mrs. Jones - Lizzie?” He could easily check but he wanted to ask. He was interested in her reactions and was rewarded by further hesitation. Strike three on his alarm register.
“Yes, I was.”
“No Mr. Jones?”
“No.”
“Why here? Why, this neighborhood?”
“Why not?”
“It’s pretty rough around here. We don’t see many tourists. Why not go to a hotel?”
She stared into space for a moment and he could tell she was asking herself the same question, and finding difficulty coming up with an answer. “I just ended up here … I’m not really sure how. Does that sound odd?” She looked back at him and blinked slowly. She had the longest eyelashes he’d ever seen, but she could quit with the fluttering, he hadn’t been born yesterday.
Of course it sounded odd, but he almost swallowed it. There was a strange innocence about her that made him think, yeah, that might have happened. She could have just wandered all the way from the airport and just happened to stroll through one of the roughest areas in the city, seen a man get killed and somehow managed to rent herself into the nearest ghetto apartment she saw. Yeah sure! Those pigs were flying again.
“Not at all. Did you get a cab from the airport?” Again it was easy to check.
“Yes.”
“And where did you get dropped off?”
She began to fiddle with the closest book on her lap, folding down the corner of the first page and then unfolding it again. “I can’t really remember. Is it relevant?” she asked. Connell smiled again and shook his head. He could check that as well.
“No, not really, I’m just trying to understand what brought you to the spot where you witnessed what you saw. Just building a picture in my mind, that’s all.”
“Oh.” Again that single word, which came out almost as a sigh - relief, maybe? Just what was she relieved about.
Time to get down to business. “Tell me what you saw.”
She took a breath. “I was waiting to cross the road; it was busy and noisy. I’m not used to so much traffic. It was a little scary.”
“Isn’t London busy?” he asked.
“I flew from London, but I’m not from London, I don’t live there.”
“Where are you from?” he asked. She had walked into that one without realizing it.
“The middle of nowhere.” She smiled wistfully. “We don’t even have a bus service.”
She had a sweet smile, he decided, with little dimples in her cheeks.
“So what brought you here?” Back to his first question. It had taken some time but he had her now.
“This and that,” she replied, and the smile vanished along with the dimples. Okay, so he didn’t have her yet.
“So you were waiting at the crosswalk.”
“Yes, and everyone surged across. People were pushing and shoving rather rudely and I hesitated. The cars were still coming.”
He knew what she meant. You literally took your life in your hands crossing streets in this town. Usually it was easier to go with the flow. The trick was to make sure you were in the middle, out of harm’s way, and if someone pushed, then you pushed back even harder. It wasn’t rude, it was survival, though he couldn’t imagine her pushing anyone. “And then what?”
“He was on the other side, coming toward me, and he hesitated too.” She gazed into space and Connell watched her carefully, recognizing the look of someone who was choosing their words thoughtfully, walking a narrow line with extreme caution. It distracted him. She distracted him. “Then suddenly he stepped out and a car hit him … ” She faltered and he noted how her eyes widened as she relived the moment. “He was flung into the air and landed on the bonnet.”
That part was real, he decided. Even if everything else she’d said was a pile of crap, she couldn’t have faked that look in her eyes. He’d seen it before, many times - shock, disbelief, and a touch of fear.
“So you saw him before he was hit and by bonnet do you mean the hood, the front of the car?” Out of all of those people waiting on the opposite curb, she had zeroed in on him. That was quite a coincidence.
She hesitated. “Well, yes, I mean yes to both, I saw him before and yes it was on the hood as you call it.”
“How did he look?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know what you mean. He just looked normal, a man waiting to cross the road.” Her pale cheeks reddened slightly and she dipped her head as if aware of the change, and anxious that he shouldn’t notice.
Oh yeah, she was definitely playing him along now. He just couldn’t figure out why.
“Did he look distracted, happy, scared? Did he speak to anyone waiting with him at the curb? Did he look like he was about to throw himself under a car?” Why him?
“As I said, he hesitated and so did I, so he sort of caught my eye. I didn’t notice anything else about him.”
He considered her reply for a moment and decided to let it go. There was more than one way to find out the truth, and he was an expert at most of them.
“Okay, what kind of car?”
“I’ve no idea. I’m not good with cars.” She arched one eyebrow. “A big American car.”
“What color?”
“Black.”
“A big black American car,” he confirmed. “Could it have been a limousine?” He knew that it was. He had other witnesses who’d given the exact make and model, but he wanted to know what she’d seen and why she was the only one who’d called it a hit and run. Everyone else had simply seen an accident.
“Possibly.”
“Did you get a look at the driver?” Another hesitation and he was up to alarm bell level number four. Normally people were hauled in, or shot, by the time they got to four. He wasn’t known for his patience, but as seven was his lucky number and he didn’t have anything better to do, he decided to let her go on.
“No, the windows were tinted.” She shifted her gaze, looked at her feet, the books in her lap, anywhere but at him. And he so wanted to squeeze, just a little, to see what she would do. But he gave a lazy smile instead, and continued, “He didn’t stop and get out, and check if the man was okay?” He knew that he had. The other witnesses had confirmed it. He even had the name of the guy who’d been driving. He’d waited around for the ambulance and police to arrive and given a complete statement.
“No, I didn’t see anything else.”
Connell looked at what he’d written. There were only three words, each punctuated by a question mark:
Immigration?
Fear?
Lies?
Not much, but it was enough to go on. He’d also doodled four alarm bells.
He changed tack. “I’d like to speak with Mr. Jones.”
“Mr. Jones?”
“Yes, your husband - Mr. Jones.”
“I told you, he’s not here,” she replied quickly, too quickly, and the corner of the page came away in her hand. She looked at the fragment held between finger and thumb as if unsure what to do next. Tucking it back inside the cover of the book, she lowered her lashes and tried to avoid his gaze once more.
Well, of course he wasn’t here unless he was hiding under the bed. If he was here, and he was any kind of a man at all, she wouldn’t have read three books in five days. Maybe he’d just left. Maybe that explained the dark circles under her eyes. Maybe that explained the fear in her eyes. He’d seen too much in his line of work not to jump to the occasional conclusion.
“Was he with you when you witnessed the accident?”
“No, he wasn’t,” she replied, and reddened a little more.
“Where is he now?” he asked.
She was trying very hard not to look him in the eye and he tried very hard to make her. “He’s not here.”
“You said that already.” He waited for her to say 'Oh' again.
“He’s gone.”
Maybe not, maybe she’d run out of Oh's. “Okay, when will he be back?”
“I’m not sure.”
Well, that pretty much summed it up; she wasn’t sure of anything. He tried again. “Do you expect him to come back?”
“Not really, no.”
Connell added two more words to his list - Mr. Jones? - and underlined them. He gazed at her, giving her his most reassuring smile and one more opportunity to come clean. “Can you think of anything else you think I should know?”
“I’m not sure what it is that you think you should know.”
Now that was a little too clever and evasive for a little English cutie, and despite the cuteness, he was getting a little tired of the evasiveness. He sighed, folded his notebook and replaced it in his inside jacket pocket beside her passport. As he did, his jacket opened to reveal his holstered gun and he noticed how her eyes widened nervously when she caught sight of it. Okay, so she was English. English cops weren’t armed, so he could understand her reaction, but despite making allowances for her, he decided to leave his jacket open. It couldn’t hurt for her to realize that it was a mistake to play games with New York’s finest, and she was definitely playing something, probably him.
“Okay, Lizzie, let’s get this out in the open.” He rose from the bed, shoved his hands in his pants pockets and leaned casually against the back of the door. “I need to know why you saw a hit and run and everyone else saw an accident; why you didn’t see the driver and everyone else did; and why you’re lying to me. I don’t give a shit about why you’re here in the U.S., or whether your old man has taken off or not, but I do need to know what you saw, and I need the non-fiction version, not the one you made up when I walked in the door.”
Her mouth actually dropped open with shock. He’d never seen a reaction like that; that wasn’t a con. It looked real to him, and for a moment he thought he’d been wrong and that she’d been telling the truth after all. Then she snapped that sweet little mouth shut and he knew he was on the money.
She swallowed and glanced nervously past him at the door. He figured she was considering making a run for it which is exactly why he stayed where he was. No, he hadn’t gotten it wrong. She looked at the window, but he’d already written that off as a sorry plan. She was obviously in decent shape if her yoga moves were any indicator and it was possible that she might have the agility to make it out of the window and down the fire escape ahead of him, but no way did she have the muscle to raise it up and run because that sucker was painted shut.
He studied her expression as she considered her options, counted the seconds in his head and got to number seven, which was kinda weird, seven being his lucky number and all, and saw the exact moment when she gave it up.
Relief settled in her eyes as she gave a slight, hopeless shrug. “He was white, with white blond hair and sunglasses, an albino maybe, and he saw me, looked straight at me–and I ran.” It came out in a rush, as if she’d been hanging onto it with some effort.
“Who are we talking about here?”
“The driver.”
Connell paused, took a breath and continued. “Why did you run?”
“Because he saw me and I was scared that he’d come after me.”
He’d knocked a guy over. Big deal, it happened all the time, tragic, probably avoidable but an accident nonetheless. It wasn’t usual for drivers to jump out of their cars and set off after innocent witnesses. “Why would he come after you? It was just an accident.”
“No, it wasn’t, it was a hit and run and I saw what he did.”
“Do you know what a hit and run is?” Maybe it meant something else in England’s rural backwaters.
She looked at him squarely, raised an eyebrow, and he saw the tiniest glimmer of attitude sparkle in her dark eyes. “I’m English, not stupid. Of course I know what a hit and run is. It’s when someone hits someone else and then makes off so they don’t get caught.”
“But he didn’t make off, I mean take off. He waited around for the police and ambulance.”
“No, he didn’t. He got out of the car and disappeared into the crowd, but, before he did, he ran over the man twice to make sure he was dead.”
Connell stopped her with a raised palm. “Hang on, back up. You’re saying this albino guy knocks this man over, reversed over him on a busy street, then calmly got out of the car and walked away.”
“Not reversed, the man ….” she paused as if recalling the details. “… the man bounced off the bonnet, excuse me the hood, and landed in front of the car. The driver stopped, looked at me and then drove over him again.”
Connell tried to picture it, the guy bouncing off the hood. It seemed unlikely somehow. “How did you know he was dead?”
“Sorry?”
“You said he ran over him twice to make sure he was dead. How did you know he was dead?”
The girl blinked, uncertain, fearful almost. “Isn’t he dead?”
“Sure he’s dead, but how did you know that?”
She visibly relaxed, which he found strange considering they were discussing the death of a total stranger.
“He … he had no face left … afterwards, just lots of blood.”
He winced, yeah, that would do it. “Okay, but how come no one but you saw what the driver did?”
She shrugged again and he wished that she hadn’t. He was beginning to find the casual movement distracting. “I only know what I saw. I can’t speak for your witnesses.”
Connell wondered who the other witnesses were, made a mental note to check the file when he got back. He was starting to realize this wasn’t going to be the easy in and out case he’d been promised. “Do you think this guy got a good look at you?”
“Yes, he ... smiled at me.”
“He smiled at you?”
“Yes, but not in a nice way.” She closed her eyes briefly and winced. “More of a sneer, really. He had a gold tooth.”
Connell pulled his attention away from her shadowy downcast eyelids, evidence of many sleepless nights. “You were so close you could see his teeth?”
“I’d started to cross the road after the others. I stopped in the middle when it happened and he looked at me.”
“Did he say anything, do anything else?”
She hesitated a second, and when she replied there was a catch in her throat. “He did this.” She held up her right hand in the shape of a gun and the barrel of the gun shook.
No wonder she’d run, no wonder she was holed up here like someone in hiding, she probably was in hiding. “Do you believe that you might be in danger from him?”
There was a significant pause before her response. Connell suppressed a wry smile as he read the flush sweeping her face as she finally got her story straight and answered.
“You tell me. New York is a big place. I thought perhaps he wouldn’t be able to find me.”
“I found you easily enough.”
“But you’re the police.”
Connell looked away. If there was any truth at all in what she’d said and the albino was involved, then she was in more trouble than she imagined.
He knew of only one albino, Mo Pater, a man with glittering teeth. Connell knew all about Mo Pater and the organization he ran. Mo Pater was not the driver who’d waited for the emergency services, he knew that already. The guy who’d waited was a Clifford Reay, fifty-four years old, first day on the job and he was going to lose his licence. He’d been so upset about the accident, ended up going to the ER in the back of the ambulance, but anyone could be bought with enough money, including witnesses.
He knew that all too well.
He needed to look into the victim, wasn’t sure whether he’d been I.D.’d yet. Why would Mo want to kill some random guy? It didn’t make sense. But, then again, neither did Mrs. Jones.
Pulling away from the door, he crossed to the window. She had a wonderful view here, lots of fire escapes and garbage cans.
“What are you really doing here?” he asked again.
“Waiting,” she replied.
“For what?” He looked at her when she failed to answer. She had amassed a small pile of shredded paper on her lap. Her hands were still shaking.
“For someone to help me,” she whispered and she drew up her knees, wrapped her shaking hands around them and hugged them tightly.
He looked around again at the room. There was nothing here. Had she been holed up here for the last five days with nothing to eat and no one to turn to? She’d done the right thing. She’d called it in and then waited five whole days for someone to find her. He felt a twist in his gut. “Do you know anyone in New York?”
“No.”
“What about Mr. Jones?”
“He’s not coming back.”
“Why not?”
She replied with that little shrug again. He decided it said far more than any words she could have uttered. She was scared and alone, and a long way from home. Not a good place to be.
“Then we need to get you out of here.”
“I can’t go home,” she said. “Not yet.” She scrubbed at her eyes with the heel of her hand. He hadn’t noticed that she’d been crying. The tears had rolled silently down her cheeks while he’d been trying to trip her up. Probably relief, but she needn’t have worried. No way was she going home. Not yet, anyway. He had her passport.
More importantly, if she was telling the truth - and that was one hell of an if - she was the witness he’d dreamed about for the last two years. She was the witness who was going to help him close the biggest case of his career and the worst chapter of his life.
He stepped to the door, cracked it open and looked down the hall. It was empty. He crossed the landing and looked down the stairwell. He was being paranoid - there was no one there - but she’d just jumped to number ten on his alarm system, and by rights that meant she should be dead already. “Well, you can’t stay here,” he added as he came back into the room. “Get your stuff, you’re coming with me.”
“Where to?”
“Somewhere safe”
“Is there such a place … somewhere safe?”
“Sure there is. As long as you’re with me, you’re somewhere safe.”
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