Game (Jasper Dent #2)(68)

Guilty people knew. They always knew. They lived in fear that they would be forced to account for their whereabouts during their crime, so they crafted their lies with great care and loving attention to detail.

“Ever been to Coney Island?” Hughes asked more gruffly than the question demanded. “Down the boardwalk?”

Hershey wasn’t intimidated. “What, are you kidding me? Who hasn’t been to Coney Island?”

“You go this past November, maybe?” Hughes leaned across the table as though he would beat the answer out of Hershey, who pulled back a bit in his chair.

“Settle down,” Morales said, putting a calming hand on her partner’s shoulder. “Can you just think back, Mr. Hershey, and tell us if you remember going to Coney Island? I kind of like it there in the off-season. Not as many tourists. I went myself in October. Can you remember?”

Hershey shrugged. “Hell if I can remember exactly. Probably, though. Usually get down that way a couple, three times a month, you know? My wife’s mom lives in Bay Ridge.”

“Of course,” said Morales, smiling.

After about an hour of back-and-forth softball and hardball with Morales and Hughes, Hershey seemed annoyed and frustrated. Which is exactly how Jazz expected an innocent man to act.

“It could be a con job,” Montgomery reminded him. “These guys are good at wearing masks.”

Yeah, Jazz knew that. He was pretty good at wearing masks himself, and he prided himself on being able to see through them.

Then again, there was Jeff Fulton/Frederick Thurber/the Impressionist. That had been a mask made out of lead. Not even Jazz’s X-ray vision had been able to see through it.

Just then, Hughes made a show of standing up and stretching, as though trying to work out a kink in his neck. That was the sign that they were done with this guy.

“Not the guy,” someone in the observation room said. One of the FBI guys.

Told you, Jazz didn’t say.

He didn’t need to. Montgomery looked over at him and lifted an eyebrow that seemed to say, Well, yeah, okay.

“What were the odds it would be the first one?” Montgomery said.

What are the odds it’ll be any of them? Jazz wondered. How many people live in Brooklyn? In the whole of New York City? The profile was good; the task force had done a tremendous job. But they were still looking for a chameleon in heavy weeds.

“Next victim,” someone deadpanned.

“Anyone need coffee?”

Jazz sighed.




The sun shone brightly overhead when Connie started digging in what had once been the backyard of Billy Dent’s house. She quickly became overheated and should have taken a break, but instead she just peeled off layers and kept digging, sweat streaming down her face even though it was freezing outside.

A persistent beeping noise began, repeating over and over—three quick beeps, followed by a pause, then three again. She ignored it and kept digging.

CHAKK

Her shovel hit something, and as she peered down into the hole she’d dug, she was horrified to see a flap of hair and flesh pared away from gleaming white bone by the tooth of her shovel.

Beep-beep-beep.

“Don’t go chasing…”

Someone was buried here. She had found a body.

Don’t.

Go.

Cha-

-sing…

Swallowing, she kept digging, trying not to strike the body again. The police would want it intact, wouldn’t they?

Beep-beep-beep.

She cleared more dirt away from the head and bit back a scream of absolute terror.

Beep-beep-beep.

It was Jazz.

She’d found Jazz buried in his own backyard. She would know that face anywhere. Recognize that nose, those lips…

But how? How could Jazz be buried here? And oh, God, if he was down here, then who—what?—had she been dating and kissing and almost sleeping with all these months?

Connie took a step back, dropping the shovel, and a hand came around her from behind and she tried to scream and then she opened her eyes and almost without thinking reached out to slap her alarm clock, silencing it halfway through a sequence of Beep-beep-beep.

Oh, God, she thought, and touched her chest, feeling her heart race exactly as it had just now in the dream. Oh, thank God.




“Look who’s joining us for breakfast on a Saturday,” Mom said, pleased, when Connie appeared in the kitchen. The rest of the family was already there at the table, Dad wearing a tie, which meant he had to go into the office even though it was a weekend. Ugh. The only work Connie ever wanted to do on a weekend was a Sunday matinee performance on Broadway.

“You’re quiet this morning,” said Dad as she poured milk over her cereal.

“She’s tired from sneaking around the house all night,” Whiz said helpfully. Connie shot him a dirty look.

“What’s this?” Dad asked, clearing his throat and suddenly taking tremendous interest in his daughter. “Sneaking?”

“Something woke me up,” she lied. “I thought I heard something, so I went to check on Whiz.” She glared at him. “I should have let the boogeyman take him.”

“I’ll show you boogies!” Whiz cried, and went for his nose with one finger.

“Wisdom!” Mom said sharply. “If you stick that finger in your nose, you will lose it, do you hear me?”