Game (Jasper Dent #2)(87)

But where does he keep the real trophies? The body parts he took? Where does he keep his killing gear? Weapons? Rope? Tape? Knives?

Suddenly, Jazz focused beyond the secure folder, noticing for the first time Belsamo’s desktop pattern.

It was a crystal-clear photo of a black bird. Some sort of crow or raven.

He remembered the noise Belsamo had made in the interrogation room. Some sort of cawing sound. Just like a crow…

What is going on here? A chill ran up both of Jazz’s arms and rippled across his shoulders for a split second. He imagined his Yosemite Sam tat shivering. A crow. The Crow King… the story… oh—

The ring of a phone made Jazz jump. Had he not silenced his phone before sneaking in here? What an idiotic—

No. The sound was coming from a corner of the bookcase. Jazz scrambled over and noticed three identical cell phones there. One of them was ringing, and Jazz snatched it up and opened it before thinking it through.

Before he could say anything, a voice said, “Nine. Five and four. Nine.” A chuckle. “Looks like you’ll be staying close to home again, eh?”

Jazz couldn’t swallow. Couldn’t breathe. He knew the voice.

It was his father.





CHAPTER 39


Jazz struggled for words—for thoughts—unable to filter either. He had suspected, on some level, that Billy was involved with Hat-Dog, but now to have confirmation…

“Did you hear me?” Billy said, voice now stern and icy. “I said nine. If I don’t hear a response, you’re going to help me redefine misery.”

A response. What kind of response could Billy possibly want? Every second—every millisecond—that Jazz hesitated, his father was gathering information, processing it. Jazz had to act. Quickly.

“I understand,” he said. There had to be more. “Nine is confirmed,” he went on, fighting to disguise his voice. He was pretty good at this—he had a decent range of voices to fall back on, none of them related to any specific person, but all of them different from his own. Right now, he was going for as close to Belsamo as he had in his repertoire, a sort of grim yet uncertain bass. He usually used it on the assistant principal at school when he needed to get out of a class.

And now… what? Hang up? Jazz waited, just in case his father had something else to say.

Dead air for a moment. And then just a heartbeat too long. Jazz realized he should have hung up.

Belsamo would have known exactly what to say. And how to say it. Just my luck he leaves his phones home when Billy decides to call. What are the odds?

The same odds, he figured, as any other mistake a serial killer would make.

“Nine is confirmed?” Billy asked in slightly perturbed amusement. “ ‘Nine is confirmed,’ eh?”

If he hung up now, Billy would know something was wrong, would know that it wasn’t Belsamo who’d answered. Jazz had no choice—he had to try to keep Billy on the line, keep him talking. Learn whatever he could.

“Nine,” Jazz repeated. What would Billy want—“ Thank you,” he said.

“Well, now,” Billy said, “that’s mighty kind of you to say! You’re quite welcome.” A beat. “Jasper.”

Busted.

“I was wonderin’ when I’d be hearing from you, son! Are you enjoying New York? It’s a hell of a town, isn’t it? I should have come here years ago.”

So much for disguising his voice. Jazz shot a panicked glance at the door. Belsamo could come back at any moment. Stay here and gab with Billy? Or run?

While he tried to decide, he said, “New York’s not bad. So, I know why I came. What brings you to the Big Apple? Just playing some kind of game with the Hat-Dog Killer?”

Billy laughed. “Oh, hell, Jasper. You like firing off words at me, thinkin’ one of ’em’ll get some kinda reaction, don’t you? Anyhow—I didn’t come to New York for Hat-Dog. I came to New York for… well, I came here looking for someone special.” Now Billy sounded almost wistful. “And fortunately, I found what I was lookin’ for.”

Someone special. Who was Billy’s latest prospect?

“But speakin’ of someone special,” Billy went on, “I been meaning to talk to you about your little lady friend.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, sure you do! You think the Impressionist was runnin’ around Lobo’s Nod all that time, spying on you, without stuff getting back to me? You got jungle fever, Jasper! You got yourself some dark meat!” He sounded highly amused. Almost giddy.

Jazz gritted his teeth. Billy knew. About Connie. The thought terrified him more than anything else had in his life. It frightened him more than the power he knew he possessed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lied, amazed that he could keep a tremble out of his voice.

“Oh, yes, you do. Oh, yes, you surely do, young man!” Billy sounded like a parody of a lecturing schoolmarm for a moment. “You know precisely what I’m talking about. That girlfriend of yours.”

Jazz glanced around wildly, as though Billy were spying on him right now. He had to leave. Now. He made for the door and slipped out into the hallway. “What do you mean? What girlfriend?”

Now Billy’s voice turned stern. “Don’t go lying to me, boy. You ain’t so big and so old that I can’t whup you with my belt like my old man done to me. Or maybe I’ll just cut off one of your girlfriend’s fingers for you. Sort of like old times, you know?”