Detective Carson Ryder Thriller Series Books 4-6: Blood Brother, In the Blood, Little Girls Lost - J. Kerley A.

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older cop grunted as he climbed into the car. “He fit the height and weight. Same face shape, too. Chances are Ridgecliff’s fifty blocks away and looking like a bum, but everyone’s guilty until I check ‘em out.”

      “Tarde boa, chefe.” Jeremy said, waving at the departing cruiser. He picked up his cup, tucked his axe away, and continued down the sidewalk deep in thought. It was a minor incident, but it had made him aware of the sudden increase in cops on the street. Some of them would be like the guy he’d just dealt with, a street animal, seen it all, suspicious of it all. Carson had said there were cops who could smell guilt on a perp’s breath.

      He decided it would be good to keep a weapon in reserve in case something or someone got in the way of his plans. Nothing so primitive as an axe, of course, though the hands-on aspect was a pleasant thought. He needed something bigger, totally unexpected …

      And as powerful as lightning.

      I paced the floor for an hour until Folger, Cluff and Bullard returned from the homeless camp. Folger stripped off the jacket of her gray business ensemble, tossed it over a chair beside mine. I smelled a wisp of clean body warmth and perfume and caught my eyes studying the way her skirt hem slid across her geometrically perfect knees.

      “Ridgecliff seems to have gone underground, Ryder. But people there claim to see him every night. He’ll return to the roost sooner or later.”

      “We planted two dozen surveillance people planted in the area,” Bullard crowed. “Plus two undercovers in the camp itself. He’s nailed.”

      It didn’t work for me because I knew my brother. He hated dirty people and cold cereal with equal vigor. I sat in the corner and pictured the brother I knew. I could see him visiting the encampment, tossing a box of cereal or two to the ground, then paying or otherwise convincing psychologically wounded people to claim to have seen him on a regular basis, loading their answers with misinformation. Given the people Jeremy would select, they’d believe it themselves after several repetitions.

      The cops were wasting their time. Jeremy delighted in sending people into mazes where every path led to a wall. It was on me to do something.

      I stood, picked up a metal chair, banged it on the floor. All conversation stopped, every eye turned to me.

      “He’s not around the homeless camp,” I said. “Not even close. He went there once, a misdirection. He’s not coming back.”

      “You got a reason for that conviction, Ryder?” Folger said.

      “Anytime you think you’ve got him figured out, it’s a set-up. Jeremy Ridgecliff is playing you. And unless you stop running in circles and start listening to me, he’s going to keep playing you.”

      “You’ve finally managed to get my attention,” Folger said.

       Chapter 13

      I stepped to the front of the room, feeling the stares.

      “First order of business …” I said. “Forget the homeless camp; he’ll be a forever no-show. Then shitcan any searches in the other boroughs. Ridgecliff won’t leave Manhattan.”

      Bullard said, “Total bullshit. The loony will hide wherever he can find a –”

      “Zip it, Detective,” Folger said. She shot a glance at Waltz, then dropped the big eyes back on me. “Waltz told me your hunch that Ridgecliff would stay in Manhattan. I didn’t believe Waltz then, I don’t believe you now. Here’s your chance to change my mind with actual proof.”

      “There is no proof with Ridgecliff, Lieutenant. You get my gut instincts. Right now they’re the best thing you’ve got.”

      Bullard slapped the desk. “We’re the fucking NYPD, Ryder. We don’t need your gut inst—”

      “Shut up,” Folger snapped at Bullard. “Tell me about Ridgecliff, Ryder. Have your gut sing me a song.”

      I started pacing the floor, snapping my fingers, skin tingling, hairs prickling on the back of my neck, a hunger in my innards that had nothing to do with food. I had what Harry called the predator’s rush, the mind energizing the body for the hunt.

      “Ridgecliff will only leave Manhattan if he’s cornered. He’s not cornered, so he’s here. To leave would be perceived as a loss of face.”

      Bullard said, “Makes no fucking sense. Why would Brooklyn or Queens be a loss of face?”

      “It would be a retreat, signifying we had control.”

      “The ego thing,” Waltz affirmed.

      Folger said, “Refresh my memory. How much time did you spend with this guy over the years?”

      I pretended to make calculations in my head. “Upwards of a hundred hours, Lieutenant. Enough to know how he thinks.”

      Bullard snorted. “How Ridgecliff thinks? Christ. How long are we going to listen to this psychobubba bullshit?”

      Folger said, “Get out, Detective Bullard.”

      “Huh?”

      “Out. Go work one of your other cases.”

      Bullard reddened, started to argue. Folger held her finger up like a warning flare and Bullard slunk away, shooting me angry backward glances, like everything was my fault. Folger closed the door at Bullard’s back. She leaned against the green wall and crossed her arms, aiming the liquid browns at me.

      “OK, Ryder, you own the floor. Give us your take.”

      “Forget the bum disguise, he’d consider it demeaning. Plus it positions him in a social stratum often targeted by law enforcement. He’ll pick a social station above police work.”

      When Cluff grunted disbelief, I said, “Who would you rather roust: a skid-row crackhead or a guy wearing an Armani suit?”

      Cluff nodded grudgingly. “The suit might have a wise-ass lawyer to make my life miserable.”

      “Ridgecliff knows that. And that dressing like money might buy him time to book.”

      “Or push a knife in your heart,” Cluff noted.

      Folger said, “So no blue-collar disguise either?”

      “He’ll be a businessman type. It’s a broad category, but it’ll allow him to dress upscale. There’s another reason: Ridgecliff’s been forced to wear variations on pajamas and sweatsuits for fourteen years, institutional clothing. He wants to look good.”

      “Ego again,” Waltz said. “I’m beginning to get it.”

      For the first time since I’d landed at LaGuardia, I felt in control. Of my mind. Of my choices. Of my direction. Fear, guilt, sorrow, self-pity, all had somehow been pushed to the walls, and the electricity of the hunt danced alone on center floor.

      “What color suit is he wearing right now?” Cluff asked, sarcasm thick in his voice. “Solid? Pinstripe?”

      “How about double breasted?” Waltz said. “It worked for George Metesky.”

      Cluff frowned. “Metesky? The Mad Bomber?”

      “It was 1956. The Mad Bomber had been on the loose for over fifteen years. The NYPD, completely lost, asked psychiatrist James Brussel to profile the Bomber. Brussel suggested the perp’s approximate age, demeanor, origin … even predicted the Bomber would be wearing a double-breasted suit when he got nailed.”

      Cluff held up his hands in protest. “You ain’t gonna tell me that really happened.”

      “It didn’t. When Metesky was arrested at his home, he was wearing pajamas.”

      Cluff said, “Ha!”

      “It

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