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

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the cake. Mama disappears into her room to sew, like she always did. A week later, Ridgecliff kills his father.”

      Waltz studied my eyes. “You never told me any of that.”

      “Uh, I just remembered it, Shelly. But it’s what Jeremy Ridgecliff’s always told himself: He killed the father to save the brother.”

      Shelly offered an enigmatic smile.

      “Wonder what the brother thinks?”

      I shrugged, spun away quick, an odd tingle rising up my spine. I left Shelly to his work, hoping Jeremy had received my message.

       Chapter 27

      It was late afternoon and the streets were filling with people heading home from work. I was walking quickly, dodging bodies, when my phone rang. I pulled it out, jumped into the recessed storefront of an electronics store to keep from being trampled. Cameras, binoculars, flashlights, cellphones, and every kind of MP3 player filled the window at my back.

      “Hey, Carson, Tom Mason.”

      “Hey, Tom, great to hear from you again. What’s happening?”

      “I got a call from Rick Saunders up in Pickens County, State Police. He said some guy’s been calling around about the Ridgecliff case. Pickens County is where the family was living when the kid killed his old man. The family rented a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere.”

      My home, a million years ago. Fear rose to my throat like a lump of iron. A crowd of Oriental tourists walked to the window, pointing at the glittering electronic booty. I turned away and cupped the phone to my ear as Tom continued.

      “The caller was that Waltz fellow. He was real interested in the family. I take it there was a younger kid, Ridgecliff’s brother, who seems to have fallen off the face of the earth.”

      “Probably just Shelly checking loose ends, making sure Ridgecliff hasn’t holed up with relatives.”

      “Doesn’t sound like there are any, ’cept this one kid. Guess he’d be in his mid-thirties or so.”

      “I imagine he put a lot of gone between him and the family, Tom. I would.”

      “Can’t blame him. Anyway, what I was gonna tell you, since things are a bit slow down here, knock wood –” I heard Tom rap his desk – “if you need Harry to take some more time and check out the Ridgecliff history a bit, don’t hesitate to ask. You can pass that on to Waltz as well.”

      “Got it, Tom, though I expect it was just another shot in the dark.”

      “Stay safe, see you soon.”

      When I closed the phone, I couldn’t walk and leaned against the store for support. I must have been breathing, but I couldn’t feel any air in my lungs.

      Shelly Waltz was digging in my past.

      Jeremy Ridgecliff’s pre-paid cellphone rang. He set aside the newspaper and pulled the phone from his pocket. Folger was supine in a box, bound with tape, a pillow beneath her head, eyes wide, watching. Her mouth was stuffed with a washcloth, the cloth secured with bands of tape. The box was hand-painted with the legend, Antiques: Handle With Extreme Care. This Side Up. An arrow denoted the Up side.

      Jeremy brought the phone to his mouth, leaned over the box. He frowned at Folger and switched to a nasal Yankee voice, an older homosexual man, what they used to call a queen.

      “Mr Matapang? Of course I’ll give him a reference. Honesto is a darling man, rents our cabin in Vail every year. We do an exchange with him now and then, he stays in our cottage on the Vineyard, we use his, get this … villa in Manila. He collects parrots … No, not real ones, cloisonné parrots, ruby eyes, that sort of thing, stunningly pricey and just to die for. He’s absolutely a sumptuous find.”

      He hung up, set the phone on the table, waited. It rang.

      This time he answered with his new voice and identity, a gay Filipino male in his forties. According to the newspaper, Senhor Caldiera had been discovered. Carson, no doubt. Snitch.

      “… Yes? Wonderful Mr Dammler. I can’t wait to get settled in. You have my money order? Splendid. Could you leave the key at your office? I’ll send a driver by to pick it up. I’ll be in residence in an hour or so, just have to –” he shot a wink at Folger – “pack a few things and call the movers.”

      He hung up and studied his eyes, darkened by eye-liner, and adjusted the wig, silver-blonde, short haired, the hair layered. His new alias was Honesto Matapang, an excruciatingly gay and wealthy Filipino. He’d rubbed mascara into the creases around his mouth, eyes, and neck, then rubbed most away, accentuating his wrinkles, aging himself by years. Two sweat shirts beneath his silk tunic added twenty pounds. When outside, he stuffed tissue between his gums and cheeks to pooch them outward. From tinted hair to slipper-like shoes, he resembled a badly aging roué, a Nero-in-progress.

      He hung up and winked his aged eyes at Folger. “Isn’t it wonderful, Miss Alice? There’s a whole network of fruity professionals just waiting to help us find new digs.” He cackled wickedly. “I was getting so tired of being a cauldron.”

      Jeremy reached down and folded a length of tape over Folger’s eyes, pressing it down into her skin. He studied her bound body for a quiet minute, then picked up a hammer.

      I sat on a bench in a green space beside a bank. If Waltz discovered the truth, I’d have to be ready to deal with it. It would be an exceptionally dangerous moment.

      A tall and imperious woman walked by, breaking my concentration. She clicked on heels as slender as ice picks. When she was a dozen feet past, I smelled her perfume, delicate and strong in equal measure.

      The potency of the scent reminded me of a thought I’d tucked away a few days earlier, less a thought than what Harry called a “flag moment”, when a conversation or event raised a tiny flag in the mind. Most were coincidence or misreading a person’s words or actions, and checking every tiny flag would be futile. It was when flags started to cluster that they became worth a look. I’d seen several since my arrival, a bouquet of poppy-red pennants.

      Fifteen minutes later I was at Macy’s fragrance counter, looking among the dozens of perfumes out for sampling … there, the small crystal bottle that Shelly had sniffed the day I bought the briefcase.

      The salesperson, a sixtyish woman with white corkscrewing hair, sidled over with nose lifted, as if spying a skunk in the lily patch.

      “Can I help you?”

      “This fragrance, is it common?”

      “None of our fragrances are common, sir.”

      “I mean, do you sell a lot of it?”

      “It’s quite expensive, and rather individual. A very subtle blend.”

      “Can I take that as meaning you don’t sell a lot of it?”

      She thought a moment, scarlet nail tapping the mole.

      “You may.”

      I thanked la grande dame and left the store, unable to stop sniffing my wrist. As the scent faded, my memory of it grew stronger, a strange phenomenon. I pulled my cell from my pocket, punched the number.

       “This is Harry Nautilus, please leave a message at the …”

      When the phone beeped its need for a message, mine was brief, and carried a furtive prayer beneath the words.

      “Harry, it’s Carson with a huge favor to ask, bro. If it pans out, it just might save me from something real bad. Here’s what I need you to do, and at the speed of light, if possible …”

      I returned to the hotel. I’d turned off

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