Truth or Die Read Free Page B

want some coffee?”
    “No, I’m okay. Thanks.”
    He grabbed a mug with a faded New York Giants logo on it that was sitting on top of some overstuffed folders. “I’ll be right back.”
    I watched him as he walked off. Lamont was a tall man, filled out by age, but still with a build that suggested a degree of athleticism somewhere in his past. Given the Giants mug, I was thinking there was probably an old high school yearbook out there with the word
linebacker
next to his name.
    Claire once showed me her high school yearbook. Her senior quote was from Andrew Marvell: “Had we but world enough and time …”
    Christ, this is really happening, isn’t it? She’s really gone. Just like that. I feel numb. No, that’s not right. I feel everything. And it’s hurting like hell.
    Claire’s sister, Ellen, had given me Detective Lamont’s name and number. He’d made the call to her up in Boston, breaking the news.
    I wasn’t next of kin, husband or fiancé, or even the last person to see Claire alive, but when I’d told Lamont my name over the phone I’d been pretty sure he’d agree to see me right away.
    “You were that ADA, weren’t you?” he asked.
    “Yeah, that was me,” I answered.
    Me, as in that former Manhattan assistant district attorney. Back when I played for the home team. Before I changed jerseys.
    Before I got disbarred.
    I knew he knew the story. Most every cop in the city did, at least the veterans. It was the kind of story they wouldn’t forget.
    Lamont came back now and sat behind his desk with a full mug of coffee. He took a sip as he pulled Claire’s file in front of him, the steam momentarily fogging the bottom half of his drugstore-variety glasses.
    Then he shook his head slowly and simply stared at me for a moment, unblinking.
    “Fuckin’ random,” he said finally.
    I nodded as he flipped open the file to his notes in anticipation of my questions. I had a lot of them.
    Christ. The pain is only going to get worse, isn’t it?

CHAPTER 4
    “WHERE EXACTLY did it happen?” I asked.
    “West End Avenue at Seventy-Third. The taxi was stopped at a red light,” said Lamont. “The assailant smashed the driver’s side window, pistol-whipped the driver until he was knocked out cold, and grabbed his money bag. He then robbed Ms. Parker at gunpoint.”
    “Claire,” I said.
    “Excuse me?”
    “Please call her Claire.”
    I knew it was a weird thing for me to say, but weirder still was hearing Lamont refer to Claire as Ms. Parker, not that I blamed him. Victims are always Mr., Mrs., or Ms. for a detective. He was supposed to call her that. I just wasn’t ready to hear it.
    “I apologize,” I said. “It’s just that—”
    “Don’t worry about it,” he said with a raised palm. He understood. He got it.
    “So what happened next?” I asked. “What went wrong?”
    “We’re not sure, exactly. Best we can tell, she fully cooperated, didn’t put up a fight.”
    That made sense. Claire might have been your prototypical “tough” New Yorker, but she was also no fool. She didn’t own anything she’d risk her life to keep.
Does anyone?
    No, she definitely knew the drill. Never be a statistic. If your taxi gets jacked, you do exactly as told.
    “And you said the driver was knocked out¸ right? He didn’t hear anything?” I asked.
    “Not even the gunshots,” said Lamont. “In fact, he didn’t actually regain consciousness until after the first two officers arrived at the scene.”
    “Who called it in?”
    “An older couple walking nearby.”
    “What did they see?”
    “The shooter running back to his car, which was behind the taxi. They were thirty or forty yards away; they didn’t get a good look.”
    “Any other witnesses?”
    “You’d think, but no. Then again, residential block … after midnight,” he said. “We’ll obviously follow up in the area tomorrow. Talk to the driver, too. He was taken to St. Luke’s before we arrived.”
    I leaned back in my chair, a