A Friend in the Glass (An Auden & O’Callaghan Mystery #3)

Chapter Nineteen

Sleep came slowly for Sam, and when he dreamed, it was in broken images—the Savoy, the Javits, the dark tunnel of Manhattan. Through all the dreams, an undertow dragged on him, and in the dream, he knew it was like the gravity that had made Evangeline Ridgeway’s fall true as a plumb line. When he woke, the apartment was gray with the morning, and the thing pulling on him was Rufus, who had turned until the bedding was caught around him, winching Sam along with it.

He showered. A fresh tee. Clean jeans. His ruck, when he was done, was ready to go again.

Go where, he thought.

The thing pulling on him. Like gravity.

He read the news on his phone as Rufus stirred, peed, leaned in the doorway, scratching under one arm. It was time to be an adult about the night before, about his… reaction.

But then he saw the next headline and said, “Rufus.”

SAVOY SLAYING it said, with all the New York Post ’s usual class. And then, in case you didn’t get it, HOTEL HOMICIDE was printed immediately underneath.

“Police have not released the victim’s identity,” Sam read as he angled the phone for Rufus to see, “but sources close to the investigation say that the victim was a government employee, possibly associated with the U.S. military. Police have yet to comment on the status of the investigation.”

“Sonofabitch,” Rufus grumbled. He hastily dug through his clothes on the floor, stopping to smell a few shirts. “The Post moves fast.” He yanked a black thermal over his head. “At least we weren’t mentioned.”

“Maybe we’ll get lucky and they’ll see whoever came out of that room.”

“Like Del?” Rufus tugged on black skinny jeans, buttoned them, and added, “I think we should find him, get it straight from the horse’s mouth, and then toss him to the wolves before Erik decides his CI is too hot to keep on payroll. That article didn’t say anything about a suspect yet, did it?” He went digging for a t-shirt.

“Not yet,” Sam said sourly. “Any ideas on how to track down Del? Somebody with that much money is probably hiding behind an army of lawyers, and I doubt he gave the Savoy his forwarding address.”

Rufus had retrieved a t-shirt that said CRIME PAYS in bold letters. “I think better when I’ve been fed, you know.”

There was something to be said for consistency. In spite of himself, Sam smiled. “BlueMoon?”

Rufus met Sam’s look with a toothy grin of his own. “Baby, it’s like you love me.”

As far as Sam was concerned, there wasn’t a lot to like about New York. The city was too loud, too busy, and simply too much . Like the girl Sam had seen on one of his rare subway rides—she’d been drooping, lurching every time the train moved, and all of a sudden, she’d puffed out her cheeks like a blowfish and stayed that way the rest of the ride. (It had been the A, of course.) At the next stop, she’d stumbled off so she could spit out approximately a gallon of vomit in the closest trash can. There was the guy in the park next to Rufus’s building who dressed up like a rat and climbed around on the benches. One time, they’d been waiting in line in a deli, and these two old ladies had been going at each other, screaming louder and louder until one of them stabbed the other with a plastic fork. And then, fuck of all fucks, they’d both burst out laughing.

So, that was New York, for Sam.

But the city did have one thing: it had BlueMoon.

And, of course, it had Rufus.

The diner wasn’t much to look at. The glass door was covered in stickers, lots of them for bands Sam had never heard of, although he guessed Rufus probably had. Inside, the aesthetic was vintage American, meaning: old as shit, but well kept. It smelled like good coffee and a seasoned griddle, and the menus had that film on them that made them feel perpetually greasy, and the short-order cook rang a bell every time a plate was up. But somehow, it never felt like too much. That might have been because of the pancakes.

They took their usual spot, and it wasn’t until Sam was in the booth that he realized he’d thought of it as their spot. He wasn’t sure when it had stopped being Rufus’s spot.

“On my way, Freckles,” Maddie called from the register.

Sure enough, she came over with coffees and menus—not that they needed the menus at this point. They ordered: the BlueMoon’s version of a Grand Slam for Sam, and for Rufus, pancakes. Some days, Maddie lingered to chat, but today the arrival of more customers meant she left them with nothing but a quick pat on the shoulder for each man.

“I was thinking…” Sam said. “What’s to say Del hasn’t skipped town already?”

“Wouldn’t it look suspicious?” Rufus tore open a sugar packet and poured the contents into his palm. “Disappearing during the middle of that Big Dick Energy convention would have to look weird to someone, I’d think.”

“Sure. But I don’t know if that would stop him.”

Rufus dumped the sugar into his mouth, wiped his hands on his jeans, then awkwardly shrugged out of his jacket. He yanked free the convention schedule that was beginning to look like it’d been run over by a truck or possibly chewed on by a dog. Thumbing through the pages, Rufus said, “Del’s supposed to be at the Javits today. He’s a guest speaker on an afternoon panel.”

“So, he might be there.”

“Even if he’s not, we should listen to what folks might be saying about him being MIA.”

“Or arrested,” Sam said. “But I doubt we’ll be that lucky.”

At that, Rufus picked up the saltshaker, poured some into his hand, then tossed it over his shoulder. “I read that’s supposed to be lucky. Or was it about warding off evil…? Something superstitious like that.”

Sam wasn’t sure how well it was working, considering Maddie made Rufus sweep it up about five seconds later.

Their food came, and they ate—not exactly in silence, but in the quiet of people with no particular need to say anything. What Sam didn’t finish (the pancakes), Rufus did. The day was growing steadily brighter, the street on the other side of the plate-glass windows taking on depth, but it wasn’t by any means a bright day. The clouds were low and gray, and the light was the same color as if it were coming through a sheet of newspaper.

When they’d finished—meaning the plates had been scraped clean—Sam counted out cash for the check. “I want to get over there early and see if anyone’s talking about the colonel. That all right?”

“I have so many other pressing engagements on my social calendar,” Rufus was saying as he began bundling himself back into his winter gear. “But for you? I’m willing to clear my schedule.”

“That sounds like the pancakes talking.”

“I think I ate too many,” Rufus agreed as he followed Sam toward the door.

Sam was proud of himself for not even saying, Huh .

They made their way toward the Javits. The wind whistled in Sam’s ears, loud enough almost to drown out the incessant sounds of traffic, and granules of snow—closer to ice—spun around him, stinging his cheeks and ears. Sam tried to lose himself in his thoughts, but the noise and the nonstop movement around him made it impossible. A woman zipped past him. A man stopped unexpectedly to stare at his phone. Cars sped up, engines rumbling. At the next intersection, the light changed. Cars braked and queued. That was why, when the black town car slowed at the curb, it registered as only one more intrusion among many.

Then the rear window buzzed down, and a man said, “Mr. Auden?”

He was white, somewhere between thirty and forty, and from what Sam could see, built stockily. He wore his hair buzzed, and he leaned toward jug-eared, and it looked like he’d spent a lot of his life in the sun. Sam didn’t know him, but he knew the type.

“I’d like to talk to you,” the man continued. “And your friend. If you have a minute?”

“We have no minutes, actually,” Rufus answered while leaning around Sam. He gave Sam’s arm a tug and said, quieter, “Come on.”

The attack came from behind.

The first blow landed low on Sam’s back, almost at the base of the spine. It was more shock than pain, and the force of it sent him staggering forward a step. Then a hand caught him by the hair and smashed his face into the roof of the town car.