Was there another option?
She ran it through again. The police already thought she was a whack job. Could she convince them otherwise? Perhaps. What would the cops do anyway? Would they assign a man full time to watch her children? Doubtful, even if she could somehow make them understand the urgency.
Then she remembered Scott Duncan.
He was with the U.S. attorney’s office. That was like being a federal cop, right? He would have pull. He would have power. And most of all he would believe her.
Duncan had given her his cell number. She checked her pocket for it. Came up empty. Had she left it in the car? Probably. Didn’t matter. He told her that he was heading back to work. The U.S. attorney’s office was in Newark, she figured. Either that or Trenton. Trenton was too far a ride. Better to try Newark first. He should be there by now.
She stopped walking and turned to face the school. Her children were inside. Weird thought, but there it was. They spent their days here, away from her in this bastion of brick, and part of Grace found that oddly overwhelming. She dialed directory assistance and asked for the U.S. attorney’s office in Newark. She spent the extra thirty-five cents to have the operator dial it for her.
“U.S. attorney for the state of New Jersey.”
“Scott Duncan, please.”
“Hold.”
Two rings and a woman answered. “Goldberg,” she said.
“I’m looking for Scott Duncan.”
“What case?”
“Pardon?”
“What case is this in reference to?”
“No case. I just need to speak with Mr. Duncan.”
“May I ask what it’s about?”
“It’s a personal matter.”
“Sorry, I can’t help you. Scott Duncan doesn’t work here anymore. I’m covering most of his cases. If I can help you with that . . .”
Grace pulled the phone away from her ear. She looked at it as though from afar. She clicked the end button. She got into her car and again watched the brick building that currently housed her children. She watched it for a very long time, wondering if there was anyone she could truly trust, before deciding what to do.
She lifted the phone back into view. She pressed in the number.
“Yes?”
“This is Grace Lawson.”
Three seconds later, Carl Vespa said, “Is everything okay?”
“I changed my mind,” Grace said. “I do need your help.”
chapter 31
“His name is Eric Wu.”
Perlmutter was back at the hospital. He had been working on getting a warrant compelling Indira Khariwalla to tell him who her client was, but the county prosecutor was running into more interference than expected. In the meantime the lab boys were doing their thing. The fingerprints had been sent down to the NCIC, and now, if Daley was to be believed, they had an ID on the perp.
“Does he have a record?” Perlmutter asked.
“He was let out of Walden three months ago.”
“For?”
“Armed assault,” Daley said. “Wu cut a deal on that Scope case. I called and asked around. This is one very bad man.”
“How bad?”
“Poop-in-your-pants bad. If ten percent of the rumors about this guy are true, I’m sleeping with my Barney the Dinosaur night-lite on.”
“I’m listening.”
“He grew up in North Korea. Orphaned at a young age. Spent time working for the state inside prisons for political dissidents. He has a talent with pressure points or something, I don’t know. That’s what he did with that Sykes guy, some kung-fu crap, practically severed his spine. One story I heard, he kidnapped some guy’s wife, worked on her for like two hours. He calls the husband and tells him to listen up. The wife starts screaming. Then she tells him, the husband, that she hates his guts. Starts cursing him. That’s the last thing the husband ever hears.”
“He killed the woman?”
Daley’s face had never looked so solemn. “That’s just it. He didn’t.”
The room’s temperature dropped ten degrees. “I don’t understand.”
“Wu let her go. She hasn’t spoken since. Just sits and rocks someplace. The husband comes near her, she freaks out and starts screaming.”
“Jesus.” Perlmutter felt the chill ease through him. “You got an extra night-lite?”
“I got two, yeah, but I’m using both.”
“So what would this guy want with Freddy Sykes?”
“Not a clue.”
Charlaine Swain appeared down the corridor. She had not left the hospital since the shooting. They had finally gotten her to talk to Freddy Sykes. It had been a strange scene. Sykes kept crying. Charlaine had tried to get information. It’d worked to some extent. Freddy Sykes seemed to know nothing. He had no idea who his assailant was or why anyone would want to hurt him. Sykes was just a small-time accountant who lived alone—he seemed to be on no one’s radar.
“It’s all linked,” Perlmutter said.
“You have a theory?”
“I have some of it. Strands.”
“Let’s hear.”
“Start with the E-ZPass records.”
“Okay.”
“We have Jack Lawson and Rocky Conwell crossing that exit at the same time,” Perlmutter said.
“Right.”
“I think now we know why. Conwell was working for a private investigator.”
“Your friend India Something.”
“Indira Khariwalla. And she’s hardly a friend. But that’s not important. What makes sense here, the only thing that makes sense really, is that Conwell was hired to follow Lawson.”
“Ipso facto, the E-ZPass timing explained.”
Perlmutter nodded, trying to put it together. “So what happened next? Conwell ends up dead. The M.E. says he probably died that night before midnight. We know he crossed the tollbooth at 10:26 P.M. So sometime soon after that, Rocky Conwell met up with foul play.” Perlmutter rubbed his face. “The logical suspect would be Jack Lawson. He realizes he’s being followed. He confronts Conwell. He kills him.”
“Makes sense,” Daley said.
“But it doesn’t. Think about it. Rocky Conwell was six-five, two-sixty, and in great shape. You think a guy like Lawson could have killed him like that? With his bare hands?”
“Sweet Jesus.” Daley saw it now. “Eric Wu?”
Perlmutter nodded. “It adds up. Somehow Conwell met up with Wu. Wu killed him, stuffed his body into a trunk, and left him at the Park-n-Ride. Charlaine Swain said that Wu was driving a Ford Windstar. Same model and color as Jack Lawson’s.”