“We need to make a stop first.”
“Where?”
She hesitated for just a second. “New York City.”
“I don’t want to go to New York City. I went there once when I was six years old. It was too loud. People in New York City yell too much. And honk their horns more than is necessary. The buildings are tall, and everything echoes. It’s much louder than Philadelphia.”
“We won’t stay there very long, but there is someone in New York who can help us.”
“How long is very long?”
“I don’t want to give you a specific number, because I never want you to think I lied to you.”
Eddie nodded, satisfied with her answer. “Why do we need help?”
“That is another thing you are going to have to trust me on.”
“That is now two things.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Will there be more things you will ask me to trust you on, Skylar?”
“I don’t know, Eddie. Probably.”
He nodded, as if processing the information, but he was only responding that way because he’d seen other people do it. It was one of the many physical responses he’d practiced a great many times. “There is one good thing about New York City.”
“What’s that?”
“Carnegie Hall. Many people believe it has the greatest acoustics in the world. I can’t say for sure because I have never been there, but I do know it was designed by an architect named William Tuthill in 1890. He was an amateur cellist who had what many people called a golden ear, which meant that he could hear things other people couldn’t.”
“Kind of like you.”
He paused to consider the similarity. He had never thought of himself as having golden ears. He tried to look at his ears in the rearview mirror. “Do you think I could build a concert hall like William Tuthill one day?”
“I think you could build an even better one.”
“I should probably go to architecture school first. Then learn to play the cello and serve on the board of the Oratorio Society of New York, because that is where William Tuthill met Andrew Carnegie. He’s the person who gave William Tuthill the money to build the hall, which is why it’s called Carnegie Hall. Have you ever been there, Skylar?”
“Yes, I have.”
“You’re lucky.”
Skylar could only shake her head. Lucky was the last thing she felt right now.
“Did you know the main hall has two thousand eight hundred and four seats?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Did you know it was one of New York City’s last big public buildings constructed entirely of brickwork with no steel frame, until one was added in the 1900s?”
“I do now.”
“After we stop in New York City, can we still go to my old house in Philadelphia? I want to hear my mother sing.”
“I promise we will.”
“A promise is a promise.”
“Yes, it is.” She reached into her purse and fished for something. She withdrew a business card, which Eddie read.
“Who is Detective Butler McHenry?”
“A policeman. He’s the person we’re going to see in New York City.”
“Are we in trouble?”
“No, Eddie.”
He made his BUZZER sound.
She clarified. “We are not in trouble with the police.”
“Who are we in trouble with?”
“People who are not the police.”
Eddie’s eyes opened wide with concern. “All of them?”
“No, Eddie. Only a few people.”
“How is the detective going to help us?”
“I want him to hear the conversation you replayed in Dr. Fenton’s office.”
“Why?”
“Because I think he will be interested to hear it.”
“Why?”
“I think it reveals that Dr. Fenton and the mystery man were involved in a crime.”
His eyes perked up with curiosity. “What kind of crime?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Because the mystery man is none of my concern?”
“For now, Eddie. Only for now.”
She dialed the number for the detective’s mobile phone.
CHAPTER 34
Red’s Sports Bar, Queens, New York City, May 27, 11:11 a.m.
Saturday was Butler McHenry’s day off. At least, it was supposed to be. He couldn’t remember a Saturday in months when something hadn’t called him to duty, but he had a good feeling about today. He’d already taken a six-mile run at a respectable eight-minute-mile pace, in order to balance out all the beer he was going to drink the rest of the day. He had every intention of spending the next ten hours on his favorite stool in his favorite sports bar, drinking his favorite beer.
The name of the place was proudly announced in appropriately colored neon in the window. Red’s. It was named after the bear of a proprietor, who was 6’5” when he stooped. Red, whose given name was Jameson Dulaney, got his nickname while playing defensive tackle at Wisconsin. Most of his family members hadn’t been sure exactly where Wisconsin was before Jameson started sending home all kinds of red Badger gear. But soon enough, the only color his family could be seen wearing was red, which was how their son got his nickname.
Butler loved the place for its authenticity. It wasn’t some fake TGI Friday’s or one of those other prefab chains. The walls were decorated with all kinds of genuine Badger memorabilia and pictures from Red’s Badger career. Red falling on a Hawkeye fumble. Red crushing a Wildcat quarterback. Red standing over a fallen Wolverine. The bar was the kind of neighborhood joint where you stepped down half a flight of stairs when you entered. The old wooden floors were covered in peanut shells. Most of the patrons were cops, or former cops, which was the other reason Butler liked it. Red’s father was a cop, and helped establish the bar’s regular clientele. If you were a cop and lived in this part of Queens, this was where you did your drinking. And cops around here did a lot of it.
Butler was surveying the numerous televisions showing a variety of sporting events—including the third round of some golf tournament he’d never heard of, college softball, dirt-track auto racing, and bowling—when his cell phone rang. He hadn’t even had his first sip of Rolling Rock, and he would soon be glad he hadn’t. “Detective McHenry.”
“Detective, this is Skylar Drummond. We met Wednesday night at Jacob Hendrix’s apartment.”
McHenry immediately recognized her voice. “Of course. What can I do for you?”
“I have some information I would like to share with you.”
“What kind of information?”
“I’d rather not say over the phone.”
He could hear that she was frightened, as well as desperately trying to hide it. “When would you like to meet?”
“Right now.” Her voice quivered ever so slightly.
“Skylar, you sound scared. Are you in any danger?”
“I’m honestly not sure. I might be.”
He sat upright. She had his full attention. “Tell me where you are.”
“I’m driving northbound on the I-95.”
“Why don’t you find someplace to pull off, and I can meet you there.”
“I’d rather keep going, if it’s all the same to you. Can I come to you?”
“I’m in Queens.”
“What’s the address?”
As Butler McHenry gave her the location, she repeated the street number for Eddie to memorize. What neither Skylar nor the detective realized was that three other individuals had been listening to their conversation. One was Barnes, inside his basement office at Harmony House. The other two, Lutz and Hirsch, were listening on speakerphone as they accelerated toward Queens. Lutz was behind the wheel. Hirsch jotted down Butler’s address on a notepad next to the computer on his lap. The screen showed the same map Barnes had in his office, which was tracking Skylar’s present location.
He clicked off the speakerphone when the conversation ended. Hirsch spoke into another phone, which was connected to Barnes. “We’re about seven minutes behind them.”