Living with the Dead
Page 74

Karl had lunged to catch the boy, grabbing for him, then realized that he'd gone over the edge. Anything the boy felt at that moment was drowned out by Karl's stunned mental oh shit, his fear slamming Hope in the gut, knocking the wind out of her again, an iron spike of chaos power-driving into her skull. And if there was any pleasure to be found in that chaos, she didn't feel it.
The boy fell.
Hope saw Karl's hand brush his, but it was only a brush. He twisted, catching the edge, and then the boy fell, and there was, for a horrible moment she would never purge from her memory, a surge of incredible relief. The boy fell.
But Karl did not. That was all that mattered.
Hope dropped to her knees at the edge. She threw up. Heaved and spewed, vomit splattering over the metal ledge, dappling Karl's fingers, gripping the edge.
A sob hiccupped out, the burn of tears, shaking her head so hard she couldn't see.
"Shhh, shhh, shhh," Karl whispered. "I'm fine. I've got it. I've been in this situation before, as you may recall."
He'd shown her memory-visions of a time he'd tried to jump between buildings and missed, a chaos treat that she wasn't sure she could ever enjoy again.
Robyn raced up behind Hope. "Here, he can grab – "
"No!" Hope turned on her, spitting the word. "Don't touch him."
 
"I'm okay, Robyn," Karl said. "Hope's right. Best not to help. I can do this."
"Quickly," Hope said. "Please."
It took two heaves, the first failed one jolting Hope's heart into her throat, but on the second, his feet swung up and stayed.
Only when he was safe did she remember the boy.
Hope leaned over the edge, but Karl caught her hand as he got up, and said simply, "No," and with that she knew the boy was dead.
"I have to check," she said.
Karl's jaw set, biting back the words. Hope still heard them, carried on a wave of anxiety and frustration.
"Hope's right," Robyn said, stepping forward. "We should check. Call an ambulance if there's any chance."
The look Karl would have liked to give Hope he shot at Robyn instead.
Robyn's confusion swirled around Hope. There was too much going on here, too much subtext Robyn could feel and couldn't understand.
This wasn't about checking on the boy; it was about Hope. She'd been so absorbed by the chaos of Karl jumping that she'd missed the boy's death. Those vibes would come later, in visions and nightmares, the horror and the bliss. She needed to get that over with now.
So they went downstairs. Or they did after cleaning up the vomit and searching the gravel roof for anything they might have dropped. The police might search up here, and that had to take priority.
When they arrived at ground level, there was still no wail of sirens. The boy had jumped at the side of the building, landing between it and a fence, and until someone happened to glance over and see a body on the pavement, he wouldn't be found.
But as they walked out the exit door, a wave of grief hit Hope, and she knew he had been found.
She caught Karl's sleeve. "Someone's there."
His chin lifted, nostrils flaring. Then he shook his head. The ping of frustration from him told her he meant the wind was wrong, not that no one was there.
Robyn stepped closer. "The police already?"
"No. I sense – It's someone who knew him."
"Adele," Robyn murmured. "She must have circled back and seen."
"Robyn?" Karl said. "Can you shoot?"
Her expression answered.
" Will you, then." Impatience touched his voice. " Could you?"
"I don't understand," she said.
Hope did. Adele was in a pseudoalley. The best way to take her down was with people at either end. The one who currently held the gun couldn't be trusted not to float off to chaos candy-land when she got near the body.
"Between the two of us, we'll manage," Hope said.
 
FINN
 
In Finn's experience, corporate executives fell into two groups: arrogant bastards and smarmy poseurs. There were exceptions, Finn recognized, and Sean Nast seemed to be one. On the elevator ride up to his office, he asked where Finn's precinct was and how long he'd been in homicide, and said he imagined it wasn't an easy job, genuine civility mingled with natural curiosity.
Nast's office was as big as the detective room at the precinct. They were walking in when Finn's cell phone rang.
Nast waited with that same politeness, devoid now of unbecoming curiosity, and when Finn said, "I need to answer this," he nodded and crossed the room to give Finn privacy.
It was Madoz. He had some time to spare and offered to help Finn track down Hope Adams, doing a sweep by her office and her hotel. Finn gave him the hotel name, but couldn't recall the room number.
"I've got it somewhere if you need it, but they were pretty good about giving it out. It's under her name. Hope Adams." He must have been louder than he thought, making Nast glance up from his Rolodex. "If you do find her, give me a shout."
When he hung up, Nast was walking around the desk.
"Seems I still have Irving's old cell number. His updated one is on my laptop, which I didn't bring in today. Give me a minute and I'll dig it up. Can I grab you a coffee on my way back?"
"Water, if you have it."
"There's a fridge by my desk. Just grab a bottle and anything else you'd like."
* * * *
While Nast was gone, Finn conducted a plain-view search of the office. He didn't suspect the young man of
anything – not yet.
There was, as expected, a framed MBA. From Yale, also expected. Less expected was the location – on the same wall as the door, partly hidden by palm fronds. Lieutenant Balough, always quick to put that psychology degree to work, would say the partly hidden MBA showed signs of shame, as if Nast had cheated or bought his way through college. Finn saw it more as modesty, maybe borderline ambivalence.
He took note, too, of the name on the degree. Sean Kristof Nast. Kristof – the Nast who'd tried to slip out of testifying on the hit-and-run. His father?
The subject of family made Finn turn his attention to the photos. He counted nine on the desk and the filing cabinet top. Five featured Nast and a younger man – brother? – and an older one – father? – at various ages and in various combinations, with no sign of a mother.