7th Heaven - James Patterson [57]
I let Conklin take the lead because my insides were still reeling from the sharp turn my life had taken only twelve hours before.
My mind was stuck in a groove of what the fire had cost me in emotional touchstones to my past: my Willie Mays jacket, my Indian pottery, and everything that had belonged to my mother, especially her letters telling me how much she loved me, a sentiment she’d only been able to write when she was dying but was never able to actually say.
As Conklin showed insurance photos to Vitale, I glanced at the display cases, still in a daze, not expecting anything, when suddenly, as if someone yelled Hey in my ear, I saw Patty Malone’s sapphire necklace on a velveteen tray, right there.
“Rich,” I said sharply. “Take a look at this.”
Conklin looked, then told Vitale to open the case. Baubles clanked as Vitale pawed through them, handed the necklace up to Conklin with his catcher’s mitt of a hand.
“You’re saying these are real sapphires?” Vitale said innocently.
Conklin’s face blanched around the eyes as he placed the necklace down on the photograph. It was clearly a match.
“Where’d you get this?” he asked Vitale.
“Some kid brought it in a week ago.”
“Let’s see the paperwork.”
“Hold on,” Vitale said, waddling back to his cage.
He moved a pile of auction catalogs and books on antique jewelry from his desk chair, then tapped the keys on his laptop.
“Got it. I paid the kid a hundred bucks. Here you go. Whoops. I just noticed his name.”
I read the receipt over Conklin’s shoulder, the name Clark Kent, an address somewhere in the middle of the bay, and the description of a “blue topaz necklace.”
“Was he wearing a suit and eyeglasses?” Conklin yelled. “Or maybe he’d changed into tights and a cape?”
“I’ll need the tape from that,” I said, pointing to the video camera anchored in the corner of the ceiling like a red-eyed spider.
Vitale said, “That’s got a twenty-four-hour loop. He’s not on it anymore. Anyway, I dimly remember the kid, and I don’t think he was the tights-and-cape type. More of a preppy look. I think maybe I sold him some comic books one time before.”
“Can you do better than ‘preppy look’?”
“Dark hair, I think. A little on the stocky side.”
“We’ll need you to come in and look at our mug books,” I said. “Talk to a sketch artist.”
“I’m no good at faces,” said Vitale. “It’s like a disorder I have. Some kind of dyslexia. I don’t think I’d recognize you if I saw you tomorrow.”
“Bull,” Conklin snapped. “This is a homicide investigation, Vitale. Understand? If that kid comes in again, call us. Preferably while he’s still here. And make a copy of his driver’s license.”
“Okay, chief,” Vitale said. “Will do.”
“It’s something,” Conklin said to me as he started up the car. “Kelly will be glad to have something from her mom.”
“Yeah, she will,” I said.
My mind flew to my own mom’s death. I turned my head so that Conklin couldn’t see the tears that came into my eyes.
Chapter 77
CHUCK HANNI STOOD with me and Joe in the dank basement of the building where I used to live, showing us the fine points of archaic knob-and-tube wiring as water dripped on our heads. The door to the fuse box was open, and Hanni held his Mag-Lite on a fuse he wanted me to see.
“See how this penny is annealed to the back of the fuse?”
I could just make out the dull copper blob.
“The college girls on the second floor — you know them?” Hanni asked.
“Just to wave hi.”
“Okay, well, apparently they’ve been blowing fuses every other day with their hair dryers and air conditioner and irons and whatnot. And your super got tired of running over here to change the fuse, so he put this penny in here.”
“Which does what?”
Chuck explained everything that happened, how the copper penny overrode the fuse so that the circuit didn’t trip. Instead the electricity went through the penny and melted down the wiring at its weakest point.