Kill Me if You Can - James Patterson [38]
“We might as well start calling the crazies,” Rice said.
He dialed Leonard Karns’s number.
“It’s about time,” Karns said as soon as Rice identified himself. “I called in the tip a day and a half ago.”
“You and a lot of other people,” Rice said. “You said something on your message about this guy being an artist.”
“He’d like to think so,” Karns said. “I was in one of his art classes at Parsons and his paintings are shit, but he’s banging the professor, so he’s getting a straight A all the way.”
Rice was only half listening. He was about to write this numbskull off when he heard the one word that sparked his adrenaline.
Parsons.
“Mr. Karns, sir, please refresh my memory,” Rice said, his tone now reeking of respect and deference. “Where exactly is Parsons?”
“West Thirteenth Street.”
A block from where Bagboy took the taxi from Grand Central. Bingo!
“So, then, what’s this lousy artist’s name?” Rice asked.
“Not so fast,” Karns said. “First let’s talk about the reward.”
The reward, of course, was pure fiction, but Rice and Benzetti had decided that without it, no one would even bother calling.
“Like it said on TV, the reward is twenty-five grand. And you get to remain anonymous.”
“Screw anonymous,” Karns said. “I want credit for turning the cops onto this phony.”
“No problem,” Rice said. “We’ll invite you to the press conference.”
Press conference. NY1. “Now you’re talking,” Karns said.
“Do you know where he is?” Rice asked casually. “His name would be helpful, but if you tell us exactly where he is, the reward can go even higher.”
“I know who he’s with, and she’s easy to find,” Karns said.
“Who would that be?”
“Like they say in the movies, Detective,” Karns said, “show me the money. You’re not getting my valuable information over the phone. You show up with some kind of NYPD legal document that says I get paid if I help you catch him. Then I’ll tell you his name and how to find him.”
“Fair enough, sir,” Rice said. “We’ll send over our person in charge of rewards.”
“And what’s his name?” Karns asked.
“It’s a female,” Rice said. “Her name is Detective Krall.”
Chapter 44
“I got him,” Rice told Benzetti as soon as he hung up. “I think this total asshole Leonard Karns actually knows where our Bagboy is.”
“Let’s go pay him a visit,” Benzetti said. “Right now.”
“Not us,” Rice said. “Did you forget about the butch German who shoved the gun in your mouth?”
“She caught me by surprise. You thought she was butch?”
“Marta Krall is a pro, and she’s expensive. She’d whack two cops like us and not even break a sweat. We found Karns. Now he’s her problem.”
“Fine,” Benzetti said. “You deal with Marta. I hope I never see her again.”
Rice called Krall’s cell. “We’ve got a lead on the guy with the diamonds,” he said.
“You know who he is?” Krall said, and sounded absolutely astonished.
“No.”
“You know where he lives?”
“No.”
“I know his name, and I’ve been staking out his apartment for two and a half days,” she said. “So much for your police work, your vaunted NYPD protocols.”
“Listen,” Rice said. “My partner and I are just trying to hold up our end of the deal. But if you’ve got the guy, you don’t need us. So good-bye.”
“Wait. I don’t actually have the guy,” Krall said. “Not yet. But he’ll be back sooner or later.”
“Well, if you don’t feel like waiting for later, I’ve got the name and address of someone who knows how to find him.”
Chapter 45
MARTA KRALL CHECKED her Breitling Starliner and rang the doorbell to Leonard Karns’s apartment. One thirty-three in the afternoon. The building was drab, dilapidated, and depressingly quiet. Karns buzzed her in, and she took the stairs to apartment B4.
A short, fat lump in gray sweatpants and an olive-drab T-shirt that said ART IS RESISTANCE stood in the doorway.
“You Detective Krall?” he asked.
She smiled and nodded. Then she pointed to her throat and whispered, “Laryngitis.” She liked acting and had unsuccessfully attempted a transition from modeling to movies