Livingston’s phone beeped, and he looked at the screen. By the way his jaw tightened, I could tell it was a text from the mayor.
“He wants you back at City Hall pronto, right?” I asked. “He’s demanding to know what’s going on.”
“Yeah,” said Livingston, “and you’re coming with me.”
“The hell I am,” I said. “I’m staying right here.”
He knew he wasn’t going to persuade me otherwise, not while Elizabeth was fighting for her life.
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll be coming back, then.”
“Duly noted.”
Livingston left in a huff. I actually smiled, if only because it made me think of how Elizabeth would’ve been smiling. She would’ve loved to have seen me piss him off like that.
What she wouldn’t have loved, though, was the thought of my sitting here and doing nothing while Timitz was out there, whereabouts unknown. I could almost hear her voice, saying what I was thinking, putting it together.
Timitz didn’t really call his lawyer from Kingsman’s house, did he? He wanted to wait until we knew about Grimes’s front-page story, and that could only mean one thing. He was Grimes’s source.
I quickly stepped out to the hallway again, dialing Grimes’s number at the Gazette. Three rings felt like an eternity.
“No, he’s not in,” said the young woman who answered his line. It was Grimes’s assistant. I could tell she knew my name when I gave it to her.
“Are you sure he’s not there?” I asked.
“Very sure,” she said. “He said he’s working from home today.”
“You spoke to him? He told you that?”
“Yes, he called about half an hour ago,” she said. “Why?”
Chapter 95
IN THE movies, a father working for the CIA would never want his son to follow in his footsteps. You could almost picture the heartfelt scene. A park bench or an old booth in a bar, the ink barely dry on the son’s college diploma. There would be long stares, furrowed brows, and the perfectly scripted dialogue about the risks being too great.
Life ain’t the movies.
At least not my father’s life. Besides, he hates the movies. As he once told me, “Who needs to watch some made-up crap when you can soak up the real-life stuff?”
Not only did my father not have a problem with my working for the CIA, he also recommended me. There was one caveat, though. Words to live by. Literally.
“Sometimes, they’ll have you do something crazy. Other times, they’ll have you do something stupid. Just don’t ever let ’em make you do crazy and stupid at the same time.”
I never did.
All these years later, though, I was suddenly like my dad and the movies. Who needs the CIA when you can combine crazy and stupid all on your own?
I took a deep breath and exhaled. Then I rang the doorbell.
Silence followed, but I knew he was on the other side of the door. With any luck, Grimes was still there, too. Still alive, that is.
“I came alone,” I announced.
The silence that followed this time somehow sounded different. Sure enough, I next heard the snap of a dead bolt. The door opened.
Grimes simply stared at me, saying nothing at first. I stared back at him, noticing the down vest he was wearing. It was wired to the hilt with explosives. Give him credit: he managed to crack a joke about it.
“I saw it on the rack at Barneys and just had to have it,” he said.
If only I could’ve laughed.
“Come in and close the door,” said the voice behind Grimes. “Oh, and be sure to lock it.”
I stepped inside as Grimes followed instructions, the dead bolt snapping back into place. In front of me, past the foyer, I saw Timitz sitting on one of the couches in the living room, a lit cigarette in one hand and a detonator in the other.
He held up the cigarette and smiled. “I know. These things will kill you, right?”
Grimes walked past me, sitting down in an armchair kitty-corner to Timitz. In front of the chair, on a glass coffee table, was an open laptop. What are you writing, Grimes, and what’s with all the scribbled pages spread out around you?
“You should sit as well, Professor,” said Timitz.
He was dressed in a black suit now with a white shirt open at the collar. He was freshly washed and scrubbed, a shine to his face. However he managed to elude the cops tailing him, he apparently never broke a sweat.
I walked the length of the living room, settling into the couch opposite his. All I knew was that I wanted to be facing him. And the detonator.
The thing was the size of a roll of quarters, with Timitz’s thumb resting on top of the pressure release, a.k.a. the dead man’s switch, which was surely linked to the vest via Bluetooth. All in all, easy to make if you know how. Thanks a lot, Internet.
There are two types of serial killers. Those who want to get caught and those who really want to get caught.
“You never intended to get away with this, did you?” I asked.
Timitz took a drag off his cigarette, ignoring the question. “This is quite an apartment,” he said, glancing around. “Don’t you think?”
Grimes had clearly done well for himself. High ceilings, sleek furniture, gallery-quality artwork. The ultimate bachelor pad.
“It’s very nice,” I said.
Timitz smiled again. “Who says crime doesn’t pay?”
I glanced over at Grimes as he forced a smile. His strategy was clear. Go along, get along…and maybe get to live.
“At least answer me this,” I said, my eyes locked on Timitz and the detonator. “Have you been planning this moment all along?”
“It crossed my mind,” said Timitz.
“More than crossed,” I said. “I’ve learned you leave nothing to chance. Almost nothing, that is.”
He knew exactly where I was heading.
“Yes, our grieving widow this morning,” he said.
I nodded. “A wild card, right?”
“Yeah,” said Timitz. He leaned forward, his thumb twitching on the detonator. “I hate wild cards.”
Chapter 96
MY MIND raced with thoughts of Timitz’s childhood. Possible OCD, anger issues, a stunted internal conscience. None of it mattered, though. Not now. He was on a couch, but it was too late for therapy.
Still, there was a mind to pry. Answers to get.
“Judge Kingsman is only good to you alive, isn’t he?” I asked.
“Of course,” said Timitz.
“You want him healthy and on display, an innocent man jailed for all the guilty people he set free,” I said.
“That wouldn’t make him innocent, now, would it?”
“Exactly the point you wanted to make,” I said.
“Well, if we’re laying all our cards on the table,” said Timitz, “I don’t need a conviction. The indictment would be enough.”
“But would it be the end?” I asked. “Would you be done killing?”
“Do I look like I’m done?” he asked. Timitz leaned back into the couch again, crossing his legs. He was calm. Too calm. “What happened this morning simply means we speed things up a bit. Clever of Allen here, though. The way he signaled you?”