Silent Mercy - By Linda Fairstein Page 0,104

this friggin’ train is having my right fist in your face,” Mike said, stepping toward the cowering man, ready to pull him off the bed onto his feet.

“It’s my sister who’s dead, Detective.”

“And there’s another woman missing now, you dumb bastard. A woman who was with Naomi at Christmastime, when you worked that play. She was at the same performance that Naomi attended.”

“Nico and Giorgio will be passing through the train,” Delahawk droned on. “Do not open your door to anyone except either of them. And use your intercom to call my room if you see these police officers. One is a man, the other a woman. They are not dangerous, of course. They are police officers. But there will be no conversation with them unless I am present. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.”

“What are you doing here, Daniel?” Mike asked.

“You heard him. I work for Mr. Delahawk. I can’t talk to you.”

Daniel kept looking over at the desk. I could see a switch and a mouthpiece. He had given away the location of the intercom. I squeezed past Mike and seated myself.

“If anyone sings, Daniel, it’s gonna be Ms. Cooper. And nobody’ll like that. You talk to me instead. What do you know?”

The kid knew he had his back against the wall. “Nothing. I only came on here yesterday.”

He had gotten off the bus from Philadelphia just hours before Ursula Hewitt was killed.

“Here?” Mike asked. “On this train?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s your talent? You had a pretty good vanishing act going when you skipped out on us.”

“I’m a stagehand. I told you that.”

“Tell me again and lose the attitude this time. Ringling Brothers isn’t the Chelsea Square Workshop. They don’t hire scabs. You got a union card?”

“I do. Temporary.”

“Funny about that. My boss was having someone check Local One today. I think I’d have had a phone call if they’d confirmed that was true. Lying to me is a bad way to start.”

“I’m not lying,” Daniel said, reaching toward the desk for his wallet.

Mike grabbed his hand. “You scope it out, Coop. This kid’s a natural paper shredder, remember?”

I opened Daniel’s wallet and pulled out his credit cards and identification papers, which were wadded together in a side compartment. The driver’s license with his photo were in the name Daniel Gersh, but the union card—like two of the credit cards that probably linked to his stepfather’s account—said Daniel Bellin.

I handed the Local One temporary ID card to Mike. “You scammed me on that one, Daniel. Now tell me what brings you to the big top, okay? Don’t waste any more of my time. If we’d had your help from the get-go, two other women might still be alive. I’m praying for one.”

“Don’t try and guilt me, Detective.”

“What’s the guilt factor? Did you introduce Naomi to her killer?”

Daniel Gersh didn’t answer.

“I know you didn’t do that on purpose,” I said. “Talk to us about it. We can all save a life if you move on this now.”

“Does that make me an accessory or anything?”

“Just the fact that you may have introduced the two to each other? No, Daniel. This isn’t about you. We’re working against the clock,” I said.

And against the knock on the door by Nico.

“His name is Ted. At least, that’s what I thought when I got here last night.”

“You came looking for him?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“Because you knew he killed Naomi?”

Daniel looked at me with the earnest expression of youthful trust. “I didn’t believe it at first. I’m still not sure that I do.”

“Why not?”

“When I met him—it was in December—and he came to the show I was working on. The same night Naomi came.”

“Double-Crossed,” Mike said.

Daniel nodded. “Ted—at least that’s what he told me his name was—got totally freaked out during the show. One of the other guys and I had to take him outside to cool him down. Get him away from the lady who wrote the show.”

“The priest?” I said. “Ursula Hewitt.”

“Exactly. I don’t remember her name, but Ted was crazed that she—that any woman—claimed to be a priest.”

“How did he even know about the play?”

“Through his church,” Daniel said. “What’s your name again?”

“Alexandra Cooper. Did he tell you anything about his church? The name of it, or where it is?”

“Nah. I’m not into that. I didn’t really care. But he was only in New York for a week or two. Some special thing he had to do here. I think he said he came from Atlanta.”

“When did he meet Naomi?”

“There at the theater, that same night. She

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