Stalked - By Allison Brennan Page 0,69
his head. “Just a guy. Said he broke up with his girlfriend and was going to toss the ring. He gave it to me instead.”
“Don’t fuck with me, Jimmy,” Joe said. “This ring”—he held it up—“is worth over fifteen thousand dollars. No one just handed it to you!”
Suzanne didn’t think Bartz could have grown even more pale. He was downright ghostly. “Fi-fi-fifteen?”
“And a guy gave it to you.”
“I—I was hustling on my corner, selling pictures, ask Kramer, I sell pictures outside the subway across from Citi Field.”
“When?” Joe asked.
“Yesterday morning.”
Suzanne said, “The Mets are on the road.”
“But there was an event. A charity game, retired players or something. I was there at eleven; game started at noon. I swear to God.”
There was a ring of truth, but Suzanne was withholding judgment. This guy was a piece of work.
“An-and it was slow, this guy comes up and asks if I want to buy this ring. Said his girlfriend broke up with him at the game on Tuesday, and he was going to toss the ring, but decided to sell it. See, I sometimes buy things—”
“You knew him?”
“No, I swear, never seen him before.”
“What did he look like?” Suzanne asked.
“Baseball cap. White guy.”
“A white guy in a baseball cap. That’s the best you can do?”
Bartz shrugged.
“What was he wearing?” Suzanne prompted.
“Jeans. T-shirt.”
“Anything on the T-shirt?”
“It was plain. White.”
“Tattoos?”
Bartz shrugged.
“Height? Weight? Fat? Thin? Did he have wings?” Joe was getting irritated.
“Um, he was taller than me.”
“Everyone in New York is taller than you, Jimmy.”
“Um, six feet? A little less? More? I was sitting down. I don’t know!”
“And you bought the ring from him?”
“No, I thought it was hot.”
“He was selling stolen jewelry.”
“Yes. No! I didn’t know, I just thought, you know?” Bartz was wringing his hands, the cuffs jangling. “I said I didn’t have the money to buy it, and he said keep it. Said he couldn’t look at it without thinking about his girlfriend.”
“And you didn’t find this suspicious?”
“You’d be surprised what people give me. It’s the God’s honest truth, ask Kramer; he knows when I’m bullshitting. I swear, he gave it to me.” He paused. “Is there a reward? Because I found the ring and all?”
Joe and Suzanne stepped out without answering his question.
“What a ridiculous story,” Suzanne said.
“He’s telling the truth.”
“Damn, I thought so, too. I just hoped that I was wrong.”
Joe said, “The killer reads the article, worries that we’re going to start looking at other motives and that he might be under the gun, but he’s smart enough not to hock the ring himself. Gives it to a street vendor knowing there’s a better than good chance the guy will pawn it.”
“He’s got to know we’ll track the guy,” Suzanne said.
“You heard Jimmy. He can’t even ID the guy.”
“You should get a sketch artist in here anyway.”
Joe concurred. “I’m also going to check and see if there’s a security camera that caught Bartz yesterday at that subway station. We might get lucky. And I know Kramer; I’ll see what he says about this guy.” Joe shook his head. “I don’t see Bartz as the killer.”
“And that’s why his story has a ring of truth. Shit, we’re back where we started.”
“No, we have an advantage. Your friend Tony played the killer, and the killer did exactly what we wanted—pawned the ring. He just used a middleman.”
Suzanne stared at Bartz through the window, but she was thinking about the guy in the cap. Smart, but he’d have to know Bartz’s story would never hold water. “Do we pressure him or let him think he deceived us?”
Joe said, “Give the killer a little breathing room? Announce that we’re interrogating a suspect?”
“Except that the killer would know Bartz’s story is pathetic. He can’t possibly know that Bartz won’t be able to ID him.”
“Let’s see what we can learn from the sketch artist and security cameras. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
*
Sean was driving toward Bridget Weber’s house on the Upper East Side when Lucy’s cell phone rang; she was surprised to hear Noah Armstrong on the other end.
“Hello, Noah.”
“Lucy, there’s been an accident.”
Flashes of friends and family, bloody and dying, flew through her head. “Who?” Her voice cracked.
“Hans. He’s in critical condition at Prince William Hospital. I can’t talk on the phone, but I need you back at Quantico now.”
“What happened?”
“I’ll explain when you get here. Don’t discuss this with anyone except Sean. Let me talk to Rogan.”
Lucy handed the phone to Sean. He listened for a long minute. Lucy watched his face but