Free The Chase: A Novel by Brenda Joyce

George Suttill?”
    “Of course we know. Suttill was murdered two days before your husband.”
    “But you didn’t say anything.” Claire was bewildered. She did not want her mind to fail her now.
    “No, we did not. It’s department policy not to discuss the details of an investigation with anyone outside of the investigative unit, Mrs. Hayden.”
    “Bullshit,” Claire cried, and then she blinked, amazed with herself for being so rude.
    He did not seem offended. “Mrs. Hayden, do you have any idea why David would deposit cash into his private savings account, five days in a row—just before he died?”
    Claire blinked another time. “What?”
    He repeated the question.
    Claire stood up. “I’m not sure I understand. David had a private savings account?”
    “Yes, he did, at First National.”
    Claire could hardly breathe. “I didn’t know. We do our banking at Citibank.”
    “I know that.”
    “How much cash did he deposit?”
    “Nine thousand nine hundred and fifty dollars—five days in a row.”
    “You mean he put almost fifty thousand dollars’ cash into a secret bank account—one I did not know about?” Claire asked, aware of her voice becoming impossibly strained.
    “Yes, he did.”
    “But . . . why?”
    “Any sum below ten grand isn’t reported. Clearly he was into something dirty.”
    “Something dirty,” Claire repeated. But of course the detective was right. Honest citizens did not deposit fifty thousand dollars in cash, in increments that the authorities would not learn about. Honest citizens did not get their throats slit. Claire felt fear welling within her—and it had nothing to do with her being alone in the world.
    “We found another interesting fact,” the Irishman said. It sounded like he was smoking a cigarette as they spoke.
    Claire whispered, “What?”
    “David had lunch at the Garden Court on April second, ten days before he was murdered. The reservation was for one P.M . but Iris agenda doesn’t say who his guest or guests were. Although the restaurant keeps records, and says it was a party of two.”
    “And?” Claire asked, managing to swallow. She needed a glass of water.
    “Suttill’s girlfriend, Frances Cookson—a New Yorker, by the way—told us that they’d had lunch there that day, around the same time. They were walk-ins, so they’re not on the books. But we believe her. We have no reason not to.”
    Claire tried to understand. “What does it mean that David and Suttill were both dining there, separately, on the same day—at the same time—in the week or so before they both died?”
    “I don’t know. But if it means something, I will find out.”
    Claire was certain that he was smiling. He was smiling, and suddenly she was scared. She wet her lips. She spoke hoarsely. “Detective? Is there a serial killer on the loose?”
    “Mrs. Hayden, do not be alarmed. We have no reason to think that you are in danger.”
    That thought had never crossed Claire’s mind. Now it gave her pause. “But was it the same killer?” she asked.
    He hesitated and sighed. “Yes. Same killer, same MO. Same weapon, in fact.” He paused.
    Of course, this wasn’t a surprise, not after finding that article, but Claire felt ill.
    “In fact, the killer used what is called a ‘thumb knife.’ It’s a three-inch blade, one side completely sharpened. Only an inch of the other side is usable. It’s a very odd weapon.”
    Claire hardly cared. She was reeling.
    “I’d never even heard of a thumb knife, and I’ve been on the force for twenty years. My partner has learned it was sometimes used by German operatives during World War II.”
    Claire tuned in those last three words:
World War II
. “I beg your pardon?”
    “German spies used thumb knives, Mrs. Hayden. Now you tell me what that means,” he said.
    Claire was sitting in her car with Jilly, her forehead on her hands on the steering wheel, when her cell phone rang. She was mindless. She just couldn’t seem to think