The Eighth Day

Chapter 9

Back at the precinct, Sam Harrington slumped into the chair behind his desk and turned on his monitor, revealing a desktop cluttered with icons. Sam clicked one of them, and the footage from the security camera in the lobby of the NYU Medical Center filled the screen. Tiny people scurried into and out of the frame, and he squinted and looked for anyone or anything that didn't belong—someone with a baseball cap or hood pulled low, someone who glanced over his shoulder one too many times, someone with a package tucked under an arm.

Shawn Jaffe was telling the truth. Sam's gut told him that, and he believed it, because when someone risked his life to save yours, it put a whole new perspective on things. At the same time, the hit-and-run with the van was no coincidence. Whoever had gripped the wheel had fixed Sam in his sights because of this case.

They found the van in an alley two blocks away from the accident—a rental car stolen off the lot less than an hour earlier. No sign of the driver and no witnesses, nor had surveillance cameras picked up anything.

It all seemed so surreal. If the medical center video turned out to be a dead end, tomorrow he'd have Jaffe walk him through the last several months, see if anything came up hot. Maybe it had to do with his work as an investment broker, one of the clients he represented, or something else outside of work.

With a sigh of frustration, Sam moved his cursor over the fast-forward button and clicked, and the tiny people began moving out on the double. He kept an eye on the time in the lower right-hand corner, and when he clicked play again, the tempo of events returned to reality. The crowd ended its back-and-forth waltz and surged toward the exits, streaming out the doors. The security guards tried to keep order as they gestured with their arms and pleading faces. A futile effort. When it came to matters of life or death, most people wouldn't think twice about trampling whoever was in front of them to save their own skin.

The swell of bodies toward the exits began to thin with no sign of anyone fighting the current to get inside. He'd figured whoever had planted the bomb had hidden somewhere inside the medical center, but sometimes luck was still a lady. This time, however, she was a cold bitch.

When the lobby stood empty, he stopped the video and checked the clock. To hell with it. Sam powered off his computer, grabbed his jacket out of his locker, and plodded out of the office, out of the precinct, and into the decadence of the city and the death of another day.

He got behind the wheel of his car and pulled away from the curb into the flow of vehicles that choked the streets and jockeyed for position as they fought their way out of the city. One driver pounded his palm against his horn, sending out a series of angry bleats. His face knotted in anger, and his lips moved in a string of silent obscenities that remained trapped behind glass. The object of the man's furor, a compact that changed lanes in front of him, had no one inside—a self-driving car, probably on its way to or from the parking garage. Yet the man continued to pound away at his horn, raging his mindless fury at a mindless machine.

Sam Harrington rolled his eyes. He strummed his fingers on the steering wheel, the evening news background noise as he rehearsed the questions he'd ask Jaffe tomorrow. But driving through the city always brought back memories, and his mind wandered whenever a sight, a sound, a smell would shake something loose.

A concession cart on the corner or a whiff of sauerkraut drifting in through the open window brought back memories of Hans Eberstark, the one-legged German vendor who'd regaled Sam with tales of his life in Germany, his wife and children, and the little village they'd called home. But why he now lived alone had gone untold, and Sam didn't press him. He'd figured a man's business was his own, and if he wanted to talk about it, he'd do it in his own time.