Triple Threat by Jeffery Deaver Page A

his iPad, on which he’d been watching a football—well,
soccer
—match currently underway in Nigeria. Eddie loved sports. He’d played softball in his middle school days, Little League and football, well,
gridiron
, in high school and then, being a skinny guy, he’d opted for billiards pool in college (to raise tuition while, for the most part, avoiding bodily harm). But the present sport of his heart was soccer.
    Okay
, football.
    But he was also a businessman and crackpots could be paying clients, too. He kept his attention on the substantial woman across his desk, which was bisected by a slash of summer light, reflected off a nearby Times Square high-rise.
    “Okay. Keep going, Mrs. Rodriguez.”
    “Carmel.”
    “Car
mel
?”
    “Carmel.”
    “A body, you were saying.”
    “A murdered woman, a friend.”
    He leaned forward, now intrigued. Crackpot clients could not only pay well. They also often meant
Game
—a term coined by sportsman Eddie Caruso; it was hard to define. It meant basically the interesting, the weird, the captivating. Game was that indefinable aspect of love and business and everything else, not just sports, that kept you engaged, that got the juices flowing, that kept you off balance.
    People had Game or they didn’t. And if not, break up.
    Jobs had Game or they didn’t. And if not, quit.
    Another thing about Game. You couldn’t fake it.
    Eddie Caruso had a feeling this woman, and this case, had Game.
    She said, “A year ago, I lost someone I was close to.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    The iPad went into sleep mode. When last viewed, a winger for Senegal had been moving up through the markers, to try to score. But Caruso let the sleeping device lie. The woman was clearly distraught about her loss. Besides, Senegal wasn’t going to score.
    “Here.” Carmel opened a large purse and took out what must’ve been fifty sheets of paper, rumpled, gray, torn. Actual newspaper clippings, too, which you didn’t see much, as opposed to computer printouts, though there were some of those, too. She set them on his desk and rearranged them carefully. Pushed the stack forward.
    “What’s this?”
    “News stories about her, Sarah Lieberman. She was the one murdered.”
    Something familiar, Caruso believed. New York is a surprisingly small town when it comes to crime. News of horrific violence spreads fast, like a dot of oil on water, and the hard details seat themselves deep in citizens’ memories. The Yuppie Murderer. The Subway Avenger. The Wilding Rape. Son of Sam. The Werewolf Slasher.
    Caruso scanned the material fast. Yes, the story came back to him. Sarah Lieberman was an elderly woman killed by a bizarre couple—a mother and son pair of grifters from the Midwest. He saw another name in the stories, one of the witnesses: that of the woman sitting in front of him. Carmel had been Sarah’s housekeeper and Carmel’s husband, Daniel, the part-time maintenance man.
    She nodded toward the stack. “Read those, read that. You’ll see what I’m talking about.”
    Generally Caruso didn’t spend a lot of time in the free initial consulting session. But then it wasn’t like he had much else going on.
    Besides, as he read, he knew instinctively, this case had Game written all over it.
    # # #
    Here’s Eddie Caruso: A lean face revealing not unexpected forty-two-year-old creases, thick and carefully trimmed dark blond hair, still skinny everywhere, except for a belly that curls irritatingly over the belt hitching up Macy’s sale Chinese-made somewhat wool slacks. A dress shirt, today blue of color, light blue like the gingham that infected the state fairs Caruso worked as a boy to make money for cars and dates and eventually college.
    Rhubarb pie, cobbler, pig shows, turkey wings, dunk-the-clown.
    That was where he came from.
    And this is where he is: not the FBI agent he dreamed of being, nor the disillusioned personal injury lawyer he was, but a pretty good private investigator, which suits his edgy,