out from behind the boxes, her hands shaking, and carried it over to the bed.
She set the case down and stared at it.
She hadn’t seen it in years, not since she’d unpacked it after buying the loft and quickly hiding it in the closet.
Taylor reached down and unsnapped the two latches and opened the case. She heard herself suck in a sharp intake of breath as the lid came up.
Inside the case, lying in custom-fitted foam mold, was a world-class, competition .22-caliber Hammerli- Walther Model 203. It was the pistol Jack would have taken to the 1988 Seoul Olympics.
If he’d lived …
Taylor stared at it for what felt like a long time. It was the only thing she had left of her brother’s, and she couldn’t remember exactly how she wound up with it. Probably, she dimly recalled, it was because no one else could bear to take it and she couldn’t bear to throw it away.
Jack had loved the pistol, and he had taught her how to use it.
She carefully pulled the gun out of the case and examined it. The blueing was a little worn, the grip dull with a couple of minor scratches. She pried one of the magazines out of the foam and turned it upside down. The cartridges were still there. She wondered if they were still good, but then pushed that thought from her head. This was Manhattan; simply having a pistol was a felony. It’s not like she could go down to the corner market and buy another box of bullets.
She slid the magazine into the gun, then opened her purse.
If she dumped most of the junk out, she could just fit the pistol into her bag.
As she pulled out her cell phone, it went off. Startled, she fumbled to open it. On the screen was another number she didn’t recognize. She hit the connect button and held the phone to her ear without saying anything.
She listened to the silence for a long time before it was broken.
“You should have heard her scream,” a voice said. Michael’s voice. “It was exquisite.”
Taylor felt dizzy again. She grabbed the headboard with her free hand to steady herself. She took a deep breath, let it out slowly, then spoke.
“I’ve been waiting for your call,” she said softly, evenly.
“I sliced off her clit with an X-Acto knife,” he whispered.
Taylor reached over and picked up the pistol. It felt solid, heavy in her hand.
“And I’m next,” she said. “Right?”
He laughed.
“Oh yes,” he said. “You’re next. We’re going to have a lot of fun.”
Taylor gritted her teeth, hard. “Listen to me, you disgust-ing fuck. You’re not laying a finger on me. Remember? I’m the one with the bag. I’m the one with the hundred thousand in small bills. I’m your ticket out of here.”
“You mean there was actually money in that bag?” He sounded almost incredulous.
She stood up, the cell phone in one hand, pistol in the other. “Hell, yes, you sick perverted pile of dog snot. And I’m through making deals with you. I’m the one calling the shots now. Here’s how it’s going to go down. If you want to get out of here alive, you’ll take the money and disappear.
I’m buying my life back for a hundred thousand dollars and I want you out of it. That’s the deal. If you don’t take it, I’m coming after you. I’m coming after you and I’m going to kill you, I’m going to cook you, and I’m going to fucking eat you. Understand?”
There was a long silence over the phone. “My, my,” he said finally. “I’ve never heard you talk like this before. It’s kind of arousing.”
“Make a choice,” Taylor said. “You got one shot to live.
Take it or leave it.”
“This is a side of you I’ve never seen before,” he said.
“You’re running out of time, Michael,” she snapped.
“Make up your mind. Yes or no.”
“Okay,” he said. “Cool your jets. It’s a deal. But this time, I’m not running if you’re not alone. I spot a cop or another of those FBI pricks, then I’m just going to kill you before they take me out. We both go down together.”
“Where do we meet?” Taylor demanded. “Let’s get this over with now.”
“No,” Michael said. “Not in the daytime. Tonight.”
“All right,” Taylor said. “You call me at nine o’clock tonight. Don’t be late.”
She hit the disconnect button and flipped the phone closed.
Taylor looked down at the pistol in her hand. She wasn’t shaking anymore.
Hank Powell stripped off his booties, mask, and latex gloves, then stepped outside the front door of Brett Silverman’s brownstone and walked quickly down the steps to the sidewalk. He needed air, fresh air, and he needed it badly.
He’d never seen anything like this. Horrible didn’t even begin to describe what he’d seen upstairs. He didn’t even want to begin to think about what the victim had gone through.
One of the plainclothes NYPD Homicide detectives walked up to him as he leaned against a cast-iron fence that ran the width of the property. “You okay?” he asked.
Hank looked up at him. “Yeah, just got a little light-headed.
I’m okay.”
The detective pulled out a cigarette pack and held it out to him. “No, thanks,” Hank said. “Gave ‘em up years ago.”
The cop nodded toward the murder scene. “Be a good day to start again. You ever seen anything like that?”
Hank shook his head.
“We had a uniform actually throw up in there. Guy’d never seen a homicide scene before.”
“Oh, Jesus.” Hank winced. “Imagine that being your first one.”
Hank’s cell phone went off. He pulled it out of his coat pocket and flipped it open.
“Powell,” he said. “What? What the hell are you talking about? Goddamn it, you were supposed to be watching her!”
The detective watched as Hank Powell’s face grew red and-even in the cold, heavy wind coming off the Hudson River a few blocks away-his forehead broke out in a sweat.
“Well, when the hell did it-” Hank paced a few feet away.
“All right, damn it, look, get out an APB or whatever the hell you can do. Send a squad car to her building. She’ll probably go there first. We’ve got to find her, and quick.”
Hank flipped the phone shut. “Everything okay?” the detective asked.
“I’ve got to go,” Hank said. “It’s hit the fan.”
He spotted Joyce Parelli coming out of the brownstone and ran up the stairs to meet her. She, too, looked drawn and shaken.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“Taylor Robinson’s disappeared.”
“Christ almighty!” she snapped, her eyes widening. “How the fuck did they lose her?”
“C’mon, let’s head for her place.”
Joyce followed as Hank started for the corner of Tenth Avenue and Twenty-fourth, where Joyce had left the car earlier.
As they walked, Hank pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number.
“C’mon, damn it, answer! Taylor, pick up the phone.”
Taylor Robinson stopped in the entranceway of her building and stared out through the dingy glass. It looked clear outside, as far as she could tell. She walked outside, past a building almost completely covered in a rainbow of graffiti, up to the corner. She flagged down a cab and climbed in. As she did, she looked out the back window of the taxi.
