only to come up empty.
She decided to search the place. She didn?t like what she found.
Bare hangers in the closet. Socks and underwear missing from Foley?s dresser drawers. No toothbrush or deodorant in the bathroom. She looked for luggage but didn?t find any. It could be a simple coincidence that Andrew Foley happened to take a trip at the same time Nikki had come to end him. Maybe.
Had someone tipped Foley off? He was a student and prone to keep an irregular schedule. She supposed it was possible his departure had nothing to do with her arrival, but to Nikki it just didn?t feel right.
She continued searching, hoping to find a day planner or an address book. No such luck.
?Son of a bitch.? She stood in the middle of the apartment, turned slowly, fists on hips, scanning the space for anything that stood out or looked informative.
Her gaze landed on a black-and-white photograph. She took two quick steps and snatched it up, frowned at it. Two men, both clearly too old now to be Andrew Foley, who probably wasn?t even born when this shot was taken. The photo was yellowing, frayed at the corners. There was something intriguing about the men?s expressions. She flipped the photo over. A phone number.
The ink was fading, and it seemed unlikely the number was of any importance. But she had found the picture near the phone, so it was possible Foley had dialed the number recently. It was possible Foley had taken a trip out of town to visit a relative, a grandfather perhaps.
She stashed the photo in her pocket.
Nikki Enders took one more quick look around the apartment but found nothing to tell her where Andrew Foley might have gone or when he?d return.
Enough. She was wasting time. Foley would have to wait. In the meantime, Nikki moved to the next name on her kill list.
* * *
Vincent Minelli sat at a small table in a back room at the Eighty-seventh Street Social Club. Two wiseguys in silk shirts sat on either side of him smoking cigarettes. Vincent shoveled pasta into his mouth. Occasionally, he?d pause to jam in a wad of garlic bread or chase it all down with a slurp of Chianti.
The door swung open and Big Billy Romano thundered in. He wore a purple jogging suit and enough gold chains and necklaces to sink a battleship. Big Billy was big. Six-foot-four and 320 pounds.
Billy pointed a finger the size of a bratwurst at Vincent. ?You, get up and follow me.?
Vincent blinked, a little sauce dripping down his chin. ?What? I didn?t do nothing.?
?Just get the fuck in here.?
Vincent jumped up, his napkin still tucked in his belt, and followed Billy, the two wiseguys trailing behind. They crowded down the hall to the front entrance of the club, where two more of Billy?s men held a terrified pizza delivery boy facefirst against the wall. He wore a green vest that said CARLITO?S FAMOUS PIZZA. A large pizza box sat on the floor. Vincent sniffed. Sausage. Mushrooms.
?You order this pizza?? Billy asked.
Vincent made a
?You ever seen this guy before??
Vincent squinted at the pizza boy. ?I dunno. His face is all mashed up against the wall.?
One of the goons pulled the pizza boy off the drywall, turned him to face Vincent. ?How about now??
?Never seen him before.?
Big Billy Romano grabbed the pizza boy by the vest, tossed him out the front door. ?Nobody ordered nothing. Get out of here.?
?But that?s twelve-fifty for the pizza,? the kid said.
Billy flung the pizza out the door like a big sausage Frisbee. It landed next to the kid. ?Hit the road. We didn?t order it.? He slammed the door.
