they put me in jail, I wouldn’t reveal my sources.”
“Jail?” the projectionist whinnied. Smithback soothed him with a pat on the back, then ducked out of the booth into the control room, clutching his notebook and tape recorder and passing into the old, dusty corridors he remembered so well. He was in luck: old Pocahontas—nicknamed for the ferocity with which she slashed rouge across her generous cheeks-was manning the north exit. He passed her in a flurry of smiles and salacious winks, his thumb discreetly covering the expiration date on his aging Museum ID card.
MARGO PUSHED through the revolving door of the 27th Precinct House, made a sharp left, and trotted down the long, steep staircase to the basement. The banister had been removed from the ancient yellow wall decades before, and she had to take care not to slip on the concrete steps. Despite the thickness of the stone foundations around her, she could hear muffled popping sounds below long before she reached the bottom of the staircase.
As she yanked open the heavily soundproofed door on the landing, the muffled pops turned suddenly to roars. Wincing against the noise, she stepped forward to the duty desk. The officer recognized her and waved dismissively as she began to pull the letter of privilege and special permit from her carryall. “Take number seventeen,” he said over the blasts, passing over a dozen target sheets and a set of battered ear cups.
Margo scribbled her name and entry time in the book, then turned and walked down the gallery, putting on the ear cups as she did so. Immediately, the roaring became bearable once more. To her left, the line of police officers in their open-topped booths ran almost unbroken to the far wall of the range: reloading, clipping targets, assessing results. Early evening was a popular time. And of the dozen twenty-five-yard indoor ranges scattered across the NYPD station houses, the 27th Precinct boasted the largest and best-equipped.
Reaching booth seventeen, she removed her weapon, a box of 120-grain FMJ ammunition, and some spare clips from the carryall. Placing the ammunition on a ledge at her side, she inspected the small autoloader. The movements were as habitual now as they had been foreign a year before, when she’d first purchased the gun. Satisfied, she slapped a full clip home, pinned a standard target to the guide line, and ran it out to ten yards. Then she quickly settled into the Weaver stance, as she’d been taught: right hand on trigger, left hand gripping the right in the classic push-pull dynamic. Focusing on the front sight, she squeezed the trigger, letting her bent elbows absorb the recoil. She stopped a moment to squint at the target, then quickly emptied the rest of the ten-round clip toward it.
She went through several more clips almost mechanically, settling into the standard firing range routine: reload, reset target, fire. When the ammunition box was half empty, she switched to silhouette targets at twenty- five yards. Emptying the final clip at last, she turned away to clean her weapon and was surprised to see Lieutenant D’Agosta behind her, arms folded, watching.
“Hi,” she said, removing her ear cups and shouting over the din.
D’Agosta nodded toward her target. “Let’s see how you did,” he mouthed, and waited for her to pull the silhouette in. “Nice rosette,” he said approvingly.
Margo laughed. “Thanks,” she said. “I have you to thank for that. Just like I have you to thank for the permit.” She dumped the empty clips into her carryall, thinking about how strange it must have seemed to D’Agosta at the time: her bursting into his office three months after the conclusion of the Museum murders, asking him to arrange for a handgun permit. For protection, she’d told him. How could she have brought herself to explain the lingering fear, the sweat-drenched nightmares, the feeling of vulnerability that plagued her?
“Brad told me you were a good student,” D’Agosta said. “I figured you’d get on well, that’s why I recommended him. But as for the permit, you don’t have me to thank. Pendergast took care of it personally. Now, let’s see what kind of gun Brad set you up with.”
Margo handed it over. “It’s a baby Glock. Model 26, with a factory-modified ‘New York trigger.’ ”
D’Agosta hefted it. “Nice and light. Short sight radius, though.”
“Your friend Brad was very helpful with that. Taught me Kentucky windage, helped me set up the adjustable sight. I’ve done all my training with it. I’d probably be useless with anything else.”
“I doubt it.” D’Agosta handed the subcompact back. “With scores like those, you could probably handle just about anything.” He nodded toward the exit. “Come on, let’s get away from this noise. I’ll walk you out.”
Margo stopped at the desk to sign out and return the ear cups, and was surprised when D’Agosta signed the log as well. “You were shooting?” she asked.
“Why not?” D’Agosta turned to her. “Even old farts like me get rusty.” They stepped out of the range and began climbing the long, steep staircase. “Actually, cases like this get everybody on edge,” he said. “A little practice seemed like a good idea. Especially after that briefing.”
Margo didn’t bother to reply. At the top of the steps, she stopped and waited for the Lieutenant to catch up. He emerged, puffing slightly, and they passed through the revolving door onto 31st Street. It was a cool evening, and traffic was light. Margo looked at her watch: almost eight. She could jog home, fix herself a light dinner, then try to catch up on her sleep.,
“I’ll bet those damn stairs have caused more coronaries than all the pastry in New York,” D’Agosta said. “Doesn’t seem to have bothered you any, though.”
Margo shrugged. “I’ve been working out.”
“So I noticed. You’re not the same person I met eighteen months ago. Not on the outside, anyway. What’s your routine?”
“Strength workout, mostly. You know, high weight, low reps.”
D’Agosta nodded. “Couple times a week?”
“I work the upper and lower muscle groups on alternating days. I try to work in some interval training, as well.”
“What are you currently benching? One twenty?”
Margo shook her head. “One thirty-five, actually. It’s nice, because for the first time I don’t have to change all those little weights on the bar. I can just use the forty-fives.”
