though. First was the angry guy at the Morticians – the paper said he was her husband – barging in through the bedroom door. Then there was the way the old guy, Dom, had fought back at the meat market. Damn, he was ferocious. It was still impossible to believe. How could somebody that old be so strong? Then the Destination, she was expecting a cop, opened the door without even needing to hear a story. None of the surprises mattered, of course, not in the end. Everything had happened the way it was supposed to happen.
Everything was turning out beautifully…
– '-'-'BACK OUT ON West Ninth Street, McCoy sucked in some fresh air, hot and humid and not very refreshing. She decided she had to do something. She needed to move. She took the unmarked car – not a bad one this time; a little rust on the passenger door but, all in all, perfectly acceptable – and drove all the way up to East Seventy- seventh Street. To make everything seem a little more urgent, but mostly just to give herself a little needed pleasure, she put the rotating light on the roof and turned the siren on.
When she arrived at Jack's apartment building, McCoy flashed her badge at the doorman, but he'd had a lot of experience working the ritzy part of town. He couldn't just let her up, he said. A lot of tenants would have him fired if he let anyone into their apartments, even a cop. Mr. Keller wasn't like that, the doorman said, he was a nice guy, but still…
McCoy didn't argue. She just told him that it was a matter of life or death and that if he didn't let her go up, she'd make sure he was fired. Guaranteed, today would be his last day on the job. When he still wavered, she said, steely as she could be, which was pretty damn steely, 'Congratulations, you're outta here.' Then she started back out to the street, but he grabbed her by the arm and said, 'Okay, look, you gotta make it clear that you said it was life or death.' McCoy didn't bother to respond, just headed for the elevator as he called after her, 'Press 'Penthouse.' I'll release it.'
She made a quick search of the apartment. When she was done, she realized she'd been holding her breath in. She had thought she might find another body and when she didn't, she felt herself able to breathe again.
McCoy knew that she should just sit quietly and wait. If she got impatient, she could leave. But as she'd discovered, by the age of three, she was not the patient type, so what the hell, as long as she was here, she decided, she might as well poke around. She wasn't really violating any laws. Jack Keller wasn't a suspect and she wasn't looking for anything incriminating. She was just hoping that something might jar a thought. An action. Any kind of clue as to what was happening… and how to stop it.
She was there maybe forty-five minutes, sifting through papers, opening drawers, finding nothing of any import and feeling kind of silly, actually, knowing she was being a snoop, not a cop, when she heard the elevator.
It's about time, McCoy thought. Then she steeled herself to deliver the bad news.
– '-'-'SO MUCH FOR surprises coming in threes.
Here was surprise number four. Unbelievable. But not a real problem, not yet anyway.
Surprise number four would be dealt with, too.
This had to be the cop, the woman sergeant. That's the only thing that made sense. But what was she doing here? By the way she looked so startled, she was probably alone. That was good. But she also looked suspicious, and that was bad. She wouldn't have her guard down long. She would know what was happening before too long. So better to move now. Better to strike immediately and ask questions later. That way, maybe there wouldn't be any more surprises.
She was smart, this cop, that was obvious. The way her eyes narrowed, she sensed something was wrong. And she was quick, because as soon as their eyes met, she didn't even ask any questions, she just reached for her gun. Oh, yes, she was smart and quick.
But not smart and quick enough.
– '-'-'MCCOY KNEW SHE'D make it.
'Can I help you?' she asked. And when the answer came and all it was was 'No,' she knew. She'd been trained to know and to act simultaneously and that's what she did. So she wasn't even particularly worried because it all seemed so right: her coming to the apartment, sticking around on little more than a whim, being there now with the opportunity to end it all. So when she moved, she was nothing but confident.
But going for her gun, she missed. Not a big miss, but she didn't grab it cleanly; her fingers grazed the handle and she had to fumble for it. She understood immediately that those extra few seconds were fatal but she didn't stop trying.
She leaped back, hoping that would give her the time she needed, but like everything else in this goddamn case, nothing went as planned.
She realized that the knife that was slashing at her was the one that had been taken from Dominick Bertolini's market. She realized she was looking at the Entertainer's murderer. And Samsonite's and the Mortician's and the Destination's. And hers. She realized that, too, now.
Her final realization was that she could forget about retiring in Bucks County with her beloved Elmore. She was going to die right here in New York City.
– '-'-'THE COP WAS moving. Couldn't let her move.
No more surprises. That was even a better motto than better safe than sorry.
The blade ripped through the air one more time and once was all it took.
The red blood rushed out and spread thickly down chocolate-brown skin. She grabbed for her throat, dropping her gun, and for the first time there was someone who didn't look as if she couldn't believe she was going to die. She looked like she expected to die. But she sure was angry about it.
Even after the cop was dead, she looked really, really angry.
Hard to blame her, really. But not much to be done about it.
Except clean up.
Why did death have to be so messy?
FIFTY
The traffic was heavy and every driver on the road seemed to be driving for the very first time, inching slowly when they could have gone normal speed, weaving unsteadily when they should have been stable. It took Jack over five and a half hours to get back to the Lincoln Tunnel, where, of course, things were bumper-to-bumper and he was stuck even in the EZ Pass lane.
Fidgety, he picked up his cell phone and dialed his home number to collect his phone messages. He was hoping that Grace had called. He needed to talk to someone, to try to put the pieces of the puzzle together, and not just the disparate pieces connecting the murders but the complicated thoughts and emotions that were charging through him. He was surprised that he wanted that someone to be her.
As he punched the 'Okay' button, the car in front of him lurched forward and miraculously the traffic was momentarily clear. Just as he heard his phone machine connect, he found himself in the tunnel and the connection was severed. He clicked off the power, shrugged, and figured he could wait twenty more minutes until he was home.
Driving uptown, he wondered if he should stop off at Dom's. Dom would sit and drink with him, would let him talk until he was all talked out. But suddenly he was too tired to even think about sitting or drinking or talking. All he wanted to do was go straight home and fall into bed. He wanted to sleep for the next twelve hours and, if possible, not think or even dream about everything that had happened.
He parked the car in his garage, put the key in the slot for the penthouse, then changed his mind and went to the lobby to pick up his mail. There had to be a magazine in there, there was always a magazine in his mail, and he decided all he'd do is read whatever dumb story he could find on whatever dumb star or starlet they were writing about, and then he'd pass out.
It's a plan, he thought.
But it was a plan interrupted. As he stepped out to walk through the lobby to the mailboxes, he saw someone waiting for him. Raoul, the doorman on duty, looked fidgety and the expression on his face said that the person had been waiting a long time.
'What are you doing here?' he asked.
'Waiting to see you.'
