supposed she could do another search, this time for suffocations, but that would be a much, much longer list. Thousands. She wasn’t looking forward to having to sort through a mountain of accidental deaths but didn’t see any other way to proceed. Until the photos came back, she was dead in the water.
For the first time that day, she faltered. Maybe Sam was right, and the terrorist link was pertinent. Certainly it was curious that the software victim’s partner was so proximate to terrorist financiers — and now their fifth victim was mob-connected, as was Masenkoff, which by extension made the first victim also at least peripherally mob-affiliated. Maybe the entire series of killings was some sort of criminal syndicate retaliatory strike against a rival network?
If that was the case, then Sam would get to the bottom of it, she had no doubt — if for no other reason than solving the case by taking it in that new direction would guarantee him a promotion to Silver’s rank. She could tell he wanted that more than life itself, and she had every faith that he would work tirelessly to discover the truth.
She padded to the kitchen, grabbed a soda, and considered another chocolate, but then thought better of it — a brief mental image of the paramedics finding her in a sugar-induced coma, lying on the floor amid a heap of candy wrappers flitted through her imagination. She smiled at the visual.
Just before dinner time, Richard called.
“Hey. Any progress? Anything come in today?” he asked.
“Nope. Completely quiet. But I made a discovery. The kidnapper took some of Kennedy’s clothes, so it looks like he planned to keep her alive, at least for a while.”
“Did you tell Art?”
“Of course. He agreed it was positive.”
Richard filled her in on his day, which largely consisted of sitting in meetings with Sam, who was already beginning to display a dictatorial penchant. He had demanded a mountain of new research on the terrorist funding and was pressing Richard to get him the backgrounds on all the brokers at their latest victim’s company.
“I don’t think he realizes what a big job that is. I understand why he wants it, but it’s not like it’s an hour’s worth of work.”
“When will you have it for him?”
“Tomorrow, with any luck. I’m probably going to be working late tonight.”
“So am I, so don’t feel bad.”
“Well, I’m hoping we get a break in the next day so I can come see you. The other night was…I think we need to talk, Silver. We need some time alone.”
Her love life was at the bottom of her priority list at the moment. Still, he deserved some attention, and he was right. Whatever had happened between them deserved an opportunity to develop, if it was going to. She couldn’t hide in the flat forever.
“Just let me know what your schedule looks like. You know where to find me. Maybe we can have dinner in the next day or two?”
“I’d like that, Silver.”
“Me, too. Consider it done, then. We can talk tomorrow. I’m going to be burning the midnight oil on the case the rest of this evening, and it sounds like you will be, too. Sleep well, whenever you get to.”
She disconnected, and then her attention was drawn to her computer screen. A confirmation message from one of the techs blinked at her — they were starting on the photos. She glanced at her watch — barring a miracle, she wouldn’t have anything back before mid-day tomorrow at the earliest.
Silver sat back down in front of the screen and brought up the list of decapitations again. There had to be something there. She was sure she was missing something obvious and resigned herself to spending her night poring over the minutiae of the cases in the hopes of spotting something.
She turned on her speakers and selected her favorite internet radio station, then shifted in the chair, the healing bullet wound a reminder of how quickly time was passing.
Somewhere out there, the killer was planning to strike again.
She knew it like she knew her own name.
And it was now up to her to figure out how, and why, because with Sam chasing ghosts, she had zero faith he’d stop him.
That left Silver.
Her stomach rumbled, signaling she had to attend to the mundane task of feeding herself. She did a mental inventory of her options in the flat and decided to go round the corner to grab a rotisserie chicken — she didn’t see the point of spending a half-hour preparing a meal.
She grabbed her purse and pulled on a light jacket, then considered her Glock. Wherever she went, it would go. That seemed prudent in light of the attempt on her life. She scooped it up and dropped it into her purse, then made her way to the front door.
She exited her building, taking slim comfort from the NYPD cruiser in front of it, and pressed her way into the mass of humanity thronging the sidewalk on its way home after a long day at work, the crowd moving with an anxious pace particular to big cities. As she approached the corner, the back of her neck prickled, and she felt as though she was being watched. She stopped abruptly and swung around, eyeing the sea of approaching faces, but didn’t spot anyone who was obvious or seemed to pose a threat. It was probably just nerves getting the better of her, she decided, then noticed a figure standing across the street from her building, wearing black trousers and a black jacket — a man who quickly averted his gaze after their eyes locked for a brief moment.
A woman pushing a stroller next to her lost control of her grocery bag, and it tumbled to the ground, spilling cans and packages everywhere. The businessman next to Silver bumped into her roughly, then apologized as he kneeled to help the young mother. The surge of pedestrians dodged the parcels, a few throwing her dirty looks, several smiling, one other stopping to help. A can bumped Silver’s ankle, so she crouched down, retrieved it, and handed it to the harried woman as she struggled to gather her groceries before they got kicked all over the sidewalk. The baby girl seemed mesmerized by the sudden change of pace and squealed delightedly, unaware of her mother’s consternation.
Silver stood and turned, straining to catch sight of the man again, but he was gone, melted into the crowd. She considered running across the busy, rush-hour traffic to try to pick up his trail, then thought better of it. There was no law against watching the world go by, even if it triggered her internal alarms.
She hefted her purse and reached in, feeling the comforting coldness of her Glock. If someone wanted a piece of her, they’d find that it wasn’t that easy to get.
Silver resumed her walk, now hyper-conscious of her surroundings, but didn’t notice anything further.
When she returned to the flat with her chicken and rice, she locked all the bolts, set the meal on the counter, and hurried to the window to scan the street below, but saw only the random flow of the city’s population going about its business. She checked the windows to ensure they were locked and then pulled the drapes closed. Silver noticed that her hands were shaking, just a little, a telltale tremor. She sat down hard on the swivel chair that Kennedy used when she played on the computer, and glanced at the multi-colored Post-it notes with her daughter’s precise scrawl on it — the addresses of websites she’d found and wanted to revisit later.
Silver spent the evening at her dining room table. The first mouthful of chicken bestirred her sadness; she quickly washed it down and took another. A pile of paper she’d printed out for ease of reading sat in front of her, a bottle of mineral water on one side and her Glock on the other — a solitary figure with a lone lamp illuminating the area, struggling to hold it together as she searched for hidden meaning in long-forgotten reports of events nobody cared about.
Vaslav had called Agent Heron and agreed to a meet in a deli near Times Square at seven p.m.. When the mobster entered the bustling dining room, he instantly spotted Heron and murmured instructions to his two companions, who resembled nothing so much as small, fleshy mountains in suits. They glanced around before taking up positions by the exit while Vaslav moved to Heron’s booth.
Heron didn’t get up when Vaslav stopped by his table, the last booth at the back, all the surrounding tables devoid of customers. Heron had a milkshake in front of him and was pouring more into the tall, old-fashioned glass from a frost-encrusted stainless steel blending cup. He raised his eyes to Vaslav as he slowed the stream to a trickle.
“You want some of this?” Heron offered. “It’s amazing. Just like Mama used to make, if Mama worked for Ben
