“Nah.” Manny sighed. “Nick’s smart, but nobody’s ever accused him of being subtle. But it wouldn’t hurt to be careful going in.” He signaled his men to move forward.
So they did. Cautiously. Two by two, in covering formation.
The warehouse was deserted, and it had been looted. Whoever had done it had left a mess behind, but not a single thing of value. They’d pulled the phones from the walls and busted open the canned drink machines to get at the change. They’d tagged the walls with graffiti — more than one gang had been here. Some of the spray paint was still wet.
Penny-ante stuff. And very recent.
It seemed Mr. Roma had enemies in low places.
“These guys better hope Roma’s outa here — he’s likely to cut their balls off if he’s still around.” Manny surveyed the wreckage with a jaundiced eye. “I wonder what they knew?”
“Yeah.”
They kept moving. The deeper into the building they got, the worse the damage was, probably because the street resale value of the missing contents rose as they got farther in. When they reached Nick’s office, it looked like it had been stripped clean by hungry locusts. But the hoods had left something behind.
“The chief isn’t gonna like this.” Manny looked down at Nick’s body, tumbled to the floor so somebody could steal the chair the man had clearly died in.
“I don’t know — seems to me Nick got what he deserved.” The cop gave a tight grin. “But I’m glad it’s your job to call it in.”
Manny had it right.
Bill Harrison was still in his office. It was close to midnight, and his desk was stacked so high with reports and associated materials that he’d need an archaeologist to get to the bottom of it.
The photos of Nick Roma at the crime scene occupied a prominent position on the top of the pile.
Harrison didn’t like it.
He’d wanted to put this man who had caused so much unbearable grief on trial. He’d wanted to confront him, along with all the other victims, and tell him what he’d done. Tell him about the nightmares and the pain and the loneliness.
He’d wanted to lock him away and watch the system slowly eat Nick Roma alive.
And then, only after he’d been through decades of it, Bill Harrison wanted to watch Nick Roma strapped down and killed.
But now it was too late for that.
Unlike most of his victims, Nick had died fast and easy. He’d probably barely had time to know it was coming.
Harrison was cheated of his revenge.
He didn’t like it at all.
He looked at the eight-by-ten glossies of the man who’d gotten away — permanently.
That’s when he heard Rosie’s voice, as clearly as if she were standing there beside him. “It’s better like this. Now you can get on with living.”
He turned to look around him. He was alone, not a soul in sight. Downstairs, the usual business of the city at midnight went on at a feverish pace. But here, there was nobody but him, and a voice that he couldn’t possibly have heard.
“Rosie?” Nothing.
His thirst for revenge was as destructive as the man in those pictures. It would tear him up, slowly eat his soul if he let it.
Instead, he needed to look for justice.
The people who did this needed to be stopped. They had to be caught and caged so that they couldn’t do it again.
Nick Roma wasn’t going to cause any more trouble in this life. Once the paperwork was filed, his case was over.
He’d not acted alone, of course. Bill Harrison wouldn’t rest until he’d gotten them all, one way or another.
But not for revenge. For justice. And to preserve the peace for all of the good people he’d sworn to protect.
That was his job, and he was going to do it.
He stood up, turned his back on his desk, and went to get his suit jacket and overcoat.
He had a daughter to go home to, and a life to put back together. He had a future. He owed it to his wife to make it a good one, to live the very best life he could without her.
He turned off the light and left, closing the door behind him.
Tasheya was waiting for him.
FORTY-FOUR
Minutes after leaving the television studio from which he conducted his nightly talk show broadcast, Arkady Pedachenko stepped into the backseat of his Mercedes and had his chauffeur take him to the exclusive Hotel National opposite the onion domes of St. Basil’s Cathedral. He was dropped off outside the front doors, strode through the chandeliered lobby with a familiar nod to the concierge and desk staff, and then took the elevator up to the luxury suite he had been reserving on a long-term lease for several years.
This was very much a matter of routine for Pedachenko, who would arrive once or twice a week, most often alone, to be joined by a
Tonight Pedachenko had no sooner gotten to his room than he heard a soft knock at his door, opened it, and stepped back to admit a beautiful woman in a short black skirt, black stockings, black leather jacket, and black beret. The concierge had seen her enter the lobby in her spike heels, guessed immediately that she was going to Pedachenko’s room, and admired her long-legged figure with a kind of wishful envy aimed at the politician, whom he was sure would be enjoying his tryst even more than usual this evening. The woman was like a pantheress, he observed. One who was no doubt in heat.
Now she sat down on a plush Queen Anne wing chair, pulled off her beret, and shook her head so her hair spilled loosely over her jacket collar.
“The money before anything,” she said coolly.
He stood in front of her, still dressed in his sport coat and slacks, and shook his head ever so slightly.
“It makes me sad to know our relationship is based so exclusively on payment for services rendered,” he said with a pained look. “After everything we’ve done together, one would think some kind of deeper bond would have formed.”
“Save your cleverness for the viewers of your program,” she said. “I want what you owe me.”
Pedachenko made a slight tsking sound, reached into his inner jacket pocket, and brought out a thick white envelope. She took it from him, opened the flap, and glanced inside. Then she dropped it into her purse.
“At least you didn’t feel it necessary to count it in front of me, Gilea,” Pedachenko said. “Perhaps we have the beginnings of a closer, more trusting relationship here, after all.”
