‘“Slut” was the most recent job description, I thought,’ Daniel reminded in a whisper.
Gabriela dug through the documents in her purse. She then placed a call and held the phone to her ear. After a few seconds she put the unit away. She said, ‘Voice mail. I guess we assume she’s not there.’
‘As opposed to assuming she’s not answering because she’s busy cleaning her shotgun?’ He looked boyish, he looked charming … and he seemed a bit charmed himself as he scanned her face.
‘Okay. We go with the alternative.’
Plan B …
‘Wait here a minute,’ she told him and walked into the lobby of the elegant brownstone, looking over the mailboxes. She returned to Daniel. ‘Brother, she’s got the whole second floor.’ They gazed at those windows, which were dark. The rooms seemed to be unoccupied.
‘Come on,’ she said.
They walked into the alleyway beside the building. All the windows on the ground floor were barred with elaborate, scrolly grates. The second-floor windows, however, were not protected, and one was partly open.
‘Help me.’
They wheeled a Dumpster below it.
Gabriela then turned and walked back to the street, with Daniel following. She surveyed the scene. The sidewalk wasn’t crowded. ‘The alley’s narrow,’ she pointed out. ‘There’s no reason for anybody to look into it and see me.’
‘You’re really going to break in?’
‘Yep. I sure as hell am.’
She noted a closed antiques store on the corner. In front were two massive Chinese lions, secured to the sidewalk with massive chains. Who on earth would steal them? she thought. How could you fence eight hundred pounds of ugly sculpture?
‘You wait there and, I don’t know – pretend to make a call. If you see anybody walk up to the building, call me.’
He gave her a quick kiss. ‘Good luck.’ He retreated ten feet and took out his mobile.
Gabriela started back to the alley. She had just reached the mouth when, with a staccato flutter of urgent, official lights, an unmarked police car, followed by a blue-and-white NYPD cruiser, skidded to a stop in front of the building.
Daniel started forward but Gabriela subtly gestured for him to stay where he was.
The two detectives who’d stopped the pair yesterday, Kepler and Surani, climbed out of the unmarked police car. A uniformed officer, blond and young, exited the cruiser.
None of them looked Daniel’s way.
Kepler gestured toward where they stood on the sidewalk. ‘Come on over here, Ms McKenzie.’
She didn’t move.
‘Please. Now.’
She hesitated then joined them.
‘Tell us what’re you doing.’ Surani insisted, though politely.
‘That’s my business.’
‘Well, explain what that business is and why it involves an alleyway.’
‘I wasn’t breaking any laws,’ she shot back.
‘No? Were you – just speculating here – thinking of maybe … breaking into somebody’s apartment?’ From Kepler, of course, and delivered frosted with sarcasm.
‘That’s ridiculous. A friend of my boss lives here.’
‘“Friend”?’ Kepler asked sarcastically.
‘We know about Ms Dietrich,’ Surani said.
Gabriela snapped, ‘I have every right to talk to her.’
Kepler asked, ‘About what?’
‘And I have every right not to tell you that.’
Her eyes swiveled toward the antiques store, the massive lions. Daniel was standing behind some spectators, twenty feet away. He was close – he could hear the exchange, she could tell – but not so near that the cops noticed him. Her frown told him to stay there.
‘What exactly were you going to do, whisper to Ms Dietrich from below the window?’ Kepler looked at the Dumpster. ‘Very Romeo and Juliet.’
‘And what are you doing here?’ she demanded.
Kepler laughed. ‘You got quite the attitude – for a burglar. In answer to your question, since you haven’t cooperated and since Charles Prescott is still wanted on suspicion of two dozen felonies, we’re pursuing other leads in the case. One of ’em sent us here. Tell us what you know about Ms Dietrich.’
‘Nothing. I was worried about Charles. I just wanted to ask her if she’d heard from him, how he’s doing.’
‘Again, I ask: through the window?’ Kepler offered, and ignored her bitter glare. He added, ‘They make these things called telephones, you know. But we’ll have time to talk about it in detention.’
‘What?’
‘We searched your boss’s office again. We checked the inventory and found some things missing. Gabriela McKenzie, you’re under arrest for obstruction of justice.’ He sounded as if he’d been looking forward to saying those words for some time.
She blurted, ‘No!’
As if he couldn’t resist himself, Kepler added, ‘And we’ll throw in an attempted burglary count just for the hell of it.’ A glance into the alley. ‘A Dumpster? Really.’
‘You don’t understand. My …’ Her voice trailed off.
‘Your what?’ Surani asked.
‘Please. I can’t afford to go to jail right now.’
Kepler laughed. ‘Sorry if it’s inconvenient.’ He turned away to jot some entries in a notebook and gestured to the uniformed officer. His name badge said Patrolman Chapman.
He stepped up to her. ‘Set your bag down and turn around, put your hands behind your back.’
‘Please!’
‘Now. Turn around.’ The officer reached for his cuffs, looking down to locate them. When he did, Gabriela lunged forward and ripped his automatic pistol from his holster.
The crowd gasped and scattered.
‘Gabriela!’ Kepler shouted. He moved in fast and gripped her arm. They grappled and Gabriela went down hard on her side, crying out in pain. But she broke free and swung the gun toward his face. He winced and ducked, waving his hand, as if to ward off the bullets.
‘Now back off!’ she screamed and aimed at the detectives. ‘You two! Throw your guns away! Now! Under those cars!’
Surani called desperately, ‘Don’t do this! You—’
But she regarded them with a cold look. And they tossed their weapons where she’d indicated.
As her gaze was momentarily drawn by the tumbling guns, wincing as if afraid one would fire, the uniformed officer surged forward, trying to tackle her. Gabriela broke away and she stumbled. As she tried to right herself the gun discharged.
The young cop blinked, grabbed his chest and dropped to the pavement. ‘Oh, fuck. Oh.’
Gabriela gasped.
Surani ignored both her and the pistol, which she still held, and ran to the fallen officer, whose arms were flailing, feet kicking. The detective bent over him and shouted over his shoulder, ‘Call it in!’
Kepler said in a raspy growl, ‘You fucking bitch! Shoot me if you want but I’m getting him help!’ He pulled out his radio.
Sobbing, Gabriela backed away. Then turned and ran. At the corner she tossed the gun into a sewer grating. She joined Daniel, who was looking equally shocked. She started to sprint again. But he stopped her. ‘Just walk. Look down and walk.’
‘I—’
‘Just walk. Slow. Walk.’
Gabriela nodded, inhaled deeply several times and took his arm.
They headed east.
Soon, only seconds later, the banshee call of sirens cut through the chill afternoon air from a dozen directions at once.
CHAPTER
23
9:45 a.m., Sunday
15 minutes earlier
‘Okay,’ Kepler said, looking up from his phone. ‘The address is Madison at Eighty-Eight.’
‘And what’s that supposed to be?’ Surani asked.
‘Charles Prescott’s girlfriend.’ He looked down at a sheet of paper. ‘Sonia Dietrich.’
‘This is all very fucking complicated,’ Surani griped.
‘You’ve been cussing a lot lately,’ Kepler said. ‘Not like you.’
‘Not like me? Because people of South Asian heritage – that’s Indian to you, but not your kind of Indian – don’t swear? People who work in call centers don’t swear?’
‘That’s racist,’ Kepler said indignantly. ‘What do you mean, “my kind of Indian”? I don’t go to the casinos.’
‘Casinos?’ Surani riposted. ‘My point exactly. There you go.’ His gray-complexioned face turned to his partner with a look of smug triumph. He took off his suit jacket and hung it over a chair.
Kepler was continually surprised at how his partner could be so slim, yet so muscular. The man played soccer most weekends. Cricket sometimes, a game Kepler simply couldn’t get his head around.
Thinking he really should get serious about the golf, Kepler waved his hand, which meant the argument was over.
A figure appeared in the doorway of the operations room.
‘Ah, it’s Rookie Three-name,’ Kepler said, eyeing the name badge.
‘Fred Stanford Chapman reporting for duty,’ the young blond officer said; his tone evidenced a bit of attitude, Kepler thought.
‘And, if you’re interested, for the record, I swear all the fucking time,’ said the kid, who’d apparently overheard the conversation. ‘Anyway, swearing isn’t swearing anymore. It’s different.’
Attitude …
Kepler gave him a that’s-not-funny-so-watch-yourself look. Blondie shut up and decided not to offer what he’d been about to, whatever it was.
‘All right, Fred Stanford Chapman—’
The rookie said, ‘Why don’t you call me Stosh? It’s—’
‘Naw, you’re definitely a Fred Stanford Chapman,’ Kepler said, like he was bestowing an honorary title.
‘Definitely,’ Surani echoed.
‘Now. Listen up.’ Kepler briefed the Patrol officer on the Charles Prescott Op and, even though he remained a little smart-ass around the eyes, the kid seemed to get it. And even made a few good suggestions.
Then Kepler said, ‘Let’s get some breakfast. Something big.’
‘And expensive,’ Surani added.
Kepler let drop, ‘We’ll charge it to Patrol. Our Viking warrior here’ll sign for it.’
The kid was silent for a moment. He’d be thinking that even on stake-out operations he had to buy his own food. ‘Me?’
‘This case is so fucked up – excuse me, Gandhi,’ Kepler said, with a look at Surani, who gave him the finger yet again, ‘that we need some Bloody Marys too. Or, hell, Champagne.’
‘Champagne?’ The rookie was dying.
Kepler gave it a whole ten seconds. Then said, ‘We’re fucking with you, Fred Stanford Chapman.’
‘Yeah.’ And he tried to look as if he’d known that all along.
‘We got time for coffee, that’s it. We go to … What’s the address again?’
‘Madison and Eighty-Eight.’ He added, to the new member of the team: ‘That’s where Prescott’s concubine’s supposed to be.’
The young officer said, ‘A concubine is a woman who exists in a marriage-like relationship but’s unable to marry her lover, usually because of a difference in social class. You wouldn’t really have concubines in America. Fewer class issues, you know.’
Both the detectives stared at him.
The kid blushed. ‘I’m just saying.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ Kepler muttered. ‘Now you’re definitely buying.’
Surani, the more-or-less voice of reason, said, ‘Let’s get a move on.’
The detectives waited, continuing to stare at the patrolman.
‘What?’ The kid’s voice nearly broke.
Surani frowned. ‘You weren’t listening?’
‘How’s that?’
‘The briefing. Just now.’
‘I was, yeah.’ But he looked uncertain, as if he maybe hadn’t been listening as much as he ought to’ve been.
‘Forget about that?’ Kepler pointed to a bulletproof vest, sitting on a table near the door.
‘I’ll pass,’ the young officer said. ‘Sweat like a pig in one of those. Besides, what could go wrong?’
CHAPTER
22
9:30 a.m., Sunday
15 minutes earlier
They sat together on the edge of the unmade bed, sheets warm and twisted, concentric, like hurricane clouds seen from space.
Their legs touched.
‘We should check out soon,’ Daniel Reardon said. He was looking down at Lexington Avenue as if Joseph or a crew of other killers searching desperately for the October List were stationed outside. His bag was packed.
‘All right,’ Gabriela said absently. She rose and began gathering up her things, stuffing them back into the gym bag. Dark blue with a red Nike logo on the side. Did Nike still use that logo? she wondered. And the tag line:
Just do it …
She’d brought very little with her, apart from the files, and she was soon finished. She was aware of Daniel looking her over. Blue jeans and a V-neck green sweater over a cream-colored silk camisole. A light gray L.L. Bean windbreaker. Daniel was in a new outfit as well – a suit, like yesterday. Dark gray. Italian. It was perfectly pressed. He wore no tie, a concession of some sort to the weekend. The scent rising from the cloth was astringent – dry-cleaning chemicals – but she sensed a subtext of aftershave, lotion and musk. Shoe polish too. He was fastidious about his shoes. The combination was, for some reason, extremely arousing.
Yes, they should check out, Gabriela reflected. But she didn’t want to. She wanted to stay here. Close to him.
Very close.
This was absurd under the circumstances. Yet, for the moment, the feeling of desire – and the possibility of a deeper, searingly hot connection – enveloped her.
It was then that he pulled her closer, his right hand easing like a silk scarf around her neck. She resisted but only for the briefest of moments. Lips yielding and surging, tastes joining, heat rolling from skin to skin. The more she relaxed, the harder her gripped her.
And she sensed that irresistible uncoiling within her.
Another embrace, bordering on pain. Then he was backing away. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.’ Though he didn’t seem the least bit contrite.
Despite virtually seeing the name Sarah emblazoned in her mind, Gabriela said softly, ‘Yes, you should have.’ And she kissed him once more.
‘Let’s get breakfast and keep going through our homework.’ A glance at the documents. ‘We’ve got a half million dollars to find.’
She nodded but found herself tempted once more to pull him down on the bed next to her. She easily pictured what would follow. Daniel was sensual, with a taut body – she’d seen and felt enough of it already. A firm, unyielding grip. Lips the right combination of firm and soft. He’d have a playful tongue and he’d use it frequently; he was a man who would enjoy taste as well as touch. He would press her down on the bed, pinioning her, which despite her obsession with control she curiously enjoyed – never been able to figure that one out – and then he’d devour her, one hand on her thigh, one on her breast. He’d be unrelenting, possessive, domineering.
And the warmth and pleasure, like drugs, would continue, growing and growing until the end would be pretty quick for her.
God, she wanted that.
A string of mismatched lovers stretched out behind her.
Mismatched and worse.
But, as tempted as she was, she forced the fantasy away and ignored the warm sheets, the scents of him, the memory of his hands and mouth.
Priorities.
Goals.
The name ‘Sarah.’
CHAPTER
21
8:30 a.m., Sunday
1 hour earlier
He had a sense that somebody was watching him.
Frank Walsh was walking toward his apartment in the West Village, aware of a man in his forties, large, with curly blond hair sticking out from beneath a baseball cap, wearing a dark overcoat. The man was on the opposite side of Hudson Street, walking in the same direction. But it was odd, the way this guy was walking. Anybody else would have been looking down at his feet or ahead or at the windows to his left. This guy, though, was glancing pretty frequently at the sparse Sunday-morning traffic. Like he was worried about cars following him.
