The lesson was lost on me as well. I valued the mirror ball because I could see all four courtyard entrances in it at the same time. I checked my backup in the ball as it swung slightly in a warm breeze. Cam lurked under the south arch, slouching under a Phillies cap. Herman leaned against the west arch, fake-reading the Daily News. Sal stood under the north arch in his Ray-Bans, eating a soft pretzel. No one had the east arch because I’d run out of senior citizens. I’d had to enlist David and his friend to watch my father in the hospital.
I shifted on my feet and glanced at my watch: 11:55.
I scanned the crowds coming through the courtyard. If the bluff worked, the killer would come through one of the entrances at noon. Then one of the backup men would tail him, ready to grab him and scream bloody murder as soon as I gave the high sign. I hoped the killer turned out to be the rasta-haired motorcyclist. I didn’t know how I would feel if it were Paul, now that the time had come.
11:58. I fingered the plastic Baggie in one of my blazer pockets. It held my father’s knife, the one that looked like the murder weapon. Then I checked the Polaroids in the other pocket, pictures I’d taken yesterday of my father’s knife in a lab-like setting. I gritted my teeth. I was ready. Was the killer? I rocked on my pumps and tried not to sweat on the bull’s-eye.
Suddenly there was a commotion under the west arch. I tensed. Had Herman spotted the killer? The crowd under the arch scattered and a trio of bare-chested teenagers broke free, rowdy, play-fighting. Two cops, walking by, looked back, then said something to each other and moved on. I breathed a relieved sigh.
12:01.
He was late. Maybe he wouldn’t come at all, maybe he wouldn’t fall for it. The bluff was that I’d kept the real murder weapon, had it tested privately, and turned up some telltale DNA. I said I’d trade the weapon, and my silence, for my father’s life. It wasn’t a bad bluff. How could the killer be sure the knife, apparently old and well-used, was absolutely clean? It would be too big a risk to take, even for a risk-taker.
12:06. I checked the entrances again. East, south, west, north. Everything looked normal. Herman gave me a discreet nod over his tabloid, knowing I must have been rattled by the teenagers.
I waited. 12:08.
Maybe it wasn’t a good bluff after all. Maybe the killer had cleaned the knife completely, or borrowed it. Maybe I’d lost my touch. Then something caught my eye behind an older couple ahead of me. The quick flutter of a Phillies cap. It was Cam, signaling. The couple looked normal enough, tourists with a street map, pointing at the mirrored ball. But over the man’s shoulder was a figure I recognized.
Paul. Oh God. I felt my stomach turn over. Not him.
He barreled toward me. His face was anxious, his features strained. His clothes were disheveled and his eyes looked bloodshot as he elbowed the tourists aside.
I told myself to stay calm. “Paul?” I still couldn’t believe it was him all along.
“Rita, we have to talk,” he said, his voice angry. He grabbed me roughly by the arm.
“What about?” I said, but I could see Cam coming on fast, over Paul’s shoulder. He wasn’t supposed to take Paul yet, I didn’t have anything incriminating on the dictaphone in my breast pocket. Wait, Cam, I prayed silently. Give me one more minute. “Why are you here, Paul? Did you come for-”
“No!” Paul said. “We’re not talking here. This is ridiculous!” He grabbed me hard and shoved me off toward the east exit.
Cam looked stricken, then determined. Suddenly he lurched forward and yanked Paul backward. I caught one glimpse of Paul’s shocked expression and heard his bewildered shout as Cam threw him to the ground, red-faced, in a fury. “Don’t you dare hurt her!” he shouted. “Don’t you dare!”
“Cam, wait!” I screamed, but he couldn’t or wouldn’t hear. The tourists reached for each other, aghast. Passersby stared in horror. Paul’s head cracked against the brick. It looked like Cam was going to kill him. “Cam, no!” I screamed. “Help!”
Sal ran over and scrambled on top of Cam, trying to pry him off. A group of teenagers sprinted over. Two cops hustled from the south arch, one drawing a billy club as he ran. I watched, horrified at how it had all gone wrong, when I heard a voice whisper right behind my ear. “Walk, now,” commanded the voice.
“What?” Who was behind me? I twisted around, but a strong arm squeezed mine.
“No. Straight ahead. Now.”
I felt a hard object press into my lower back. I looked wildly at the mirrored ball, but it was spinning, blurring the crowd. I couldn’t find Herman. There was confusion everywhere. “Help!” I shouted, but anyone who could hear thought I was talking about the fight.
“Go! Now!” ordered the voice. The gun dug into my upper backbone. I was being pushed away from the melee, toward the east arch.
Christ. He wouldn’t shoot me, not before he got the knife. I took a deep breath and broke free of his grasp, running as fast as I could through the courtyard. “Help!” I screamed, but onlookers hurried past me into the courtyard, misunderstanding. I could hear his heels as he ran behind me. A heavy tread. He was almost upon me.
Where to run? Inside. There’d be more cops there and I knew City Hall like the back of my hand, I’d tried hundreds of cases there. I fought the crowd pressing into the courtyard and ran through the east arch toward the stairs. I shoved by a souvenir vendor and hit the stone stairs up to the second floor two by two. I twisted around when I got to the top to see who was chasing me.
At the bottom of the stair was Stan Julicher.
He was the killer? Holy Christ.
I turned around and banged through the wooden doors to the second floor. I scrambled to lock them behind me but the polished brass lock was keyed. I could see Julicher through the glass in the door, his face mottled with rage.
Run.
I skidded on the waxed floor and ran to the left, remembering a second too late that the mayor’s office was to the right. I sprinted for the end of the hallway, screaming for help, but the shouts went unheeded. The place had emptied out for lunch and whoever was left must’ve gone outside to the courtyard. I heard sirens, then Julicher’s footsteps right behind me.
“Help! Help!” I screamed.
“Help! Help!” Julicher shouted, louder. “In the courtyard!”
Dick. I hit the doors at the end of the hall and flew up the grand, cantilevered staircase, running for my life. My chest was heaving, my heart pounding. Julicher had killed his own client. Why? The granite steps spiraled up and up in dizzying hexagons. It was dark, the only light came from tiny windows on the landing. I grabbed the mahogany rail not to fall.
Run, run. Faster. Harder. There were six more floors to the top and no one on the stairs but a homeless man, slumped on the third-floor landing. Christ. Run.
“We can talk, Rita!” Julicher said, hardly puffing. “You have it with you?”
Of course. The knife. I fumbled in my pocket but the Polaroids flew out and scattered on the stairs. I kept running. Julicher, gun in hand, picked up a photo and threw it down as he ran up the stairs. “Stop, Rita! We can talk!”
Sure. Right. I climbed higher and higher, sweating through my blouse, gasping for breath. There was an alarm box on the eighth floor in front of the elevator, I remembered it from my trial last week. The case I won on my last bluff, dressed in mourning. Only this time it could be my funeral.