Spocatti drove to the end of 74th Street, stopped at a red light and was about to ask Carmen if she was hurt when an NBC news van drove past them. It was moving fast-too fast-and each turned to watch it race up Madison and cut left onto 77th Street, where Peter Schwartz lived.
“News is out,” he said.
“Literally.”
“Cops will be there.”
“And more will be coming. We need to move. It’s time to finish this.”
The light turned green. Spocatti stepped on the gas, drove three blocks east for protection and then cut back onto 75th. There was a parking spot midway down the street. Surprised, he went for it but saw the fire hydrant as he approached. Didn’t matter. Cops were busy and about to get busier. He took the spot and turned off the engine.
“Why are we so far back?”
“I’ll tell you in a minute. Are you hurt?”
“I’ll live.”
“She was a feisty one.”
“God’s telling her that now.”
A woman with a dog turned the corner and started walking toward them. She was young, maybe twenty-five, with a bounce in her step and a smile on her face. She said something to the dog and laughed when it barked. They waited for her to pass before speaking.
“There’s no failing here,” he said. “Let’s run through it. What’s first?”
“You’re on the street with the video camera.”
“What’s second?”
“I’m on the phone with Pamela Dean to make sure she’s home, which I already know she is because I saw her pass a window on the second floor of her townhouse. But I’ll double check.”
“What was she wearing?”
“Let’s just say she’s not going out.”
“If someone else answers and you need to ask for her, what’s your name?”
“Rebecca Stiles. Pamela and I used to work together with Wolfhagen. She was one of his moles and gave him information that helped him bilk billions from foreign markets.”
“If her husband answers, what if he doesn’t know you?”
“He doesn’t need to know me. Pamela and I were lunchtime friends. We ate together once a month. But it’s been years since we’ve talked. We lost touch after Pam took the stand against Wolfhagen. I’m in town. I heard about Wood. I know she lives next to her and wanted to check in to see if she’s alright.”
“That’s so kind of you.”
“Rebecca’s that kind of girl.”
“Do her voice.”
One of Carmen’s strengths was mimicry. Not long after Wolfhagen was sent to Lompoc, Pamela told her story to “60 Minutes.” Wolfhagen sent them the tape. Carmen studied it. She did the voice.
“Nice,” he said, and then paused. “I need you to be aware of something. Did you see the black Escalade when you were planting the explosives?”
“The one at the end of the street? Just before Fifth?”
“That’s right.”
“How could I miss it? Those cars are obnoxious. Why?”
“You know what McVeigh used to blow up the Federal Building in Oklahoma?”
She didn’t answer. A part of her froze.
“That’s what’s in the Escalade.”
“But that will take down several blocks.”
“Actually, we don’t know what it will do. We used only a quarter of what McVeigh used. I know it will level its share of buildings and give us our distraction, but I don’t know to what extent. When you’re certain Dean is there, I want you to detonate those bombs.”
“Who put the Escalade there?”
“I have friends all over this city, Carmen. Who did it doesn’t matter. What matters is that he was able to do it.” He reached behind him and grabbed the camera. He held it up to his face to see if he could zoom in properly down the street. Perfect. With a lens this powerful, he easily could focus on the events as they occurred, which would make Wolfhagen happy. And that’s what mattered.
“Let’s do this,” he said.
“Just a minute. You say you don’t know what will happen when the Escalade blows. But look at us-we’re pointed in that direction. What’s the plan on getting us out of here?”
He patted her knee. “It’s simple. We’re going to run like hell in the opposite direction. I have a car waiting four blocks behind us. It’s all taken care of, Carmen. You just need to be able to run.”
“From an explosion of that magnitude? We’re essentially in a tunnel, Vincent. A fireball is going to roll down this street. It will incinerate us.”
He stepped out of the car with the camera and moved to the street corner. Over his shoulder, she heard him say, “That’s why you need to run fast.”
Emilio DeSoto retrieved his wooden Geisha shoes from the second floor, squeezed his sore feet into them in the first-floor living area and looked out again at the legs that were between the two cars outside his home.
It had been fifteen minutes since he called the police and there was no sign of that they were anywhere close to coming. No sirens. No flashing lights. Nothing.
Twice, he had gone to his door and opened it, hoping to hear something, hoping not to be attacked. But nothing had happened-the rodents were gone. More compelling, each time he opened the door, he could see those feet, which ignited in him a curiosity that was impossible to stuff down.
Who did they belong to? Who was murdered and why? Was it someone he disliked? He hoped it was someone he disliked.
He went to a mirror and checked his Kabuki makeup. Flawless. He held out his arms and allowed the Halston caftan to fan out and then ripple softly against his sides. Brilliant. He put his hands up to the turban and moved it slightly on his head. Perfect.
If he had time, he would have changed into different clothes and removed his makeup, but time was running out and if he didn’t act now, he might miss this moment. Naturally, the police would show up at some point-likely soon-which meant he had a limited window in which to go to the sidewalk and see who was attached to those dead feet before this neighborhood was consumed again by the police.
Awkwardly, he walked away from the mirror, click, click, clicked to the desk across the room and removed the loaded pepperbox he kept there for protection.
He held it at his side, just as Joan Crawford did in his favorite movie, “Johnny Guitar,” and made the supreme effort of walking across the room to the front door, which was no easy task given the shoes on his feet.
Still, there was no way in hell he was going to wear anything else but these shoes. If someone saw him on the street-if the paparazzi were there to take his photograph, which he knew could happen at any moment because he was a celebrity-he needed to be seen in this new creation as it was meant to be seen. Nothing else would do.
Stealing himself, he opened the door.
He looked each way down the street, saw no one, and then looked at those feet sagging against each other between the two cars. With his free hand grasping the iron rail, he descended the few steps that lead to the sidewalk and stood there, listening. Ahead of him, over the buildings and a few blocks away, he could hear sirens, but they were stationary and not growing louder. They were on another street.
Emilio frowned, though you wouldn’t know it given the upward lift of his Kabuki lips. This was one of Manhattan’s finest neighborhoods. What was it coming to? Years ago, as a young artist living in the Village, he’d felt safer in his sixth-floor, one-room walk-up than he did here.
Pepperbox in hand, he worked through his tunnel vision and clicked forward on unsteady feet, ready to shoot if anyone approached him, ready to kill if that’s what it took.
There was a breeze on his face and it kicked up the caftan, allowing it to take flight behind him in ways that gave him new ideas about how he’d officially present this when the time was right. He’d use fans. Dry ice would be employed because of its retro hook and because it would capture that Studio 54 vibe he was going for.