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 but 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 25
Rorschach
11:10 A.M., SUNDAY
25 MINUTES EARLIER
“The gun just went off,” Gabriela whispered, her voice the tone of hysteria. “I didn’t mean to do it.”
Daniel remained silent. He steered her quickly down the sidewalk away from the scene of the shooting.
She asked desperately, “He didn’t die, did he? What did you see, Daniel? What did you see?”
Still no response.
Sirens filled the air around them as they headed east from Madison Avenue. There were lights too, piercing white and blue flashers. And reflections of white and blue flashers in windows. Lights seemed to be everywhere. Daniel and Gabriela kept their heads down. They didn’t dare look up.
Then he directed her quickly to the side, a ninety-degree turn. She nearly stumbled but he held her firmly.
“What?” she gasped.
A car skidded to a stop, an unmarked police car. Two detectives in suits leapt out and headed into a crowded specialty food store, displaying their badges.
“Do they think we’re in there?” she asked.
“Just keep walking.”
Manic, Gabriela asked, “He didn’t die, did he? He was so young! Please, tell me!” Her grip must have hurt. He frowned. She relented.
“I don’t know, Mac. I’m sorry, but I don’t know. It’s possible.”
Walking as fast as they dared without drawing attention, they moved east, leaving the unmarked car behind. She glanced back. The officers didn’t appear. She and Daniel hurried south, then east again.
To anyone else’s eye, they resembled a typical couple. Not particularly jovial, not particularly conversational. Harried. A relationship limned by stress, money woes, child woes, sexual woes. Life in Manhattan, professionals. Yet every glance their way seemed tinted with suspicion.
But no one pointed, no one called out, no one seemed about to rip cell phones from holsters and speed-dial 911.
No one fled from the homicidal auburn-haired woman and her actor look-alike companion.
“I didn’t think, Daniel. There was the gun. It was just there. I grabbed it! It went off. I’ve never even touched one before. I was just... Oh, Jesus. What’ve I done?”
A look behind revealed a half-dozen pedestrians, but no police. Still, Gabriela focused on a man in a suit — a rumpled gray one, of thin cloth that seemed inadequate in the chill. He was walking in their direction. She noticed him because of his yellow shirt. His stride seemed purposeful though he wasn’t paying particular attention to them.
Gabriela nudged Daniel. “That guy? Yellow shirt? Look carefully.”
“Got it.”
“I’ve seen him before, I think. On Madison.”
“He followed us from the shooting?”
“I don’t know—” Gabriela winced, gasped, then stopped abruptly, her hand on her side.
“It’s bad?” he asked, gesturing down toward her ribs.
A nod.
“Can you walk?”
“Yes.” Though she frowned when they began again.
They kept their heads down, not looking anywhere but at the sidewalk. Suddenly Daniel took her arm and guided her quickly into a Korean deli, where they paused to examine the fresh-cut flowers and a tub of ice in which nested plastic bottles of orange and mango juice.
“What?” Gabriela asked in a whisper.
“Cops.”
A police cruiser sped past, silently, but its lights pierced as harshly as a siren.
Blue and white...
A moment later they took to the sidewalk again. They dodged through traffic and bicyclists and joggers and more pedestrians. When they hit the uptown — downtown street, another police car sped past.
She looked back and said urgently, “I thought I saw him again. The yellow shirt guy.”
When they reached the next intersection, another police car sped past. It didn’t slow, but the officers were looking around. He said, “We need to get out of sight. There’s a place we can stay.”
“Where?”
“The Norwalk Fund has an apartment, for out-of-town clients.”
“Norwalk... Oh, your company, right?”
He nodded. “It’s empty now. Off First Avenue in the Fifties.” He noted the cross street sign: 79th. “It’s a long walk,” he said. “But I’m worried about cabs. They have that new video system, the TVs. Your picture might show up on the screen.”
“I can walk, sure.”
After five minutes, he paused and examined her. “You can’t walk.”
She took a breath, then coughed. “Subway, okay.” She leaned against him again. “Is that man behind us, Yellow Shirt?”
“I don’t see him.”
He took her arm and directed her east.
She inhaled several deep breaths, let herself be led down the sidewalk. “On Madison Avenue? He wasn’t dead when we left. You saw that, right? He’ll probably be okay, don’t you think? He was so young.”
Daniel Reardon didn’t speak for a moment. He said, “I don’t know, Gabriela. It depends on where you shot him.”