She stared at the blood, choked a cry.
Daniel’s strong arm encircled her shoulders like a vise and he was walking her away. She half stumbled, half jogged beside him. It was as if she could barely remember how to walk.
His voice was tinted with panic too. “I know you’re upset. I know you’re hurting, but we have to move, Mac.”
“I—” she began, shaking. “I don’t think—”
But Daniel interrupted. “It’s all about your daughter. Remember what you keep saying, ‘Focus.’ Well, focus on your daughter.”
“My...” she gasped.
“Sarah.” He said the name firmly. “I’m sorry, Mac. It’s a fucking shame this happened. But it did and we’re not going to be able to help Sarah if you go to jail. There’ll be a time to deal with it — later.”
Her face a pale mask, Gabriela nodded.
“Keep moving.”
She followed as if she were a toddler unsure how to walk.
Suddenly he froze. “No, wait, go the other way. We’ll circle around the block to the subway.”
“Why, what’s wrong?”
“The way we were going, there’s a meter maid at the corner.”
“Meter maid?” she asked. “What difference does that make?”
Daniel leaned close and whispered, “Gabriela, everybody in New York City, from dogcatchers to the FBI, is looking for you now.”
Chapter 28
Frank’s Second Present
1:00 P.M., SUNDAY
40 MINUTES EARLIER
In his rhythmic, purposeful gait, Joseph Astor walked through the maze-like streets of this curious neighborhood like a tourist, eyes constantly moving.
He’d swapped the long black trench coat for black cargo pants, T-shirt and leather jacket. He was making his way back to the apartment he’d been to earlier this morning, though via a different route. This part of town was confusing. Avenues going every which-away. His GPS app was helpful but he wasn’t moving in the most direct route, of course. He was taking his time, doubling back, striking through alleys and vacant lots. This confused the smartphone app girl Siri but there wasn’t an option for picking routes to “avoid spots where some asshole is waiting to put a bullet in my head.”
The air was chill and clouds ganged on the horizon, sending bands of long, dim shadow over the sidewalks and streets and buildings here. The earlier sunlight was history. This was too bad because, believe it or not, bright light made witnesses’ accounts less reliable than overcast; glare could be wonderfully obscuring. Victims too might not even see you or the gun when you approached.
He looked around once more. The residences were small, many of them red brick or dirt-brown stone that had once been white or light gray. A lot of soot and grime. He passed a bookstore for the gay-lesbian-transgendered crowd, a Laundromat, apartments with elaborate wrought-iron security bars. You could look right into the minuscule, street-level living rooms, which would fit no more than four or five people. Who’d live like that?
Plenty, Joseph reflected, to judge from the number of the cells he passed.
Manhattan...
In his mind Joseph once more ran through the complex scheme he was orchestrating this weekend. Many parts, many challenges, many risks. But, being in a reflective mood, he was thinking that men are born to work. It didn’t matter how difficult your job, how filthy your hands got — in all senses of that phrase. It didn’t matter if you were a poet or a carpenter or a scientist or whatever. God made us to get off our asses and go out into the world and do something with our time.
And Joseph was never happier than when he was working.
Even if, as he was about to do in a few minutes, that job was murder.
The silent GPS sent him around the corner and he paused. There was the brown brick building where his victim lived.
Thinking of how the night would unfold, Joseph again pictured Gabriela, her beautiful, heart-shaped face, her attractive figure, all of which jarred with the edgy voice. He thought too of the man with her, Daniel Reardon. He’d seemed smart and his eyes radiated confidence, which diminished only slightly when Joseph had displayed the butt of his pistol.
He thought too of the October List.
A complicated night lay ahead. But nothing he couldn’t handle.
Now, no police in sight, he strode nonchalantly past the apartment building’s door, glancing in. Yes, the doorman he’d seen earlier was still on duty. Joseph was a bit irritated at the old man’s presence at the desk, which added a complication, but no matter. Anything could be worked around with enough determination and ingenuity. And Joseph was well fitted with both. He circled around to the back and counted windows, recalling the diagrams from the NYC Buildings Department of the structure’s layout. Yes, his target was home. He could see movement and the flicker of light, as if from a TV or computer monitor. Shadows. A light spread out and a moment later shrank and went out; probably from a refrigerator door, since the glow came from the kitchen.
This reminded him he wanted a long sip or two from his Special Brew. But later. He was busy now.
Work to be done.
Joseph went to the service door. It was locked, naturally. Verifying that he couldn’t be seen from any of the windows, he removed a screwdriver from his inside pocket and began to jimmy. This was all you needed 90 percent of the time; lock-picking tools were usually more trouble than they were worth.
He double-checked his pistol, then concentrated again on his task of cracking the lock, irritated that his target, Gabriela’s friend Frank Walsh, lived on the sixth floor. His breath hissed out softly as he reflected that the last thing he needed right now was a climb up that many stairs.
Chapter 29
Crime Scene II
1:40 P.M., SUNDAY
30 MINUTES EARLIER
Frank Walsh was standing in the tiny kitchen of his dim Greenwich Village apartment, thinking of the killing that morning.
It hadn’t been easy.
Using a knife never was.
The problem was you generally couldn’t stab somebody to death. You had to slash, go for the neck, the legs — the femoral arteries. The groin was good too. But stabbing? It took forever.
And add to the mix: If the person you were fighting was good at defense, as the victim that morning had been, you had to stay alert, you had to move, you had to be fast and you had to improvise; in knife fighting, advantages changed in seconds.
Solid — okay, pudgy — Frank pulled his Greek fisherman cap off and scratched his unruly red hair and the scalp beneath as he stood at the open cupboard door. With his left hand he absently pinched a roll of fat around his belly. He decided against the potato chips.
He continued to debate the food options. But was distracted.
Gabby was on his mind. As often she was.
Then his mind, his clever mind, slipped back to the fight that morning. Recalling the animal lust, the pure satisfaction — born somewhere, a shrink would probably say, out of revenge for the bullying he’d suffered as a teenager. He felt pride too at his skill with the blade.
He wished he could tell Gabby about the confrontation, though some things he knew it was best to keep from her. Felt a deep ping in his belly as he pictured her and thought of the present he’d just received. He wondered what she was wearing at the moment.
Then he turned his attention back to mealtime. His kitchen was a central hub of the apartment. The cabinets were white and the handles had actual release levers, as if the room were a galley on a ship that regularly sailed through gales. If the doors weren’t secured, Doritos, Tuna Helper and macaroni and cheese would fly to the floor in the swells.