All through those long, long days, the cops who worked the front lines were waiting with the rest of the world for the second shoe to drop. They'd responded to hundreds of bomb threats a day, telling themselves they were fine. Doin' okay. But the truth was none of them was okay. The worst for Bernardino was that he'd let Lorna down. He'd been out fighting a war on New York and hadn't been home for her.
Amazing how one thing could tip a person over. He hadn't been there for Lorna before she'd gotten the cancer. That was what ate away at him. He hadn't been there where she was well. Then as soon as things were back to "normal," people were out the door. Retiring left and right. And now he was out the door.
Bernardino was a retired cop on a familiar street on a warm spring night, immediately enveloped by a deep warm fog. He looked around and was startled by it. You didn't see real pea soup in New York that often anymore. The thickness of it was like something in a movie. Downright dreamy. While he'd been inside, the haze had droppped low over the Washington Square area, blurring figures, lights, and time. Maybe that was what got to him. Bernardino dipped his head, acknowledging to himself the spookiness of the night. But maybe he was just drunk.
He shuffled his feet a little as he headed north on a side stree he knew as well as his own home. On the other side of Washington Square was his car. He walked slowly, muttering his regrets to himself. Lively, funny, rock-solid Lorna had faded in a few short months. He remembered a social worker's warning to him at the time. "Denial isn't a river in Egypt, Bernie." But he just hadn't believed she would die.
The smell of Italian cooking followed him down the block. He was a warhorse, a cop who'd always looked over his shoulder especially on really quiet nights. But tonight he wasn't a cop anymore. He was done. His thoughts were far away. He was feeling sluggish, old, abandoned. All evening his buddies had punched and hugged him, told him they'd visit. Told him he'd find a new honey in Florida. He'd be done. But he didn't think he'd ever be fine.
Out of the fog came an unexpected voice. "You made your million, asshole. What about your promise to me?"
Like a blind dog, Bernardino turned his big head toward the sound. Who the hell—? Instantly his guilt about the money was triggered. Someone hit the nail right on the head. But who did he owe? He puzzled over it only for a nanosecond. Then he burst out laughing. Harry was pranking him. Ha ha. His old partner from years ago following him to his car to say good-bye.
"Harry, you old devil!" Bernardino had been unnerved for a moment but now felt a surge of relief. "Come out here where I can see you." He spun around to where he thought the sound originated.
"Nopey nope. Ain't going to happen." An arm snaked around Bernardino's neck from behind and jerked hard.
Bernardino didn't even have time to lean forward and flip the guy before the grip was set. Despite Bernardino's size and heft, he was positioned for death with little effort. After only a very few panicked heartbeats, his neck was broken and he was gone.
LESLIE GLASS grew up in New York City, where she worked in the book publishing industry and at New York magazine before turning to writing full-time. She is the author of nine previous novels, the last six of which have featured NYPD detective April Woo. Leslie Glass has two grown children and lives in Long Island and New York City. Visit her Web site at
www.aprilwoo.com
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