"I wasn't breaking any laws," she shot back.
"No? Were you--just speculating here--thinking of maybe... breaking into somebody's apartment?" From Kepler, of course, and delivered frosted with sarcasm.
"That's ridiculous. A friend of my boss lives here."
" 'Friend'?" Kepler asked sarcastically.
"We know about Ms. Dietrich," Surani said.
Gabriela snapped, "I have every right to talk to her."
Kepler asked, "About what?"
"And I have every right not to tell you that."
Her eyes swiveled toward the antiques store, the massive lions. Daniel was standing behind some spectators, twenty feet away. He was close--he could hear the exchange, she could tell--but not so near that the cops noticed him. Her frown told him to stay there.
"What exactly were you going to do, whisper to Ms. Dietrich from below the window?" Kepler looked at the Dumpster. "Very Romeo and Juliet."
"And what are you doing here?" she demanded.
Kepler laughed. "You got quite the attitude--for a burglar. In answer to your question, since you haven't cooperated and since Charles Prescott is still wanted on suspicion of two dozen felonies, we're pursuing other leads in the case. One of 'em sent us here. Tell us what you know about Ms. Dietrich."
"Nothing. I was worried about Charles. I just wanted to ask her if she'd heard from him, how he's doing."
"Again, I ask: through the window?" Kepler offered and ignored her bitter glare. He added, "They make these things called telephones, you know. But we'll have time to talk about it in detention."
"What?"
"We searched your boss's office again. We checked the inventory and found some things missing. Gabriela McKenzie, you're under arrest for obstruction of justice." He sounded as if he'd been looking forward to saying those words for some time.
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 23
9:45 A.M., SUNDAY
15 MINUTES EARLIER
OKAY," KEPLER SAID, looking up from his phone. "The address is Madison at Eighty-Eight."
"And what's that supposed to be?" Surani asked.
"Charles Prescott's girlfriend." He looked down at a sheet of paper. "Sonia Dietrich."
"This is all very fucking complicated," Surani griped.
"You're been cussing a lot lately," Kepler said. "Not like you."
"Not like me? Because people of South Asian heritage--that's Indian to you, but not your kind of Indian--don't swear? People who work in call centers don't swear?"
"That's racist," Kepler said indignantly. "What do you mean, 'my kind of Indian'? I don't go to the casinos."
"Casinos?" Surani riposted. "My point exactly. There you go." His gray-complexioned face turned to his partner with a look of smug triumph. He took off his suit jacket and hung it over a chair.
Kepler was continually surprised at how his partner could be so slim, yet so muscular. The man played soccer most weekends. Cricket sometimes, a game Kepler simply couldn't get his head around.
Thinking he really should get serious about the golf, Kepler waved his hand, which meant the argument was over.
A figure appeared in the doorway of the operations room.
"Ah, it's Rookie Three-name," Kepler said, eyeing the name badge.
"Fred Stanford Chapman reporting for duty," the young blond officer said; his tone evidenced a bit of attitude, Kepler thought.
"And if you're interested, for the record I swear all the fucking time," said the kid, who'd apparently overheard the conversation. "Anyway, swearing isn't swearing anymore. It's different."
Attitude...
Kepler gave him a that's-not-funny-so-watch-yourself look. Blondie shut up and decided not to offer what he'd been about to, whatever it was.
"All right, Fred Stanford Chapman--"
The rookie said, "Why don't you call me Stosh? It's--"
"Naw, you're definitely a Fred Stanford Chapman," Kepler said, like he was bestowing an honorary title.
"Definitely," Surani echoed.
"Now. Listen up." Kepler briefed the Patrol officer on the Charles Prescott Op and, even though he remained a little smart-ass around the eyes, the kid seemed to get it. And even made a few good suggestions.
Then Kepler said, "Let's get some breakfast. Something big."
"And expensive," Surani added.
Kepler let drop, "We'll charge it to Patrol. Our Viking warrior here'll sign for it."
The kid was silent for a moment. He'd be thinking that even on stakeout operations he had to buy his own food. "Me?"
"This case is so fucked up--excuse me, Gandhi," Kepler said, with a look at Surani, who gave him the finger yet again, "that we need some Bloody Marys too. Or, hell, champagne."
"Champagne?" The rookie was dying.
Kepler gave it a whole ten seconds. Then said, "We're fucking with you, Fred Stanford Chapman."
"Yeah." And he tried to look as if he'd known that all along.
"We got time for coffee, that's it. We go to... What's the address again?"
"Madison and Eighty-Eight." He added to the new member to the team: "That's where Prescott's concubine's supposed to be."
The young officer said, "A concubine is a woman who exists in a marriage-like relationship but's unable to marry her lover, usually because of a difference in social class. You wouldn't really have concubines in America. Fewer class issues, you know."
Both the detectives stared at him.
The kid blushed. "I'm just saying."
"Jesus Christ," Kepler muttered. "Now you're definitely buying."
Surani, the more-or-less voice of reason, said, "Let's get a move on."
The detectives waited, continuing to stare at the patrolman.
"What?" The kid's voice nearly broke.
Surani frowned. "You weren't listening?"
"How's that?"
"The briefing. Just now."
"I was, yeah." But he looked uncertain, as if he maybe hadn't been listening as much as he ought to've been.
"Forget about that?" Kepler pointed to a bulletproof vest, sitting on a table near the door.
"I'll pass," the young officer said. "Sweat like a pig in one of those. Besides, what could go wrong?"
CHAPTER 22
9:30 A.M., SUNDAY
15 MINUTES EARLIER
THEY SAT TOGETHER ON THE EDGE of the unmade bed, sheets warm and twisted, concentric, like hurricane clouds seen from space.
Their legs touched.
"We should check out soon," Daniel Reardon said. He was looking down at Lexington Avenue as if Joseph or a crew of other killers searching desperately for the October List were stationed outside. His bag was packed.
"All right," Gabriela said absently. She rose and began gathering up her clothes, stuffing them back into the gym bag. Dark blue with a red Nike logo on the side. Did Nike still use that logo? she wondered. And the tagline:
Just do it...
She'd brought very little with her, apart from the files, and she was soon finished. She was aware of Daniel looking her over. Blue jeans and a V-neck green sweater over a cream-colored silk camisole. A light gray L.L. Bean windbreaker. Daniel was in a new outfit as well--a suit, like yesterday. Dark gray. Italian. It was perfectly pressed. He wore no tie, a concession of some sort to the weekend. The scent rising from the cloth was astringent--dry-cleaning chemicals--but she sensed a subtext of aftershave, lotion and musk. Shoe polish too. He was fastidious about his shoes. The combination was, for some reason, extremely arousing.
Yes, they should check out, Gabriela reflected. But she didn't want to. She wanted to stay here. Close to him.
Very close.
This was absurd under the circumstances. Yet, for the moment, the feeling of desire--and the possibility of a deeper, searingly hot connection--enveloped her.
It was then that he pulled her closer, his right hand easing like a silk scarf around her neck. She resisted but only for the briefest of moments. Lips yielding and surging, tastes joining, heat rolling from skin to skin. The more she relaxed, the harder he gripped her.
And she sensed that irresistible uncoiling within her.
Another embrace, bordering on pain. Then he was backing away. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that." Though he didn't seem the least bit contrite.
Despite virtually seeing the name "Sarah" emblazoned in her mind, Gabriela said softly, "Yes, you should have." And she kissed him once more.
"Let's get breakfast and keep going through our homework." A glance at the documents. "We've got a half-million dollars to find."
She nodded but found herself tempted once more to pull him down on the bed next to her. She easily pictured what would follow. Daniel was sensual, with a taut body--she'd seen and felt enough of it already. A firm, unyielding grip. Lips the right combination of firm and soft. He'd have a playful tongue and he'd use it frequently; he was a man who would enjoy taste as well as touch. He would press her down on the bed, pinioning her, which despite her obsession with control she curiously enjoyed--never been able to figure that one out--and then he'd devour her, one hand on her thigh, one on her breast. He'd be unrelenting, possessive, domineering.
And the warmth and pleasure, like drugs, would continue, growing and growing until the end, which would be pretty quick for her.
God, she wanted that.
A string of mismatched lovers stretched out behind her.
Mismatched and worse.
But, as tempted as she was, she forced the fantasy away and ignored the warm sheets, the scents of him, the memory of his hands and mouth.
Priorities.
Goals.
The name "Sarah."
CHAPTER 21
8:30 A.M., SUNDAY
1 HOUR EARLIER
HE HAD A SENSE THAT SOMEBODY WAS WATCHING HIM.
Frank Walsh was walking toward his apartment in the West Village, aware of a man in his forties, large, with curly blond hair sticking out from beneath a baseball cap, wearing a dark overcoat. The man was on the opposite side of Hudson Street, walking in the same direction. But it was odd, the way this guy was walking. Anybody else would have been looking down at his feet or ahead or at the windows to his left. This guy, though, was glancing pretty frequently at the sparse Sunday-morning traffic. Like he was worried about cars following him.
Worried why? That cops were after him, a mugger? A killer?
Or was Mr. Overcoat studiously avoiding looking at his own target: Franklin Walsh himself?
The thirty-year-old knew about stalking up on prey, about fighting, about attacking. About survival.
About blood.
His instincts told him this guy was trouble.
A fast glance but the man seemed to anticipate this and looked away. Frank got only a look at a round face and that creepy hair--tight blond curls, slick. But this was the Village and weird was the order of the day.
Then Mr. Overcoat paused to look in a window, head cocked with what seemed to be legitimate curiosity. So maybe he was just another local. Frank told himself to stop being paranoid. Besides, he knew how to take care of himself. He felt the knife in his pocket, tapped it for reassurance.
Soon his thoughts drifted away from Mr. Overcoat. They even skipped over what was coming a half hour from now: the knife work he'd been obsessing over for days.
And they settled on... what else? Shit. The weekend visit with his mother. She'd overfed him. She'd made him take her shopping at the most crowded mall on Long Island. And there hadn't been much to talk about with her, of course--there never was--though the woman had managed to bring up Frank's sister's marriage at least a half-dozen times.
Part of that topic included the fact that Barbara and her husband would "surely have a baby in the next year or so."
Which involuntarily had conjured an unpleasant image of his sister having sex, which put him off dinner last night, at least until dessert.
"Brobbie and Steve want four, you know. Ideally one year apart."
What was his mother's point? Did she think he could wave his wand (hmm, bad choice of word, that) and, poof, there was a wife popping out kids? Shit, didn't she know he was doing the best he could? His life wasn't like everybody else's. Who, for instance, would understand his obsession?
The knives, the fighting, the blood...
Also, another thing: the practicality. Given his line of work, he didn't meet many women.
Besides, he was holding out for one particular person.
Ah, Gabriela...
Tuesday, sure.
Her words, punctuated with a smile.
Frank was presently striding briskly back from Penn Station at Madison Square Garden. This was a pretty good walk, and guaranteed to burn off maybe a hundred calories, particularly in the chill autumn air. He'd purposefully taken off his jacket so his body would drop fat, burning calories in the chill--even though he didn't like looking at his round figure in the storefront windows as he passed them. He shouldn't have worn the knit shirt. It was clinging, revealing.
Well, don't look, he told himself.
But he did.
Still, he kept the jacket off. Cold weather made you burn up to 50 percent more calories than you did in the heat. In the Arctic you could eat whatever you wanted and still lose weight. He'd researched it. Six thousand calories a day. He should spend a year there.
Frank glanced around again and noted that Mr. Overcoat was now on the s
ame side of the street as he was, and the man's pace continued to match Frank's.
Stalking, attacking, killing...
Still, had to be paranoia.
What would this guy be interested in me for? And even if he is, how could he have found me here, on the street, striding south from Penn Station?
But, of course, Frank Walsh knew computers cold--the good side of machines, and the bad. He was well aware of phone tapping and datamining. He'd bought his ticket back to the city this morning with a credit card. He'd phoned his mother to tell her he'd made the train. If somebody wanted to, he could've found out what train Frank was on, when he'd be arriving at the station, even what he looked like--from the Motor Vehicle picture (even if the depiction was thirty pounds lighter than presently).
He then turned the corner onto his street in the Village and risked a fast look back, his hand on the knife in his pocket.
The curly-haired guy was gone.
Frank continued up the block and approached his eight-story apartment building. As he got to the door he stepped in quickly and looked around but the quiet, tree-lined street was deserted.
He stepped into the lobby and finally relaxed.
"Hi, Arthur."
The doorman was old and when he walked he shuffled and he smelled of Old Spice. "Package for you, Mr. Walsh."
"FedEx?" He was expecting the knife, the kukri. Those Nepalese were far more deadly than people thought.
Cheery Sherpas, my ass.
"No, it was a hand delivery. Some Hispanic fellow dropped it off yesterday."
It was a plastic bag containing something rectangular and heavy. He took it.
"Thanks." He hadn't planned to give him a tip. Frank was plenty generous around Christmas. He looked into the bag and his heart thudded and he laughed as he read the note that accompanied it.
He handed Arthur five dollars.
The old man took it without thanks but with a raised hand that Frank chose to interpret as undying gratitude.
FRANK UNLOCKED HIS DOOR and walked inside, tossing his jacket on his armchair in front of the big-screen TV.
The apartment, consisting of three rooms, was this: dark and insanely cluttered, yet comforting--if claustrophobic at times, depending on his mood. A kitchenette with a two-burner gas stove and oven big enough for a TV dinner or two. His microwave sat atop a table, sharing the space with books and magazines. But back in the day, in this locale of glorious bohemian art, you created your poetry or paintings, you smoked pot, you slept with as many women as you could and you drank to oblivion; cooking was secondary, if not wholly unnecessary.