“Hey.”
The train was crowded, but no one was talking. The woman’s voice rang out like a foghorn.
“Hey! I’m talking to you.”
Grace looked up. She felt the blood rush to her face. She recognizes me. Oh God. She’s going to say something. They’ll turn on me. The whole train will turn on me, they’ll rip me to shreds!
“You done with your paper?”
Paper? Grace looked down. There was a New York Post in her lap. She had no idea how it had gotten there. Wordlessly, she handed it over.
“Thanks.”
Suddenly the train jerked to a halt. The lights flickered, then went out. Everybody groaned. The lights came on again. Grace looked at her watch. Five to twelve.
“Forget it,” the man next to her said genially. “Wherever you’re going, you’re going to be late.”
A voice came over the address system. “We apologize for the inconvenience. Due to some electrical problems, we expect a short delay.”
No! Not today. Why today?
Grace took a deep breath. She couldn’t draw attention to herself by appearing jittery. Besides, it was okay. They said a short delay. Davey would wait.
AS HE STARED OUT OF THE window Mitch’s heart sank.
She’s not coming.
He’d been so sure this was it. So certain. The clock on the wall taunted him. Ten after twelve. What could have gone wrong? Had Buccola had a change of heart and tipped her off? Had Grace realized she couldn’t trust him? Or maybe it was worse than that. Maybe something had happened to her. An accident. Someone had recognized her and taken the law into his own hands.
“I think I see her.”
Buccola’s voice sounded crackly in Mitch’s earpiece.
“You think? Don’t you know?”
Buccola didn’t answer.
“Well, where?” Mitch couldn’t hide his excitement.
“She just came out of the subway. I didn’t get a good look at her face. It might not be her.”
“Danny, Luca. Did you guys see anything?”
Two of Mitch’s men were right outside the subway, checking out every woman who emerged.
“Nope.”
“Nothing.”
Jesus. “What was she wearing, Davey?”
“Jeans. Dark coat. A hat…I think. Shit.”
“What?”
“I lost her.”
“You lost her? Well, was she heading toward you? Did she see you?”
“Forget it. It wasn’t her.”
GRACE DARTED OUT OF THE SUBWAY onto the street. She was late. Very late. Would Davey have waited this long? God, she hoped so. He was taking a big risk agreeing to meet her at all.
She pushed forward into the crowds, head down. The multicolored lettering of the Toys “R” Us store called to her from across the square. Grace headed toward it, scanning the throng for her friend’s familiar face.
OFFICER LUCA BONNETTI WAS DISAPPOINTED. SO much for being part of the big show. Grace Brookstein had obviously made other plans.
Still, getting paid to eye up women wasn’t the worst way to spend a morning. A cute brunette in a hurry brushed past him.
“Hey, babe. How you doin’?”
He tapped her on the ass, but she hurried on.
“What is your problem, Bonnetti?” His partner was mad. “We’re supposed to be looking for America’s most wanted, not harassing members of the public.”
“Aw, lighten up, Danny. She was cute. And in case you haven’t figured it out, Lady Brookstein ain’t coming.”
GRACE’S HEART WAS POUNDING. ASSHOLE.
After what that bastard van driver had done to her, the thought of a man touching her or even looking at her sexually made her want to scream at the top of her lungs. But she couldn’t scream. She couldn’t stop and yell at the guy to get his stinking hands off of her. She had to be invisible, to melt into the crowd.
Where the hell is Davey?
Just as she thought the words, she saw him. He was standing a few feet in front of the store. She walked toward him, smiling. Sensing her smile, Davey looked up. That’s when Grace noticed.
“IT’S HER! I SEE HER. SHE’S heading over. Jeans, dark jacket. Beanie.”
Mitch asked the cops in the square, “Have you got her?”
“Yes, sir. We see her. Closing in.”
GRACE’S MIND RACED.
He said he’d have the file with him. The evidence. Why didn’t he bring it?
Something was wrong. It wasn’t just the file. It was Davey’s face. It had guilt written all over it. Just then, two men brushed past Grace, heading toward Toys “R” Us. Some sixth sense made her slow her pace.
Cops. It’s a setup.
There was no time to think. Acting on instinct, she whipped off her hat and stuffed it into her coat pocket. A group of foreign schoolchildren was heading in the opposite direction, back toward the subway. Grace slipped in among them, another small dark fish entering the safety of the shoal.
THE MEN CLUTCHED AT THEIR EARPIECES. Up in the hotel room, Mitch Connors was yelling bloody murder.
“Where is she? WHERE IS SHE?”
“I don’t know.” Davey Buccola was confused. “She was coming right for me and then she…she disappeared.”
Mitch could have wept.
“Spread out, all of you. Keep looking. She’s in that crowd.”
He couldn’t take it any longer. He ran out of the hotel room and headed for the stairs.
FROM THE SIXTH FLOOR OF THE Paramount, Mitch had had a bird’s-eye view of the square below. Now, running outside at street level, he could barely see three feet in front of his nose. There were people everywhere, jostling their bulky shopping bags, pushing their kids’ strollers across his path.
Jeans, dark jacket, beanie hat. She’s here. She must be.
He pushed into the heaving mass of bodies.
GRACE WAS ALMOST AT THE SUBWAY. The stone steps beckoned her, promising safety, escape. Just a few more seconds. A few more steps!
She glanced to her right. A man in a Yankees cap was looking around him frantically, muttering to himself. One of the cops. How many are there? The man was heading straight for Grace’s group. Now he was stopping their tour guide, asking him something. I have to break away.
Suddenly Grace saw the sleazeball who had pawed her earlier. He was still hanging around the entrance to the subway. On closer inspection she could see he was a young Italian, attractive, if you liked assholes. Not that Grace would have cared if he looked like Quasimodo. She walked in his direction.
MITCH HELD HIS BREATH. There she is! The crowd moved almost imperceptibly and he saw her, not fifteen feet away from where he was standing. She was tiny, maybe five feet tall, in jeans and a dark coat and she had almost reached the subway. Mitch broke into a run.
“Hey, buddy! Look where you’re going.”
“Slow down, jerk.”
Mitch ran on blindly, knocking pedestrians off their feet. As Grace reached the steps Mitch made a lunge for her, rugby-tackling her to the ground, facedown. She screamed but it was too late. Blood gushed from her nose. Mitch snapped a pair of handcuffs on her wrists. It was over.
“Grace Brookstein, you’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney.” Turning her over, he pulled the beanie hat up to get a better look at her face. “Oh Jesus.”
A terrified blonde stared back at him.
Mitch had never seen her before in his life.
LUCA BONNETTI COULDN’T BELIEVE HIS LUCK.
“Hey, sexy. You’re back.”
“I’m back.” The gorgeous brunette stood up on tiptoes, wrapped her arms around his neck and started kissing him passionately. Luca returned the favor. This time he got both hands on her ass.
Out of the corner of her eye, Grace saw the cop with the Yankee hat, still talking to the tour guide. He’s probably describing me. If she looked like she were part of a couple, it would throw them off the scent. This bozo could b
e her cover till she got safely on a train. Then she’d jump off at the next station and lose him.
She broke off the kiss and smiled at him. “Wanna take a ride with me?”
Luca grinned. “Do I ever!”
“He’s busy.” Another man, older, with a thick, salt-and-pepper mustache, had appeared out of nowhere and looked daggers at Grace. “He’s busy.”
Luca Bonnetti protested. “No, I’m not. Give me a break, Danny, would you?”
“Give you a break?” The man turned to Grace. “Look, lady, we’re NYPD and we’re on a job. So get the hell out of here before I book you for soliciting.”
Grace felt the bile rise up in her throat. He’s one of them. Her legs started to shake. She ran.
IT TOOK MITCH A FEW MOMENTS to react.
He was apologizing to the young woman whose nose he’d just broken when the girl tore past him, two steps at a time. Turning back to the woman, Mitch started removing her handcuffs when he saw it: a gray woolen beanie hat sticking out of the girl’s coat pocket.
“Stop!” he yelled. “Police!”
GRACE WAS ON THE PLATFORM. BEHIND her, she could hear the shouting.
“Police! Let me through!”
The train was packed. Grace tried to force her way into a car but a man pushed her back. “Use your eyes, lady. There’s no room here. Move down.”
“Police!”
The shouts were getting louder. Grace looked back over her shoulder. It was him. Detective Connors. She recognized his face from the TV reports.
The next car was also full. People had started moving back, waiting for the next train. There was no space on this one. The electric doors whooshed shut. It was too late. The train started to move away.
“Grace Brookstein! Stay where you are. You’re under arrest!”
Grace heard her name. So did everybody else. Suddenly hundreds of pairs of eyes were swiveling around, scanning the platform. Grace Brookstein? Where? Is she here?
Mitch Connors was sprinting along the platform, faster than the train. He ran past the first car. Then the second. As he reached the third the crowds parted. Mitch and Grace were face-to-face.
Grace looked into Mitch’s eyes and Mitch looked into hers. The hunter and the prey. For a moment something passed between them. Mutual respect. Affection, even. But only for a moment.
The train was gaining speed. Safe in the warmth of the carriage, Grace turned away from the window.
Mitch Connors stood on the platform and watched her disappear into the dark oblivion of the tunnel.
BACK AT THE STATION, LIEUTENANT DUBRAY lost it.
“What the fuck? How could you lose her like that? How?”
“I don’t know, sir.” Mitch sighed.
He tried to look on the bright side. They knew more than they did forty-eight hours ago. They knew Grace was still in New York. They knew she was a brunette now and that she’d gained weight. Tomorrow they’d issue a new Photofit picture to the media.
Thanks to Luca Bonnetti, the NYPD’s crack surveillance team had managed to gather one other new piece of information.
America’s most wanted woman was a terrific kisser.
TWENTY-ONE
FOR THREE DAYS, GRACE LAY LOW. She found a new place to stay, another studio, this time in Brooklyn. Where the room in Queens had been shabby but welcoming, this place could only be described as squalid. Grace didn’t care. She drew the curtains, locked the door and crawled into bed. Depression washed over her in slow, lapping waves.
This is worse than prison. This is hell.
In prison, Grace had had Karen and Cora. There was Sister Agnes and the kids at the center. Visits from Davey Buccola. Davey. Grace ought to be used to betrayal by now but what Davey had done shocked her to the core. She’d really believed he was on her side. More important, he’d held the key to all her hopes of finding Lenny’s killer. Grace had put her faith in another human being for the last time. The only person I trust is gone forever, betrayed and murdered for his money.
The way she felt now, Grace wouldn’t have trusted her own shadow.
She wept. When she could cry no more, she got dressed.
For the first time in three days, she went out.
IT WAS A CRAZY RISK. INSANE. But Grace didn’t care.
Cypress Hills Cemetery in Brooklyn overlooked Jamaica Bay. It was nondenominational, although much of its upkeep in recent years had been funded by Jewish charities. Grace remembered the outcry when Lenny’s remains were buried there.
“That son of a bitch betrayed the Jewish community. We trusted him because he was one of us. Now he wants to rest among us? No way.”
Eli Silfen, head of the Beth Olom Benevolent Fund, was particularly strident. “A memorial to Lenny Brookstein? At Cypress Hills? Over my dead body.”
But Rabbi Geller had stood firm. A soft-spoken, deeply spiritual man, Rabbi Geller had known Lenny for most of his life.
“Actually, Eli, it will be over his. This is a religion of forgiveness. Of mercy. It’s for God to judge, not man.”
Grace had never forgotten the rabbi’s compassion. She wished he were here now as she picked her way through the gravestones and angel statues, her breath white in the freezing winter air. The cemetery was huge. Tens of thousands of graves, maybe more, stretching as far as the eye could see. I’ll never find it. Not without help.
An elderly groundskeeper was tending to a plot a few yards away. Grace approached him.
“Excuse me. I was wondering, are there any…any notable people buried here?” It seemed safer than asking outright.
The old man laughed, revealing a mouthful of rotten teeth.
“Any? How long’ve you got. It’s like People magazine down there.” He banged the frozen earth with his hoe, cackling again at his own joke. “We got Mae West. Jackie Robinson. We got some bad pennies, too. Wild Bill Lovett. Know who that is?”
Grace didn’t.
“He was a gangster. A killer. Leader of the White Hand Gang.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know much about criminals,” said Grace, forgetting that officially at least, she was one.
“We got one criminal here I’ll bet you know about. Leonard Brookstein. Mr. Quorum. You’d heard of him, ain’t you?”
Grace blushed. “Yes. Yes, I have. Do you know where he’s buried?”
“Sure do.”
He started to walk. Grace kept pace with him for almost ten minutes, the two of them like a pair of drill sergeants inspecting a parade ground of silent, wintry dead, the gravestones standing to attention like soldiers. Eventually they reached the top of a hill. Grace froze. Less than two hundred yards ahead, two armed policemen stood yawning beside a simple white stone. Or at least, it had once been simple and white. Even from here Grace could see it had been covered with graffiti, blood-red messages of hate that no one had bothered to erase. Of course there are cops here! They’re probably waiting for me to make a stupid mistake. Like this.
“What’s the matter?” asked the groundskeeper. “We ain’t there yet, you know.”
“I know, I…I’ve changed my mind.” Grace’s heart was pounding. “I don’t feel well. Thank you for your help.”
He looked at her strangely, studying her features as if for the first time. Hoping to distract him, Grace hurriedly pressed a twenty into his arthritis-stiff hand, then turned and fled back down the hill.
She didn’t stop running till she reached the subway, slipping into a nearby café to catch her breath and collect herself. How could people deface a man’s grave? What sort of a person did that? She’d been too far away to read any of the graffiti, but she could imagine the poisonous things that had been written. Her eyes brimmed with tears. None of them knew Lenny. What a decent, loving, generous man he had been. Sometimes even Grace felt that that man was slipping away from her. That the reality of who Lenny was had already been lost, crushed beneath a mountain of lies and envy and loathing. People called him wicked, but it was a lie.
You weren’t wicked,
my darling. It’s this world that’s wicked. Wicked and greedy and corrupt.
In that moment Grace realized that she had a choice. She could give up. Turn herself in, accept the rotten hand of lies that life had dealt her. Or she could fight.
Rabbi Geller’s words came back to her: It’s for God to judge. Not man. Perhaps Grace should leave the crushing of her enemies to God? Let him right the wrongs the world had done to her and to her darling Lenny?
Perhaps not.
Grace knew what her next move would be.
DAVEY BUCCOLA FUMBLED WITH THE KEY to his hotel room. He was very, very drunk.
When Grace slipped through his fingers, so did the money. He’d betrayed her, and she knew it, and it had all been for nothing. Too depressed to face going home to his mother’s house, Davey had hung around the city, spending what was left of his savings on strippers and booze.
“Stupidfugginthing.” He tried the key again twice, before it dawned on him: I’m on the wrong floor. As he staggered back down the hall to the elevator, the walls lunged toward him and the floor moved up and down, up and down, like a ship on the high seas. Davey remembered the fun house at the Atlantic City amusement park his dad used to take him to as a kid. He felt nauseous. It was a relief to step into the elevator.
“What floor?”
The woman had her back to him. Even in his drunken state, the PI in Davey took note of her long auburn hair and shiny black trench coat. Or was it two trench coats?
“What floor?” she asked again. Davey couldn’t remember.
“Third,” he guessed. The woman reached forward and pressed a button.
Then she pressed a gun into the small of Davey’s back.
“Make a move and I will kill you.”
UP IN HIS HOTEL ROOM, DAVEY sat on the edge of the bed, stone-cold sober.
“I know how it looks. But I can explain.”
Grace raised the gun and pointed it directly at his head. “I’m listening.”