Kill Me if You Can

  Ira’s door was on the fourth floor. Another buzzer and she was inside the loft. It was three thousand square feet, every inch of which was covered. There were rows of mismatched tables holding electronic equipment, and a kitchen area where Marta could see two more rats scavenging on a countertop. There was a bed littered with food containers, beer cans, and porn magazines. Stacks of computer manuals piled waist-high were parked next to an overflowing garbage can.

  A path wide enough for a wheelchair wound its way through the chaos. The man in the chair was somewhere between thirty and fifty, grossly overweight, and seemingly uninterested in personal hygiene. He had an open bag of Cool Ranch Doritos on his lap and a two-liter bottle of Pepsi on the computer stand next to him.

  “I’m Ira,” he said. “Sorry if I smell a little gamey. We don’t get many social calls, and getting in and out of the tub is a bitch.”

  “No problem,” Marta said. “I’m Giselle.”

  “Who sent you, Giselle?”

  “A friend.”

  “My best reference,” Ira said. “If I ever meet this Mr. A. Friend, I’d love to buy him a beer. What can I do for you?”

  “I’ve got a husband who can’t keep his dick in his pants, but if you can’t get in and out of a tub, I doubt you can do anything for me. My problem requires someone with a lot more muscle.”

  “We have a division of labor at Acme Industries,” Ira said. “Brains and brawn. I’m brains.”

  “I hate to disappoint you, Ira,” Marta said, “but I already have brains. What I’m looking for is someone strong enough to toss a hundred and ten pounds of shit off a roof.”

  “I’m guessing the husband with the wandering dick weighs more than one ten,” Ira said, “but I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a hard-bodied little mistress about that size.”

  “Well, I was surprised, Ira. And now I’m going to surprise them. Yes or no, is this something you know how to handle?”

  “Absolutely. Do you want your husband roughed up as well?”

  Marta laughed. “I could rough the dumb bastard up. I could also bash his head in with a cast-iron skillet when he’s sleeping. But I’d rather see the look on his face when he finds out that his little office-manager–slash-whore did a swan dive off a building.”

  “No problem. I have several candidates who can handle the job.”

  “I don’t want several. I want one. The best man you have.”

  “I can give you second best,” Ira said. “But my number-one man doesn’t do matrimonial.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “He gets top dollar for hunting down hard-core dirtbags. He doesn’t believe in killing some pretty little thing just because she’s banging your old man.”

  “A killer with a conscience. How noble. What’s his name—Don Quixote?”

  “They call him the Ghost.”

  “And you’re sure he’s good?” Marta said.

  “Nobody better.”

  “Excellent,” Marta said. “He sounds like just the man I’ve been looking for.”

  Chapter 28

  “I think I would really like to meet this Ghost fellow,” Marta said. “Tell me about him.”

  Ira stroked the stubble-covered rolls of fat that were his chins. “Let’s see, what can I tell you about the Ghost?” he said. “He likes candlelit dinners, long walks on the beach, outdoor concerts at Tanglewood, and doing the New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle in bed with a smart, sensuous woman. Someone like you, Giselle.”

  He shoved a handful of Doritos in his mouth.

  Marta stiffened. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “C’mon, Marta, do you think I’m stupid?” Ira said, Cool Ranch crumbs blowing out of his mouth. “I have a database of millions of voiceprints, and I have yours from half a dozen phone calls. Somebody buzzes me from downstairs, I check the voice for a match. I’m flattered you would visit. My clients usually come here, but my operatives almost never come to the office. It’s dull as hell around here on Take Your Daughter to Work Day. What do you want with the Ghost?”

  “We’re working on the same job.”

  “What job?” Ira said. “Zelvas is dead. Finished.”

  “Not finished,” Marta said. “The diamonds that Zelvas stole from the Syndicate got stolen from him.”

  “I know,” Ira said. “Chukov sent me a picture of some guy nabbing the stones out of a locker. I passed it along to the Ghost. You want a copy of that?”

  “I have it. Chukov hired me as backup. Sorry about trying to con you, but since the Ghost and I are on the same side, I thought you could connect us.”

  “I couldn’t even if I wanted to,” he said. “He contacts me. But it’s a pleasure to meet you in person. Forgive me if I don’t stand up.”

  “Did you ever meet the Ghost in person?” Marta asked.

  “No, ma’am. He’s got a policy. Nobody gets to see him. That way, nobody knows what he looks like.”

  She unsnapped the clasp on her black leather Bottega Veneta shoulder bag and removed her Glock 38 semiautomatic. The light .45-caliber pistol fit comfortably in her hand, and its ten-round magazine gave her a soul-satisfying feeling of power.

  “Funny thing,” she said, pointing the gun squarely at Ira’s sagging chest. “I have the same policy.”

  He stared at her, much less afraid than she expected. “Oh, come on, Marta. Do you really think I’d rat you out?”

  “Would you?”

  “Never. How do you think I’ve been able to do this all these years? I keep secrets. Yours, his, everybody’s.”

  “I believe that,” she said. “But I also believe that you might part with a few of his secrets if I let you live.”

  “You call this living?” he said, spitting out a bitter laugh. “Eating, drinking, and jerking off in this shit hole—that’s not a life. The only thing that keeps me from slitting my own throat is the danger. Working with assassins, executioners, butchers. I’m a conduit to the death squad. That’s my life. You want to put me out of my misery? Go ahead. You’re not the first one to pull a gun on me.”

  “Maybe not. But I’m the first one who will pull the trigger.”

  She pressed the muzzle of the gun hard against his sternum.

  “It might be an ugly life, Ira,” she said, “but it’s the only one you’ve got. Do you want to live?”

  The bravado drained from his face. “Yes,” he said. “Given the choice…”

  “You hear anything—anything—that will lead me to the Ghost, you call me.”

  She handed him a card with a cell number on it.

  “I’ll call,” he said. “I swear.” His body began to shake, and the bag of chips fell from his lap and spilled on the floor.

  “Careful,” Marta said, lowering the gun. “You don’t want to mess up the place.”

  Chapter 29

  I thought that what I was about to do would blow Katherine’s mind. At least I hoped it would. I dialed her cell number.

  “What’s up?” she said. Two words, but just hearing her voice got me going. We were still at that stage in our relationship, and I hoped it wouldn’t end.

  “It’s payback time,” I told her. “You had a surprise for me. Now I have one for you.”

  “Cool. What is it?”

  “What it is,” I said, “is a surprise…as in I’m not telling you anything over the phone.”

  “Can you at least give me a hint?”

  I was sitting on my bed with Walter Zelvas’s medical bag at my side. I ran my fingers over the pebble-grain leather.

  “Okay, one hint,” I said. “It sparkles.”

  “Sparkling surprises are my favorite,” she said. “When do I get to see it?”

  “Immediately, if possible. Where are you?”

  “I’m just wrapping up at the Whitney. I need about a half hour.”

  “I’ll meet you at the Amity and buy you lunch,” I said.

  “Deal. Love you,” she said.

  “Yo
u’re going to love me even more when you see this surprise,” I said, hanging up before she could ask for another hint.

  Five minutes later, I was on the subway headed uptown on the number 6 local. I sat next to an elderly woman who took one look at my medical bag and told me how wonderful it was that there were still doctors who made house calls.

  At 42nd Street I switched to the express, got off at 86th Street, and walked to the New Amity diner at 84th and Madison. I opened the door and immediately felt like a rock star.

  “Mottchew,” Gus called from the back of the diner. “Mottchew Bannon. Good to see you, my friend.”

  The owner, Steve, two other waiters, and the short-order cook behind the grill all gave me a big welcome.

  As Greek diners go, this one is the absolute best. The food is good, the prices are affordable, and the service is fantastic. Gus was about sixty, with thinning silver hair, a ready smile, and an endearing accent. He was from Greece, or as he called it, Grrrriss. I didn’t know much about him, but I got the feeling he’d had quite an interesting life in the old country.

  He pointed to a booth, and even before my butt hit the vinyl, he delivered my usual mug of half-regular, half-decaf coffee and a small pitcher of skim milk.

  “Long time ago, I had one like this,” he said, eyeing my medical bag.

  “Were you a doctor back in Athens?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “You have a doctor bag. Are you a doctor?” he said, avoiding my question and adding to the mystery of his past. “Is the pretty lady coming today?”

  “The lady is here,” Katherine said as she breezed in and plopped down on the other side of the booth. “She’s not feeling pretty, but she’s definitely thirsty.”

  Gus brought Katherine her usual: a large glass of water, no ice, slice of lemon, and a straw. We ordered sandwiches—one turkey and tomato, one tuna melt—to be split in the kitchen so we could share.

  “So, what’s the occasion?” she said. “What did I do to deserve a surprise?”

  “It’s just my little way of thanking you for giving me an A for the semester.”

  “I haven’t posted the grades yet, so your surprise sounds more like a bribe,” she said. “And Katherine Sanborne does not accept bribes.”

  She took a long sip of her water. “But in your case, I’ll make an exception. Don’t keep me in suspense any longer. Where is it?”

  I put the medical bag on top of the table.

  “That’s it?” she said.

  “You look disappointed,” I said.

  “You said the surprise sparkles, so I was expecting one of those little robin’s-egg-blue boxes from Tiffany’s,” she said.

  “Who knows?” I said. “Maybe Tiffany’s changed their packaging.”

  “I guess there’s only one way to find out,” she said.

  She unclasped the brass latch and opened the bag.

  I held my breath.

  Chapter 30

  Katherine reached in and pulled out a bundle of postcards that I had tied with a red ribbon.

  “The Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, Notre Dame Cathedral,” she said as she thumbed through the cards. “I’m beginning to sense a theme here.”

  “There’s more,” I said. “Keep going.”

  She took out a bottle of wine.

  “Georges Duboeuf Beaujolais Nouveau,” she said. “Is this what sparkles?”

  “No. It’s flat and cheap. On sale for seven bucks,” I said. “I spared no expense.”

  “This is fun,” she said. “Like a treasure hunt.”

  She reached in and took out two baguettes and a wedge of Brie. “Are we going on a picnic?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Where?”

  “Keep digging,” I said.

  She reached in and pulled out two e-tickets that I had printed from my computer an hour before.

  And then she shrieked. “Paris? We’re going to Paris?”

  She looked around and realized that half the people in the diner were watching us. “We’re going to Paris,” she said, in case any of them hadn’t heard her the first time.

  Several people applauded.

  “I don’t know what to pack,” she said. “When are we going?”

  I pointed at the e-ticket.

  She looked at it and shrieked again. “Tonight? Are you crazy?”

  “Yes,” I said. “About you.”

  “I can’t go tonight.”

  “Sure you can,” I said. “We’ll travel light and buy what we need along the way. People who buy cheap last-minute tickets on the Internet are usually poor and flexible. I figure we qualify as both.”

  She was dumbfounded and over the moon at the same time. “I only have eight hours to get ready. I don’t know what to do,” she said.

  Two middle-aged women were sitting at a table across from us. One of them leaned over and said, “Honey, if you don’t go to Paris with this gorgeous guy, I will.”

  “I’m going, I’m going,” Katherine said. “This is the most fantastic, most romantic, most extravagant gift I’ve ever gotten.”

  Gus arrived with our lunch and took a look at the wine, the cheese, and the French bread. “That looks better than a tuna melt,” he said. “You want I should wrap up these sandwiches to go? You can have them for lunch tomorrow.”

  “No can do, Gus,” I said. “Tomorrow the two of us are having lunch in the City of Light. I hear it really sparkles.”

  Chapter 31

  Rice and Benzetti tracked down the cabbie who picked up Bagboy, their code name for the young guy with the bag full of diamonds.

  “You remember this guy?” Rice asked, showing the driver the surveillance photo.

  “No. Should I?”

  “You had him in your cab the night of the bomb blast at Grand Central.”

  He took a second look at the picture. “Oh, yeah, I remember. Crazy night. I picked up a fare who wanted to go to Jersey. This dude tagged along for the ride.”

  “Where in Jersey did you take him?” Benzetti asked.

  “He didn’t go the whole way. He’s a doc. I dropped him at St. Vincent’s Hospital downtown. And it was a free ride. No charge. Them kind of nights bring out the Good Samaritan in me.”

  “Yeah, you got philanthropist written all over your face,” Benzetti said.

  The two cops spent the next few hours hitting the shops, restaurants, and ticket windows at Grand Central, hoping to find someone who could ID Bagboy.

  Whoever he was, he wasn’t a regular. Nobody recognized him.

  “Let’s talk to the uniform who pulled the gun on him,” Benzetti said.

  “His name’s Ruben Kendall,” Rice said. “He’s over at the Seventeenth.”

  “I don’t want to make a house call,” Benzetti said. “Too many people know us there and will ask why we’re nosing around. See if you can get him to meet us on the outside.”

  Rice called the Seventeenth Precinct and got Kendall on the phone.

  “Officer Kendall, this is Detective John Rice. Nice job the other night at Grand Central.”

  “Um, thanks. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m trying to wrap up some paperwork on that whole bomb thing,” Rice said. “Got time for a few quick questions?”

  “Sure. Come on over to the precinct.”

  “If my partner and I set foot inside the Seventeenth, we’ll run into at least a dozen guys who will want to catch up and schmooze about the old days,” Rice said, faking a chuckle. “Would you mind popping outside? We’re in a black Chevy Tahoe around the corner at Fiftieth and Third.”

  “No problem. I’ll be right there.”

  At six four, two hundred and forty pounds, Officer Ruben Kendall was an intimidating presence. But his baby face and warm brown eyes transformed the tiger into a pussycat.

  The two detectives got out of their car and introduced themselves. Rice handed him the surveillance photo. “You recognize this guy?”

  The cop took a quick look. “That’s th
e doc from the other night at Grand Central.”

  Benzetti jumped in. “How’d you know he was a doc?”

  Kendall hesitated. He knew a loaded question when he heard one.

  “He…he told me,” Kendall said.

  “He told you?” Benzetti said.

  Kendall put a hand across his eyes and slid it down his face. “I never got around to checking his ID. It was a madhouse. It was like nothing they teach you at the Academy.”

  “I went to the Academy,” Benzetti said, “and I distinctly remember being told, if you see a guy standing over a dead body, check his ID.”

  “Hey, man, people were insane, trying to get out of the station, and then I got a ten-thirteen call,” Kendall said. “‘Multiple looters. Officer needs assistance.’ This guy wasn’t a threat. I took off.”

  “Listen, kid, nobody expects you to check IDs during a terrorist attack,” Rice said, putting a hand on Kendall’s shoulder and oozing Good Cop from every pore. “So the guy said he was a doc. What else can you tell us about him?”

  The cop pulled a pad from his pocket. “I remember he said he worked at St. Vincent’s,” Kendall said as he flipped through the pages. “He gave me his name and I wrote it—here it is. Jason Wood. Dr. Jason Wood. Does that help?”

  “If it’s his real name, it’ll make our job easier,” Rice said.

  “And if it’s a phony, what happens to me?”

  “Meter-maid patrol,” Benzetti said.

  “Don’t pay any attention to him,” Rice said. “He goes by the book, but we all make mistakes.”

  “Is he going to write me up?”

  “I’m not going to let him,” Rice said. “Nick, listen to me. We’re not turning this kid in. You made plenty of mistakes when you were a rookie.”

  Benzetti shrugged. “Fine. But I don’t want to get nailed for not turning him in. So this conversation never happened. You never even met us. You got that, kid?”

  “Yes, sir. It never happened. Thanks. Thanks a lot.”

  “Get out of here.”

  Kendall turned fast and headed back to the precinct house.

  “Dumb bastard,” Benzetti said. “Call St. Vincent’s.”