The October List Part 4

Your goal. Focus on your goal.

Sarah.

It's just a random smell, she told herself, that's triggering hard memories. Still, she couldn't quite flick it away. She stepped into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, which was mostly bare a container of coffee, b.u.t.ter, a shriveled lemon, hard as horn. And in the crisper an onion. It too was past prime but not rotten. Green shoots were growing from the end, eerie. She thought of Joseph's unruly hair, slick, greasy. She found a knife, dull but sharp enough to slice the vegetable if she sawed with pressure. When she'd produced a small pile of rings, she found oil in the cupboard, which she poured into a dusty frying pan, without bothering to wipe it clean. She turned up the heat and cooked the rings and shoots, stirring them absently in a figure-eight motion with a wooden spoon.

The sweet scents rose and soon they'd mitigated the smells that had bothered her. The thoughts of past death faded.

Daniel Reardon walked to the doorway of the kitchen. She sensed him watching her closely. She glanced at his handsome face, felt that ping of attraction. Thought of Friday night, two days ago. A year, forever.

'Hungry?'

'Probably. But I don't want anything to eat. I'm just air freshening.'

'With onions?' A laugh. He had a wonderful laugh just like the actor he so closely resembled.

Her voice s.h.i.+vered as she said, 'Every night when she's with me, Sarah and I cook. Well, not every night. But most. She likes to stir things. She's a great stirrer. We sometimes joke, we ...' And she abruptly fell silent, inhaled deeply, looking away from him.

She touched her chest, wincing, and Daniel stepped close, taking a tissue and slowly wiping the blood from the corner of her mouth. Then he embraced her. His hand trailed down her spine, b.u.mping over the strap of her bra beneath the thick sweats.h.i.+rt and settling into her lower back. He pulled her close. She tensed and groaned slightly. He tilted her head back and, despite the residue of blood, kissed her hard on the lips. She groaned, frowning, and he released her.

'Sorry,' he whispered.

'Don't be.'

He pressed his face against hers once more, pulling her body into him. And then stepped back, as if forcing himself to. She shut off the stovetop gas and they returned to the living room.

She looked around the apartment. It was sterile, worn in the way of faded elegance, like rich folks downsizing, retiring. The bland furniture had been top quality ten, fifteen years ago but was dinged and scuffed. The cus.h.i.+ons had suffered from too many a.s.ses, the carpet from too many leather heels.

Ugly, yes.

But it was quiet. And secluded.

Safe ...

The decorations were largely nautical. Prints of s.h.i.+ps in turbulent waves, as well as seafaring memorabilia and lanterns and fis.h.i.+ng gear.

Gabriela regarded the wooden display rack of knots on the wall. 'Yours?'

'That's right. I tied them. A hobby.' He looked over the short pieces of rope bound into nautical knots, two dozen of them. 'They have names, each one.'

Another wall was devoted to photography. He spotted the direction of her eyes. 'Not as good as yours.'

'You've got an Edward Weston and an Imogen Cunningham, Stieglitz.'

'They're just reproductions, not originals.'

'Well-done, though. Quality work. And picking those pieces in particular. Weston was a groundbreaker. Cunningham too, though I think she needed more of an edge.'

'And there something your daughter would appreciate.' On one wall was an antique riding crop and a pair of spurs.

An indelible image of Sarah came to mind.

Sarah ...

She sensed Daniel was about to bring up a serious topic. She was right.

'Mac, I'm going to have some people help us.' He nodded toward his iPad, on which he'd presumably been sending and receiving emails.

'Help us?'

'They're good folks. And we need them.'

'I can't ask that.'

'You didn't ask.' Daniel smiled. 'Besides, I owe you big time. You're the one who came up with the Princeton Solution. I don't know what would've happened if you hadn't been there. It would've been a nightmare.'

'I'll bet you could've handled it.'

'No. You saved my life,' he told her.

Gabriela offered a modest smile. 'Who are they, these people?'

'A couple of guys I've worked with for years. Smart. We need smart.' Daniel regarded her ambling eyes. 'She'll be okay, Mac. I promise. Sarah will be okay.'

And Gabriela thought: Promise. What an odd verb. A word you can't trust. Or shouldn't.

Like the word trust itself.

Don't be so cynical, she thought.

But that was hard. Gabriela was cynical in the grain. She'd learned to be that way, because of the Professor.

She saw in her mind's eye his still face, waxy, surrounded by satin. A material she had come to despise.

'They'll be here soon.' He squinted, looking her way. 'What're you thinking? Something important. I can tell.'

In a soft voice. 'No.'

'No you're not thinking, or no you're not telling? It's got to be door number two because you can't not be thinking something. That's impossible.'

She tried to formulate the words so they didn't come out foolish. This wasn't easy. 'Too many people turn away when something bad's happening. They're afraid, they're worried about the inconvenience, worried about being embarra.s.sed. But you're not willing to let Joseph get away with this and you're doing it for me, for somebody you've known for only a couple of days.'

Daniel Reardon wasn't able to blush, she a.s.sessed. But he was embarra.s.sed by her words. 'You're giving me a complex.' He looked around and noted the bar. 'I need a drink. You? Wine? Anything stronger?'

'No. Just ... not now.'

He opened a bottle of cabernet and poured the ruby liquid into a gla.s.s. A long sip seemed to exorcise her cloying grat.i.tude. He had another. 'Now. We should think about our next steps. Andrew and Sam should be here soon. First, I guess we ought to call the complication. Make sure he's home.'

Complication ...

She smiled at the word. Then scrolled through her phone until she found Frank Walsh's name and called. 'No answer.' She sent a text. 'But I'm sure the list is safe. There's no reason it wouldn't be.'

Daniel's face remained calm. Though of course he'd be thinking: Without that list your daughter's dead. And the man who'd kill her, that p.r.i.c.k Joseph, will be after you too before long.

And he didn't need to add that Joseph would be looking for him too.

But then her phone buzzed and she glanced at the screen. A text had appeared. She smiled briefly. 'It's Frank. He's not going out tonight. Everything's fine.'

'That's one less worry we have. But I don't know how I feel about Mr Frank "Complication" Walsh on your speed-dial list. I'm thinking I'd rather take his place.'

'I could move you up to number two.'

'Only two?'

'Mom is first.'

'That's fair enough.'

Daniel walked to a tall gla.s.s-fronted mahogany entertainment enclosure, circa 1975, she guessed, though it contained newer components. He turned the radio on to a local station. After five minutes of bad music and worse commercials it was time for the news. She strode to the device and abruptly shut it off.

Daniel looked at her as she stared at the receiver. She told him, 'I don't want to hear about it. About what happened today any of it! It has to be on the news. I'm all over the news!' Her voice had grown ragged again.

'It's okay, it's okay ...'

She started at the buzz of the intercom. It seemed as loud as an alarm. 'Daniel?' came the tinny voice through the speaker. 'It's Andrew.'

Pressing the unlock b.u.t.ton, Daniel nodded rea.s.suringly to Gabriela, 'The cavalry's arrived.'

CHAPTER.

31.

2:15 p.m., Sunday 1 hour earlier Detective Brad Kepler watched his boss read the media release once, twice, again.

Captain Paul Barkley looked up at the NYPD press officer, a wobbly young man with persistent acne, who sat before him in this h.e.l.lhole of an operations room. Then, without saying a word, he looked down and read once more.

Barkley's stomach made a Harley-Davidson noise that everyone in the room pretended to ignore.

Kepler knew that most Sundays, this time of day Barkley was tucking away his wife's roast beef, along with when she wasn't looking ma.s.sive forkfuls of b.u.t.tered mashed potatoes. The detective was aware of this routine because he'd been invited to supper a few times. He had three repet.i.tive memories of the occasions: Barkley telling the same quasi-blue jokes over and over. The roast beef being very good. And Kepler's spending the entire time trying to figure out if there was any possible scenario for telling Barkley's know-it-all college-student daughter to shut the f.u.c.k up. Which, of course, there was not.

Kepler himself read the release again.

Fred Stanford Chapman, 29, ... wife, Elizabetta, 31, two children, Kyle and Sophie ... Surgery to remove a bullet lodged near his heart is planned for later today ... Investigations continue ... Prognosis is not good ...

Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera ...

'How many calls?' Barkley asked the youngster.

'From the press? A hundred.'

Barkley snapped, 'That's an exaggeration.'

Kepler thought: Probably isn't. His partner, Naresh Surani, seemed to concur.

'I wanted to keep it quiet,' the captain said.

'A shooting?' From the PA youngster.

Public affairs. c.r.a.p.

'Yes, a shooting. In G.o.dd.a.m.n Manhattan. I wanted to keep it G.o.dd.a.m.n quiet. But I guess that didn't work out, did it? This was a leak the size of the t.i.tanic.'

Kepler corrected, The t.i.tanic wasn't a leak. The t.i.tanic was a s.h.i.+p that got f.u.c.ked because of a leak.

But, of course, the edit was tacit.

Barkley s.n.a.t.c.hed up a pen and began to revise.

Which gave Kepler the chance to look around their new digs. This was the second room the Charles Prescott Operation the CP Op had been a.s.signed to in the past two days. Sure, this happened to be a busy time for bad guys and little operations like the CP Op didn't mean very much, in terms of chalking up cred, so they had to take whatever room was free at the moment. But this one was the pits. The twenty-by-thirty-foot s.p.a.ce did have a few high-def monitors, but they were off, and they didn't even seem hooked up. The walls were scuffed nothing new there and the government-issue furniture was cheap. Nearly a third of the floor s.p.a.ce was devoted to storage. Something smelled off too, as if a take-out turkey sandwich had fallen behind one of the filing cabinets a long, long time ago.

At least it couldn't get any worse.

Barkley slid the press release back like an air hockey puck. 'Fix it. And by the way, no comment from me, other than the investigations continue. Stop at that. Nothing more.'

The press officer tried again. 'But a hundred calls, sir.'

'Why're you still here?' Barkley made a sound like a disagreeable transmission. This one came from his throat, not his belly.

'Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.' The Public Affairs officer scooted out.

Why the h.e.l.l does that kid wear a sidearm? Kepler thought.

Barkley turned to the two detectives, sitting at a battered fiberboard table, and barked, 'Jesus.' He nodded toward Kepler's copy of the release.

Fred Stanford Chapman, 29, ... gunshot wound ...

Then the boss changed direction. 'Now, her.'