Cold Shot to the Heart Read online

  “We did,” she said. “Be seeing you.”

  * * *

  At a Turnpike rest stop, she found a phone booth without a security camera nearby and called 911. When the dispatcher came on, Crissa told her she’d just seen teenagers breaking into a car in Jersey City. She gave Hector’s address and a description of the Nova. When the dispatcher asked her name, she hung up.

  * * *

  It was 3:00 A.M. by the time she got back to the city. Lionel, the night doorman, greeted her sleepily. She was feeling the leaden aftereffects of stress as she rode up in the elevator, remembering Hector’s face, the marks on his body. Knowing she wouldn’t be able to sleep.

  At her door, she worked the key in the locks, listened for the cat. It had taken to greeting her when she came home, mewling on the other side of the door until she got it open. Silence.

  When she opened the door, a cold breeze blew past her into the hall.

  She stayed where she was, listening. On the wall, the alarm keypad was blinking red, waiting for the code. It hadn’t been tripped.

  She drew the .38, pointed it into the darkness. With her left hand, she tapped in the code. The light turned green.

  The apartment was cold. She went through it with the gun up, finger tight on the trigger. The futon had been overturned, the pad slashed. The living room window was open, cold air pouring in. There was a perfect fist-sized circle cut out of the top pane near the lock, sticky remnants of tape around it. That was how they’d gotten in. The storm window had been forced up. There were shiny pry marks along its bottom edge.

  In the kitchen, cabinets had been opened, pots and pans pulled out onto the floor. The refrigerator stood out crooked from the wall, door ajar. All its contents had been tipped out. On the floor, piles of sugar and flour spilled out of shattered ceramic containers. Wine bottles were broken in the sink, staining the porcelain like blood. There were footprints in the flour. Two sets. One with a sneaker pattern, a bigger one without.

  She went into the bedroom. The bed had been stripped, the mattress pulled off, slashed. The closet door was thrown wide, and the maroon suitcase lay open on the floor, clothes spilling out. The lining had been cut open. The packets of money were gone.

  She looked around, realized then the laptop was missing. The desk had been pulled away from the wall, the drawers taken out and dumped.

  She went back into the living room, looked out the window onto the fire escape. On the outside wall, the rubber stripping that covered the alarm wiring had been peeled away. A pair of tiny alligator clips dangled from bare wire. They’d bypassed the system, done it quickly enough that no one had seen them and called the police—but they’d left quickly as well, forgotten the clips. She looked across the street. A handful of smokers stood outside the bar, puffing away in the cold.

  She heard a meowing below, looked down, and saw the cat staring up at her from the fire escape, one floor down. It had fled through the open window, hidden out until they were gone. Smart.

  She put the .38 atop the TV, looked around the apartment, felt the knife-edge of anger and loss, a stinging wetness in her eyes, all of it piling up on her. She thought about the laptop, the pictures of Maddie. Hector in the trunk.

  All right, you bastards, she thought. You’ve got my attention now.

  The cat appeared at the window, looked at her, then leaped down onto the floor. It brushed against her legs, hid behind her, arched its back, still freaked.

  She looked out the window into the night.

  You didn’t find what you wanted, she thought, but you’ll try again, won’t you? And I’ll be ready.

  TWENTY-THREE

  She spent the night on the futon, awake and dressed, the .38 in her lap. She’d locked the window again, patched the hole with cardboard and duct tape, but part of her was hoping they’d come back. Back up the fire escape and to the window, an easy target there against the streetlights.

  Toward dawn, the cat curled beside her. She felt its warmth, its rhythmic breathing. After a while, her eyes grew heavy. She set the .38 on the floor, still in reach, and drifted into sleep.

  When she woke, bright sunlight was pouring through the window. She reached out to touch the gun, make sure it was still there. The cat jumped to the floor, fled across the room to watch her from the kitchen doorway.

  She sat on the edge of the futon, ran fingers through her hair, the night coming back to her. Hector’s face. His throat. The realization she’d been fighting since she’d found him: that it was her fault.

  In daylight, the apartment looked worse. She took the .38 with her into the bathroom, leaving it on the toilet tank while she showered. After she dressed, she cleaned up the kitchen as best she could. Then she stood on a chair and dislodged the panel in the drop ceiling. The box of shells was still there. She felt around beside it, had a moment of panic until her fingers touched metal. She drew out the key ring. Four keys, four safe deposit boxes, four banks.

  She took down the box of shells and fit the panel back into place.

  At nine, she called the number Jimmy Peaches had given her, his private phone.

  “Are you all right?” he said.

  She paused, unsure how much to tell him. “I’m okay.”

  “You don’t sound it.”

  “How well do you know Tino Conte?”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Well enough to reach out to him?”

  “Why?”

  “That issue we were talking about,” she said. “It got serious last night.”

  “How serious?”

  “As serious as it gets.”

  He was quiet for a moment. “My advice for you is to stay as far away from him as possible.”

  “You said whoever was doing this had their own agenda, one Tino wouldn’t like.”

  “So?”

  “So maybe we have a mutual problem.”

  “No way I’m putting you in a room with that guy. Or anyone that works for him. Like I said, the man’s a snake.”

  “I can’t just sit around, waiting for someone to come at me again,” she said. “Not knowing who or from what direction. Or when.”

  He sighed. “Okay. Forget about Tino, that’s not happening. But there might be another way. Let me make a couple calls, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Don’t do anything until you hear from me.”

  “I won’t,” she said.

  In the bedroom, she got the overnight bag from the closet shelf, packed it with clothes, the box of shells. Then she walked the apartment, looking for anything else she might need. It occurred to her again how little she’d acquired in her life, how few were the things she called her own.

  The cat followed her from room to room, making noise, getting underfoot. She opened a tin of cat food, spooned all of it onto a dish, then filled a bowl with fresh water. She set them down in the kitchen doorway, then sat on the futon and watched the cat while it ate.

  When it was finished, she put on her leather jacket, dropped the .38 into the pocket, looked around the apartment a final time.

  The cat stopped licking its paws, watched her, suspicious. She unlocked and opened the living room window, then pushed up the storm pane. Cold air flowed in. The cat backed away under a chair.

  “Come on,” she said. It didn’t move. When she crossed the room, it backed away farther, as if it knew what was coming. She reached down, scooped it up, held it to her chest as she went to the window.

  “Sorry, cat,” she said. “You’re back where you started.”

  She let it go. The cat half leaped, half fell from her arms, landed on its feet on the fire escape, turned to stare back up at her.

  Don’t look at me like that, Crissa thought. It was nice while it lasted, that’s all. Now it’s over.

  She shut the window, locked it. The cat looked at her through the glass for a long moment, then turned and sprinted down the fire escape. She watched it go.

  * * *

  The Travel Inn was on 42nd Street, still Manh
attan but close enough to the Lincoln Tunnel that she could get out of town fast. She left the rental car in a garage a block away, tipped the deskman to let her check in early.

  She had lunch in the coffee shop, her first food of the day, and brought a takeout cup of tea up to her fifth-floor room. She got out the .38, checked the rounds again, then pulled a chair up to the window. The clouds were heavy with the threat of snow. She thought of the cat, out there on its own again.

  She sat there sipping tea, the gun in her lap, looking out at the gray day, waiting for her phone to ring.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Eddie ran the razor under the faucet, cleaning off the last of the dried blood. Water swirled faint pink into the drain. He’d wiped the blade clean after they’d left Suarez, but blood had caked on the hinge. He didn’t want it to rust.

  Terry had the woman’s laptop open on the kitchen table, his face lit by the screen’s glow. Angie stood in the doorway, watching them, chewing on a thumbnail.

  “You know what you’re doing with that thing?” Eddie said.

  “Enough.”

  “What’s in there?” He leaned over, drank from the faucet, then dried the razor carefully on a paper towel, closed it.

  “Not much. Almost nothing on the hard drive. The trash has been emptied, and all the histories have been cleared.”

  “Whatever that means,” Eddie said. He dropped the razor into the open gym bag at his feet, the shotgun visible. “Can you sell it, get some money?”

  “Maybe. Hold on. There’s some folders here with pictures.”

  “What pictures?”

  “Some little girl.”

  Eddie came around behind him, looked over at Angie. She met his eyes for a moment, then turned and left the room.

  “Show me,” Eddie said.

  Terry hit keys. A picture came up on the screen, a girl in pigtails, maybe eight, nine years old. She had reddish blond hair, was sitting on a carpeted floor in front of a Christmas tree. In the next photo, she sat on the edge of a dock, holding a child’s fishing pole, the line in the water, an intent look on her face.

  “Same girl in all the pictures?” Eddie said.

  “Yeah.” He clicked through more photos.

  “Stop.”

  This one was a group portrait, kids sitting on the front steps of a school. The girl from the other photos was in the front row, giving the camera a wide smile. There was a school logo at the bottom of the picture.

  “Two Rivers, Texas,” Eddie said. “Never heard of it.”

  “Probably a small town.”

  “All these pictures, got to be someone important to her. Daughter maybe, or niece. Too young for a sister.”

  “Cute little girl.”

  “You need to find out where Two Rivers is,” Eddie said. “There can’t be too many of them. We lucked out here.”

  “Why?”

  “Like I said, that kid means something to her. It’s leverage.”

  Terry was silent.

  “What?” Eddie said.

  “I’m not going after some little girl.”

  “Who said we were? We just let her know we found the pictures. She’ll get the idea. And if she bolts, we know at least one place she might turn up.”

  Terry hit the power button. The screen faded to black. “I don’t know.”

  “We’ve come too far to back off now,” Eddie said. “What’s the problem? You’ve got nothing but paydays ahead of you. We’ve got twenty more coming from Tino, and who knows how much we’ll get off the woman when we find her. Probably more money than you’ve ever seen in your life.”

  “I guess.”

  “You guess? What is it? That thing with Suarez still got you bothered?”

  “I didn’t expect it to go the way it did.”

  “Whose fault was that? He could have made it easier on himself. He chose not to. I did what I had to do.”

  “I know.”

  “Then stop acting like a bitch.”

  The phone in his coat pocket began to ring. He took it out, looked at the number. “It’s about fucking time.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Man with the rest of our money,” Eddie said. He opened the phone. “Yeah.”

  “Sorry,” Nicky said, “I just got your message. I got tied up with some shit. What do you need?”

  “What do you think?”

  “You have any trouble with that thing?”

  “Nothing I couldn’t handle. But there’s the question of the balance.”

  “I hear you. Hold on.”

  Eddie waited, hearing muffled voices in the background. Terry was watching him.

  When Nicky came back on, he said, “No problems with that. We got it. I’ll call you tomorrow, tell you where to go.”

  “No. Let’s do it tonight.”

  “What’s the rush?”

  “You’ve got it, right?”

  “Yeah, we got it. But tonight’s no good.”

  “Why not? The work’s done. What’s the issue?”

  Another pause. Nicky came back on and said, “No issue. I think we can make that happen. Give me a half hour, I’ll call you back, tell you where.”

  “Do that,” Eddie said and hung up.

  He zipped up the gym bag, hefted it, felt the shotgun’s weight.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “Go get a decent meal. Then I’ve got a phone call to make.”

  Terry shut the laptop.

  “Another thing.” Eddie nodded at the hallway. “You want to keep an eye on her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She makes me nervous, way she stands around, watching us. Listening all the time.”

  “She’s just worried about me.”

  “Maybe so. But she doesn’t like me very much, and she’s seen some shit. You want to be careful around her.”

  “You don’t have to worry about Angie.”

  “No,” Eddie said, “but maybe you do. Women get that way sometimes. They drop a dime on you, think they’re doing you a favor.”

  “Angie won’t.”

  “That’s right,” Eddie said. “She won’t.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  At dusk, she sat in the half-full parking lot of the Tick-Tock Diner, engine off, watching the traffic on Route 3, the lights of Manhattan in the distance. With the dark had come a light snow. The diner’s Christmas lights reflected off the wet blacktop.

  The man on the phone had told her five o’clock, but she’d been here since four, parked in the shadows at the far end of the lot, occasionally running the engine for heat. The .38 was beneath a newspaper on the passenger seat.

  At six thirty, a new Impala glided into the lot, did a slow circuit, and parked close to the diner. The engine and headlights cut off. No one got out.

  After ten minutes, the Impala’s window slid down. The driver scanned the lot, looked at his watch. The window went back up.

  She waited him out. Fifteen minutes later, he got out of the car, a short, heavily built man in a suit and overcoat. He looked around as he crossed the lot, hands in his pockets, and went up the flagstone steps to the diner entrance.

  She put the .38 in her coat pocket, got out of the car. Through the diner windows, she could see him stop at the register and speak to the female cashier. She pointed, and he moved off.

  Crissa went up the steps and inside, saw the driver turn into an alcove at the far end of the diner. She followed and came to a short hallway with a pay phone, MEN and WOMEN doors facing each other. She gave it a moment, waiting for someone to come in or out, then pushed open the MEN door. No one at the urinals. In the mirror, she could see the driver standing in a stall, the door open. All the other stalls were empty. He flushed, zipped up.

  She came up behind him, put the muzzle of the .38 to the back of his head, crowded him into the stall. She pushed the door shut behind her, bolted it.

  “Easy with that thing,” he said.

  She reached around, felt under his suit jacket. “What’s your nam
e?”

  “This could get a little embarrassing, don’t you think? We were supposed to talk in the car.”

  She drew a small automatic from his belt.

  “What’s this for?” she said.

  “Hey, I don’t know who you are. Better safe, right?”

  Her thumb found the magazine release. She held the gun over the toilet and shook it. The clip slid out, splashed into the water.

  “I really wish you hadn’t done that,” he said.

  She put the gun in her pocket.

  “What’s your name?” she said again.

  When he didn’t answer, she cocked the .38, felt him stiffen.

  “Be careful with that,” he said.

  “Name.”

  “Carmine.”

  “You alone, Carmine?”

  “What do you think? I was sitting on my ass out there for a half hour. You had to be watching.”

  They heard the men’s room door open. She screwed the muzzle of the .38 into his scalp. Someone used a urinal, whistling softly to himself. He flushed, ran water in the sink, and then they heard the rattle of the towel dispenser. The door opened and closed again.

  “You’re starting to piss me off,” he said. “I’m here as a favor. Take that thing away from my head, before I take it away from you.”

  “Tough guy, huh?”

  “Try me.”

  She lowered the gun.

  “I don’t know who you are either,” she said. “Or who you work for. Better safe, right?”

  “I’m here as a gesture to our friend down the Shore. That’s all. You understand that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then don’t make me regret it.”

  “What do you have to tell me?”

  “This is the only time we’re ever going to meet. So stop busting my balls and listen up. I’m not repeating shit.”

  She decocked the .38. “Go on.”

  “There’s a guy used to work for Tino, just got out of Rahway. His name’s Eddie Santiago. They call him Eddie the Saint. He was Tino’s go-to guy when the old man had to make a move and didn’t have enough muscle.”

  “So?”

  “So Eddie’s back in the fold. He’s the guy that took out your two partners.”

  “How do you know that?”