It was the Ritz all over again. This time out in the elements, not in a hall. I was wearing only the fleece. And had a hole in my shoulder that hurt like a bastard.
Flashback image. A mud-walled village holding a soldier scheduled for video beheading. An extraction team hunkered in a dung-colored desert. Frigid cold. A hunk of metal in my shoulder from an IED.
Time passed. Across Lake Shore Drive, the city hummed with all the notes of a midnight symphony. Blasts of hip-hop from passing cars. Sirens. Horns. The occasional voice raised in anger or song.
The woman was shorter than I remembered. The trench coat hung to the middle of her calves. She wore dark pants under it, running shoes. No purse. I guessed she carried her gun in a pocket.
Every now and then my gaze dropped to my watch, then bounced back to the woman. She was scanning wider now, checking her surroundings in all directions. I caught flashes of her face. Her eyes were black holes below the brim of her cap.
At 1:30, the woman pulled a mobile from her purse, spoke briefly, then disconnected. A figure appeared at the mouth of the underpass. Waved. The woman waved, hand arcing pale in the gloom. I wondered if two small J’s darkened her thumb.
The woman held position a few more minutes, then angled toward the underpass.
I was ninety minutes late. They were pulling the plug.
Or were they? Had the woman spotted me? Had her companion? Was it possible I’d been made from that far away? Had the woman placed or received the call? Were there more lookouts I hadn’t seen?
Follow her? I didn’t want to go into the underpass. Though feeble, the lights were still working. If others were waiting, I’d be a sitting duck. Give her time to clear the tunnel, then pick her up west of Lake Shore? But I didn’t want to lose her. It had taken a lot of effort to find her. I’d been shot because of her. Maybe. Or maybe she was a lone scammer. Either way, I had to know.
I adjusted the wig. Natasha, do your stuff. I crept toward the underpass.
The woman was exiting the far end. Otherwise, the long murky space was empty. I walked through quickly, alert to every sound, a female alone in the night in a dangerous place. A black-haired female. With a Glock in one hand.
The woman wasn’t hard to follow. It was late, she was probably tired, hadn’t heard or seen me, wasn’t expecting a tail. She walked south on Sheridan, then west on Foster, moving briskly but not in a panic. At Broadway, she turned south again. We passed small groceries and restaurants, all closed. The names suggested a Vietnamese hood. I noted the Tank Noodle restaurant, a sandwich shop called Ba Le. Stored the info.
I wondered about the woman’s companions. Why had others been at Foster Beach? Were they the bombers? If so, where were they now? If not, where were they now?
As we walked, I watched the woman’s gait. I noticed for the first time the hunched bearing, as if she wanted to reduce her height, perhaps minimize the amount of person she presented to the world. Still, she was stepping along smartly.
At Argyle, the woman again went west. The twisty route made me question my earlier confidence. Had I been busted? Was the woman trying to lose me? Lead me to another ambush? I picked up the pace and rounded the corner.
The neighborhood was residential and poorly lit. I stretched my eyes down the street. It had a narrow strip of parkway running along each curb, mud and dog shit now but, come summer, hopefully grass. Parked cars lined both sides. The few scraggly trees spread still-bare fingers across the night sky.
The buildings were a mix of older homes and three- and six-flats. At mid-block on the north, one large complex wrapped a courtyard centered on a fountain that had seen better days. The single-family homes had wooden porches and faded siding. All other structures were deeply committed to brick.
Many of the three- and six-flats had tiny fenced yards. The woman entered one that did not. The door was to the left, up five concrete steps, past planters holding nothing but dead vegetation. On the right, the building bowed out into a bay. Three stories, three windows per bay. In less than a minute a light went on in a second-floor window. Not in front, but around to the side.
Stella’s prison? I had to fight the impulse to rush in and sack the place.
The street was completely deserted. I imagined an insomniac neighbor, a 911 call, a need to explain my loitering to Capps and Clegg. I was freezing in my wig and turtleneck and lightweight fleece. I decided to give it half an hour.
I slipped into the courtyard and found a corner from which I could see both the door the woman had entered and the lit window. Leaning against a wall, I cradled my left arm with my right.
The light stayed on. No one left the building.
To get the lay of the land, I cupped my hands around my phone and called up Google Maps. There was a small college to the south, a big-ass cemetery just south of that. Not sure how that helped. But it passed the time.
At 2:35 the window went dark.
Bedtime, I thought. I don’t know who she is or what she wants. If she’s a scammer or a bomber. But I know where she lives. That’s worth something.
Now what?
People think of detective work as heart-pounding, adrenaline-pumping pursuit and confrontation. The high-speed chase. The takedown. The big bust. There’s some of that. But mostly detectives spend mind-numbing hours waiting and watching.
No one arrived. No one left. No one screamed. No gun was fired. No lifeless body was carried out rolled in a rug. I guessed nothing more would happen that night. I was freezing, hungry, and thirsty. My arm was throbbing. Though I craved action, I knew it was more prudent to call it a day.
I didn’t stop for food. But back in my ninth-floor room, sans Vicodin, I hit the minibar. The first Scotch dropped the pain in my shoulder from a seven to a four. The second numbed me enough to allow my brain to clock out.
But not right away. The last scene to play in my overwrought mind. Eighteen-year-old me, sweat, snot, and blood on my face. Cuffs on my wrists, a cop at my side. Beau, at last out of patience, doing tough love. Pick a uniform, kid. Military or DOC. No way I was going to jail.
Eleven Days
They are trapped in a chain of dreary wet days. No one ventures out. She can’t visit the clearing.
After supper, they gather as usual. The Leader preaches of salvation and a glorious new order. Of fulfillment. Enlightenment. His voice thunders. His gaze is hot enough to brand her face.
His sermons usually light embers in her chest. Make her feel handpicked. Tonight she zings with nervous energy. The words take forever to find an ending.
He senses her agitation. Or her scratching disgusts him. He sends her away. To wait. She knows it will be bad. The Testing is always worse when she has upset him.
Alone in her room, she imagines the clearing at night. Moonlight sifting through the trees. Or blackness all around, thick and velvety-soft. Shadowy creatures. Leaves winking dark and pale, depending on the serendipitous twists of their spines. Each time she paints a different canvas.
Tonight’s the night. A woman named True has been sleeping in her room. True is not here, and no one will say where she’s gone. Or when she’ll return. The old lady who posed questions has also vanished.
His voice rolls on, soaring and plunging. Eventually stops. Chairs scrape the floorboards. Then come the familiar nighttime sounds. Footfalls on the stairs. Doors closing. Toilets flushing. Water trickling through pipes.
The noises seem to go on forever. She waits them out. Waits for him. No matter how much it hurts, she won’t moan or flinch. Won’t let a single tear escape from her eyes. She has learned to go to another place. To take herself into the make-believe canvas and away from the pain.
He doesn’t come. Instead she hears voices outside. An engine revving up. Tires spitting gravel. She is grateful for the reprieve. She is also afraid. Is he so angry that he has given up on her? Will he cast her out? Worse?
Where are True and the old woman?
Should she abandon her foolhardy plan?
&nbs
p; No. She has to see it for real.
When all is finally still she sits up in bed. Listens, blood thudding in her ears.
She envisions every inch of her route. Out the window, which she’s left partially open. Butt-slide on the roof. Scramble down the ladder. Sprint across the yard.
She is petrified. She is exhilarated. The ladder is there because some mundane task was interrupted by rain. What if someone wakes and decides to stow it? What if True returns? She has planned for neither catastrophe.
Barely breathing, she changes into sweatshirt and jeans, retrieves her windbreaker and shoes from under the bed. Presses the bundle to her chest. Feels her heart drum the nylon.
She almost turns back.
No. She has to see it at night. Smell it. Just once.
She pulls on the jacket, snugs into the sneakers, ties the laces. Tiptoes across the room.
The rain has stopped and the world is now shrouded in mist. She turns and eases feet first, belly down over the sill.
The roof is steep and cellophane-slick. She skids. Fast. Too fast. Her palms rake the shingles. She almost cries out.
A terrifying plunge, then her soles slam the gutter. She balances, breath frozen, certain the clatter has give her away.
Not a sound from inside the house. No window lights up.
Palms burning, she rolls and bum-scoots to the ladder. Scrambles down the rungs, across the alley, and into the trees.
She’s done it!
Lying on the quilt, spread-eagle, she gazes up through the spiky branches overhead.
The mist is a gray smear blurring the moon. It dampens her lashes. Collects on her hair and in the folds of her ears. Cools her palms.
The quiet surrounds her.
But his words seethe and boil in her brain.
In all her life she’s never been so confused. So afraid.
Her suspicions cannot be true.
The next morning I was back on Argyle Street by seven, bearing Dunkin’ Donuts coffee and a half-dozen chocolate-glazed with sprinkles, fuel badly needed given my three hours of sleep, throbbing shoulder, and “screw dinner” Scotch hangover. I was a curly-headed blonde.
I did a bit more reconnaissance than I had in the wee hours after my underpass adventure. Ended up in a different corner of the same courtyard, this one boasting winter-bare shrubbery and a concrete bench.
The woman came out at noon. She wasn’t wearing the Sox cap, and I could see that her hair was long and auburn. She had it tied in a loose knot at the back of her head.
She went to a Lebanese grocery on Broadway, emerged with an eco-friendly carrier bulging with goodies. At two, she walked to a dry cleaner, returned with plastic-shrouded clothing over one shoulder. She never saw me shadowing her.
At five, I hit a noodle shop on Broadway, then hurried back to Argyle. At six, the light in the second-story window went on. By then my shoulder was screaming and my lower back was cramped from favoring my left side. I hung around until ten, when the room went dark. Then, feeling Stella was safe for at least one more night and needing to do something more proactive, I treated myself to a taxi.
The cabbie dropped me at the Ritz. He was a whiny sort, bitter that Uber was horning in on his turf. Glad to part company, I watched his rig belch exhaust as it gunned from the curb. All the way up to twelve, I could taste the fumes at the back of my throat.
The lobby was packed. A lot of people wore badges on lanyards hung around their necks. I saw no one furtively watching or weaving through the crowd toward me. No one thumbing a cellphone. I pushed for an elevator.
The car was full. Had a behemoth convention overrun the place? I checked a mirror hanging high in one corner. The fish-eye effect made everyone look squat and threatening.
I felt the familiar heat in my chest. Did the prescribed deep breathing. Reassured myself that all was well.
Myself didn’t buy it. Cover your ass, it warned. And get the Vicodin.
A group of five got off on twenty-four. Three turned right. I blended with them, walked to the end of the corridor, and slipped through the emergency exit. After letting a couple of minutes go by, I cracked the door and peered down the hall.
Beyond my suite was the corridor in which I’d left my belongings the previous day. On the wall where the elevator and suite hall T-boned into the intersecting hall was a gilt-framed mirror, below it a sideboard with a floral arrangement and a house phone.
Reflected in the mirror was a man standing where I had squatted, a scrawny guy in a corduroy jacket, black pants, and Nikes. He kept his left hand in his pocket. As I watched, he rolled the wall on one shoulder and peeked around the corner.
My body hunched. Instinct.
The man’s hair formed a fuzzy blond ring around a disk of scalp at the back of his head. Made me think of a monk’s tonsure. A furtive mouse-through-the-hole glance, then he drew back.
Were my attackers giving it another go? Or was my paranoia working overtime. I watched the corridor through my tiny gap.
The elevator stopped and two women got off. Both wore name tags. One said MILLER, the other WRYZNIAK. They went left and disappeared around the corner. Seconds later the monk took another look-see.
If the guy wasn’t watching for me, what other purpose could he have? A secret tryst? A jealous lover? A husband hoping to catch his conventioneering wife in flagrante delicto?
As with Sox Cap, I wondered if the monk had a partner. That’s how I’d do it. If so, the second guy should be positioned in the stairwell where I was hiding. One at each end of the hall. That way they could nail me in the crossfire.
Had this been the purpose of Sox Cap’s call at the underpass? Go to plan B? They’d know who I was based on her description. And the fact that I had a key card to enter the suite.
The elevator stopped again. Two men got off, no badges. They turned in my direction. I saw the monk peek around the corner to check them out.
I watched for another quarter hour. No one approached the guy. He never used a phone, never signaled toward a room or intersecting hall.
I thought about that. About the fact that he was standing by a mirror that telegraphed his every move. The guy wasn’t a pro. Odds were, he was working alone.
I had the Glock, could have taken him out. But I wanted to grill him. To learn what I could about Stella. And another shooting would not have improved my position with C-squared. Or the Ritz.
Soundlessly, I eased the door to the jamb and scampered down one flight. The layout on twenty-three was identical to that on twenty-four. I looked for the service elevator. Found it at the end of the corridor in which the monk was holding vigil.
I pushed the button. Waited. Descended one floor. Listened. Descended another. Listened. No bonging. No groaning of gears or cables. Just the whir of the motor and the hum of the door.
I returned to twenty-four and exited into a large janitorial closet similar to one I’d encountered several floors below. Buckets, mops, vacuums, carts. Adrenaline pumping, I crossed the tile and eased open the door. The monk’s back was to me.
I took a deep breath and started down the hall. This had to work. I had no backup scheme.
But I did have experience in hand-to-hand combat. Training in ways to inflict as well as receive pain. Muscles ready but relaxed, I closed in on my prey.
As I crouched to hit him, the monk glanced my way. His eyes went wide. He spun, flexed a knee, and kicked out with one foot. I followed his action, moving in the same direction as his thrust. Too slow. His boot slammed my hip. I lost my balance and fell. Rolled out of his range.
With adrenaline firing, one’s sense of time is distorted. The next few moments seemed to go on forever. Nothing I hadn’t experienced before.
The guy pounced and grabbed my hair to yank back my head. The wig came off. He tossed it, forced me prone, and, faster than I’d have thought possible, wrapped my left arm and neck in a half nelson. My cervical vertebrae crunched. A firestorm exploded in my wounded shoulder.
The monk
’s face was close to mine, his breath hot and moist on my skin. I could smell garlic and stale beer from his dinner.
I went limp for a heartbeat. My opponent fell for the ploy and, overconfident, raised his upper body and loosened his fingers to regrip my right wrist. Taking advantage of his blunder, I shot my arm stiff, tore free of his grasp, and pushed up with all my strength.
The sharp reangling of my torso tipped the guy sideways. The half nelson slipped. I twisted and struck up at his nose with the heel of my hand. Cartilage snapped and blood gushed.
I ass-scooted to free my legs. We both scrambled to our knees. He came at me. I nailed him with an elbow to the jaw. His head flew sideways. He hit the carpet, rose up, and crawled toward the sideboard. He was clawing his way upright when I took him down with a kick to the kidneys. The scrawny dude was tougher than he looked. Again he tried to stand.
I pressed the muzzle of the Glock to the back of his neck.
“Not so fast, my friend.”
He froze.
“Put both hands on your head.”
He did.
“Lace your fingers.”
He did. Right on the tonsure. Which, up close, looked scaly and pink. Ditto the fingers.
Keeping the Glock tight to his neck, I checked the guy’s jacket pockets. Scored a Beretta nine-millimeter and a hotel key card. I frisked him with my free hand. The movement triggered more flames in my damaged shoulder. I found nothing else.
As I stuck the Beretta into my waistband, a door opened behind me. In the mirror I saw Wryzniak chugging up the hall, stainless-steel ice bucket wrapped in her arms. Front-on she looked like some kind of gluten-free muffin.
On seeing us, Wryzniak froze, pivoted, and scurried back to her room. I knew she’d be heading straight for the phone.
“You and I are going to have a nice little chat.” My voice was low and forged of steel. “Keep your hands where they are. Don’t breathe. Don’t blink. Don’t step sideways off a line leading straight to my suite.”
The monk started to speak. I jammed the muzzle deeper into his flesh. “I’ve killed one of your pals. I won’t hesitate going for two.”