Ken Bruen - Bust

Besides, he was in the mood to go kill somebody, let off some steam.

“Sure,” Bobby said. “I can meet you. Let me think a sec.”

“How about tonight?” Angela said. “I could stop by your place on my way home from work.”

“Nah, I don’t think we should wait that long,” Bobby said. “I wanted to get out of the house anyway today. I know, let’s meet in Riverside Park this afternoon. How’s two o’clock work for you?”

When Angela told Max she was taking a late lunch, Max said, “What about that phone call?”

“I’ll try again from the street,” Angela said. “I have to go – I have a two o’clock appointment at my hairdresser.”

Angela had just said this as an excuse to get out of the office, but on the way downstairs she decided that getting a haircut would be a good idea. Maybe she could get a blow out and a wash every day until she could start using her shower again.

Angela took the 1 train from Times Square and got off at Ninety-sixth Street. Bobby had said he wanted to meet on the Riverside Park promenade, between the Hudson River and the tennis courts.

Angela’s bruises and cuts were still bothering her, especially the one on her thigh, but she knew she’d feel better once she figured out a way to get Bobby out of the way. Maybe she’d sleep with him again if she had to. He had B.O. and he wasn’t the best-looking guy in the world but, she had to admit, there was something kind of hot about wheelchair sex.

She entered Riverside Park at Ninety-sixth Street and walked toward the river. She came to the underpass Bobby was talking about and went through to the promenade. It was a clear, sunny day, about seventy degrees. There were a few old men sitting on benches and other people out jogging and walking their dogs. Angela got to the spot Bobby had described and looked around. She didn’t see him anywhere. She checked her watch – a few minutes after two.

She was tired and her thigh was hurting worse than before. She wanted to sit down, but all the benches nearby were either taken or covered with bird shit. She went back toward the water, leaned against the railing, and stared out toward New Jersey.

Bobby was waiting on a path on the wooded hill behind the tennis courts. The trees had blossomed a few weeks earlier so there was good cover. From his position, he had a nice, clear view of the promenade. Angela wasn’t there yet, but when she showed up he’d be ready for her. In the big front pocket of his windbreaker he had a stainless steel. 44 snub nose Mag Hunter. Yeah, fuckin hardware – it made the man.

Angela would be about sixty yards away – a tough shot for most people, but point-blank range for Bobby. He was already getting flashbacks of all the towelheads he’d taken down in Iraq, the sheer rush he’d get when he had those sand rats in his sight.

A few minutes later, Bobby saw Angela walking along the promenade. For some reason she was limping. She looked pale and drawn, not nearly as sexy as she had the other times Bobby had seen her. He remembered what she’d said, about the wheelchair being “kind of sexy.” An old song began to play in his head, Where was the love?

When she got to the spot where they were supposed to meet Bobby took out the Mag and fitted on a silencer. Man, just holding a loaded gun again got Bobby juiced.

He looked around to make sure there was no one nearby, watching him, then he raised the gun and aimed at Angela’s chest.

Angela limped toward a bench and looked like she was about to sit down, then she turned and went back toward the railing of the promenade. She put her hands on the railing and looked out across the river. Bobby was locked in on a spot right between her shoulder blades, figuring he’d give it to her in the back. But when Bobby fired, the bullet tore through Angela’s right thigh instead, his chair bucking from the recoil. Angela fell back against the railing, then her legs buckled and she coiled onto the cement. Bobby fired again, but the angle was shitty and this time he missed completely, the bullet whizzing by above Angela’s head. Bobby cursed and fired again. The bullet hit the concrete on the promenade and ricocheted into the Hudson. Angela was on her knees now. He fired two more times – one bullet entered the left side of her stomach, the other, finally, ripped through her chest. Now Angela was on her side, covered in blood. Bobby twisted off the silencer, put it and the Mag back inside his windbreaker, and wheeled out of the park, thinking, Who sang that goddamn song?

Sherry, today’s temp receptionist, buzzed Max’s office and told him there were two police officers here to see him. Was there a tiny smug tone in her voice?

“Shit,” Max said. “Tell them I’ll be right out.”

Max had been calling Andrew McCullough all afternoon and the bastard wasn’t returning his calls. And Angela still wasn’t back from lunch so Max didn’t know what was going on with her cousin and Popeye. As he opened his office door Max promised himself that this time he wouldn’t say anything without some kind of lawyer present, even if he had to use fucking Darrow.

Louis Ortiz, the detective who had questioned him the other night, was standing next to the reception desk, next to a tall, older man with a mustache whom Max had never seen before. Ortiz and the older guy were both wearing plain gray suits and they both had serious, angry expressions.

Max thought, Uh oh, and wished he’d taken a look at that freaking Zen book. Maybe if he had he’d be relaxed, he wouldn’t be shitting fucking bricks right now.

“Hello, gentlemen,” Max said, trying to stay as calm as possible. “Can I help you with something?”

“You can get your coat,” Ortiz said.

“Am I under arrest?” Max asked, trying to make it into a joke.

“We’re taking you in for questioning,” Ortiz said.

“What if I don’t want to go?”

“You don’t have a choice,” Ortiz said.

“I don’t understand,” Max said. “What’s going on?”

“Angela Petrakos was shot earlier today,” the tall man explained, “in Riverside Park.”

The words took a few seconds to register.

“Angela Petrakos?” he said. “You mean the Angela Petrakos who works for me?”

Several people in the office had been eavesdropping. Now people were talking at once, asking the detectives what was going on. Finally, Ortiz, talking above everyone, said, “This is police business. You’ll all be briefed as soon as it’s appropriate. Right now we need to talk to Mr. Fisher. Mr. Fisher, are you gonna come with us or am I gonna have to cuff you?”

Ortiz had a malicious grin, looking like he wanted to cuff Max more than he wanted his next meal.

Suddenly, the office was quiet. Although he was still looking at Ortiz and at the other detective, Max could sense that everyone else was staring at him. He remembered watching Law and Order, the ones with Jerry Orbach, and he was tempted to say, I think I need to get lawyered up. But instead he said, “Let me just get my coat,” and he went back into his office. When he came out, wearing his sport jacket, a larger crowd had formed.