Richard Montanari: The Echo Man

'I don't know,' she replied. 'It looked pretty hard to begin with.'

Killer Blue Eyes laughed. He had put on a short cognac leather jacket. A pair of amber Serengeti sunglasses were clipped to the neck of his T-shirt. He wore thick-soled black boots.

'Yeah. I guess you're right,' he said. He clasped his hands in front of him, rocked back slightly on his heels. His good-guy, not-to-worry pose. 'It's been a while since I've done it for the first time.' He held out his hand. 'Your name is Paulette, right?'

'And I'm an alcoholic.'

Killer Blue Eyes laughed again. 'I'm Danny. Me too.'

'Nice to meet you, Danny.' They shook hands.

'I can tell you this, though,' he continued, unasked. 'It gets easier.'

'The sobriety part?'

'I wish I could say that. What I meant was the talking part. Once you get comfortable with the group it gets a little easier to tell your stories.'

'Stories?' she asked. 'Plural? I thought I was done.'

'You're not done,' he said. 'It's a process. It goes on for a long time.'

'Okay. Like, how long?'

'Did you see that guy in the red flannel shirt?'

Danny was talking about the older man, the guy in his seventies, the guy in the wheelchair. 'What about him?'

'He's been coming to meetings for thirty-six years.'

'Jesus. He hasn't had a drink in thirty-six years?'

'That's what he says.'

'And he still wants one?'

'So he says.'

Danny looked at his watch, an oversized Fossil chronograph. The move looked just slightly less calculated and rehearsed than it probably was. 'You know, I don't have to be at work for a couple of hours. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?'

She looked appropriately suspicious. 'I don't know.'

Danny put up both hands. 'No strings. Just coffee.'

She smiled. 'Irish?'

'Bad Paulette. Bad, bad Paulette.'

She laughed. 'Let's go.'

They picked a place on Germantown Avenue, sat at a table near the window, small-talked — movies, fashion, the economy. She had a fruit salad. He had coffee and a cheeseburger. Neither would rate Zagat's.

After fifteen minutes or so she held up her iPhone, tapped the touch screen. She did not dial a number, did not send a text or an email, did not make an entry onto her contact list or schedule something in iCal. Instead, she took a picture of Killer Blue Eyes, having earlier in the day deselected the option that attached the sound of a clicking camera to the operation. When she was done she looked at the cellphone's screen in mock frustration, as if something was wrong. Nothing was wrong. The photograph, which the young man could not see, was perfect.

'Problem?' he asked.

She shook her head. 'No. It's just that I can never get much of a signal around here.'

'Maybe you can get a signal outside,' Danny said. He stood up, slipped on his jacket. 'Want to give it a shot?'

She hit one more button, waited until the progress bar made its way fully to the right, and said: 'Sure.'

'Come on,' Danny said. 'I'll get the check.'

They walked slowly down the street, wordlessly window browsing.

'Don't you have to make that call?' Danny asked.

She shook her head. 'Not really. It's just my mother. She's just going to give me shit about what a loser I am. I can wait.'

'We might be related,' Danny said. 'Like closely related. I think we have the same mother.'

'I thought you looked familiar.'

Danny looked around. 'So, where are you parked?'

'Just up this way.'

'Would you like me to walk you to your car?'

She stopped. 'Oh no.'

'What?'

'You're not a gentleman, are you?' she accused him flirtatiously.

Danny raised a hand, three fingers up, Boy Scout style. 'I swear to God I'm not.'

She laughed. 'Sure.'

They turned the corner into a dim alleyway, heading toward the parking lot. Before they took three steps she saw the glint of the revolver.

With a strong forearm Danny slammed her against the bricks and brought his face very close to hers.

'You see that red Sebring over there?' he whispered, nodding toward the Chrysler parked near the end of the alley. 'Here's what we're going to do. We're going to walk over there and you're going to get in that car. If you give me any trouble, make a single sound, so help me God I will shoot you in the fucking face. Do you hear me?'

'Yes.'

'Do you doubt what I say?'

She shook her head.

'I want you to say it out loud. I want you to say "I understand, Danny.'"

'I understand, Danny.'

'Good. Good,' he said. 'Paulette.' He kept a hand on her, leaned away. 'You know, you've got great tits. You wear this loose shit to hide them, but I can tell. And you're a goddamn drunk. Do you know what a plus that is?'

She just stared.

'Me? I've never had a drink in my life. I just have this weakness for weak women. Always have.'

He ran his left hand slowly over her right hip, his other hand remaining on the butt of the gun. He smiled.

'I think we're going to do it right here. What do you think of that?'

'You won't hurt me?'

'No,' he said. 'But admit it, Paulette. There is something exciting about doing it in public. Especially with a total stranger.' He pulled down his zipper. 'But that's why you drink, isn't it? Because you hate yourself? Because you're a whore?'

She didn't know if it was really a question. She remained silent. He continued.

'Of course it is. And you know what? I bet you've gotten plenty loaded over the years, and fucked plenty of guys in alleys. Right?'

This was definitely a question. When she didn't answer he took the revolver from his waistband and stuck it between her legs. Hard.

'Answer… the fucking… question.'

'Yes.'

He ran the barrel of the gun up and down, applying even more pressure. 'Say it.'

'I've fucked a lot of guys in alleys.'

'And you loved it.'

'And I loved it.'

'Because you're a fucking whore.'

'Because I'm a fucking whore.'

'I thought so.' He slipped the gun back into his waistband. 'You know that other girl? She gave me a hard time. She didn't have to die.'

'The other girl?'

'The redhead. The fat one. Marcy something, the papers said. Smelled like a cheap slut. Which she was, of course.'

He leaned in, sniffed her hair.

'You don't smell cheap,' he said. 'You smell good.'

A shadow crawled slowly across the ground, pooling at their feet. Danny noticed, spun around.

Behind him, a few paces away, stood the petite blonde from the AA meeting, the one wearing the green Temple University hooded sweatshirt. In her hand was a Glock 17, pointed at the center of Danny's chest.

'My name is Nicci,' the blonde said. 'And I'm a police officer.'

'Hi, Nicci!' Detective Jessica Balzano responded.

During the previous three weeks, on her undercover assignment to catch the AA Killer, Jessica had been Paulette. No last name. Just Paulette. She discovered early on in the assignment that no one had a last name at AA.

Behind Detective Nicolette Malone stood two other detectives, as well as a veteran patrolman named Stan Keegan. At either end of the alley were a pair of sector cars.

Danny looked at Jessica, his hands trembling now. 'You're a cop?'

Jessica stepped back, drew her own weapon from a holster at the small of her back, leveled it. 'Put your hands behind your head and interlace your fingers.'

Danny hesitated, his eyes shifting from side to side.

'Do it now.''

Danny froze.

'Suit yourself,' Jessica said. 'But if you don't do what I tell you to do, you will die where you stand. In an Ed Hardy T-shirt, no less. With your zipper down. Your call.'

The suspect, whose real name was Lucas Anthony Thompson, seemed to realize his two choices. He was leaving this alley either in handcuffs or on a gurney. In an instant his will was broken. His shoulders sagged. He put his hands on top of his head, fingers interlaced.