Steven Womack: By Blood Written

The station cut away from the studio to a live remote.

Taylor and Hank watched as the screen pictured the block of Twenty-fourth Street between Ninth and Tenth Avenues.

The street was jammed with squad cars, EMT vans, even a fire engine.

A young woman with short black hair stood in front of the camera. “The quiet Monday routine of this sedate Chelsea neighborhood was shattered this morning by the discovery of a murder that even the most hardened investigators are describing as the worst they’ve ever seen. Police are refusing to confirm or deny reports that the gruesome slaying here on Twenty-fourth Street is the work of the Alphabet Man,”

she said.

“Oh my God,” Taylor snapped. “Oh my God.”

Hank turned to face her.

“It’s Brett,” she squeaked.

“Who?”

“Brett. Brett Silverman. Michael’s editor. My friend …”

Hank turned back to the screen and stared hard for a moment. “Are you sure?”

Taylor nodded. “I’ve been to her house,” she whispered.

And then she began to crumple. Hank muted the TV and ran to her as she seemed to fold over in the chair. He helped her to her feet, her whole body shaking, loud wet sobs bursting from her throat.

“Why?” she gasped. “Why did he have to do that?”

Hank pulled her to him, his arms around her, her face pressed against his jacket. He held her tightly, afraid for not just her physical safety now, but for her mental state as well.

How much can one person take? he wondered.

Then she seemed to go still for a moment, the shaking stopped, the breathing quieted. He held her still, his left arm around her shoulders, his right hand at the back of her neck, stroking her hair, trying to calm her.

She pulled away slightly and looked up at him. “I want to see her. I want to go to her.”

“No,” he said firmly. “You can’t. Believe me, you don’t want to.”

“I have to,” she insisted. “She was my friend.”

He stepped back and put his hands on her shoulders, holding her still. “Listen to me. You don’t want to do this. I can’t let you. It’s a crime scene. The police won’t let you past, even if I agree.”

“She was my friend,” Taylor repeated blankly. “She didn’t deserve this.”

“No one did,” Hank said. “None of them did.”

They stood there a moment in silence. Then Hank glanced at his watch. “Where is that guy?” he asked, annoyed. “I’m sorry, Taylor, but I do have to go down there. NYPD Homicide is waiting for me.”

“What?” Taylor asked. “The officer?”

Hank nodded. “The one who was outside.”

“You said he could get a sandwich.”

“Damn it,” Hank muttered. “I didn’t say he could take the afternoon off.”

Taylor turned and walked across the room. She stopped at the window, staring outside for a moment. Hank watched her. She seemed okay now, as if something had settled down on her and calmed her. Maybe it was shock, he thought.

She turned. “Go,” she said. “The officer will be back in a few minutes. I’ll keep the door locked. Won’t let anyone in.”

“No,” Hank said. “I can’t do that.”

“Go on,” Taylor answered. “I’ll be fine. You don’t think I’d be stupid enough to open that door to anyone who isn’t wearing a uniform?”

Hank watched her for a few seconds, thinking. “All right,”

he said. “But you’ll keep this door locked and chained, right?”

Taylor nodded. “Don’t worry.”

“You’ll call me later?”

Taylor nodded again. “Okay,” Hank said, turning for the door. “I’ll check in, too. And I’ll let you know if anything happens.”

“Yes,” Taylor said. “Thanks.”

Hank opened the door to her room and stood outside. “I want to hear that lock click and the chain hooked before I leave.”

Taylor closed the door, locked it, and hooked the chain.

She looked out the peephole as Hank stood there for a few moments, then turned and walked toward the elevator.

A minute later, Taylor put on her coat, threw her purse over her shoulder, picked up the zippered canvas bag that still held the hundred thousand dollars, and left.

Taylor pulled her coat tightly around her as she exited the hotel out onto the side street. A cab sped down the street with its dome light on. She held up a hand and flagged it down. Once inside, she gave the driver her address, then hunched down low in the seat and settled back for the long ride downtown.

She was still trying to get her mind around this. Brett, gone. How much had she suffered? How unimaginably awful had it been?

She thought she would die herself. She felt her heart clutch in her chest and feared, for a moment, that it would stop beating altogether.

Then it hit her. The cops would never stop him. Michael Schiftmann was too smart, too determined …

Too evil.

No one would stop him. No one could ever stop him. They couldn’t stop him because they didn’t know him. When he was first accused of the murders, when she first believed he was guilty, she had thought that she didn’t know him.

But she did. She knew him better than anyone. She had lain in bed next to him in the middle of the night and listened to his heart beat. She had whispered her secrets to him in the darkness. He had whispered his secrets to her.

Apparently not all of them …

Despite that, she knew him better than anyone else. And she knew what that meant.

That if anyone was ever going to stop him, that someone would have to be her.

Monday afternoon, Manhattan

“Pull over here,” Taylor called from the backseat of the cab as the driver turned onto Crosby Street. The taxi pulled over to the curb between a delivery van and a battered pickup truck. The driver reached over to stop the meter.

“Wait,” she said. The driver turned and gave her a questioning look. “Just sit here a second.”

She leaned forward and stared out the windshield, scanning the block in front of her building. There were no uniformed officers to be seen, and no obvious plainclothes officers. She looked as far to the left and right as she could without seeing anyone who looked like a cop.

“Okay, thanks,” she said after a couple of minutes, folding a twenty in half and handing it up to the driver.

She climbed out of the taxi into a biting wind and walked quickly down the block. She checked behind her nervously as she walked, trying to stay calm.

Once inside her loft apartment, she slipped around quietly from one room to the next to make sure she was alone. She’d had the locks changed, but she had to make sure.

Then she went to her bedroom, to the large closet that had been built into the room during the loft conversion. The closet was huge by New York standards, a real luxury and one of the reasons she bought the place. Lining the back wall of the closet was a series of shelves piled high with boxes and clothes.

She went to the far right-hand corner of the closet, to the top shelf, and felt around a stack of boxes. Behind the stack, pressed up against the wall, completely hidden from view, was a black plastic case. She pulled the case out from behind the boxes, her hands shaking, and carried it over to the bed.

She set the case down and stared at it.

She hadn’t seen it in years, not since she’d unpacked it after buying the loft and quickly hiding it in the closet.

Taylor reached down and unsnapped the two latches and opened the case. She heard herself suck in a sharp intake of breath as the lid came up.

Inside the case, lying in custom-fitted foam mold, was a world-class, competition .22-caliber Hammerli-Walther Model 203. It was the pistol Jack would have taken to the 1988 Seoul Olympics.