Russell Andrews - Icarus

She made a quick search of the apartment. When she was done, she realized she'd been holding her breath in. She had thought she might find another body and when she didn't, she felt herself able to breathe again.

McCoy knew that she should just sit quietly and wait. If she got impatient, she could leave. But as she'd discovered, by the age of three, she was not the patient type, so what the hell, as long as she was here, she decided, she might as well poke around. She wasn't really violating any laws. Jack Keller wasn't a suspect and she wasn't looking for anything incriminating. She was just hoping that something might jar a thought. An action. Any kind of clue as to what was happening… and how to stop it.

She was there maybe forty-five minutes, sifting through papers, opening drawers, finding nothing of any import and feeling kind of silly, actually, knowing she was being a snoop, not a cop, when she heard the elevator.

It's about time, McCoy thought. Then she steeled herself to deliver the bad news.

– "-"-"SO MUCH FOR surprises coming in threes.

Here was surprise number four. Unbelievable. But not a real problem, not yet anyway.

Surprise number four would be dealt with, too.

This had to be the cop, the woman sergeant. That's the only thing that made sense. But what was she doing here? By the way she looked so startled, she was probably alone. That was good. But she also looked suspicious, and that was bad. She wouldn't have her guard down long. She would know what was happening before too long. So better to move now. Better to strike immediately and ask questions later. That way, maybe there wouldn't be any more surprises.

She was smart, this cop, that was obvious. The way her eyes narrowed, she sensed something was wrong. And she was quick, because as soon as their eyes met, she didn't even ask any questions, she just reached for her gun. Oh, yes, she was smart and quick.

But not smart and quick enough.

– "-"-"MCCOY KNEW SHE'D make it.

"Can I help you?" she asked. And when the answer came and all it was was "No," she knew. She'd been trained to know and to act simultaneously and that's what she did. So she wasn't even particularly worried because it all seemed so right: her coming to the apartment, sticking around on little more than a whim, being there now with the opportunity to end it all. So when she moved, she was nothing but confident.

But going for her gun, she missed. Not a big miss, but she didn't grab it cleanly; her fingers grazed the handle and she had to fumble for it. She understood immediately that those extra few seconds were fatal but she didn't stop trying.

She leaped back, hoping that would give her the time she needed, but like everything else in this goddamn case, nothing went as planned.

She realized that the knife that was slashing at her was the one that had been taken from Dominick Bertolini's market. She realized she was looking at the Entertainer's murderer. And Samsonite's and the Mortician's and the Destination's. And hers. She realized that, too, now.

Her final realization was that she could forget about retiring in Bucks County with her beloved Elmore. She was going to die right here in New York City.

– "-"-"THE COP WAS moving. Couldn't let her move.

No more surprises. That was even a better motto than better safe than sorry.

The blade ripped through the air one more time and once was all it took.

The red blood rushed out and spread thickly down chocolate-brown skin. She grabbed for her throat, dropping her gun, and for the first time there was someone who didn't look as if she couldn't believe she was going to die. She looked like she expected to die. But she sure was angry about it.

Even after the cop was dead, she looked really, really angry.

Hard to blame her, really. But not much to be done about it.

Except clean up.

Why did death have to be so messy?

The traffic was heavy and every driver on the road seemed to be driving for the very first time, inching slowly when they could have gone normal speed, weaving unsteadily when they should have been stable. It took Jack over five and a half hours to get back to the Lincoln Tunnel, where, of course, things were bumper-to-bumper and he was stuck even in the EZ Pass lane.

Fidgety, he picked up his cell phone and dialed his home number to collect his phone messages. He was hoping that Grace had called. He needed to talk to someone, to try to put the pieces of the puzzle together, and not just the disparate pieces connecting the murders but the complicated thoughts and emotions that were charging through him. He was surprised that he wanted that someone to be her.

As he punched the "Okay" button, the car in front of him lurched forward and miraculously the traffic was momentarily clear. Just as he heard his phone machine connect, he found himself in the tunnel and the connection was severed. He clicked off the power, shrugged, and figured he could wait twenty more minutes until he was home.

Driving uptown, he wondered if he should stop off at Dom's. Dom would sit and drink with him, would let him talk until he was all talked out. But suddenly he was too tired to even think about sitting or drinking or talking. All he wanted to do was go straight home and fall into bed. He wanted to sleep for the next twelve hours and, if possible, not think or even dream about everything that had happened.

He parked the car in his garage, put the key in the slot for the penthouse, then changed his mind and went to the lobby to pick up his mail. There had to be a magazine in there, there was always a magazine in his mail, and he decided all he'd do is read whatever dumb story he could find on whatever dumb star or starlet they were writing about, and then he'd pass out.

It's a plan, he thought.

But it was a plan interrupted. As he stepped out to walk through the lobby to the mailboxes, he saw someone waiting for him. Raoul, the doorman on duty, looked fidgety and the expression on his face said that the person had been waiting a long time.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

"Waiting to see you."

"I've been calling up every fifteen minutes, Mr. Keller," Raoul said. "In case you came in through the garage. Also, Frankie said a cop was here to see you; he let her into-"

"How long have you been here?" Jack asked, interrupting the doorman. He was focused only on his visitor.

"Two hours. Maybe more. I don't know. Do you want me to leave?"

"No, no." Jack realized he was flustered. But pleased. As tired and drained as he was, he was very pleased. There was no one he wanted to see more.

"Come on up," he said to Grace Childress. "We have a lot to talk about."

– "-"-"HE USHERED HER out of the elevator and as he did he cocked his head slightly to the left.

"What?" she asked.

"Ever since the break-in," he said. "I'm just skittish. I keep feeling like someone's here. Or has been here." He listened intently – she stayed absolutely quiet – and glanced around the entryway and living room. Then he shrugged. "Nothing out of the ordinary," he told her. "Just you and me."

"Could I get a drink?" she asked.

"Anything you want is in the bar in the living room. I'm just going to check my messages."

He walked to the den, unable to shake the feeling that something was different, but he couldn't pinpoint it. Nothing seemed out of place. Nothing was broken. There was a strange odor, he thought, but he couldn't put his finger on it. And it was so faint, it could be coming from anywhere. Still…

He told himself he was being ridiculous. He saw the green light flashing on the phone machine, saw that he had three messages. He wondered if any were from McCoy. He'd been so consumed with his own search he hadn't even thought about the fact that she might have uncovered something new.