Jeffery Deaver - Manhattan Is My Beat

"No," Rune said abruptly. The man blinked. Got a rise out of him there. She tried on her adult persona again. "But I will for two thousand."

Which got an even bigger rise and he actually gave her a smile. It was-naturally-neutral but it was a smile nonetheless. He said, "Fifteen hundred."

"Deal." She started to extend her hand to shake but apparently this wasn't done in matters of this sort.

He pulled a pad toward him. "Where should I send the check?"

"Here." Rune held her hand forward, palm out.

Another smile. Irritated, less neutral this time. She was supposed to be stupid and intimidated. But here she was, staring back into his eyes, looking, more or less, adult. Finally he rose. "I'll just be a minute. Payable to cash, I assume?"

"That'll work."

He walked silently out of the office, buttoning his jacket as he left. He was gone longer than Rune thought he'd be-thinking he'd just tell his secretary to cut a check-but no, he was gone for a full five minutes.

Which was more than enough time for Rune to lean forward and flip through Stein's Rolodex and find Victor Symington's card. The address had been crossed out several times and a new one written in.

In Brooklyn. The address was in Brooklyn. She recited it several times softly out loud. Closed her eyes. She tested herself and found she'd memorized it. She flipped the Rolodex back to where it had been.

Rune fell back into her slouch in the chair and looked at the lawyer's wall, wondering if there were some special kinds of frames you were supposed to use for diplomas. Mr. Go-to-School-and-Lead-a-Productive-Life Richard didn't have any goddamn diplomas on his ugly beige suburban walls.

Phillip Dixon, the U.S. marshal, hadn't even gone to college, she bet. He seemed perfectly happy. But before she could play her game of making up an elaborate life for him, starting with his partner being tragically gunned and dying in his amrs, Lawyer Stein returned.

He had an envelope and a sheet of paper. Handed her both. She scanned the document quickly but it was full of whereases and words like indemnity and waiver. She gave up after the first paragraph.

"That's a receipt for the money. You agree that if you don't keep your bargain we can sue you for all this money back plus costs and attorney's fees, and…"

Rune was staring at the check.

"… punitive damages."

Whatever.

Rune signed the paper, put the check in her bag.

"So Mr. Symington doesn't exist, right?"

"Mr. who?"

"So how was the date?" Stephanie asked.

"With Richard?" Rune responded.

"Who else?" the redhead replied.

Rune considered the question for a moment. Then asked. "You ever see Rodan?"

They were at the counter of Washington Square Video.

"You mean his sculpture?"

Who? This was like Stallone's poetry. "No, I mean the flying dinosaur that destroyed Tokyo. Or maybe New York. Or someplace. A movie from the fifties."

"Missed that."

"Anyway, that was my date. A disaster. Not even a Spielberg disaster movie. A B-movie disaster."

She told Stephanie about Karen.

"Shit. That's bad. Other-woman stuff. Hard to get around them."

Them's the breaks…

Rune said, "Here." She reached into her purse and handed Steph the orange earrings.

"No," the woman protested. "You keep them."

"Nope. I'm off high fashion. Listen, do me a favor, please?"

"What?"

"I've got to go to Brooklyn. Can you work for me?"

"I guess. But won't Tony be pissed?"

"Just tell him… I don't know. I had to go someplace. To visit Frankie's sister in the hospital."

"She's home. With the baby."

"Well, I went to see her at home."

"Tony'd call and check."

Rune nodded. "You're right. Just make up something. I don't care."

"What're you gonna do in Brooklyn?"

"The money. I've got a lead to the money."

"Not that stolen bank money?"

"Yep. And don't forget the story of the Little Red Hen."

Stephanie smiled. "I'm not quitting my day job just yet."

"Probably a good idea." Rune slung her leopard-skin purse over her shoulder and headed out the door. "But keep the faith. I'm getting close."

Ten minutes later she was en route to Brooklyn. In search of Victor Symington.

On the subway, the riders were silent, subdued. One woman whispered to herself. A young couple had their precious new TV on the seat next to them, bundled in thick string, a receipt from a Crazy Eddie store taped to the box. A Latino man stood leaning forward, staring absently at the MTA map; he didn't seem to care much where he was headed. Almost everyone in the car, bathed in green fluorescence, was slumped and sullen as the car lurched into the last station in Manhattan before the descent beneath the East River.

Uneasy again.

Leaving the Side, leaving her territory.

Just before the doors eased shut, a man walked stiffly onto the train. He was white but had a dark yellowish tan. She couldn't guess his age. The car wasn't full but he sat directly across from Rune. He was wearing dusty clothes. Coming home from a construction job or hard day labor, tired, spent. He was very thin and she wondered if he was sick. He fell asleep immediately and Rune couldn't help but stare at him. His head bobbed and swayed, eyes closed, his head rolled. Keeping his blind focus on Rune.

She thought: He's Death.

She felt it deep inside her. With a chill. Death, Hades, a Horseman of the Apocalypse. The dark angel who'd fluttered into her father's hospital room to take him away. The spirit who wrapped his ghostly arms around Mr. Kelly and held him helpless in the musty armchair while someone fired those terrible bullets into his chest.

The lights flickered as the train switched tracks and then slowed as it rolled into one station. Then they were on their way again. Five minutes later the train lurched and they stopped again. The doors rumbled open. Waking him up. As his eyes opened he was staring directly into Rune's. She shuddered and sat back but couldn't look away. He glanced out the window, stood up quickly. "Shit, missed my stop. Missed my stop." He walked out of the car.

And because she kept staring at him shuffling along the platform as the train pulled out, Rune saw the man who'd been following her.

As her gaze eased to the right she glanced into the car behind her. And saw the young man, compact, Italian-looking.

She blinked, not sure why she remembered him, and then recalled that she'd seen somebody who looked a lot like him someplace else. The loft? No, in the East Village, near Mr. Kelly's apartment…

Outside Mr. Kelly's apartment the day she'd broken in. Yes, that was it! And it was the same guy who'd ducked into the deli when she'd been on the street in front of Washington Square Video.

Pretty Boy, wearing the utility jacket. Sitting on the doorstep, smoking and reading the Post. Or was it?

It looked like him. But she wasn't sure. No Con Ed jackets today.

The man wasn't looking her way, didn't even seem to know she was there. Reading a book or magazine, engrossed in it.

No, it couldn't be him.

Paranoid, that's what she was. Seeing the man with the yellow eyes, seeing Death, had made her paranoid.

It was just life in a city of madmen, dirty screeching subways, fifteen hundred homicides a year, a thousand police detectives with close-together eyes. U.S. marshals who like to flirt.

Paranoia. What else could it be? Hell, she thought, get real: it could be because of a million dollars.

It could be because of a murder. That's what else it could be.

The lights went out again as the train clattered through another switch. She leapt up, heart pounding, ready to run, sure that Pretty Boy'd come pushing through the door and strangle her.