Jeffery Deaver - Manhattan Is My Beat

But when the lights came back on the man was gone, was probably standing in a cluster of people by the door, about to get off at the next stop.

See, just paranoia.

She sat down and breathed deeply to calm herself. When the crowd got off he wasn't in the car any longer.

Two stops later, at Bay Ridge, Rune slipped out of the car, looking around. No sign of any Pretty-Boy meter readers. She pushed through the turnstile, climbed to the sidewalk.

Glancing up and down the street, trying to orient herself.

And saw him. Walking out of the other subway exit a half-block away. Looking around-trying to find her. Jesus…

He had been following her.

She looked away, trying to stay- calm. Don't let him know you spotted him. He pushed roughly through crowds of exiting passengers and passersby, aiming in her direction.

Trying to look nonchalant, strolling along the street, pretending to gaze at what was displayed in store windows but actually hoping to see the reflection of an approaching taxi. Pretty Boy was getting closer. He must've shoved somebody out of the way: she heard a macho exchange of "fuck you, no, fuck you." Any minute he'd start sprinting toward her. Any minute he'd pull out the gun and shoot her dead with those Teflon bullets.

Then, reflected in a drugstore window, she saw a bright yellow cab cruising down the street. Rune spun around, leapt in front of a pregnant woman, and flung the door open before the driver even had a chance to stop.

In a thick Middle-Eastern accent the driver cried, "What the hell you doing?" "Drive!" The cabbie was shaking his head. "No, uh-uh, no…"He pointed to the off-duty lights on the top of the yellow Chevy.

"Yes," she shouted. "Drive, drive, drive!"

Rune saw that Pretty Boy'd stopped, surprised, not sure what to do. He stood, cigarette in his hand, then began taking cautious steps forward toward them, maybe worried that the scene at the cab would attract some cops.

Then he must have decided it didn't matter. He started to run toward her.

Rune begged the driver, "Please! Only a few blocks!" She gave him an address on Fort Hamilton Parkway.

"No, no, uh-uh."

"Twenty dollars."

"Twenty? No, uh-uh."

She looked behind her. Pretty Boy was only a few doors away, hand inside his jacket.

"Thirty? Please, please, please?"

He debated. "Well, okay, thirty."

"Drive, drive, drive!" shouted Rune.

"Why you in a hurry?" the driver asked.

"Forty fucking dollars. Drive!"

"Forty?" The driver floored the accelerator and the car spun away, leaving a cloud of blue-white tire smoke between the Chevy and Pretty Boy.

Rune sat huddled down in the vinyl, stained rear seat. "Goddammit," she whispered bitterly as her heart slowed. She wiped sweat from her palms.

Who was he? Symington's accomplice? Probably. She'd bet he was the one who'd killed Mr. Kelly. The triggerman-as the cops in Manhattan Is My Beat had called the thug who'd machine-gunned down Roy in front of the hotel on Fifth Avenue.

And, from the look in his dark eyes, she could tell he intended to kill her too.

Time for the police? she wondered. Call Manelli. Call Phillip Dixon… It made sense. It was the only thing that made sense at this point.

But then there was the matter of the million dollars… She thought of Amanda. Thought of her own perilous career. Thought of how she'd like to pull up in front of Richard and Karen in a stretch limo.

And decided: No police. Not yet.

A few minutes later the cab stopped in front of a light-green-and-brick two-story row house.

The driver said, "That's forty dollars. And don't worry about no tip."

She stood on the sidewalk, hidden behind some anemic evergreens, looking at the row house that was, according to his lawyer's Rolodex, Victor Symington's current residence. A pink flamingo stood on one wire leg on the front lawn. A brown Christmas wreath lay next to a croquet mallet beside the stairs. An iron jockey with black features painted Caucasian held a ring for hitching a horse.

"Let's do it," she muttered to herself. Not much time. Pretty Boy would be looking for a pay phone just then to call Symington and tell him that he couldn't stop her and that she was on her way there. It wouldn't be long before Pretty Boy himself d show up.

She thought she could handle Symington by himself. But with his strong-arm partner, probably a hothead, there'd be trouble.

She rang the doorbell. She had her story ready and it was a good one, she thought. Rune would tell him that she knew what he and Pretty Boy had done and that she'd given a letter to her lawyer, explaining everything and mentioning their names. If anything happened to her, she'd tell him, the letter would be sent to the police.

Only one flaw. Symington wasn't home. Goddammit. She hadn't counted on that.

She banged on the door with her fist.

No answer. She turned the knob. It was bolted shut.

Glancing up and down the street. No Pretty Boy yet. She clumped down the gray-painted stairs and walked around to the back door. She passed a quorum of the Seven Dwarfs, in plaster, planted along the side of the building, then found the gate in a cheap mesh fence around the backyard.

At the back door Rune pressed her face against the glass, hands shrouding out the light. It was dark inside. She couldn't see much of anything.

Part of her said Pretty Boy could be there at any minute.

The other part of her broke out a small windowpane with her elbow. She reached in and opened the door. She tossed the broken glass into the backyard, which was overgrown with thick bright grass. She stepped inside.

She walked through to the living room. "Like, minimal," she muttered. In the bedroom were one bed, a dresser, a floor lamp. The kitchen had one table and two chairs. Two glasses sat on the retro Formica counter, spattered like a Jackson Pollock painting. A few chipped dishes and silverware. In the living room was a single folding chair. Nothing else.

Rune paused in front of the bathroom. There was a stained glass window in the door. "Oooo, classy poddy," she muttered. Somebody's initials on the door. "W.C." The guy who built the house, she guessed.

She looked through the closets-all of them except the one in the bedroom, which was fastened with a big, new glistening lock. Under the squeaky bed were two suitcases. Heavy, battered leather ones. She pulled them out, starting to sweat in the heat of the close, stale apartment. She stood up and tried to open a window. It was nailed shut. Why? she wondered.

She went back to the suitcases and opened the first one. Clothes. Old, frayed at the cuffs and collar points. The browns going light, the whites going yellow. She closed it and slid it back. In the second suitcase: a razor, an old double-edged Gillette, a tube of shave cream like toothpaste; a Swiss Army knife; keys; a small metal container of cuff links; nail scissors, toothbrush.

She dug down through the layers.

And found a small, battered brown accordion folder with a rubber band around it. It was very heavy. She opened it. She found a letter-from Weissman, Burkow, Stein & Rubin, P.C.-describing how his savings, about fifty-five thousand, had been transferred to an account in the Cayman Islands. A plane ticket, one-way coach, to Georgetown on Grand Cayman. The flight was leaving day after tomorrow.

Next to it, she found his passport. She'd never seen one before. It was old and limp and stained. There were dozens of official-looking stamps in the back.

She didn't even look at the name until she was about to put it back.

Wait. Who the hell was Vincent Spinello?

Oh, shit! At Stein's law firm, when she'd looked through the lawyer's Rolodex, she'd been so nervous she'd misread the name. She'd seen Vincent Spinello and thought Victor Symington. Oh, Christ, she'd gotten it all wrong. And she'd even broken the poor man's window!