Jeffery Deaver - Manhattan Is My Beat

"What's that?" Manelli asked the officer.

"I rent Debbie Does Dallas and get hit by a bus before I can return it. My widow gets a bill for two thousand bucks for some sleazy porn and-"

Rune said angrily, "That's not what he rented and I don't think you should joke."

The technician cleared his throat, kept an awkward grin on his face. He didn't apologize. He said, "Thing is, look at the TV. You know, him shooting it out? Maybe it's a coincidence but I'd say we better dust this tape pretty careful. Maybe the perp looked at it. And we do that, well, I'll tell you I wouldn't run it through my VCR with powder on it. This shit'll gum up anything."

Rune said, "You can't just take our tape."

She didn't care about Washington Square Video's inventory. No, what bothered her was that the cops were keeping the one thing that connected her to Robert Kelly. Stupid, she thought. But she wanted that tape.

"We can actually. Yeah."

"No, you can't. It's ours. And I want it."

The captain was irritated with her but Manelli, even if he too was pissed off, was trying to remain civil-servant polite. He said, "Why don't we go downstairs? You're not supposed to be here anyway."

Rune glanced one last time at Robert Kelly, then followed the detective into the hall, which was hot and filled with the smells of dust and mold and cooking food. They walked down the stairs.

Outside, leaning on an unmarked police car, Manelli said to her, "About the tape-we've gotta keep it. Sorry. Your boss wants to complain, have him or his lawyer call the corporation counsel. But we gotta. Might be evidence."

"Why? You think the killer watched the movie?" she asked.

The detective said, "He may have picked it up to see if it was worth taking."

"And then shot the TV because it wasn't?"

The detective said, "Maybe."

"That's crazy," Rune said.

"Murder's crazy."

She was remembering the pattern the blood made on Mr. Kelly's chest.

He asked, "Tell me true. How well did you know him?"

Rune didn't answer for a moment. She wiped her eyes and nose with the tail of her shirt-vest. "Not well. He was a customer is all."

"You couldn't tell us anything about him?"

Rune started to say, sure, but then realized that, no, she couldn't. Everything she thought she knew, which was a lot, she'd iust made up: the wife who was dead of cancer, the children who'd moved away, a distinguished military career in the Pacific, a job in the garment district, a totally cool retirement party he still talked about ten years later. In the past few years he'd met a group of retirees in the East Village, getting to know them over the months at the A &P or Social Security or one of the shabby drugstores or coffee shops on Avenues A or B. Gradually-he'd have been shy about it-he would've suggested getting together for a game of bridge or a trip to Atlantic City to play the slots or saved their money to hear a rehearsal at the Met.

These were scenes she could picture perfectly. Scenes from movies she'd seen a dozen times.

Only none of it was true.

All she could tell this cop was that Kelly, Robert, deposit: cash, wore suits and ties even in retirement. He liked to laugh. He was polite. He had the courage to eat in restaurants by himself on holidays.

And he was a lot like her.

Rune said to the cop, "Nothing. I don't really know a thing."

The detective handed her one of his cards. "And you really didn't see anything?"

"No."

He accepted this. "All right. You think of something, call me. Sometimes that happens. A day or two goes by and people remember things."

When he'd turned away and started up the stairs she said, "Hey."

He paused, looked back.

"You get the asshole that did this, that would be a real good thing, you know?"

"That's why I do what I do." He continued up the stairs.

The Crime Scene cop passed him and walked outside, carrying his metal suitcase. Rune glanced at him, started to walk away, then turned back. He looked at her, then away as he continued to his station wagon.

She called to him, "Oh, one thing. For your information, Mr. Kelly didn't rent dirty movies. For some reason-don't ask me why-he liked movies about cops."

How big a problem was it?

Haarte considered this, walking quickly toward the subway.

The day was plenty cool-nothing like a muggy spring day around the Mississippi River when they'd gotten Gittleman-but he was sweating like crazy. He'd ditched the exterminator coveralls-they were toss-aways, standard procedure after a job-but he was still hot.

He reflected on what'd happened. Part of it was bad luck but he was also at fault. For one thing, he'd decided against hiring local backup because the vie wasn't being minded by the marshals or anybody else. So there was just Zane and him for both surveillance and shooting. Which had worked fine for the St. Louis hit. But here he should've known that some innocents might show up. New York was a big fucking city. More people, more bystanders.

Then, he decided, he'd sent Zane down the alley too early. He just wasn't thinking. So they hadn't had any warning about whoever that girl was who showed up and rang the buzzer, which happened just as Haarte was about to shoot. The vie had risen from his chair and seen Haarte. Haarte had shot him. The old guy had fallen on the remote control and the sound on the TV had gone way up. So Haarte had shot the TV set out too. Which made another loud noise and filled the apartment with a gassy, smoky smell.

Then the girl called on the intercom again. She sounded concerned. And a moment later there was a call from another woman.

Grand Central Station, Jesus…

He knew they were suspicious and that they'd be coming upstairs to check on the vie at any minute.

So Haarte decided to split up. He'd told Zane to get back to Haarte's apartment. He'd go by surface transportation. It wasn't a moment too soon. As he climbed out the fire escape window on the east side of the building he'd heard the scream. Then Zane took off and Haarte jumped into the alley and disappeared.

When they'd talked ten minutes later Zane, to his dismay, told him there were witnesses. Two women. One of them had been hit by the Pontiac but the other jumped out of the way in time.

"ID you?" Haarte asked.

"Couldn't tell. I already changed the tags but I think we oughta get the fuck out of town for a while."

Haarte considered this. The broker in St. Louis wouldn't pay without some confirmation of the vic's death. And Haarte hadn't had time to take a Polaroid. He also didn't want to leave the witnesses alive.

"No," he'd told Zane. "We stay. Listen, we need that backup now. Find out who's in town."

"What kind of backup?" Zane asked.

"Somebody who can shoot."

"Hi, there."

Rune, leaning on the fence in front of Robert Kelly's building, turned. The woman she'd met in the entryway, the woman with the bag of cans, was standing unsteadily on the stoop, arms crossed, tears running down her face.

They'd just brought the old man's body out. Rune had started to leave, after Manelli returned to the apartment, but then she'd decided to stay. She wasn't sure why.

"Your name's Amanda?"

The woman wiped her face with a paper towel and nodded. "That's right. How you know?"

"The cops mentioned it. I'm Rune."

"Rune…" She spoke absently.

Other tenants had come downstairs, gossiped about the shooting, then returned to their rooms or headed up the street.

The two detectives left. Manelli said, "Good-bye." The captain hadn't even glanced at her.

Amanda cried some more.

Unable to stop herself, Rune cried too. Wiped her face with the tail of the shirt again.