Jeffery Deaver - Hell's Kitchen

“Five hundred.”

Bailey hesitated. “I don’t know if I can do it for that.”

“She’s innocent, Louis,” Pellam said. “That means we have God on our side. Doesn’t that buy us a discount?”

“In Hell’s Kitchen?” Bailey roared with laughter. “This is the neighborhood that God forgot. Give me six and I’ll do the best I can.”

He had the map spread out on the beautiful butcherblock table.

Smoothing the paper under his long, thin fingers. Sonny took pleasure in paper, knew it was the reincarnated skin of trees. He liked the sound of paper when it moved, he liked the feel. He knew that it burned best of anything.

Sonny looked up and surveyed the cavernous loft.

Back to the map. It was of Manhattan and he traced his finger along the colored lines of streets to find the building in which he now sat. With an expensive ballpoint pen he marked an X on that spot. He sipped ginger ale from a wine glass.

He heard a shuffle and a sound like a cat mewing. He glanced to his right – at the witness who’d been flirting with Joe Buck. Poor redheaded Agent Scullery from Ernst & Young; must have been paid a shitload of money at work because this was a very nice loft indeed. He looked her up and down, deciding again that she would look a lot better if she had long hair like his. She lay on her side, feet and hands bound with duct tape. She was gagged too.

Matter-of-factly he said to her, “Your show? On TV? I don’t really believe the FBI does all that stuff. Do you think federal agents give a shit if there are really aliens up there?” He spoke in a soothing voice, though absently. He touched the colorful squares of the map – they reminded him of blocks his mother’d bought him as a child.

Here.

He marked another building.

Here.

Another.

He touched several others and marked them with X’s. It’d be a lot of work. But one thing that Sonny didn’t mind was work. Virtue is its own reward.

Agent Scullery peeked over the gray metallic tape and drummed a loud, panicked dance with her feet.

“Dear, dear, dear.” Folding the map carefully, he replaced it in his back pocket. The pen went in his breast pocket, diligently retracted. He hated ink on his clothing. Then he walked in a circle around Agent Scullery, who kicked and rolled and mewed.

In the kitchen he examined the gas oven and stove. It was a top-of-the-line model but Sonny knew about appliances only from his profession. He used his own stove just to heat water for herbal tea. He ate only vegetables and never cooked them; he found the whole idea of heating food abhorrent. He dropped to the immaculate tile floor and pulled open the stove. He had the bimetal gas cutoff valve disabled in five seconds and the gooseneck hose off in ten. The sour scent of the natural gas odorant (the gas itself has no scent) poured into the room. Sweet and bitter and curiously appealing – like tonic water.

He walked to the front door of the loft and flicked the light switch on then off to see which bulb went on – an overhead one not far away. Sonny climbed onto a chair, reaching up, stretching, cracking the bulb with his wrench and sending the sleet of glass down on his hair and shoulders. The ceilings were high and it was quite a stretch. As he’d struggled to reach the bulb he was sure that tall Agent Scullery was laughing at him.

But laughter’s in the eye of the beholder, Sonny thought, glaring at her as he returned to his bag, took out the jar of juice and poured it over her blouse and skirt. She writhed away from him.

He asked, “Who’s laughing now? Hmm?”

Sonny walked throughout the loft, shutting off the lights, and closing all the drapes. He walked to the front door and stepped into the corridor, leaving the door slightly ajar. In the lobby he jotted down the names of six of the residents in the building.

A half hour later he was standing in a phone kiosk a block away, half-eaten mango in one hand, the phone crooked under his chin, punching in phone numbers.

On his fifth try someone answered. “Hello?”

“Say, is this the Roberts residence?”

“It’s Sally Roberts, yes.”

“Oh, hi, you don’t know me. I’m Alice Gibson’s brother? In your building.”

“Alice, sure. Four-D.”

“That’s right. She’d mentioned you live there and I just got your number from directory assistance. You know, I’m a little concerned about her.”

“Really?” The woman’s voice was concerned too.

“We were talking on the phone a little while ago and she said she was feeling real sick. Food poisoning, she was thinking. She hung up and I tried to call back and there was no answer. I hate to ask but do you think you could go check on her? I’m worried that she passed out.”

“Of course. You want to give me your number?”

“I’ll just hold on if you don’t mind,” said Sonny the polite sibling. “You’re too kind.”

He leaned his head against the aluminum of the kiosk. It left sweat stains. Why all this sweat? He thought again. But it’s hot out. Everybody’s sweating. Not everybody’s hands are shaking though. He pushed that thought away. Think about something else. How ’bout dinner? Okay. What would he have for dinner tonight? he wondered. A ripe tomato. A good Jersey one. They were hard to find. Salt and a little -

This was weird. The sound of the massive explosion reached him through the phone before he heard it live. Then the line went dead as the kiosk shook hard under the wave of the blast. Typical of natural gas explosions there was a blue-white flare and very little smoke as the windows imploded from the inrush of oxygen then immediately exploded outward from the force of the combustion.

Fire draws more than it expands.

Sonny watched for a moment as the flames spread to the top floor of the late Agent Scullery’s apartment. The tarred roof ignited and the smoke turned from white to gray to black.

He wiped his hands on a napkin. Then he opened the map and carefully drew check through the circle that had marked the loft. He pitched the mango out and started back to his apartment, walking quickly, in the opposite direction from all the spectators, noting their excitement and wishing they knew they had him to thank.

“How you feeling, Mother?”

“How she feeling?” a voice called across the cold cement floor. “How she doing?”

Ettie Washington lay on the cot, legs tucked up under her. She opened her eyes. Her first thought: the memory that her clothes had been a problem. Always concerned that she looked nice, always ironing her dresses and blouses and skirts. But here, in the Women’s Detention Center in downtown Manhattan, where they let you wear street clothes – minus belts and laces, of course – Ettie Washington had had no clothes.

When they’d brought her from the hospital all she had on was her pale blue robe with dots on it, open up the back. No buttons, just ties. She was dreadfully embarrassed. Finally one of the guards had found her a simple dress, a prison shift. Blue. Washed a million times. She hated it.

“Hey, Mother, you hear me? You feeling okay?”

A large black form hovered over her. A hand stroked her forehead. “She feel hot. Mebbe got a fever.”

“God gonna watch over that woman,” came another voice from the far side of the detention center.

“She be okay. You be okay, Mother.” The large woman, in her forties, shrank down on her knees next to Ettie, who squinted until she could see the woman clearly.

“How’s yo arm?”

“It hurts,” Ettie responded. “I broke it.”

“That quite a cast.” The brown eyes took in John Pellam’s signature.

“What’s your name?” Ettie asked her, struggling to sit up.