Lisa Jackson - Most Likely To Die

She couldn’t wait to get it all back to Aurora’s locker beneath St. Elizabeth’s; what a wonderful and unexpected treasure trove to add to the collection.

There had been considerable cash in the wallet, which would come in handy today. She had, as usual, found someone who was willing to accommodate her request and keep his mouth shut about it. But he wanted a hell of a lot of money for his compliance.

So much money that she thought it would almost be easier to just steal a damned town car-or hire one and ask the driver to take her to a remote spot, then catch him off guard and get him out of the way.

Easier, perhaps, but far riskier.

She stashed Aurora’s cash in her purse. She had more than enough to pay the driver for the use of his car. She just hated to keep spending it this way. Life would be easier when she was back home, back in her element, not having to rely on strange people in a strange city.

Using a pair of nail scissors, she carefully snipped Aurora’s Oregon driver’s license, credit cards, and plastic hotel key into tiny pieces. She tucked those into a small plastic bag and put that in her purse, too. She would have to remember to toss it into a garbage can on the street when she left the hotel.

Those identifying items were the reason she’d grabbed Aurora’s purse from her shoulder as she fell. The longer it took to identify her, the more time she would buy for all that needed to be accomplished.

Shoving Aurora in front of an oncoming train wasn’t nearly as satisfying as it had been hacking into Haylie’s body, but it achieved a far more important goal.

Aurora had seen her, recognized her. She had to be stopped before she told someone-and the perfect opportunity had presented itself, which was a sign from God that this was meant to be.

The platform had been so jammed that it took a few seconds for anyone to realize someone had fallen in front of the train.

By the time she heard the inevitable commotion, she was halfway up the stairs. From there, it was easy to get out, lost in the crowd. She heard sirens wailing in the distance and saw uniformed transit authorities rushing for the track, but by that time, she was halfway to the street.

This morning on the news, she had seen coverage of the incident.

In a city like New York, it was eclipsed by other stories: the masked rapist who had been terrorizing women on the East Side, the mayor’s latest ribbon-cutting ceremony in Harlem, even the weather forecast.

Little airtime was devoted to the report about an unidentified woman who had fallen from a crowded subway platform at the Times Square station. Witnesses said it had been crowded down there, as always; Times Square was, after all, “the crossroads of the world,” as the reporter pointed out.

Nobody seemed to have seen anything suspicious; it was assumed that the poor woman, whoever she was, had simply lost her balance.

Perfect. Everything was just humming along, nobody piecing anything together yet. That would buy her some time.

She wondered how long it would take before Aurora’s daughter, who must have reported her mother missing by now, heard about the subway accident. How long before the police connected the missing tourist with the dead woman?

With any luck, it would be at least another day or two.

Just long enough to let me do what I have to do and get back home to Portland.

Of course, her work was cut out for her there as well.

Hopefully, there wouldn’t be further complications.

Wearily-she hadn’t slept well last night-she reached for the sunglasses she had picked up in Central Park the other day.

She put them on and studied her reflection in the mirror above the desk.

They were meant for a man; they masked most of her face.

Perfect, she thought again.

Looking out the fourth-story master bedroom window above Queens Boulevard, Leo reminded himself that he still had twenty minutes before the car was supposed to arrive.

He couldn’t help it, though; he was anxious to get moving.

He had been ready for over an hour, pacing the small apartment wearing his best suit-his only suit, purchased when he was a pallbearer for his grandmother’s funeral last year. The pants were too short now; about an inch of black sock was visible above his scuffed dress shoes. He had tried to polish those with little success; he had donned them to go to Saint Luke’s School every day of his senior year, then again for Grandma’s funeral-they were all but worn out. Tight, too, at a size twelve and a half.

Were your feet supposed to keep growing as you headed into your twenties?

He wondered if his father had big feet. His real father.

He’d be able to ask him today.

Come on, move, he thought, glancing at the hands of the clock on the bedside table. They seemed to be glued down.

It was an old-fashioned wind-up alarm clock he had won at a street fair a few years ago. It used to be beside his own bed, but he gave it to his mother for the master bedroom when his father-his adoptive father-moved out and took the digital one.

He found himself wishing that his father knew what he was doing today…and glad his mother did not.

She had taken his brother, Mario, into the city to visit Aunt Rose and Uncle Paul. She wanted Leo to go, too, but he told her he had to work.

He felt guilty about that-and even guiltier knowing she wouldn’t check up on him. Uncle Joe, who owned the pizzeria, was her ex-husband’s brother. She didn’t talk to that side of the family anymore.

But she didn’t stop Leo from working there. He needed the job, the money. And anyway, Uncle Joe was good to him. Better to him than his father had been.

He paced across the bedroom, then back again, coming to a halt before the window air-conditioning unit. He probably should turn it on, actually. It was pretty hot out today. Ma would appreciate coming home later to a nice, cool bedroom.

As he reached out to adjust the knob, he glanced down to the street again.

Hey, what do you know!

A sleek black town car had just pulled up to the curb.

Those were a rare sight in this neighborhood, especially on a Saturday.

And the car was early. But there was no reason not to head right out now, since it was here.

Leo had forgotten all about the air-conditioning and about his mother-his adopted one, anyway.

He hurried to the door, scarcely able to believe it was time to meet his birth parents at last.

He wondered, as he bolted down three flights of stairs, if they were going to live up to his expectations-and, more importantly, whether he would live up to theirs.

Unlike him, they’d had twenty years to imagine what he was like.

What if they don’t love me?

Love you? an inner voice scoffed. They don’t even know you.

And they don’t even love each other.

If they did, they’d be together now.

So much for that fantasy family you always dreamed of, he thought dismally as he hurried out onto the boulevard and the waiting car.

To his surprise, the driver was a woman.

He didn’t know why that caught him off guard; it shouldn’t have. But somehow, he had pictured an elegant male chauffeur, not a dumpy-looking lady in a black suit, cap, and almost ridiculously oversized sunglasses.

“How are you today?” she asked pleasantly, opening the back door for him.

“Good,” he said briefly, and slid into the backseat, trying to act as though he did this sort of thing every day.

As they headed north toward the Triborough Bridge, Leo didn’t give the driver, or the route she was taking, another thought.

He had no way of knowing that later, he would regret it.

Wyatt heard the crunch of car tires on the driveway and looked up from the New York Times he had been reading-rather, trying to read-in his recliner.