Run for Your Life (20 page)

Horses?

Chapter 71

The top of the Hell’s Kitchen tenement was still smoldering when I pulled my Chevy up on the sidewalk behind a FDNY rescue truck.

Beth Peters came over to meet me as I climbed out, blinking in astonishment at what I saw.

“I told you, you wouldn’t believe it,” she said.

She’d been true to her word. A herd of spooked–looking horses was milling around on the sidewalk beyond the fire lines. As she and I followed a smoke eater into the building, he told us that a stable of Central Park buggy horses was right next door to the blaze.

Well, why not horses at this point? I thought. We already had an outlaw and gunfighting. All I needed was a white hat. Maybe I could borrow one from that Naked Cowboy lunatic in Times Square.

The walls of the top–floor apartment were even more blackened than the Cajun shrimp I’d just eaten. Beth talked to some CSU techs in the wasteland of one of the torched rooms, then handed me a dust mask before guiding me to a scorched lump of ash in the center.

My stomach clenched like a fist as I stared down at a badly burnt body. The fire had charred and melted its features into a horror movie rictus.

“I had the techs take some dental shots. And we got Thomas Gladstone’s dentist, out in Locust Valley, to e–mail us his X–rays,” Beth said. “The ME’s pretty sure it’s a match.”

The surprise of seeing the horses was nothing by comparison to that. My jaw just about went unhinged.

“You’re telling me this is Gladstone?” I said.

“One and the same.”

I know it’s not right to disrespect the dead, but I couldn’t deny that I was pleased. This ulcer–inducing case was finally over. In fact, I couldn’t help smiling, and I let out a long sigh of relief as what felt like a piano was lifted from my back.

“What do you know?” I said. “He offed himself, huh? Literally went down in a blaze of glory. Thank God it’s over.”

But Beth was shaking her head. I’d spoken too soon.

She crouched beside the corpse and moved her gloved finger to a small circular hole in the temple. Then she showed me the bigger hole on the other side of the head, a jagged exit wound.

“Shooting yourself is pretty easy, but shooting yourself and then setting yourself on fire, well, that’s a notch trickier,” she said.

“Maybe he did it the other way around,” I tried desperately. “Torched the place first, then boom.”

“So what happened to the gun? Even if it melted, there’d be traces left, but the techs haven’t found any. Plus Cleary says there’s fly larva embedded in the left upper arm. That means he’s been dead for two, maybe three days. And that means? —”

“Gladstone couldn’t have killed all those people,” I finished for her. I dug the heels of my hands into my eyes.

“Sorry, Mike, but he’s not our shooter.”

I cursed under my breath. If it wasn’t Thomas Gladstone, then who the hell was it?

“That’s not all,” Beth said, standing. She led me to a closet with a barbecued door and walls.

I winced at the slight young blond woman crumpled up inside it. The fire hadn’t gotten to her too badly, but she was still very dead — shot in the back of the head.

“We found her purse. Name’s Wendy Stub. Twenty–six. Her business card says she’s a publicist at Stoa Holdings, a hotshot Park Avenue South PR firm.”

A publicist? What was her connection to this?

As I listened to firemen ripping open the walls in the other rooms, I wondered if FDNY was still hiring. A midlife career change seemed like just the ticket. Or maybe the stable next door could use a horse whisperer, to help the poor creatures get over their trauma.

Beth was watching me inquiringly. “What now?”

“You’re asking me?” I said.

Chapter 72

Rush hour was still in full swing when the Teacher’s cab stopped behind a police car that was parked in front of the Pierre Hotel. It made him a little nervous, but Vinny, the doorman, came bustling over to open the taxi’s door like nothing was out of the ordinary. Cops didn’t come to places like this to pick up people — they came to protect people. Still, the Teacher kept his face averted and his hand on the butt of his .45 as he got out.

“Welcome home, Mr. Meyer!” Vinny said. “How was your trip? Paris, wasn’t it?”

That’s where he’d told everyone at the Pierre he was going. In fact, he’d gone infinitely farther. To other dimensions. But now he was home, the place where he’d actually lived for the past three years.

“It was great, Vinny. Especially the food,” the Teacher said, smiling despite himself. He’d liked Vinny since the moment he decided to move into the world–famous hotel. That was right after his mother had passed away, and he’d become the sole beneficiary of the twenty–four–million–dollar Ronald Meyer fortune. He’d decided that he owed it to his asshole stepdaddy to blow every last red penny of the old man’s dough. And he’d kept his Hell’s Kitchen apartment as a command center.

“What’s up with the cop car?” the Teacher asked casually.

“Oh, Jeez. You probably didn’t hear. There’s this fucking — pardon me — freaking maniac going around shooting people the last couple of days. Killed a stewardess at a hotel on Sixth and a maître d’ at Twenty–one. It’s in all the papers. They think it’s some rich guy who flipped his lid. So they got cops everywhere they got rich people. Which is everywhere around here, I guess. My cousin, Mario, he’s a sergeant down in the Village, he says the rank and file are psyched they’re making a fortune in OT. Isn’t this world nuts?”

“I’m with you there, Vin,” the Teacher said, letting go of his gun.

“Hey, any more word on that Food Network thing? I’m sick of that Emeril already, with that ‘bam’ shtick.”

“Patience, Vinny. Good things come to those who wait.”

“If you say so, Mr. Meyer. What’s up? No bags?”

“Some kind of mix–up out at Kennedy. What else is new? Be along later, they said. Right now, I just need a drink.”

“You and me both, Mr. M. Have a good one.”

Inside the Pierre, the concierge, Michael, echoed Vinny’s greeting. “Mr. Meyer. Welcome back, sir.” The Teacher liked the concierge almost as much as he liked Vinny. Michael was a small, blond, circumspect man with a soft, discreet voice, who managed to be incredibly helpful without kissing your ass — a true quality person.

Without any fuss, Michael went into the mailroom behind the check–in desk and retrieved the Teacher’s mail.

“Oh, before I forget, sir. Barneys called an hour ago and said that your final fitting is ready whenever you are.”

The Teacher literally felt a sudden cold shiver race like an icy snake down his spine. His suit was ready.

The one he would die in.

That was what he would call a true final fitting.

“Excellent. Thank you, Michael,” he said, flipping through his mail.

He stopped when he got to the oversized envelope with the embossed invitation. “Mr. and Mrs. Blanchette,” the return address read. He nodded with satisfaction. Someone he knew from his former life had gotten him on the guest list. The Blanchettes had no idea who Mr. Meyer was.

“Michael?” he said, tapping the envelope against his chin as he walked toward the elevator.

“Yes, sir?”

“I need an emergency appointment at the in–house salon.”

“Done, Mr. Meyer,” Michael said.

“And would you please send up a bottle of champagne? I think a rosé should do it.”

“Dom Pérignon? Veuve Clicquot?” Michael said, immediately remembering his favorites.

“How about both?” the Teacher said with his winningest smile, what he called his Tom Cruise special. “You only live once, Michael. You only live just once.”

Chapter 73

An hour and forty–five minutes later, the Teacher stood in front of a floor–length triple mirror in Barneys.

“Does the gentleman like what he sees?” the salesman asked.

The navy cashmere suit the Teacher now wore was a Gianluca Isaia, the bootlicker had told him in the loving, reverent tones of a saint uttering the name of God. The silk shirt was a Battistoni, the cap–toed lace–ups from Bettanin and Venturi.

He had to admit, he looked pretty darn good. James Bond–suave. Like the latest actor, including new blond hair, thanks to the cut and dye job.

“The gentlemen loves what he sees,” the Teacher finally said with a grin. “What’s the bill again?”

The fitter toted up numbers on a cash register. “–Eighty–eight twenty–six,” he said after a minute. “That includes the socks.”

Oh, including the three–hundred–dollar socks. What a bargain.

“If the accessories are too pricey, I could show you something else,” the salesman said, with a clear trace of condescension in his voice.

Out of his peripheral vision, the Teacher could see that the immaculately dressed little suckass actually had the nerve to roll his eyes.

These luxury store salespeople just didn’t learn, did they? Exactly when was the last time you dropped four figures on a suit? he wanted to ask the jaded piece of crap. Like so many other people, this guy was practically begging for a bullet in the empty space between his ears.

The Teacher took a steadying breath. Gear it down, he told himself. That’s it. Good boy. This was no time for a silly temper blowup. This close to the goal line, this close to making things right.

“I’ll take it,” the Teacher said, reaching into his Vuitton beside the mirror. His fingers played across the checkered steel grip of one of the two 50–round Intratec Tec–9 machine pistols waiting there under the butter–soft napa leather like loyal friends.

He reluctantly passed them by, instead retrieving his billfold and his American Express Black card.

“Even the socks,” he said.

Chapter 74

“Your cute doggy is what his name?” the turbaned taxi driver asked in a heavy accent, as he pulled up in front of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

“Finishing Touch,” the Teacher said. He paid the man and tugged the platinum blond Maltese out of the cab.

He’d bought the dog at a boutique pet store on his way over here. It was going to be his prop for doing recon around the Blanchettes’ building. An extremely well–dressed metrosexual walking a lapdog in that part of the Upper East Side would seem like wallpaper.

The Teacher headed up the park side of Fifth, with the nervous little dog straining at its leash. A full block south of the Blanchettes, he stopped and scanned the busy activity out in front of their apartment building. There was a double–parked line of Bentleys and limos, with doormen hustling back and forth as well–heeled ladies and gentlemen exited town cars and stepped under the awning.

One thing struck him as odd. He’d expected extra security, but he didn’t see any besides the doormen. Well, so much the better. His lips curved in a smile. His destiny was holding strong. He was at the finishing line, about to enter the winner’s circle.

The plan was to gain access with the invitation he’d finagled. If he was stopped or searched, he would simply draw the Tec–9s, now hanging in their custom holsters under his arms, and start firing. Kill his way into the elevator. Go upstairs and blast everyone dumb enough to get between him and the Blanchettes.

In a way, he actually hoped there would be some resistance. The Blanchettes would hear, and it would give them something to think about as he made his way closer.

He was gearing himself up for action when he walked past a van on the park side of the street and heard the sound — a strange kind of squelch. A radio, he realized. Inside the catering van! The cops had the place staked out after all.

That cold, snaky shiver ran down his spine again, and his breathing became labored. By sheer willpower, he kept walking casually along, pulling the dog as if he did this every day.

What was the right move if they challenged him? Shoot? Run? Maybe this was his final chance, and he should go for the Blanchettes right now. Rush across the street into the lobby, guns blazing.

He palmed the cold grip of the Tec under his left arm and thumbed off its safety. Whatever happened next, he wasn’t going to die alone. Goddamn cops. Why couldn’t they have stayed useless for just another five minutes!

He chanced a quick look over his shoulder. Nobody! They weren’t coming. He started breathing more easily. Christ, he’d been lucky.

Two blocks north, the Teacher made a hard left and bolted into Central Park. The mutt started yapping, grating on his fried nerves as he dragged it along the darkened path.

Calm down, he told himself. He was safe. He put the Tec’s safety back on. Now he had to think. This wasn’t like the Pierre, with a cop car sitting out front in plain sight. The obvious lack of security, with a major event going on, should have tipped him off. Those sons of bitches had set some kind of trap! That asshole, Mike Bennett, no doubt. He’d somehow guessed what the Teacher had planned.

But the Teacher had read a lot of strategy and war books in his day. The Art of War, The Book of Five Rings, The Prince. They all essentially advised the same simple, yet not so simple thing. Figure out what your opponent thinks you’re going to do next, then do something else. Deception is the art of war.

He was halfway around the reservoir jogging track when the answer came to him. An inspired plan to get around Bennett’s trap — a little end run. Yes, that was it. Yes, yes, yes. He pressed a shaking hand to his grinning mouth. Bingo. It was perfect, better than his original plan. He’d pulled out a game winner right at the buzzer.

His grin widened as the dumbass face of Detective Bennett appeared in his mind.

“You had your shot, Bennett,” he whispered to himself.

He let go of the leash and drop–kicked the squealing Maltese into the darkness.

“Now, it’s my turn.”

Part Four

The Poor Box Thief

Chapter 75

Sitting in the darkened Holy Name confessional booth, Father Seamus Bennett silently blew his running nose and lifted his Sony minirecorder.

“Poor box stakeout,” he whispered into the microphone. “Day two.”

Sick, my ankle, he thought, sniffling. He’d never been sick a day in his life. Stay in bed? Didn’t Mike know that at his age, lying down was a hazard to be avoided at all costs? Who knew if he’d ever be able to get back up again? Stay on his feet and stay busy, that was the thing.

Besides, he had a parish to run. Not to mention a dastardly poor box thief to collar. It was clear by now that nobody else was going to do it. The overrated NYPD was no help, that was for sure.

Twenty minutes later, he was starting to doze off when he heard a sound — very faint, tentative, a creak that was barely there. Stifling a sneeze, Seamus slowly drew open the confessional’s velvet curtain with his foot.

The noise was coming from the middle aisle’s front door! It was opening an inch at a time. Seamus’s heart rate kicked into overdrive as a human figure, shadowed in the dim glow of the votives, emerged from behind it. He watched, mesmerized, as the thief stopped beside the last pew, stuck his arm up to the shoulder down into the poor box opening, and removed something.

The object was a folder of some kind. So that’s how it had been done, Seamus thought, watching the felon slide coins and a few bills out of the folder into his hand. He’d used a type of retrievable trap that would catch any money dropped in the box. Ingenious. For a poor box robber, he was a true mastermind.

Except for getting caught red–handed, Seamus thought as he removed his shoes and stood quietly. Now for the arrest.

In just his socks, he crept out into the side aisle. He was less than ten feet away from the culprit, approaching silently from behind, when he felt a nasty tingling sensation in his sinuses. It was so fast and powerful that he was helpless to hold it back.

The sneeze that ripped from him sounded like a shotgun blast in the dead silence of the church. The startled figure whirled around violently before bolting for the door. Seamus managed to take two quick steps before his socks slipped out beneath him and he half dove, half fell forward with outstretched arms.

“Gotcha,” he cried, tackling the thief around the waist.

Coins pinged off marble as the two of them struggled. Then suddenly his opponent stopped fighting and started … crying?

Seamus got a firm grip on the back of his shirt, hauled him over to a wall switch, and flipped it on.

He stared in disbelief at what his eyes told him. It was a kid. And not just any kid.

The poor box bandit was Eddie, Mike’s nine–year–old son.

“For the love of God, Eddie. How could you?” Seamus said, heartbroken. “That money goes to buy groceries for the food bank, for poor people who have nothing. But you — you live in a nice apartment with everything you want, and you get an allowance besides. Don’t tell me you’re not old enough to know stealing is wrong.”

“I know,” Eddie said, wiping his teary eyes, with his gaze on the floor. “I just can’t seem to help it. Maybe my real parents were criminals. I think I got bad blood. Thieves’ blood.”

Seamus snorted in outrage. “Thieves’ blood? What a crock.” He shifted his grip to the young man’s ear and marched him toward the door. “Poor Mary Catherine must be worried sick about you. You’re supposed to be home.You’re going to have a thief’s black–and–blue behind once your father hears about this.”