by James Tucker
Buddy narrowed his eyes in the dim light.
Tan Jacket was squatting in a stairwell at the entrance to the office of T. J. Evers, CPA. Around the steps ran a railing made of pewter-colored metal. He still wore his black hat, yet Buddy couldn’t see the gun with the suppressor screwed onto the end of the barrel. But he knew it was there.
Tan Jacket watched where Buddy had been and seemed patient, even relaxed. He must have believed he had Buddy cornered. He must be waiting for Buddy to make a mistake.
As Buddy considered calling for backup, he heard the ring of a cell phone. He quickly checked his phone, but saw the screen remained dark. Nobody was calling him, and Ward hadn’t responded to his text. He put away his phone.
But Tan Jacket now held his cell phone to his left ear. He spoke in a low voice.
This guy isn’t working alone, Buddy thought. Tan Jacket was coordinating, telling another guy he had Buddy cornered—a second thug who would be on the scene in seconds.
Over the concrete sidewalk, some of Tan Jacket’s words carried. Buddy didn’t recognize them. They were in a foreign language. Not French or German or Spanish. A different alphabet, the words with a different intonation. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he was hearing Russian.
11
Buddy determined he had three choices.
He could sneak away. But it wasn’t his nature to sneak away from anything. Moreover, Tan Jacket would find another time and place to take him out.
Or he could announce himself as police, order Tan Jacket not to move, and call for backup. He could give Tan Jacket the opportunity to do the right thing. But if Tan Jacket spun around and tried to shoot him, Buddy would have to kill the man, leading to yet another suspension because of an officer-involved shooting. Which would mean he couldn’t get his badge and service weapon tomorrow, and he wouldn’t be able to investigate the dead couple found off Long Island.
No, he needed to avoid shooting, avoid a fatality.
The third option? He couldn’t remember it.
As he stood against the building wall fifteen yards behind Tan Jacket, he waited until he saw another couple coming up Mulberry. He put the Glock back in his holster. When the couple pulled even with him, he stepped behind them, bending over to bring his height in line with theirs.
The couple neared Tan Jacket, who was crouching low in the cold and keeping the gun between his chest and the concrete steps, his left hand holding the phone to his ear.
The couple passed Tan Jacket. Buddy didn’t.
From the higher elevation of the sidewalk, Buddy stepped behind Tan Jacket at the same time that Tan Jacket ended his call and put the phone in his back trouser pocket. Sensing Buddy behind him, Tan Jacket muttered a guttural word that sounded like, but wasn’t, the word terrible. He turned around and began to straighten.
Buddy pressed forward. He raised his leg and, with all his strength, drove the bottom of his shoe into the man’s head. The heavy skull jerked sideways, crashing into concrete. Tan Jacket fell and lay crumpled at the bottom of the steps.
Buddy stood over him, ready for more, but Tan Jacket didn’t move. He was out, a bloom of dark blood spreading over the concrete.
Buddy didn’t hesitate. He picked up the man’s gun, took the cell phone from the back trouser pocket, and stuck them in the pockets of his overcoat. Then he reached down and went through Tan Jacket’s pockets.
He found no wallet.
No ID.
No money, other than a single ten-dollar bill.
Not a real New Yorker, he thought. Maybe not American.
Rolling Tan Jacket over, he took out his own phone and snapped three photos of Tan Jacket’s face. Narrow, angular, bloody. He stood there for a moment, thinking. He wanted more, needed more. Then he heard a siren, getting closer, louder, quickly. Hearing the gunshots, even dampened by the suppressor, someone might have dialed 911.
One minute, he thought. No more than two.
He pulled his own wallet from the right breast pocket of his suit coat. Holding the wallet in both hands, he removed his Visa card. He breathed on it and rubbed both sides of the card on his overcoat. Then he knelt down, grabbed Tan Jacket’s left hand, and pressed the tip of the loose index finger on the front surface of the Visa card. He adjusted the card and made a second print. At that point he removed his tie and wrapped it around the credit card and put the bundle in the left side pocket of his suit coat. At last, he climbed the steps and looked up and down the sidewalk. He saw no immediate threat. Nobody had emerged from the offices of T. J. Evers, CPA. He saw no undue interest in what he was doing, although the siren was drawing close.
So he headed north on the sidewalk. He was hot now, filled with nerves. From almost dying. From kicking Tan Jacket’s head into immovable concrete. His mind alert, he resisted the instinct to run.
He formulated a plan.
In case Tan Jacket had a crew, Buddy would take cover and call the Fifth Precinct two blocks away on Elizabeth Street. They could scoop up Tan Jacket and question the hell out of him.
At the intersection with Prince Street, he dropped Tan Jacket’s gun in a garbage can and ducked into the vestibule of a bar. He stood by the door and texted Ward his new location. Then he studied Tan Jacket’s phone. He saw it was a burner, but he checked the call log anyway. He found no record of outgoing calls, but one incoming call was listed. Must have been the one Buddy saw him take. The number on the screen seemed familiar, yet Buddy couldn’t place it.
He tapped on the number and held the phone up to his ear. He heard a ring, two rings, three. Then a click as a female voice answered.
“Good evening,” she said. “New York City Police Department.”
12
Mei gathered her things and threw away her empty coffee cup. She checked her watch.
Twenty minutes.
The 4 train from Fifty-Ninth and Lex. Transfer to the 7 at Grand Central. Exit the subway at Hudson Yards.
I’ll be at Vista School just as Ben finishes science club.
This was new for her, planning for someone else, cutting down her hours in order to care for a child. She found it difficult to leave work so early. Guilt and stress plagued her. She feared that she couldn’t make anyone happy. But she wouldn’t give up Ben, not for anything.
“Mei, could you come into my office?”
She swiveled her chair around and looked up at Ms. Anta Safar, the assistant director of Porter Gallery.
Anta Safar stood just behind Mei’s chair and to the right. She was dressed as usual in tight black pants, black boots, and a black blouse. Only the color of the scarf around her neck changed. And today it was red, almost a perfect match for her lipstick. Safar was in her late fifties, about twenty years older than Mei, but she remained pretty, if not as slender as she’d once been. Her bottle-blond hair wasn’t really blond but several colors in the yellow range, mixed together.
Her hair, Mei thought, needs work. Yet she smiled at Anta Safar. Usually Anta Safar returned her smile—usually Anta Safar was like her favorite aunt—but not today.
Mei asked, “How can I help?”
“Let’s talk in my office,” Anta Safar said, tilting her head toward the private offices behind the exhibition space.
Mei stood, grabbed her phone, and began to follow. She glanced down at her friend Jessica, who sat to her left and whose desk also faced the large gallery with its polished concrete floors and multimillion-dollar paintings hung on white walls.
Jessica, a tall skinny blonde originally from Bozeman, Montana, widened her eyes and shrugged.
Mei and Anta Safar entered the private office. Safar closed the door behind them and walked around her pristine white desk with absolutely nothing on it except a white iMac computer. Safar indicated the chair. Mei sat down, but Safar didn’t.
Anta Safar looked down at Mei with concern in her eyes. She said, “I’m terribly sorry, Mei, but we’ve decided to go in another direction.”
Mei sat quietly, waiting to hear mor
e. Perhaps her work on the upcoming show of Titian’s paintings hadn’t considered an important part of the artist’s biography. When Safar offered nothing further, Mei said, “In which direction are we going?”
Safar lifted her chin. “What I mean is that Porter Gallery has decided to go in a new direction staffing-wise. We’re letting you go. It wasn’t . . . it wasn’t my decision. I’m so sorry.”
Mei felt herself grow hot all over. She felt as if an invisible being were sticking sharp pins into her arms and legs, into her feet and hands. She had difficulty breathing and her mind clouded. Lowering her eyes for a moment, she looked at her hands in her lap. She saw the pretty silk of the eggplant-colored dress she wore, together with, on the ring finger of her left hand, the diamond solitaire Buddy had put there only recently. Everything had seemed to be going so well! They’d saved Ben, who’d come to live with them. They’d begun the process of adopting him. Her wedding to Buddy—the man she loved more than any other—would be in two weeks, in the City Clerk’s office. And now Ms. Safar had told her . . . had told her . . .
She raised her eyes, knowing they’d soon be filled with tears. “What happened?”
Ms. Safar’s blue eyes widened. Her face softened. “I can’t . . . I can’t explain, Mei. I can say only that the gallery has decided to go in another direction.”
Mei leaned forward. “But did I do something wrong?”
Safar shook her head. “No, Mei. You did nothing wrong. Nothing at all. Not as far as I’m concerned. This will be the end. For us. But I’m sure not for your career.”
Mei sat back, stunned.
It’s my short hours, she thought. My caring for Ben. But Anta isn’t saying that’s why. She’s hiding the reason.
Anta Safar walked around the desk and held out her hand. At first Mei thought Safar intended to shake her hand.
Safar said, “I’ll need your iPhone, please.”
Mei held her phone but didn’t hand it over. She said, “It’s my only mobile phone. Could I drop it off in a couple of days after I buy a new one and port the number over?”
Safar shook her head. Flexed her outstretched hand. “I’m sorry, but I must have it now.”
Reluctantly, Mei handed Anta Safar the phone.
Safar opened her office door, stood to the side, and said, “Goodbye, Mei. And good luck.”
13
Something in Mei changed with that ultimatum, that unfairness, that taking of the phone. Her fortitude, momentarily diminished as a result of being laid off, reasserted itself. She pushed herself up from the chair, left the office without looking at Anta Safar, and walked along the short corridor to her desk by the south wall of the gallery.
Jessica looked up at Mei.
Mei didn’t meet her friend’s eyes. Instead, she set her oversized Bottega Veneta tote bag on her chair, picked up her few personal belongings, including a photograph of her with Buddy on Waikiki Beach—their Hawaii trip, the only one they’d ever taken together—and began loading the bag. Exhibition catalogues for which she’d written the introductory essay. Thick and heavy-as-iron monographs on various artists. Her minimal collection of tea, lipstick, two mugs, toothpaste, and a single pink toothbrush with a cover.
Jessica swiveled to face her. “What’s going on? What are you doing?”
Mei looped the tote straps over a shoulder and faced Jessica. “Stand up and give me a hug,” she said. “I’ve been fired.”
Jessica’s mouth fell open. “What?”
Mei reached out her hands. “Safar says I have to go now.”
“But—”
“Come on!”
Jessica stood, towering over Mei. She leaned down and gave more than the fake hug so common among New York women. She held Mei tightly—for a good ten seconds—and said, “Let me know where you land, okay? I’m sure you could work at any gallery. Any of them. I’m sure of it.”
Mei said, “I hope you’re right.”
Jessica grasped her upper arms and stared at her. “I’m right. Of course I’m right. This layoff, whatever”—she tilted her head in the direction of Anta Safar’s office—“isn’t because of you. There’s some management issue or money problem. I’m probably next. Oh, God. I’m next, I think.”
Mei smiled. Jessica had a good heart, but everything intersected with Jessica’s life, even things that had nothing to do with her. Mei’s friend, really her work acquaintance, was self-absorbed but affable and not unkind. Mei said, “Goodbye.”
Jessica shook her head. “Not goodbye. We’ll meet for drinks. And if you need time to recover, you can use Oliver’s country house. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. Let’s talk, okay? Soon.”
Mei smiled and said “Soon,” although she knew they probably wouldn’t. With that, she turned and walked across the polished concrete floor toward the doors onto Fifty-Eighth Street. She didn’t look at the paintings hanging on the walls. She didn’t look at the few visitors who’d entered the gallery while she was in Anta Safar’s office. They were no longer her concern, though she wished they were. She’d liked working here and didn’t understand what mistake she’d made or why Porter Gallery wanted to go in a “different direction.”
It hurt, being let go. What a euphemism. Fired was a better word because it described exactly how she felt. Perhaps she’d contact Jessica in February to learn if Anta Safar had explained. But she knew her firing wasn’t right. She knew she’d done nothing wrong, other than meeting the needs of a ten-year-old boy. And now that she’d lost her job, would Judge Miles hold that against her?
Her thoughts swirled with uncertainty. She felt perspiration on her brow.
Pulling open the gallery doors, she stepped onto the sidewalk and into the city after dusk, with its multitude of lights and cacophony of sharp noises. As she traveled a few paces and was about to step off the curb and hail a cab—her tote bag was too heavy for the subway—the cold air surprised her. Shocked her. The wind whipping the cold between the buildings woke her as if from a horrible dream, and she realized she’d forgotten her coat.
God no, she thought. She’d have to return to the gallery and grab it. She couldn’t leave it, not on a day as cold as this one. And it was a nice coat, worth far more to her than the embarrassment of going back to her desk. As she turned away from the street, she saw a large man dressed in black pants, a black parka, and a black baseball hat, walking straight toward her.
Immediately she sensed danger. She didn’t know why. Maybe it was being fired. Maybe it was the shock of the cold. Maybe it was the way she’d nearly been killed weeks earlier, during Buddy’s last case. She felt unsafe, even on a street and in a neighborhood as expensive as this one, even with other pedestrians on the block, though not close to her. There was something about the man dressed in black, and his wearing sunglasses under dark skies, the man who strode so quickly and purposefully toward her. She couldn’t see his face, not really. A patch of skin on either side of his nose, but no more.
She backed up toward the gallery doors, never taking her eyes off him. She watched as he reached into the right front pocket of his parka and began to pull something out of it.
In the streetlights she could see the pale glimmer.
A cell phone? she thought. Or a knife?
She stepped backward, her left heel catching in a metal grate in the sidewalk. She nearly tumbled over, the extra weight in her tote pulling her off-balance.
The man in black neared her. Fifteen yards. Ten. He held his hand by his pocket, and the metal object in it remained mostly hidden. He walked quickly but seemed unhurried, as if he had plenty of time to take care of her, as if she couldn’t escape.
And she couldn’t. She seemed frozen, trying to catch her balance, trying to shift the tote, failing to steady herself. Afraid of turning her back to the man to rush for the gallery doors, she faced him and knew this would be either an example of her paranoia, if he was just holding a cell phone, or the end, if he was holding a knife.
“Mei!”
It was J
essica, her statuesque figure pushing through the gallery doors. Jessica held up Mei’s knee-length Moncler winter parka, nearly blocking the sidewalk as she did so.
Mei caught her balance. She held up a hand to warn her friend about the man in black.
Jessica must have thought she was reaching for the parka. So Jessica held it toward Mei. “Jesus Christ, Mei!” she called. “You can’t be out here without your jacket. You’re not a Montana girl, after all!”
Mei tried to look around her friend, but the big puffy down jacket was blocking her view. She feared for her friend, feared for both of them. But then she saw the man in black.
He’d turned from the sidewalk. His right hand was plunged into his jacket pocket, hiding the metallic object. He was angling left and stepping between two parked cars. Then he jogged through traffic across Fifty-Eighth Street.
Mei turned back to Jessica. She forced herself to smile and take the coat and air-kiss Jessica’s cheeks.
When her friend went back inside the gallery, Mei was left standing on the sidewalk, alone and afraid. She looked right and left along the sidewalk but saw nothing unusual. The man in black had gone, at least for now. Yet she believed she wasn’t safe. Something had happened that led to her being fired and then to her feeling threatened on East Fifty-Eighth Street. She sensed the two events were somehow connected but couldn’t understand how.
All at once she had a premonition of many knives cloaked in darkness, of these knives moving across the island of Manhattan like a plague that was coming for her and Ben and probably for Buddy, too.
Ben, she thought. Is he all right? Or did they already come for him?
14
Buddy waited for the silver Range Rover to approach and pull along the curb. He peered through the front passenger window. His brother’s driver, Brick, was at the wheel. Brick had sun-bleached hair and was rail thin. He looked like he’d grown up surfing in Malibu, and he had. His fellow surfers had given him the nickname because his stomach was as hard as the building material. Buddy had never heard his real name. Brick pointed to the right rear door. Buddy took a final look around and, seeing no immediate danger, opened the door and climbed into the car.
