The hall light produced vague shadows through the small diagonal panes of decorative frosted glass. First, Comino's shadow stood on the other side of the glass, then a dark shadow crossed the glass and retreated. There was no longer anyone standing on the other side of the door.
Trey jammed a fist down onto the center console, and then again . . . and then again.
"Sit here and watch my ride," said Trey. He pocketed his gun and zipped up his jacket.
"Where you goin'?"
"To see what he's doing. He got no business going in her basement. He's up ta something."
Trey maneuvered his sore shoulders out of the SUV, forcing the pain down deep where it became fuel for his rage. A flash of lightning lit up the street. He hunched his shoulders against the rain and crossed the street.
Ten feet from the SUV, Greta Feinstein watched out the window as the lightning lit up Trey's face. She'd been monitoring the black-windowed SUV since it pulled up in front of her delicatessen. She pressed a number into her cell phone and held it to her ear, never taking her gaze from the window.
"Hi, Angie, seeing what I'm seeing?" Greta could almost see Angelica Scarpetti's form in the front window of her bakery, next door to Beckham's Books & Brew.
38
I HAD A DEATH GRIP ON BARBARA'S HAND THAT BRANDISHED THE CHEF'S knife. Her breath heaved at my face, assaulting my nose with a powerful sour smell. It made my stomach lurch. My eyes trained on the knife in her upturned fist. Sweat beaded on her forehead as she strained to connect blade to flesh. It had come close to my face several times, but I had managed to push it away. She blinked rapidly, as though she couldn't focus on my face.
The razor-sharp blade aimed at me from her upturned fist. My heart pounded wildly. She kept blinking as though she couldn't focus on my face.
I tried to use that moment of disorientation to clamp my other hand onto her free wrist. I swept my foot out and behind her legs to drop her to the floor. We slammed into the refrigerator.
My foot slipped on the wet floor. Our legs tangled, and we both went down. I still held off the knife. We rolled and her arm dislodged from my grip. She sprang to her feet like a cat.
Wrenching the other arm free, she crouched and growled at me with her arms spread.
"I'm going to kill you." She lunged. "He's mine!"
Jesus, help me please! I have no idea what this schizo woman is talking about, Lord.
The lights winked out.
Barbara screeched.
I blinked, waiting for my eyes to adjust. It wasn't completely dark outside yet, but the heavy clouds didn't allow much light through the front windows to see by. I had the advantage. I walked around in the dark all the time. My eyes adjusted. I crawled under the dining room table and in silence, skirted around her, as she wildly swung the knife in the dark.
She screamed again. "You will never have him."
I wasn't about to answer her and let her know where I'd gone. What could I use as a weapon? I had thought I could fight her bare-handed but her strength was more than a match for me. What was that all about? I had used every ounce of strength I could muster just to keep her from plunging the knife into me, and I outweighed the woman by at least fifty pounds.
Her strength was not normal, that much I knew. She didn't seem to be part of the drug scene, but at this point, I was willing to bet that she was on PCP. I had seen enough of Trey's drugged-out crowd to know the symptoms.
I couldn't stop it. The prickling sensation ran up my nose. I sneezed. My head hit the table leg and bounced me onto my backside.
She swung around, grabbed the edge of the table, and flipped it against the china closet. I heard the knife hit the floor and skid toward the living room. Glass rained around me, and I threw my hands up to deflect the falling shards.
She growled a throaty guttural sound and pounced. I kicked out with both legs, propelling her back against the counter. She gasped.
I saw my chance.
39
TREY OPENED THE ENTRANCE DOOR AND MOVED INSIDE. THE HALL LIGHT had gone out. He flicked the switch on the wall. Nothing happened. A beam of light caught his attention from under the basement door. He slowly opened it and peered down the steps. The beam moved around the basement and went out of sight.
Trey stepped down a step, then another.
The stair squeaked.
He stopped, didn't breathe, didn't think. Waited.
The noise didn't attract attention.
He blew out a slow, quiet stream of air as he moved down another step and craned his neck to look over the banister. He could see into the dark cavern because of the beam radiating from the flashlight in an expanded circle. Andreas Comino stood in front of the fuse box flicking breaker switches.
Comino shut the fuse box door and moved to a junction mounted on the wall, blocking Trey's view. The box was attached to a small beige cabinet with dozens of cream-colored wires snaking from it.
Trey backed up the steps, and out of the doorway. He positioned himself behind the basement door, pulled his semiautomatic from his jacket pocket, and held it to his left side.
Several minutes went by before he heard footsteps on the stairs. He returned the gun to his pocket and moved away so that the door wouldn't hit him. The knob turned and the door swung open. Comino exited the basement and closed the door, exposing Trey.
Trey punched Comino in the side of the face. "I want you out of my woman's life."
Comino stumbled against the steps going up to the apartments. He caught himself with his hands and stood up. "You have no idea who you're messing with, kid." He raised the back of his hand to his jaw and wiped slowly. A trickle of blood played from the corner of his left nostril.
"Why? Because you're some big important doctor, and you think you have my honey?" Trey stepped forward and puffed out his chest, crowding Comino's space. "I'm the man in this neighborhood and ain't no one gonna invade my territory."
Comino smirked. "You're not a man. You're a hoodlum and a lightweight at that." His fist came up.
Trey blocked and swung with his other arm.
Comino's head jerked. The blow glanced off his temple. He seemed dazed, dropped his chin, and brought his hands toward his face. But then his head and hands came up quick, shoving Trey away.
Trey's body slammed into the closed door. His head whacked against the frame holding the glass panels. A tinge of blood remained on the frame when he moved.
Trey bounced back, circled, and jabbed like a prizefighter. He could wear this old man out. Hopping from toe to toe, Trey watched Comino's slow, unhurried movements. He was getting tired for sure. Trey smiled. This woman-stealing piece of Greek garbage was gonna suffer nice an' slow.
Comino must have gotten his nerve back. He jerked forward a few fake lunges, then followed through.
They slammed into the door, struggled to part, and then rammed into the stairs.
A high, piercing scream echoed down the stairs from the apartments above. They both looked up.
A muffled shot rang out.
40
MY STRENGTH FALTERED.
My legs shook. It was probably more adrenaline rush than anything, but I needed a break, a rest, anything. God, please help me.
I tried to wrestle Barbara toward the living room. The amber glow from the streetlights spilled into the room, supplying enough light for her to see me. I had a split-second thought—why were the streetlights on? The storm knocked out the power . . .
Barbara continued to alternate between screaming and wailing.
I couldn't understand most of what she said. It sounded foreign except for monster, no, dark, and kill. Sounded like a Hallmark card for the Possessed Collection. Sheesh.
She suddenly fell quiet. Uh-oh . . . this probably isn't good.
She lunged at me again, and I used all of my strength to punch her in the face. I expected her to go down. Please . . . let her go down. She shook her head and grabbed me by the throat.
Stars burst in front of my eyes. I raked at her ha
nds. My nails dug into her skin as I tried to pry her hands off my neck. My index fingernail broke her skin. A thin line of blood, reflected in the streetlamp, traced down the backside of her hand. I felt the pain, but it was lost in my desperate struggle to relieve my lack of air. I wrenched my head back and forth, trying to suck in anything. As a last act of desperation, I head-butted her in the face.
She stumbled backward into the flat-screen TV. It rocked and toppled from its shelf. The base snapped off as it hit and rocketed off toward the front window. Weakness overcame my legs and I, too, slumped to the living room floor, gasping for air, my throat raw and bruised.
Barbara scrambled to attack again. With the last ounce of strength I could muster, I reached up on the side table and threw a lamp at her. She tried to slap it aside, but instead she tripped over the fallen TV and spun wildly toward the front door.
The door opened and Andreas stepped in. He raised his hand. There was something in his palm. A semiautomatic pistol. It thudded down on the back of Barbara's head and she collapsed in a heap on the floor.
I burst into racking sobs. Tears rolled down my face. My shoulders trembled as bad as my legs. I used the end table and lifted myself from the floor.
He knelt down beside Barbara and put his fingers to her neck.
"I-Is she dead?" I wanted to run to him but I wasn't going near Barbara. I didn't care whether she was dead or alive.
Andreas stared at her, then looked up at me as he retracted his hand and stood. "She's still alive."
I instinctively backed up another step.
He stepped over her body, and took a couple steps toward me.
I threw myself into Andreas's arms. "You saved me. Thank God. I was so scared. She went crazy," I wailed and clutched at his wet coat.
I buried my head in his shoulder.
His arm tightened around my back. He didn't say anything, just held me.
His calm quiet prompted me to look up at him. To thank him? Kiss him? To—
Andreas's face was blank.
No emotion.
No smile.
No concern.
I had a single moment of clarity.
I pushed away from his chest. "Hon, how did you get in here? I just had those locks changed today."
He didn't answer. His grip on my back tightened. I propelled myself away from him and tripped in the rubble. I regained my footing. "Andreas? Talk to me. What are you doing here?"
A different kind of pounding started in my stomach and worked its way up to my throat.
"I couldn't get in the apartment downstairs, and she was taking too long," he answered flatly. His jaw clenched.
I backed away from him.
He didn't move.
My brain couldn't process that statement. I was too tired. Tears continued to pour from my eyes. "Please. I don't understand what you mean. Please, Andreas. You're scaring me, honey."
He stared at me. The hard lines defining his face made him look wooden in the vague light from the street. He lifted the hand with the gun. "It would have been so neat and clean 291 to have her just go nuts and shoot you. Just be done with it." A scowl crossed his mouth as he waved the gun at Barbara's unconscious body. "But I could never entice one of her personalities to handle a gun long enough to get it on record."
I wanted to slap myself awake. This had to be a nightmare. Barbara must have knocked me out. This can't be happening. I wrapped my arms around myself. I could feel it. I was awake. I backed another step away.
He casually stepped toward me.
"Do you know Barbara?" I kept doing single-step retreats toward the dining room area.
"Of course, I know Barbara, and Tammy, and the rest of her schizophrenic cast of alter egos." He batted at the other end table lamp. It crashed against the wall and slid to the floor. He sighed, "I had this all planned to the last detail." His voice rose. "But, nooo, could I get a break here?" One by one, he batted the framed pictures off the shelf above where the TV had set. "Could I get one" . . . crash . . . "single" . . . crash . . . "break?" crash. "No. Why? Because you're all trying to ruin my life."
I could barely hear him over the pulse pounding in my ears. Granted, I've been known to jump to conclusions before, and I know I've been knocked around a bunch tonight, but after all of this, is he really telling me that I've ruined his life?
I had no more energy left to fight. I moved to the dining room, not really caring what happened when my back was turned. Stupid? Sure. But at this point, I wasn't so sure dying was such a bad thing.
"Why do you think I'm trying to ruin your life? I love you." I blinked the tears away so I could see through the blur as we moved away from the light.
"Because . . ." His voice rose, vibrating in my ears. "You won't sell me this stupid building!"
My eyes flew open wide.
"What? What do you have to do with Coltrane Realty?" My mind raced through memories. "Our first meeting at the Concerned Citizens. You supported my position."
From deep within me, anger began to well up. He had played me like an iPod.
He remained silent for what felt like an hour, but in reality could only have been mere seconds. "And that's why you are the stupidest of them all. At least your mother figured it out. The old bat. I own Coltrane Realty."
Mom. My heart clenched. Breath came short. "D-Did you hurt my mom?"
"Of course not. The formulas I injected her with are used by our finest prison systems. It's guaranteed to be a painless death."
My head lightened and the room spun. It felt like God had turned up the gravity. I grabbed onto the side of the china closet to steady myself. My shoulders rose. It felt like I had dug my fingers straight into the wood. This can't be happening. Please wake up. Please wake up.
He looked down at the gun in his hand.
I followed his glance. My stomach hollowed out. I couldn't outrun that. I'm going to die. God, please help me. I'm lost.
He waved it dismissively, like an "aw-shucks" gesture. "I'm not going to shoot you. It would draw suspicion."
"Thank you." My brow furrowed. "I think." What was I talking about? The shock had numbed me. I forced myself to focus before I slipped into delirium.
I concentrated on controlling my breath until it was even and leveled out.
He slid the gun into his pocket. "I need time to think. It has to look like Barbara has killed you. Maybe we can make it a drug overdose like hers."
I shook my head. "No . . . That wouldn't really work for me. I don't like needles." You idiot! Why are you discussing this with a psychopath?
He moved toward me. My grip on the china closet was like steel. With everything I had in me I pulled on the top of the two-part unit. It tipped, taking Andreas by surprise. He threw up his hands to protect himself but disappeared under the heavy wooden unit. The leading edge hung up on the two chairs that were left after Barbara flipped the table, so it didn't hit the floor flat.
I scrambled up the steps to the fourth floor. Where are my keys? I need them to get out of here. Ugh. I'll never take those thumb turns out again!
I pawed through the wet clothes and towels I had left thrown on the floor. I could hear the keys but I couldn't find them in the mess. My hands shook uncontrollably. Finally, I latched onto the keys, hugged them to my chest, and shoved them into the pocket on my sweats. Now to get out of here.
I started down the steps. My foot stopped in midstride. Andreas struggled and grunted from under the top of the china closet. His head and torso were free. He might be able to reach my legs if I tried to get by him to the rear door.
My only option was to outsmart him. I hadn't done so well up to now, but to be fair, I hadn't known I should have been trying up until now. Besides, I had new motivation. I knew for certain that he had killed my mom. Reason and sound judgment were slowly replacing my fear.
"Sloane! Where are you?"
Yeah, right. Like I'm going to yell out right where I am so you can come kill me. Not today, buddy!
Dining
room rubble scraped the floor as Andreas rose to his feet.
I needed to hide. The only living space on the fourth floor was my full bath, bedroom, and walk-in closet. No places to hide in any of those. Two-thirds of this floor was storage area that I hadn't been inside for years. But it was a tangled enough mess that if I coerced him into there I might be able to get away before he knew I was gone.
He started up the circular staircase.
I charged down the hall and opened the door to the storage area. A musty aroma filled my nostrils. The streetlights in the front of the building cast a pale glow that traveled down the two room-length aisles cut through the mess. Piles of old furniture and fixtures reached high against the outside walls. In some places, I couldn't even see over the mounds.
I started down the left aisle. How had all this stuff wound up here? I mean, four flights of stairs? Give me a break. I could barely carry groceries up, let alone some of this big stuff. Stairs used to come up to the fourth floor, just like the ones that come up to my third-floor apartment entrance, but the fourth floor set had been gone for at least ten or fifteen years. A large sign, for Kramer's Luncheonette, leaned against an old wooden chifforobe.
I hurried up the aisle, tapping on boxes as I went. Toward the front, up against the wall, one of the boxes sounded hollow. I backed up and pulled on the side. It twisted some. It was a large, heavy, corrugated box about half the height of a refrigerator box, and it was filled with musty brocade drapes.
I scrunched myself sideways into the box, displacing the old fabric. It sent up a mist of dust. I clamped my hand across my nose and peeked out over the leading edge of the end flap. It gave me a perfect vantage point to see when Andreas came by. I knelt down and lost my balance on the disheveled lump. My hand pressed on the backside of the box, and as I bent over, a stabbing pain radiated from my hip.
The killer keys were poking into my stomach. I readjusted where they were, and then on second thought, I pulled them out of my pocket and held the bunch in my hand, positioning several keys to poke out between each of my fingers. The sheer weight of this would give me an advantage as a surprise weapon if I needed it.
Cooking the Books: A Sloane Templeton Novel (2012) Page 24
