A Killing Gift

Twenty-one

April's car hadn't been towed away yet, but there was a parking ticket on the windshield. She didn't even register annoyance. She was looking for a plain-clothes cop who might be surveiling Jack and Lisa. She didn't see anyone wearing the color of the day, the sign the Department used for plainclothes cops to recognize and avoid hassling each other on the job. Undercover cops in the subways, in housing projects, and the DEA especially needed it. An uneasy feeling shot through her as she left her car where it was and took Jack's route to Washington Square, a straight shot east.

The sky was night-dark now, but lights were on everywhere, and the streets of Greenwich Village were full of people, many with dogs. April had her eye out for a mastiff, she thought, that wore a chain leash. Jack had told her that he'd come east from Sixth Avenue and turned left at the square. He'd walked north, then east, then south. It was on his southern route that he'd encountered April fighting with a five-tenish man who smelled like Icy Hot. She vaguely remembered that she'd met the black dog going north on Thompson before they hit the square. As she walked the area, she figured they could do a house-to-house canvass of the neighborhood, to find the mastiffs owner, who must have walked by-and possibly seen-Bernardino's killer. Dog walkers often had a regular routine. They'd find him. But tonight April didn't have time to stay out until eleven to look for him. She'd promised that she would be a team player. All she could do was make suggestions. They could check vets in the area. It shouldn't be too hard.

As she walked Jack's route, she was aware of the pungent smell of marijuana, as strong as that of frying garlic from the restaurant on the corner of Fifth Avenue. Jack was right that people were smoking dope and dealing in the square again. She didn't go all the way around, after all. Instead she crossed in the middle and came to the place close to Washington Square South where she'd called out to the suspect. Her stomach clutched, and once again she felt the shame of messing up. It didn't matter if it had been foggy, if she'd eaten too much and had had a glass of wine. It had been stupid to play Wonder Woman, to throw off her shoes and run barefoot after a killer. Stupid. Double stupid.

But she knew what her instinct had been. In martial arts they always fought shoeless. Her legs and feet were very strong. Of course she would shed the high heels to be more effective in bare feet. It wouldn't go down well with her superiors, though. She shivered as her cell phone rang. She located the thing in the bottom of her purse and saw private caller pop up.

"Sergeant Woo." Her tired voice broke on her name.

"Hey, it's Marcus. You sound bad."

"Marcus. What's up?" April was glad to hear from him.

"I've been checking on some of Bernardino's old cases. You know those two guys you and the lieutenant collared eight years ago in that sweatshop fire? They got out last week. I just thought you'd want to know."

"Didn't they get fifteen?" April remembered the case. A nasty one. Two owners of a run-down Chinatown building had been running a pocketbook sweatshop with a couple dozen illegal workers. They'd boarded the windows and locked all the exits so the employees couldn't wander in and out during the day. An angry ex-boyfriend of one of the workers had set the place on fire and killed five people on the top floor who'd been trapped inside. An unexpected consequence was the jury's decision to convict the two building owners for criminal negligence in the deaths.

"Yeah, white guys, they served eight," Marcus said.

"I remember them." April did remember them. Slimy guys, Ridley and Washburn had said they'd get even, but dozens of people who were put away said that. By the time the scum got out, they usually had other things on their minds. "Good going. Have you checked where the pair were on Wednesday night?"

"Well, it didn't have to be them. They could have hired someone," Marcus said. "But yeah, I'm all over it."

"Thanks for letting me know."

"How ya doin'? You sound like hell," Marcus said.

"I'm doing great. Keep in touch on it, will you?" April didn't feel like socializing.

"You bet." Marcus obediently rang off.

April turned back to where she'd left her car. Ridley and Washburn were jerks, but jerks who'd killed by accident because they were greedy. They were hardly karate experts, trained to kill in public places. As she faced west, the air behind her stirred in an uneasy shimmer from another dimension, predicting more trouble to come. Goose bumps rose on the back of her neck. She'd experienced the same sensation many times before, and much as she wished it were just a breeze picking up, she knew it wasn't a breeze. It was a chilly warning to watch her back. The ghosts and devils from Bernardino's past were coming alive.