In for the Kill

60

Sherman as usual read the Times over breakfast. He'd bought the paper from a vending machine at the corner, inserting his coins and thinking with a smile that the paper should be paying him. After all, he was giving them something to write about that was more interesting than their usual gray wire-service pap. He was selling papers. Every time the circulation of one of his victims stopped, the Times's circulation increased.

The morning was so beautiful that he'd skipped his favorite diner in favor of a small restaurant with green plastic tables outside. Pedestrians walked nearby, just on the other side of the black wrought-iron railing separating the outer sidewalk from the dining area. Beyond them, traffic locked in the morning rush rumbled and lurched forward about ten feet at a time. But the cool morning breeze carried the vehicle exhaust away so it didn't interfere with his appetite, and the sun sent warm rays angling in beneath the green canvas umbrella above Sherman's table.

As he forked in his scrambled eggs and nibbled at his toast, Sherman read in the paper that Jeb, the brother he'd never seen, was a currency trader. Something like family pride crept into Sherman's mind. So Jeb was smart, like his half-brother, and like Sherman made his money in the world of finance. Sherman had made his fortune in tech stocks, systematically getting out just before the bubble burst, and then compounding his wealth by selling some of the same stocks short, cashing in as they plummeted in value. Possibly Jeb had gotten rich during the same wild market volatility. Sherman thought-no, he knew-that heredity meant much more than most people suspected. Heredity was destiny, and impossible to escape.

A gust of summer breeze flipped the top newspaper page, and there was the now familiar photo of Mom climbing out of a taxi in front of the Meredith Hotel.

Sherman stopped chewing and stared at it for a long moment, into the dark eyes above the smiling lips. It seemed to him that the eyes were not smiling.

The photo also made him think of last night in the cab with Quinn's daughter. Quinn's daughter! Now Sherman was the one to smile. What would Quinn think if he knew? As he would someday know-Sherman would take care of that. As for Lauri, she'd remember last night, what she could of it, fondly. He was sure he hadn't used enough ketamine for her to suspect she'd been drugged, so eager had she been to sleep with him even without a little chemical enhancement. And even if she did suspect, she'd probably forgive him for it. Little Lauri wasn't nearly as innocent as she pretended. How could she be, bedding down with that tall, skinny junkie-the musician, so-called?

After finishing breakfast and paying his check, Sherman scraped his metal chair over concrete, away from the table, and stood up, careful not to bump his head on the umbrella. He felt full and satisfied, and sexually sated from last night, as he strolled toward his apartment. He was expecting a fax from a connection to a connection he had in Atlanta, an architect who a few years ago had found himself in a financial tangle Sherman helped him to escape. The man had later landed a plum job in City Planning and Development. He was not only in Sherman's debt, he was a bureaucratic animal who knew the jungle. More specifically, the New York City archival records jungle.

The disentanglement of the man's financial affairs were of questionable legality, and if revealed would at the least be embarrassing if not ruinous. Sherman expected cooperation.

He wasn't disappointed. As he closed his apartment door behind him he glanced over at his fax machine and saw several messages in the arrival basket. He knew what they were-the 1947 blueprints of the Malzberg Plaza Hotel, which in 1964 was renovated and became the Meredith.

Faxed blueprints of the renovation plans were included.

He removed the pages from the fax machine to confirm what they were, and then laid them out on his desk to peruse later. He'd worked up a sweat walking back from the restaurant, so he decided that before anything else he'd take his second shower of the morning. Besides, he'd noticed earlier that he needed to touch up his blond hair.

His dark roots were showing.

Less then five minutes after showering and applying additional dye to his hair, Sherman was seated at his desk. He was dressed only in his robe and slippers, and was poring over the 1964 Meredith Hotel renovation blueprints. Already he'd formulated a plan. It only needed a bit more time, a little more research and attention to detail.

And, of course, some cooperation, but that would be easy enough to obtain. Even a pleasure.

Problem solved.

No riddle in the mail this time, Quinn. No note. No game. No rattle before the strike.

Only the surprise.

If it weren't so early in the day, he'd pour a generous Jack Daniel's and congratulate himself.

The surprise. The revelation.

When they would share the terrible knowledge.

Maybe, in the few last terrified seconds of her life, Mom would be proud of him.