Murder by Mocha

Thirty-Five

Damn her! Damn her straight to hell!

Face sweaty behind the mask, she bolted from the dazzling light. Safe in the shadows of the tent, she ripped away her white face, peeled off her midnight togs. Beneath, more clothes clung damply to her skin, yet another self.

She pulled out the Go Green! shopping tote, stuffed everything inside—the gun, the mask, the laser site. The black disguise came last, topped with a decoy box to bury all the evidence.

In the distance, sirens wailed. Hugging the tote, she dropped and rolled. The tent bottom gave as she moved against it, birthing her into the fresh-cut grass.

Out on the street, a car horn blared, voices shouted, traffic screeched, but she remained invisible. Hidden by the canvas mountain, she ran for the edge of Socrates Sculpture Park.

At the shoreline, the river shimmered, tempting her with a watery escape. If only she could swim across! But the current was too treacherous, the very act suicidal. Given her performance on the Bay Creek bridge, the irony nearly made her cackle.

Another bridge beckoned now, down river—the Queensboro. She had to reach it, as fast as possible. Slipping down the damp rocks, she moved to the river’s edge, hurried for the property line. Now trees and shrubs would be her shield as she climbed back up the embankment. Finally, on a steadying breath, she stepped into the open.

The Costco lot was vast and crowded—exactly what she needed. Slinging the tote bag over her shoulder, she wandered out as stupid and glassy-eyed as the shoppers before her: mommies struggling with toddlers, families fumbling with carts, couples bickering over needs and receipts. Invisibly, she slithered among them. None bothered the lone woman snaking by their minivans, economy cars, and SUVs; and if they glanced into her tote, all they’d see was a box of Pampers.

When she reached the store’s busy exit, she flowed with the crowd and began her search. In almost no time, she saw it—a dark sedan moving slowly, like a shark. The livery driver had disgorged his fare, appeared hungry for a new one. She waved him over. He pulled up and she ducked in back.

“Manhattan,” she said, hearing the pathetic quiver in her voice. She swallowed hard, tried again: “No hurry. Take your time . . .”

As they headed for the main road, she chewed her lower lip. Her fury had given way to fear and, for the first time, an admission... failure. But she would not stop. Not now. Not ever. She just had to get clear of this place.

“Some kind of car wreck up here,” the driver warned. “Big backup. Lots of police . . .”

“Can you get around them?”

“I’ll try.”

As the driver turned the car, she held her breath. Soon he found a new exit, and she was on her way again, heading down river, into the shadow of that towering bridge.

Sitting back, she closed her eyes. Once again, she was invisible. No one would suspect her, and that’s how she would win. That’s how she always won.

Striking from the shadows, she’d get them all, one by one, including that stupid little witch who’d ruined today’s performance. The very thought nearly brought a giggle to her lips. Clare Cosi may not know it yet, but she had been judged and sentenced.

And won’t you be surprised, Ms. Cosi, when you find me your executioner!