Night kills

55

She had to do something!

Had to move!

Maria Sanchez decided to walk off some of the energy that was building up in her like a nuclear device about to reach critical mass.

She left her shit-hole apartment, and when she got outside the building took a deep breath and turned right. The evening air was cooler than the heat of the day, but not by much. The city's concrete still radiated heat from today's bright sun.

She strode along the sidewalk almost at a run, but after a few blocks, when she realized how hard she was breathing, she slowed down.

Maria hadn't set off with any particular destination in mind, but since she was walking toward Columbus Circle she decided to go there. If the scream that was like an itch in her throat had gone away by then, she'd walk back to the apartment and see if she could make it a while longer before going out and taking the risk of trying to make a buy.

Columbus Circle, then back. Then, if the need returned…

At least she had a plan.

Plan or go mad!

Maybe, once she made it back, she wouldn't go out again at all tonight. She could drink some booze-not at all her drug of choice-and watch some crummy TV on the lousy little set in the corner of the living room until she was tired enough to sleep. She knew Palmer Stone was right, that the smart thing, the only thing that made sense, was for her to bide her time and keep a low profile.

But Palmer Stone wasn't the one with the scream caught in his throat.

What the hell was she up to?

Nancy Weaver, who'd been watching the new Madeline's apartment building from across the street, saw her leave the building, dressed casually in brown slacks, white joggers, and a red tunic gathered at the waist by a thick brown belt with an oversized buckle. On the opposite side of the street, Weaver began to shadow her.

After only a few strides she knew it wasn't going to be easy. The woman was damned near running.

Weaver was the shorter of the two women and was wearing clunky black cop's shoes instead of joggers. Every once in a while she'd have to take a few skips to keep pace with Madeline; otherwise she'd have to break into a jog. She wasn't dressed for jogging, what with the leather shoes and the skirt and blazer. She'd attract a lot of attention. Some of it might be Madeline's.

Finally, on Broadway, Madeline slowed down.

Weaver stayed well back, huffing and puffing and wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her wrist. She didn't want to screw up this temporary assignment. Quinn believed in her, and he was about the only one left. She knew if things went right he'd put in a word for her. He was a tough guy and a real cop, and he recognized her talent for being a detective. And he had pull. He could get her back in plain clothes permanently. She could take it from there. Sure, she'd been dumb before and gotten herself all jammed up and back in uniform. It wouldn't happen again, though. She'd make sure of that.

Madeline had slowed down even more and was kind of ambling. It was almost as if she'd been trying to get away from something and had finally found some relief. Working off tension. Weaver had been there herself and understood. She just wished Madeline didn't have those long legs. Wished she had those long legs. A cop with legs like that could get herself promoted.

Following Madeline became progressively easier at this slower pace. Weaver fell into the other woman's rhythm. It was almost as if she were inside Madeline's mind and knew ahead of time what she was going to do, where she was going.

They were almost to Columbus Circle.

Gloria hadn't had much trouble keeping up with Maria Sanchez, a.k.a. Madeline Scott. She was glad, though, that the bitch had finally slowed down. They were almost at Columbus Circle. That would be good. Plenty of traffic. Rush hour. Everybody in a hurry. Careless.

Gloria had shoved the first Madeline off the subway platform just as the train was roaring in. Even if someone in the crowd edging toward the train had noticed, it would have seemed only a slight, accidental nudge. They wouldn't have guessed the technique and power in it.

Not a subway this time, Gloria had decided. A street vehicle. Preferably a cab, but an ordinary car or truck would do. A bus might work well. She was confident Maria Sanchez's stay on this earth was fast coming to an end.

If Gloria didn't have the opportunity this time, she'd wait for another chance. It would come. She had patience. God would provide.

After Victor had related to her his conversation with Palmer about Maria's phone call, Gloria knew something had to be done, and she had to be the one to do it. Victor and Palmer would agree that Maria had to be deleted, she was sure, only not soon enough. They were men, and this bitch knew how to string men along. For the safety of all of them, for the company, Maria had to go soon, before she did damage they couldn't control.

Watching the woman striding ahead of her-the erect posture; long legs; slender hips; and tight, round ass-Gloria momentarily considered doing things the slow way. But she soon reconsidered. This was business and nothing to play with, however enjoyable it might be. It needed to be fast, and look like an accident.

No problem. Gloria smiled, remembering not only the first Madeline, who'd been too breathless and shocked to scream, disappearing beneath the speeding subway train, but also the many hits she'd made for a long-ago insurance scam. She could make this work. Bringing about other people's accidental deaths used to be her specialty, and it was a skill you never forgot.

Weaver saw Madeline slow down near the traffic circus of Columbus Circle. Cars, trucks, buses coming fast and from odd angles as traffic lights signaled in the dying light. A person had to be careful crossing the street here, but even with care, things happened.

Madeline stopped at the curb among a knot of about a dozen people waiting for the light to change. Several more pedestrians joined the crowd, edging in tight, closer to each other. Some of them leaned slightly forward, as if the traffic light would signal the beginning of a race.

Weaver slowed her pace. She didn't want to reach the intersection too soon. Better to keep some distance between herself and Madeline.

She felt a tingling pain in her right calf, and her left foot was sore from her shoe being a little too tight. All that high-speed walking had taken its toll. And apparently it had all been for nothing. It wasn't as if Madeline was late for an appointment. Weaver felt a twinge of aggravation with this woman who was taller, more attractive, and irritatingly blond. And with those legs.

The light changed, and waiting parallel traffic roared and sprang forward. The charge was led by a gleaming white stretch limo. Pedestrians could cross now in the direction of the flowing traffic, but they had to wait for right-turning vehicles to give them a break. This being New York, right-turning vehicles didn't.

Gloria was standing directly behind Maria Sanchez when the signal changed. She could smell her shampoo and perspiration, feel the heat emanating from her lean body.

Exhaust fumes suddenly overpowered all other smells. A bus. That would be perfect!

Gloria had both fists bunched, ready to plant them between Maria's shoulder blades and give a short but powerful shove. But the man next to Maria for some reason glanced over at Gloria. Gloria kept a poker face and let the bus rumble around the corner.

The man was looking forward again, concentrating on the traffic.

Gloria waited, mentally ticking off the seconds, aware of everything around her, knowing she had to synthesize time, movement, and her target's inattention so that it all added up to sudden death.

Her meat.

Here came a cab.

Weaver picked up her pace and moved toward the intersection, knowing there'd soon be a break in the flow of right-turning traffic and the pedestrians straining to go would step down off the curb and claim their territory between the white lines.

She heard the screech of rubber on blacktop. There was a flurry of movement ahead as people waiting at the curb surged across, moving around something. Most of them kept walking, glancing behind them and down, as if at an object they'd dropped that wasn't valuable enough to stop for and retrieve. Several were looking deliberately away from something.

Uh-oh!

Weaver could see the yellow roof of a stopped cab with its service light glowing.

She stood on tiptoe and saw Madeline well ahead of her, among the throng of people striding across the street. Damn! Weaver would have to hustle to catch up.

As she stepped off the curb to make her way around the cab, she saw what everyone was staring at. A dark-haired woman wearing a red scarf lay in front of the cab. There was a pool of blood beneath her head.

Weaver couldn't stop. She had to hurry to keep pace with Madeline. She made her way through the stalled traffic as drivers rubbernecked at the downed woman. As she walked, she fumbled in her pocket for her cell phone so she could call and get the woman some help, but a siren whooped nearby and she saw a radio car on the other side of the street. It was making its way toward the scene of the accident. She slid the phone back into her pocket.

Whatever had been compelling Madeline to walk must have worn off. Weaver followed her down the concrete steps to the subway stop at Columbus Circle.

They rode in a stifling, crowded car back to within a few blocks of Madeline's apartment. Madeline, looking despondent and exhausted, sat between a scowling black youth wearing dreadlocks and a black leather jacket despite the heat, and a bearded man studying a tabloid newspaper printed in some language Weaver didn't recognize. Weaver stood gripping a steel pole for support, looking everywhere but at Madeline.

With Madeline safe inside the building, Weaver took up her observation position in the doorway of a closed tailor shop diagonally across the street.

She leaned her back against the heavy plate-glass door, crossed her arms, and let herself relax. The new Madeline was in her apartment, tired, and unlikely to go out again soon. Weaver figured everything was under control. At least for a while, the excitement was over.

The lettering above her head on the inside of the door read RIPS AND TEARS OUR SPECIALTY.