Night kills

64

After a couple of blocks, Madeline slowed to a walk, paused, and put her shoes back on, bending in that same graceful motion but this time brushing off the bottoms of her stockinged feet.

Must have been hell on the nylon, Greeve thought.

She resumed walking at a normal pace. Greeve was glad. He was starting to get winded. And overheated. He had his charcoal gray suit coat open. It was flapping as he walked. With his dark shirt and tie, he was sure he wouldn't be noticed even if Madeline glanced behind her.

It was a standard tail again. He breathed in and out hard, twice, and decided he was okay, practicing his trade and liking it. It felt good to fall into Madeline's rhythm, moving close to the buildings off his left shoulder so he could fade from sight if she did happen to glance back while he was near a streetlight or illuminated sign. They were on a dark block, mostly closed businesses, so there wasn't much chance he'd need to move to cover.

She surprised him. The rhythm and angle of the pale legs abruptly changed. Then she disappeared. She'd turned into a doorway, or a passageway between the buildings.

What the hell?

Whatever it was, he could handle it.

He didn't think he'd been spotted, but there was no way to be sure. He picked up his pace, then lengthened his stride to a run. For all he knew, she was running again, her shoes back in her hand.

Near the shadowed area where Madeline had disappeared, he slowed down and advanced more cautiously.

She'd apparently entered a dark passageway.

Odd, a woman alone…

Nothing to do but follow.

He moved forward, his left fingertips brushing the rough-textured brick and mortar as he slipped around the edge of the building into darkness.

He was shocked to see her standing directly in front of him.

His momentary astonishment cost him his life. He felt the knife blade enter his left side and slide upward to his heart. Actually heard the blade scrape against a rib. Through an electric wave of pain, he felt his wallet being removed roughly from his pants pocket, then his belt buckle being loosened. The night was becoming even darker.

His pain propelled him so he moved without any thought of direction. Then he saw a faint glimmer of distant light and staggered toward it. Light meant life.

The light became fainter and moved farther away as he fought his way toward it.

Farther…

His pants worked themselves lower and lower, bunching around his ankles, and he fell.

Officer Ben Murray was walking his beat with a slow relentlessness, rattling doorknobs and wondering if he'd ever make it through to the end of his shift. It was a boring job, foot patrol in this part of the Village. And that was what made it dangerous. Boredom bred carelessness, and that could get you hurt or killed.

His wife, Milly, had been concerned about him getting hurt lately, not exactly nagging at him, but letting him know she was worried. She'd been getting to him. Causing Murray to think too much. Not just about the danger, but about the things you saw, things you'd never forget. He hadn't told Mil, but he'd been considering getting some other job, one where there wouldn't be so much risk, so much cynicism, so many indelible memories.

He tried the knob on the entrance to a closed erotic-book shop. No give. He peered through the windows at the racks of paperbacks and magazines and saw nothing suspicious, so he turned to move on to the next door. The bookshop had been burglarized twice in the last month. Maybe he could talk the owner into slipping him a key, so he could stay in there at length some nights and guard the place, maybe read some of the magazines. Several of the merchants on this beat were glad to-

Huh?

There was a guy with his pants down staggering along the sidewalk. Finally the puddled trousers tripped him and he fell hard. The way he dropped, without trying to protect his head or face, made Murray sure he was dead or unconscious. He unsnapped the flap on his 9mm's holster and ran toward the man.

Murray was immediately aware of the yawning black passageway alongside him, but for the moment he ignored it and tended to the fallen man.

The guy's suit coat had twisted around and Murray saw the distinctive brown strap of a shoulder holster. Murray used two fingers to pull up the leather folder in the man's shirt pocket. It contained the blue and gold shield of an NYPD detective.

Jesus, a cop!

There was blood on the guy's shirt, on the sidewalk, on Murray's hand.

It was then that Murray became aware of a sweet and subtle scent wafting from the dark passageway. He snapped his head around and saw that the passageway was empty.

But somebody wearing too much perfume had been there recently.

Something tugged at his shirt. The guy, the detective, not dead, one hand plucking at the material so Murray would lean closer. The guy's lips were moving as he tried to speak but couldn't. Dying words. Christ! Murray put his ear close to the man's mouth.

What the guy said was soft but distinct: "Whore…"

That was it.

Murray felt for a pulse and found only still flesh.