A Killer in the Wind Read Online Free Page B

of breaking up. I was bringing my clothes back from her place. Something like that. It would pass, if I needed it. I came back around the corner, nonchalant-like, and headed for the building. The doorman had been prepped and gave me the nod as I passed the front desk.
    Once I was upstairs in the apartment, I took a better look at the guy from the window, curling around the frame, snapping shots of him through a Canon zoom. I was on the eighth floor, with a view of Central Park across the street. The thug was hanging out by the wall, by a bus stop, ducking his head and moving his body like he was bopping to the music on his headset. Just a dude waiting for a ride downtown. He was strapped but you couldn’t read it. Not like he was some punk, with the gun bulging or throwing off the line of his clothes. This guy was smooth.
    I lay the camera aside on a small end table. Sat down in a flowery upholstered chair. This was a nice place, furnished like something in a museum. The chairs and sofa had carvings on the wood. In the bedroom there were cherubs painted right onto the ceiling, cherubs flying in dawn-colored clouds.
    I pinched the bridge of my nose, closed my eyes. I hadn’t slept all night. I hadn’t slept for weeks of nights. My head was foggy. I looked at my hands and saw they were shaking. My heart was fluttering too.
    I blinked hard. I tried to clear my head, tried to work things out. I didn’t think Emory had sent a thug like this. I didn’t think he had the connections, not directly. I tried to imagine another scenario. What if, after our meet in his club, Emory called his supplier, say? The Fat Woman, say—or whoever was getting him whatever he got. What if she was the one who’d sent this punk to check me out?
    The idea made sense and amped my excitement. I called Monahan. “I got a watcher on me now.”
    “You’re kidding. Where are you?”
    “The Fifth Avenue place.”
    “Don’t you have a life?”
    “No. What would I do with one of those?”
    “Where’s your watcher?”
    “Across the street. I’m looking at him. Caucasian male, five-eleven, one-eighty, brown hair, narrow face. Wearing jeans and a rapper sweatshirt. Yankees cap and headset.”
    “Professional?”
    “Oh yeah. An ex-con too, definitely.”
    “I know what you’re thinking,” Monahan said.
    “Then we both know.”
    “I’m gonna come up.”
    “Good. Just don’t let him see you. You look like a fat Irish detective.”
    “It’s a clever disguise. I’m really a skinny wop.”
    I sat in the chair, watched the watcher from the window. Twenty minutes later, I saw Monahan cruising downtown on Fifth. A sea-green Lexus at the center of a moving swarm of yellow cabs.
    I phoned him.
    “Nice wheels.”
    “Borrowed ’em from Narcotics,” he said. “Thought’d be less conspicuous than a Crown Vic. How’d I look.”
    “Like a fat Irish detective in a Lexus.”
    “I’m gonna go around the corner, drop it at the museum, come back down through the park on foot. Even you won’t see me.”
    The Lexus moved to the edge of the cab swarm, turned the corner, and was out of sight. I sat by the window. Watched the bebopping thug across the street. Watched the park too. But Monahan was right. I didn’t see him. Another ninety minutes went by. Finally, the thug made a gesture. He unconsciously lifted his hand to his headset before catching himself, dropping it to his side. He was getting a call.
    After a few seconds, he started bebopping away.
    I called Monahan. “He’s on the move.”
    “I’m right behind him.”
    I scanned the park. It was January. The trees were bare. I had a good view of the walkways leading down from the museum. I saw women walking their dogs. Nannies with their kids all bundled up and stiff in winter clothes. I could see yellow cabs on the East Drive. But no Monahan. The guy was the size of a small truck and I couldn’t spot him. You had to admire that.
    My cell rang. There he was. “Guess what?” Monahan said.