“And you’re all sunshine and light? Give me a break, girl.”
“I have never in my life claimed I was easy. But this is a man who lives in a studio apartment so small and so dark that he nicknamed it ‘the coffin.’ This is a guy who is so used to his privacy and his man-cave ways, who keeps every ounce of his sensitivity bottled up inside him so far that even a suppository wouldn’t unglue him, that there are times I-”
“Don’t you even think about bad-mouthing Mike Chapman to me, Ms. Cooper,” Vickee said, wagging a finger at me.
I dug in my bag again to find my phone. “Why are we having this conversation? I think it’s a little too much Scotch on my part, for sure. I’d never bad-mouth him. I simply tried to give you an honest response when you asked me how things are going. And all I said is that some things are tricky with Mike and me. You want this transition to be a smooth one? Then give us some time and space.”
“Don’t lay one of your high-profile, strung-out, going-to-pieces bits on him because of this Antonio Estevez dirtbag. He doesn’t need it right now, okay?”
“Like I would do that?” I said, tapping the Uber car service app. “What’s got your nose so out of joint tonight? Mercer must be complaining about the fact that Mike and I have something going on.”
“Forget I said anything. And for God’s sake, don’t tell Mike. You texting him already? He’s got a homicide to deal with.”
“This whole conversation is forgotten,” I said, pushing back from the table. “And no, I don’t text him while he’s working a scene, Vickee. Something has you all gnarled up.”
“What’s with Uber?” Alan Vandomir asked, catching the screen on my phone before I stood up. “I’ll drive you home.”
“No problem. I have no intention of breaking up this cozy gathering. You stay right here,” I said, punching in my destination on the app. “I’m close enough to walk, but if I said I was going to do that, all you Cub Scouts would be on your feet to protect my honor.”
“Whatever’s left of it,” Alan said.
“Giuliano is right at the front door. He’ll see to it that I get in my chariot, and here’s some dough for my share of the bill,” I said, plunking down money, then reaching for a biscotto as I left the table. “Ciao, guys. See you tomorrow.”
I shimmied through the bar crowd again and looked down at my phone. An Uber driver had responded to my request and would be at the exact location I ordered, right around the corner from the restaurant on 65th Street, in two minutes.
I waited inside for a bit, to make sure the driver would be there. Giuliano held the door open for me. “Thanks again, Alessandra. Everybody have enough to eat?”
“Perfect, Giuliano. See you in a few days.”
I stepped down onto the sidewalk and turned north on Second Avenue, in the direction of my apartment. Traffic was heavy, as it usually was, heading for the entrance to the 59th Street Bridge out of the city, just a few blocks the other way.
At the first corner, I crossed Second and made a left turn onto the quiet side street, looking over my shoulder to make sure Vickee hadn’t followed me out. I couldn’t figure out why she was so testy this evening, and I didn’t want any more judgmental jabbering.
The black sedan I expected wasn’t there yet, but it looked as though an SUV had pulled up to take the job.
I walked toward it, at the edge of the curb next to the fire hydrant. The windows were tinted, but I could see the driver motioning me to open the rear door.
I heard the click of the lock and I pulled on the handle. Just then, I picked my head up and could see the lights of a black sedan approaching the rear of the SUV.
I hesitated for a second as I opened the door, wondering if there was a mix-up in cars. But in that single moment, I felt a tug on my arm from a figure sitting in the backseat of the SUV. His hand was on my throat before I could open my mouth to scream. He covered my nose with a cloth that reeked of the powerful sweet smell of chloroform.
I tried to pull my head back and break away, but in that instant my entire world crashed to black.
CHAPMAN
NINE
“Nice, Sarge,” I said, pushing open the bedroom door inside the apartment of the late Wynan Wilson. I had put on my gloves and booties in the hallway. “Nice that you two waited for me.”
“Dead men don’t got anything better to do than wait, Chapman. There’s too much lead between his ears for Mr. Wilson to be out and about causing trouble. Just figured I’d chill with him till you got here.”
“What’s the word on the ME?”
“The doc’s got a vehicular on FDR Drive. Highway Patrol tells me she just declared the driver dead at the scene. Should be here in fifteen or so.”
I took a couple of steps toward the bed. The belly flab of the large man cushioned his corpse against the paper-thin mattress. He was facedown on cheap linens that had a sheen to them-kind of like fake satin-except for the large patch below Wilson’s head that had been soaked in a mixture of his blood and brains.
“You know him?” I asked the sergeant. “Wynan Wilson?”
“Regular pain in the ass.”
“Felony pain in the ass? Bad rap sheet?”
“Nah. More like a nuisance than a terminal condition.”
I took my pen out of my pocket and lifted some strands of hair from around the entry wound, which was dead center at the indent in the rear of Wilson’s skull.
“Crime Scene should get here before the doc. I asked them to rush it. She’s got good aim, am I right, Chapman?”
“Hard to miss when you put the barrel of the gun against the flesh while your target is sound asleep.”
The entrance wound was small and symmetrical. There was the abrasion ring I expected to find on Wilson’s skin-the residue of gunpowder and cordite-along with the clear imprint of the gun barrel.
“That’s what you’re assuming.”
“Gotta start somewhere, Sarge. Pretty tough for a big man to let someone get that close to him with a cold hard piece of metal and no sign of a struggle. Either he anesthetized himself with three-quarters of that bottle of Rémy or you’ve been nipping at it while you dialed me up.”
The cap was off the bottle on the nightstand. The pungent odor of the alcohol was almost enough to mask the familiar scent of death.
“The fave neighborhood brew. Me, I’d rather go lights-out with a six-pack of Bud.”
I squatted next to the bed. “And I’m thinking she straddled him to get the best angle.”
“Whaddaya mean?”
“It’s all in the details, Sarge. See those marks on his side? See where the fat flops over the waistband of his shorts?”
The sergeant leaned down and squinted. “So?”
“They’re not stretch marks from a pregnancy. You clear on that?” I said. “Same thing on both sides, the left a bit higher on the torso than the right. Not enough to lacerate the body, but just to leave a scratch. I’m guessing the girlfriend had boots on when she mounted him with her gun. Zippers on the inner calf.”
“Whoa. Like S and M? Like this was a game and Wilson forgot the safe word?”
“Nope,” I said, straightening up. “Like ‘these boots were made for running out on you the minute I sink a slug in that pea-size nugget that some folks call a brain and run off with the right reverend’s wrong money.’ The shooter was perfectly positioned for the strike. Wilson’s on his stomach, right side of his head on the mattress. No pillow. Shooter is right-handed. Mounts him ’cause she knows he’s out cold and won’t feel it. Positions the barrel right against the head, pointing up a bit, where it will do the most damage. Much more reliable than trying to direct it while standing beside him. What’s her name, Sarge? The suspect’s name.”