The Night Watcher. John Lutz
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decorated room was a conference room similarly furnished in an eclectic mixture of modern reproductions and valuable antiques.
In the more Spartan sales floor area, half a dozen of the steel wood-tone desks were occupied this afternoon. A few of Myra’s people glanced up and nodded respectfully to her as she strode past. At the end cubicle she stopped and addressed the woman seated inside studying listings on a computer screen. Darlene, whose duty it was to keep the Myra Raven Group Web site up to date. More and more listings were attracting buyers over the Internet.
“Is the new Central Park South listing on-site yet?” she asked Darlene.
The neatly dressed elderly woman at the computer waved her into the cubicle. “I was just polishing it, editing the virtual tour.”
Myra stepped a few feet into the cubicle and watched as Darlene worked the mouse, and a video camera swept through the spacious luxury apartment. “Did we get the summer park view, as I asked?” Myra knew how desirable a park view was in the concrete world of Manhattan, which was why her office and her own apartment had one.
“Did we ever!” Darlene said. “I patched it in from a property we listed last July.” She maneuvered the mouse so a view out the apartment’s wide living room window filled the screen; then she zoomed in on what appeared to be a lush rectangle of green below.
“Marvelous!” Myra said.
Harold, one of her best salespeople, was behind her off to the side. “Myra, can I talk to you about the McCallister closing?”
Myra nodded and left Darlene to her task.
Eleanor, last month’s sales champion, was approaching Myra, head down, steps choppy, jaw set and determined. Myra knew what she wanted. She could read her people’s minds. “I’ll get with you on the closing after I talk to Eleanor about one of her listings,” Myra said to Harold.
As Harold backed away a few steps, Myra said to a young woman passing by, “Amy, get me the file on 458K West Fifty-seventh.”
“Myra,” the intrepid Eleanor was saying, “I have some serious issues on that West Fifty-seventh property.”
“Amy’s getting the file,” Myra said. To Harold: “I’m sorry, Harold, but I know what Eleanor wants and it’ll only take a minute. When you see her leave my office, come on in and we’ll get together on your closing.”
“Fine, Myra.”
Myra strode to her office, aware of Eleanor hurrying to keep pace behind her. She felt grand. The Myra Raven Group was humming.
She’d forgotten all about Web Thomas.
An hour later, still at her desk, she picked up the phone and made sure she had an outside line before pecking out the number of Prestige Available Escort.
“I need a male escort for this evening, dinner and drinks afterward,” she said to the woman who answered the phone.
“Yes, ma’am. Have you used our service—”
“I’m in your computer,” Myra said, telling the woman her PIN. “And see if Billy Watkins is available.”
Rica figured the hell with it. She’d been sitting behind the steering wheel of a parked unmarked across the street from Helen Sampson’s West Side apartment for the last two hours. There was no need to start the car’s engine; she’d had it idling so the heater could be on. Which made the windows fog up. Which made it harder to see if the lights stayed on in Helen Sampson’s apartment windows, or if Helen herself left the building. At least the rain had stopped before changing to sleet or snow. Rica was hungry, thirsty, and had to go to the bathroom.
Screw this!
She put the car in drive and pulled out of her parking slot, ignoring the blast of a horn behind her. A taxi pulled up next to her at the next stoplight and out of the corner of her vision she saw the driver working his gums and giving her hell for pulling out in front of him. She guessed he had a right, but she thought, keep it up, asshole, and I’ll put the cherry light on the roof and give you a bad time.
This whole waste of yet another evening, she thought, was because O’Reilly was an idiot. Helen Sampson was as innocent as O’Reilly himself of Hugh Danner’s murder. The woman was grief-stricken and despondent. You could feel it when you were close to her, hear it in her voice, see it in her facial expressions and body language when she didn’t know she was being observed. O’Reilly seemed not to mind diverting people on the off chance that Helen Sampson might provide some kind of lead, meet with a known arsonist or something, or maybe start a fire when she didn’t think anyone was looking. Department politics! That was the one thing about the NYPD that had surprised Rica when she finally figured out how things worked. Too much was done for purely political reasons. Made Rica want to puke. Say what you want about Stack; he was a hardhead and would never make captain, but it was because he was honest and he respected the Job. Everyone knew and said freely that he was one hell of a cop.
Rica and Stack and some uniforms from the Two-oh had been keeping a loose tail on Helen Sampson, which meant she wasn’t being watched every minute, but was being observed intermittently in the hope she’d bust some kind of move that would mean something. Rica had tailed her most of the evening, watched her leave her bookshop, ride a bus, get some takeout at a deli, buy some magazines—some kind of fashion shit—then go home to her apartment and not come out. It was damn near bedtime now, at least for Rica. She was going home.
The cab driver blasted his horn at her so she’d look over at him, then made a violent twisting motion in the air with his middle finger. The guy wouldn’t let it alone, so it was gonna be his problem.
When the light went green and traffic pulled away, Rica let the taxi zoom out ahead of her. Then she got on its rear bumper, rolled down the window, and placed the flasher on the unmarked’s roof. She motioned with her left hand for the cabbie to pull to the curb.
She was going to ask him about that business with the finger.
Rica had given the cabbie a rough time, playing the game he’d started, liking the surprise on his face when he’d found out she was a cop. The fear when she threatened to have the bastard’s job. The whole thing should have been a pleasure, a relief. So why was she crying here in her bed?
Her former husband, Rudy. The smart-ass cabbie. Stack…. Men!
She knew why she was crying. It was because Stack still loved his wife Laura. That was how it went: cops’ wives got fed up with the life first and walked out. The cops, the wives, blamed the Job, and usually they were right. Eventually, both parties learned there was no going back.
The eventually was the problem.
There were more tears, over an hour’s worth, before she fell asleep.
The next morning was cold but bright, with air so brittle it seemed if you sneezed you might shatter it. Rica and Stack drove the unmarked to the deli where Helen Sampson had bought last night’s takeout. Before driving on to park outside Helen’s apartment, Stack got them each a coffee and a danish and carried them out to the car.
Rica watched how his breath fogged and trailed behind him as he stepped down off the curb to cross the street, a big man ambling along with the gait he probably used years ago on his beat, wearing a long, dark coat of indeterminate color that, like the walk, might date back to those days. It was a simple, square-shouldered coat. Not what you’d call a topcoat, or a romantic trench coat with a belt and all those pockets. A sensible warm overcoat, was Stack’s winter garment of choice. No zip-out lining for this boy. Old-fashioned kind of coat. Old-fashioned Stack. Fixed object in a shifting world.
When they pried the plastic lids off the cups, the steam made the unmarked’s windows fog up, just as they had last night. Cozy, Rica thought. Nice and private. Stack peeled back a little plastic triangle from his cup’s lid, then replaced the lid to keep the steam down so he could see better what was going on outside. Rica left the lid off her cup.
Stack, behind the steering wheel this morning,