The Big Killing

by Annette Meyers

  They were taking the transverse on Seventy-ninth Street, going west through Central Park. There was very little traffic. It was well after midnight.

  “How did you meet?”

  Wetzon settled back in her seat and started to tell him about the chiropractor with the terrible musical about dancers, the imitation Chorus Line, when Silvestri stepped on the brakes hard, and if it were not for his arm, which he stretched out in front of her—an automatic gesture from the old days of no seat belts—she would have smashed her head against the dashboard harder than she did.

  That’s all she remembered clearly. Dizzying pain stabbed through her head. Hold on, she thought. Don’t fall, can’t fall. But she couldn’t fall. Something shoved her down, mercilessly. “Leave me alone,” she said, but she didn’t recognize the sound of her voice.

  She heard a car door open and close in the distance and then another. She heard voices, shouts. Silvestri, perhaps. Someone yelled, “Police officer!” Then a popping noise, which somehow she knew was a gunshot. And another. “Motherfucker!” someone yelled. Car horns were sounding.

  She was being tormented; someone was playing a drum solo on her head. The effort of opening her eyes aggravated the fierce pounding in her head. She was half on and half off the seat of the car. She pulled herself painfully up on the seat, only half aware of the sound of fabric tearing. Everything hurt. Her arms felt as if she’d been on a torture rack. They must have been hit or have hit something.

  A cool, damp breeze brushed her face. The door on Silvestri’s side was open and he wasn’t there. She heard the strident whine of police sirens; lights swirled through the darkness. A white paramedic van pulled up, narrowly missing the open door. More flashing lights. Numbly, she thought, Silvestri’s car must be a mess. She took hold of the steering wheel and pulled herself with some difficulty toward the open door.

  Silvestri, without his jacket, his shoulder holster visible and serious, peered in at her. “Are you all right?” He touched her forehead. She pulled back, wincing. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Everything hurts like hell,” she said. “But I think nothing is broken.” A man in a blue windbreaker and white pants stood beside Silvestri.

  “We’d better take care of that arm, sir,” he said. “Miss, can you slide this way?” She saw blood on Silvestri’s shirtsleeve, near his shoulder.

  Wetzon looked out her right side and saw that they had smashed into a retaining wall of the transverse. God, they’d been lucky. She slid gingerly past the steering wheel, pulling her handbag with her. “I feel as if someone’s been stomping on me,” she said. No one paid any attention. The paramedic eased her out of the battered car. Poor Silvestri. His precious car. It looked totaled.

  The back door was open, too. Everything that had been in the backseat was a big heap of trash. Instinctively, she leaned closer, looking for the attaché case. Silvestri was a few feet away from her, having his left arm bandaged by a female paramedic. He saw Wetzon look inside. They had ripped off one sleeve of his shirt to put on the bandage. Blood seeped through the white of the bandage.

  “The bastards got the case,” he said.

  13

  There were a thousand reasons why she didn’t want to go to York Hospital, but Silvestri and the paramedics insisted, and Wetzon had no strength left to argue.

  Lights from the police cars and the paramedic van spun like a kaleidoscope around her, swirling her up into the madness. Her head continued to complain loudly about the sudden meeting with the dashboard, and although the paramedics had patched the spot, she could feel the warm sensation of oozing blood.

  She touched her hair and flinched at the surprising pain that shot through her lower back. Well, why not? Perfect way to end a perfect day: her lower back would go out. She tried to ignore the pain and awkwardly repinned her hair, not as neatly as she would have liked, but well enough.

  There was a pseudocarnival atmosphere that belied the fact that there had been an accident, and a shooting. The radio phones in the police cars crackled on and off, issuing and receiving information.

  They seemed to be waiting for Silvestri to finish up with the police on the scene before they left. Wetzon saw that the transverse had been blocked by police cars on both sides, and there was probably a car stationed at both the east and west entrances to the Park. The Park grounds above her also seemed ablaze with light, so they must have been searching for whoever had caused the accident and somehow stolen the attaché case.

  She was sitting on a stretcher inside the van, concentrating on getting her thoughts together. Her face felt crusty, her lips and tongue thick and dry. She touched her face. Dirt or dried blood. Great. How beautiful she must look. Fumbling in her bag, she took out a small Wash ’n Dri envelope, tore open the wrapper, unfolded the sheet, and carefully dabbed at her face.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Silvestri’s arrival was so unexpected that she dropped the sheet. The second paramedic was helping him into the van. He carried his gun in its leather holster under his right arm.

  “I’m cleaning myself up. What do you think I’m doing?”

  “Do you always carry your own wet towel?” He seemed grumpy and annoyed. He sat on the stretcher opposite her. He looked awful.

  “Yes.” Her tone was snippy. He wasn’t the only one feeling grumpy and annoyed.

  Someone slammed the doors shut, closing them in. A siren blared.

  “It would be best if you laid down,” the female paramedic said from the driver’s seat.

  “I’m sorry,” Silvestri said sheepishly to Wetzon, ignoring the paramedic. “I’m grumpy and annoyed.”

  She gave him a small, stiff smile. “So am I.”

  “Come on, folks,” the other paramedic said. “We know you’re tough, but down you go.”

  Wetzon pulled her feet up and lay back, astonished by how good it felt. She looked over at Silvestri. He had done the same. They stared at each other across the van as if from twin beds. Aren’t you ashamed? she said to herself. No, she replied.

  They began to move.

  “What happened?” she asked softly.

  “Some SOB in a pickup truck passed us and cut us off—”

  “I didn’t see a truck.”

  “No, there must have been two of them, because the one driving the truck took off, and the other got the attaché case while we were dealing with the crash.”

  “Did you get a look at him?”

  “Not good enough. He was wearing dark sweats and something over his face, a ski mask. I went after him and he took a shot at me.” His mouth twisted, but it wasn’t a real smile. “Lucky for me he wasn’t any good.”

  Wetzon looked at his bandaged arm. The dressing was stained red. She had never seen a gunshot wound. On the other hand, she had never seen someone murdered, either, until today. Or rather, yesterday.

  “I heard more than one shot, I think,” she said.

  “Yeah, I got off a couple, but he got away. His buddy with the truck probably swung around and picked him up somewhere in the Park.”

  “They must have been watching for us when we left Smith’s apartment. They saw where you put the case and followed us.”

  “Yeah.” He sounded disgusted. “I’m a real schmuck. I should have been more careful.”

  “You couldn’t think of everything,” she said.

  “I’m supposed to think of everything. It’s my job.”

  Her head was throbbing and her ears felt strange. Silvestri’s voice was funny. His lips were moving, but he wasn’t making any sounds.

  “What could have been in the case that was so important?” she asked, but the question seemed to come from far away.

  She saw Silvestri lean toward her as she started to slip off the stretcher. She fell against a soft but resisting object.

  “Oooof,” Silvestri said.

  This is ludicrous, she thought, but she couldn’t move. Silvestri’s face was looming over her.

  “I don’t know,” he said as if from a
great distance. “You tell me.”

  “Hey, Pulasky, you know they’re searching the lockers?”

  “I heard. That’s why I’m here.”

  “You’re a little late, man.”

  “They’ll be doing us next.”

  “It’s no joke, man.”

  “I wasn’t kidding.”

  “Yeah, well, you better get rid of the—”

  “Later. We’ve got company.”

  Thunderous noise. It was as if she were in a cafeteria, and people were talking loudly and slamming crockery and metal trays. How was she going to sleep? She tried to open her eyes. Her head ached. The sudden light stung her eyes. There were two blurry faces above her, one black, one white, both wearing white coats.

  “Ah, there you are,” the white-coated black person said. “Welcome back.”

  She started to sit up, but he put his hand gently on her shoulder. An involuntary groan. She sagged back on the table. “Wait a minute before you try to do anything. Then we’ll get you into a wheelchair.”

  “A wheelchair?”

  “I just want to get a few X rays to make sure there are no breaks, cracks, or chips,” he said. He had a stethoscope tucked in his upper pocket and a name tag on the pocket that she couldn’t read. Doctor something or other. The other man in the white coat winked at her and disappeared. For a moment she thought maybe he had never been there at all.

  Silvestri stuck his head through the barely closed curtains, pulling the nurse who was rebandaging his arm along with him.

  “One of my uniforms is here for you,” he said. “If they spring you, he’ll take you home. Intact,” he added sheepishly.

  In the bright light she could see a muscular arm and lots of dark hair. Hirsuted, she thought, feeling silly.

  “Sergeant, hold still, please, or you’ll start bleeding again,” an impatient voice said, and Silvestri disappeared behind the curtain.

  They wheeled her through a battery of X rays and what seemed like hours of manhandling and then back down to the doctor in the emergency room.

  “You’re okay,” he told her. “Lucky girl. No stitches, no fractures, just a mighty headache. I’m going to check you in overnight.”

  “No way.” Wetzon was firm. “If I can stand up and walk, I’m going home to my warm bed.”

  “Okay, okay, you don’t have to get tough with me.” The doctor threw up his hands mockingly. “Here’s something for that headache you’re having.” He gave her a couple of capsules in a small, white plastic envelope that looked familiar.

  “What are these?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Aspirin, what do you think? They just have a little codeine added.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t like to take pills. Do I have to take them?”

  “Not if you don’t need them.”

  “Where did you hide my jacket?” she asked. She stood up cautiously. Everything still seemed to be working. “I feel bruised and banged up, but I’m all right.” She looked down at her blouse. There was a tear in the shoulder, and there was dirt and blood on her clothes, probably from Silvestri’s car floor and her cut head.

  “You’ve had a bad crack on the head,” the doctor said, “and you’re going to be a Technicolor delight for the next week or so, but I predict you’ll live.”

  A nurse brought her jacket and her bag and wheeled her to the exit, where a uniformed policeman was waiting. As a matter of fact, there were a lot of police in and around the emergency room. Silvestri must have summoned them, but it seemed a little redundant now that the case was gone. She looked back at the doctor to say goodbye, to thank him, but he was already handling the next emergency.

  The ride home was fast, and when they got to her building she leaned forward to get out of the car. “You can just drop me here.”

  “No, ma’am, I have orders to see you into your apartment and check it out before I leave you.”

  “Oh.” She wasn’t going to argue with that. She was relieved that Silvestri had thought of it. But, as he had said, it was his job.

  Her apartment was dark and quiet. She put on the lights in each room, and the cop walked through, looked quickly around. There was really no place for anyone to hide. The door had been double-locked as she had left it.

  “Okay to check the closets?”

  “Sure.”

  “Do you have a fire escape on this building?”

  “No.”

  “A back door?”

  “Yes. This way.”

  He opened the back door. It was clear. He closed it, turning the lock.

  “I’ll say good night, then,” he said. She let him out and double-locked her door. Leaning on it, she kicked off her shoes.

  “Jesus, what a night.” She glanced at her watch. It took a moment before the hands floated into sight. Three-thirty.

  She dropped her jacket and handbag on the bed and went down the hall to the bathroom. She flipped the light switch on, and a hideous black waterbug was revealed in the middle of her bathroom floor.

  “Oh, my God,” she cried. “This is too much.” She knew she had to kill it because she couldn’t stand the thought of it being alive somewhere in the apartment.

  Considering how battered she was, she moved quickly, stepping on the disgusting creature with her stockinged foot. She felt it squirm horribly under the ball of her foot, but she continued the pressure until her foot touched the cold tile of the floor.

  Gagging, she grabbed a wad of tissues from the box on the counter and wiped the mess from her foot and the floor, flushing the evidence down the toilet. She tore off her pantyhose and dropped them to the floor, bent over the toilet bowl, and vomited the remnants of the tea and toast she had had at Smith’s all those hours ago. Sweat and tears rolled down her face. She turned on the shower and got into it with her clothes still on, tearing them off under the hot water. The gash in her forehead stung terribly, but the heat and the water were cleansing. Slowly, she began to relax. She took the rest of the pins out of her hair and put them on the side of the tub and let the hot water pour over her.

  She left the bathroom wrapped in a big raspberry-colored bathtowel, with another towel around her head. Making a beeline for the bed, she pulled back the quilt and crawled in.

  Something clanked on the bare floor. She groaned and peered down over the bed. Her jacket and handbag had fallen to the floor but neither would have made that metallic sound. Something must have dropped out of her jacket pocket. What now? she thought.

  On the floor near her jacket was a matchbook. It shouldn’t have made that noise. She leaned over and reached for it. The effort was agonizing. Her hand closed on the matchbook. She turned it over in her hand. It was gray. Something metallic was sticking out of the matchbook, wedged under the matches. She pulled it out. It was a small key.

  14

  The loud groan Wetzon emitted was more like a shriek as she threw the key and the matchbook against the far wall. More clatter from the goddam key. She stretched out as best she could under the covers, pulling them over her head. She lay still, breathing hard. Her clenched fists beat the mattress. She was furious.

  It wasn’t fair. She’d had enough. Really had enough. It was like some weird joke. How shall we torture Wetzon now? What new thing can we do to her ... now let’s see....

  Then the memory of poor, crazy Barry came through vividly ... in living color ... in dying color.

  “You know, I really think of you as my friend,” he had said. “You listen to me, you give me good advice, even if I don’t take it, and you never even make any money off me.”

  “Oh, shit, shit, shit.” Her voice was muffled under the covers. Deliberately, she eased herself out of bed. She crumpled up the towels she’d wrapped herself in and dropped them on the floor. She stood naked, half-bent, peering at the floor near the far wall, looking for the key.

  She found the matchbook near the base of the old oak trunk that served as a television stand. But no key.

  Well, there was no way out. She go
t down on her hands and knees to look for it. With difficulty and some pain, she forced her bruised arms, legs, and back into a pretzel position. She’d heard the key clank, so she knew it was not on the bed. It had to have landed in the same area as the matchbook. But if it was visible, she was going blind, too. She pulled herself into a cross-legged, meditative position and closed her eyes, breathing deeply, deep stomach breaths.

  Think nice, calm thoughts, she ordered herself.

  What if the key had slid under the chest of drawers? Aha! She lay on the floor, breathing herself flat. It was a feat of no small physical effort. Tentatively, she pushed her hand under the narrow opening at the bottom of the painted cottage chest of drawers. She got, for her efforts, a handful of dust balls.

  “Yuk, and thanks a lot. I don’t have to be reminded.” She pulled herself up into a kneeling position again, every movement agony. Think this through. Another great idea: The flashlight. It took another eternity to get her body to the linen closet, where she kept the flashlight. God willing, the batteries were still good. They were.

  Back to the chest of drawers. She flattened herself out again and put the flashlight next to the opening under the chest, then peered in, cheek to the cool floor. There it was, glinting near the back, amid a mass of more dust balls. She stood, grabbed some tissues from the box near the bed, then tried to push the chest away from the wall. The pain in her back was excruciating. Her head was killing her. She would call Sonya tomorrow to help her work her back out, but right now she’d get the goddam key and call it a day. Or rather, a night.

  She gave a hefty push, and the chest inched away from the wall. It was enough. There was the little key, almost lost amid the dust clumps. Very, very slowly, she did a deep knee bend instead of bending over from the hips. She picked up the key, then scooped up all the dust clumps with the tissues, dumping them in the old copper stockpot she used as a wastebasket.

  The small key in her palm looked a little like a mailbox key. It was a brass color and had rather squared-off teeth. She stuck it back into the matchbook where it had rested for who knows how long. She knew for sure that neither had been in her suit jacket yesterday morning, because she always emptied her pockets before she hung up anything in her closet. Therefore, it had to have been put in during the day. Yesterday.