by Wendy Byrne
"Seriously? All four blocks? It's been a blizzard, and you never volunteered to bring me to class. What's up? You worried he's going to hurt me or something? Or do you think I'm going to do something stupid?"
"You haven't really talked about the other night." She didn't want to start an argument this morning, but sometimes there wasn't any other option.
"I'm not supposed to talk about it with you or anyone else. They said it was an ongoing investigation. Besides, I already told you I was out by myself and ran into them. You can't honestly believe I had anything to do with what happened to that guy." His eyes grew wide before he put his hand on the door.
"I want to believe you know nothing about it, but I also believed you last year when you told me you didn't know anything about shoplifting. Then you got arrested."
"I didn't take anything. I was there while Joey and Frankie took some stuff. Yeah, it was stupid. I should have left right away, but I didn't. I wish I would have, but I didn't."
"How many times have I told you if your friends are doing something, it doesn't matter if you're not—you're all going to get lumped together. And that's exactly what happened. I told you Joey was bad news, but you didn't listen. Why do you think I pay the money to send you to Catholic school? So you don't hang around with punks like him."
"I learned my lesson."
"Then why were you even within a mile of that idiot? I'm sorry, but I don't buy it was coincidence. Maybe in Brooklyn I would have bought it, but not in Manhattan."
He avoided looking her in the eye. If she could only force him to tell her what was bothering him.
"You're going to believe what you want, but I've got to go to school, or I'm going to be late."
She grabbed her keys and left him no option but to take her up on the offer as she corralled him into her car. The least she could do was make sure he made it to school. Then she would only have to worry about lunchtime, when he had some free time to roam about at will.
There had to be a way of figuring it all out.
* * *
Paranoia kept Max looking over his shoulder. With increased security in his house, he felt fairly secure, but once he left the confines, he was vulnerable. And he knew it. Those after him knew it as well. All he kept thinking about was the high-powered rifle shot. That was a sniper shot. One done with the meticulousness of a trained killer. He had to wonder if he would meet the same end.
He pulled on his suit coat and walked out the front door. Tempting fate might draw whoever was after him out. He could only hope. Maybe he had a fighting chance after all. Mick Collini wasn't talking, and getting through to his sister wasn't going to happen, so he had to strut around town and hope somebody took the bait. And he was ready.
He grabbed a cab to his office in the Financial District. When he walked inside, his assistant, Amanda, was monitoring the overseas markets. She greeted him with a wave and a hand motion toward the brewing coffeepot.
He poured two cups and brought hers loaded with cream and sugar, as she liked it. "Thanks, and good morning, Boss. I was so sorry to hear about Damon. He was a nice guy."
Max winced. It was hard not to think about that and feel guilty. "Yep, that he was." He mulled the idea over in his mind before he decided to ask. "Cops said something about cocaine in his system. Have you ever heard anything about him using drugs?" It was worth exploring the idea. But the kill shot still didn't make sense, except if it was meant for him.
She shrugged. "I've heard traders who work for some of the big houses use it to keep on top of their game. But I've never seen it myself. Don't know if it's fact or fiction."
He'd had a model girlfriend who used it to keep her weight down, but she hid it very well. Did it somehow play into what happened? "It doesn't fit with what I knew about Damon, but I guess you never know."
"Regardless if he made a mistake or not, I liked the guy." She sucked in a shaky breath. "I did see him talking with Troy the other day. You know the guy who's a little too full of himself?" When Max nodded, she continued, "I'm not sure what was going on, but they got into an argument over something. Almost came to blows. I've never seen Damon like that. It kind of freaked me out a bit."
Max mulled that scenario over in his mind. "And you have no idea what it was about?"
"No clue. They were doing the name-calling stuff, which had progressed to shoving each other by the time I got there. When I came around the corner, they stopped." She blew out a breath. "I have to admit, when I heard about Damon, Troy was the first person I thought of, especially since he was at the same event at the museum that night."
Max wanted to believe that whatever happened to Damon had nothing to do with him. But he knew it wasn't that simple.
* * *
After putting in his orders for the day, Max took a cab to Bloomingdale's on Third Avenue. From there he could make the rounds and rely on the Shaw itch to keep him safe. Nerves seemed to be a constant lately, and that seemed to ramp up even more today. The place was packed with people on a beautiful spring day, which both reassured him and worried him. He walked through the men's department and was greeted like the frequent customer he was. He wandered down the racks, not really knowing what he was doing there, but at the same time knowing he needed to make himself visible enough to give him an idea of what he might be up against.
He glanced around, taking in the people as the Shaw itch made itself known. Adrenaline simmered inside his blood as he kept a watchful eye out for who might be the cause. A woman admiring a cashmere sweater seemed more interested in him than the sweater. A man stood by the umbrella stand and had a calculating gaze in his eyes. The depth of Max's paranoia began to encompass the salespeople and everyone else—both old and young. He shook off the nerves crawling up his back and forced himself to focus. Paranoia had ruled him for so many years, going back to that place wasn't comforting. It was more like wearing a straitjacket, confining and frightening. But he needed to reengage that self-preservation instinct that kept him safe.
As he got onto the escalator, he felt the rush of people surrounding him and fought off the sensation, instead forcing himself to concentrate and get attuned to the sounds around him.
Click.
The sound could be a gun. Or it could be something mundane. A small-caliber weapon this close, at the right spot, could do some damage. He'd taken out a local politician in that way. The sound had been muffled. He'd done the deed and woven in and out of people until he got off the escalator and blended into the crowd. It was only after he hit the door to the outside that the man's wound had been discovered. The kidney shot he'd delivered led the man to a slow, agonizing death. It hadn't been his choice—Petrovich always chose the setting and the method.
Max's reflexes went on alert as vulnerability washed through. Someone pressed in behind him as he got on. Considering the escalator was crowded, but not so much that people lost their personal space, that struck him as odd. He estimated the person behind him to be close to his height and male. Better safe than sorry. If he was wrong, he'd apologize later. With reflexes that had gone a little rusty, he brought back his elbow, aiming for the sweet spot right under the ribcage. Then he twisted around to capture the guy's arm, bending it an angle to make it useless. His attempt felt clumsy but did the trick, as he had the guy pinned along the side.
"You want something?" Max growled.
"What's your problem, man?" the guy said and dared Max with his gaze.
First Max noted the gangster tattoo teardrop outside the guy's eye. He'd either killed before or had been raped in prison. Didn't matter. For right now, the guy's hands were trapped inside his pockets, where Max spotted what looked like an outline of a gun.
His heart sped up as they neared the end of the escalator. This was going to get tricky.
"Who sent you?" Max grumbled.
"This dude is crazy," the guy said to anyone who would listen, which pretty much amounted to zero. This was Manhattan. Nobody wanted to get involved.
"What's i
n your pocket, then?"
The guy's eyes went wide before he straightened his shoulders as they approached the end of the escalator. "You need to watch who you piss off."
When they hit the end of the tread, Max hit the guy with a solid right then left. He was probably ten or so years younger than Max but had some formidable street-fighting skills as he hit Max with an uppercut. They crashed into a display case before he tackled Max and brought him to the ground. The gun in the guy's pocket came out and skidded along the floor out of reach. A collective gasp traveled through the crowd, and he suspected somebody called 9-1-1. It wouldn't be long. And he needed information. Quick.
No doubt the onlookers were shocked at a guy in a Hugo Boss suit getting down on the ground with a guy who wore a sweatshirt and baseball cap. Leverage was impossible on the ground. They exchanged punches. Blood oozed into his mouth when the guy landed a hit to Max's jaw.
A whistle sounding, along with shouting, broke into his awareness. The guy used the opportunity to skirt through the crowd and run through the door. Max took off after him but lost him within a few blocks once he hit Third Avenue.
Shit.
No doubt camera phones had captured the moment for prosperity. He could only hope it wouldn't lead to some kind of charges being leveled against him. He rolled back his shoulders and continued walking down the street before he snatched a cab for a ride into Brooklyn. He'd seen that guy before. He was betting that was where he might get some answers.
Once again he hung out by the school, letting his duties as a trader fall to the wayside for a couple of hours. He kept his phone open for any alerts from Amanda, but he planned on getting the job done from afar for the foreseeable future.
The lunch bell went off, and the students piled outside, gravitating to local fast food places. Seconds later Mick appeared, his hands stuck into the black hoodie covering his blue shirt and tie. Max waited outside when Mick ducked into a small grocery store.
While he waited for the kid to come back outside, he took in the scene. Everyone in the neighborhood seemed to be engaged in normal lunchtime activities on a beautiful spring day—moms walking babies in strollers, teens chatting in groups while they munched on food. Nothing seemed unusual.
At least until he spotted her. She wore tight black jeans and a loose-fitting sweatshirt top, with a hoodie covering her hair. The good detective was in disguise and spying on her own brother. If she weren't so focused on her brother, she would have spotted Max long ago.
He examined her body language and spotted anxiousness in the way she fidgeted as she watched the storefront. Based on that alone, he knew this wasn't about her brother picking up a sandwich for lunch. Did they run numbers out of there? Or were they selling drugs out of the place? Maybe there was something else going on there he wasn't privy to.
Before he could contemplate the matter any further, the kid rushed outside and started running. His sister charged after him, and Max brought up the rear.
The detective caught up with her brother about a half block from the school. She was doing that finger-pointing thing at him. The way the kid's head kept shifting back and forth as if looking for something or someone made Max believe the kid was scared of something besides his sister.
She grabbed the kid's arm. He shook her off and jutted out his chin. Even still, his expression remained a mixture of fear and anger. Her expression and body language told Max her nerves were frayed. Something big had happened, but at this point he could only speculate.
Every time the kid went to walk away, she'd grab his arm and yank him back toward her. It seemed that neither of them was willing to let the other have the last word—or maybe he wasn't responding to the questions she asked.
Finally, a bell rang at the school, and kids loitering outside made a beeline for the door. Mick did the same after a few more words from his sister, accompanied by yet another pointing-finger gesture.
In order to find out if what just went down had anything to do with his search for Damon's killer, Max needed to confront her head-on. He came out of his hiding spot and stood in the middle of the sidewalk, arms crossed over his chest.
Maybe he should be more uncomfortable about falling back into the saddle of his former life. If it weren't brought about by Damon's death, he might feel good about the easy transition.
"Nice disguise, Detective."
With a sense of distraction playing so clearly across her face, he wasn't surprised she would have missed him if he hadn't said something. Although he hadn't known her long, he couldn't help but know that was out of character for her.
Her gaze traveled toward his face rather than the sidewalk. She swallowed and straightened her shoulders. "My brother said you've been hassling him. Do I need to file a restraining order?"
"Don't take it out on me if your brother did something to piss you off—like maybe meet with a local thug by the name of Anthony Falcone?"
"How did you…" She gave him one of those eat shit and die stares. "I can handle myself. In fact, I'll take out my gun and shoot you if I have to. But leave my brother alone."
"I haven't been bothering your brother. But you and I both know he's in this mess up to his eyeballs. If I trail him, I have a better chance of figuring out who's responsible for my friend's murder."
"As I keep telling you, that's a job for the police."
"Why should I put my faith in them when it appears you don't have any faith in them yourself?"
"Because otherwise there would be anarchy."
"I don't know—sometimes a little anarchy is warranted if you—"
He didn't finish his thought when the sound of squealing tires reverberated in the quiet street. Instinct brought up the hairs on the back of his neck as he spotted the car barreling toward them. He grabbed her. She grabbed him. They both dove for cover when bullets started to fly.
CHAPTER SEVEN
They landed together in a small patch of grass between two buildings. He popped to his feet and offered his hand to help her up. That was when he spotted the blood dripping down the side of her face.
"You're bleeding." He touched her temple.
"I'm fine. See if you can get some plates." She swatted at his hand and tried to rise to a sitting position.
"Give me your gun." He held out his hand.
She slapped it back. "I'm not giving you my gun. Now go."
Too much time had lapsed, but he did as instructed, without success. Dark car, passenger-side window rolled down, man with a baseball hat and teardrop outside his eye. Yep, he'd seen that guy before.
After the break-in and the knife attack the other night, this was bad and getting worse. It was like he had a giant dollar sign on his head. He had to wonder if there was some kind of bounty on him and this was a bad-guy free-for-all to get to the prize, namely him. If so, he was not doing well. A drive-by could not be a coincidence. No way.
Locals had started to filter onto the sidewalks while sirens wailed in the background. Maybe one of them had seen something. But if they did, would they suddenly have memory problems?
Sirens blaring, two cop cars screeched to the curb. He figured things were only going to get a whole lot worse. The first guy to get out of the squad car looked like he'd taken a double dose of testosterone.
"What happened here, sir? Gangbangers?" He looked at Max for an answer, which was probably the guy's first of many mistakes.
Collini flipped out her badge. "Detective Collini, NYPD. The suspects were driving a dark-gray Ford Taurus. I imagined it's been abandoned. Send units toward Flushing. If they kept the car—which they've probably already ditched, but if they haven't, they would get on the 278. I counted only six shots." When the guy stood staring at her, she raised her voice. "Now, officer."
He ran to his squad car and called it in.
Her normally olive complexion had a pasty look. Based on the plant of her hands outside her knees, she was thinking about standing.
"Don't get up. They're long gone." Max tried to keep her
seated at least until the ambulance arrived, but she brushed off his attempts. "You're going to pass out."
"Never." Despite her words of conviction, she didn't fight him off when he helped her to her feet.
"You're bleeding like a stuck pig." Blood oozed from beneath her hairline and trailed down her cheek. "You probably need stitches." He pulled the handkerchief out of his breast pocket. "Let me see if this will help."
When he went to press it against her forehead, she stopped him. "That thing probably costs more than I make in a week. It's silk. You'll have to toss it."
He ignored her protest and held the fabric to the source of the bleeding. "Believe me, I'll manage."
"I'm sure you can," she grumbled. "But it's just a scratch." She steadied herself with a grip on his arm. "Probably good you didn't catch them. What were you going to do, throw one of your Bruno Magli shoes at them?" She rolled her eyes. "And your fancy suit is ripped." She pointed to a spot near his elbow. "If you're going to get down and dirty, you can't dress like a fancy pants. I think you better head back where you belong, reaping a small fortune on the misfortune of others, and leave the detective work to me."
Max couldn't help but smile. "Okay, Ms. High and Mighty Detective, what do you think that was all about, then? Why was somebody trying to gun us down on the streets of Brooklyn?"
"Us? I'd say it was you." She tilted her head to the side and eyed him. "I could have sworn I heard you say something under your breath, like you'd seen the shooter before. Matter of fact, I heard there was some kind of trouble inside Bloomingdale's with a guy in a very expensive suit. Do you know anything about that?"
"It's Bloomingdale's. There are probably plenty of men that fit that description."
"I'm sure there'll be a video from the store I can access. Care to change your answer? Because to my way of thinking, you've got a target on you. I'd love to know why."