CHAPTER 9

Carlson caught up with her just outside the Earl of Sandwich shop. Four skyscrapers hemmed in the big concourse. Office workers poured out of the entrances. Sun bathed the marble columns and tiled walkways. The torrential rain of the night before was forgotten. The temperature was probably in the low sixties, but men were sitting with their coats folded beside them and most of the women were bare armed and letting their cleavage show. The office workers sat at white wrought-iron tables, or on benches and ledges that closed off rectangles of very green grass. She was wearing a green blouse, a darker green miniskirt, nice shoes, a tweed jacket that looked expensive. She had a Louis Vuitton Monogram Raspail PM handbag over her shoulder. Way out of her price range. Carlson figured it for a knockoff she probably got in Chinatown. In the Earl of Sandwich she had ordered a three-cheese melt, house-smoked ham, and grated Parmesan on toasted whole wheat. He already had his turkey club with avocado, horseradish, and lettuce on Vienna toast. She had a Starbucks Double Wall Ceramic Traveler of coffee in one hand. She was heading for a ledge along one of the strips of grass that was unoccupied.

He hustled to catch up with her.

“Hey, there!” he called.

Karen Armstrong turned, a little startled.

What she saw was a good-looking guy in his late twenties, probably six-one, powerfully built, a guy who worked out. He had long unruly brown hair. His eyes were brown and he had an easy smile. He jogged up to her.

“I didn’t want to lose you in the crowd! You dropped this in the sandwich shop.”

He held up her wallet in one hand, balancing his wrapped turkey club and cup of latte in the other. Reflexively she looked into her bag, saw it was gone.

“Oh, my God! Thank you! You’re a lifesaver!”

She took the wallet from him, rifled through the credit cards in their slots—all there—saw some folded bills were still in place.

“If I was going to rob you, I wouldn’t be handing your wallet back to you,” he said, still smiling.

“No, of course not! Just a reflex action.”

“That’s all right, Karen,” he said. “I’d have checked it, too.”

She almost put the wallet back into her bag, then decided to slip it into the pocket of her coat instead.

“How do you know my name?”

“From your driver’s license. The wallet fell open on the floor. I saw it when I picked it up.”

“Oh, if I’d had to cancel all of those credit cards and spend five hours waiting at the DMV for a new license I’d have gone out of my mind! Thanks so much.”

He held out a hand, still juggling his lunch and a plastic cup of coffee in the other.

“Jeff Carlson.”

They shook hands.

“You work in one of these buildings, right? I’ve seen you in the sandwich shop before. You’re pretty hard to miss.”

She smiled at the compliment. “Yeah, I work at 221, right there.” She pointed at the glass monolith behind them. “Well, thanks again.”

She headed on toward the spot on the ledge. He fell into step beside her.

“What’s it like, being a paralegal?”

That stopped her.

“How would you know that?”

“It’s not too tough a guess. Mostly attorneys in that building. I don’t figure you for a lawyer yet, too young, but you’re not a secretary—I’m sorry, they’re assistants now, I need to be more politically correct—so I thought ‘paralegal.’”

“Well, it’s a good guess.”

She started again for her spot, but he kept pace with her.

“Mind if I join you? The tables look pretty full.”

“Actually, I’m not in the mood to talk to strangers. I’m sorry, I don’t want to sound rude, after you just proved to me I should continue to believe in New Yorkers having honesty and integrity—”

“Oh, I’m not a New Yorker. Born and bred in Milwaukee. I’ve only been in the city for a couple of months. I’m working on a construction site. That high-rise condo they’re building over on Fourteenth and Lex? Just signed on. Hey! There’s a table right over there, see where that big fat guy’s waddling away? He should lay off the pizza and get a house-smoked ham like you. Maybe not a lot healthier, but better than pepperoni.”

Now the alarm signals were going off in her head.

“You know what my sandwich is?”

“I heard you order. It’s usually the same every day, although yesterday you had that glazed buffalo chicken breast with ranch salad and sweet onions. How was that?”

Completely unnerved now, Karen turned away.

“Thanks again, Jeff.”

She started to walk faster. Carlson stayed beside her, effortlessly, still smiling, like they were really getting on famously together.

“Come on, Karen, lighten up a bit. I could’ve just walked off with your wallet.”

Ahead, Karen spotted a heavyset girl, in her mid-twenties, auburn hair in ringlets, in a business suit, sitting down at a recently vacated table. She changed course.

“Hey, Megan!” she called.

The redhead turned, smiled, and waved her over. Karen stopped, turning to Carlson.

“That’s a friend of mine from work. She’s going through some tough stuff right now. Boyfriend trouble. I know she wants to talk to me about it. Thanks again, about the wallet.”

“Sure.”

Karen strode off toward the table where her colleague waited.

“Don’t let Peter Jamison give you a tough time!” he called. “I hear he’s a terrific criminal attorney, but a real prick.”

She didn’t slow her pace. She thought, He knows the name of my boss! He knew I was a paralegal. He knew my name before he ever picked up my wallet! If he really did just pick it up! In that instant she knew he had lifted it out of her bag in order to hand it magnanimously back to her.

Now she was really pissed off.

He watched her sit down at the table with her friend Megan. They started to talk immediately. He wondered if the redhead—who was pretty attractive, too, breasts not as big as Karen’s, but a dynamite ass, he’d noticed that before she sat down—would look in his direction. He hoped so. It would mean he was the very first thing that Karen had told her. But she didn’t even glance up at him. Maybe Karen had cautioned her not to.

It didn’t matter. He could find her outside here any lunchtime. He’d looked into her eyes and saw the spark of interest. More than that. Lust. They all tried to hide it; it was an instinctive reaction, they couldn’t help it. He knew women looked at his eyes first, then down at his crotch to see how big the swell was. Never failed. Karen hadn’t disappointed him.

He sat down on the ledge where Karen had been headed, took a sip of latte through the little hole. He unwrapped his sandwich and bit into it. At her table, Megan started to talk to Karen in earnest. Karen turned once and looked over her shoulder. Saw Jeff Carlson sitting on the ledge eating his sandwich, looking out across the concourse, taking no notice of her whatsoever.

Now she was sorry she hadn’t just stood her ground and kicked him in the balls.

*   *   *

The hour between 4:00 P.M. and 5:00 P.M. at Bentleys was always quiet. Busboys were still clearing up two big tables. Only one booth at the big windows was occupied, by Karen Armstrong and her friends. McCall saw they were the usual suspects, including a young woman he hadn’t seen before, a little hefty, auburn ringlets framing a pretty face. He carried the tray of drinks over to them. He noted that Karen was a little more animated than usual. Her voice had a kind of suppressed anger in it.

“… and when we left, I could feel his eyes burning holes in my back. Actually, they were burning holes right through my ass.”

“He looked like Ted Bundy,” the redhead said. “Real handsome, laid-back, you know, a super-nice guy, like one of those Mormon missionaries who knock on your door with a Bible in one hand and their dick in the other.”

“And then I remembered that I’d seen him before,” Karen said. “Not just in the sandwich shop. He’d been in the lobby of 221 Monday night. He’d been looking at the directory like he was trying to find someone. I thought, ‘That dude’s pretty cute.’ I can’t believe I’m saying this, but that’s what I thought. And then when I was walking home from the subway last night, I felt kind of weird. Like I was being followed. I turned around, but no one was there. I mean, I didn’t see him, but I couldn’t shake that feeling. I’ve got my doorman Harry, but he looks like he’s been standing outside that apartment building since horses pulled milk carts down Broadway. I don’t think he’d be much protection.”

“Here’s the protection you need,” Megan said, and opened her purse. She rummaged through it and exposed a subcompact Glock 29.

Karen’s eyes went wide. “Wow. Do you have a permit for that?”

“Oh, yeah. My dad’s a cop. He got the paperwork through for me in seventy-two hours.”

McCall reached the booth, but they were so intent on their conversation that no one even looked up. One of Karen’s other colleagues, McCall thought her name was Susan, a sweet, mousy girl with bright blue eyes behind amber glasses, opened her purse.

“I carry mace with me,” she said.

“Carrying mace means you’ve got to get right up close to an attacker,” another of the group said. McCall thought her name was Candace. She was tall and willowy and tossed her brunette bangs out of her eyes a lot. McCall thought it might be easier to trim them. “You’ve got to spray it right in his face.”

“A Glock semiautomatic is the way to go,” Megan insisted.

“Only if you know how to use it,” McCall said.

Now they all looked up.

“Oh, hey, Bobby, you didn’t need to bring over the drinks yourself. I’d have gone up to the bar,” Karen said.

“Not a problem.”

He started setting out the various cocktails.

“I know how to fire it,” Megan said a little defensively. “My dad’s a police officer. He’s taken me to the firing range in Brooklyn lots of times.”

“Maybe I should get a gun,” Karen said.

McCall set a Sex-on-the-Beach down in front of Megan. “When you need to pull out that Glock 29, where do you aim and how many shots do you fire? Three or four hits to the thoracic cavity? Or do you aim for the cranio-ocular cavity? Are you cross dominant? Did you learn to shoot with your dominant hand?”

“Uh, sure, I’m right-handed.”

“Do you keep both eyes open all the time? Or do you close your nondominant eye, turn your head slightly, and use your dominant eye?”

Megan was clearly flustered. “I would keep both eyes open if I was being attacked. I’d aim for the asshole’s head.”

“It would be better to aim at his chest. Bigger target.”

“You seem to know a lot about it,” Karen said. “Do you carry a gun, Bobby?”

“Carry one? No. I’ve fired a few of them over the years. If you want to buy a gun for personal protection, you need to know how to use it. I could teach you.”

“I’ll be fine. Thanks, anyway.”

Karen looked at her friends and almost rolled her eyes.

As if he could help her.

“If you’re worried about a stalker, go to the police,” McCall said.

“And tell them what?” Karen scoffed. “That a hunky dude’s been noticing me? Especially when I wear short skirts and keep my shirt unbuttoned? That I saw him in the lobby of my building one night? That he returned my wallet to me one lunchtime after I’d dropped it? That he asked me out for a coffee? Oh, sure, I’m bound to get round-the-clock police protection. He hasn’t made a single threatening move. It’s just his manner, the tone of his voice. He’s a creep. I’ll deal with him.”

McCall knew when he was being dismissed.

“Just be careful,” he said.

His attention was elsewhere.

He’d seen her come into Bentleys and sit down in the first booth after the hostess station. She didn’t look into the restaurant or out through the window at the street. She just looked straight ahead. He’d only spoken to her twice, when she’d come in with her mother, and she hadn’t answered him. In fact, he’d never heard her say a single word. He thought she was probably autistic, maybe borderline Asperger’s. She was dressed in jeans, a dark burgundy shirt, a gray Windbreaker. Her hair was jet black and tumbled over her shoulders, giving her a wild, gypsy look. Her eyes were liquid dark. The kind lovers in romance novels want to fall into. Her hands were slender and she held them clasped on the table. He guessed she was probably seventeen. There was a fragility to her that was at once attractive and disturbing. But there was a serenity, too. She lived in her own world. McCall wasn’t sure she was happy there. And right now, those gorgeous eyes were moist with threatening tears. He noticed her hands trembled slightly.

He walked back to the bar and set down the empty tray. Andrew Ladd, the other bartender, a young aspiring playwright, was taking clean glasses out of the dishwasher, drying them, and setting them up into the slots above the bar.

“Can you take over the orders, Laddie?” McCall asked.

He smiled. “Sure. I don’t think the rush is going to stampede me.”

McCall walked to the first booth and sat down opposite the teenage girl. She looked at him. Looked right through him. He thought she could see the real man beneath—dangerous, restless, isolated—not Bobby Maclain.

“How are you, Natalya?” he asked, gently.

She just nodded. It wasn’t an answer to the question, but at least her hands stopped trembling.

“Does your mom know where you are?”

She nodded.

“You’re meeting her here?”

She shrugged.

“You want something to drink? How about a Diet Coke?”

She nodded.

He started to slide out of the booth when she suddenly reached out and gripped his hands. Tightly. Her eyes were pleading.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

She just stared at him.

“A problem with your mom?”

She nodded.

“Between the two of you?”

She shook her head.

“Someone your mom knows. A boyfriend?”

She shook her head violently. Telling McCall there was no boyfriend.

“Someone she works with?”

She nodded. She continued to stare at him. As if willing him to read her mind. He didn’t know if she couldn’t speak, or wouldn’t speak. There was nothing wrong with her hearing.

“I’ll get you that Coke.”

She let go of his hands. He slid out of the booth. He hadn’t talked much to her mother. Just to get their drinks orders, tell them a server would be right over, ask how they were enjoying living in New York City. He knew they were from the old Soviet Union. He’d heard Katia talking on her cell phone in Russian. The thought stopped him halfway to the bar. Not Russian. Chechen. McCall could speak fluent Russian and understood some isolated Chechen phrases.

He wasn’t big on coincidence. He’d been living and working in this New York neighborhood for almost a year. He knew a lot of people, but none of them well. He’d never got to know anyone well. The neighborhood gang were acquaintances, and yet they felt like an extended family. Katia had a vibrant personality that was infectious to be with. It just made you smile. But there was also a sadness that sometimes wrapped itself around her. He’d always thought it had to do with her daughter. But recently he’d witnessed the Chechen influence in the neighborhood.

Had that darkness touched Katia and her daughter?

McCall ducked under the bar hatch. Laddie handed him a clean glass. McCall picked up the beverage gun and pushed the Diet Coke button. He cased the restaurant as it cascaded into the glass. Karen and her friends had their heads together in their booth, probably plotting the stalker’s demise. McCall looked over at the first booth beside the hostess station. Natalya was writing something on the back of a cocktail menu shaped like a vintage British Bentley. Through the window McCall saw Katia striding down the street toward the restaurant.

McCall ducked down under the bar hatch and carried the Diet Coke to Natalya’s booth. He got there at the same time Katia moved through the front doors. The Bentleys hostess, a slim, Asian girl named Sherry, who looked like a little doll come to life, had just come on duty. She smiled at Katia, recognizing her as a regular customer, and picked up a menu. Katia shook her head and walked past the station. McCall set the glass of Diet Coke in front of Natalya.

Katia reached the booth. Her level of tension was high.

“Hello, Bobby. How long has she been here?”

“Just a few minutes. You weren’t meeting her here?”

“No. I’d taken a walk. When I got back to our apartment she was gone. But there are only a couple of other places she goes to. The Public Library. Washington Square Park.” She reached over, touching her daughter’s arm. “Natalya, we have to go home before I go to work.”

Natalya shook her head. Katia sighed, sliding into the booth beside her, causing the teenager to move across. Katia spoke quietly to her daughter, her back to McCall. He could not hear the soft, urgent words, but their tone was implicit. She had to do what she was told. Natalya was frightened. McCall stood there for a long moment, not wanting to leave.

“Is there anything I can do?”

Katia turned and glanced up at him, not quite scathingly, but the look said it all. You’re a bartender at Bentleys Bar & Grill, how can you help me? A flash of light caught McCall’s attention. He glanced down at her hands. They were turning a small silver square over and over. A matchbook. He caught the name Dolls on it in raised silver.

“Thank you,” she said. “There’s nothing you can do.” Then, more to herself: “There’s nothing anyone can do.”

Through the window McCall saw a black Lexus pull up to the curb outside Bentleys. A young dark-haired man in a three-piece business suit with an ostentatious gold watch chain got out of the driver’s side. McCall had seen him before. One of the young Chechen enforcers who’d had a jovial dinner at Luigi’s and rousted old Moses in the antiques store the next morning. Katia turned back to her daughter and gripped her arm more tightly. Spoke to her in low Chechen. The tears that had been threatening Natalya’s beautiful face spilled down her cheeks. She nodded. Mother and daughter climbed out of the booth. Katia dug into her coat pocket and came out with some dollar bills.

“Coke’s on the house,” McCall said.

“Thank you.”

They turned toward the front doors. McCall gently caught Katia’s arm.

“Katia…”

“Please, I have to go.”

They walked out of the restaurant. McCall changed position so he’d have a better view of who might be in the back of the Lexus. He heard Katia call the driver “Kuzbec.” The young Chechen opened the back door for them, politely, deferentially. McCall saw, for the briefest moment, Bakar Daudov’s face in the gloom of the backseat. Then he was blocked by the two women getting in and Kuzbec slammed the door shut. He got back behind the wheel and pulled out into the traffic, unleashing a cascade of irritated horns.

McCall went back to the booth and picked up Natalya’s glass of Diet Coke. She hadn’t touched it. He picked up the Bentleys cocktail menu that lay on its own on top of the table. He turned it over.

On the back was written: Please help my mom.