The NYPD stormed the diner and came up empty. When Tizzie, Mallory, and Gunner elbowed their way up to the booth where the waitress said he had been, all that was left was a crumpled up wad of paper napkins, three dollars and a half empty cup of coffee, black.
Mallory took three singles from his wallet, handed them to the waitress. “We’re going to keep those for evidence, you take these,” he said. She nodded and walked over to the counter, away from all the cops.
Still wearing the plastic gloves, Mallory picked up the money. Underneath them was one index card, lined side up. Nothing was written on those lines, but the card had already said enough.
Mallory sneered. “Just in case we weren’t sure.” He glanced at Tizzie. “We need a description from her.”
Tizzie smirked, took another detective’s notepad. “Regular guy. Get this — regular eyes, regular face, average height and weight. She didn’t see his pants. The only help she could offer was that he kept the hood of his Yankee sweatshirt up so she didn’t really see his hair. He can ditch the hoodie in about ten seconds.”
Gunner frowned. “So we get nothing out of this.”
Mallory had picked up the card. “I wouldn’t say that.” He held the back of the card up for all to see. Three stick figures had been drawn in black ink: a thick one, then another with what looked like aviator shades, then one with a thick mustache — Gunner, Mallory, Tizzie. Below the middle figure a Roman numeral was printed: IX. The artist had also drawn crude bull’s eyes over the first and third figures. They were in dark red. Blood red.
With his free hand, Mallory shook out the pile of crumpled napkins. A small, bloody pinky landed on the table.