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“Shooting yourself is pretty easy, but shooting yourself and then setting yourself on fire, well, that’s a notch trickier,” she said.
“Maybe he did it the other way around,” I tried desperately. “Torched the place first, then boom.”
“So what happened to the gun? Even if it melted, there’d be traces left, but the techs haven’t found any. Plus Cleary says there’s fly larva embedded in the left upper arm. That means he’s been dead for two, maybe three days. And that means? -”
“ Gladstone couldn’t have killed all those people,” I finished for her. I dug the heels of my hands into my eyes.
“Sorry, Mike, but he’s not our shooter.”
I cursed under my breath. If it wasn’t Thomas Gladstone, then who the hell was it?
“That’s not all,” Beth said, standing. She led me to a closet with a barbecued door and walls.
I winced at the slight young blond woman crumpled up inside it. The fire hadn’t gotten to her too badly, but she was still very dead – shot in the back of the head.
“We found her purse. Name’s Wendy Stub. Twenty-six. Her business card says she’s a publicist at Stoa Holdings, a hotshot Park Avenue South PR firm.”
A publicist? What was her co
As I listened to firemen ripping open the walls in the other rooms, I wondered if FDNY was still hiring. A midlife career change seemed like just the ticket. Or maybe the stable next door could use a horse whisperer, to help the poor creatures get over their trauma.
Beth was watching me inquiringly. “What now?”
“You’re asking me?” I said.
Chapter 72
Rush hour was still in full swing when the Teacher’s cab stopped behind a police car that was parked in front of the Pierre Hotel. It made him a little nervous, but Vi
“Welcome home, Mr. Meyer!” Vi
That’s where he’d told everyone at the Pierre he was going. In fact, he’d gone infinitely farther. To other dimensions. But now he was home, the place where he’d actually lived for the past three years.
“It was great, Vi
“What’s up with the cop car?” the Teacher asked casually.
“Oh, Jeez. You probably didn’t hear. There’s this fucking – pardon me – freaking maniac going around shooting people the last couple of days. Killed a stewardess at a hotel on Sixth and a maître d’ at Twenty-one. It’s in all the papers. They think it’s some rich guy who flipped his lid. So they got cops everywhere they got rich people. Which is everywhere around here, I guess. My cousin, Mario, he’s a sergeant down in the Village, he says the rank and file are psyched they’re making a fortune in OT. Isn’t this world nuts?”
“I’m with you there, Vin,” the Teacher said, letting go of his gun.
“Hey, any more word on that Food Network thing? I’m sick of that Emeril already, with that ‘bam’ shtick.”
“Patience, Vi
“If you say so, Mr. Meyer. What’s up? No bags?”
“Some kind of mix-up out at Ke
“You and me both, Mr. M. Have a good one.”
Inside the Pierre, the concierge, Michael, echoed Vi
Without any fuss, Michael went into the mailroom behind the check-in desk and retrieved the Teacher’s mail.
“Oh, before I forget, sir. Barneys called an hour ago and said that your final fitting is ready whenever you are.”
The Teacher literally felt a sudden cold shiver race like an icy snake down his spine. His suit was ready.
The one he would die in.
That was what he would call a true final fitting.
“Excellent. Thank you, Michael,” he said, flipping through his mail.
He stopped when he got to the oversized envelope with the embossed invitation. “Mr. and Mrs. Blanchette,” the return address read. He nodded with satisfaction. Someone he knew from his former life had gotten him on the guest list. The Blanchettes had no idea who Mr. Meyer was.
“Michael?” he said, tapping the envelope against his chin as he walked toward the elevator.
“Yes, sir?”
“I need an emergency appointment at the in-house salon.”
“Done, Mr. Meyer,” Michael said.
“And would you please send up a bottle of champagne? I think a rosé should do it.”
“Dom Pérignon? Veuve Clicquot?” Michael said, immediately remembering his favorites.
“How about both?” the Teacher said with his wi
Chapter 73
An hour and forty-five minutes later, the Teacher stood in front of a floor-length triple mirror in Barneys.
“Does the gentleman like what he sees?” the salesman asked.
The navy cashmere suit the Teacher now wore was a Gianluca Isaia, the bootlicker had told him in the loving, reverent tones of a saint uttering the name of God. The silk shirt was a Battistoni, the cap-toed lace-ups from Bettanin and Venturi.
He had to admit, he looked pretty darn good. James Bond-suave. Like the latest actor, including new blond hair, thanks to the cut and dye job.
“The gentlemen loves what he sees,” the Teacher finally said with a grin. “What’s the bill again?”
The fitter toted up numbers on a cash register. “-Eighty-eight twenty-six,” he said after a minute. “That includes the socks.”
Oh, including the three-hundred-dollar socks. What a bargain.
“If the accessories are too pricey, I could show you something else,” the salesman said, with a clear trace of condescension in his voice.
Out of his peripheral vision, the Teacher could see that the immaculately dressed little suckass actually had the nerve to roll his eyes.
These luxury store salespeople just didn’t learn, did they? Exactly when was the last time you dropped four figures on a suit? he wanted to ask the jaded piece of crap. Like so many other people, this guy was practically begging for a bullet in the empty space between his ears.
The Teacher took a steadying breath. Gear it down, he told himself. That’s it. Good boy. This was no time for a silly temper blowup. This close to the goal line, this close to making things right.
“I’ll take it,” the Teacher said, reaching into his Vuitton beside the mirror. His fingers played across the checkered steel grip of one of the two 50-round Intratec Tec-9 machine pistols waiting there under the butter-soft napa leather like loyal friends.
He reluctantly passed them by, instead retrieving his billfold and his American Express Black card.
“Even the socks,” he said.