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“She might have nicked him,” Pearl said.
“Weaver searched personally. There was no blood. Renz is there now. Got CSU and a bunch of uniforms.”
“Bunch of press, too, I’d imagine,” Pearl said. “Where’s this leave Weaver?”
“If I know her,” Qui
“She’s seen what he did to those other women,” Pearl said.
“She’s seen worse.” Qui
But Qui
“You better call Renz,” Pearl said. “Have him put some guardian angels on Jody.”
“And on you,” Qui
“Don’t be silly,” Pearl said. “I’m an ex-cop. He’s more apt to go after you again, the way he did in Maine. You’re unfinished business.”
“I’ll know when he’s going to do that,” Qui
Game! This was exactly the kind of conversation that infuriated Pearl. “Okay, I wouldn’t think of intruding on your macho idiocy. I’ll save my worry for Weaver. She’s unfinished business, too. Out there with her life on the line.”
“Weaver’s an active cop. You can bet people are go
“Didn’t ask you,” Pearl said. “And Jody’s go
Pearl’s daughter Jody—who was no less a daughter to Qui
After talking with Renz, Qui
Qui
“You’re already helping thousands of tourists walking around town double time in desperation.”
“It’s not a joke.”
“You’re telling me,” Qui
“I can take some time off the public urination case.”
“Are your clients in jail?”
“Yes. They resisted arrest.”
“You’ve got to think of their best interest, get them out at least until their court date.”
“They resisted arrest. One of them urinated on a cop.”
“Damn it, Jody!”
“He had no idea it was a cop. The guy was in plainclothes. So one of my clients . . .”
“Well?”
“The cop got wet, then he got mad, then he got wetter.”
Qui
“Then a fight broke out.” She looked mad enough to spit. “I’ve got witnesses say he just lost his composure. Went berserk.”
“The cop?”
“My client. He started swinging with both fists, kicking with both feet. Some kind of martial art that turned him into a fighting machine.”
“The urinater.”
“Turned out the cop was an undercover narc, working a big case, and my client got his name and photo in the Post next day.”
“Your client’s name and photo?”
“No, the cop’s.”
“Jody! . . .”
“All my client did was—”
“Jody!” Pearl said. “Accept that you’re going to have protection—if the NYPD is still talking to you. It’s obvious that your client needs you.”
“Clients, plural. I’m representing PRR.”
“I thought they found homes for stray cats.”
“No, this one’s Public Restroom Relief.”
Qui
Qui
He carried his cell phone outside, exchanged nods with the uniform behind the cruiser’s steering wheel, then walked half a block down and pecked out Lauri’s phone number in California. He talked to her, then to her mother and his former wife, May. They both took him seriously and said they’d take precautions. Qui
And that was all Qui
He went back into the brownstone. Pearl knew whom he’d been talking to and didn’t ask him anything about the call. Though they were on the sofa, where and how he’d left them, both women were now drinking diet Coke out of cans.
He knew they’d be reasonably safe, but that there couldn’t always be a cop on duty simply to stand guard. Sal and Harold would do most of the guarding. Which would take them off the rest of the case.
Was that part of the killer’s strategy? The real reason for the attack on Nancy Weaver? A diversion?
Not likely, considering the risk, and the fact that he’d almost been shot. The killer had tried to torture and kill a cop. He must have known what that entailed. Was this another stratagem? If Weaver wasn’t safe, was Pearl any safer?
Was Qui
“I’m going to see Weaver, maybe Renz,” Qui
Pearl said, “I’ll stay here with Jody.”
Qui
37
The killer had walked, then ran, away from Nancy Weaver’s apartment building. He hadn’t wasted any time leaving, his back muscles bunched as he waited for another shot to be fired. For all he knew, he’d been hit by the first shot and didn’t feel it yet. He knew bullet wounds could be like that. Bullets could be numbing, their effect not realized until whomever had been shot examined himself or herself later.
But if he could run—and he could—he probably hadn’t been shot.
He was reasonably sure he hadn’t been seen, though he did think he heard a few doors opening and closing behind him.
Out on the street now, back in the mist, he felt safe. A close call. A prospective victim with more resources than he’d imagined. He realized his mistake, thinking of Weaver as vulnerable because she was a woman, making light of the fact that she was also, and primarily, a well-trained, tough cop.
His heartbeat had slowed, and he was no longer breathing hard.
As he strode along Eighth Avenue, he unobtrusively passed his hand here and there over his body, probing for injuries. He knew he was lucky to have avoided a bullet. Luck was something he appreciated, but not something he could depend on. Not like fate. Luck could be fickle; fate was a long-term friend.
He tried to look on the bright side. He hadn’t achieved his objective entirely, but surely he’d rattled not only Weaver but the rest of his pursuers. He did feel a certain satisfaction in that.
In fact, as he walked, with every step regaining his ego and perspective, he felt a great deal of satisfaction. The near miss with Weaver would surely be on TV news, in tomorrow’s papers, above the fold. People would be impressed.
He’d wanted to question Weaver before letting her die, not just for his pleasure, but to find out if Q&A and the NYPD knew what Jeanine Carson had told him. Not that he suspected Carson might have lied to him. He was an expert in administering agony and using it to extract the truth. With every painful fiber of her body, for every extra second of life she could buy, with any currency she could think of, she’d told him the truth.