It’s the size of my walk-in. A galley kitchen with one good pan. A radiator that ticks. A couch with a throw on it that’s been washed too many times and is starting to pill. There’s one framed photograph on the wall—a small woman in a hospital gown holding a younger version of Bea against her cheek. The grandmother, I’d guess.
She’s not staying here another night. Not in this building. Whoever sent the man in her bathroom knows exactly which window is hers, which fire escape services it.
A knock at the door. Three short raps. Two longer.
I’m at the door with my hand on the Glock before I’ve finished thinking about it. The peephole gives me a fisheye view of the hallway: Lorenzo, grinning like he’s been invited to a party, and behind him, head tipped forward and arms pinned, a second man being dragged in tow.
I open the door.
Lorenzo doesn’t wait. He marches the man across the threshold and shoves him forward with a flat hand between the shoulder blades. The man stumbles two steps into the living room and goes down on his knees, wrists zip-tied behind him. His cheekbone is already bleeding.
“Found this one in a sedan around back.” Lorenzo closes the door with his foot. “Engine running. Eyes on the third floor. Real subtle guy. I almost didn’t see him at all.”
The man on the rug immediately starts babbling.
“This is a mistake. Total mistake. I was on my smoke break. I work at the bodega across the—this guy comes out of fucking nowhere, and he just fucking?— “
Lorenzo kicks him in the ribs without looking. He wheezes and folds.
“Hey.Hey.Language.”
I crouch in front of him.
His face holds the wrong kind of softness for the work he’s been sent to do. Twenties. Pale. He’s already crying. He’s the wheelman. Always the wheelman. The one they send because he’s a cousin or just a kid who couldn’t say no.
“You were waiting for your friend,” I say.
“I—I don’t know what you’re?—”
“The one in the bathroom.”
His eyes flick to the hallway behind me. They flick back.
“I—I don’t?—”
“The one I just put a bullet in.”
His face goes the color of the tile in there.
“Who sent you.”
“I—”
I glance up at Lorenzo.
Lorenzo is leaning against the kitchen counter, arms folded. He uncrosses them.
“Want me to ask?” Lorenzo says. “I’ve been told I’ve got a gentle touch.”
He crouches down on the man’s other side. Almost friendly about it.
“Buddy.” He puts a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Take a look around. Take a real look. You’re on the floor of an apartment in zip ties with two absolute demons. One of us just shot your partner in a bathtub. The other guy is me. Whoever you’re scared of, whoever’s gonna kill you for talking—they’re not in this room. We are. Math’s not hard.”
The man is shaking.
“Please. Please.”
“Who sent you.”
