Page 54 of Fifty-Fifty

SHE

It was coming up on two a.m., the pavement a blur beneath her feet, the wind in her face, and her legs were burning with the effort.

Night running was one of her pleasures.

Tonight was not for pleasure. This was all business. The talk with her lawyer, earlier, had been a useful one. The lawyer was good and convinced that she was

innocent. If the jury was as easily convinced as her lawyer, she would be just fine.

She reached East 33rd Street on 3rd Avenue and turned right at the corner. She increased her pace, feeling her heart rate jump, and now she had to concentrate on controlling her breathing. Her backpack was strapped tight so it wouldn’t bump at her back. She swung her arms, finding the rhythm with her breath. In and out. Pumping her legs. Focused.

The sign for the parking lot loomed ahead of her. She slowed her pace, stopped and bent over to catch her breath. Sweat dripped from her forehead.

Looking around, no one on the street, she went inside and took the stairs to the fifth floor. At the back of the lot on this floor the lighting was out. It was dark in that corner, which suited her just fine. She walked past a row of cars on both sides. There were some empty spaces, but not many. She found her motorcycle

in the dark corner. The overhead light was still busted above this parking space.

She had stood on the bike and swiped her helmet through the bulb two weeks ago when she last parked. God bless cheap parking-lot owners.

She slung her backpack to the ground, unzipped it and unfolded a Kevlar fabric motorcycle suit. It had been much more expensive to buy than leathers, but she needed something that would fold easily into her pack. She slipped off her running shoes, put her legs through the suit and then hauled it on over her Lycra. Zipped it up to the neck then closed the Velcro straps on the collar. From her backpack she drew out slip-on riding boots. They had a hard sole, but were

foldable Kevlar. She put them on, and the gloves. While the Kevlar suit was practical, it did not have the same aesthetic quality as real leather. It lacked that delicious odor. The smell and feel of real leather was as intoxicating to her as a good red wine.

Packing away her running shoes in the backpack, she closed it and slung it over her shoulders, pulling the straps tight. She released the helmet from the lock on the seat, then put it on. It was a tinted visor, which cut down her visibility in the dark corner of the lot, making everything almost pitch black. She swung her leg over the Honda, turned on the engine and the lights, then eased it out of the space, along the lot and down the ramps to the street.

Ten minutes later she was on the Ed Koch Queensboro Bridge. She took Queens Boulevard, Van Dam Street and Review Avenue before she started making random turns. She made lefts and rights, trying to keep to a general south-westerly direction. Eventually she came to Haberman.

This was an industrial quarter that housed massive warehouses and distribution centers for UPS, Fed-Ex, and more. The industrial quarter sat below the shoulder of a massive turnpike, which linked the Long Island Expressway, the Queens Midtown Expressway, and the I-278. It was no accident that shipping

and distribution centers chose to build here – it had perfect access points for Manhattan, New Jersey and anywhere else they needed to go.

These businesses needed workers. Workers needed somewhere to eat, rest and shop for essentials. There were a couple of sandwich shops, a McDonald’s, a Burger King, Costco and a pharmacy.

She chose that particular pharmacy because it never closed, and it had quick getaway points. Same reason as the distribution companies. Within a half-hour of leaving the pharmacy you could be anywhere in a one-hundred-and-fifty-mile

radius. Perfect.

The pharmacy sat in a strip mall along a road that was in constant repair due to the heavy goods vehicles that ripped up the blacktop twenty-four hours a day.

The strip mall had a garment repair shop, a noodle bar and a dry cleaners, all of which were closed. The only thing open was the pharmacy.

She eased the bike to a stop, killed the light and the engine and kicked down the side stand. The pharmacy was part of a well-known chain. It had a long front window that spilled light to the lot, but not as far as her bike. From her vantage point she could see the cashier behind the counter to the left, just past the entrance. Her nametag read ‘Penny’. She was in her twenties, blonde, staring at her phone and blowing bubbles of gum from her fat, pink lips.

In the back, she could just make out the pharmacist, Afzal Jatt. He was staring at a computer screen and nibbling at a Twinkie.

All was as expected. She had only ever dealt with these members of staff.

When she picked up her supply, Penny would pop a bubble as she walked past.

Then she would approach Afzal, collect her order, pay Penny and leave.

Once a month. Regular as clockwork. Thursday nights. Afzal and Penny always covered the nights, Monday through Thursday. On the one occasion she had visited and Penny was not on the counter, she waited until the following night. No point in more than one staff member seeing her, and potentially remembering her.

This night was always going to happen. She had known that from the start.

Measures would need to be taken once her father was dead, and these were both

necessary and messy.