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“Small world, huh? New place, previous tenant died. Ground floor, so it’s easy for you to get to. A turn in the hallway makes for good cover.” He drew a picture for Eddie.
“Is she a wary person?”
“Not in the least. She’ll answer the door on the first ring, so be ready.”
“Is there an intercom?” Eddie asked.
“Yes, but it’s connected to the street doorbell. Ring that, and she’ll respond. Tell her you’re delivering a gift from Cartier, and you need a signature, for security purposes. That will bring her to her door at a trot. When she answers, shoot her in the head, no delay. Then close the door and walk out. Go down to Third Avenue and take a cab. Get out at the Ralph Lauren store, go in the side door and out the front door. Take another cab to P. J. Clarke’s and do your thing at the bar. Take your time. Have you got a piece?”
“I’ll use this,” Eddie said, showing him the .38 snub-nosed, wrapped in a dish towel.
“Your prints on it?” Bryce asked.
“It’s been wiped clean, the bullets, too. I’ve got some latex gloves. Here’s a pair for you.” He reached into another pocket and produced a .22 automatic. “This shooter is for you, Bryce.”
“Kind of light, isn’t it?”
“It’s perfect for close work. Shoot Joan twice in the head. It’s what the pros use. Remember to police your brass.”
“What?”
“Pick up your spent shell casings and take them with you. Toss the gun and the brass into a dumpster somewhere—before you take off your gloves.”
“Got it.”
“Okay, listen up now. Let me tell you how it goes with Joan.” Eddie took him, on the map, through the entry into the house, pointing at which buttons to push on the remotecontrol. “She’ll be on the eighth floor, in either the bedroom or the study—the study most likely. It’s where the bar is.”
“She have a boyfriend?”
“No, nobody regular. If she surprises you with a companion, you’ll just have to shoot them both. There are six rounds in the pistol and one up the spout. Turn your cell phone completely off before you go in and don’t turn it on again until you’re clear of the neighborhood. When you are, call me, and we’ll compare notes.”
“Who goes first?” Bryce asked.
“I do. I need to get out and to P.J.’s immediately. You wait until eight o’clock to go into the house,” Eddie said. “I’ll already be at P.J.’s by then, and Sandy will be dead before I get there.”
SIXTY-TWO
Sandy got out of a cab on the corner near her apartment and hoofed the last half block, clutching two large bags of groceries to her breast. Down the block she saw a man loitering across the street from her building. He looked familiar in a not-so-good way, but she couldn’t remember his name.
She set her groceries on a wrought-iron fence top and rested for a moment, waiting for developments. The man saw her waiting but didn’t come any closer. It was Eddie what’s-his-name. He was a usual at Clarke’s and a friend of Bryce’s. She didn’t like him. What was he doing by her building? She hefted her groceries again and started walking toward her building.
—
Bryce Newcomb found the service entrance, walked to the door, took out the remote control, and pressed the button that turned off the alarm system. He let himself in and, treadingsoftly in his sneakers, made his way to the service elevator, encountering no one.
He got off at the eighth floor, stopped, and listened. He heard someone moving in the study, but no conversation. Joan was alone. Perfect. He pulled on his latex gloves and removed the .22 automatic from his pocket, then examined the chamber. Fully loaded. He moved slowly through the kitchen and laundry, then stopped at the door to the living room. He could see across a sofa toward the study, where Joan was opening and closing drawers and dumping some things into a wastebasket. Bryce cocked the pistol and took a couple of steps into the living room. He wasn’t masked, but that didn’t make any difference, since the only person who could identify him would be dead in seconds. He held the pistol in readiness and moved slowly past the sofa toward the desk where Joan sat.
—
Eddie stood across the street and waited for the woman with the groceries to go inside her building. He didn’t want witnesses, and he wasn’t going to shoot her in the street, creating a fuss. He leaned out and surveyed the street. He didn’t see her, but he heard a door slam in the building.
Sandy made it into her apartment, closed the door behind her, and leaned against it, taking deep breaths. Finally, she took the groceries into the kitchen and set them on the counter.
The outside doorbell rang. She went to the panel. “Yes?”
“Delivery from Cartier,” a male voice said. “It’s a gift. I need a signature for security.”
“Come in,” she said, pressing the button to release the front door. Then she went to her rolltop desk, opened a tiny drawer, and extracted a gift from her father, who worried about her. The apartment doorbell rang, and she checked the peephole. That guy, Eddie, stood there, holding a small pistol pointed at the door.
