“Show
me
this woman, Vinnie” was all he said.
Connor Harrigan had reached the Carey garage. It was a de
tached building, some thirty feet to the rear of the house and
diagonally across the backyard from the covered patio. He'd
made his way slowly and quietly through the adjoining yard,
satisfied that the house was not under surveillance by any
one. The police, as he suspected, had long since lost interest,
and Peck's people had either not thought to cover the daugh
ter or they'd decided it was enough that they had Baker
trapped at the Plaza. They would think of it now, he knew.
He had to assume they'd be no more than thirty minutes be
hind. No point mentioning that to the girl. She'd be nervous enough as it was.
There were shuffling sounds coming from a covered
patio, but Harrigan could not see their source. He checked
his watch. Ten minutes. Tanner Burke should be two or three
houses away by now, carrying his clipboard in her hand and
taking a poll for the Junior League. When she reached the
front door of the Carey house, she would use the brass
knocker, not the bell. Harrigan would move for the rear
kitchen door at the sound.
His plan of approach seemed unnecessarily elaborate
now. Everything seemed so quiet. But better safe than sorry.
He would explain that to Mrs. Carey as best he could. She
wouldn't like it, of course. She certainly wouldn't like two strangers waltzing in to claim Baker's daughter no matter
what kind of credentials he showed her. On the other hand, how could she not trust Tanner Burke. And anyway, Baker
said he'd call first. Eight minutes. Harrigan smelled bacon in the air but could see no sign of movement in the kitchen. He
stepped back farther into the shadows and rested against the
fender of Jane Carey's Volvo. Seven minutes.
The kitchen door opened. A man. Jane Carey was sup
posed to live alone. A small man. A low-level buzz that had
been rumbling in the back of Harrigan's head jumped sev
eral decibels. Stanley Levy? He could not be entirely sure.
Harrigan had only seen photographs of the man, taken at
night and from a distance. He was walking casually toward the patio. Harrigan listened. He could not watch without ex
posing himself fully to anyone who might be near the
kitchen window. A name. Stanley. And a girl's voice. Polite.
Cautious. Now nervous. Harrigan drew his revolver and
braced it between his hands. A struggle. Daddy. More strug
gling. Harrigan broke into a sweat. Wait, Connor. He won't hurt her. Wait. Wait till he crosses back and you can't miss.
Now the bang of an aluminum door and another voice. Stu
pid voice. Slowly, Connor. That's Levy's muscle. Angry
voices. Ah, Connor, Stanley is not happy with the man he
calls a pig. Wait, Connor. It's a woman they're talking about. A woman outside. Two minutes. Go, Stanley. Go to the front
door and see what it is that vexes your man and take the pig
with you. Connor smiled appreciation at the sound of the
screen door closing once more. He counted ten more sec
onds and moved quickly toward the kitchen door, barely
pausing at his first sight of Tina Baker, lying still on the
patio flagstones.
Tanner was frightened. She'd been half a street away when
the first uneasiness struck her. A sand-colored Ford had cir
cled the block twice and now was back a third time. And it
was stopping fifty yards beyond the house where Tina Baker
lived. Two men. One small. One large. And they were walk
ing toward the front door of the Carey house. How to warn
Mr. Harrigan? No, don't warn him. Keep on, he said, what
ever happens. Do only what a poll taker would do and noth
ing more or less. Run, scream, and shout only if the poll
taker you're playing would do those things.
Easy for you to say, Tanner thought
.
Besides, you didn't
go to that other house down the street and start hallucinating
from the minute you looked at it. You didn't see smoke and
fire and hear screaming in your head while all the while
you're looking at a nice, harmless, Norman Rockwell sort of
house. That was Jared's house, wasn't it? Or did you know?
Three minutes. One more house, then the Carey house.
Oops! Nobody home. Three newspapers on the front steps.
Two and a half minutes. Well, I can't just stand here like a
dummy. Here goes nothing.
Tanner retraced her steps down a stone walkway and
paused at the edge of Spruce Street. Another car passed, a
station wagon driven by a woman in a tennis dress. Tanner stepped behind it and crossed the street, passing the hand-
painted ducks on Jane Carey's mailbox without pausing. She reached for the doorbell, remembered, then gave four sharp
raps on the Florentine knocker. The door opened a bit too quickly. It was the man, the small one who'd walked from
the Ford.
“Hi!” he said pleasantly. ”I seen you up the street. What
do you got, a petition?”
“I'm Betty Harris from the Greenwich Junior League.”
Sh
e forced an eye-contact smile and extended her hand. The
small man pretended not to see it and stepped from the door
way onto the brick steps, his attention focused on her clip
board. Tanner swallowed and continued.
“It's not a petition yet,” she answered. “We're doing a
count of residents who might be willing to accept a small tax
assessment for the purpose of repa
v
ing the station parking
lot and maintaining some shrubs and window boxes.”
“Oh yeah? What kind of flowers?” Stanley touched the
tip of her clipboard and forced Tanner to make a quarter-turn
in his direction. She was groping for an appropriate answer when a hand seized her by the hair. Another hand. Both of
Stanley's were now pressed against the small of her back,
sweeping her over the threshold before she could more than gasp. The front door slammed behind her. The hand meshed
in her hair came loose and the same arm slipped around her
throat. She could only feel the second man. But now she
could see his other hand and the long, thin knife it was hold
ing close to her face.
“One chance,” the smaller man said. “Where's Baker?”
Her eyes, wide and frightened, went from the knife's
point to Stanley's face and back again. She shook her head
as if she did not understand.
”I got no time.” Stanley brought his face closer. “You're Tanner Burke. You were with Jared Baker since last night.
One more bad answer, your face gets cut. Where's Baker
at?”
“Will I do, Stanley?”
Tanner almost fainted at the sound of Connor Harrigan's voice. She felt herself spun in his direction as Vinnie Cuneo whirled her body between his and the revolver in Harrigan's
hand. Stanley moved toward Cuneo's back but froze when
Harrigan's sights lined up on his belt buckle.
“Tell the ape to let her go, Stanley. Nicely, if you please.”
Harrigan's voice was almost cordial. But his eyes were cold and black. Their expression made even Tanner cold.
“You're Harrigan, right?” Stanley's own eyes were
wary
but not afraid. ”I hear good things about you.”
“Tell him, Stanley.” Harrigan showed his teeth.
Stanley shrugged helplessly. “He won't do it just so I won't get shot. Friends we're not. Shoot me, and for sure
he's not going to let her go. Even Vinnie ain't that stupid.”
Harrigan raised his sights to Stanley's face. Stanley
waved the gun away.
“Better we work out some arrangement here,” he sug
gested. “So far no one got hurt. The kid is asleep is all.”
Stanley's coolness was reaching Harrigan, enraging him. “Except the woman, Stanley.” Harrigan bit off the words.
“You like to hurt women, don't you?”
Where Harrigan expected fear to show on Stanley's face,
he saw only confusion.
“What woman?” Stanley asked.
“Two women, Stanley.” Harrigan knew he should not
talk, but he could not help himself. ”A woman last night
named Katherine Mulgrew. Katherine Mulgrew, Stanley. Remember it. It's in her name that you'll die this morning.”
The hooker, Stanley remembered. He nodded that he un
derstood. “What
two
women?” He was still not afraid. That and the question surprised Harrigan.
“Out there, you little shit.” Harrigan jerked a thumb
toward the kitchen. “The woman with the busted face.”
Tanner felt Vinnie Cuneo's arm tense and tighten around
her neck. Twisting her head to relieve the pressure, she saw
Stanley Levy's eyes look past her into those of the man hold
ing her. There was disgust in his expression, and she could see it was genuine. Disgust and more than a little madness.
“What did you do, Vinnie?” he asked very quietly. “Did
you beat up a woman?”
Cuneo took a step backward toward the door, his eyes
still on Harrigan. “Get the door open, Levy.” To Harrigan he
said, “You even point that gun this way, I cut her. I don't kill
her. I just cut her. It's up to you how much is left when I
reach the street out there.”
“What did you do to the woman, Vinnie?” Stanley re
peated, now ignoring Harrigan totally.
“Shut up, Levy.” Cuneo's voice was desperate.
Harrigan knew he should shoot. He should place one
round in the narrow chest of Stanley Levy and then walk up
close and place another through Cuneo's head. It would give
rest to the soul of Kate Mulgrew and not least to the soul of
Connor Harrigan, who sent her to her death. But he could
not bring himself to fire yet. For there he was, murder in his
heart, yet paid no heed by Stanley Levy or now by Levy's
gorilla, who seemed to fear the little man's words more than he feared Harrigan's gun.
“What did I tell you, Vinnie?” Stanley's voice was con
trolled, like that of an admonishing parent. ”I said lock her
in the cellar, a closet maybe, maybe tie her up and put her in a nice chair so she wouldn't get all stiff. So what did you do,
Vinnie? You punched her, right?”
“No!”
“You used your fist. Your mother never talked to you about
punching women? Maybe she was afraid to. Maybe she was afraid you'd hit her also. Did you slap your mother around,
Vinnie? Did she go to her grave knowing she had a son who
would punch the saint that bore the pain to give him life?”
“Don't start that shit,” Vinnie Cuneo screamed. There
was panic in his voice. He shifted his knife to the hand that
held Tanner Burke, and with the other he groped for the
doorknob. “Don't start that shit about mothers. She was grabbin' for the phone. I belted her because she was grab
bin’ for the phone.”
Harrigan raised his gun to eye level. “Miss Burke,” he
said calmly, “would you tilt your head a wee bit to the right,
please?”
Tanner hesitated, her eyes wide, then snapped her head to
one side, exposing Vinnie Cuneo. Cuneo knew what was happening. He tried to follow. But something stopped his
head. His eye nearest Stanley winced and quivered shut
while the other blinked wide. Even as he squeezed the trig
ger, Harrigan could see what was holding the face in his line
of fire. The ice pick in Stanley's hand was buried deep into
Cuneo's right cheek. Now, with a roar that deafened Tanner,
Harrigan shot off the left cheek.
Cuneo, and Tanner with him, slammed backward
against
a blood-sprayed wall. The arm fell away, slashing at the air,
and Tanner dropped. On her knees, stunned by the muzzle
blast of Harrigan's shot, she turned and screamed at what
she saw. Harrigan stepped past her. With his free hand, he seized her roughly by the collar of her jacket and threw her
aside to safety while his long barrel swung onto Stanley's
chest. Stanley had backed away, his hands raised, the blood
ied ice pick dangling harmlessly from his fingertips. At Har
rigan's feet, the hoodlum thrashed blindly. Harrigan brought
his barrel down hard against his skull and Vinnie Cuneo was
still. Slowly, Stanley Levy let his body slide down the cor
ner of the entrance hall until he was sitting on the floor. The
ice pick fell between his feet.