"Please, Grace..."
"Be quiet!" Cautiously, keeping the gun trained on Davey, Grace squatted down on her haunches and reached under the bed herself. She pulled out a brown manila folder.
"Is this it?"
Davey nodded. "Once you were safe, I was going to take it to a lawyer, I swear to God! I would have helped you launch an appeal."
Grace pressed the folder to her chest like a lover. Then she released the safety catch on the gun. "Have you shown this to anyone? The police, or the press?"
Davey shook his head vehemently. "No one. The only people that know this exists are you and I."
It was the right answer. Grace smiled. Davey felt relieved. She's going to let me live.
Grace picked up a pillow from the bed. Holding it in front of the gun, she said coolly, "You betrayed me. Do you know what the punishment is for traitors, Davey?"
Before he could answer, he heard the muffled sound of the shot, followed by a warm, wet sensation in his lower body.
After that, there was nothing.
MITCH CONNORS SURVEYED THE SCENE. THE hotel maid who made the call had such poor English, and was so terrified and hysterical, he hadn't known what to expect. But it definitely wasn't this.
Despite himself, Mitch burst out laughing.
"It's not funny!"
Davey Buccola was in the middle of the room, naked and trussed up like a chicken with the cord from the window blinds. Literally like a chicken. After he'd passed out, someone - Grace - had tarred and feathered him. Feathers from the hotel pillows had been stuck to his limbs with hair gel, and the word traitor written across his forehead in permanent marker. The same permanent marker, Mitch presumed, that was sticking out of Davey's asshole now like a poultry thermometer.
"From where I'm standing, buddy, it is a little funny." Mitch was starting to like Grace more and more.
A single bullet was lodged in the wall next to the window. Below it, in a pile on the floor, lay Davey's soiled clothes. Buccola must have been so terrified when Grace fired the shot into the pillow, he'd lost control of his bowels.
"She's psychotic!" Davey sobbed. "She could have killed me! I want police protection."
"Yeah, and I want Gisele Bündchen to lick whipped cream off my balls but it ain't gonna happen," said Mitch wryly. "Untie him, somebody, would you? If I have to look at that ass crack for one more second, I'm gonna need some serious therapy. I may never eat chicken again."
"Shouldn't we take some pictures first, boss? Document the crime scene?"
"Who for?" Mitch laughed even harder. "Colonel Sanders?"
"You're not taking this seriously!" Davey Buccola did his best to sound indignant, not an easy thing to do with a Sharpie stuck up your ass. "Grace Brookstein threatened me at gunpoint. That's armed robbery! Don't you care?"
"About you, Buccola? No, I don't care. And what do you mean 'armed robbery'? Robbery of what? What did she steal?"
Davey hesitated.
"Either you tell me, or I'm gonna leave you here like this."
"If I tell you, will you give me police protection?"
Mitch walked toward the door.
"Wait!" Davey yelped. "Okay, okay. There was a file. Information about her husband's death. We think...we believe that Lenny Brookstein was murdered."
"What?"
"I was working with Grace. Investigating the case. That's why she broke out of Bedford. She doesn't care about the money. All she wants is to find who killed her husband. Who set her up. She wants vengeance."
Mitch could understand about wanting vengeance. He thought back to the day Grace had called him. "I didn't steal any money, Detective. I was framed and so was my husband." Was it possible?
"Why the hell didn't you tell me this earlier?" he shouted. But as soon as he'd said the words, he knew the answer: "You were going to sell the information, weren't you? You greedy little shit."
Davey Buccola was silent.
"So you gave her this file?"
"I had to! She had a gun..."
"You have a copy, right? Tell me you have a copy."
LESS THAN THREE MILES AWAY, GRACE lay in a bathtub, rereading Davey's information for the hundredth time.
Suddenly she sat bolt upright. There it was, in black and white.
I know who killed Lenny.
At last, the hunt was on.
Chapter Twenty-Two
ANDREW PRESTON WALKED DOWN WALL STREET with a familiar feeling of tightness in his chest. Maria was in the throes of a new affair. He knew the signs by now. The bedside drawer stuffed with receipts from La Perla. The Brazilian bikini wax she booked after their Hong Kong trip, not before. This morning, he'd even walked in on her singing La Traviata in the shower.
If only I didn't love her so much. None of this would have happened.
It was five thirty, and the street was already crowded with traders and secretarial staff on their way home. Since he'd started his new job in the M&A division at Lazard, Andrew often worked till nine or ten at night. But this was a Thursday: gym night. Andrew's doctor had emphasized how vital it was for him to exercise regularly. "Nothing combats stress like a good game of racquetball. No point being a big swinging dick on Wall Street if your heart gives out at forty-five, you know what I'm saying?"
Andrew knew what his doctor was saying. Although he couldn't help but question the judgment of anyone who perceived him, Andrew Preston, as a "big swinging dick." Maria certainly didn't. Whatever he achieved, however much money he made, it was never enough. Andrew's vintage Aston Martin DB5 was parked in an underground garage, four buildings down from his office. The rates were extortionate, but driving to work was one of the few small luxuries he allowed himself. Mindful of his heart, he took the stairs to P4 instead of the elevator, pressed the unlock button on his remote and jumped into the driver's seat.