Just One Look

Second, the man would have to be distracted. He watched her a lot. He was also armed. He had a weapon in his waistband. He would be able to draw it out far faster than she could. So she had to make sure that he was not looking at her—that his attention was, in some way, diverted.

“Take this exit.”

The sign read ARMONK. They had only been on 287 for maybe three or four miles. They were not going to be crossing the Tappan Zee Bridge. She had thought that perhaps the bridge would have provided another opportunity. There were tollbooths there. She could have tried to escape or somehow signal the toll worker, though she couldn’t imagine that working. Her captor would be watching her if they’d pulled up to the tollbooth. He would, she bet, have put his hand on her knee.

She veered to the right and up the ramp. She began to work it out in her head again. When you really thought about it, Grace’s best bet would be to wait until they reached their destination. For one thing, if indeed he really was taking her to Jack, well, Jack would be there, right? That made some sense.

But more than that, when they stopped the car, they would both have to get out. Obvious, yes, but it would provide an opportunity. He would get out on his side. She would get out on hers.

This could be her diversion.

Again she started rehearsing it in her head. She would open the car door. As she swung her legs out, she’d pull up the cuff. Her legs would be on the ground and blocked by the car. He wouldn’t see. If she timed it right, he would be getting out on his side of the car at the same time. He’d turn his back. She’d be able to pull out the weapon.

“Take the next right,” he said. “And then the second left.”

They were moving through a town Grace didn’t know. There were more trees here than in Kasselton. The houses looked older, more lived-in, more private.

“Pull into the driveway over there. Third on the left.”

Grace’s hands stayed tight on the wheel. She pulled into the driveway. He told her to stop in front of the house.

She took a breath and waited for him to open the door and get out.

• • •

Perlmutter had never seen anything like it.

The guy in the van, an overweight man with a standard issue mafiosa sweat suit, was dead. His last few moments had not been pleasant. The big man’s neck was, well, flat, totally flat, as if a steam-roller had somehow managed to roll over only the man’s throat, leaving his head and torso intact.

Daley, never one at a loss for words, said, “Serious grossness.” Then he added, “He looks familiar.”

“Richie Jovan,” Perlmutter said. “Works low level for Carl Vespa.”

“Vespa?” Daley repeated. “He’s involved in this?”

Perlmutter shrugged. “This has to be Wu’s handiwork.”

Scott Duncan was turning white. “What the hell is going on?”

“It’s simple, Mr. Duncan.” Perlmutter turned to face him. “Rocky Conwell worked for Indira Khariwalla, a private investigator you hired. The same man—Eric Wu—murdered Conwell, killed this poor schmuck, and was last seen driving away from that school with Grace Lawson.” Perlmutter moved toward him. “You want to tell us what’s going on now?”

Another police car screeched to a stop. Veronique Baltrus came flying out. “Got it.”

“What?”

“Eric Wu at yenta-match.com. He was using the name Stephen Fleisher.” She sprinted over to them, the raven hair tied back in a tight bun. “Yenta-match sets up Jewish widows and widowers. Wu had three online flirtations going on at the same time. One woman is from Washington, DC. Another lives in Wheeling, West Virginia. And the last one, a Beatrice Smith, resides in Armonk, New York.”

Perlmutter broke into a run. No doubt, he thought. That was where Wu had gone. Scott Duncan followed. The ride to Armonk would take no more than twenty minutes.

“Call the Armonk Police Department,” he shouted to Baltrus. “Tell them to send every available unit right away.”

chapter 45

Grace waited for the man to get out.

The lot was wooded so that the house was hard to see from the road. There were cathedral points and lots of deck space. Grace could see an aging barbecue. There were a string of lights, the old lantern kind, but the lanterns were weathered and torn. There was a rusted swing set in the back, like ruins from another era. There had been parties here once. A family. People who liked to entertain friends. The house had the feel of a ghost town, as if you expected tumbleweeds to roll past.

“Turn off the ignition.”

Grace ran it over again. Open the door. Swing the legs out. Pull out the gun. Take aim . . .

And then what? Tell him to put his hands up? Just shoot him in the chest? What?

She flicked off the ignition and waited for him to get out first. He reached for the door handle. She readied herself. His eyes were on the front door of the house. She slid her hand down a little.

Should she go for it now?

No. Wait until he starts getting out. Don’t hesitate. Any hesitation and she would lose the edge.

The man stopped with his hand on the handle. Then he turned around, made a fist, and hit Grace so hard in the lower ribs she thought the whole cage would cave in like a bird’s nest. There was a thud and a crack.

Pain exploded across Grace’s side.

She thought that her whole body would simply give out. The man grabbed her head with one hand. With the other he traced his hand down the side of her rib cage. His index finger came to rest on the spot he’d just hit, at the bottom of the rib cage.

His voice was gentle. “Please tell me how you got that picture.”

She opened her mouth but nothing came out. He nodded as if he’d expected that. His hand dropped off her. He opened the car door and got out. Grace was dizzy from the pain.

The gun, she thought. Get the goddamn gun!

But he was already on the other side of the car. He opened her door. His hand took hold of her neck, his thumb on one side, his index finger on the other. He squeezed the pressure points and started to lift. Grace tried to stay with him. The movement jarred her ribs. It felt like someone had jammed a screwdriver between two bones and was jerking it up and down.

He dragged her out by the neck. Every step was a new adventure in pain. She tried not to breathe. When she did, even that slight expansion of the ribs made the tendons feel like they were being freshly ripped. He yanked her toward the house. The front door was unlocked. He turned the knob, pushed it open, and tossed her inside. She fell hard, nearly passing out.