Obsession in Death (In Death 40)

But she did just that, slid back, cut in the opposite direction, slid out. Resisted giving those blasting horns the middle finger.

She kissed the curb, cut again, inched, swore. Then clicked to vertical, jimmied the wheel—ignored Peabody’s murmurings because they sounded a lot like prayers. Then lowered.

She figured she had about a finger-width front and back, and that was good enough.

“That clunker behind?” McNab commented. “That doesn’t have vertical option. Not going to be able to get out.”

“Not my problem—and I’m not going to be long.”

Her problem, she admitted, would be getting out again.

For now, she stepped out on the sidewalk.

She’d lived in this neighborhood once, one made up primarily of working class, with some deeper pockets—that would be Mavis and Leonardo—tossed in. A few signs of gentrification here and there, but the coffee shop, the little market, the tinier deli were all still in business.

The hole-in-the-wall Chinese place across the street still had a sign out for a delivery boy. Why didn’t they—

Eve spotted her as a maxibus pulled away from its stop. Just steps from Ming Yee’s, strolling along, the box under her arm.

And though she wore sunshades Eve knew the instant she was spotted in turn.

“UNSUB, two o’clock. Call it in! Call it in!” Eve shouted as she clambered over the bumper of the clunker to pursue the already running figure in the bulky brown coat.

She leaped between a Rapid Cab and a mini, shot out an arm as if to stop an oncoming van through sheer force of will. She had to dodge behind it, lost another five seconds skirting around a sedan, then hit the other sidewalk at a dead run.

Now she fought her way through the obstacle course of pedestrians, eyes trained on the damn brown coat. She’d lost half a block, more, getting across the street, and whatever the body type under that coat, the woman could run.

She didn’t look back, didn’t give Eve a glimpse of profile, just poured on the speed.

People shouted, some swore as the brown coat shoved, hard enough to knock a woman, her briefcase, and her market bag to the sidewalk.

A few people moved in to assist, formed a knot. Rather than cut through it, Eve veered left, nearly collided with a guy carting a toddler.

More seconds lost, but she saw the coat run around the corner, going east.

By the time she rounded it, the brown coat was nowhere in sight. She scanned the street, up, across, hissed in frustration.

“He nearly knocked me down!” A woman, obviously incensed, huffed out of a dank little bar and grill.

“Forget it, Sherry, it’s New York.”

Eve pushed past the unsympathetic man, rushed into the bar. And ran through the smell of fried onions and spilled brew, over the sticky floor, around spindly tables to the clatter and crash and shouts through the swinging door in the back.

The bartender shouted, “Hey, lady!” but she was already hitting the doors.

She started to leap over some unfortunate waiter sprawled on the floor with broken crockery, a slick spill of soup. and what might’ve been a Reuben.

A mountain in a stained white apron, cocked white hat, and furious eyes blocked her path.

“Get the hell out of my kitchen!” He shoved her back so she nearly skidded in the pool of soup and went down.

“Police, goddamn it.” She dug for her badge. “And I’ll haul all three hundred pounds of you into Central unless you get the fuck out of my way.”

“Out the back,” he said as he moved aside. “Make a hole!”

Kitchen staff jumped out of her way, but that left pots, dishes, cutlery scattered over the floor.

Eve pushed a prep cart out of her way, climbed over the cans, bottles, tubes on the portable shelf the suspect had been smart enough to haul down.