Ambush (Michael Bennett 11)

sion stared at us.

The middle-aged nurse said, “I know I’m not seeing a visitor in a semiprivate room more than an hour after visiting hours are over. Tell me that’s not what I’m seeing.”

Mary Catherine stammered, “You don’t understand—”

The nurse didn’t let her finish. “No, sugar, you don’t understand. I can’t show any favorites. Even if this young man is a hero and risked his life for the city today, it’s my job to make sure pretty young things like you don’t throw off his schedule. Now, you need to head out of here, get a good night’s rest, and come back at 10:00 a.m. Not before. Wait until at least ten o’clock.”

I had to smile. That was how you handled someone. She could’ve been a cop or a priest or a teacher. Thank God she was a nurse.

Chapter 11

Alex slipped into Aretsky’s Patroon well after the usual dinner crowd had gotten settled. The popular steak house near 46th Street and Third Avenue was one of her favorite stops in the city. There was no denying her South American heritage. She was a meat eater.

Deciding that a seat at the cozy bar was her best bet, Alex slid onto an empty stool at the end of the bar with no one near her. She ordered a glass of 2010 Carmignano from the thin bartender, whom she recognized. He gave her a quick smile and even managed to wink his drooping right eye.

After she ordered her favorite dish, the roasted veal chop with fennel and vegetables, she relaxed for the first time all day. She liked the comfortable atmosphere of the bar. Sports memorabilia hung high on the walls. A bat from Derek Jeter over the door. One of Wayne Gretzky’s hockey sticks from his last game as a New York Ranger behind the bar.

She sipped her wine and thought about her life back in Colombia. That was where she wanted to be. In the open spaces, with people who loved her. Not in a crowded, dirty city with people she was paid to kill.

She was a little bothered that she couldn’t find the information she needed to close her contract on Michael Bennett. The Mexican cartel liaison she dealt with, who constantly bragged about his contacts, wasn’t able to help her, either. She learned a new lesson about depending on the cartel’s contacts. She hadn’t developed her own for this job and was in the dark. She didn’t like the feeling.

Her cartel contact knew only that one of the gunmen she had used was at NewYork–Presbyterian in the ICU.

Alex wasn’t going to let that ruin her night. She lingered over her delicious meal and even chatted with the bartender a little bit. He had an eastern European accent, but his name tag said LARRY.

She watched the couples come and go through the restaurant. This time of the evening it was a decidedly younger crowd, stockbrokers from Wall Street and other young people who thought they would rule the city one day.

Those kinds of ambitions had never interested her. She had wanted to do something creative since she was a little girl. It wasn’t until she was older, after her father was murdered, that she discovered you could be creative in any number of jobs.

Her father’s death, from a single gunshot wound to the head, had affected her in so many ways. Most of them she preferred not to explore too deeply. She’d get nothing of benefit by hanging on to the past.

Her fashion photography had provided a welcome outlet for her creativity. And, surprisingly, she could mix her two occupations with some frequency. It was easy to scout locations for both a photo shoot and a contract. They didn’t necessarily have to be two different places.

Once she had finished most of what was on her plate, just as her mother had taught her to do, Alex raised her hand to catch the bartender’s attention. She noticed that in addition to his drooping right eye, Larry had a shuffle in his gait. He seemed a little young to have suffered a stroke. She wondered if the secret police in his home country were anything like the police she had dealt with in Colombia over the years.

She pulled a simple Yves Saint Laurent leather wallet from her purse. Before she even had it opened, Larry raised his hands.

He had a broad smile when he said, “It’s already been taken care of.”

“What? By whom?”

“The man at the end of the bar by the door.”

Alex turned to see an attractive man a few years older than she was, wearing an expensive suit, raise a glass of Scotch and smile.

She plopped a fifty-dollar bill on the bar and said, “Then this is for you.”

Larry didn’t offer much resistance.

She turned toward the door and walked out with her confident stride. As she was about to reach the man sitting at the end of the bar, she turned her head slightly, smiled, and said, “Thank you for dinner.”

Then she kept walking. The guy was lucky he didn’t try to stop her. She had things to do.

Chapter 12

The floor nurse had made the hospital policy clear to Mary Catherine, and my fiancée left without too much fuss. Although I liked having her with me, I felt better knowing she was home and would have a chance to sleep. Besides, it would be more comforting to the kids in the morning if she were there.

The drugs felt like they were starting to wear off, but I wasn’t tired. Instead I found myself staring up at the stained ceiling. I replayed my last moments with Antrole Martens over and over. The sickening sound of the hand grenade as it rolled on the rough, carpeted floor. The stinging of the dust in my eyes from the bullets winging through the wall. The sound of people in the other apartments as they scrambled for their lives. A gunfight could be a complicated and devastating business for a cop. Losing a partner was something you never got over.