Jiang hesitated, but only for an instant. Then he took long, gangly strides, almost as if he was trying to run wearing a full-length skirt, heading back toward the row house he’d just come out of. He would have correctly figured he’d still be in danger if he kept going and reached the Mercedes.
Everybody had it wrong though. Jiang, the bodyguards, Sampson and I.
The shots came from behind the drug dealer, from the opposite direction on the street.
Three loud cracks from a long gun.
Jiang went down and stayed there on the sidewalk, not moving at all. Blood poured from the side of his head as if there were a spout there. I doubted he was alive.
I spun around and looked toward the rooftop of a brownstone connected to more roofs lining the other side of M.
I saw a blond man, and he did the strangest thing: He bowed in our direction. I couldn’t believe what he’d just done. Taken a bow?
Then he ducked behind a brick parapet and completely disappeared from sight.
Sampson and I sprinted across M and entered the building. We raced upstairs, four flights in a hurry. When we got to the roof, the shooter was gone. No one in sight anywhere.
Had it been the Irish hitter? The Butcher? The mob hit man sent from New York?
Who the hell else could it have been?
I still couldn’t believe what I’d seen. Not just that he’d gotten Jiang An-Lo so easily. But that he’d taken a bow after his performance.
Chapter 11
THE BUTCHER FOUND IT EASY to blend in with the hot-shit college students on the campus of George Washington University. He was dressed in jeans and a gray, rumpled tee that said “Athletic Department,” and he carried around a beat-up Isaac Asimov novel. He spent the morning reading Foundation on various benches, checking out the coeds, but mostly tracking Marianne, Marianne. Okay, he was a little obsessive. Least of his problems.
He did like the girl and had been watching her for twenty-four hours now, which was how she came to break his heart. She’d gone and shot her mouth off. He knew it for sure because he’d heard her talking to her best friend, Cindi, about a “counselor” she’d spoken to a few days before. Then she’d gone back for a second “counseling” session, against his explicit order and warning.
Mistake, Marianne.
After her noon class in hoity-toity eighteenth-century British literature, Marianne, Marianne left the campus, and he followed her in a group of at least twenty students. He could tell right away that she was headed to her apartment. Good deal.
Maybe she was done for the day, or maybe she had a long break between classes. Didn’t matter either way. She’d broken the rules, and she had to be dealt with.
Once he knew where she was going, he decided to beat her there. As a senior, she was allowed to live off campus, and she shared a small two-bedroom off of Thirty-ninth Street on Davis with young Cindi. The place was a fourth-floor walk-up, and he had no trouble getting inside. The front door had a key lock. What a joke that was.
He decided to get comfortable while he waited, so he stripped down, took off his shoes and all his clothes. Truth was, he didn’t want to get blood on his duds.
Then he waited for the girl, read some more of his book, hung out. As soon as Marianne walked inside her bedroom, the Butcher wrapped both arms around her and placed the scalpel under her chin.
“Hello, Marianne, Marianne,” he whispered. “Didn’t I tell you not to talk?”
“I didn’t tell anyone,” she said. “Please.”
“You’re lying. I told you what was going to happen. Hell, I even showed you.”
“I didn’t tell. I promise.”
“I made a promise too, Marianne. Made it on my mother’s eyes.”
Suddenly he sliced left to right across the college girl’s throat. Then he cut her again, going the other way.
While she writhed on the floor, choking to death, he took some photos.
Prizewinners, no doubt about it. He didn’t ever want to forget Marianne, Marianne.
Chapter 12