The 6th Target (Women's Murder Club 6)

“Sure, okay. So Barnaby wasn’t the first. Mrs. Neely’s poodle was found dead in a stairwell, and that poor woman blamed herself because she’d forgotten to lock her door.”

“I take it someone in the building doesn’t care for dogs.”

“I mean, yeah,” the brunette woman continued. “But there’s more. A month ago, Mr. Franks, a real nice guy who lived on the second floor, had a moving van come, like, in the middle of the night. He left Fern a packet of threatening letters that had been slipped under his door over a number of months.”

“What kind of threats?”

“Death threats. Can you believe it?”

“Why didn’t he call the police?”

“I guess he did. But the letters were anonymous. The cops asked a few questions, then let the whole thing drop. Typical crap.”

“And I assume Mr. Franks had a dog?”

“No. He had a stereo. I’m Debbie Green, by the way.” The woman smiled broadly. “2F.” S

he shook Cindy’s hand.

“I’m Cindy Thomas. 3B.”

“Nice to meet you, Cindy. Welcome to A Nightmare at the Blakely Arms.”

Cindy smiled uncertainly. “So aren’t you scared?”

“Kinda.” Debbie sighed. “But my apartment is fantastic. . . . I’m dating someone now. I think I’ve talked him into moving in.”

“Lucky you.” Cindy turned her attention back to the meeting as a stooped elderly gentleman was recognized by the board president.

“Mr. Horn.”

“Thank you. What bothers me the most is the stealth,” he said. “The notes under the doors. The murdered pets. I think Margery is on to something. If the police can’t help us, we must form a tenants’ patrol —”

Voices erupted, and Ms. Galperin cried out, “People, raise your hands, please! Tom, you have something to say?”

A man in his thirties stood up. He was slight and balding, standing far across the room from Cindy.

“A tenants’ patrol scares the hell out of me,” he said. “Who-ever is terrorizing the Blakely Arms could sign up to be on a patrol — and then he wouldn’t have to sneak around. He could walk the halls with impunity. How scary would that be?

“About three hundred eighty-five people live in this building, and more than half of us are here tonight. The odds are nearly fifty-fifty that our own private terrorist is in this room. Right now.”

Chapter 61

YUKI HAD NEVER SEEN Leonard Parisi mad before. “Red Dog,” as he was called, was red haired, tall, more than two hundred pounds, usually affable and avuncular — but right now his dark eyes were pumping bullets as he pounded the conference table with his fist.

Platters of leftover Chinese food jumped.

The five new ADAs around the table looked shocked, with the exception of David Hale, who’d had the bad judgment to remark that the Brinkley case was a “slam dunk.”

“There’s no such thing as a slam dunk,” Parisi roared. “O. J. was a slam dunk.”

“Robert Durst,” said Yuki.

“Bingo,” Parisi said, staring around at all of them. “Durst admitted that he killed his neighbor, chopped him into a dozen parts, and dumped him into the ocean — and a jury of his peers found him ‘not guilty.’

“And that’s our challenge with Brinkley, David. We have a taped confession and more witnesses than we can count. The crime was caught on tape. And still, it’s not a slam dunk.”

“But, Leonard,” Hale said, “that tape of the crime makes the killer in the act. It’s admissible and indisputable.”