Broken (Otherworld 6)

Barry's Diner advertised itself as "home of the best blueberry pie in New York City." That should have been the tip-off, but the sign outside said only "Award-winning homemade pie." So I'd come in hoping for a slice of fresh apple pie and found myself amid a sea of diners eating blueberry. Sure, the restaurant carried apple, but if everyone else was eating blueberry, I couldn't stand out by ordering something different. It didn't help that I had to accompany the pie with decaf coffee--in a place that seemed to only brew one pot and leave it simmering all day. The regular coffee smelled great, but caffeine was off my menu today.

A man in a dirt-encrusted ball-cap clanked his metal lunchbox onto the counter beside my plate. "He got another one last night. Number four. Police just confirmed it."

I slanted my gaze his way, in case he was talking to me. He wasn't, of course. I was invisible...or as close to it as a non-superhero could get, having donned the ultimate female disguise: no makeup and thirty-five pounds of extra padding.

"Who'd he get this time?" the server asked as she poured coffee for the newcomer.

"Little old Chinese lady closing up her shop. Choked her with a wire."

"Garroted," said a man sitting farther down the counter.

"Gary who?"

The other man folded his newspaper, rustling it with a flourish. "Garroted. If you use something to strangle someone, it's called garroting. The Spanish used it as a method of execution."

I glanced at the speaker. A silver-haired man in a suit, manicured fingernails resting on his Wall Street Journal. Definitely not the sort you'd expect to know the origin of the term "garroted." Next thing you know, his neighbors would be on TV, telling the world he'd seemed like such a nice man.

They continued talking, but I ignored them. The old Nadia Stafford would have been right in there, following every media blip, debating motivation, second-guessing the investigation, searching for the crucial missing clue or overlooked lead. But for the new me, the only important aspect of the case was the resolution, finding out how the killer screwed up. So I tuned them out, finished my mediocre pie and coffee, and left.

Duty called.

&nb

sp; I stood in the subway station, and waited for Dean Moretti.

Moretti was a Mafia wannabe, a small-time thug with tenuous connections to the Tomassini crime family. Three months earlier, he had decided it was time to strike out on his own, so he'd made a deal with the nephew of a local drug lord. Together they'd set up business in a residential neighborhood that, oddly enough, no dealer had previously tapped--probably because it was under the protection of the Riccio family.

When the Riccios found out, they went to the Tomassinis, who went to the drug lord, and they decided, among the three of them, that this was not an acceptable entrepreneurial scheme. The drug lord's nephew had caught the first plane to South America and was probably hiding in the jungle, living on fish and berries. Moretti wasn't so easily spooked, which probably spoke more to a lack of intelligence than an excess of nerve.

While I waited for him, I wandered about the platform, taking note of every post, every garbage can, every doorway. Busywork, really. I already knew this station so well I could navigate it blindfolded.

I'd spent three days watching Moretti, long enough to know he was a man who liked routines. Right on schedule, he bounced down the steps, ready for his train home after a long day spent breaking kneecaps for a local bookie.

Partway down the stairs he stopped and surveyed the crowd below. His gaze paused on anyone of Italian ancestry, anyone wearing a trenchcoat, anyone carrying a bulky satchel, anyone who looked...dangerous. Too dumb to run, but not so dumb that he didn't know he was in deep shit with the Tomassinis. At work, he always had a partner with him. From here, he'd take the subway to a house where he was bunking down with friends, taking refuge in numbers. This short trip was the only time he could be found alone, obviously having decided public transit was safe enough.

As he scouted the crowd from the steps, people jostled him from behind, but he met their complaints with a snarl that sent them skittering around him. After a moment, he continued his descent into the subway pit. At the bottom, he cut through a group of young businessmen, then stopped amidst a gaggle of careworn older women chattering in Spanish. He kept watching the crowd, but his gaze swept past me. The invisible woman.

I made my way across the platform, eyes straining to see down the tunnel, pretending to look for my train, flexing my hands as I allowed myself one heart-tripping moment of anticipation. I closed my eyes and listened to the distant thumping of the oncoming train, felt the currents of air from the tunnel.

I felt as if I was standing in an airplane hatch, waiting to leap. Everything planned, checked, rechecked, every step of the next few minutes choreographed, the contingencies mapped out, should obstacles arise. Like skydiving, I control what I can, down to the most minute detail, creating the ordered perfection that sets my mind at ease. Yet I know that in a few seconds, when I make my move, I will still leave some small bit to fate. And that's what sets my pulse racing.

I don't think of what I'm about to do. It's too late. I have to clear my mind and concentrate on the end goal. Hesitate and I'll fail.

I inhale deeply, and concentrate on the moment, slowing my breathing, my pulse.

No fear. No time to second guess. No chance to turn back. No desire to turn back.

At the squeal of the approaching train, I opened my eyes, unclenched my hands and turned toward Moretti.

Free fall.

I quickened my pace until I was beside him. Tension blew off him in waves. His right hand was jammed into the pocket of his leather jacket, undoubtedly fondling a nice piece of hardware.

Finally, the train headlights broke through the darkness.

Moretti stepped forward. I stepped on the heel of the woman in front of me. She stumbled. The crowd, so tightly pressed together, wobbled as one body.

As I jostled against Moretti, my hand slid inside his jacket. A deft jab followed by a clumsy shove as I "recovered" my balance. Moretti only grunted and pushed back, then clamored onto the train with the crowd.