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“Greg Downing,” Myron replied.
“Bingo, Myron. Do you believe it’s just bad luck that Greg Downing is the only connection we can find between any of the victims?”
“It could be,” Myron said.
“But do you believe it?”
“No,” Myron said. “I don’t believe it.”
“So that means we know what one thing for certain?” PT asked. “Whatever is going on here, whoever or whatever is responsible for all these murders—it’s directly connected to your old nemesis, Greg Downing.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
You stand under the red awning for the Michelangelo Hotel on 51st Street near Seventh Avenue. A rain so light it is barely a mist falls. The wind blows it under the awning. For a moment you close your eyes and enjoy the feel of it on your face. It brings you back to your childhood. You’re not sure why. You always liked the ocean. You remember sitting on the edge of the jetty rocks, the waves crashing near you, closing your eyes like this and feeling the spray. You’d open your mouth and stick out your tongue so you could taste the salt.
You open your eyes and wait. You are patient. It is one of your learned strengths. It didn’t come naturally to you, but you could now be called detail oriented, overcautious, plodding even. But you know. One mistake could end it for you. That has never been clearer.
And a mistake has been made.
Half an hour goes by. You have walked up and down 51st Street from this awning on Seventh Avenue down to the Major League Baseball flagship store on Sixth. There is a line to get inside the baseball store. You scowl at that. Grown men buy baseball jerseys for two hundred dollars. Not children. Grown men. They wear baseball jerseys of their “heroes” in public.
You shake your head over that.
You can’t help but think it would be nice to pop one of these guys in the head just for the fun of it.
And you do have a gun on you.
You didn’t used to think that way. Or wait, maybe you did. Maybe we all do. Just for a fleeting second. Look at that douchebag in the sports jersey, we all tell ourselves. Be nice to… But then we stop, of course. We smile to ourselves. It’s all just fun and games. We don’t really want to hurt anyone. We don’t ever let ourselves go there because if we do, if we go there even once, we may not ever come back.
That’s what happened to you, isn’t it?
You hear this about the addictive quality of, say, heroin. You may be tempted to try it, but if you do, if you get even one hit, they say you may never come back. That may be true, that may not be true. You don’t know.
But for you, it was true about murder.
It is then, when you look back down toward Seventh Avenue, that you see Myron and Win leave Le Bernardin.
You turn toward the baseball store and pretend to window-shop. There are mannequins in full gear, including cleats and those bizarre stirrup socks. You wonder whether some losers actually buy the entire uniform of a favorite player. You remember a long time ago going to the US Open tennis tournament in Queens and seeing some spectators dressed in full tennis gear—collared shirt, shorts, sweatbands—as though one of the playing pros might call them out in mid-set to join them on the court of play.
Pathetic.
Stop, you tell yourself. You’re getting distracted.
You step closer to the window. Your collar is turned up. You have on a mild disguise because you are always smart enough to wear a mild disguise. Nothing flashy. But no one who knows you would recognize you. It would be hard for witnesses to accurately describe you.
Myron and Win cross Sixth Avenue. They don’t talk. They don’t seem to need to. They just walk side by side.
You have the gun.
You mostly watch Myron Bolitar. You wish you had more time. You are rushing and that is never a good thing. But there is no choice now. It is all moving fast. You wonder.
Shoot him now, a voice inside tells you.
The streets are crowded. The gunshot would cause panic. You could even kill another person or two, get something of a stampede going. That would be a distraction. You’d get away.
Sometimes it pays to play. Sometimes it pays to just act.
Perhaps now was a time for action.
