labored.
That’s better
, he thought.
Inside his apartment, he slid the briefcase onto the top shelf of his closet. Then he went into his bedroom
and stripped off his outfit, allowing his clothes to accumulate at his feet. Posing nude before the tall mirror on the closet door, he flexed his muscles. He liked the way his rail-thin body bulged and rippled on command. Still shaking, he pulled on a long, baggy sweatshirt, knee-length shorts, and dirty sneakers.
Hurry
, he thought, shaping his hair into bangs. He pulled a knit cap over his head, then shouldered a knapsack that he had purchased at an Army surplus store. Knapsack Johnny always blended in with the young people in the East Village. He would have looked perfect if he had allowed stubble to grow on his chin; unfortunately, Byron never left the apartment without shaving.
In the bathroom, Marc selected a pair of green contact lenses, but as he tried to insert them his hands trembled.
He needed to see the Needle Man.
4
J ake slipped his NYPD calling card into the last door on the ground floor of Shannon’s apartment building. He had started at the top and worked his way down, and had conducted eighteen interviews. Few of the tenants knew Shannon or Meg, and they offered only ambivalent comments about them. He glanced at his watch: 11:30 a.m. Edgar would not be back for another hour. Snapping his coat shut, Jake stepped outside. The temperature had risen with the sun, which cast long shadows over the empty playground across the street.
“I have to run an errand,” he told the patrolman stationed outside the door. “If Detective Hopkins shows up, tell him I’ll be right back. Keep the press out.”
“Yes, sir.”
He lit a cigarette and headed up the sidewalk toward Eleventh Avenue. Passing the parked white van used by the Crime Scene Unit, he pictured the forensic team, dressed in blue jumpsuits and yellow latex gloves, combing through the crime scene behind him. So far, the DNA detectives had been as befuddled by the lack of evidence left behind by the Cipher as Special Homicide had been.
As he turned the corner, the smell of burnt toast and coffee filled his nostrils. He passed a bagel shop and Kearny’s Tavern, a popular cop hangout owned by a retired arson squad detective, and crossed the street. As he neared Twelfth Avenue and Forty-sixth Street, the cacophony of traffic sounds faded behind him.
A black prostitute stood on a shadowy stoop ahead of him, gyrating her hips as she balanced on high pumps. Clad in a tight, one-piece bathing suit the color of midnight, she ran her large hands between her muscular thighs and shook her taut ass for him. She wore a wig with straight black hair, and gold hoop earrings.
“My pussy itches,” she said in a deep voice. “My big pussy.”
Jake smirked. “You can’t scratch what you ain’t got, darlin’.”
The transvestite placed his hands on his hips. “You cold.”
“I gotta call them how I see them, and I see baggage where I shouldn’t. The Halloween Parade was yesterday.”
“Suit yourself.” The transvestite scanned the sidewalk for another mark. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”
“I think I do. Aren’t you out a little early?”
“You Vice?”
“Nope. Homicide.”
“You never heard of overtime? I like working the lunch crowd.”
Chuckling, Jake took a final drag on his cigarette, flicked it at a rusty trash can tied to a low, black metal fence, and walked on. He reached his destination a few doors later, a brick building painted battleship gray, with a fire escape crisscrossing its white trimmed windows. Through the front door he saw a brunette flight attendant struggling to get her rolling suitcase through the vestibule. Darting up the steps, he held the outer door open for her.
“Thank you,” the woman said in a friendly Texas accent. “It’s nice to encounter a gentleman.”
Jake caught the inner door behind her before it could latch. “You’re welcome.” The