Cold Shot to the Heart Read Free Page A

wait for word, a call from Kansas City or St. Louis or Phoenix or a dozen other cities. She’d hear what they had to say. Then, more often than not, she’d be working again—and the cycle would start over. It didn’t make for much of a future, she knew. But for now it was the only life she could stand to live.
    *   *   *
    It was late in the afternoon when she reached New Jersey. She’d called the car service en route, so when she returned the Taurus at the rental agency in Newark, the Town Car was waiting. The Sikh driver loaded her bags in the trunk, asked the address, didn’t speak again for the rest of the ride.
    The sky was gray and overcast, spitting snow, as they crossed the George Washington Bridge, the city spread out before them. They took the West Side Highway to 125th Street, turned south on Broadway. When they reached 108th he made the left, pulled up in the loading zone in front of her building.
    Reynaldo, the doorman, came out to greet her. She paid the driver in cash, tipped him twenty dollars, heard the trunk click open.
    Reynaldo already had her bags when she stepped out under the awning, flecks of snow blowing around her. He closed the trunk, tapped it twice, and the Town Car pulled away.
    â€œWelcome back,” he said. “How was your trip?”
    â€œCould have been better.”
    As they started up the steps, a cat raced out from the foyer, slowed when it reached her. It was solid black, its left ear chewed off short and ragged. It eyed her for a moment, then brushed past her legs and into the street.
    â€œI don’t know who that belongs to,” Reynaldo said. “It’s been hanging around here all week. Those cats, they’re mala suerte . Bad luck.”
    â€œI don’t need any more of that.”
    He carried the bags across the marble-floored lobby, pressed the elevator button. It was warm in here, the prewar radiators clanking and hissing. She went to the bank of mailboxes, unlocked the one for 12C. Junk mail, credit card solicitations, utility bills.
    When the elevator arrived, she said, “I can take it from here,” and gave him a five. She rode up to the twelfth floor, walked down the empty hall, and set her bags in front of the door. Kneeling, she checked the small strip of clear tape that bridged the bottom of the door and the vinyl runner. It was untouched. She keyed the door open, listened for a moment before going in. The clock ticking in the kitchen, nothing else.
    She dropped the mail on the foyer table, punched in the security code on the wall keypad, then walked through the apartment, checking rooms. There was no sign anyone had been here while she was gone.
    You’re tired and paranoid, she thought—and it gets worse each time.
    She brought the bags in and locked the door, two dead bolts and a police bar. In the living room, she turned up the thermostat, took off her leather jacket, left it on the futon. She was feeling the miles now, the residual stress from the last few days.
    She was hungry, but almost everything in the refrigerator had gone bad. She made a sandwich of sliced turkey and wilted lettuce stuffed into a stale pita, ate it at the living room window, looking down on 108th Street, Broadway beyond.
    Snow was blowing against the glass, gathering on the fire escape. The bar across the street had Christmas lights up already, blinking red and blue bulbs strung above the neon beer signs. A handful of people stood outside, smoking. One by one, they flicked their butts into the street and went back in, passing others coming out to take their place.
    Past the corner, she could see the triangle of Straus Park, where Broadway and West End Avenue intersected, snow already covering the grass. A homeless man lay across a bench there, a blanket pulled over him. Catching as much sleep as he could before the police rousted him, sent him back uptown.
    She ate half the sandwich, tossed the rest, got a bottle of