Monkey in the Middle Read Free Page B

stops in Carter’s workout, no poses, no pauses. Taught to him in Freetown by a fellow mercenary, the techniques he will use are adapted from Sinawali, a martial arts system developed in the Philippines. Sinawali means woven, and this is what Carter accomplishes, effortlessly weaving defense and attack into a continuous movement, his footwork taking him across the floor. Carter is not a large man. His shoulders are not especially wide or his back especially broad. But he is heavily muscled and extremely graceful. In his hands, the jade daggers appear to liquefy, to leave a luminescent trail not unlike the glistening track left on wet grass by a passing snail.

Four
    S olly Epstein hesitates outside the crime scene tape. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his camel hair coat and hunches his shoulders against the wind. Epstein’s shoulders are massive, seemingly misplaced on the body of a man five feet, eight inches tall. His back is outsized as well, his neck too. Except for the rounded gut, bandy legs and the rapidly balding dome, he might be a diminutive version of the Amazing Hulk.
    Before him, the façade of Macy’s flagship store spans the short block along Broadway between Thirty-Third and Thirty-Fourth Streets. Epstein is something of a New York buff and he considers Macy’s, with its Thanksgiving Day Parade, Fourth of July fireworks and Christmas decorations, as much a part of the city’s life as the Empire State Building or the Stock Exchange. The store’s windows are especially renowned and no tourist in New York at Christmas passes up an opportunity to view them.
    This year’s windows are no exception: flying dragons, a roaring lion (Aslan of Narnia? Epstein isn’t sure), Harry Potter sweeping across the rooftops of London. The detail is astounding. Every millimeter of the back wall is covered, the floor and the ceiling as well. The colors are bright, primary, and the effect is magical, a demand that he revisit his childhood, that he become once more innocent. This effect is made all the more powerful by an anomaly. On any other day the crowds would be six deep with the luckiest kids astride their daddies’ shoulders. Now the sidewalk is part of a crime scene, the space before the windows empty, as if they were meant only for him.
    Suddenly embarrassed, Epstein glances up. A dozen helicopters hover overhead. The reporters have to be loving this, he thinks. And they’ll be loving it even more when the name of the victim is released and they find out he’s a local gangster. Given this nudge, he knows, it’s even possible that some enterprising scribbler will connect the death of Tony Maguire to three prior murders. The victims of these homicides, like Tony, were known members of Paul Marginella’s crew. Paulie Margarine, who claims to be clueless but who’s about to start a war.
    Epstein clips his badge to the lapel of his jacket, then approaches a cop doing sentry duty at a break in the crime scene tape blocking off the sidewalk. He flips open a bill-fold to reveal his ID: Lieutenant Solomon Epstein, Organized Crime Control Bureau. The uniform logs the information, along with the time of day.
    â€˜Anybody else here from OCCB?’ Epstein asks.
    The cop’s finger trails backward through his chart. ‘Sergeant Boyle. Arrived thirty minutes ago.’
    â€˜Good.’
    With the obsessively competent Billy Boyle on the scene, Epstein won’t have to sweat the details. Epstein isn’t averse to details, but he prefers to have others collect, sort and label them before he considers their implications.
    The store’s interior decorations stop Epstein, as they did Carter. Elsewhere, in more upscale department stores, the overall scheme is resolutely cool. White lights and pale ribbon, greens and pinks, nobody getting too excited. After all, it’s only Christmas. Not so Macy’s. Much to Epstein’s satisfaction, Macy’s showroom