right, of course,” Morris acknowledged. “But I’ve got no reason to be worrying about it. Nothing new has happened.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?”
Morris made a pained face. “I’d rather not.”
They went inside, heading straight to the kitchen. He hid the takeout bag in the oven—a trick so Parker wouldn’t think the delicious-smelling food was imminent, otherwise there wasn’t a chance the bull terrier would’ve eaten his dog food. As it was, he sniffed the ridiculously expensive low-fat, high-protein, and grain-free dry food that Morris had poured into his bowl before consenting to eat it. The veterinarian had recommended a different and cheaper brand, but Rachel had gotten into the act and researched the healthiest food they should be feeding Parker, and Morris wasn’t going to argue about it. If he tried, he’d lose. His daughter was now a third-year law student at UCLA with plans of being a prosecutor, and she was damned persistent when it came to something she was passionate about.
With this subterfuge done, Natalie set the table while Morris got out an already opened bottle of Riesling for Natalie and a bottle of a heavily spiced lager for himself that Stonehedge had recommended. They waited until Parker licked his bowl clean before Morris brought out the Chinese food from the oven and dished it out onto two plates.
Parker’s mooching was halfhearted at best after emptying out a bowl of his food and all of his earlier mooching, and after a while he gave up completely to lie down by Natalie’s feet. As much as they tried to make small talk, a pall hung over the room. After several minutes, Natalie asked whether it was the Nightmare Man case that had Morris so distracted.
Morris put his chopsticks down as he appraised his wife.
She was just so instinctive.
He asked, “Has there been anything on TV about the approaching anniversary of those killings?”
“No, nothing. But no other murders ever tore you up like those did.”
“That’s true,” he agreed.
There shouldn’t have been anyone in the media sniffing around about the Nightmare Man killings. They were never told the significance of the number seventeen to the killer, nor did they know that the killings restarted on the anniversary of the Nightmare Man’s first murder. In 2001 they didn’t find the body until five days after the murder had taken place, and they didn’t bother to correct the media’s misunderstanding about the date of when the killing had happened.
“Nat, I’ve got no reason to believe this killer is still alive, or that he’s coming back. It’s just a feeling I can’t shake. I tried calling Hadley to remind him of what might be coming, and he blew me off. Worse, actually. He threatened to shut down MBI if I made any noise to the media or anyone else about it.”
Her expression became pensive. “But you’re not giving up that easily,” she said.
“No, I’m not,” he admitted.
Chapter 7
Vincent Scalise and Frank Colgan were sitting in Vincent’s new Lincoln sedan with its lights off and the engine running. Scalise’s nickname among his colleagues was “Dapper Vince,” which made sense since he always dressed stylishly in a suit, although the wide ties and Italian oxfords he wore bordered on a mafia chic look. Colgan usually dressed for work in a suit and tie also, but on his lumpy body, his suits never looked stylish, only rumpled. He was given the nickname “Irish,” which made sense in a way because of his red hair and beefy red face that always looked as if he’d been drinking whiskey, but he seldom drank alcohol and didn’t have any Irish blood in him. His old man’s family were Italian, and they shortened their surname from Colganatti to Colgan when they arrived on Ellis Island a hundred years earlier, and his mom was a large German woman.
Colgan took two sandwiches out of a paper bag and handed one to Scalise. “Roast beef,” he said. Scalise unwrapped the sandwich and couldn’t help sneering at it. Supermarket-bought white bread. Irish couldn’t even have the imagination to stop at a bakery and buy a loaf of sourdough or ciabatta! He took a bite, and no surprise the bread had been smeared with a thick layer of mayonnaise. They’d known each other over ten years, and Scalise must’ve told Colgan dozens of times that he preferred mustard on his roast beef sandwiches, but the guy refused to listen. Scalise made a disgusted face but didn’t bother this time to complain about the mayonnaise and instead continued to eat. It was well past midnight, and they could have a long night ahead of them. The tip they had was that Alvin Rothman would be rousted sometime over the next few hours by a phone call, which would send the deadbeat fleeing from one of the apartment buildings lining the street. If they knew which building Rothman was holed up in, they’d already be kicking down doors.
It turned out they didn’t have to wait hours. They were still working on their sandwiches when a pear-shaped man emerged from a vestibule door three buildings away. The man stood frozen, looking in both directions as if he were unsure whether it was safe. He then scurried down the steps and onto the sidewalk.
“I think that’s our scumbag,” Colgan said.
Scalise tossed what was left of his sandwich out the window. He left the lights off as he pulled away from the curb and followed the man. A Prius might have been quieter, but the Lincoln barely made a purr, and that was why Scalise was able to get close enough to make sure it was Rothman without Rothman realizing he had company. Only after Scalise gunned the engine and jumped the curb did Rothman look behind his shoulder, and by then it was too late. The Lincoln clipped him and sent him tumbling onto the sidewalk. By the time he picked himself up, Colgan had exited the vehicle and was standing behind him. A punch to the kidneys dropped Rothman to his knees. Scalise popped the trunk and left the engine running, first checking the front right bumper for any damage, then rubbing a small area above the bumper on his pride and joy with a handkerchief to make sure there wasn’t a dent before joining Rothman and Colgan.
Scalise bent low so he could whisper into Rothman’s ear. “You’re lucky your fat scumbag ass didn’t put a dent in my car.”
Rothman’s face was a frozen rictus, his body seized up by pain. He gasped out, “You broke my leg.”
“You think I broke his leg?” Scalise asked his partner.
Colgan said, “Not the way he got up after being knocked down.”
“There you go again,” Scalise said to Rothman. “Lying to me, just like you’ve been lying to me for weeks. But don’t worry. After tonight I’ll be doing more than just breaking your legs.”
Scalise winked at Colgan, and they lifted Rothman by his elbows to his feet and rushed him toward the back of the car.
“Wait,” Rothman pleaded. “I got something big I can trade you.”
Colgan snorted out an angry laugh. “This guy never stops, does he?”
“I swear this is huge!”
Scalise signaled his partner to slow down. “What do you got?”
“We have a deal then? If I tell you, you’ll let me go tonight?”
Scalise pulled a switchblade from his pocket and flicked the five-inch blade open.
“You tell me what you got right now or I’ll cut out your heart and leave it right where you’re
