Cross - James Patterson [35]
Eventually, she held up a finger to me and let herself out into the hall.
I used the time to go through a few of my provider directories and to calm down my own anger. When Kim came back in, I tried to give her the names of some shelters in the area, but she refused them.
“I’ve got to go,” she said suddenly. The second call had sealed her up tight. “How much do I owe you?”
“Let’s call this an initial consult. Pay me for the second appointment.”
“I don’t want charity. I don’t think I can come back anyway. How much?”
I answered reluctantly. “It’s one hundred an hour on a sliding scale. Fifty would be good.”
She counted it out for me, mostly fives and singles that she had probably stashed away over time. Then she left the office. My first session had ended.
Chapter 49
MISTAKE. BAD ONE.
A New Jersey mob boss and former contract killer named Benny “Goodman” Fontana was whistling a bouncy Sinatra tune as he strolled around to the passenger side of his dark-blue Lincoln; then he opened the door with a flourish and a one-hundred-kilowatt smile that would have made Ol’ Blue Eyes proud.
A bosomy blond woman got out of the sedan, stretching her long legs like she was auditioning for the Rockettes. She was a former Miss Universe contestant, twenty-six years old, with some of the best moving parts money could buy. She was also a little too classy and hot for the mobster to have snagged without some cash having changed hands. Benny was a tough little weasel, but he wasn’t exactly a movie star, unless maybe you counted the guy who played Tony Soprano as one.
The Butcher watched, mildly amused, from his own car parked half a block down the street. He guessed that the blonde was setting Benny back five hundred or so an hour, maybe two grand for the night if Mrs. Fontana happened to be out of town visiting their daughter, who was tucked away in school at Marymount Manhattan.
Michael Sullivan checked his watch.
Seven fifty-two. This was payback for Venice. The beginning of payback anyway. The first of several messages he was planning to send.
At eight fifteen, he took his briefcase from the backseat, got out, and crossed the street, staying in the soft shadows of maple and elm trees. It didn’t take much waiting time for a blue-haired woman wrapped in a fur coat to come out of the apartment building. Sullivan held the door for her with a friendly smile and then let himself inside.
Everything was more or less the way he remembered it. Apartment 4C had been in the Family for years, ever since opportunities had started opening up in Washington for the mob. The place was a perk for anyone in town who needed some extra privacy, for whatever reason. The Butcher had used it himself once or twice when he was doing jobs for Benny Fontana. This was before John Maggione took over from his father, though, and began to shut the Butcher out.
Even the cheap Korean dead bolt on the front door was the same, or close enough. Another mistake. Sullivan jimmied it with a three-dollar awl from his workshop at home. He put the tool back into the briefcase and took out his gun and a surgical blade, a very special one.
The living room was mostly dark. Cones of light spilled in from two directions—the kitchen on his left, a bedroom on his right. Benny’s insistent grunting told Sullivan it was somewhere past halftime. He swiftly padded across the living room rug to the bedroom door and looked inside. Miss Universe was on top—no surprise—with her slender back to him.
“That’s it, baby. That’s what I like,” Benny said, and then, “I’m gonna put my finger —”
Sullivan’s silencer popped softly, and just once. He shot the former Miss Universe contestant in the back of her hairdo, and the woman’s blood and brains splattered all over Benny Fontana’s chest and face. The mobster yelled out like he’d been shot himself.
He managed to roll himself out from under the dead girl and then off the bed, away from the nightstand, also away from his own gun. The Butcher started to laugh. He didn