Judge & Jury - James Patterson [60]
Ralph Denunziatta’s little grandniece started to cry.
Cavello knelt down and stuck his finger into the baby’s belly. “Don’t cry. You’re a cute one, aren’t you, honey?” He heard the teakettle whistling on the stove. “Water’s ready, huh? C’mere.” He lifted the child up out of her dead grandmother’s arms. She stopped crying. “Thatta girl.” He stroked her back. “Come, let’s take a little stroll with your Uncle Dom.”
Chapter 74
THEY RELEASED ME from the hospital at my own request later that day, with a large bandage over my ribs, a vial of Vicodin, and the doctor’s order to go right home and rest.
Truth is, I was lucky as hell. The bullet had barely grazed me. But I still had one hell of a rug burn on my side.
Two agents from Internal Affairs debriefed me after I was treated. They drilled me over and over about the events at the courthouse, from the moment I had seen what was taking place on the security screens to my run out to the lobby. I had discharged my gun. One of Cavello’s men was dead. And what was making it particularly ugly was that I wasn’t on active duty.
But what was hurting me a lot more than my side was that it had been more than five hours now and there was no sign of Cavello or the black Bronco. We had the escape routes blocked as well as we could. We had Cavello’s known contacts blanketed. But somehow, even with the tightest security ever for a trial, the sonovabitch had gotten away.
Against my protests, a nurse had wheeled me down to the lobby at Bellevue, and I stiffly climbed into a waiting cab.
“West Forty-ninth and Ninth,” I said, exhaling, resting my head against the seat and shutting my eyes. Over and over I saw the black Bronco speeding away, disappearing into traffic. And me, unable to do a thing. How the hell had they pulled this off? Who was the gunman in the elevator? How, under all that security, had they been able to get a gun inside?
I slammed the heel of my hand into the driver’s barrier so hard I thought I broke my wrist.
The driver turned—a Sikh in a turban. “Please, sir, this is not my cab.”
“Sorry . . .”
But I wasn’t completely sorry. I felt packed in a pressure cooker. My blood surged with this restless, clawing energy, about to explode. We had turned on Forty-fifth, heading crosstown. I realized what was really scaring me. Going back to my apartment, shutting the door, facing the empty rooms—the useless stacks of evidence, just worthless paper now. Alone.
I was about to blow. I honestly felt like I could.
We turned onto Ninth. From the corner I could already see my brownstone. This nervous, tightening rush swelled in my chest.
I rapped on the glass. “I changed my mind,” I said. “Keep driving.”
“Okay.” The driver shrugged. “Where to now?”
“West One eighty-third, the Bronx.”
Chapter 75
I RANG THE BUZZER repeatedly—three, four times, and I knocked on the door.
Finally I heard a woman’s voice. “Just a minute. Coming . . . just a second.”
Andie opened the door. She was wearing a robe with a pink ribbed cotton tank underneath, her hair still loose and damp, presumably from the shower. She stared at me, surprised.
My left arm hung limply at my side. My clothes were rumpled. I probably had a wild, crazed look in my eyes.
“Jesus, Nick, are you okay?”
I never answered because I really couldn’t at that moment. Instead, I backed Andie inside and pressed her against the wall. Then I kissed her as hard as I could. Whatever came of it, well—
Suddenly, she was kissing me back just as feverishly. I tugged the robe off her shoulders, ran a hand underneath the ribbed tank, hearing her soft moans. She had a sweet, citrusy, just-out-of-the-shower scent that I inhaled deeply.
“Jesus, Pellisante.” She sucked in a breath. Her eyes were as wide and flaming as torches. “You don’t even give a girl time to breathe. I kind of like that.”
She started to pull my shirt out of my trousers. Then she went to unbuckle my belt.
That’s when I winced—in pain. It felt like sandpaper