were historical displays of furniture, jewelry, arms and armor, vases, tapestries, photographs, ancient mummies, and even an entire Egyptian temple, removed from the banks of the Nile River and transported to the New World. Soon one more treasure would be added to that list, albeit temporarily: the Italian sculptor Nunzio’s Lover’s Spring.
By now, the museum’s visiting hours were over. But for Breanne’s wedding, I’d been given an events pass by the trustees of the museum, a pass which gave me twenty-four-hour access to a locked storage space filled with the things we’d need to cater Saturday’s reception.
I exited the taxi at the corner of Eighty-fourth Street, right in front of the manned security booth. One of the guards hurried across the broad sidewalk and helped me lift the fountain out of the trunk. While we fumbled to deploy the handle on the heavy Pullman, the cab that had been trailing mine sped around us and zoomed away.
The guard helped me roll the heavy suitcase down the steep concrete ramp and through the employees’ entrance to the second security checkpoint inside the museum. I showed the guard my pass, and he admitted me to the museum proper.
Pulling the fountain behind me, I crossed a wide loading dock and followed a gloomy hallway to the holding area. I unlocked the storage unit, rolled the fountain inside, and locked it up again. Mission accomplished!
Too bad, Nunzio. Better luck with the next barista . . .
My virtue secured, along with the fountain, I headed out.
It was after eleven when I left the museum and trudged up the shadowy ramp back to the street. The storm had passed, but the air was still damp, and the temperature was dropping, too. I shivered under my flimsy sweater. The wrap dress was starting to chafe, and I’d been wearing the same wedge platform sandals for ten hours now. They’d been comfortable most of the day, but by now my feet were throbbing with each step.
I waved good-bye to the guards inside the booth and walked uptown. There was an M3 East Village bus stop at the corner of Eighty-fifth Street, right in front of a fenced-in children’s playground that was part of Central Park. There was a streetlight nearby, but much of its glow was blocked by tree branches. Traffic was light on Fifth, and there wasn’t a cab in sight, so I was relieved to see a bus rolling toward me, though it was still several blocks away.
Standing in the shadows, I groped around in my purse for a Metrocard. That’s when I heard the scuff of a shoe and sensed movement behind me. Before I could react, a skeletal arm wrapped around my throat, and something hard pressed against the small of my back.
“I have a gun. Don’t make a sound, or I’ll shoot you right here.”
I recognized the rasping voice: Stuart Allerton Winslow. He stank of sweat and desperation. I glanced over my shoulder and spied unkempt hair sticking out from around the rim of a baseball cap. Though he’d ditched the trench coat, I knew he was the man in the cab, the one that followed me from the Blend to the museum. My mind was racing. Quinn had warned me the man was going to be released.
“Back up. Into the park,” Winslow said.
His hot breath hit my face, and I flinched at the whiff of onions and refried beans. Jose’s Burritos, I thought; the place was just up the block from the Blend. He must have gone straight to Hudson Street the second he regained his freedom, waiting outside my coffeehouse until I showed.
I risked a sidelong glance in the direction of the security booth, about fifty feet away. I could barely see the glow of its lights behind a screen of tree branches.
“Don’t even think about it,” he warned, his grip around my throat tightening.
With the gun still pressed against my spine, Winslow pulled me into the dark playground. He dragged me backward, past a slide and a set of swings, to an elaborate jungle gym standing in the middle of the yard.
“Little bitch,” he rasped.
Swinging me around, he shoved me face-first against the metal bars. He used his body to pin me there, then his arm tightened around my neck again, like a smothering snake.
I struggled against the scumbag, but the man held firm. He’d seemed puny and weak in his dungeonlike apartment. But he wasn’t weak now. He was furious, his grip cruel. I tried to ignore the pain,