for me instead. We both know how touchy he is about media attention, especially when he has a big deal going down. I’m betting he told you to keep it quiet. No distractions, nothing that might embarrass him.”
There was a guilty shift in Hackett’s eyes. Direct hit. Feeling bolder now, Seelie kept going.
“Go ahead and call the cops,” she told him. “And I promise you, I’ll make so much noise it’ll be network news. Picture it: George Barron’s daughter, sitting in the back seat of a squad car, live on TV. Now, I don’t want to tell you how to do your job or anything, but I don’t think that’d be good for your long-term career prospects.”
Some people, when faced with a tricky problem, could evaluate and adjust their strategy. Hackett wasn’t one of them. He stared at Seelie for a moment, almost robotic.
“Get in the damn car.”
There was something mean in his eyes, brutish and uncoiling, and Seelie saw what was coming next. She darted left as he lunged for her. Not fast enough. Hackett’s hand clamped down on her arm and twisted it, squeezing like his thick fingers were made of cold iron. The Pontiac’s engine fired to life. He dragged her toward the car and she kicked at him, digging the heel of her sneaker into his shin until he grunted. He pulled her another step, almost yanking her off her feet.
“Hey,” a man shouted, his accent pure Brooklyn. “The fuck you think you’re doin’?”
One of the construction workers stormed out of the job site, gripping a wrench in his beefy fist. A few of his buddies heard the shout and ran up, following in his wake.
“Mind your own business,” Hackett snarled. Inside the Pontiac, Barr was drumming her hands on the steering wheel and slouching low, checking the rearview mirror.
Two more hard hats circled around, getting between him and the car door. The worker pointed his wrench like a magic wand.
“Let the kid go, asshole. Ain’t gonna tell you twice.”
Behind the wheel, Barr made a helpless shrugging gesture at her partner. Hackett glared at the men around him, looking like he was thinking about taking them all on, with his bottom lip stuck out in a Neanderthal pout.
Then he let Seelie go. He gave her arm a petulant shove.
“You’re just making it harder on yourself,” he told her.
The construction workers stood close, a protective cordon around Seelie until Hackett got in the car. She heard him and his partner shouting at each other. Barr stomped the gas and sent the car lurching out into the flow of traffic. She rubbed her arm, wincing at the reddened skin.
“You okay, kid?” asked the guy with the wrench.
Sure. She was fine. This day just kept getting better and better.
10.
Two hundred dollars bought Nell an arcane map, a path through the city marked in the intersection of invisible points. Once she learned the language, it wasn’t hard to follow the mystery woman’s trail. It pointed her toward Avenue D, Alphabet City.
She knew she had the right address when she saw the police cars. Three of them and an ambulance lined up outside a rat-trap apartment building. She took out her phone and typed with her thumbs, texting as she walked.
Get me another log trace, she wrote.
You sure? Tyler shot back. That’s another $200.
Our witness is dead and her killer has the phone, or she’s still one step ahead of him. Either way, get me another log trace.
She sent over the money. Then she climbed the rickety steps outside the apartment building and let herself in.
They hadn’t put a guard on the door. She walked right up, quiet as a church mouse, and stole a peek at the scene. Outlines and folding number cards on the floor to mark the evidence, a shattered television set, blood spatter on grime-caked linoleum. A door hung on a single twisted hinge, wood warped like someone had kicked it in. Her nose wrinkled at the coppery, sour milk stench in the air, death odor trapped in the muggy heat. She was about to chance a closer look when a voice barked from behind her.
“Bluth. The hell are you doing here?”
Detective Jordan stomped up the hall, relentless as a steam engine. She pointed at the apartment threshold.
“Technically I’m not trespassing.”
“Not what I asked.”
“Just doing my job,” she told him.
“Funny thing. Last I checked, you don’t work the crime blotter at your paper. And yet here I find you, at my second murder scene of the day.