camp counselors together, really got under his skin.
Goldman ignored his partner. No, he didn’t believe the killer was still in Penn Station. The killer was on the loose in New York. That bothered the hell out of him. It made him sick to his stomach, which wasn’t all that hard these days, the past couple of years, actually.
Two pushcart vendors were artfully blocking the way to the crime scene. One cart was called Montego City Slickers Leather, the other From Russia With Love. He wished they would go back to Jamaica and Russia, respectively.
“NYPD. Make way. Move these ashcarts!” Goldman yelled at the vendors.
He pushed his way through the crowd of onlookers, other cops, and train-station personnel who were gathered near the body of a black man with braided hair and tattered clothing. Bloodstained copies of
Street News
were scattered around the body, so Goldman knew the dead man’s occupation and his reason for being at the train station.
As he got up close, he saw that the victim was probably in his late twenties. There was an unusual amount of blood. Too much. The body was surrounded by a bright red pool.
Goldman walked up to a man in a dark blue suit with a blue-and-red Amtrak pin prominent on his lapel.
“Homicide Detective Goldman,” he said, flashing his shield. “Tracks ten and eleven.” Goldman pointed at one of the overhead signs. “What train would have come in on those tracks — just before the knifings?”
The Amtrak manager consulted a thick booklet he kept in his breast pocket.
“The last train on ten… that would have been the Metroliner from Philly, Wilmington, Baltimore, originating in Washington.”
Goldman nodded. It was exactly what he’d been afraid of when he’d heard that a spree killer had struck at the train station, and that he was able to get away. That fact meant he was clearheaded. The killer had a plan in mind.
Goldman suspected that the Union Station and Penn Station killer might be one and the same — and that now the maniac was here in New York.
“You got any idea yet, Manning?” Groza was yapping again.
Goldman finally spoke to his partner without looking at him. “Yeah, I was just thinking that they’ve got earplugs, bunghole plugs, so why not
mouth
plugs.”
Then Manning Goldman went to scare up a public phone. He had to make a call to Washington, D.C. He believed that Gary Soneji had come to New York. Maybe he was on some kind of twenty- or thirty-city spree killer tour.
Anything was a possibility these days.
Chapter 23
I ANSWERED my pager and it was disturbing news from the NYPD. There had been another attack at a crowded train station. It kept me at work until well past midnight.
Gary Soneji was probably in New York City. Unless he had already moved on to another city he’d targeted for murder. Boston? Chicago? Philadelphia?
When I got home, the lights were off. I found lemon meringue pie in the refrigerator and finished it off. Nana had a story about Oseola McCarty attached to the fridge door. Oseola had washed clothes for more than fifty years in Hattiesburg, Mississippi. She had saved $150,000 and donated it to the University of Southern Mississippi. President Clinton had invited her to Washington and given her the Presidential Citizens Medal.
The pie was excellent, but I needed something else, another kind of nourishment. I went to see my shaman.
“You awake, old woman?” I whispered at Nana’s bedroom door. She always keeps it ajar in case the kids need to talk or cuddle with her during the night.
Open twenty-four hours, just like 7-Eleven
, she always says. It was like that when I was growing up, too.
“That depends on your intentions,” I heard her say in the dark. “Oh,
is that you, Alex?
” she cackled and had a little coughing spell.
“Who else would it be? You tell me that? In the middle of the night at your bedroom door?”
“It could be anyone. Hugger-mugger. Housebreaker in this dangerous neighborhood of ours. Or one
Goldman ignored his partner. No, he didn’t believe the killer was still in Penn Station. The killer was on the loose in New York. That bothered the hell out of him. It made him sick to his stomach, which wasn’t all that hard these days, the past couple of years, actually.
Two pushcart vendors were artfully blocking the way to the crime scene. One cart was called Montego City Slickers Leather, the other From Russia With Love. He wished they would go back to Jamaica and Russia, respectively.
“NYPD. Make way. Move these ashcarts!” Goldman yelled at the vendors.
He pushed his way through the crowd of onlookers, other cops, and train-station personnel who were gathered near the body of a black man with braided hair and tattered clothing. Bloodstained copies of
Street News
were scattered around the body, so Goldman knew the dead man’s occupation and his reason for being at the train station.
As he got up close, he saw that the victim was probably in his late twenties. There was an unusual amount of blood. Too much. The body was surrounded by a bright red pool.
Goldman walked up to a man in a dark blue suit with a blue-and-red Amtrak pin prominent on his lapel.
“Homicide Detective Goldman,” he said, flashing his shield. “Tracks ten and eleven.” Goldman pointed at one of the overhead signs. “What train would have come in on those tracks — just before the knifings?”
The Amtrak manager consulted a thick booklet he kept in his breast pocket.
“The last train on ten… that would have been the Metroliner from Philly, Wilmington, Baltimore, originating in Washington.”
Goldman nodded. It was exactly what he’d been afraid of when he’d heard that a spree killer had struck at the train station, and that he was able to get away. That fact meant he was clearheaded. The killer had a plan in mind.
Goldman suspected that the Union Station and Penn Station killer might be one and the same — and that now the maniac was here in New York.
“You got any idea yet, Manning?” Groza was yapping again.
Goldman finally spoke to his partner without looking at him. “Yeah, I was just thinking that they’ve got earplugs, bunghole plugs, so why not
mouth
plugs.”
Then Manning Goldman went to scare up a public phone. He had to make a call to Washington, D.C. He believed that Gary Soneji had come to New York. Maybe he was on some kind of twenty- or thirty-city spree killer tour.
Anything was a possibility these days.
Chapter 23
I ANSWERED my pager and it was disturbing news from the NYPD. There had been another attack at a crowded train station. It kept me at work until well past midnight.
Gary Soneji was probably in New York City. Unless he had already moved on to another city he’d targeted for murder. Boston? Chicago? Philadelphia?
When I got home, the lights were off. I found lemon meringue pie in the refrigerator and finished it off. Nana had a story about Oseola McCarty attached to the fridge door. Oseola had washed clothes for more than fifty years in Hattiesburg, Mississippi. She had saved $150,000 and donated it to the University of Southern Mississippi. President Clinton had invited her to Washington and given her the Presidential Citizens Medal.
The pie was excellent, but I needed something else, another kind of nourishment. I went to see my shaman.
“You awake, old woman?” I whispered at Nana’s bedroom door. She always keeps it ajar in case the kids need to talk or cuddle with her during the night.
Open twenty-four hours, just like 7-Eleven
, she always says. It was like that when I was growing up, too.
“That depends on your intentions,” I heard her say in the dark. “Oh,
is that you, Alex?
” she cackled and had a little coughing spell.
“Who else would it be? You tell me that? In the middle of the night at your bedroom door?”
“It could be anyone. Hugger-mugger. Housebreaker in this dangerous neighborhood of ours. Or one
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