Read Online Fifth Ave 02 - Running of the Bulls by Christopher Smith - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Christopher Smith
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hold it.
She held it.
He heated the spoon with a lighter. The powder liquefied and boiled. A curl of smoke swirled. He dropped the lighter in his lap, reached for the syringe, filled it.
He gave it to Carmen. “Martinez was once addicted to heroin,” he said. “Tonight, she saw a man commit suicide. She saw his head explode and she saw what was left of him while she was questioned by the police. She’s lost her faith in God and mankind. She’s tired. She lives in this wasteland. She works three jobs and still she struggles. No one’s going to be surprised if they find her pumped full of this shit.”
Carmen nodded. It would work. And then something--a glimmer, a flash of light--caught her eye and she looked across the street, where a patrol car was slowing to a stop alongside Martinez's apartment building.
Carmen watched a woman open the passenger door and step out. She was a cop and she was immediately followed by the driver, a tall man in uniform. The people on the street parted and walked their separate ways. Maria Martinez, seated in the back of the cruiser, made her appearance last. She was still in her pale blue work uniform. She was saying something Carmen couldn’t hear.
And then Spocatti’s voice, low, closer to her ear than she would have liked: “This is a simple hit,” he said. “Nothing but an accidental overdose. Don’t disappoint me again.”
* * *
They waited for the police to leave before alighting from the van and moving across the street. Martinez lived on the second floor. Carmen followed Spocatti up two flights of stairs and down a dim hallway. The building seemed exhausted in the August heat, as though its slanting walls and sinking ceilings, desperate for relief, were trying to lean against one another for support. Here, the temperature was well past eighty and the air, heavy with humidity, stank of something sour.
Martinez's apartment was at the end of the hall, last door on the right. Spocatti moved past it and stepped into deep shadow. He drew his gun, cocked the trigger and tapped his foot.
Carmen knocked twice on the door and waited. There was a silence followed by a woman's voice, so high and thin that Carmen questioned whether it belonged to the heavyset woman who just emerged from the cruiser.
“What?” the woman called. “What is it?”
Carmen checked the hallway, saw in a thin tunnel of light a cat strolling in her direction--golden eyes flashing, white paws padding, tail held high against the stained wall. Dangling from the cat's jaws was a mouse, its wiry gray tail flicking at the very tip.
“Mrs. Martinez?”
Silence.
“It's the police, Mrs. Martinez. Could you please open the door? We need to ask you a few more questions.”
“Come back tomorrow.”
“It'll only take a minute.”
“Me and my kid are tired.”
Kid...? “Please.”
Martinez started unbolting the locks.
Carmen glanced over her shoulder at Spocatti, but couldn't see him in the shadow. She turned back as the door parted on its slender metal chain. Maria Martinez peered out, her mocha pudding face and bloodshot eyes stamped with fatigue.
In the room behind her, Carmen saw a pretty young girl sitting at the brightly lit kitchen table. The sight caused her to pause. She didn’t know Martinez had a daughter. The child had dark hair and dark skin, a narrow nose and a delicate build. She was sitting in a straight-backed chair, her eyes closed, face on the table, dead asleep. If Carmen had a daughter, it might resemble this child....
“Who are you?” Martinez asked. “You wasn't just here.”
Carmen showed Martinez the badge Spocatti gave her upon leaving the van. “I'm Detective Martoli,” she said. “Chief Grindle sent me to speak with you.” She looked the woman full in the face and waited for some sign of
She held it.
He heated the spoon with a lighter. The powder liquefied and boiled. A curl of smoke swirled. He dropped the lighter in his lap, reached for the syringe, filled it.
He gave it to Carmen. “Martinez was once addicted to heroin,” he said. “Tonight, she saw a man commit suicide. She saw his head explode and she saw what was left of him while she was questioned by the police. She’s lost her faith in God and mankind. She’s tired. She lives in this wasteland. She works three jobs and still she struggles. No one’s going to be surprised if they find her pumped full of this shit.”
Carmen nodded. It would work. And then something--a glimmer, a flash of light--caught her eye and she looked across the street, where a patrol car was slowing to a stop alongside Martinez's apartment building.
Carmen watched a woman open the passenger door and step out. She was a cop and she was immediately followed by the driver, a tall man in uniform. The people on the street parted and walked their separate ways. Maria Martinez, seated in the back of the cruiser, made her appearance last. She was still in her pale blue work uniform. She was saying something Carmen couldn’t hear.
And then Spocatti’s voice, low, closer to her ear than she would have liked: “This is a simple hit,” he said. “Nothing but an accidental overdose. Don’t disappoint me again.”
* * *
They waited for the police to leave before alighting from the van and moving across the street. Martinez lived on the second floor. Carmen followed Spocatti up two flights of stairs and down a dim hallway. The building seemed exhausted in the August heat, as though its slanting walls and sinking ceilings, desperate for relief, were trying to lean against one another for support. Here, the temperature was well past eighty and the air, heavy with humidity, stank of something sour.
Martinez's apartment was at the end of the hall, last door on the right. Spocatti moved past it and stepped into deep shadow. He drew his gun, cocked the trigger and tapped his foot.
Carmen knocked twice on the door and waited. There was a silence followed by a woman's voice, so high and thin that Carmen questioned whether it belonged to the heavyset woman who just emerged from the cruiser.
“What?” the woman called. “What is it?”
Carmen checked the hallway, saw in a thin tunnel of light a cat strolling in her direction--golden eyes flashing, white paws padding, tail held high against the stained wall. Dangling from the cat's jaws was a mouse, its wiry gray tail flicking at the very tip.
“Mrs. Martinez?”
Silence.
“It's the police, Mrs. Martinez. Could you please open the door? We need to ask you a few more questions.”
“Come back tomorrow.”
“It'll only take a minute.”
“Me and my kid are tired.”
Kid...? “Please.”
Martinez started unbolting the locks.
Carmen glanced over her shoulder at Spocatti, but couldn't see him in the shadow. She turned back as the door parted on its slender metal chain. Maria Martinez peered out, her mocha pudding face and bloodshot eyes stamped with fatigue.
In the room behind her, Carmen saw a pretty young girl sitting at the brightly lit kitchen table. The sight caused her to pause. She didn’t know Martinez had a daughter. The child had dark hair and dark skin, a narrow nose and a delicate build. She was sitting in a straight-backed chair, her eyes closed, face on the table, dead asleep. If Carmen had a daughter, it might resemble this child....
“Who are you?” Martinez asked. “You wasn't just here.”
Carmen showed Martinez the badge Spocatti gave her upon leaving the van. “I'm Detective Martoli,” she said. “Chief Grindle sent me to speak with you.” She looked the woman full in the face and waited for some sign of
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