Read Online Fifth Ave 02 - Running of the Bulls by Christopher Smith - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Christopher Smith
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recognition. There was none and Carmen questioned whether this woman had ever seen her. “May I come in?” she asked. “It'll take just a minute.”
“Your minutes take hours. I wanna get some sleep.”
“It's only a few questions.”
“I already told you people what I know.”
“The chief has a new lead. He wants me to discuss it with you. I promise this won't take long. Three questions and I'm gone.”
Martinez glanced past Carmen to the very place Spocatti stood in shadow. She hesitated, moved to speak, but then shook her head and removed the metal chain. She opened the door. Carmen watched her face, tried to read her expression. Had she seen Spocatti? Wouldn't she have slammed the door shut if she had? “All right,” Martinez said. “But only a second. I've got jobs tomorrow.”
Carmen stepped inside and glanced fleetingly at the child, who now was sitting up, her head bobbing, then lifting to dip again. She seemed oblivious to Carmen's presence, as though she already was lost to the vague world of sleep.
* * *
Martinez closed the door and went to her daughter, moving easily, fluidly, not self-conscious at all. “Before we talk, my kid's going to bed." She scooped the girl into her arms. “She's had it worse than I have tonight.”
Carmen nodded, pleased. She didn't want the child here. Things would go smoother without her. “That's fine,” she said. “Take your time.”
Martinez murmured something and left the room.
Carmen was about to follow but decided against it--Martinez only could go so far. She reached into her shirt pocket and removed the heroin-filled syringe. There was enough here to kill Martinez. But her child? No way.
And Carmen was happy for that. She’d never admit it to Spocatti, but she liked children. One day, she wanted to have a child of her own. There was no reason for this girl to die. Carmen was certain she hadn’t seen her. Unless she missed something, the girl appeared to be asleep the entire time.
She wondered if Spocatti would take that risk? If he were here, would he be willing to take the chance that Martinez’s daughter had seen him in the few moments they had shared the same space? Probably not. He'd kill her, too.
But how would the police view this? If Martinez’s death was to look like an overdose, she wouldn’t have given her daughter the drug. So, the girl could live.
She held the syringe at her side and moved to the center of the small kitchen, looked around and appraised the details that made up Maria Martinez's life. Photos of herself and her daughter decorated the refrigerator door; a rainbow of dirty dishes rested against one another in the stained sink; a large plastic crucifix was nailed slightly askew to the wall above the kitchen table; and on the sweeping orange countertop, paperback books were stacked three deep, some so frequently read, their covers were torn or missing.
Carmen chose one of the books and turned it over in her hands. Her brother had been a voracious reader, sometimes finishing several novels in a week. But years ago, when AIDS stole his eyesight, it was Carmen who read to him, Carmen who sat at his bedside, Carmen's voice that rose and fell along with the respirator that had become his lungs. Though twelve summers had passed since she buried him, she missed him fiercely.
She put the book down and stepped to the refrigerator. In one of the photos, Martinez was laughing, her smiling face wide as the sky. Did she know things that could ruin Wolfhagen? Was there something she wasn't telling the police? Only a moment ago she had been reluctant to let Carmen inside.
Had she seen Spocatti waiting in the hall?
Carmen glanced at her watch, then turned to the doorway through which Martinez had carried her daughter. Ten minutes to put a child to bed?
She slipped
“Your minutes take hours. I wanna get some sleep.”
“It's only a few questions.”
“I already told you people what I know.”
“The chief has a new lead. He wants me to discuss it with you. I promise this won't take long. Three questions and I'm gone.”
Martinez glanced past Carmen to the very place Spocatti stood in shadow. She hesitated, moved to speak, but then shook her head and removed the metal chain. She opened the door. Carmen watched her face, tried to read her expression. Had she seen Spocatti? Wouldn't she have slammed the door shut if she had? “All right,” Martinez said. “But only a second. I've got jobs tomorrow.”
Carmen stepped inside and glanced fleetingly at the child, who now was sitting up, her head bobbing, then lifting to dip again. She seemed oblivious to Carmen's presence, as though she already was lost to the vague world of sleep.
* * *
Martinez closed the door and went to her daughter, moving easily, fluidly, not self-conscious at all. “Before we talk, my kid's going to bed." She scooped the girl into her arms. “She's had it worse than I have tonight.”
Carmen nodded, pleased. She didn't want the child here. Things would go smoother without her. “That's fine,” she said. “Take your time.”
Martinez murmured something and left the room.
Carmen was about to follow but decided against it--Martinez only could go so far. She reached into her shirt pocket and removed the heroin-filled syringe. There was enough here to kill Martinez. But her child? No way.
And Carmen was happy for that. She’d never admit it to Spocatti, but she liked children. One day, she wanted to have a child of her own. There was no reason for this girl to die. Carmen was certain she hadn’t seen her. Unless she missed something, the girl appeared to be asleep the entire time.
She wondered if Spocatti would take that risk? If he were here, would he be willing to take the chance that Martinez’s daughter had seen him in the few moments they had shared the same space? Probably not. He'd kill her, too.
But how would the police view this? If Martinez’s death was to look like an overdose, she wouldn’t have given her daughter the drug. So, the girl could live.
She held the syringe at her side and moved to the center of the small kitchen, looked around and appraised the details that made up Maria Martinez's life. Photos of herself and her daughter decorated the refrigerator door; a rainbow of dirty dishes rested against one another in the stained sink; a large plastic crucifix was nailed slightly askew to the wall above the kitchen table; and on the sweeping orange countertop, paperback books were stacked three deep, some so frequently read, their covers were torn or missing.
Carmen chose one of the books and turned it over in her hands. Her brother had been a voracious reader, sometimes finishing several novels in a week. But years ago, when AIDS stole his eyesight, it was Carmen who read to him, Carmen who sat at his bedside, Carmen's voice that rose and fell along with the respirator that had become his lungs. Though twelve summers had passed since she buried him, she missed him fiercely.
She put the book down and stepped to the refrigerator. In one of the photos, Martinez was laughing, her smiling face wide as the sky. Did she know things that could ruin Wolfhagen? Was there something she wasn't telling the police? Only a moment ago she had been reluctant to let Carmen inside.
Had she seen Spocatti waiting in the hall?
Carmen glanced at her watch, then turned to the doorway through which Martinez had carried her daughter. Ten minutes to put a child to bed?
She slipped
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