was wider and the stores and restaurants not nearly as funky.
At the corner of Bleecker and Perry, she stopped to look in the window of Ralph Lauren, checking the glass’s reflection for tails. Those moron cops might follow her, looking for payback. But she was clear, so she headed west on Perry, a tree-lined residential street dotted with classic West Village brownstones and town houses.
She walked slowly past Matthew Bannon’s building, then doubled back and walked past it again. Five stories. Bannon’s apartment was on the top floor. Compared with some of the other buildings, this one looked secure. But she’d faced tougher.
She climbed the six steps and tried the front door. Open. She stepped into the vestibule, where the security kicked up a notch—a closed-circuit camera and a heavy brass plate protecting the inner door from being jimmied.
The doorbells were clearly labeled. She pressed apartment 5, BANNON.
There was no answer, but then the inner door was opened.
A man came through, African American, early thirties, about six foot six, with a thick bull neck and a square head that was shaved clean. He barely looked at her, just pulled the inner door shut and quickly left the building.
She rang Bannon’s bell a second time. Still no answer. She rang all the bells. Someone would buzz her in and she’d wait for Bannon in his apartment.
She held the thumb latch on the inner door and waited for the buzzer. Through the glass, she could see the door to apartment 1 open. A man stepped out—blond buzz cut, baby blue eyes, wearing faded jeans and a gray muscle shirt that left no room for the imagination.
He smiled and opened the front door.
“Can I help you, ma’am?”
A gentleman, Marta decided. And from what she knew of American accents, his was not from New York. He was from one of the southern states. Alabama, or maybe Mississippi.
“I’m looking for Matthew Bannon,” she said.
“He’s not here,” the southern gentleman said. “But surely you must have figured that out when he didn’t answer the second time you rang. Now, are you gonna keep ringing all the bells till you find someone dumb enough to let you in? Because we don’t rent to stupid people. So, take a hike, Blondie.”
Marta’s Bottega Veneta bag was hanging from her shoulder. She pressed it to her side with her upper arm until she could feel the Glock against her ribs.
Her face remained icy calm. “I’m one of his teachers at Parsons,” she said. “Can you tell me where to find him? I have his final paper. I wanted to give him his grade.”
The man from apartment 1 relaxed a little. “Oh, so you’re an art teacher.”
Marta gave him her most seductive smile. She had been on the cover of German Vogue four times. This guy would be easy. “Yes,” she said. “I’m Professor Mueller.”
“So, then, Professor,” he said, still filling the doorway, “how do you feel the Dadaist movement affected the growth of postmodernism in twentieth-century America?”
“Fuck you,” Marta snapped.
“Yeah,” he said, “that’s pretty much how I feel about Dada. But I’m a big fan of those dogs playing poker. Now, get out of here.”
Marta hated quick hits. This one wasn’t researched, wasn’t planned, but the Russians were in a hurry to find Bannon. If she was going to be waiting for him in his apartment when he got home, she’d have to kill the asshole blocking the door.
She ran through the scenario in her head. T urn toward the outer door, take the gun from my bag, spin around, shoot him between the eyes, drag his body inside, clean up, go up to the fifth floor, and wait for Bannon. The guy in the muscle shirt would be collateral damage. Tough luck, pal. You asked for it.
She turned to the front door, one hand on the clasp of her black bag. And then she saw him.
The first guy, the one with the shaved head, who looked like he was in a hurry to go someplace, hadn’t gone anywhere. He was standing outside sucking on a
At the corner of Bleecker and Perry, she stopped to look in the window of Ralph Lauren, checking the glass’s reflection for tails. Those moron cops might follow her, looking for payback. But she was clear, so she headed west on Perry, a tree-lined residential street dotted with classic West Village brownstones and town houses.
She walked slowly past Matthew Bannon’s building, then doubled back and walked past it again. Five stories. Bannon’s apartment was on the top floor. Compared with some of the other buildings, this one looked secure. But she’d faced tougher.
She climbed the six steps and tried the front door. Open. She stepped into the vestibule, where the security kicked up a notch—a closed-circuit camera and a heavy brass plate protecting the inner door from being jimmied.
The doorbells were clearly labeled. She pressed apartment 5, BANNON.
There was no answer, but then the inner door was opened.
A man came through, African American, early thirties, about six foot six, with a thick bull neck and a square head that was shaved clean. He barely looked at her, just pulled the inner door shut and quickly left the building.
She rang Bannon’s bell a second time. Still no answer. She rang all the bells. Someone would buzz her in and she’d wait for Bannon in his apartment.
She held the thumb latch on the inner door and waited for the buzzer. Through the glass, she could see the door to apartment 1 open. A man stepped out—blond buzz cut, baby blue eyes, wearing faded jeans and a gray muscle shirt that left no room for the imagination.
He smiled and opened the front door.
“Can I help you, ma’am?”
A gentleman, Marta decided. And from what she knew of American accents, his was not from New York. He was from one of the southern states. Alabama, or maybe Mississippi.
“I’m looking for Matthew Bannon,” she said.
“He’s not here,” the southern gentleman said. “But surely you must have figured that out when he didn’t answer the second time you rang. Now, are you gonna keep ringing all the bells till you find someone dumb enough to let you in? Because we don’t rent to stupid people. So, take a hike, Blondie.”
Marta’s Bottega Veneta bag was hanging from her shoulder. She pressed it to her side with her upper arm until she could feel the Glock against her ribs.
Her face remained icy calm. “I’m one of his teachers at Parsons,” she said. “Can you tell me where to find him? I have his final paper. I wanted to give him his grade.”
The man from apartment 1 relaxed a little. “Oh, so you’re an art teacher.”
Marta gave him her most seductive smile. She had been on the cover of German Vogue four times. This guy would be easy. “Yes,” she said. “I’m Professor Mueller.”
“So, then, Professor,” he said, still filling the doorway, “how do you feel the Dadaist movement affected the growth of postmodernism in twentieth-century America?”
“Fuck you,” Marta snapped.
“Yeah,” he said, “that’s pretty much how I feel about Dada. But I’m a big fan of those dogs playing poker. Now, get out of here.”
Marta hated quick hits. This one wasn’t researched, wasn’t planned, but the Russians were in a hurry to find Bannon. If she was going to be waiting for him in his apartment when he got home, she’d have to kill the asshole blocking the door.
She ran through the scenario in her head. T urn toward the outer door, take the gun from my bag, spin around, shoot him between the eyes, drag his body inside, clean up, go up to the fifth floor, and wait for Bannon. The guy in the muscle shirt would be collateral damage. Tough luck, pal. You asked for it.
She turned to the front door, one hand on the clasp of her black bag. And then she saw him.
The first guy, the one with the shaved head, who looked like he was in a hurry to go someplace, hadn’t gone anywhere. He was standing outside sucking on a
Similar Books
