it?” Sarah had two-pound lobsters in either hand.
“Duty calls, Sarah. That was my partner. He has a lead on the St.-Germain murder, finally. It’s important. I’ve got to go back to the city.”
As soon as he was out on Dune Road, a sharp pain struck Stefanovitch. He had let Sarah McGinniss get to him, he realized. For someone who prided himself on common sense, he didn’t seem to be using a lot of it.
During the hour-and-a-half ride back into New York, he couldn’t stop thinking about Sarah. She was surprisingly down-to-earth. Even the way she talked about her little boy Sam had charmed him. Then there was the kiss on the porch.
Finally, as John Stefanovitch saw the cold, electric Manhattan skyline, he got his head back into the search for the Midnight Club, whatever that was going to turn out to be.
He wondered what Bear Kupchek had been able to find. A real shocker about the St.-Germain murder, he’d promised. Well, he would know soon enough. The Bear always delivered.
33
Bear Kupchek; Central Park
BEAR KUPCHEK ENTERED Central Park at the black stone gates that lead to the pass-through at Sixty-third Street. He had seen other complex murder cases break open simply and suddenly. He hoped this would be one of those cases. And that it would crack open tonight.
The broad-shouldered, heavyset detective slumped toward the Wollman skating rink, where he was to meet the secretive witness from the murder scene at Allure. Kupchek checked his wristwatch as he entered a tunnel running underneath the ring road. Twenty feet above, cabs and private cars were streaming north through Manhattan.
It was 10:11 P.M. , so he had four minutes to make it to his appointment. The detective whistled lightly, some half-familiar rhythm and blues tune. He’d been confident about their chances of catching some kind of break in the investigation. But in the middle of Central Park? At night?
Kupchek had been born in Manhattan, forty-two years before. Michael Christopher Kupchek, of West End Avenue and 106th Street. He remembered Central Park in times when nobody would have walked there at night—not even a hefty detective with a Colt Magnum in his shoulder holster. These days, people routinely jogged and bicycled through the park at night. Ironically, it had been the ineffectual John Lindsay who’d made the park safe. Lindsay had put in sodium yellow street lamps, probably because they looked pretty from the penthouses on Fifth and Park avenues.
Kupchek was about halfway through the tunnel when he heard a voice up ahead.
“Kupchek?”
“Who are you?” Bear Kupchek stopped walking immediately.
His right hand instinctively went to his shoulder holster and the Magnum. His eyes strained to locate an upright shape in the darkness.
“I’m looking for Kupchek,” the voice came again. It was muffled and hollow-sounding. It echoed against the damp stone walls.
This time, Kupchek reached inside his shoulder holster. He carefully withdrew his revolver.
“I guess you’ve found him,” he called back into the darkness. “I’m Kupchek.”
Then Kupchek saw movement. He heard a rustle of leaves, maybe papers, to his left. The sound was about ten feet farther up the tunnel.
“Don’t be jumping around,” he called ahead. “Now who are you ? What’s up? Come on out so we can talk.”
A revolver suddenly flashed inside the tunnel. Not his revolver, either. The gun made a hollow pop, the kind a dumdum can produce. The revolver flashed a second time.
Kupchek grabbed his chest. He nearly toppled over. Oh, Jesus, he thought. Sweet Mother of God.
He’d never felt this kind of pain before. He’d been shot twice, up in Bedford-Stuyvesant and at Long Beach. It was nothing like this.
His chest felt caved in, brutally crushed. He felt a cold wetness. The sensation of air whistling through his lungs.
It hurt terribly. Intense shooting pains were knifing through his chest and arms. He felt woozy. He thought he might be going down,
“Duty calls, Sarah. That was my partner. He has a lead on the St.-Germain murder, finally. It’s important. I’ve got to go back to the city.”
As soon as he was out on Dune Road, a sharp pain struck Stefanovitch. He had let Sarah McGinniss get to him, he realized. For someone who prided himself on common sense, he didn’t seem to be using a lot of it.
During the hour-and-a-half ride back into New York, he couldn’t stop thinking about Sarah. She was surprisingly down-to-earth. Even the way she talked about her little boy Sam had charmed him. Then there was the kiss on the porch.
Finally, as John Stefanovitch saw the cold, electric Manhattan skyline, he got his head back into the search for the Midnight Club, whatever that was going to turn out to be.
He wondered what Bear Kupchek had been able to find. A real shocker about the St.-Germain murder, he’d promised. Well, he would know soon enough. The Bear always delivered.
33
Bear Kupchek; Central Park
BEAR KUPCHEK ENTERED Central Park at the black stone gates that lead to the pass-through at Sixty-third Street. He had seen other complex murder cases break open simply and suddenly. He hoped this would be one of those cases. And that it would crack open tonight.
The broad-shouldered, heavyset detective slumped toward the Wollman skating rink, where he was to meet the secretive witness from the murder scene at Allure. Kupchek checked his wristwatch as he entered a tunnel running underneath the ring road. Twenty feet above, cabs and private cars were streaming north through Manhattan.
It was 10:11 P.M. , so he had four minutes to make it to his appointment. The detective whistled lightly, some half-familiar rhythm and blues tune. He’d been confident about their chances of catching some kind of break in the investigation. But in the middle of Central Park? At night?
Kupchek had been born in Manhattan, forty-two years before. Michael Christopher Kupchek, of West End Avenue and 106th Street. He remembered Central Park in times when nobody would have walked there at night—not even a hefty detective with a Colt Magnum in his shoulder holster. These days, people routinely jogged and bicycled through the park at night. Ironically, it had been the ineffectual John Lindsay who’d made the park safe. Lindsay had put in sodium yellow street lamps, probably because they looked pretty from the penthouses on Fifth and Park avenues.
Kupchek was about halfway through the tunnel when he heard a voice up ahead.
“Kupchek?”
“Who are you?” Bear Kupchek stopped walking immediately.
His right hand instinctively went to his shoulder holster and the Magnum. His eyes strained to locate an upright shape in the darkness.
“I’m looking for Kupchek,” the voice came again. It was muffled and hollow-sounding. It echoed against the damp stone walls.
This time, Kupchek reached inside his shoulder holster. He carefully withdrew his revolver.
“I guess you’ve found him,” he called back into the darkness. “I’m Kupchek.”
Then Kupchek saw movement. He heard a rustle of leaves, maybe papers, to his left. The sound was about ten feet farther up the tunnel.
“Don’t be jumping around,” he called ahead. “Now who are you ? What’s up? Come on out so we can talk.”
A revolver suddenly flashed inside the tunnel. Not his revolver, either. The gun made a hollow pop, the kind a dumdum can produce. The revolver flashed a second time.
Kupchek grabbed his chest. He nearly toppled over. Oh, Jesus, he thought. Sweet Mother of God.
He’d never felt this kind of pain before. He’d been shot twice, up in Bedford-Stuyvesant and at Long Beach. It was nothing like this.
His chest felt caved in, brutally crushed. He felt a cold wetness. The sensation of air whistling through his lungs.
It hurt terribly. Intense shooting pains were knifing through his chest and arms. He felt woozy. He thought he might be going down,
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