Nightwatcher (Nightwatcher #1)(42)

Then, out of nowhere, as the sun set over the dusty, smoky city, came the call that catapulted Rocky back to the real world; an equally grim, but infinitely more familiar, world.

There had been a homicide in his district.

A homicide? What the . . . ?

All in a day’s work, but Jesus, this was no ordinary day.

In the wake of the mass murder of thousands of New Yorkers, crime was down, way down, all over the city. Hordes of Good Samaritans filled the streets; looters were nonexistent.

Yet someone had come into Kristina Haines’s apartment and hacked her to death with a knife that might have come from her own kitchen, judging by the ransacked drawers.

It had happened sometime Tuesday night or early this morning—after the attack on the city.

It takes one sick bastard to steal yet another life—and in such a gruesome way—in the aftermath of a terrorist attack that killed thousands.

But hunting down sick bastards—this is Rocky Manzillo’s specialty. This, he can handle. This murderer will not slip through his fingers. Few have, over the course of his career.

In fact, only one major case in recent history comes to mind—a perp Rocky privately dubbed the Leprechaun Killer. A young woman was killed in her apartment in the wee hours after Saint Patrick’s Day by a man who followed her inside and was captured on the building’s security cameras. The apartment was ransacked and it looked like a robbery, but the body was so hacked up that Rocky suspected there might be more to it. Either the guy hated this woman, or he was projecting his hatred for someone else. Rocky was even more troubled by an ominous clue that was found at the scene and never released to the press or the public: a green boutonnière. He suspected it was a serial killer’s calling card and braced himself for another murder, but it hadn’t happened.

Yet, anyway.

Eighteen months later, the Leprechaun Killer is still at large. The fingerprints that were lifted from the flower were run through the database and came back without a match.

But this new search, Rocky vows, will not be fruitless.

On a regular night, after working at the building on Greenwich Street, Jerry would take the subway back up to his apartment in the West Thirties. But this isn’t a regular night, and when he gets to his usual station, the gates are closed and the globe light is red instead of green.

He stops, confused, wondering what to do.

“Station’s closed,” a police officer tells him. “Trains aren’t running from here. Walk up to Union Square and get on there.”

“I . . . I don’t know how to go from Union Square,” Jerry tells him.

The officer looks closely at his face. “Just ask someone when you get up there. They’ll help you.”

Jerry walks uptown. But when he gets to Union Square, he sees the barricades and the soldiers and the police officers, and he keeps going. They called him a retard.

“I’m not a retard,” he mutters. “I’m not a retard.”

He walks all the way home through streets that are mostly deserted and much too quiet. The quiet bothers him, but he can’t listen to music on his Walkman the way he usually does, because he gave his CD to Marianne.

He wishes he hadn’t done that, because she was mean to him.

And because music—like cake—helps to calm his thoughts, keeping his mind off things he doesn’t want to think about.

Today, there are lots of things he doesn’t want to think about. Like Marianne. And Kristina. And the airplanes crashing into the towers and making them fall, and the big mess that made. And Mama.

No, he doesn’t like to think about her at all—even now that she’s gone. When he thinks about Mama, he gets a scared feeling inside, like something is going to happen to him. Something bad.

It’s dark by the time he reaches the big apartment building. The neighborhood is called Hell’s Kitchen, but Jerry doesn’t know why. The streets are lined with regular buildings and nothing reminds him of a kitchen or hell—not outside, anyway.

It’s nice here. A lot nicer than where he and Mama used to live, up until a few years ago. That was in New York, too, but not Manhattan.

That was where Jerry met Mr. Reiss’s wife, Emily—back in the old neighborhood. She was a nice lady with long brown hair and big brown eyes that reminded Jerry of a doll he’d seen somewhere once, a long time ago; a doll in a frilly pink dress. Emily never wore a pink dress, though. She just wore regular clothes, and an apron, because she volunteered at the soup kitchen, handing out hot meals.

You didn’t even have to pay for the food, and that was good, because back then, Jerry didn’t have a job or any money.

He mentioned that to Emily one day, and she asked him if he would like a job.

“I might be able to help you out,” she said, “if you’re willing to work hard.”

Jerry was excited. “I am! I want to be a fireman!” he told her, and she laughed.

“I don’t know about that—but maybe my husband can give you some work. He owns some apartment buildings, and he always needs help. He’d probably pay you under the table, if that’s all right.”

“That’s all right,” Jerry said, though when he pictured himself and Mr. Reiss crouched under a table, he wondered why he would want to do that.

He was disappointed that he couldn’t be a fireman, but he soon got over it. He felt important, going to work almost every day and getting paid.