The Cutting Edge (Lincoln Rhyme #14)(57)

And it had been.

“When is the crew coming in?” Frank asked.

The bridesmaids. For the matching teal dresses, the matching shoes, the matching panty hose, the matching corsages. Frank was a godsend.

“A few days. Rita’ll call, make an appointment.”

“I’ll get champagne in.”

“I love you, you know,” Morgan said and blew him a kiss.

It was 7 p.m., closing time. When she’d arrived, an hour ago, the shop had been hopping—all the young professional fiancées, busy during the week, had only Saturday and Sunday to select and tailor the dress of a lifetime. Now it was empty except for the two of them, and the tailor in the back.

Frank helped her off the platform where she’d been standing for the final pinning.

As she climbed down, she took one last look in the mirror. And happened to glance at the reflection not of herself but of the front window, opening onto busy Madison Avenue. There was, as always, street traffic on Madison: at the moment, folks headed to dinner, or returning home from a Sunday of shopping, plays, movies and early suppers.

What took Morgan’s attention, though, was a man looking into the window.

She couldn’t see his face clearly; there wasn’t much light on the street any longer and he was backlit from headlights and a streetlamp.

Odd, a man in a dark jacket and stocking cap staring at a window full of wedding dresses.

He moved on. Probably the father of a newly engaged girl, pausing to gaze somberly at yet another expense confronting him after John or Keith or Robert had decided to do the honorable thing.

A few minutes later she was out of the changing room, back in the fatty jeans, which were so delightfully loose around her hips. T-shirt. A reindeer sweater because she was in one of those moods. Judith soon-to-be-Whelan was nothing if not playful. She rolled a scarf around her neck, then pulled on her black cotton jacket and donned supple leather gloves.

She said goodbye to Frank, who was shutting out the lights.

Stepping outside, she turned north toward her apartment.

Thinking about the dress, about the honeymoon. Atlantis in the Bahamas.

Making love while listening to the ocean. Something they’d never done. Ditto, eating conch fritters. Which Morgan knew they served in the Bahamas. She always did her homework.

She stopped at the corner deli, got a bottle of Pinot Grigio and hit the salad bar, throwing into a plastic container lettuce, tomatoes and “fixens” (she’d once heard a customer gripe about the misspelling but, she’d thought: I’m sorry, is there any confusion? And besides, how much Korean do you speak?).

Then back onto the street and to her building. Yes, it was the Upper East Side, but that included a lot of territory that was not Trump-worthy. Her brownstone was a fourth-floor walk-up, in sore need of a power washing and paint job.

She walked to the lobby door and was just unlocking it and stepping in when she heard a rush of footsteps behind her. The man in dark clothing, the same man outside of Frank’s—now with his head encased in a ski mask—pushed her inside.

Her barked scream was silenced by the hand over her mouth. He walked her fast down the corridor to an alcove underneath the stairs, where she and the tenant from the third floor kept their bikes. He swept the bikes aside and shoved her to the floor, a sitting position. He ripped her purse from her shoulder, the deli bag from her hand.

She stared at the pistol.

“Please…” Her voice was quaking.

“Shhh.”

He was, it seemed, listening for voices or footsteps. All was silent—except for the frantic pounding of Morgan’s heart, the raw gasp of her labored breathing.

He put the gun back in his pocket and then righted the bikes and leaned them upright against the wall so that anyone looking through the door wouldn’t see them on their sides and think something was wrong. Her leg protruded into the hall and he kicked it—gently—back under the stairs, so the limb wasn’t visible either. Then he crouched in front of her.

“What do you want? Please…just take whatever you want.”

“Gloves,” he snapped.

“You want my gloves.”

He laughed, sarcastically. Then grew angry. “Why I would want fucking gloves? I want you to take fucking gloves off.”

She did. And as he looked at her left hand she curled her right into a fist and slammed it into his jaw. “You fucker!” She hit him again, aiming low and missing the crotch by a few inches.

He blinked in surprise, not pain. His blue eyes were amused.

Morgan drew her arm back once more but his blow landed first—also to the jaw—and snapped her head into the wall. Her vision grew black and fuzzy for a moment. Then the focus returned.

“No good, lovebird hen.” Crouching over her, he gripped her hair, pulled her close. She smelled cigarette smoke and onions. Doused aftershave. Liquor. It took all her will not to vomit. Then thought maybe that would turn him off and tried to retch.

He shook her by the hair again, fiercely. A whisper: “No, no, no. No doing that. Okay?”

Morgan nodded. She was aware his eyes weren’t scanning her torso as she’d thought they would. His only interest was her fingers. Actually, just the ring finger.

That’s what he wanted. And it was clear to her now. Of course. A girl in a fancy Upper East Side bridal boutique. She’d be engaged…and she’d be wearing one hell of a rock.