Chasing Shadows (First Wives #3)(56)

Thirty minutes later they were both staring at the postmortem pictures of Ken “Krueger” Mason.

“Well, shit.”

The man had lots of ink but nothing that looked like a haunting spider crawling on an arm.

“What about the video we have on him leaving the garage?”

Gray pulled up the file and they watched the only footage they had of Krueger leaving the scene.

“Jeans. He’s wearing denim, not tan pants,” Armstrong pointed out.

“He looks like he’s wearing boots.”

“Yeah, but that’s the only thing that matches Grant’s description. She said tan pants and a spider tattoo. This guy might have been the one hired to take her out, but he isn’t the one who did it.” Armstrong turned from the desk. “Damn it.”

“I’m not sure what you think we’re going to do.”

“We reopen the case.”

Gray paused. “Okay, fine.” He was the older of the two of them and tended to be more pragmatic about their cases. “But this guy, the one hired to murder Ms. Grant, is dead. And the man who hired him is also dead. Which leaves whoever beat up our victim only guilty of third-degree assault.”

“Second-degree,” Armstrong corrected. “Broken bones, ICU.”

“Good luck making that stick. No weapon was used, she’s not a public servant. And there were no long-lasting effects of the attack.”

Armstrong doubted that.

“Any wet behind the ears public defender will get the charge dropped to a misdemeanor, and Spider Man will be back on the streets in a few hours.” Gray pushed back from the computer and grabbed his cup of coffee.

“Unless he has priors.”

Gray rolled his eyes. “A few days, then. C’mon, man. It’s a low priority.”

“Not for her.”

“I understand that. Let’s give her a day and then let her know we’re reopening the case.”

“Opening and then ignoring.” Armstrong looked at the pile on his desk. They didn’t have a choice.

“We can find all the ink in the world, but unless there is something else to go with it . . .”

“I know.” Armstrong released a sigh and went back to his desk.



Avery shed the rental car as soon as she entered the city. She didn’t fool herself for a minute that she’d find her assailant by looking at arms throughout the streets. Besides, it was fall, and the nip in the air had everyone in long sleeves and sweaters. Then there was the pesky fact that there were one point six million residents in Manhattan. Even if you cut it down by race, that left 56 percent of that one point six falling into the Caucasian category. The arm bearing the spider tattoo had been white. Cut that in half for gender and take out the percentage of children in the mix . . . yeah, Avery had done the math. She was searching for one man in a sea of four hundred thousand. Omit the old, the ones that didn’t have tattoos . . . she’d hated math in school, and she hated it even more now.

But nothing was going to stop her from looking. Spider, which was the name she used in her head for the guy who attacked her, was out there. He’d haunted her dreams, altered her appearance, and changed her life. She deserved to face him.

Avery stuffed a few hundred-dollar bills into her wallet and put it into the inside zippered pocket of the parka she wore. No subway pickpocket was getting the drop on her. One of the many things she’d learned from Brenda. The woman was practical to the core and assumed everyone was out to get her. It suited her teachings of krav well.

Avery left the luxury hotel just after two and started toward the West Village. Once there, she searched out the local college and then a coffee shop. Her stomach reminded her that she’d skipped breakfast and was working her way toward dinner without so much as a piece of toast. After grabbing a coffee and a bagel, Avery sat at the far end of the small café and waited.

College art students started pouring in and scouting out tables. Avery nibbled on her bagel and watched. Some of the kids sat absorbed in their phones, while others hovered over their textbooks with earbuds blaring music into their brains.

Avery abandoned her seat and meandered through the room. Two guys and a girl sat closest to the window. On their table were unopened artist sketchbooks and coffee.

“Which one of you is the budding artist?” Avery asked as she pretended to walk by.

The three of them stopped talking and looked her way.

“We all are,” the girl said. She was white, average height, sporting coal black short hair with a streak of red on her bangs.

“Any of you good?”

They glanced at each other and smiled. “Lady, we wouldn’t have gotten into the institute if we sucked.” This from the Asian guy.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to offend you. I was looking for someone who might want to make a little cash for a quick sketch.”

College kids and cash.

Bait and hook.

“What kind of sketch?”

“Can I sit down?”

The Asian guy stood and offered his chair while snaking one from another table.

Avery thanked him and removed the picture from her pocket. “I’m Avery, by the way.”

Their names were Hiraku, Monique, and Emmett.

“I want someone to do a better job at sketching this.” Avery showed them her paltry scratches.