“What would you like us to do?” asked the manager, sensing that Marissa had something specific in mind.
“I think you could at least move me to another room,” said Marissa.
“I’ll see to it myself,” said the manager.
“One other thing,” said Marissa. “My boyfriend is blond, athletic looking, sharp features. Perhaps you could alert your people.”
“Certainly,” said the manager.
Alphonse Hicktman took one last draw on his cigarette and tossed it over the granite wall that separated Central Park from the sidewalk. Looking back at the taxi with its off-duty light on, Al could just make out George’s features. He was hunkered down, relaxed as usual. Waiting never seemed to bother the man. Looking across the street at the Essex House entrance, Al hoped to God that Jake was properly situated in the lobby so that Marissa could not leave unseen by a back entrance.
Al had been so sure that the flowers would send the woman flying out of the hotel. Now he was mystified. Either she was super smart or super stupid.
Walking over to the taxi, he whacked its roof with an open palm, making a noise like a kettledrum. George was instantly half out of the car on the other side.
Al smiled at him. “Little tense, George?” His patience made Al’s frustration that much harder to bear.
“Jesus Christ!” exclaimed George.
The two men got into the cab.
“What time is it?” asked Al, taking out another cigarette. He’d already gone through most of a pack that afternoon.
“Seven-thirty.”
Al flicked the used match out the open window. The job was not going well. Since the vaccination gun had not been in the woman’s hotel room, his orders were to follow her until she retrieved it, but it was all too apparent that Dr. Blumenthal was not about to accommodate them, at least not immediately.
At that moment a group of revelers came stumbling out of the Essex House, arm in arm, swaying, laughing and generally making fools of themselves. They were obviously conventioneers, dressed in dark suits with name tags, and wearing plastic sun visors that said SANYO.
The doorman signaled a group of limousines waiting just up the street. One by one, they drove to the door to pick up their quota.
Al slapped George on the shoulder, frantically pointing toward the largest group to emerge through the revolving door. Among them two men were supporting a woman wearing a Sanyo visor who seemed too drunk to walk. “Is that the mark hanging onto those guys?” he asked.
George squinted, and before he could answer, the woman in question disappeared into one of the limousines. He turned back to Al. “I don’t think so. Her hair was different. But I couldn’t be sure.”
“Damn!” said Al. “Neither could I.” After a moment’s hesitation, Al jumped out of the taxi. “If she comes out, follow her.” Al then dodged the traffic and raced across to get in another cab.
From the back of the limousine, Marissa watched the entrance to the hotel. Out of the corner of her eye she saw someone alight from a parked taxi and run across the street. Just as her limousine pulled in front of a bus, blocking her view, she saw the man climbing into another taxi, a vintage Checker.
Marissa turned to face forward. She was certain she was being followed. She had several options, but with almost a full block’s head start, she decided it would be best to get out.
As soon as the limousine turned on Fifth, Marissa shocked her companions by shouting at the driver to pull over.
The driver complied, figuring she was about to be sick, but before any of the men knew what was happening, she had the door open and jumped out, telling the driver to go on without her.
Spying a Doubleday bookstore, which, happily, was keeping late hours, she ducked inside. From the store window she saw the Checker cab speed by and caught a glimpse of a blond head in the backseat. The man was sitting forward, staring straight ahead.
The house looked more like a medieval fortress than a New York luxury townhouse. Its leaded windows were narrow and covered with twisted wrought-iron grilles. The front door was protected by a stout iron gate that was fashioned after a portcullis. The fifth floor was set back and the resulting terrace was crenellated like a castle tower.