Not finding a cab handy, he opted for the subway. It was very crowded and he could barely find standing room in one of the train cars. He rode the subway for a number of stops before pushing through the masses and once again hitting the street. He turned the key in his door, closed and locked it, and walked into the kitchen to drop off the bottle. He was about to take off his jacket and pour himself a glass of Chianti when someone knocked at the door. He squinted through the peephole. The brown uniform of the UPS man filled his line of vision.
“What’s up?” he asked through the door.
“Got a delivery for an Anthony Romanello, this address.” The UPS man was busily scanning the package, an eight-by-eleven-inch container that bulged out at the center.
Romanello opened the door.
“You Anthony Romanello?”
He nodded.
“Just sign right here, please.” He handed Romanello a pen attached to what looked to be an electronic clipboard.
“You’re not trying to serve me with legal papers, are you?” Romanello grinned as he signed for the package.
“They couldn’t pay me enough to do that,” the UPS man replied. “My brother-in-law used to be a process server up in Detroit. After he was shot the second time, he went to work driving a bakery truck. Here you go. Have a good one.”
Romanello closed the door and felt the contents of the package through the thin cardboard. A smile broke across his lips. The second installment on his LuAnn Tyler hit. He had been told of the possibility of being called off. But his employer had assured him that the rest of the money would be forthcoming regardless. The smile froze on his face as it suddenly struck him that the payment should have been mailed to his post office box. Nobody was supposed to know where he lived. Or his real name.
He whirled around at the sound behind him.
Jackson emerged from the shadows of the living room. Dressed as immaculately as when he had interviewed LuAnn, Jackson leaned against the doorway to the kitchen and looked Romanello up and down behind a pair of dark glasses. Jackson’s hair was streaked with gray and a neatly trimmed beard covered his chin. His cheeks were large and puffy, the ears red and flattened-looking, both the result of carefully designed latex molds.
“Who the hell are you and how did you get in here?”
In response, Jackson pointed one gloved hand at the package. “Open it.”
“What?” Romanello growled back.
“Count the money and make certain it’s all there. Don’t worry, you won’t hurt my feelings by doing so.”
“Look—”
Jackson slipped off the glasses and his eyes bored into Romanello. “Open it.” The voice was barely above a whisper and spoken in an entirely nonthreatening manner that made Romanello wonder why he was shivering inside. After all, he had murdered six people in premeditated fashion over the span of the last three years. Nobody intimidated him.
He quickly ripped open the package and the contents spilled out. Romanello watched as the cut-up newspaper drifted to the floor.
“Is this supposed to be funny? If it is, I’m not laughing.” He glowered at Jackson.
Jackson shook his head sadly. “As soon as I hung up with you I knew my little slip over the phone would prove to be serious. I made mention of LuAnn Tyler and money, and money, as you well know, makes people do strange things.”
“What exactly are you talking about?”
“Mr. Romanello, you were hired to perform a job for me. Once that task was called off, your participation in my affairs was at an end. Or let me rephrase that: Your participation in my affairs was supposed to be at an end.”
“They were at an end. I didn’t kill the lady and all I get from you is cut-up newspaper. I’m the one who should be pissed.”
Jackson ticked the points off with his fingers. “You followed the woman back to New York. You, in fact, have been following her all over the city. You sent her a note. You met with her, and while I wasn’t privy to the conversation itself, from the looks of things the subject matter wasn’t pleasant.”