"Stop!" he yelled. "Police!"
GRACE WAS ON THE PLATFORM. BEHIND her, she could hear the shouting.
"Police! Let me through!"
The train was packed. Grace tried to force her way into a car but a man pushed her back. "Use your eyes, lady. There's no room here. Move down."
"Police!"
The shouts were getting louder. Grace looked back over her shoulder. It was him. Detective Connors. She recognized his face from the TV reports.
The next car was also full. People had started moving back, waiting for the next train. There was no space on this one. The electric doors whooshed shut. It was too late. The train started to move away.
"Grace Brookstein! Stay where you are. You're under arrest!"
Grace heard her name. So did everybody else. Suddenly hundreds of pairs of eyes were swiveling around, scanning the platform. Grace Brookstein? Where? Is she here?
Mitch Connors was sprinting along the platform, faster than the train. He ran past the first car. Then the second. As he reached the third the crowds parted. Mitch and Grace were face-to-face.
Grace looked into Mitch's eyes and Mitch looked into hers. The hunter and the prey. For a moment something passed between them. Mutual respect. Affection, even. But only for a moment.
The train was gaining speed. Safe in the warmth of the carriage, Grace turned away from the window.
Mitch Connors stood on the platform and watched her disappear into the dark oblivion of the tunnel.
BACK AT THE STATION, LIEUTENANT DUBRAY lost it.
"What the fuck? How could you lose her like that? How?"
"I don't know, sir." Mitch sighed.
He tried to look on the bright side. They knew more than they did forty-eight hours ago. They knew Grace was still in New York. They knew she was a brunette now and that she'd gained weight. Tomorrow they'd issue a new Photofit picture to the media.
Thanks to Luca Bonnetti, the NYPD's crack surveillance team had managed to gather one other new piece of information.
America's most wanted woman was a terrific kisser.
Chapter Twenty-One
FOR THREE DAYS, GRACE LAY LOW. She found a new place to stay, another studio, this time in Brooklyn. Where the room in Queens had been shabby but welcoming, this place could only be described as squalid. Grace didn't care. She drew the curtains, locked the door and crawled into bed. Depression washed over her in slow, lapping waves.
This is worse than prison. This is hell.
In prison, Grace had had Karen and Cora. There was Sister Agnes and the kids at the center. Visits from Davey Buccola. Davey. Grace ought to be used to betrayal by now but what Davey had done shocked her to the core. She'd really believed he was on her side. More important, he'd held the key to all her hopes of finding Lenny's killer. Grace had put her faith in another human being for the last time. The only person I trust is gone forever, betrayed and murdered for his money.
The way she felt now, Grace wouldn't have trusted her own shadow.
She wept. When she could cry no more, she got dressed.
For the first time in three days, she went out.
IT WAS A CRAZY RISK. INSANE. But Grace didn't care.
Cypress Hills Cemetery in Brooklyn overlooked Jamaica Bay. It was nondenominational, although much of its upkeep in recent years had been funded by Jewish charities. Grace remembered the outcry when Lenny's remains were buried there.
"That son of a bitch betrayed the Jewish community. We trusted him because he was one of us. Now he wants to rest among us? No way."
Eli Silfen, head of the Beth Olom Benevolent Fund, was particularly strident. "A memorial to Lenny Brookstein? At Cypress Hills? Over my dead body."
But Rabbi Geller had stood firm. A soft-spoken, deeply spiritual man, Rabbi Geller had known Lenny for most of his life.
"Actually, Eli, it will be over his. This is a religion of forgiveness. Of mercy. It's for God to judge, not man."
Grace had never forgotten the rabbi's compassion. She wished he were here now as she picked her way through the gravestones and angel statues, her breath white in the freezing winter air. The cemetery was huge. Tens of thousands of graves, maybe more, stretching as far as the eye could see. I'll never find it. Not without help.
An elderly groundskeeper was tending to a plot a few yards away. Grace approached him.
"Excuse me. I was wondering, are there any...any notable people buried here?" It seemed safer than asking outright.
The old man laughed, revealing a mouthful of rotten teeth.
"Any? How long've you got. It's like People magazine down there." He banged the frozen earth with his hoe, cackling again at his own joke. "We got Mae West. Jackie Robinson. We got some bad pennies, too. Wild Bill Lovett. Know who that is?"
Grace didn't.
"He was a gangster. A killer. Leader of the White Hand Gang."
"I'm sorry. I don't know much about criminals," said Grace, forgetting that officially at least, she was one.
"We got one criminal here I'll bet you know about. Leonard Brookstein. Mr. Quorum. You'd heard of him, ain't you?"
Grace blushed. "Yes. Yes, I have. Do you know where he's buried?"
"Sure do."
He started to walk. Grace kept pace with him for almost ten minutes, the two of them like a pair of drill sergeants inspecting a parade ground of silent, wintry dead, the gravestones standing to attention like soldiers. Eventually they reached the top of a hill. Grace froze. Less than two hundred yards ahead, two armed policemen stood yawning beside a simple white stone. Or at least, it had once been simple and white. Even from here Grace could see it had been covered with graffiti, blood-red messages of hate that no one had bothered to erase. Of course there are cops here! They're probably waiting for me to make a stupid mistake. Like this.