“Now, Tatro.”
He gave her his left hand, most of his weight on his forehead now as he leaned into the wall. Juliet cuffed his other wrist, then locked the cuffs with their little key. Taking a breath, she held the chain that linked the two bands, patted him down on the right side. She switched hands and patted down his left side. Except for the K-bar he’d dropped, he was unarmed. She gave the knife a side kick and sent it sliding across the floor away from Tatro. It’d get bagged as evidence later.
“Facedown on the floor,” she said. “NYPD’s on their way.”
Cursing her, Tatro did as Juliet ordered. He was an experienced criminal and would know the conditions under which she was authorized to use deadly force.
“Don’t think this ends here,” he said into the floor. “Your pretty ass is mine, blondie. Just like I promised. It’s only a matter of time.”
Juliet ignored him. “Wendy—open the door, honey. Come on out. Slowly. Let me see you.”
“It’s going to take a minute. I barricaded myself in.”
Juliet heard the sound of what had to be the bureau scraping across the wood floor. Then the door opened, and Wendy cowered on the threshold, pale and shaking badly.
Tatro snorted. “Fucking little bitch. Auntie showed up in the nick of time, didn’t she? Saved your ass.”
“Shut the hell up, Tatro,” Juliet said, no intention of chitchatting with him. Wendy must have smashed the fish tanks, distracting him long enough for her to take off to the bedroom.
“I caught him by surprise.” Wendy’s voice was quiet and steady, not with bravado, Juliet thought, but with shock. “The water was like a dam breaking. It nearly knocked us both down. He dropped his knife. I ran into the bedroom. I knew I couldn’t get past him to get to the elevator.”
Juliet pushed back an image of her niece struggling with Tatro and tried to reassure her. “He can’t hurt you now.”
Tony Cipriani arrived on the scene first. NYPD officers were right behind him. Juliet leaned down to Tatro on the floor. “You’re a sick son of a bitch, Tatro, terrorizing a teenage girl. When did you take my picture? How long were you spying on me?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You come near me or my family again—”
Cip tugged on her arm. “Come on, Longstreet. Let’s go.”
Juliet about-faced, nodded at her partner, then ran to her niece, Wendy’s fingers clawing into her as the girl held on and sobbed.
“The fish.” Wendy stiffened, standing up straight, shaking off any display of affection—of weakness. “We have to save them.”
Without making contact with any of the law enforcement officers descending on the building, she started scooping up fish. Most were dead already, Juliet saw, but a few had managed to land in small pools of standing water. The rest of the water had soaked into the floor-boards, probably drenching the apartment under hers.
Tony winced at Juliet as he watched the girl do her best to save what fish she could. “Longstreet. Jesus—”
“There’s still water in two of the tanks,” Juliet told Wendy softly. “Put the survivors in there.”
“They won’t fight with one another?”
“Not those fish.” And not in their shocked condition.
Wendy gently lowered survivors into one of the tanks. She was ghostly white and not shaking, not anymore. But Juliet knew that wasn’t necessarily a good sign. “I have to save the fish,” Wendy mumbled. “I don’t want them to die because of me.”
Cip scooped up a plump goldfish and dumped it in one of the intact tanks. “Look at him go. He probably thinks he jumped in there by himself.”
Juliet turned away, fighting tears she’d never let Cip or any of the law enforcement types around her see. Her niece shouldn’t have had to face Bobby Tatro. “I need to call my brother. Wendy’s father.”
Discreetly toeing a dead fish under the leaves of an upended orchid, Cip nodded. “Yeah. You sure as hell do.”
Eight
The Hay-Adams on Washington’s Lafayette Square was one of the more prestigious hotels in a city where prestige mattered more than it did virtually anywhere else in the world. For a few thousand dollars, Ethan could have had a suite with a view of the White House, but he’d opted for a smaller suite with a view of St. John’s Church, indulgence enough to make him feel alive and no longer under even the oblique direction of Mia O’Farrell.
Obviously O’Farrell hadn’t expected the Hay-Adams. Her reaction to his choice of hotel was fun to watch.
Her thin, carefully plucked eyebrows went up almost imperceptibly.
That was it.
“I’m on my own nickel, if you’re worried about squandering the people’s money.”
She sat on a small sofa in the living area of his suite. “You don’t care much about squandering your own money, do you?”