Inherit the Dead

hand tapping the steering wheel: Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it.

17
C. J. BOX
    F          ire and ice, Perry thought as he gritted his teeth and gripped the wheel so tightly his knuckles were white as he cut off FDR Drive at Seventy-first Street and headed toward East Seventy-fifth and Park Avenue. His nerves were jangling from the close call on the bridge, and despite the cold February day, he felt pinpricks of sweat on his scalp and beneath his collar. His heart was still racing.
    He powered the driver’s-side window down as he drove and welcomed the sharp-toothed bite of the icy air. Suddenly there was the boiling sound-track cacophony of New York—horns blaring, steam rolling out from sidewalk grates, snippets of conversation from bundled-up shoppers and pedestrians. Messengers on bikes weaved through stop-and-start traffic, and sidewalk vendors called to potential customers in balloons of vapor. The rain had eased, but the late afternoon sky was gray and mottled and close, as if someone had placed a lid over the city to prevent anyone from getting out.
    Not the worst idea, Perry thought. Clamp that lid on tight and turn the heat up on Julia Drusilla. Make her uncomfortable, make her start to sweat the way he was. Make her tell him what was really going on, and why she really wanted her daughter found.
    When she spilled, he thought, he could eventually find the assholes who kept trying to run him off the road. And when he found them . . .
    But what about Angel? She seemed to know all about her inheritance. So why did she run? And what was it she’d said—something to do with her mother or . . . Perry tried running their conversation in his mind but kept losing the thread. The scenario he thought was clear to him—the framework of the case itself—seemed to be coming apart at the seams, and he was suddenly doing a clown act, juggling the pieces in the air, trying to reassemble them before they crashed down around him and took him down, too.
    Perry had driven in New York traffic long enough that he could sense it bottling up ahead of him long before the jam-up was actually visible. It didn’t improve his mood. He’d nearly been killed again, and he was in a hurry.
    Traffic didn’t flow in the city. It moved spasmodically; sprinting to the next stop, fidgeting, looking for an opening to squeeze through. So much of every day was simply spent trying to get from Point A to Point B. It was maddening.
    He swung into the far left lane to pass the taxi that was slowing down ahead of him, and he accidentally cut off a bike messenger whistling through an open chute. The messenger swerved, wildly cursed at him, and thumped the top of the car with the heel of his hand before squirting away between two cars ahead.
    Perry entertained a thought he’d had often where he threw his driver’s-side door open just as a bike messenger tried to sizzle past him. Someday, he vowed, he’d do it. That would show them.

    Julia Drusilla’s building was still four blocks away when he saw the lights ahead. Red and white flashes from the light bars atop RMPs strobedthe sides of the buildings and bounced off windows. Something near Julia’s building had attracted an army of cops.
    “Where were you back there on the bridge when I needed you?” Perry asked aloud.
    Traffic was crawling but not good crawling, like it was poised to break loose. It was crawling to a stop.
    Perry cranked on the wheel, fitted the nose of his car between two yellow taxis with inches to spare on each side, and bolted down a shadowed side street. Screw the traffic.
    It was a narrow street lined with parked cars, and he felt blessed when a four-door turned out onto the pavement, leaving a space. Perry didn’t look around or hesitate; he took the space before anyone else could take it. He’d park and walk the rest of the way—it would be quicker.
    As he swung out of his car he saw the signs posted on the poles lining the street: NO UNAUTHORIZED PARKING. RESIDENTIAL PERMITS ONLY.
    He shrugged.
    “Hey,” a thin and pinched woman called to him from where she was walking her tiny dog on the sidewalk, “you can’t park here.”
    Perry reached into his breast pocket and pulled out his PI certification and flashed it so quickly she’d have no chance to note his name.
    “I just did,” he said, and left her with her dog and her thoughts.

    On the street in front of Julia’s building was a blue wall