Page 39 of NYPD Red 7: The Murder Sorority

“But you said...”

“Damn it, Priscilla, I know what I said. But I was wrong. Which part of ‘I fucked up’ don’t you understand?”

“Okay. So un-fuck up, Vincent. Go back and get it right this time.”

“Fine.”

“When?”

“I don’t know. Tomorrow, the next day—I have to plan these things so I can get away. Or do you want me to just shoot him and get caught by the cops?”

“Don’t be silly,” she said. “Of course I don’t want you to get caught.”

He drained the last of his beer. “I’m going to the deli for asix-pack. Want anything?”

“Just for you to come back in a better mood.”

He left the apartment,double-lockedthe door, and banged on the elevator button with the heel of his hand.

“Vincent, how are you?” the woman with the laundry basket said when the door opened.

“I’m good, Mrs. Frangopoulos. How are you?”

“How am I? If Mrs. Berlusconi didn’t take my clothes out of the dryer while they’re still damp, I’ll be fine,” she said, pushing the lobby button for him. “And how’s Priscilla?”

“She’s fine.”

“I’m sure she’s fine, Vincent. I meant how is her...” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “...condition?”

“The same.”

“So she’s still...” Again the whisper. “...afraid to go outside?”

“She enjoys working from home,” Vincent said.

Mrs. Frangopoulos nodded knowingly. That was all the information she was going to get.

“And your father?” she asked. “How does he like Florida?”

“Loves it,” Vincent said. “I spoke to him yesterday. I don’t think he’s ever coming back to Astoria.”Not without the help of a cadaver dog and a couple of men with shovels.

His father was the first. The night Priscilla asked him to do it, he thought she was joking. But she wasn’t. “Do it when he’s passed out drunk, get rid of the body, and just tell the neighbors he moved to Florida. They won’t give a shit. Nobody likes him anyway.”

It was easier than he expected. And for that first month after Christmas, Prissy was the happiest he’d ever seen her. But then she found HHNF, the online forum for abused women, and it was as if she’d found her calling.

She would spend hours scouring the site, send sympathetic messages to the victims, and pick their brains for details until she finally could figure out who had to be eliminated so that these poor women could get on with their lives.

But of course, she couldn’t do the eliminating. She couldn’t do anything if it meant leaving the apartment. And just like that, Vincent’s role in his sister’s life evolved. Once, he had been her caretaker, her nursemaid, her errand boy. Now he was her vigilante by proxy.

The elevator reached the lobby, and he said goodbye to Mrs. Frangopoulos. Then he stepped outside into the clammy July night and the relative indifference ofThirty-FirstAvenue.

His phone chirped. It was a text from Priscilla.

Her name is Catherine. She teaches second grade.

Attached was the picture of the young woman whose boyfriend had brutally beaten her. Her eyes were desperate, defeated, pleading.

Vincent sighed and texted his sister back.

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