Page 81 of Subway Slayings
Alfred Niederman was murdered Sunday, May 10.
His body was discovered on Tuesday, May 19.
Megan had maintained she, and other youths who squatted at the Fifty-Seventh Street station, had last seen Dicky on Friday, which, because she’d been kidnapped Monday, May 18, would make his last appearance in the tunnels Friday, May 15. A full week after Hernandez had last seen him at St. Jude’s Mission.
Megan’s explanation that Reynold had learned of her through Dicky, that Dicky would sell out anyone for a hit, had erroneously led Larkin to believing that Dicky had been the DB in the IKEA tote—that he’d been a sort of loose end. And yet, Hernandez’s story was that he hadn’t known Niederman—but he deduced this stranger was dead, and that if the police wanted a suspect, they ought to question Dicky.
Almost like—
Larkin whispered, “You hadn’t planned the murder.”
It’d been heat-of-the-moment self-defense. Nothing more.
“I know how to look out for myself.”
Except someone elsehadhad intentions when they went to the station that night. That’s when you were recognized.
“Punk is a mentality, not a look.”
Because you visited St. Jude’s regularly—just as the generation of misfits before you had.
“—look at Dicky.”
Dicky was the perfect scapegoat—another unwanted outcast of society.
Larkin opened his eyes. “But you didn’t prepare your alibis together. Who would think to do that, when neither of you are killers by nature….”
“Larkin!”
Larkin startled and looked at Doyle.
“It’s the hospital,” Doyle said, waving his phone like he’d been trying to get Larkin’s attention for a hot minute. “They’re saying Megan’s not in her room.”
“How’d she get around the officer on door duty.”
“The idiot took a bathroom break before he was relieved. She must have slipped out then.”
“When was the shift change.”
“Quarter to one.”
Larkin pulled back the sleeve of his suit coat. It was 1:45 p.m.
“I’m sure she skipped because she doesn’t want her legal guardian knowing of her whereabouts, but Itoldher—”
“I know where she’s going,” Larkin said, running for the iron gate that opened onto the street.
“I’ll call you back,” Doyle said into the phone before rushing after Larkin. “What do you mean, you know where she’s going? To Penn Station—Amtrak?”
“Fifty-Seventh Street,” Larkin corrected. He yanked the gate open, an obnoxious clamor nearly drowning his voice out as he added, “She’s going to kill Dicky.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The F atFifty-Seventh Street was only nine blocks from St. Jude’s, but in order to head downtown, they’d first have to hook a right and drive uptown simply to turn around, because Larkin had parked on the east side of the street, opposite the church. Combined with the usual nightmare that was Midtown traffic, it’d take at least fifteen minutes to reach the station.
It was easier to run.
And because Larkin and Doyle were both runners—pedestrians and red lights taken into account—they were able to reach the subway in under seven minutes.
