Free Don't Look Twice by Andrew Gross Page A

the specials for Monday, and picked up the last two bags of trash.
    One hundred and twenty meals.
    It still felt as if she was carrying most of them!
    She pushed open the back door and headed out to the Dumpster. The cool night air hit her face and felt good. A single light illuminated the back. In this part of town, at night, even on a Saturday, there were no cars, no one on the streets. Just closed-up warehouses and the sound of the thruway overhead.
    Something Annie saw made her stop.
    A car was idling next to the Dumpster. The passenger door was open. She heard voices. In Spanish. A kid in a hooded sweatshirt and a red bandana lobbed a large black trash bag over the rim.
    She stepped back into the shadows.
    The kid turned to get back into the car; then his eyes fell on her.
    A chill ran down her spine. There was something cold, almost spooky in the way he looked at her—not even startled to see her standing there. The driver revved the engine. A rust-colored Jetta. Some kind of marking on the trunk.
    Don’t let him see you. Get the hell out of here, the tremor said.
    With an indifferent nod, the kid in the bandana stared at her for what seemed forever. Then he jumped back in the car.
    With a jolt, it took off onto the street and sped onto Atlantic, which led into the ramp and onto the highway. Annie saw the kid turn one last time and give her a long look through the car’s rear window. It was a look she had seen only in films—dull, fixed, implacable. Like in Blood Diamond or Hotel Rwanda. The smirk of someone capable of hacking bodies apart or shooting up people, yet no more than a boy.
    Like he was saying, Lady, I know where to find you. I know who you are.
    Annie let what seemed a full minute pass to make sure the Jetta wasn’t coming back. Then she went over to the Dumpster.
    She knew she shouldn’t do it. Just toss in the bags. Don’t get involved. Monday morning, the cartage company would come. Whatever was in it, no one would ever know.
    You have a son. Everything’s just starting to turn for you. Go home. Go to Café Mirage. Get drunk. Write Jared.
    Instead, she reached over the side and pulled out the heavy, bound bag. She undid the tape. It was crammed full with newspapers and cartons. Used food containers. Slop.
    Then she felt the black metallic shape at the bottom of the bag.
    Put it back, a voice said. She knew she had just stepped into something.
    She was staring at an automatic gun.

CHAPTER NINETEEN
    Y ou don’t have to do this, she said to herself. Things are just starting to turn for you. For Jared.
    You don’t have to get involved…
    It was later, in the small one-bedroom apartment Annie rented on the point neighboring Cos Cob, with a glimpse of the sound. A few French liquor posters hung on the walls. Her favorite majolica pitchers were arranged on the kitchen shelves.
    Basically all the possessions she had brought east with her.
    Two glasses of wine hadn’t made much more sense of it for her.
    Annie sat in her flannel pj’s writing a good-night e-mail to Jared. He always checked in before going to sleep.

CHAPTER TWENTY
    T y…” Vern Fitzpatrick’s voice crackled over the office intercom around nine the next morning. “Can I get you to come on up here?”
    Hauck was at his desk by seven. During the night, the crime scene team had scoured the truck. They picked up a set of sneaker imprints on the driver’s-side floor mat, which they tried to match to Victor’s. They also found a partial print on the newspaper article. Both weren’t panning out.
    Worse, Victor’s alibi checked out— completely. Artie Ewell had located the girl he claimed to have spent the night with. She confirmed his story that Victor had been with her until almost ten that morning, about the time the shooting had taken place.
    On top of that, two people from her building recalled seeing him heading out around that time as well.
    â€œI’ll