The Manhattan Hunt Club by John Saul Read Free Book Online Page A

toward Perry Randall, and as she was searching for something to say, Randall himself rescued her.
    “You can be sure we’ll send you an invitation, Eve,” he said, keeping his voice just light enough to take the edge off his words. “In the meantime, I think I’d like a drink. Terrific speech, Eve,” he added. “You can count on me for ten thousand this year.”
    “And I’ll hold you to it,” Eve Harris assured him.
    But as the crowd closed around her, Eve found herself watching Heather Randall as she moved toward the bar, and recalled her words:
“Jeff said he looked like one of the homeless.”
One of the homeless . . . Why did everyone always want to blame the homeless? she wondered.
    Why did the homeless always have to take the rap?
    But Eve already knew the answer to her own question—the homeless took the rap because they had nobody to defend them.
    So she would just have to work harder.

CHAPTER 4
    J oAnna Gartner gazed at the man who lay on the bunk on the other side of the bars. Right now he looked utterly harmless. His hands—slim fingered, almost feminine—were folded over his chest, which was rising and falling in the slow and steady rhythm of sleep. His eyelids, barely twitching with the tic that kept them constantly blinking whenever he was awake, now hid the glowing flame of rage that made JoAnna want to shrink away from him whenever his gaze fell directly on her.
    Jagger.
    That was his name: Jagger. He had a first name, but she, along with everyone else at Rikers Island, never used it.
    Nor did they use the nickname the other prisoners had given him, back when he had been in the general population.
    The Dragger.
    Jagger the Dragger.
    She hadn’t understood it at first; when she first heard it, she assumed he must be in the habit of dragging things out. A lot of the prisoners did that—filling the long hours of their sentences with even longer tales of why they didn’t belong here at all, or dragging out their chores in the kitchen, or the laundry, or the dining room, in an effort to avoid going back to their cells. But that wasn’t how Jagger had gotten the nickname. He’d come by it far more legitimately.
    Initially, JoAnna hadn’t believed the story. She assumed it was just one of the rumors that flowed through the cell blocks every day, getting more and more outlandish with every retelling. But then she’d seen the photograph.
    In the photo, a body was lying on a floor in the midst of a pool of blood that all but obliterated the worn-out carpet on which it lay. It was easy to see where all the blood had come from: the body was so badly mutilated that its gender was no longer distinguishable.
    Its face was covered with makeup, put on so garishly that it looked like the work of a child.
    The muscular arms of the corpse had been shoved through the sleeves of a woman’s blouse—a blouse so small that the arms themselves had torn the sleeves to shreds. There was a skirt, too, partially wrapped around the corpse’s waist.
    “Jagger dressed him up in drag after he killed him,” the person who showed JoAnna the photo explained. “Guess he wanted to pretend he was screwing a girl.”
    JoAnna’s stomach heaved, and she dropped the photo as if merely touching it could somehow infect her with the insanity it depicted.
    Right now, though, asleep in his cell, the Dragger looked perfectly harmless.
    But she knew that he was not.
    If he was, then Bobby Breen would still be alive. But Bobby Breen wasn’t alive, because JoAnna herself had found his corpse yesterday, stuffed in a closet in the large kitchen where he and Jagger had both been working. Stripped naked, the genitals hacked away with the same jagged tin can lid that had been used to slit his throat, his cheeks and lips were stained a purplish red with grape juice, and an apron was tied around his waist as a makeshift skirt.
    Jagger had not yet spoken a single word about what had been found in the closet. In fact, he hadn’t said a word