It was in Times Square where he stood, scanning the crowd. His eyes surveyed the spindly wrought iron tables sitting in the middle of what had once been a street, and the people who had draped themselves over the chairs parked at those tables, his eyes narrowing in contempt at the sight of lattes and iced cappuccinos. He liked his coffee the old fashioned way: black and steaming hot, served in a thick white ceramic mug that had stains on the rim and along the bottom. He had killed a woman once simply because she had left a thick red lip imprint on his favorite coffee cup, an act he now found ironic, all things considered. A group of young women decked out in blue jean shorts, tank tops that clung to their concave bellies and high-heeled sandals, darted past, chattering excitedly while shopping bags swung from their hands. A group of German tourists stood in the center of the Square, craning their necks at the glittering cascades of neon and the buildings that pointed their heads up at the sky.
