Don’t Blink

Chapter 24

BRUNO TORENZI OPENED the door to his room at the San Sebastian Hotel overlooking Central Park and gave a head-to-toe gaze at the five-foot-ten-inch blonde standing before him in the hallway. She was wearing a shiny red cocktail dress with matching high heels and strands of gold jewelry.

“What’s your name?” he asked. “Your real name?”

“Anastasia,” she answered. Her Russian accent was almost as thick as his Italian. “What’s your real name?”

Torenzi ignored the question and simply turned around, walking back inside.

“Nice to meet you,” the blonde said, closing the door behind her. “I’ll call you Sebastian, then. Like the hotel?”

“I get the joke,” Bruno Torenzi called back to the girl.

Torenzi’s preference was for Italian girls, but the ones on this side of the Atlantic were like eating at the Olive Garden: you would never mistake the experience for a home-cooked meal. As for the American girls, they talked too much about themselves. And the Asians were too skinny for him, nothing to grab on to.

Thank God for the Russian girls. Or Polish, or Greek, for that matter.

“Take your clothes off,” said Torenzi, grabbing a beer from the minibar. There was no offer of anything for the girl.

“First things first,” she shot back. “Sebastian.”

“Sure,” he mumbled, walking over to an open black duffel bag perched on a round table in the corner. He pulled out a stack of cash. “Two thousand, right?” he asked, removing the rubber band holding the wad together.

“Not including gratuity,” said Anastasia, hoping the Italian man, the apparently rich Italian man, didn’t know the rules of the game.

Torenzi peeled off twenty crisp one-hundred-dollar bills and stuck out his hand. “I wasn’t born yesterday… Anastasia.”

She took the two thousand and thought that would be good – for a start.

Then she nuzzled up to his ear while sliding her hand down to the crotch of his black trousers. Nice material, Italian-made. “You know what Anastasia means?” she whispered through lips painted cherry red. “Means ‘flower of resurrection.’”

Torenzi took a swig of his beer. “Excellent. Now take off your clothes,” he repeated. “Forget about the history lessons.”

The big guy liked to be the boss and he was hardly the first, thought Anastasia as she reached for the zipper running down the back of her dress. Let him enjoy it while he still can.

The former governor of New York notwithstanding, most men know that two thousand dollars was a pretty good price to pay for a call girl. Meaning she better be pretty and she better be good.

Anastasia didn’t disappoint. As the cocktail dress slipped off her shoulders, her blue eyes and high cheekbones became all but an afterthought to the rest of her. There was no bra, no panties underneath the dress. Just all-natural, gravitydefying talent and beauty.

“You know what, Sebastian,” she purred. “I like you.”

Torenzi finally laughed and then he unbuttoned his dress shirt. When it came off, along with his white undershirt, Anastasia couldn’t help but stare. He was solid muscle, chiseled to perfection. But that wasn’t all.

“My God, what happened to you, honey?” she asked. She couldn’t help herself.

The better question would’ve been what hadn’t happened to Bruno Torenzi. His left shoulder and arm were riddled with the scars of a shotgun blast – black tarlike circles the size of nickels and quarters. Count them all up and you had a buck fifty in change.

His other shoulder bore the scar of a severe burn, a sixinch patch of leathery skin that had the texture of beef jerky left out to bake in the sun for a month.

There was more. On one side of his stomach were two stab wounds, the scars bubbled up from the flesh. Very hard to look at.

Torenzi glanced down at himself but said nothing. Certainly no explanation. All he did was remove his trousers and underwear and climb onto the bed.

Anastasia didn’t press it. As it was, she was beginning to feel sorry for the guy.

“Oh, I get it,” she said playfully, the back of her hand gently brushing across the curve of her breasts. “You’re one of those. A real tough guy, right?”

She had no idea.

Neither did the two men just now stepping off the elevator, heading for the hotel room. Her partners.

For a year, the three of them had had the perfect scam going, but they had overlooked one thing this time.

Even contract killers get horny sometimes.

Chapter 25

THE BELOVA BROTHERS, Viktor and Dmitry, pumped up on adrenaline and blow, arrived at room 1204 of the San Sebastian. They eyed the plush hallway around them to make sure they were alone.

“Our father wouldn’t approve,” said Dmitry. He always said that before they did a job. Always.

“Fuck him,” said Viktor, who thought he was sounding more American every day. “Fuck our father, Dmitry.”

A dozen or so times before, they had stood outside expensive hotel rooms all over Manhattan, breathing fast to the point of panting while flipping off the safety switches on their Yarygin PYa semiautomatic pistols. The Yarygin’s seventeenround double-column, single-feed magazine was a major reason why it was the standard Russian military-issue sidearm. But for Viktor and Dmitry it was the ultrasleek stainless-steel barrel that they loved. It felt sturdier than the old-school Makarov pistol, more reliable.

Not that they had ever had to pull the trigger during one of these jobs.

That was the beauty and the brilliance of the scam. Most of the time they caught their victims with their pants down.

More important, the johns were always too embarrassed to go to the police afterward.

These were men of some means, usually high-level executives traveling on business. They had reputations to protect. They had wives and children. Whatever was stolen from them wasn’t worth looking an NYPD detective in the eye and explaining, “I just got swindled by a prostitute and her two partners.”

And all it had taken was an ad in the back of 212 Magazine promising the highest-quality escort for the discerning gentleman. “From Russia with Love” read the headline.

It was good enough to entice somewhere around twelve men to date – not that Viktor and Dmitry were keeping track. They were too busy counting the laptops, gold Rolexes, Kiton suits, and cold hard cash.

The brothers traded quick nods. Everything was good. Anastasia had placed the swath of tape over the lock chamber, same as always. All they had to do was turn the handle and they could stroll right in – no muss, no fuss.

But where was the fun in that?

Instead, the two of them burst into the room like a couple of class 5 hurricanes. They immediately spotted Bruno Torenzi lying buck naked above the covers.

“Don’t move, motherfucker!” barked Viktor, taking advantage of one of the design features of New York ’s better hotels: thick walls.

Torenzi’s confusion lasted only a second. He eyed Anastasia standing at the end of the bed. She confirmed what he already knew. It was a setup; she was the bait and he was today’s sucker.

Sure enough, she started to put her dress back on. “Duffel bag,” she announced. “Jackpot.”

Dmitry’s eyes moved off Torenzi and he walked over to the black duffel bag on the table in the corner. His smile grew as wide as Red Square at the sight of the cash inside.

Then the smile disappeared. It was gone. Totally gone.

“What the hell is this?”

Chapter 26

DMITRY REACHED DOWN into the duffel bag. He removed a gray rectangular block of C-4 explosive. A detonator wire was hanging from one end like a mouse’s tail. Next he pulled out an absolute beast of a handgun, the Model 500 Smith & Wesson Magnum. A box of.50-caliber cartridges followed.

This was one serious duffel bag.

Dmitry’s eyes narrowed to a suspicious squint as he looked back over at Torenzi. It was as if he’d just seen the second image in one of those optical illusion drawings.

This guy was naked, with the shiny barrels of two guns aimed directly at him. But he was completely calm and under control. Not a trace of fear.

Who is this guy? Is he connected? And why is it suddenly fucking hot in this room?

Dmitry pulled at the baby-blue silk shirt now sticking to his chest. “Do you work for somebody?” he asked.

Torenzi stared straight back, taking his time to answer. “Not your business.”

Dmitry jerked his head at the duffel bag. “What are you doing with this stuff?”

“Not your business.”

“I’m making it my business!” he snapped. “I say again, what are you doing with this stuff? You better talk to me.”

Torenzi continued to stare at Dmitry, only now he was silent. Then he actually smiled and scratched his balls.

Suddenly Viktor lunged forward, jamming the barrel of his Yarygin into the john’s cheek.

“YOU THINK THIS IS FUNNY? SOME KIND OF JOKE? MY BROTHER ASKED YOU A QUESTION!” he yelled.

But Torenzi didn’t even look at Viktor. His eyes remained focused on Dmitry, over by the table. There was something else in the duffel bag – a box the Russian hadn’t discovered yet.

Viktor pulled back the hammer on his Yarygin. “HEY, I’M TALKING TO YOU. YOU DEAF?”

“For Christ’s sake, answer him!” chimed in Anastasia. She was practically pleading with the Italian. “These guys aren’t fucking around.”

Neither was Bruno Torenzi.

Faster than Viktor’s trigger finger, Torenzi swung his hand and knocked away the barrel of the Yarygin pressed against his face. With his other hand he reached underneath the goose-down pillow behind him. He pulled out a Bersa Thunder.380 pistol.

The other box in the duffel bag was the extra ammo for it. Not that it was needed right now.

Bruno Torenzi’s first shot caught Dmitry Belova high in the chest. The second split his forehead between the eyes. Only then did Viktor Belova’s reflexes kick in. He tried to muscle his gun back toward Torenzi, but it was no use. Torenzi was too strong, too quick, too good at what he did.

He pumped three rounds into Viktor’s stomach, causing the Russian to fall backwards onto the carpet. As he lay faceup and spilling blood, Torenzi stood and lodged his gun into Viktor’s open mouth. The blast sent his brains shooting out from his skull in a perfect circle.

It was a bad day for the Belova brothers.

Now the only sound in the room was Anastasia crying like a little girl.

She had fallen to her knees, the red cocktail dress still unzipped in the back, hanging off her shoulders. She wanted to run for the door but couldn’t. She was in shock, paralyzed, scared to death that she would be next.

“Get on the bed!” Torenzi ordered. “Take off that goddamn red dress.”

“Please,” she begged, her blond hair covering her face and tears. “Please, don’t…” But then she shrugged off the dress. She climbed onto the bed.

“Now, where were we?” said Torenzi. “By the way, Anastasia, my name is Bruno. That is my real name.”

Hearing that, the girl began to cry even harder. She knew what he meant.

“That’s right. You know my name. You know what I look like,” he whispered. “You might as well enjoy your last time in the sack.”

Chapter 27

DWAYNE ROBINSON’S unspeakably sad funeral unfolded under a rain so heavy that had it been a baseball game, it would’ve surely been postponed. There was no church service. Instead, we all gathered graveside with a nondenominational minister at the sprawling Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx, final resting place for Joseph Pulitzer, Miles Davis, and Fiorello La Guardia among so many others.

The turnout was sparse, although bigger than I thought it might be. Many of Dwayne’s ex-teammates were actually there – former Yankees and heroes of mine, whom on any other day I would’ve been thrilled to see in person.

Just not on this day.

Also on hand was Dwayne’s ex-wife, who had left him the same week that he’d been banned from baseball. She was a former Miss Delaware. Alongside her were their two children, now approaching their teens. I remembered reading that she had petitioned for full custody of them during the divorce and won without much of a fight from Dwayne. For a man unaccustomed to losing on the mound, once off it he had clearly known when he’d been beat.

“Let us pray,” said the minister at the front of Dwayne’s mahogany casket.

Hanging toward the back, hunched under an umbrella like everyone else, I felt strange being there. Technically, I’d only met Dwayne once. Then again, I was one of the last people to speak to him.

Maybe even the very last. Who knew?

Certainly not anyone standing around me. As the service broke, the chatter was all about the “man they once knew.” It was as if the poor soul who had reportedly jumped to his death from the terrace of his high-rise apartment had been a complete stranger to just about everyone at his funeral.

“Once he was banned from the game, it’s as if Dwayne stopped living,” I overhead someone say.

Now he’d just made it official.

What wasn’t official yet was the autopsy, but in the intense media frenzy following Dwayne’s death, a leaked toxicology report showed he was high on heroin. Space-shuttle high. That probably explained why he hadn’t left behind a suicide note.

One mystery down, perhaps.

Another still unresolved.

What the hell had Dwayne wanted to tell me?

Weirdly, I felt as though I was also hiding some kind of secret. Courtney was the only other person who knew about the late phone call Dwayne had made to me the night he killed himself.

But as secrets go, mine was minor league. Dwayne’s was a whole lot bigger, and he’d just taken it to the grave.

I walked back to my car, an old Saab 9000 Turbo – my one “extravagance,” if you can call it that, in a city dominated by subways, taxis, and crosswalks.

Closing up my umbrella and sliding behind the wheel, I kept replaying that last conversation with Dwayne in my head. I wondered if I was overlooking something, if there was an important clue I wasn’t catching.

Nothing came to mind yet. Or maybe my memory was a poor substitute for a tape recorder. What I wouldn’t give to have a recording of that last phone call with him.

I was about to turn the key in the ignition when my phone rang.

I glanced at the caller ID.

Now, I’m not a big believer in the notion that nothing happens by accident, but for sheer timing this was stretching the boundaries of coincidence. It was spooky, actually.

The caller ID said “Lombardo’s Steakhouse.”

Chapter 28

“HI, I’M LOOKING for Tiffany.” I said this to the man with the reservation book standing behind the podium at Lombardo’s. I thought I recognized him, but it took me a few seconds to be sure.

Of course. He was the manager. I remembered seeing Detective Ford interviewing him on the afternoon of the murders.

“She’ll be right back – she’s seating someone,” he said, barely looking up at me. He was average height and build, his tone sprinkled with an air of superiority that presumably came with the job. “Are you the man with the jacket?” he asked.

Actually, I was the man without the jacket.

Although not for long.

Before I could answer, I heard a voice over the manager’s shoulder. “You made it,” she said.

She remembered me. I certainly remembered her. “Tiffany,” I said, extending my hand. “Like the pretty blue box.”

She smiled. Great smile, too. “Hi, Mr. Daniels,” she said.

“Please, it’s Nick.”

I followed Tiffany to the coat-check room opposite the bar area. “Your jacket’s over here,” she said with a glance back at me. “We kept it nice and safe for you.”

I nodded. “Listen, I appreciate your calling me. I didn’t even realize I’d left it here.”

“Pretty understandable, given the confusion that day.” She stopped on a dime, turning to me. “Confusion. That word doesn’t really capture it, does it?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Tiffany shook her head. “You know, I was going to quit this job the next day. Go back to Indiana where I’m from. I even discussed it with Jason.”

“Jason?”

“The guy you talked to at the desk. The manager.”

“What did he tell you?”

“That this was New York, and I should just suck it up, and I would if I belonged here.”

“What a sweetheart.”

“I know, tell me about it,” she said. “Then again, look around at the crowd of ghouls. I don’t know whether to be amazed or really depressed.”

I could see what she meant. Lombardo’s Steakhouse was even more crowded than usual, if that was possible. Call it the perverse logic of hipness, especially in Manhattan and, I would guess, LA. After serving as the backdrop to three vicious murders, the joint actually gained in popularity.

Tiffany continued on to the coat-check room, grabbing my jacket. “Here you go,” she said. “It is yours, right?”

“Yep, that’s it, all right.” A leather car coat I had gotten for a near steal years back at a Barneys outlet sale.

As I folded it over my forearm, something occurred to me. “Tiffany, how did you know this was mine?” It was a good question, I thought. It’s not as if I had my name sewn inside the collar like some kid at summer camp.

“I went through the pockets. Hope you don’t mind,” she answered. “I found one of those e-tickets for a flight you recently took to Paris. It had your name and a phone number listed. That’s how I -”

She stopped.

“What is it?” I asked.

Tiffany’s jaw dropped. I could practically see the wheels churning behind her dark brown eyes.

“Oh my God!” she blurted. “You were here with the baseball pitcher that day, weren’t you? The poor man who just killed himself?”

“Yes, Dwayne Robinson,” I said. It still hurt just to say his name. “I just came from his funeral, actually. Very sad.”

She shook her head slowly. “I couldn’t believe it when I saw it on the news.”

“You remember him, huh? From when he was here that day?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “And from the day before, too.”

I looked at her sideways as her last sentence knocked around in my head.

The day before?

Chapter 29

IT DIDN’T MAKE SENSE, none at all. Dwayne Robinson hadn’t been at Lombardo’s that first day. He had stood me up.

But he had been here. At least according to Tiffany.

“When?” I asked. “What time was it? Sorry to bother you, but it’s important to me. I was supposed to do a story on Dwayne. For Citizen magazine.”

“I’m not sure exactly. It was on the early side. Noonish, maybe.”

That had been before I’d arrived, about a half hour before Dwayne and I were supposed to meet. Odd. Crazy.

“You’re sure it was him?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Of course, I didn’t think anything of it at the time. I remembered seeing him only after they showed his picture on TV. I’m not a big baseball fan. I didn’t know who he was until then.”

“Did you seat him?” I asked.

“No. I didn’t even talk to him.”

“What was he doing? Did you happen to notice? Anything at all?”

“I don’t know. I was busy with other customers. I just remember seeing him at one point. He was looking around.”

For me?

Had he thought we were meeting at noon instead of twelve thirty?

I stood there utterly perplexed, trying to think this new mystery through. All I knew for sure was that Dwayne had been at the restaurant the following day at twelve thirty. Courtney had said she’d never bothered to ask his agent why he had stood me up. Could Dwayne have thought I had stood him up? But then why would he have gone to the trouble to meet with me the next day?

For the past dozen years, asking questions has been second nature to me. It’s how I do my job. I ask questions, I get answers, I find out what I need to know. Boom, boom, boom. Simple as that. Especially when I’m really into a story.

But this was different. The more questions I asked Tiffany, the less I understood about what had happened.

“I’m sorry to keep pressing, but is there anything else you can remember?” I asked. “Anything at all?”

She turned her head away, thinking for a moment. “Not really. Except…”

“Except what?”

“Well, he did seem really nervous.”

“You mean, like, he was pacing?”

“Nothing quite so obvious,” she said. “It was more his eyes. He was a big guy, but he looked almost… scared to be here.”

I literally smacked my forehead as a Latin expression from my school days at St. Pat’s came rushing back to me. “Entia non sunt multiplicanda praeter necessitatem.”

I was always so-so at Latin, yet this mouthful I’ve somehow never forgotten. It’s the basis for what’s commonly referred to as Occam’s razor. Translated, the phrase roughly means “entities should not be multiplied more than necessary.” In other words, all things being equal, the simplest solution is the best.

And what was I simply forgetting about Dwayne Robinson?

His anxiety disorder. Of course.

It made total sense now. He had arrived early to meet me for lunch that first time. He looked scared, according to Tiffany. That’s because he was. He was nervous about doing the interview and perhaps just nervous to be in the crowded restaurant, period. People could see him; some of them would definitely recognize Dwayne Robinson.

So he got cold feet and left.

I thanked Tiffany for my jacket and her time and help. I thought she’d thrown me a curveball about Dwayne Robinson, but as I walked out of Lombardo’s, I was convinced I had it all figured out. “Entia non sunt multiplicanda praeter necessitatem.”

Unfortunately, what I didn’t know at the time – what I couldn’t know – was that I actually had it all wrong. Because as theories go, Occam’s razor isn’t foolproof. Sometimes, the simplest solution isn’t the best.

Like I said, I wasn’t terribly good at Latin. Downright horribilis, to tell the truth.

Chapter 30

DAVID SORREN JUST loved one-way mirrors. To him, they represented the heart and soul of his job as Manhattan DA, a literal metaphor for his success.

I’ve always got my eye on you.

And I never blink.

Ever since he’d been a rising-star prosecutor out of NYU Law, he’d been standing behind these one-way mirrors, his arms crossed, tie loosened – watching, gauging, sizing up hundreds and hundreds of criminals. Occasionally there’d be an innocent person thrown into the mix, but they were few and far between.

The simple truth was, if you ever found yourself in a police station, on the wrong side of a one-way mirror, the over-whelming odds were that you had something to hide.

And David Sorren’s job – no, his mission – was to find out what it was.

Then nail you to the wall for it and throw the proverbial book at you.

“I say we play the recording for this douche bag bastard and watch him squirm,” came a voice over Sorren’s shoulder. “Make ’im squirm, make ’im turn.”

As in, turning state’s evidence.

Sorren heard every word of what his assistant DA Kimberly Joe Green was saying, but his eyes remained locked on Eddie “The Prince” Pinero on the other side of the glass.

Dressed in a natty gray-pinstriped suit with his trademark black handkerchief stuffed into his lapel pocket, Pinero was seated with his attorney – his new attorney – in the second-floor interrogation room of the Nineteenth Precinct.

No stranger to these rooms, Pinero clearly knew he was being both watched and recorded. He wasn’t saying a word to his attorney, and he was staring straight into the one-way mirror with a smile on his handsome, ruddy face that declared, Here I am, folks. Stare at me all you like!

“Yeah, play him the tape,” came a second voice behind Sorren in the observation room. It was Detective Mark Ford. “Pinero’s about to return for sentencing. If there was ever a deal to be made, the time is now. Hate to admit it, but I’m with Kimberly Joe on this one.”

Ford, a first-grade detective, and Green had an openly contentious relationship, to put it mildly, having endured numerous run-ins over the years. That said, they both knew how good the other was at their job. Respect, even when it came begrudgingly, trumped just about everything in law enforcement.

Finally, Sorren turned around to face Green and Ford. He could feel the heat rising to his head.

“A deal? Fuck, no,” he said. “There’s no way I’m ever giving that son of a bitch immunity.”

“But -”

Sorren cut Green off. “The hit on Marcozza got two detectives killed. Two good guys with wives and children, seven kids between them. No, there’s only one way I want Pinero, and that’s with his head on a plate,” he said.

But even more than the words, it was the way he said them.

Teeth clenched.

Eyes unblinking.

As if the life of everyone in the room depended on it.

“Christ, did I say immunity? What was I thinking?” joked Green, dialing up her deadpan sense of humor. As an assis.tant DA she was smart enough to know when to fall in line behind her boss. “Okay, so let’s wait on playing the tape. Who knows? Maybe Pinero will dig his own grave.”

Sorren’s scowl crept up slowly into a satisfied smile.

“Exactly,” he said. “Now let’s go give the prick a shovel.”

Chapter 31

EDDIE PINERO GAVE a quick tug on the starched French cuff of his Armani spread collar shirt as he watched the three people enter the interrogation room. Look who it is, the Three Stooges!

If he could whack each one of them and get away with it, he would. In a heartbeat. He’d pull the trigger himself, smile while he did it.

Especially when it came to Sorren, that Eliot Ness wannabe!

Pinero was sure that if it weren’t for the DA’s hard-on for organized crime, he wouldn’t be on his way to serving two to four years upstate. Of course, his former lawyer, Marcozza, hadn’t exactly helped the situation. Pinero still couldn’t understand how his consigliere had allowed him to take the fall for some trumped-up loan-sharking charges. At the trial it had been as if Marcozza had been phoning it in.

Pinero had a new attorney now, Conrad Hagey, called the “White-Collar Knight” among New York defense attorneys. His usual clientele were Wall Street and CEO bigwigs, mostly WASPs. In fact, Hagey had originally turned down Pinero’s request to represent him because he hadn’t wanted to sully his image.

That’s when Pinero had taken out his checkbook and a diamond-encrusted Montblanc pen. A half-dozen zeroes later, the tall and lean Hagey had had a sudden change of heart. Funny how that happens.

“Gentlemen,” began Hagey. “I’d like to reiterate for the record that my client has come here voluntarily and will certainly leave here voluntarily. It’s further understood that the sole purpose of this meeting is to ask him about the death of his -”

“The murder,” interrupted Sorren.

“Excuse me?” said Hagey.

“Vincent Marcozza was murdered. As were two New York City police officers. All three of them were murdered.”

“And my heart goes out to all of their families,” said Pinero, inserting himself into the conversation.

“I’ll bet,” said Sorren with a sneer. “You’re just all beat up over it, aren’t you?”

Hagey resumed his preamble only to have Pinero raise a palm to him. “Let’s get to the questions,” he said before turning to Sorren. “Sound good to you, Mr. Mayor?”

Sorren smiled at the jab but gave away nothing more. He wanted to tangle with Pinero but not about his own political aspirations. Indeed. Let’s get to the questions.

“Do you have any idea who might have wanted Vincent Marcozza dead?” asked Sorren for starters. “That is, besides you?”

“I loved Vincent,” Pinero shot back. “We were very close, for a lot of years.”

“Even after he completely botched your trial? I mean, that was a real butcher job he did. Why am I telling you – you were there.”

Pinero turned to Kimberly Joe Green, the assistant DA. Green had prosecuted the case. “Your boss sure doesn’t give you much credit, does he?”

Green didn’t take the bait. She simply waited for Sorren to continue – and he did.

“Here’s the thing, Mr. Pinero. If Marcozza was so close to you, who would have been crazy enough to kill him – and disappoint you so greatly?” asked Sorren.

“That’s a damn good question. I guess I’ll have to keep watching the news to find out,” answered Pinero. “Which reminds me, how’s that little news reporter of yours, Brenda Evans, doing? Nice little piece you’ve got there, if I do say so myself.” He leaned forward on the metal table, his arms crossed. “Listen, do you really think I’d be stupid enough to whack my own lawyer?”

Sorren shrugged indifference. “Stupid enough? I don’t know about that. Angry enough? Perhaps.” He turned to Hagey. “Better watch your back with this guy, counselor. Either that or just make sure you never lose a case of his. Like this one.”

“Don’t you worry,” said Hagey, an ex-forward on the Princeton basketball team. He’d taken more than his share of hard elbows while delivering a few in return. “All I’ve heard here so far is a lot of talk and zero evidence. You do remember what evidence is, don’t you, Mr. Sorren?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” said Sorren. “Not only do I remember it, I have it.”

Pinero immediately broke into laughter. It was loud and from the gut, like he was in the front row at Caroline’s comedy club. He kept laughing until everyone in the interrogation room had to stop to watch him.

This was the very last thing Sorren would ever have expected him to do, and Pinero knew it. Or maybe it was the second to last thing.

The very last thing was what happened next.

“So, is this when you play us the recording from Lombardo’s?” asked Pinero. “Gee, I can hardly wait.”

Sorren’s face said it all. He couldn’t hide it. How the hell does he know about the recording?

Pinero tugged on the cuff of his shirt again, leaning back in his chair with a self-satisfied grin that stretched straight back to his porcelain-capped molars.

“What’s the matter now, Sorren?” he asked. “Cat got your tongue?”

Chapter 32

“I’LL TAKE ONE dog with the works,” I said. Culinary snobs will tell you that ordering a hot dog on the streets of New York is like playing Russian roulette with your gastrointestinal tract. Maybe so. But what better way to find out if you can stomach this city or not?

I’ve never gotten sick once. Well, maybe once. But that was on the Staten Island Ferry.

It was a little past noon now and I’d just come from the Daily News headquarters on West 33rd Street, where I was picking up my latest fix of Yankees tickets from my buddy Ira at the paper. Years back I had helped him get a job there as a sports reporter. Ever since, he’s been regularly landing me in the first row behind the Yankees dugout right near where Rudy Giuliani always sits. That’s my kind of quid pro quo.

“Here you go,” said my hot dog man from behind his cart. Clearly he took pride in his work, as he bestowed upon me a perfectly layered masterpiece of onions, ketchup, mustard, and sauerkraut. I took it on faith that somewhere beneath it all was the actual hot dog.

Not that it really mattered by this point. I was starving, having worked straight through breakfast. This was my first bite of food all day, and as I began walking east on 33rd Street, I couldn’t wait to dig in.

That’s when I heard a guy’s voice over my shoulder. “Hey, aren’t you Nick Daniels?”

It’s pretty rare that I get recognized out on the street. It happens maybe once or twice a year, mainly because my picture appears every week in the Contributing Writers section of Citizen magazine.

I’d be lying if I said these little encounters didn’t stroke my ego a tad, but unfortunately this guy’s timing couldn’t have been worse.

I spun around, hot dog in hand, praying that whoever the guy was, he didn’t want to talk my ear off about some article I’d written.

Turns out, he barely wanted to talk at all.

Standing before me was a stone wall of a guy wearing dark wraparound sunglasses and a New York Knicks sweatshirt. At least I thought it was the Knicks – the orange and blue logo had faded more than the team itself during these past few years, ever since that James Dolan guy took over and ruined everything.

“Yeah, I’m Nick Daniels,” I said to the guy. “How you doing? What’s up?”

“Get the fuck in the car!” was his response.

Huh? What?

He jerked his head at a beat-up black van parked alongside the curb. The side door was already open. As if to give me a little encouragement, he lifted the side of his sweat-shirt to reveal a pistol tucked between his jeans and a bulging gut.

I froze. Is this really happening? Right here in broad day-light?

Hell, yes, it really was.

In case there was any doubt, the guy swiped the hot dog out of my hand. The onions, ketchup, mustard, and sauerkraut landed splat! on the sidewalk.

And just like that there was one more ugly, sticky mess in the middle of Manhattan.

Me.

I was “going for a ride.”

Chapter 33

SO THIS IS IT, I couldn’t help thinking. This is how I die. What a joke.

Not while fleeing an attack by the Janjaweed militia in Darfur, or by catching typhoid fever, as I did a couple of years back in India while doing a piece on the prime minister, Manmohan Singh.

No, I go down in my own backyard, New York City. All because of a recording I had never intended to make.

Christ, how did Eddie Pinero find out about me so fast? Then again, am I really that surprised? He probably has more people on his payroll than the NYPD.

“Where are you taking me?” I asked from the back of the windowless van. I was sitting on the metal floor. There were no seats.

There were also no answers forthcoming from my captors.

My escort in the Knicks sweatshirt was sitting sideways up front, riding shotgun. His dark sunglasses were fixed on me, and his mouth was shut tight. After he had demanded my cell phone – which I had reluctantly handed over – he hadn’t said another word.

Same for the driver, who was big and baby-faced, at least from his profile. He looked barely twenty-one. On his right arm was a large, seemingly new tattoo of a Harley-Davidson logo. The orange color was so bright, it made the ink look as if it were still wet.

Again I asked where we were going, and in their continued silence I realized that there might be something scarier than being told you were going to die.

Not being told.

For twenty minutes, I sat idle with only my thoughts, a panic beginning to feast on me. From the floor of the van I couldn’t see the windshield, but I could tell we were out of the city; we were going too fast. The van was old, the suspension shot. I could feel every bump, every pothole.

We’re going to some out-of-the-way, deserted landfill, aren’t we?

That’s where they were taking me, I was almost sure of it. Out to Brooklyn. Out to the middle of nowhere. I could almost smell it – some godforsaken dump with a stench so thick it hung like fog.

“On your knees!” one of them would order me. I could hear the words in my head, cold and without mercy.

Would they have me turn away, face the opposite direction?

Hell, no, not these sick bastards. Not if they worked for Eddie Pinero. They’d shoot me straight on, a bullet to the brain. Probably stare right into my eyes, too.

Oh, God. My eyes! Were they going to carve my eyes out?

I was sweating now, shaking a little, scared shitless a lot. Most of all, I was convinced I had to do something to try to get away from these two gorillas.

But what? They had my cell phone, and at least one of them was carrying a gun. So what could I do?

That’s what, I realized.

Tuck and roll! The sequel to the desert.

The handle to the sliding door of the van was there in front of me. If I could reach it before Mr. Knicks could stop me, I could jump for it, maybe outrun them and survive to write another day.

Of course, I had to survive the jump first. And this time I wouldn’t be landing on desert sand in Darfur.

Still, those odds had to be better than staying in the van, right? Those odds sucked. But I couldn’t make myself jump out of a speeding van, could I?

Yes – I had to do it.

So this is it.

This is how I don’t die…

I swallowed a deep breath and pushed the air down into my lungs, past my heart, which was beating so loud it was scary in itself.

Slowly, casually, I shifted my right foot so I could launch myself toward the sliding door. There would be no do overs, no second chances. I had to time this just right.

On three, Nick, okay? You can do this. You’ve done it before…

I counted backwards to myself, the adrenaline pumping through every vein in my body.

Three…

Two…

One…

Chapter 34

STOP!

The van suddenly made a sharp hairpin turn, the tires screeching and then skidding on what sounded like a slip-stream of gravel.

Mr. Harley-Davidson at the wheel didn’t just hit the brakes, he pummeled them into submission. Newton ’s third law of motion did the rest. I tumbled face forward in the back of the van, my head smacking the metal floor.

But instead of twinkling stars and Tweety Birds, it was a blast of sunshine I encountered next, as the sliding door of the van opened with a rusty grind.

Then out of the sunshine he stepped, a greeting party of one.

Eddie “The Prince” Pinero.

He motioned for me to exit the van. As I did, he extended a hand to help. A helping hand? That doesn’t mesh. What’s going on here?

The “here,” as I quickly saw, was the driveway of what I presumed to be his home. Check that. Estate was more like it. With its lush gardens and a water view contained behind wrought-iron fencing, monstrous stone walls, and a show of armed guards, the property reminded me of a cross between the Kennedy and Corleone compounds.

“Thanks for making the trip out to see me, Mr. Daniels,” said Pinero. “I appreciate it.”

“You say that like I had a choice,” I said, immediately regretting it.

But Pinero actually seemed amused. He smiled, anyway. “Hope I didn’t give you the wrong impression. I just wanted to speak with you in private,” he said. “Can I get you a drink? A Laphroaig, perhaps? Fifteen year?”

He knew what I drank. What else did he know about me?

“Okay, sure,” I said. “Laphroaig would be good.”

Pinero nodded at Mr. Knicks, who disappeared inside the enormous Tudor home that boasted a magnificent wraparound porch. A few minutes later, I was sipping a generous pour of Laphroaig from an etched crystal tumbler initialed EP.

For the first time since I got into the van, I allowed myself to think that I might actually live to see tomorrow. Still, I was far from comfortable. I wasn’t here with Pinero to discuss the weather or the series finale of The Sopranos. Did Tony get whacked or not? What do you think?

“Come, Nick, let’s walk. Bring your drink,” said Pinero. “I need to talk with you. Don’t worry, you’re not going to get hurt. You’re with me. You’re perfectly safe now.”

Chapter 35

I TOOK ANOTHER sip of Scotch only to notice that Pinero hadn’t joined me in a drink. I also noticed he wasn’t wearing one of his natty suits with the trademark black handkerchief. As for what he was wearing, it was impossible not to notice that. I followed Pinero, in his royal blue Fila tracksuit, to the water’s edge, the choppy waves of the Rockaway Inlet lapping against the breakwater of his property. He lit a cigarette and pulled a deep drag. Slowly, he exhaled into the breeze.

“So, Nick, that must have been some frightening scene that day at Lombardo’s,” he began with a slight nod. “It’s not every man who witnesses murder that close. Unnerving, isn’t it?”

“That’s definitely a good word for it,” I said.

“A good word? I’ll take that as a compliment, you being a big-time writer. So you were there to interview Dwayne Robinson?”

“Yes.”

He shook his head ruefully. “Sad story. All that talent, wasted. What a shame.”

I didn’t say anything to that. I was too consumed with trying to figure out where this conversation was heading. Pinero was obviously aware of the recording and how it implicated him. Instead of serving a little time for loansharking, he was looking at a murder conviction. So what did he want to talk to me about?

That’s when I decided to try to cut through the bullshit and just ask him. “Mr. Pinero, exactly why am I here?”

The man they called “The Prince” took another long drag off his cigarette, his eyes never leaving mine. I don’t even think he blinked. Then he calmly explained.

He didn’t want to kill me. He wanted to help me.

Or at least warn me.

“Nick, I’ve been set up,” he said. “And that means you’ve been set up, too. I would like you to help me figure out who screwed us both. Let’s help each other, Nick.”

Chapter 36

MY FIRST LOGICAL assumption was that slick Eddie Pinero was full of good old-fashioned Grade A bullshit. He was, after all, the high-profile head of an organized crime family, not exactly a poster boy for the straight and narrow. Clearly he was appealing to my journalistic instincts, hoping that he might pique my interest so I’d dig a whole lot deeper into what had happened at Lombardo’s. If he couldn’t prove his own innocence, maybe I could.

All in all it was incredibly transparent. The problem was, it worked on me. Or, at the very least, it got me thinking. The guy had his goons basically kidnap me, but I wasn’t heading straight to the police. What was I going to do, press charges?

Instead, like metal to a magnet, I found myself right back at Lombardo’s Steakhouse later that same day.

I still hadn’t eaten, but a nice porterhouse was the last thing on my mind.

No, the rumbling in my gut was the feeling that something wasn’t quite right about my originally being there to interview Dwayne Robinson. Or, I should say, everything was too right.

Too convenient.

That’s why I’d come back to see my new good friend – Tiffany.

As it happened, I caught her with one foot out the door. It was half past three; lunch was over. The dining room was all but empty.

“You got a second?” I asked. “I’m really sorry to bother you again. I’m relentless, I know.

“Sure, what is it?”

Only there was nothing “sure” about her response. She seemed anxious at the sight of me, even glancing over her shoulder to see if anyone was looking at us.

“Hey, are you okay?” I asked her.

“Huh?” she said, turning back to me. “Oh… um, yeah, I’m fine.”

I wasn’t exactly sold on that. But I pressed on.

“I was hoping you could check something for me,” I said. “You mentioned that the day before Vincent Marcozza was murdered, Dwayne Robinson came in but never sat down. I was wondering – did Marcozza eat lunch here that day?”

“Probably,” she answered quickly. “He practically ate lunch here every day. Sometimes dinner, too. Mr. Marcozza was a big customer.”

“Is there a way you can check for sure? About the day before the shootings? Maybe in your reservation book?”

Again, she seemed distracted. It was as if the question had caught her off guard. What gives, Tiffany? After another glance over her shoulder, she motioned for me to follow her.

We walked over to the reservation book. “That was Thursday, right?” she asked.

I nodded and watched as she flipped back a few pages, the ruby-red nail polish on her index finger scrolling down the list of reservations for that day. Putting my upside-down reading skills to use, I kept looking for Marcozza’s name.

But I didn’t see it. Neither did Tiffany.

“Hmmm. I guess he wasn’t here that day,” she said. “That’s unusual for him.”

“Who wasn’t here what day?” came a sharp voice over Tiffany’s shoulder.

Chapter 37

IT WAS THE manager of Lombardo’s. Jack, was it? No, Jason, I thought. Given his tone, though, his name might as well have been Mr. Royally Pissed Off. Tiffany froze at the reservation stand, like a deer in xenon headlights.

I took that as my cue to help out. “My fault. I was just checking to see if Vincent Marcozza had eaten here the day before he was murdered. That’s all. Nothing sinister.”

I was expecting the guy to ask me why I wanted to know that. He didn’t. Instead, he said, “Reservations made by our guests are considered private. It’s restaurant policy, Mr. Daniels.”

Jason knew my name. That was a little strange. We hadn’t officially met. Or exchanged business cards.

“Then my apologies,” I said. “I didn’t know.”

“Yes, but Tiffany did,” he said, turning to her.

She raised her palms apologetically. “Jason, I know you told me -”

He cut her off. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“But -”

“Shut up!” he barked at the poor girl. “You’re fired.” Fired? You’ve got to be kidding.

“What are you doing? She was only trying to help me,” I said, dumbfounded. “I was a customer here, too. Actually, I am a customer. I was about to have a steak.”

My new best friend, Jason, gave me a drop-dead stare. “Was I talking to you?”

“You are now,” I said.

He took two steps forward, getting right smack in my face. He was so close I could tell what flavor gum he was chewing. Wintergreen.

“In that case,” he said, pushing the words through his clenched teeth, “I want you to listen to me real closely, okay? Get the fuck out of my restaurant. Don’t come back.”

So much for the customer always being right… or even tolerated.

“What are you going to do?” I asked. “Call the cops?”

“I won’t if you won’t,” he fired back at me.

I wasn’t exactly the technical adviser on the movie Fight Club, but I’d been in enough scuffles to more than catch his drift. This prick was challenging me.

Keep your cool, Nick. Diplomacy first.

“Listen, there’s no reason this thing needs to get out of hand,” I said.

No sooner had I said it, though, than he suddenly grabbed the lapels of my jacket, pushing me backwards. “I don’t think you heard me,” he said.

Oh, I heard you all right…

Screw diplomacy!

I dug my heels hard into the floor and gave Jason the shove back he so richly deserved. Then he raised his fists. Suddenly, this might as well have been a Rangers hockey game down at Madison Square Garden.

The gloves were coming off, whether I wanted this to happen or not.

Smack!

He threw a right-handed jab, tagging my cheek. It was a sucker punch, completely uncalled for. So I let fly with one of my own – only to catch nothing but air. Jason wasn’t big but he was quick. Too quick to go toe-to-toe.

Time to improvise.

“Nick, be careful,” Tiffany called from the sidelines. Well, that was my plan for sure.

Dropping my head, I charged him straight on and wrapped my arms around his waist. We went hurtling into the dining room, his feet barely skimming the floor as I kept pushing and pushing him like a football tackling sled.

Then, crash!

Table for two, please!

Make that two tables. We upended the first and kept right on going, landing squarely on the table behind it. Plates and silverware went flying above our heads as we hit the floor, barrel-rolling back and forth while trading punches.

I gave a whole lot better than I got now, too. A good right to Jason’s jaw. Another right on the cleft of his chin. “You asked for this,” I yelled in his face. “You wouldn’t let it go.”

Hey, this was even better than a hockey fight. If we were on the ice, the refs would’ve broken it up by now.

But no.

Jason and I were just getting warmed up.

Chapter 38

“BOY, YOU’RE HAVING some kind of week,” said Courtney, gently dabbing at the dried blood below my nose with a damp paper towel. “Keep this up and they’ll have to name an action figure after you.”

We were sitting together on the couch in my office at CitiZen magazine. Me, the patient. Courtney, the concerned, and quite beautiful, nurse. With a surprisingly soft touch, too. And she was wearing Chanel.

As it turned out, some referees did break up the fight. The sous-chef and a dishwasher heard all the commotion and came running out of the kitchen. Otherwise, I’m fairly sure I would’ve won big-time on points.

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it!

At least for the guys at Jimmy D’s Pub. Courtney was another deal. There was no way I’d jeopardize this sudden warm and affectionate outpouring of sympathy. I’m not that stupid. Besides, I’m in love with her. Deeply and hopelessly, I suppose.

“I guess I’ve always been more of a lover than a fighter,” I said with an eye roll.

“Oh, you poor thing,” she cooed, playing the same game on me. “Why would the manager pick a fight with you like that?”

“I’m not sure yet,” I said. “It’s very strange – everything is, Courtney. Mystery on top of mystery.”

I couldn’t help but suspect that Jason was under some kind of orders. Someone didn’t want me snooping around. But who?

That was just one question I had. There were so many others in the aftermath of my recording from Lombardo’s.

But as I laid my head back and closed my eyes, all I could really focus on was how amazing Courtney was. She was sitting so close to me, her hair grazing my shoulder. Finally I couldn’t help myself.

“I love you,” I blurted out.

I just said it – boom! – like that. I didn’t know what I was thinking. Actually, that was it. I wasn’t thinking.

For a second, there was some hope that she would answer, “I love you, too.” But in the next second, that hope was beaten down – worse than Jason at the restaurant.

It was as if I had suddenly become contagious with Ebola or the swine flu.

Courtney sprang up from the couch, practically darting to the other side of my office. She was shaking her head. “No, no, no,” she said. “Don’t say that, Nick. I wish you hadn’t said that. I really wish you hadn’t.”

“Why, Courtney? Tell me why.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Nick, because I’m engaged!”

“But you don’t love him.”

“You’re wrong, Nick. I do love him. I love Tom very much. I do.”

It hurt to hear her say that – worse than any of the punches I’d just taken – but I wasn’t about to stop now. She meant too much to me. If I hadn’t known that before, I sure did now.

“I don’t believe you,” I said. “I’m sorry, but I don’t, Courtney.”

“You need to, Nick.”

“No. You may want to believe that you love him.”

I looked at her. That’s all I had to do. The big white elephant was back in the room. I hadn’t meant for it to happen; neither had she. But it had happened. Courtney and I had slept together. We had made love. Not just lust – which had been part of it, I’ll admit – but love. We’d been intimate with each other. Very much so. We had talked until dawn.

“I told you, that was a mistake,” she said.

“It didn’t feel like a mistake. Not to me, anyway.”

“Nick, it did to me.”

I got up from the couch. That one hurt, too.

“Do you really mean that?” I asked her. I was trying desperately not to let my eyes plead.

“Yes,” she said again.

“Are you sure?” I asked, taking a step toward her. She raised her hand. “Stop,” she said. “Don’t.”

I took another step toward her. She didn’t say Stop this time. She didn’t say Don’t. She didn’t say anything. All she did was stare at me with those amazing blue eyes.

But before I could take another step, the door to my office suddenly swung open.

“There you are!” said Thomas Ferramore, Courtney’s fiancé, the man she said she loved.

Chapter 39

I GUESS I couldn’t blame him for not knocking or, for that matter, acting as if he owned the room the moment he stepped foot in my office. Thomas Ferramore literally did own the room. The entire building, in fact. What better way to cut down on rent for his Citizen magazine than to buy the building that housed it?

I stood and watched as Ferramore, with his salt and pepper hair and perennial tan, strode over to Courtney, planting a kiss on her lips. It seemed to last for a couple of eternities, and probably would’ve had Courtney not finally pulled back.

“Tom, what are you doing here?” she asked. Very good question. Didn’t Ferramore realize that Courtney and I were falling in love now?

“What else would I be doing here? I’ve come to see the most beautiful woman in the world.”

“You know what I mean,” she said, rolling her eyes playfully. (Ugh.) “You told me you were coming home tomorrow.”

“Change of plans,” said Ferramore. “Aren’t you happy to see me, Courtney?”

“Of course I am,” she said. “Why wouldn’t I be? Even here at work.”

He was still supposed to be in Paris making his latest acquisition. For all I knew he was buying the Eiffel Tower.

Now here he was in my office. You do know this is my office, Mr. Ferramore, right? Or that I’m standing here, too?

Apparently not.

Not until Courtney shot me the world’s most uncomfortable glance. She didn’t say a word, but I could read her mind like the first line of an eye chart. Did my fiancé just walk in on another man professing his love for me?

Yeah, he sure as hell did.

“Sorry, Nick, I didn’t see you standing there,” said Ferramore before his eyes immediately collapsed into a squint. “Holy shit, what happened to your face?”

“You should see the other guy,” I said, dusting off the old joke, which happened to be accurate in this case.

Ferramore humored me with a quiet chuckle, but as he resumed his full attention on Courtney, it was clear he couldn’t care less what actually had happened to me or my face.

He reached out, taking both of Courtney’s hands in his. (Ugh again.) “Actually, sweetheart, there is something I need to discuss with you.”

I took that as my cue. (Shit.)

“Why don’t I leave the two of you alone,” I said with a step toward the door.

“Nonsense. This is your office, Nick,” said Courtney. “Come, Tom, we’ll go to mine. Nick has a lot of work to do.”

Before Ferramore could even nod in agreement, though, my office filled with the sound of Courtney’s cell phone. Instinctively, she reached into the pocket of her Chanel suit to check the caller ID.

Out of the blue, Ferramore’s entire personality changed. He looked anxious and concerned. Now what was going on? Was it about me? Or Courtney and me?

“Who is it?” he asked Courtney.

She seemed momentarily baffled that he would want to know, let alone ask her outright. “It’s Harold Clark,” she finally answered him.

Clark was a seasoned reporter with the Associated Press. His nickname was “Baskin,” short for Baskin-Robbins. In other words, he was known for his scoops.

“Don’t answer it!” Ferramore practically shouted at her.

“Why not?” asked Courtney. “What’s going on, Tom?”

“That’s what I need to talk to you about, sweetheart.”

Chapter 40

“MORE COFFEE, NICK?” asked the waitress behind the counter at the Sunrise Diner near my apartment the following morning. She had the glass pot hovering and ready to pour as she waited for my answer.

“Absolutely,” I told her. “Thank you, Rosa.” I was going to need the extra caffeine today.

There was no way I could’ve known what Courtney and Ferramore had discussed once they’d left my office. Even if I had been so nosy as to approach Courtney about it afterward, there was still no way I could’ve known.

That’s because I couldn’t find her.

Courtney had basically disappeared – poof! – for the remainder of the day. Her terrific assistant, M.J., said she’d stormed out of the office without saying a word. That night she didn’t answer her phone at home.

But then came the morning. And now I understood everything.

So did the rest of Manhattan, if not the world.

Someone had posted a video on YouTube. It starred the French supermodel Marbella, backstage a few days earlier at the Hermès fashion show in Paris. The stunning brunette had a cigarillo in one hand, a glass of champagne in the other – and next season’s must-have Jimmy Choo shoe planted firmly in her mouth.

A voice off camera asked the supermodel who the richest man she’d ever slept with was.

After a sip of the champagne and a puff of the cigarillo – removing the shoe from her mouth first – she looked straight into the camera and answered with her French accent. “Thomas Ferramore. Far and away, him!”

“When was that?” the off-camera voice asked.

She giggled and whispered, “Last night.”

Whoops.

I hadn’t actually seen the video, but news of it was splashed all over the papers, especially the New York Post that was opened on the diner counter in front of me as I gobbled up my fried eggs over easy and a stack of wheat toast. How do I stay at my current weight of 175? A very good gene pool. There’s no other possible answer.

Anyway. Of course I felt horrible for Courtney that she would have to endure such a public humiliation, but at the same time I couldn’t help selfishly hoping that this would change everything between her and Ferramore.

“Excuse me, is this your phone?” I suddenly heard to my left.

I turned to see a man sitting on the stool next to me. He must have just sat down, because I hadn’t noticed him. He was pointing at my iPhone on the counter between us.

“I’m sorry,” I said, moving it closer to me.

“No, it’s fine, it wasn’t in my way. I only wanted to make sure it was yours and not the person who was sitting here before me.”

“Oh,” I said. “Thanks. It’s mine, all right.”

I was about to turn back to my newspaper when he motioned to the article about Ferramore.

“That’s pretty amazing,” he said, “don’t you think?”

“Yep, it sure is,” I said, if only to be polite. I knew diner counters were prone to communal chitchat, but I really just wanted to finish eating and reading in peace, then get off to work and whatever else awaited me at Citizen that morning.

But the stranger wasn’t finished with his spiel. “That’s the thing about gossip. Everybody loves to stick their nose into other people’s business,” he said. “Then again, how much sympathy can you have for an engaged billionaire who sticks his prick in some Euro-trash supermodel’s business, right?”

I said nothing. I didn’t want to encourage the guy too much.

Not that it mattered.

“Isn’t that right, Nick?” he asked again.

Huh?

Not only did he not need any more encouraging, he clearly didn’t need an introduction.

“Do I know you?” I asked.

“No, Nick, you don’t. But I know you,” he said with a dead stare. “I also know you’re in a shitload of danger. The two of us should talk.”

Chapter 41

OKAY, YOU’VE OFFICIALLY got my attention. Now let’s rewind the tape a bit. Who the hell are you?

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said.

“It does to me. Especially if you want this conversation to continue.”

He smiled, a real shit-eating New Yorker’s grin. He was enjoying this. “You can call me… Doug. Don’t you want to hear why you’re in danger, Nick?”

“I don’t know yet,” I said. “But for sure the cops sitting at the other end of the counter might. Would you like me to call them over?”

I have to admit I felt pretty smug pointing out the two policemen in uniform saddled up to the counter with their coffees about a dozen stools away.

But the stranger – Doug? – didn’t even bother to look. He kept his eyes trained on mine.

“The last time you were in a restaurant with two cops – that didn’t work out too well, did it? I don’t think so.”

I suddenly didn’t feel so smug, or protected, either.

“What do you want?” I asked. “Why did you follow me here?”

He casually pulled back the lapel of his sport coat to show me his holster. It sure wasn’t empty, and I was getting tired of seeing guns lately.

“What I want is for you to ask me nicely why it is that you’re in danger, Nick Daniels,” he said. “Say please. Better yet, say pretty please.”

I glanced at all the people around me. The Sunrise was packed for breakfast as usual, just like Lombardo’s was for lunch.

I could literally feel the sweat beginning to seep out from my pores. Not so good.

“Please tell me why I’m in danger,” I said, my voice nearly cracking. The stranger stared at me, saying nothing. He was waiting.

“Pretty please,” I added.

He leaned in close.

“You see, that’s what’s so intriguing,” he whispered. “Because I think you already know the answer, Nick.”

He tilted his head, inspecting the bruises around my eyes and mouth. They were now ripening to a soft purple. “In fact, you might say it’s written all over your face.”

“Who do you work for?” I asked.

“What makes you think I work for someone?”

It was actually a pretty good question, because he certainly didn’t come across as the “for hire” type. Unless, that is, IBM was doing the hiring. This guy was clean-cut, straight-laced. He didn’t look scary at all. Actually, he looked like a “Doug.”

And that was scaring me even more.

“You obviously know a lot about me,” I said. “What is it that you want me to do? Tell me what you want.”

“Now we’re making some progress. Finally,” he said with a satisfied nod. “What I want you to do is nothing. Whatever you’re planning on doing, whatever you’re even thinking of doing, I don’t want you to do it. Do you follow what I’m saying?”

“I think so.”

“Good. Because if you do nothing, maybe – just maybe – you’ll live to see another sunrise. Hey, make that another Sunrise Diner.”

With that wisecrack, he stood and walked away. Out the door, and out of the diner.

Gone.

But definitely not forgotten.

Chapter 42

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, I was marching very quickly into One Hogan Place, otherwise known as the New York County District Attorney’s Office. Or David Sorren’s home away from home.

“Hi, Nick Daniels to see Mr. Sorren,” I said to his secretary, a young woman with big hair and an attitude to match. She acted as if I’d just interrupted her wedding ceremony.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Nick Daniels,” I repeated my introduction of myself. “I’m here to see David Sorren.”

“That’s what you think.”

“Excuse me?”

“Do you have an appointment to see Mr. Sorren?”

“No.”

“Is he expecting you?”

“No.”

“Yeah, like I said, that’s what you think.”

Cute, very cute. But in case you haven’t noticed yet, I’m in no mood for cute today. I’m a man with a mission, a man on fire.

I stormed right by her.

“Hey!” she shouted. “Come back here!”

But she was a little too slow on the draw. By the time she scrambled out of her evil little chair on wheels, I’d already opened the door to Sorren’s office. The funny thing was, he barely batted an eyelash as he looked up from a file he was reading.

“Hey, Nick, have a seat,” he said. Almost as if he actually was expecting me. “It’s all right, Molly.”

“Yeah, it’s all right, Molly,” I echoed him. “We’re good.”

I winked at his secretary, who shot me the royal stink eye as she closed the door on her way out. Then I did exactly what Sorren had invited me to do. I took a seat facing his big wooden desk.

Frankly, I didn’t know where to start. The threatening guy I’d just “met” at the Sunrise Diner? My bout with the manager of Lombardo’s? Or perhaps what I had learned from the hostess there?

Turns out, Sorren decided for me. As I began to apologize for barging in on him, he interrupted my train of thought with one of his own.

“So, how was your visit with Eddie Pinero?” he asked. “That’s quite a spread he’s got out there in Sheepshead Bay, huh? Crime does pay after all. Boy, does it ever.”

My jaw dropped. How did he know I’d been there? Quickly, it occurred to me. “You’ve got his place staked out? There’s surveillance on Pinero?”

Sorren leaned back in his chair with an easy chuckle. “Hell, no. That would require way too many man-hours, too much overtime pay,” he said. He pointed his finger in the air. “There’s a much cheaper way.”

“Satellites?”

Sorren brought his finger down, tapping his nose. Bingo.

“It’s kind of ironic, actually,” he said. “These capos love to talk outside to make sure we’re not listening. Little do they know we can practically read their lips now. That’s how well we can see ’em.”

He did a double take, squinting at the bruises on my face. “Though I don’t recall seeing any punches thrown during your visit.”

“There weren’t any punches. At least not there,” I explained. Then I told Sorren everything else – the whole shebang, what I’d learned since I’d first called him about my recording from Lombardo’s.

As clear as those satellites were, he’d see why I was concerned. Right?

“So let me get this straight,” he said with a befuddled look. “You think we’ve got the wrong man? You think Eddie Pinero had nothing to do with Marcozza’s murder? Or the two cops? Is that your conclusion, Nick?”

“I don’t know anything for certain. All I’m saying is that I have my doubts.”

Sorren swung his black wingtips up onto his desk, the perfect heels landing against the wood with a jarring thud. He’d been cool and easy-breezy up until this point. Now that same intensity I’d first encountered was bubbling up to the surface.

“I don’t get you,” he said finally, shaking his head. “You come forward with that terrifically useful recording, what amounts to a smoking gun, and here you are now trying to make me forget about it. What gives, Nick?”

“I’m not trying to make you forget about anything, David. I simply want you to rethink it, that’s all.”

“Rethink it? What’s there to rethink?” he asked, his voice booming. “There’s a reason the only currency we trade in around here is cold, hard evidence. Because evidence speaks for itself, clear and simple – just like the killer’s voice on your recording. Remember? I have a message from Eddie.”

Before I could even respond, the intercom on Sorren’s phone beeped. It was his secretary, Ms. Stink Eye. “Excuse me, Mr. Sorren, but they’re waiting for you downstairs.”

“Thank you, Molly. I’m done here.” He shot me a look that said, We’re done, Nick. For now.

Then Sorren jumped up, grabbing his suit jacket from behind his chair. He swirled it through the air like a matador’s cape as he put it on.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a press conference to give,” he said. “Big one, too. You might want to stick around for it. This morning, Eddie ‘The Prince’ Pinero was arrested for ordering the murder of Vincent Marcozza.”

Chapter 43

I WOULD HAVE sooner volunteered for a double root canal than stuck around for Sorren’s press conference that morning.

Still, there was no escaping it later that night on the news. It was everywhere on the dial – not that I was too surprised by that. Americans have always loved a good mob story.

But was David Sorren telling the public the right story? Was it the truth?

With practically every flip of the channel there was a clip of Pinero in handcuffs followed by another clip of Sorren facing the hordes of media on the steps of his building. And to watch and listen to Sorren was to make no mistake: the New York Country DA’s Office was his building.

For now, anyway.

As I continued to watch him address the cameras without a single hair out of place, it was easy to picture him making the move to a new building. Like City Hall. If timing is everything, then Pinero’s arrest would be the perfect lead-in for Sorren to announce his candidacy for mayor.

So don’t screw it up, I was about to be told in no uncertain terms.

Out of the blue, or at least out of my blue, the doorbell rang. Whoever it was had made it past the night doorman unannounced. Then again, what else was new? Newborn babies dozed off less than the guy manning our front door.

Looking through the peephole, I blinked with disbelief. It was really her, though.

Brenda.

Bumping into her at the New York Library benefit was one thing, but now here she was at my apartment.

“Wow, twice in one week,” I said as I opened the door. “Just like old times.”

“Twice too many,” Brenda shot back, zipping right by me into my narrow foyer. She turned to face me, her hands planted sternly on her hips. “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Excuse me? Can I have a little hint here?”

“Don’t play dumb, Nick,” she said. “I really hate it when you play dumb. That was another of our problems.”

Fair enough. “Did Sorren put you up to this?” I asked. “He’s worried about me, isn’t he?”

“David doesn’t even know I’m here. He would never ask me to intervene on his behalf. Never happen.”

Again, it was so hard to tell when Brenda was lying, telling the truth, whatever.

“He obviously told you I went to see him today, though, right?” I asked.

“Yes,” she answered. “David and I are a couple, Nick. Couples tell each other things.”

“Don’t remind me,” I said.

She knew exactly what I meant by that. It was ostensibly the reason we broke up.

Long, painful story made short, I had done an important interview with Bill Gates in which he went on record for the first time about his planned retirement from Microsoft. That night I told Brenda. I mean, everyone knows that pillow talk never leaves the bedroom, right? Especially when both of you have made promises to that effect.

Apparently Brenda had had her fingers crossed. The very next day, she reported it on air. “According to a reliable source,” she began the story. It was a real coup for her at the network, a feather in her cap.

And a dagger right through my heart.

I knew right then and there that I could never trust Brenda Evans again. Not that she would ever give me the satisfaction of telling her that. No chance. Ten minutes after her broadcast I received a Dear John e-mail from her. That’s right, she was breaking up with me. With an e-mail. Her reason why? I wasn’t as driven as her and she needed someone who was. And that was that.

“Are you doing this because of what happened between us?” she was asking me now. “Because if you’re trying to get even, it’s not fair to David.”

“What is it exactly you think I’m doing?” I felt compelled to ask.

“I know you, Nick. I know how you play your hunches. You’re relentless even when you’re dead wrong, not even warm.”

“I think what I discussed with your new boyfriend was a little more than a hunch. I may very well be right. There’s evidence, and it’s mounting.”

“But what if you’re wrong? Have you considered for one second how making waves about Pinero’s guilt would reflect on David and his political future?”

I shook my head and smirked. “Wow, you’ve already got your dress picked out for the inauguration, don’t you?”

If looks could kill, this story would end right here. Fortunately, they can’t.

“This isn’t about me, Nick.”

“That’s where you’re a hundred percent wrong. It’s always about you, Brenda, and it always will be.”

That touched a nerve, to put it mildly. Her face immediately flushed bright red, her hands balling into fists. Apparently it was time for her to wake the neighbors.

“Fuck you!” she yelled. “Do you hear me? FUCK YOU! You’re such a loser, Nick.”

She then marched out of my apartment, making a beeline for the elevator. She hit the down button so hard, I was sure she broke a nail.

“Does this mean I’m not getting a Christmas card?” I asked from my doorway.

It was a glib comment, but I couldn’t help it. She was bringing out the worst in me, as she always did.

The elevator opened and Brenda stepped inside – but not before having the last word, a proverbial kick to the groin. She really did know how to hurt a guy, especially me.

“By the way,” she said. “My new boyfriend? He’s way better than you in bed!”

Ouch.

Chapter 44

I WALKED INTO the cavernous Main Concourse of Grand Central Station the next morning, weaving my way through the buzzing crowd of tourists and visiting weekend suburbanites. I must say that I love this building and can’t thank Jacqueline Onassis enough for saving it once upon a time.

Out of nowhere I bumped shoulders with a young man who had a knapsack strung over one shoulder. As we traded polite, if not clipped, apologies and went our separate ways, I couldn’t help noticing his T-shirt. In big block lettering it read, “SAVE DARFUR.”

Naturally, I couldn’t help thinking of Dr. Alan Cole and wondering how he was doing – and where he might be doing it. Hopefully, he’d soon be back home safely.

Of course, that would make only one of us. With everything that’s happened since I returned home from Darfur, I almost longed for the relative peace and quiet of being chased and shot at by the Janjaweed militia…

Maybe that’s why I was so looking forward to this day and what I would be doing soon.

Pure and simple, there’d be no talk of murder, no mention of the mob, no discussion of the mysterious stranger who’d told me to mind my own business and do nothing.

That would all take a backseat to a pair of box seats at Yankee Stadium. Myself in one, and the center of my current universe in the other. That would be my niece, Elizabeth.

Her passport says she’s fourteen, but you’d never know it. Bright and articulate beyond her years, she also happens to be the bravest kid I know.

No, scratch that. She’s the bravest anybody I know.

Elizabeth ’s train hissed to a stop right on time at platform forty, the long row of doors opening in perfect unison. While the mad dash to exit was nowhere near your typical weekday morning rush hour, there was still enough of a crowd that I couldn’t spot her right away.

That’s when I heard her, the familiar sound that always accompanies her arrival on any scene.

Immediately, I smiled. I could see her now. But she couldn’t see me.

Elizabeth couldn’t see anything.

She’s been blind since the age of five.

“You forgot your mitt again, didn’t you?” I said as she got a little closer.

She smiled an amazing smile before scrunching her freckled nose. “And you’re wearing too much cologne again. I could just about smell you on the train coming in.”

I gave her a hug, squeezing her tightly in my arms. “I think Jeter’s going to hit one today,” I whispered. “I can feel it in my bones.”

“I think he’s going to hit two,” she whispered back. “Let’s go and see.”

Then she did what she always did. She broke away from my grasp so she could walk on her own, her foldout white cane leading the way.

Tap-tap-tap…

That’s my niece, Elizabeth.

The bravest anybody I know.

The perfect antidote for everything that had happened this week.

Chapter 45

YOU MIGHT WONDER – WASN’T I afraid I might be putting Elizabeth in harm’s way? I had thought about it and briefly considered canceling our day together, but that would have broken her heart – and the Mafia had always put women and children out of bounds. That was the code.

So it was Elizabeth and me – and we were already drawing some attention, as we always do.

I understood the double takes. I could even put up with the excessive staring. After all, whoever heard of bringing a blind girl to a baseball game?

But they didn’t get it, not any of them. It was as if they were the ones who were blind.

Don’t you see? Anybody?

Baseball is the crack of the bat and the roar of the crowd, the smell of cut grass and hot dogs, the crunch of peanut shells at your feet.

Elizabeth couldn’t see the game with her eyes, but she enjoyed it no less than those who could. Perhaps she even enjoyed it more. Because while others merely watched it, she felt it.

And the gushing smile on her face was all I needed to see to be assured of that.

“So, how is Courtney?” Elizabeth asked after the top of the first. Between innings was when we did most of our talking. My niece had met Courtney half a dozen times and they adored each other.

“Courtney told me to say hello,” I said, which was the truth. “How’s your mom?” I asked then, quickly changing the subject.

“Mom’s lonely, that’s how she is,” answered Elizabeth. “But she’s tough, too.”

As often as I spoke to my older sister, Kate, I never felt as if she completely leveled with me. Elizabeth, on the other hand, always told it like it was.

“Lonely, huh? Like, sad lonely?” I asked.

“Is there any other kind?”

“Good point.”

“She needs to meet someone,” said Elizabeth. “Isn’t Courtney getting married?”

“She is, and to a very impressive guy. Your mom’s been going on a few dates, hasn’t she?”

“Yeah, few and far between.”

I laughed out loud. “It takes time, Lizzy.”

“Okay, but it’s been, like, four years since he died, Nick. That’s enough time.”

Four and a half, to be exact. That’s when my sister’s husband, Carl, had suffered a fatal heart attack while on business in London. He had been only forty-two. How on earth does that happen? Why? On whose orders?

Kate had called me to break the news. She’d also asked that I come out to their home in Weston, Connecticut, so I could help break the news to Elizabeth. She couldn’t bear to do it alone. The girl was nine years old and blind, and suddenly she was also fatherless, and her mom had a huge hole in her heart.

I’ll never forget what Elizabeth asked me that hot August afternoon as I held her hand on their living room couch. She was wearing a yellow sundress, her frazzled blond hair tucked back in rows of barrettes. “Will I be able to see my daddy in heaven?” she wanted to know.

My eyes welled up. I could barely hold back the tears.

“Yes,” I told her. “You’ll see him every day.”

“Do you promise?”

“I do.”

I squeezed her little hand and she squeezed back, and all I could remember thinking was one thing.

If there is indeed a God up there, he better not make a liar out of me.

“So anyway, Uncle Nick,” Elizabeth said after a quick sip of soda, “tell me all about Courtney and this impressive fiancé of hers.”

“Okay, okay – I’m heartbroken,” I finally admitted.

“I knew you were,” she said. “I could tell in your voice, just in the way you say her name. You truly are heartbroken. And I’m heartbroken for you.”