Don’t Blink

Chapter 66

I FOUND MYSELF back down on the street again, talking to detectives from the local precinct, when I spotted somebody arriving on the scene, somebody who I really didn’t want to talk to right now, or even see.

Officially, the Manhattan DA was out of his jurisdiction up here in the Riverdale section of the Bronx. Unofficially, he didn’t seem to care.

Nor did the two detectives who were interviewing me. Receiving nothing more than a nod from Sorren, they both backed away.

Sorren lit a cigarette and gave me a quick head to toe. First things first: “You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “I think so.”

In that case…

Sorren took a step forward, getting in my face. “Then what were you thinking?”

I rose from the bumper of the ambulance to stand closer to him, toe to toe. I’d never felt more drained and upset, but I wasn’t about to be pushed around by him, or anybody else at the crime scene. I was one of the victims here, wasn’t I? Sure I was.

“I told you what I was thinking in your office. Remember? You told me I had no evidence. You insinuated I should try and find some.”

Sorren swatted his hand in the air incredulously. “So you go to the OCTF and bullshit a prosecutor about your writing an article?”

“How’d you hear that?” I asked.

“I spoke to Phalen’s boss, a man named Ian LaGrange, on the way over here. He said you lied to both of them.”

“He’s right, I did lie. That’s why Phalen wanted nothing to do with me,” I said. “I was here to try and change his mind. That’s all.”

Sorren smirked. I’m sure he knew that probably wasn’t true – not with Phalen murdered and me narrowly escaping the same fate. “Listen to me, Nick,” he said, his tone sharpening to an edge. “The time to protect Phalen was when he was still alive.”

Whoa. That stung. I was already beating myself up over getting Derrick involved in this mess. The self-inflicted guilt was bad enough. The Sorren-inflicted guilt just made it that much worse.

But he was right. Suddenly I was reminded that Sorren was a very bright guy and that I needed him, possibly just to stay alive.

“Derrick Phalen was helping me,” I admitted. “He told me he’d discovered something big and that it would blow my mind.”

“All right. That’s good. So what was it?”

“He was supposed to share it with me tonight. That’s why I came here. I’m telling the truth, David. I’m totally leveling with you.”

“You have no idea what it might be?” asked Sorren. “Don’t try and have it both ways, Nick.”

“I’m not,” I said. “I have no idea. None.”

“Fuck.”

“You’ve got that right.”

Sorren took a last desperate drag off his cigarette, throwing it at the ground. I watched as he gave it an angry twist with his heel.

Of course, if I’d been looking up instead of down, I would’ve seen the man who was charging straight for me, his fist cocked, his nose just about blowing steam.

But it was like everything else that had happened that terrible night.

I never saw it coming.

Chapter 67

MY RIGHT CHEEK imploded, the pain so quick and fierce I thought I’d been hit by a crosstown bus.

In a way I had. Ian LaGrange, all six feet four inches and nearly three hundred pounds of him, had stormed right past Sorren to sucker punch me square in the face, and as I fell helplessly back against the ambulance behind me, I could hear him screaming at the top of his fire-breathing lungs.

“LOOK WHAT YOU’VE DONE, YOU SON OF A BITCH! LOOK WHAT YOU’VE DONE!”

And he was far from done himself.

He lunged for me again, his long and powerful arms flailing in the air. Were it not for Sorren stepping in to block him, he would’ve probably knocked me out cold, then smashed my face into pieces. As it was, I was seeing stars and a variety of bright colors that weren’t in my usual palette.

“Stop it! Calm down!” barked Sorren, pushing him back – or at least trying to. LaGrange outweighed Sorren by a hundred pounds easy, and he wasn’t about to be denied another crack at me.

That is, until Sorren tried a different tact. While LaGrange continued shouting about me being the reason Derrick Phalen had been murdered, Sorren reminded the guy that we weren’t alone.

Uh, hello? Did you not see the news vans?

“Look around you, LaGrange!” said Sorren through clenched teeth. “This isn’t the place.”

That did the trick for some reason or another. LaGrange’s rage was trumped only by his desire not to be fodder for every news outlet in the city, not to mention his becoming the latest sensation on YouTube. With reporters and their cameramen literally sprinting toward us, LaGrange immediately backed off.

“Nothing to see here, folks!” announced Sorren to the reporters. “We’ll have a statement for you in a few minutes. Just be a little patient.”

Reluctantly, they took his word for it.

Sorren waited impatiently until it was just the three of us again. He turned to LaGrange.

“Do me a favor, Ian,” he said calmly. “I need you to give the detectives whatever personal information you can on Phalen – next of kin, exact title with the Task Force, et cetera… Nothing that they can run with.”

LaGrange nodded. He knew Sorren merely wanted him separated from me. That’s probably why he couldn’t help himself as he turned to walk away.

“I don’t care what anybody says,” said LaGrange, jabbing his thick forefinger at me. “You got Derrick killed.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. It was all I could think of.

No, worse than that, actually.

It was all I had.

Chapter 68

“HE’S AN ASSHOLE. Don’t let him get to you,” said Sorren as LaGrange headed over to talk to the detectives.

“Too late. He already did,” I said, rubbing my jaw, which was already swollen from the guy’s roundhouse punch. “I think he loosened a tooth.”

“Yeah, that was way out of line.” Sorren shifted his feet uncomfortably. “I know it’s well within your right, but if you’re thinking about pressing charges -”

“Do I look like the type to take him to court for that?”

“No, I suppose you don’t,” said Sorren, flashing some relief. “Thanks, Nick.”

“Sure. And now you owe me one, right?”

“We’ll see about that later. Listen, after Ian’s done I’ll let you finish up with the detectives so you can finally get the hell out of here. Just so you know, though, you’re going to need around-the-clock police protection after tonight.”

“Is that necessary? Wait, that didn’t come out right. I mean, will it help any?”

“I don’t know. You tell me,” he said with a glance at the scorched and smoking carcass that used to be my car. “It’s probably safe to say that whoever wanted you dead still does.”

I nodded. “But it’s not Pinero.”

“So you’ve been telling me,” replied Sorren, reaching for a cigarette. It was like he was only half listening to me.

“It was Joseph D’zorio,” I said.

That got his attention.

Suddenly his next smoke could wait. Sorren was all ears. “How do you know that? Who’s your source? Talk to me, Daniels.”

“I can’t give you all the details, but Dwayne Robinson owed him money that he didn’t have. So -”

Sorren raised his palms. Smart guy – he saw where I was going. “Wait a minute,” he said incredulously. “You’re telling me that your being at Lombardo’s that day was a setup?”

“It was all a setup. D’zorio knew I’d have a recorder going to catch every word of Robinson’s. He knew he could frame Pinero.”

“I guess. But how do you know all this?”

“I can’t reveal my source.”

“Then don’t. But if you want my help, you’ve got to give me more than a gut feeling.”

I spread my arms wide. Take a look around! “Does all this look like a gut feeling? D’zorio knew Phalen and I were onto him.”

“Maybe that’s true; maybe you’ve solved this thing. But it’s a nonstarter if I can’t connect the dots.”

“What about Pinero?” I asked.

“What about him?”

“He’s been charged with first-degree murder.”

“Yes. That’s what happens when all the dots connect,” said Sorren.

“What if you’re wrong?”

“That’s exactly why I need to talk to your source.”

“There is someone else you could talk to,” I said. “The manager at Lombardo’s.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Because Dwayne Robinson didn’t just seat himself. If he was supposed to sit next to Marcozza that day, it would have to have been arranged. The question is, who did the arranging? Who’s the man with the plan?”

Sorren resumed reaching for his next cigarette, sliding it into his mouth. Out came a Zippo lighter. I could practically see the wheels spinning in his head as he lit up and took a deep puff. Jesus, these cops and robbers really liked their nicotine fixes. First Sam Tagaletto, now Sorren. I moved a half step away from him, upwind. Both of my parents had smoked like chimneys, and both had died of cancer.

“Let me sleep on it,” he said. “In the meantime, whether it was Pinero, D’zorio, or the tooth fairy, you still need police protection, Nick. We need to keep you alive. Is that okay with you?”

He extended his hand to shake mine. With his other hand he was returning the lighter to his pocket – only he missed. It fell to the ground, skipping off the asphalt and landing at my feet.

“I got it,” I said, bending down.

That’s when I got my head blown off.

Chapter 69

JESUS CHRIST! What now? What the hell just happened? Not my head – but damn close!

The back window of the ambulance had just shattered, shards of glass falling on me like jagged rain. A split second earlier and that window would’ve been my head, a bullet right between the eyes.

“Move! Move! Move!” I heard. It was Sorren, and he was shouting at me.

Tucked in a low crouch, he began pushing me toward the front of the ambulance as the booming echo of the gunshot was drowned out by the collective scream of the street. The neighborhood crowd was scattering everywhere at once. It was pure pandemonium. Run for your lives!

“Whoever wanted you dead still does,” Sorren had just said to me.

You ain’t kidding…

A second shot pierced the side of the ambulance about a foot from my chest, the blast from it ripping through the air. My guess was that the shooter didn’t have the right angle yet.

Not yet.

The shooter, wherever he was, was obviously using a long-range rifle.

Then came a completely different sound. Pop! Pop-pop-pop! Pop! Pop-pop-pop!

Those were handguns – and aimed in the opposite direction. It was return fire. That’s what you get, asshole, for shooting up a street filled with cops!

I peeled around to the front of the ambulance, the small of my back practically glued to the bumper. Sorren followed right behind me.

“You okay?” he asked, out of breath.

I was gasping for air, too. “Yeah, I’m all right. You?”

“Peachy. Just great, Nick. All in one piece. I don’t think I like hanging out with you, though.”

Then, as quickly as it had started, it was over, no more fireworks. All the screaming and confusion gave way to an eerie silence.

No one was standing up yet, though. No one wanted to come out into the open.

Twenty feet away I locked eyes with a woman who’d been ducking behind the crimson bricks of a stoop. Her expression said it all. Is it really over?

“Maybe for you, lady,” I could have told her.

Not for me.

David Sorren gripped my arm. “Stay here,” he said. “Do not move.”

“Where are you going?”

“To see if they got the shooter.”

Sorren came up out of his crouch, peeking over the hood of the ambulance.

“Hey, be careful,” I said.

He nodded before cracking a slight smile. “Still think that police protection isn’t necessary?”

I’m sure Sorren thought it was the most rhetorical question he’d ever asked, but as he dashed off I couldn’t help wondering if the answer was so clear. I’d just been surrounded by cops, and I’d come dangerously close to getting nailed by two separate gunshots. The policemen were New York ’s finest, but as to how much they’d be able to protect me, I wasn’t so sure.

That’s when something off in the distance caught my eye. It was a bright block of yellow at the far end of the street. There was a white light on top of it, and I could swear it was calling my name. C’mon, Nick, let’s get lost… Let’s get the hell out of here.

Chapter 70

I HAD THOUGHT about going to Courtney’s apartment, but that was somewhere they might come looking for me. So I went someplace else, someplace safer.

“How much did the taxi cost?” asked my sister, Kate, cradling her mug of chamomile tea at the head of her kitchen table. At one a.m., it was the only decaf she had had in the cupboard.

“One hundred and seventy-six dollars,” I told her. “Plus tip.”

Kate shook her head in disbelief. “You know, you could’ve negotiated a flat fee with the driver up front. Saved yourself some money, Nicky.”

I started to laugh. It felt good, but only for a moment.

“What’s so funny?” Kate asked. Then it occurred to her. “Oh yeah, you’re right. Given the night you’ve had, maybe the money wasn’t so important.”

“No, that’s not it,” I said. “I still can’t get used to you being the frugal one in the family.”

Of course, truth be told, I wasn’t surprised in the least. When Kate’s husband had been alive, they’d had lots of money, thanks to his job as an oil trader. After he died, she had even more from his insurance policy. But gone forever was her sense of security. In its place was a newfound appreciation for the value of everything, starting with life itself. Somewhere down the list was the true meaning of a dollar.

Kate took a sip of her tea. “Life is just one big curveball, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is,” I said.

A sleepy voice suddenly chimed in from the door to the kitchen. “You can say that again. Life is one big, nasty curveball.”

We both turned to see Elizabeth standing there in her pink pajamas.

“What are you doing up, young lady?” asked Kate. “You have school.”

Elizabeth flashed her great smile, the one she’d inherited from her mother and father. “The blind have a heightened sense of hearing, remember?”

“How are you, sweetheart?” I said.

“I knew it was you, Uncle Nick.”

“Let me guess… was it my cologne?”

She laughed. “What are you doing here in the middle of the night?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got time.”

“No, you don’t. You’ve got school tomorrow,” said her mother again. “You need to get to bed.”

“Actually, that makes two of us,” I said, standing up from the table. “Walk me to the guest room, Lizzy, okay?”

“Certainly. Be my pleasure.”

I followed my niece toward the stairs to the second floor, marveling at how she had every step, every corner, every piece of furniture, mapped out perfectly in her mind. She didn’t need to reach out for anything, including my hand.

“Will you be here tomorrow when I get home from school?” she asked, halfway up the steps.

“I don’t know,” I answered.

She stopped, turning back to me. “Wow,” she said. “When most people say ‘I don’t know’ to a question like that, they usually do know. But I can tell in your voice. You really don’t know.”

Elizabeth was spot-on as usual. I had no idea what the next day would bring, or where it would even bring me. I was running from the police, albeit their protection, choosing instead an out-of-the-way home in the woods of Weston, Connecticut. “The pizza delivery guy can hardly find it,” Kate always joked. “Or even FedEx.”

Still, just to make sure, I had had the taxi driver circle around a bit before pulling into the driveway. All quiet on the Weston front. There was no one following us.

For one night at least, I was safe.

Tomorrow – probably all hell would break loose again.

Chapter 71

I PULLED THE freshly cleaned and starched sheets, the blanket, the duvet – everything – over my head in Kate’s very comfortable guest room bed at the end of the hall. For some reason I thought that would help me sleep. It didn’t exactly work out that way.

All I could see when I closed my eyes was Derrick Phalen, and no matter how much I tossed and turned, I couldn’t shake the image of him. His missing eyes.

Would I ever? I doubted it.

I was exhausted, tired beyond all belief, and yet I still couldn’t sleep a wink. Back in Manhattan I would have tried listening to certain street sounds, something I did when I needed to clear my mind. Basically, I’d count car horns instead of sheep.

Out here in the woods of Connecticut, however, there was nothing but silence. And it was deafening – at least tonight it was.

Frustrated, I pushed back the covers and reached blindly for my iPhone on the nightstand.

I’d turned it off in the backseat of the taxi after it had started to ring like crazy. Needless to say, some people were a little curious as to where I was, not the least of whom was surely a very ticked-off David Sorren.

But it was only Courtney I felt bad about. Really bad. Although I had texted her to let her know I was all right, I hadn’t responded when she’d written back “Where R U?” Better that she not have to lie on my behalf. Also, better that she didn’t get any more involved in my problems than she already was.

I turned on my iPhone again now. 3:04 a.m., announced the home screen.

Sure enough, there were a half-dozen messages from Sorren and even more from Courtney. I’d continue to ignore Sorren’s messages until morning, but I thought I’d at least listen to one from Courtney. I knew she had to be incredibly shaken up by Derrick Phalen’s murder. After all, she had been the one to send me to him and he had been her friend.

“Nick, it’s me again,” began her message. “Please call me back. Please, Nick.”

I reached for the volume because I could barely hear her, when suddenly the phone began to vibrate.

Shit! What had I pressed?

Nothing. Someone was actually calling me at three in the morning.

I was so worried I would wake up Kate and Elizabeth that I didn’t even bother to check the caller ID.

“Hello?” I whispered.

“Hello, Nick.”

“Who is this?”

I immediately knew I’d heard the voice before, but I couldn’t place it. Right away, he placed it for me.

“I warned you at the diner, Nick, but you didn’t listen,” he said. “You should’ve listened.”

I shot straight up and turned on the light beside the bed.

Jesus. It was the guy from the Sunrise Diner, the one with the gun. The one who’d told me I was in a shitload of danger.

“Do you know what time it is?” I asked.

“I sure do,” he said. “I also know what room you’re in, Nick. It’s the only one in the house with the light on.”

In the middle of the night, he was here.

Chapter 72

I RACED OVER to the small window facing the front of the house. Tearing back the closed curtain, I pressed my nose up against the glass. I didn’t care if he could see me – could I see him?

Was he really out there? It sure sounded like it. And it looked like it, too.

Even with the reflection from the light in the room, I couldn’t miss the shining headlights on the car parked outside in the driveway. But that’s all I could see. Where are you, you son of a bitch?

It was as if he could read my mind and was playing with me. The next second, he stepped out of the darkness, a creepy-as-hell silhouette right in front of his car. His elbow was bent, the phone to his ear.

“You didn’t think anyone could find you out here, huh?” he asked. Only it wasn’t a question. It was a boast. I guess he was impressed with his own skills.

“I’m calling the police,” I said.

“Yeah, just like you did at the diner.”

“This is different.”

“Why? Because you’re not alone in this nice house out here in Disturbia?”

The mere suggestion of Kate and Elizabeth sent a jolt up my spine. All at once my worst fears collided with sheer rage. My body was spilling over with adrenaline. Whoever this guy was, he was royally pissing me off.

“You listen to me,” I said, changing my grip on the phone. I squeezed it so tight I thought it would break in my hand.

“No, you listen to me,” he shot back, cutting me off. “You’re in so far over your head, you don’t know which way is up. You can’t deny that, can you, Nick?”

“Who the hell are you?”

“At three in the morning, I’d say I’m your worst fucking nightmare. Agree or disagree?”

Then he stepped away from the headlights, slipping back into the darkness.

Shit! Where is he? I thought.

And – the far scarier thought – where is he heading?

Chapter 73

SPRINTING OUT OF the guest room, I called to Kate and Elizabeth. With one hand I was dialing 911; with the other I was groping for a light switch in the hallway.

Kate beat me to it. Flick!

The hallway lit up brightly as my eyes locked onto hers. She’d come rushing out of her bedroom like her house was on fire. Sweats, T-shirt, panicked expression.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Nick, what’s going on?”

“Yeah, what is it?” asked Elizabeth, emerging from her room at the same time.

They both got their answer as the voice of the 911 operator suddenly chimed in on my phone. It was a woman. Very calm and sure of herself, thank goodness. An emergency professional.

Like that speed talker in those old FedEx commercials, I gave her the address. “There’s a man outside the house,” I said next. “I think he’s about to break in. He’s armed.”

Like a bolt, Kate ran over to Elizabeth, grabbing her hand. “Come with me,” she said. “Right now.”

She led Elizabeth to the stairs heading up to the third floor, the attic.

“Wait, I want to stay with you guys,” Elizabeth pleaded.

“No,” insisted Kate. “You go up into that attic and lock the door behind you. No matter what you hear, you do not open that door. Do you understand?”

Elizabeth nodded, fighting back tears. She reached out for the railing, only to stop and turn around. Suddenly, she dashed down the hall. Just from my voice she knew exactly where I was.

“Be careful, Uncle Nick,” she said, plastering me with a hug. Then she dashed back to the attic stairs, climbing them so fast I almost forgot she couldn’t see the steps.

Meanwhile, Kate had disappeared into her bedroom. I was about to call out to her when she returned.

“What the hell is that?” I asked.

But I could see it plain as day. She was holding a handgun.

My sister!

The Northeast liberal who once referred to the NRA as the Nincompoop Republican Army.

“Things change,” she said. “Here, take it.”

I didn’t merely take it, I grabbed it. “Thanks.” “It’s loaded,” she added.

“I hope so. It’s not much good if it isn’t.”

She rolled her eyes and for a moment we were kid brother and big sister back in Newburgh. But only for a moment.

“What do we do now?” she asked.

“We listen. We wait for the police to get here.” If they can find the house…

Edging to the top of the stairs, I peered down to the first floor. Would he smash a window? Shoot the lock off the door at point-blank range?

I stared at Kate, raising my index finger to my mouth.Shhh.

We both held our breath. For a second I thought I heard Elizabeth upstairs in the attic. God, how frightened she must have been.

“What do you think?” whispered Kate after a minute or so went by. “Is he gone or what?”

I was about to answer when we heard it. Only it wasn’t exactly the sound I expected. It was a car’s engine.

Were the police here?

I rushed back to the window in the guest bedroom, staring out at the driveway. No, the police weren’t there.

Neither was anyone else.

The driveway was empty, his car gone. Mr. Sunrise Diner, whoever he was, had scared the living bejesus out of us.

But nothing more.

Why?

Who the hell was that bastard?

What did he want from me?

Chapter 74

OKAY, MAYBE POLICE protection isn’t such a bad idea after all…

Besides, it was a little hard to say no to it after I was the guy calling 911 in the middle of the night. By morning, as David Sorren put it, I had “seen the light.” Yeah, he was pissed at me, but he was also very relieved that I’d called him, if for no other reason than they hadn’t caught the guy who’d been shooting at me.

“He was on a rooftop that connected in the back to a brownstone on the next block,” explained Sorren. “We never had a chance to get him.”

“Do you think it was the same guy who killed Derrick?” I asked.

“Does it really make a difference? I mean, c’mon, Nick, it’s time to get real.”

Good point. “Either way, I’m still a target, right?”

“Exactly. Which is why I’m sending the first two-man shift of patrolmen assigned to you out to Connecticut right away. They’ll bring you back to your apartment,” he said. “And Nick?”

“Yeah? I’m here. I’m listening to every word, David.”

“Don’t even think about taking off again. You got that?”

“Got it.”

Fair enough. I deserved that. I also deserved the incredibly sick feeling I had in my stomach for having put Kate and Elizabeth in danger. What the hell had I been thinking? That the Mafia had an honest-to-God moral code against hurting women and children?

In the back of the police car that came and got me, I had plenty of time to mull that over. I also made a promise to myself to keep Courtney out of this. If she would listen to me, that is.

“Okay, here’s how it works, Mr. Daniels,” said Officer Kevin O’Shea, one of the two cops who had driven me back into Manhattan. We were in my apartment, although not before he and his partner, Sam Brison, had first scoped it out with their guns drawn.

“You wear this on your body at all times. At the first sign of trouble, any trouble, you press this panic button.”

O’Shea handed me a necklace fashioned from a sneaker shoelace and what looked like a cheap, plastic garage-door opener. James Bond and Q, this wasn’t.

I put the device on, glancing down. The panic button, appropriately bright red, was the size of a quarter and hung right smack in the middle of my chest.

“It looks more like a target, if you ask me,” I joked. Apparently I wasn’t the first.

“Yeah, we get that a lot,” said Brison.

He went on to explain how one officer would always be posted outside my door while the other would be in the lobby after securing any and all doors in the basement. If I had a visitor – the kind that didn’t want to kill me – the doormen had been instructed to clear the person with the cops first, then with me. There would be no exceptions.

“Any questions, Mr. Daniels?”

“What if I want to go out?”

“Like where?” asked O’Shea with a squint of his eyes.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Like, the movies or something.” “The movies? Did you just say the movies? I don’t think you’re catching on to what’s happening to you.”

“It was just an example.”

He shook his head. “No, you don’t go to the movies or anywhere else. For the time being, this is where you need to stay. Safe and sound in your apartment.”

“Okay then, I have one more question. How long is ‘for the time being’?”

“Until you’re told otherwise.”

Well, that clears everything up…

The two officers started to leave. There was really nothing more to say. Still, I couldn’t help myself.

“Be careful, guys, okay?” I said.

I meant it, too. But I could understand how it must have sounded strange to the two of them. They exchanged odd glances before looking back at me.

“We will,” said Brison casually.

“No, I’m serious,” I said. “People have an awful way of dying around me.”

Chapter 75

HAD I EVER wondered what it felt like to be under house arrest, I now had my answer. Problem was, I’d never wondered.

And for good reason.

This.

Sucks.

After a few hours, my cramped shoe box of an apartment was beginning to feel more like a matchbox. I swear the walls were creeping in on me.

I’d been staring at my MacBook screen straight into the afternoon. Courtney was right: I was literally living the story of a lifetime. Now I had to start writing it.

So why couldn’t I?

Maybe because I didn’t know if I’d live long enough to finish it.

Ten years ago, I’d done a long piece on Salman Rushdie when he’d still been the target of a fatwa against his life. I had asked him what it had felt like to know there were people hell-bent on killing him, that there were substantial rewards out for him, dead or deader. His answer? There are some feelings for which words are utterly useless. And remember, Salman Rushdie is a damn fine writer who had obviously done his research on the subject of death threats.

As I continued to stare at my blank computer screen, I now fully understood what he’d meant. Of course, it didn’t help matters that even if I could write the article, I no longer had Citizen magazine waiting to publish it. In case I’d somehow forgotten that, all I had to do was turn on the television.

So much for TV as a diversion.

“… For that story we turn now to Brenda Evans, who’s outside the Citizen magazine building.”

There she was, the “Bull and Bear Babe,” my ex-girlfriend reporting for the World Financial Network on Thomas Ferramore’s “stunning announcement” that he was folding Citizen magazine.

“Stunning, of course,” said Brenda, holding her microphone as if it were one of her News Emmy Awards, “because Citizen has been a profitable holding for Mr. Ferramore. Selling it would be one thing, but folding it?”

I’d known Brenda long enough to know what was coming next. The gleam in her eye. The tilt of her head. It was gossip time.

“Speculation is rampant,” she continued into the camera, “that the move is merely one of spite in the wake of Ferramore’s broken engagement to Citizen’s editor in chief and driving force, Courtney Sheppard. There’s been no official statement from either side, but my sources tell me that it all ended very, very badly.”

Click!

I’d seen enough, heard enough. Not just of Brenda but of any more television. If the news wasn’t about Ferramore and Citizen magazine, it was about the “Murder in Riverdale” of a state prosecutor. It hurt too much. I couldn’t bear to look at one more picture of Derrick Phalen.

Clearly neither could Courtney. As usual she’d decided not to take my advice about staying away. We’d spoken on the phone just before I’d turned on the television.

About twenty minutes later, she showed up at my door. She was two hours early. I had had to ask the doorman in the lobby, “Are you sure?” when he’d buzzed me that Courtney had arrived. All she and I had discussed on the phone was that she wanted to bring me dinner, the subtext being that we had a lot to talk about, too much to get into over the phone.

But as I opened the door, Courtney didn’t say a word. She looked, I don’t know – the word humbled came to mind. She stepped into the apartment, closed the door behind her, and stared deep into my eyes while biting her lower lip. Then she kissed me like I have never been kissed before in my life.

Finally she said, “Hey, Nick, what’s new?”

I shrugged. “Same old, same old.”

The small talk out of the way, we moved into the bedroom. We stripped away each other’s clothes. Then we couldn’t hold each other tightly enough. I didn’t have to tell her how much I wanted and needed her, and she didn’t have to tell me. Thankfully, Mr. Rushdie, the door swings both ways. Extreme fear, yes, but also intense passion.

There are some feelings, and actions, for which words are utterly useless.

But words do have their place, especially when Courtney said, “You were right, Nick.”

I grinned as I said, “First time for everything.”

Chapter 76

SO MUCH FOR joy and happiness and all that.

I closed my eyes and drew a deep breath down close to the bottom of my lungs. I was hoping that when I opened my eyes I’d no longer be standing at Derrick Phalen’s grave site under a sea of gray clouds at Trinity Church Cemetery. I was hoping that this was all just a dream.

But no, it was as real as real gets, and it was also heart-wrenchingly sad. Dwayne Robinson may have had a host of Yankees at his funeral, but Derrick’s service overlooking the Hudson River was no less shy of New York ’s heavy hitters. In attendance were the mayor, the Bronx borough president, the Bronx DA, and two congressmen, both of whom had campaigned heavily on fighting organized crime. Derrick’s victories in the courtroom had helped bring them victories at the polls, and they knew it.

Of course, David Sorren – the mayor in waiting – was on hand, as was Ian LaGrange. I avoided any eye contact with LaGrange while noticing that Sorren seemed to be keeping close tabs on him. Was he worried that LaGrange would take another swing at me?

If so, he should’ve also been checking out the other prosecutors from the OCTF. I was getting some serious dirty looks from more than a few of them.

Ironically, it was Derrick’s family – his parents and sister – who proved to be the most forgiving. Or maybe they were just too numb to be angry. I couldn’t tell when Courtney and I approached them to offer our condolences.

Given the incessant media coverage, along with the usual gossip mill churning out whatever tidbits the press didn’t, my connection to Derrick Phalen was pretty well established. What wasn’t known was exactly why I was connected to him.

That’s the question I thought I was about to be asked when Derrick’s sister, Monica, caught up to Courtney and me a few minutes later. She wanted to know if she could speak to me alone for a moment.

Never was I so relieved to be wrong. It was an answer, not a question, that Monica had for me.

Scratch that. It wasn’t just an answer. Hopefully it was the answer.

Chapter 77

“I’LL BE OVER here when you’re done,” said Courtney, who had never been more understanding, and kind of selfless, in all the time we’d known each other. I had never felt closer to her either, or more in love. Bad timing, I know, but there it was.

I watched as she walked over to the shade of one of the immense oak trees that were scattered across the cemetery’s lawn. She always looked great in black, and today was definitely no exception. How could anybody ever cheat on her?

Nearby, David Sorren was chatting with the Bronx DA. He gave me a quick nod of recognition as our eyes met briefly. Yes, David, I’m still on the right side of the grass.

I turned back to face Monica. She was tall and slender, with auburn hair cut straight around her shoulders. A few dozen freckles dotted the bridge of her nose.

The only thing I knew about her was what Derrick had mentioned that one time we’d had lunch. We’d been discussing his reputation as a tough prosecutor. “If you think I’m tough, you should talk to my sister,” he’d said with a laugh.

Now here I was, doing just that. What I wouldn’t give for our meeting to be under different circumstances.

“I wanted to let you know how sorry I am about Derrick,” I told her.

“You feel partly responsible, don’t you?” I nodded. “Yes.”

“You shouldn’t,” she said matter-of-factly. “It’s not like Derrick was an accountant or a plumber. His job was trying to put mob guys behind bars. Serious, big-time hoods, the worst of the worst. Did you know he had to wear a bullet-proof vest?”

Again I nodded. “Yes. I knew that.”

“A lot of good that did him in the end, huh?”

Derrick was definitely right about his sister being tough, or maybe, like Courtney, she just compartmentalized very well. But what I was hearing more from her was anger. She was so angry, in fact, that some of it was spilling over onto Derrick.

“Anyway, that’s not what I wanted to talk with you about,” she continued. “It’s about something I found the other day, something belonging to my brother.”

She reached into her black purse, removing something. It was so small, though, I couldn’t see it in her clenched fist.

“What is it?” I had to ask.

“If you were ever in Derrick’s office, then you know he had this crazy thing for Post-it notes. Those little yellow stickies were everywhere around his desk.”

I remembered. “Yes, I know. I saw them when I visited Derrick in White Plains.”

“Well, they were all over his stupid apartment, too,” she said. “Last night I was over there going through some of his files, trying to find Derrick’s life insurance policy. That’s when I came across this.”

She opened her fist to reveal a small USB flash drive, the kind you can pick up at any computer supply store for about twelve bucks. It was barely over an inch long.

“What’s on it?” I asked.

“I have no idea. I didn’t look at it – but I’m pretty sure Derrick wanted you to have it.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because there was a yellow sticky on it. He’d written your name.” She extended her hand, placing the flash drive in mine. “Promise me one thing, though, okay? You have to promise. That’s the quid pro quo here.”

Hell, I’d pretty much promise her anything to see what was on that flash drive. How could I not think that it was what Derrick had wanted to tell me the night he’d died?

“Sure,” I said. “What is it?”

“Out of respect for my brother, could you not tell anyone you have this until you’ve had a chance to look at it?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good,” she said, but I could tell there was something else she wanted to say. She seemed unsure about it.

“Go ahead,” I said. “It’s okay. I owe your brother, and I feel like I owe you.”

“You don’t. It’s just that I was…”

She stopped. A tear formed in her eye, and she quickly wiped it away. “Everyone who worked with Derrick said all the right things, that he was really good at his job and was a great guy and all that. What I want to know, though, is that he didn’t die in vain. Can you promise me that, too?”

I reached out and took Monica’s hand, squeezing it tight. “Yes, I can promise you that, too. I’ll make sure of it,” I said.

If it’s the last thing I do.

Chapter 78

OFFICER KEVIN O’SHEA turned to his partner, Sam Brison, in the lobby of my apartment building as I looked on. “Heads or tails?” asked O’Shea, tossing a shiny quarter in the air.

“Tails,” said Brison.

Apparently, this was what my first shift did every morning when they arrived. Instead of taking turns standing guard in the lobby or outside my door, they flipped for it.

O’Shea caught the quarter and sneaked a peek. “Shit,” he muttered underneath his square, bushy mustache. Tails it is.

“Ha!” said Brison, heading for the comfortable couch in the lobby. Outside my door there was only a metal folding chair with no padding. Enough said.

I rode the elevator up with O’Shea, continuing with what I thought was my stellar acting job since the funeral. I didn’t want to seem overly anxious, but I absolutely couldn’t wait to get home so I could plug in that flash drive.

“Hey, are you okay?” O’Shea asked me, leaning against the back of the elevator. “You seem a little jumpy today. You jumpy? Something the matter, Nick?”

So much for my acting. Clearly I wasn’t the Second Coming of Sir Laurence Olivier.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I said. “Rough morning, that’s all. I don’t like funerals much.”

“Nobody likes funerals,” O’Shea agreed, nodding but continuing to eye me as if his bullshit meter was ticking in the red zone. I was sure he was about to press the subject when I was saved by the bell of the elevator. We’d arrived at my floor.

O’Shea stuck his head out, peering left and right. “Okay,” he announced.

I fell in line behind him as we walked the beige and white wavy-striped carpeting of the hallway. The rug was kind of trippy. Staring at it was enough to give you some serious vertigo.

“What do you think you’re doing?” asked O’Shea as we reached my door. I’d taken out my key and made a move for the lock.

“Oh yeah, I forgot,” I said.

He shot me a look like a disapproving parent. “Sometimes that’s all it takes – forgetting one time, Nick.”

I handed him the key so he could scope out my apartment before I entered.

“Out of curiosity,” I said, “while you’re in there checking to make sure the coast is clear, who’s watching me here in the hallway?”

He didn’t hesitate. “That’s why Sam is in the lobby.”

“But what if, say, there’s someone waiting for me behind the door to the stairwell?”

O’Shea chuckled. He realized I was just busting his chops. “Would you like me to go check for you?” he asked slowly.

“No, that’s okay,” I said, and laughed lightly. We both did. O’Shea was a pretty good guy actually. I liked him and his partner, too. Hey, they were trying to keep me alive.

“Good. Now stay here,” he said with a grin as he unlocked my door. “Try not to get in any trouble.”

“Yeah, sure. That’ll be a first.”

Chapter 79

THE SECONDS OUTSIDE my door went by slowly, and I couldn’t help wishing that I could get back my old life, that none of this had happened. Except maybe Courtney breaking up with Ferramore.

“You better not be raiding my fridge!” I called to O’Shea from the hallway.

I’d been eating takeout for three days straight. With all the containers of Chinese, Japanese, Mexican, and Italian, I was just about housing the United Nations of leftovers.

“Hey, did you hear me?” I said.

O’Shea had been checking my apartment for about a minute, roughly a half minute longer than it usually took him or Brison to comb my twelve-hundred-square-foot one-bedroom apartment.

An uneasy feeling suddenly came over me, my mind starting to race.

Instinctively, I took a step forward to peek in around the doorway, only to catch myself. That was the last thing I should be doing, right?

Instead, I looked down at my striped tie, pushing it to the side. Behind it I could feel the outline of the alarm around my neck. Even underneath my dress shirt there was no mistaking the large panic button.

Shit, what do I do? Do I press it?

No. Not yet.

“Kevin?” I called out again, this time louder. No more joking around about my fridge. “Everything all right in there? Hey, Kevin?”

I heard nothing back. I heard nothing, period. My apartment, the hallway – everywhere was quiet.

Then, finally – thank God! – I heard him.

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” came O’Shea’s voice.

I couldn’t see him yet but I could tell he was walking toward me. He drew a deep sigh before explaining, “For a moment there, I thought I heard -”

Pffft! Pffft!

Before another sound came, I saw the blood, a bright red spray splattering across the hallway in front of the door. Then Officer Kevin O’Shea’s body came crashing down at my feet, the back of his head blown wide open.

Oh no! No! No! No!

I took a clumsy step backwards, nearly tripping over my own heel. My knees were beginning to buckle and I couldn’t think straight. My thought process felt completely fractured.

Run, Nick! Run now!

I turned, sprinting down the hallway as those crazy beige and white stripes of the carpet blurred before my eyes. I was ten feet from the stairwell. Could I make it?

Barely!

I pushed through the door to the stairs. For a split second I allowed myself to look back. Just one glance.

It was all I needed. Make that much more than I needed.

Storming out of my apartment, a gun fitted with a suppressor snug in his hand, was the man who should’ve killed me when he’d had the chance in that alley next to the pizza place in the South Bronx.

At least I’m sure that’s what Carmine Zambratta, the Zamboni, was thinking as his eyes met mine.

He raised his gun and my heart nearly stopped.

Keep running, Nick!

Chapter 80

I PRACTICALLY FLUNG myself down the stairs, my feet barely keeping up with the rest of me. Could I outrun him? Would he get a clear shot at me? I didn’t see why not.

I was about to press the hell out of my panic button to alert Brison in the lobby, when a voice kicked in from the one brain cell remaining that wasn’t drowning in adrenaline. No, wait! Don’t come to me, Brison – I’m coming to you!

And I’m bringing company.

I kept flying down the stairs – the ninth floor… the eighth – my shoes pounding away on the concrete steps, my heart pounding away at my chest.

How far back was he? Was he gaining on me?

That’s when I heard it.

Nothing.

There were no footsteps from above, no sound of the Zamboni gaining on me. I was alone in the stairwell and that one working brain cell of mine immediately figured out why.

He was taking the elevator.

Shit!

On the landing of the sixth floor I skidded to a stop, gasping for air, trying to think in straight lines.

Up?

Down?

Stay put?

What do I do?

In a flash, I thought I had the answer. I’d go hide in someone’s apartment – just keep banging on doors until somebody let me in. Then I’d call the police.

Oh no! The police.

The image of Brison on that couch in the lobby suddenly came crashing into my head. He was a sitting duck down there. I had to warn him.

You know that company l’m bringing, Brison? He might get there first!

I jammed my thumb against the panic button as I took off again down the stairs.

The fifth floor…

The fourth floor…

My lungs were on fire, my legs aching – but what hurt the most was not knowing what was going to happen.

How would Brison respond to my hitting the panic button? Would he head straight for the elevator and Zambratta?

“Will you walk into my parlor?” said the Spider to the Fly.

The third floor…

The second floor…

I had to get to the lobby first!

Nobody else could die on my watch.

Chapter 81

THE LITTLE THINGS we take for granted.

Like the glass window cut into the door between the stairs and the lobby. Seven years living in the building and I’d never once noticed it. Not one time.

But there it was, no bigger than a loaf of bread – hell, even smaller; make that a slice of bread – but still big enough to catch a glimpse of Brison as I raced down the last set of stairs.

He had his gun drawn, his mouth twisted into a scowl so tight I thought his face would crack.

He was aiming the gun dead square at the elevator. Watching. Waiting.

I did neither.

I bolted straight through the door like… well, like the crazy, panicked guy I was. Only when Brison turned on a dime and nearly blew my head off did I realize that maybe that hadn’t been such a good idea.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” he said, his trigger finger still twitching. “I could’ve killed you!”

“Sorry.” What the hell else could I say?

Brison swung his gun back at the closed door of the elevator, and I followed his eyes to the line of floor numbers above it. The five was lit up. Then the four.

“It’s Carmine Zambratta,” I said quickly, still out of breath.

“I know.”

“He shot O’Shea.”

I could tell from Brison’s face he knew that, too. Or at least was assuming it. “Is he still alive?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head. “I don’t think so.”

Brison swallowed hard, digesting the news like the bitter pill it was. But that’s all he had time for. Otherwise both of us would end up just like O’Shea.

“Get the hell behind the counter!” he yelled at me. “Hurry! Stay down!”

I dashed behind the doorman’s desk – which looked more like a counter you’d see at an airline gate – while wondering how Brison had known Zambratta was in the elevator or that it was Zambratta at all.

That’s when I saw the closed-circuit monitor with a split screen on the wall right above me. Brison had obviously checked it when I had hit the panic button. He also must have told the doorman to skedaddle out of there. And call for help?

I stared at the monitor, my eyes bouncing back and forth like a game of Pong. On one side was the revolving door of the front entrance. On the other was the inside shot of the elevator.

And there he was in black and white. Grainy and fuzzy, too. Not to mention scary as shit.

The Zamboni.

For sure Brison had recognized him right away. How could he not? The guy was the poster boy for mob enforcers. A celebrity, practically. He killed people and got away with it. Probably have his own show on cable soon.

I could see the gun with the suppressor in his meaty hand, his huge shoulders pressed tight against the side of the elevator wall. Carmine Zambratta was coming for me, and he wanted me dead. Very badly.

Yet he couldn’t have looked more relaxed and in control. How freakin’ screwed up was that?

“What’s he doing? Is he still on the side of the elevator?” asked Brison, his voice clipped. His throat must have been dry as dirt. If he was trying to sound calm, it wasn’t working – and I was the last person on earth who could blame him for some nerves and high anxiety.

Crouched low and out of sight, I could still see the monitor perfectly. From where Brison was positioned, he couldn’t. Not at all.

I would have to be his eyes.

Don’t blink, Nick.

Chapter 82

“YES,” I TOLD BRISON, quickly wiping away the sweat dripping from my forehead. Zambratta was still hugging the side of the elevator. He hadn’t moved. What was he up to?

And where the hell was the elevator?

The damn thing should’ve reached the lobby by now, right? And then -

DING!

Right on cue. The elevator landed, the sound of the high-pitched bell cutting through the silence of the lobby. Here we go…

I braced myself, my eyes glued to the closed-circuit monitor. No need to look at Brison now.

“He’s raising his gun!” I called out.

I listened to the squeak of Brison’s shoes against the white marble floor of the lobby as he shifted his stance. I was waiting for the next sound – the elevator door opening.

It didn’t come!

Brison called again, “What’s he doing?”

I squinted at the monitor. I couldn’t tell at first – the image was flickering all over. When it finally steadied I could see Zambratta’s hand against the panel of buttons inside the elevator.

“He must be holding the door closed,” I said. “He’s got his – oh, shit!”

“What? What’s the matter now?”

It happened so fast.

Zambratta shot the lens of the security camera, the muffled sound of the smashing glass and metal followed by the monitor in front of me – half of it, at least – going black as night.

I poked my head up above the counter to tell Brison I was no longer his eyes.

“STAY DOWN!” he yelled at me as he dashed for the couch on the opposite wall. He ducked low behind the armrest, his gun and eyes never leaving the door of the elevator.

I dropped below the counter, holding my breath. The showdown had turned into a stalemate. Something – or someone – had to give. So what did it come down to? Who was the better shot?

Then I heard it. Off in the distance, the sound of the cavalry. Police sirens. Beautiful sirens. Brison must have called for backup. Or maybe it was the doorman, who’d dialed 911 out on the street. Either way…

What are you going to do now, Zamboni?

Little did I know, he’d already done it.

Chapter 83

WOULD ZAMBRATTA TRY to shoot his way out of here?

Would he take the elevator back up to another floor, maybe even grab a hostage from one of the apartments? That wouldn’t be very hard to do.

I wondered if he could hear the approaching sirens. Even if he couldn’t, he had to know that staying put in the elevator wasn’t an option. It was his move, but he had to do something.

Clearly, Brison was on the same page.

He shouted at the closed door of the elevator, “You can’t stay in there, Zambratta! Come out, hands high.”

It was wishful thinking, I guess, but I couldn’t blame Brison for trying.

“You gave us too much time,” Brison continued, his voice growing more confident. “We’ve got men on every floor now. There’s nowhere for you to go.”

“Will you walk into my parlor?” said the Spider to the Fly.

I’d been so wrapped up in the moment that I almost didn’t see it. Out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of something on the monitor above me. It was the half screen that still had a picture – the revolving door at the entrance to the building.

The door was moving.

At first I thought it was Brison’s backup pushing their way in. The cavalry had arrived!

But, no – I could see only one person and he wasn’t in uniform. He was in a business suit.

Oh, shit! It’s someone who lives in the building, someone coming home. This is bad!

“Go back outside!” I was about to yell.

Then I changed my mind.

The man spinning through the revolving door didn’t live in the building, but I recognized him.

“Brison!” I shouted instead, jumping up from the counter. “Behind you!”

It was too late, though.

It was Brison who had given Zambratta too much time. The killer had called in his own cavalry – his own backup.

How could I ever forget this man? It was the cold-blooded killer from Lombardo’s Steakhouse.

I watched in horror as he calmly pumped two bullets into Brison. Jesus, he was good with that gun of his.

To my left I could hear the elevator door finally opening. Zambratta strolled out.

“About time,” he muttered to his cohort.

The sirens in the background were getting closer, but they weren’t close enough as Zambratta walked right up to me.

“Police protection. Highly overrated, if you ask me,” he said, raising his gun to my face.

Chapter 84

I SLOWLY OPENED my eyes, kind of glad that I still had eyes to open. My lashes flickered like a silent movie. Everything was blurry. Even the voices around me seemed blurry, if that made any sense.

Where was I? Well, at least I was somewhere.

My head was killing me, and as I slowly reached up and felt along my hairline, I found a lump the size of a tennis ball. I guess I’d been walloped by the butt of Zambratta’s gun.

“Look who’s up,” someone said. “It’s Sleepin’ Beauty.”

All at once everything came into focus. I saw exactly where I was. I saw whom I was with. And I wished that I hadn’t seen any of it.

I was riding in the back of a stretch limousine, somewhere outside the city, judging from the speed of the vehicle. To make things a little worse, the car reeked of cigar smoke and gaudy aftershave.

To my right was Zambratta, and across from both of us, legs crossed and arms folded in satisfaction, was his boss. The boss.

Joseph D’zorio.

“Do you know who I am, Nick?” asked D’zorio. I was noticing that his ruddy complexion went well with his combed-back silver hair. The guy literally had a glow about him.

I nodded. “Yes, I know who you are.”

“Of course you do,” he said before cracking a smile. “But I bet you wish you didn’t right now. In fact, that’s your problem, isn’t it? You know me all too well.”

My shirt had been ripped open and there was no longer a panic button for me to press. Believe it or not, I was more concerned about something else.

Ever so casually I slid my hand over the pocket of my pants, feeling for the outline of the flash drive Monica Phalen had given me.

“Looking for this?” asked D’zorio.

He opened his clenched fist and I saw the flash drive nestled in the palm of his hand.

“I’m guessing, Nick, that you haven’t had the chance to see what’s on here.”

“No,” I said, “I haven’t seen it.”

“Neither have I. I imagine if we were to watch it together, we’d see things that we both already know.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Of course, what I don’t know is who else has seen what’s on here,” said D’zorio, tapping the flash drive with a knuckle.

I realized that this explained why I was still alive. It’s hard to get information out of a dead man.

“The only person who knows what’s on that drive was murdered,” I said. “On your orders, I’m sure. He was a good man, by the way.”

D’zorio rocked his head back and forth as if mulling things over. “You might be right,” he said. “Then again, you might be wrong. Maybe Derrick Phalen made more copies. What do you think, Carmine?”

Slouched back in the leather of the seat next to me, Zambratta shrugged. “It’s tough to say. But you can never be too sure with these things, no?”

“Is that why?” I asked D’zorio.

“Is that why what?” he asked back.

There was no point in playing dumb anymore. Regardless of what was on that flash drive and who else might have seen it, I knew more than enough on my own. “Is that why you framed Eddie Pinero instead of killing him outright? Less chance of retaliation? Because you can never be too sure?”

“No, that’s not it,” D’zorio said with a wave of his hand.

“Then what?” I asked.

“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”

“Don’t be so sure. Try me.”

D’zorio let go with a laugh as the limo suddenly came to a stop, the tires skidding on top of what sounded like gravel. Wherever we had been heading, we were there.

“Sorry, Nick,” is all he said.

But it was the way he said it, with a sense of finality. Joseph D’zorio wasn’t saying that he wouldn’t tell me his secret.

He was saying good-bye.

Chapter 85

THE DOOR NEXT to me swung open with such force that I thought it might have been ripped from its hinges. D’zorio’s driver, who looked like he could bench-press New Jersey, said nothing as he waited for me to step out. Behind him I caught a glimpse of an abandoned warehouse, half burned to the ground. It had that look to it, anyway. Desolate and isolated. The kind of place where no one can hear you scream.

“Do you need some help getting out?” asked Zambratta. “Maybe a kick in the ass?”

“You don’t have to do this,” I said.

He pulled out his gun, jamming it hard against my head, just like he had in the alley by the pizza place.

“Actually, I do,” he said. “Your time has come.”

I swung one foot out of the limo, and then I stopped because of the sound I heard. An unexpected but quite wonderful sound.

Sirens.

D’zorio’s driver immediately slammed the door shut, nearly taking my leg off. Before I’d even landed in my seat he was back behind the wheel.

These sirens. They were real.

Real close, too. Not like the ones I had heard from the lobby of my building before Zambratta had knocked me senseless. It was as if this time the cavalry had snuck up from behind, turning the sirens on at the last possible moment. Surprise!

“Christ!” yelled Zambratta. “How?”

As in, how the hell could they have found us here?

Zambratta raised his fist to bang on the glass divider – “Let’s go!” – but D’zorio’s driver was already a step ahead. We peeled out so fast I couldn’t help but think back to that night on the run in Darfur.

Hold on tight, because this is going to be one hairy ride…

Chapter 86

I HAD GOTTEN that much right, no doubt about it. The limo swerved wildly right and left in a series of turns, the three of us getting tossed around in the back like salads. I still had no idea where we were, and the heavily tinted windows and all the contortions didn’t help. What little I could see was a continuous blur.

How fast were we going? Ninety miles an hour? A hundred? On a side road?

Even faster as we hit a straightaway.

The crystal glasses in the bar next to D’zorio were rattling louder and louder, but my ears remained trained on the police sirens. Were they getting closer – or farther away?

There was a chorus of them, and all I could hope was that no matter how fast we were going, the guys underneath those sirens were going just a little bit faster. C’mon, boys, let ’er rip! Don’t be shy!

They weren’t.

Pop! Pop-pop!

Ping! Ping!

“They’re trying to shoot out the tires,” said Zambratta. As fast as you could say double fisted, the gun from inside his jacket was joined by the one that had been tucked into a shin holster.

“Wait!” said D’zorio. “Don’t.”

Don’t?

Zambratta looked at his boss like he had three heads. “This asshole has seen me kill two guys,” he said, waving what looked to be a Glock 9mm in my face. “They’ve got to know he’s in here.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said D’zorio. “If we pull over, no charges will stick. I can protect you, Carmine.”

Now it was my turn to look at D’zorio like he had three heads. No charges will stick? How do you figure that one? There I was, sitting on the wrong end of two guns and in the wrong car of a police chase, and that’s what I was wondering about? How D’zorio could protect his favorite henchman? But I couldn’t help myself. It seemed like such a bizarre thing for the boss to say. Like everybody but him was stupid.

I looked over at Carmine Zambratta, who was clearly thinking the same thing. Not for long, though. He just wasn’t buying it.

Instead, he began opening the sunroof.

“I’m telling you,” implored D’zorio. “I can protect you.”

“No, you can’t,” said Zambratta. “But I can protect myself.”

He jumped up through the open sunroof, guns blazing. Between the bullets flying and the wind whipping through the limo, I could barely hear myself think.

But I could see what D’zorio was about to do.

I just couldn’t believe it.

Chapter 87

IT WAS AS IF D’zorio had been counting the shots like Dirty Harry, waiting for the moment when Zambratta would need to reload. That’s when he lunged forward and punched the sunroof button, the sliding glass panel trapping Zambratta half in and half out of the speeding car.

“What the fuck!” Zambratta yelled, his legs twisting helplessly beneath him. The Zamboni, D’zorio’s prized enforcer, was out of bullets and fully exposed up there. The rest was target practice for the police.

For the next few seconds, Zambratta screamed horribly as several bullets, maybe half a dozen, ripped through his flesh and bones. Then, thump!

His lifeless body fell over against the top of the limo as one of his hands, the Glock 9mm still gripped in the palm, plopped down through the narrow space of the sunroof. I watched the blood trickle off his fingertips.

D’zorio shook his head. “The guy never goddamn listened,” he said. Oh, I see. So you killed him?

The limo suddenly swerved hard to the right, sending me tumbling across the seat. Pushing myself back up, I squinted through the dark tint of the windows. Those were no longer trees we were passing. They were cars.

We were getting on a major highway, picking up even more speed.

I yelled to D’zorio over the sirens. “So we pull over now, right? That’s what you said!”

“Not quite yet,” he answered.

He reached for a small compartment by his right arm that was no bigger than a box of tissues. If only that’s what was in it. Christ, why does everyone have a gun except me?

Grabbing the handkerchief tucked into the breast pocket of his suit, D’zorio draped the cloth over his open palm.

“What are you doing?” I said.

But I knew what he was doing. He was making sure there’d be no gunshot residue on his hand. When he killed me.

“It’s like I said before, Nick. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

With that, he aimed the gun at my chest. Meanwhile, the limo was weaving like crazy in and out of lanes, but D’zorio’s hand was surprisingly steady. He’d done this before.

“Wait… WAIT!” I yelled. “You heard Zambratta – the police know I’m in here.”

“Yes, and when I’m done explaining everything to them, they’ll know he’s the one who shot you.”

Checkmate, Nick. Game over. No way out, not this time.

I closed my eyes, swallowing my last breath.

Pop!

Chapter 88

IT SURE SOUNDED like a gun – only it wasn’t. Not this time. Actually, it was one of the limo’s tires exploding, maybe from one too many hairpin turns, or maybe from a bullet during the chase.

Of course, I didn’t know that right away – I was too busy spinning around like laundry in a dryer as the limo flipped over.

And over and over and over. High bouncer, too. Possibly some cartwheels.

Call it the worst car crash I’d ever been in and – as crazy as it gets – the luckiest break I’d ever been handed, even though it hurt like hell.

My body slammed against the ceiling, the door, the bar. It was happening so fast, my hands were useless to protect me. There was nothing to hold on to, nothing to grab.

Somehow in all that flipping around, amid the crushing of metal and shattering of glass, I managed to stay conscious. And when the limo finally came to a stop – upside down, no less – my vision was going in and out as if I were looking through one of those View-Master toys.

Click! Where am I?

Okay. I was lying facedown on what I guessed was the ceiling of the limo. Slowly, I lifted a hand to my forehead, swabbing it with my palm. I didn’t have to see the blood; I could feel it, warm and gooey. It was as if the huge lump I had gotten from the butt of Zambratta’s gun had erupted. It hurt like hell.

But the worst pain was lower in my body. The right side of my chest, my ribs. Every breath felt like I was being stabbed with a knife.

I was about to call out for help when I heard a moan a few feet away. It was D’zorio. As bad off as I was, he looked even worse.

There were shards of glass wedged into his forehead and cheek, and I was pretty sure a bone was protruding through his sock right below his ankle. He was wheezing and coughing up blood.

He looked at me. I looked at him. We both looked at his gun. It was maybe six inches from his hand.

Make that four inches.

He was reaching for it, his perfectly manicured nails now covered in blood, but clawing their way toward the grip of the gun.

Then, out of the blue, I heard a voice. “Go ahead, Joey, give me a reason!”

Wait! I know that voice… I absolutely do.

I craned my neck to see the man kneeling beside the limo. The barrel of his Smith and Wesson.40 caliber automatic was trained on D’zorio.

Wait! I know this man. He’s the guy from the diner. And my sister’s house.

I thought he had wanted to kill me, only now here he was saving my life. He wasn’t with the mob. He was against them. It was as clear as the three letters emblazoned on his jacket.

FBI.

Chapter 89

I HAD A broken rib for sure, maybe two. There were deep cuts and gashes on my forehead, my ear, and my right arm, all of which would definitely require stitches.

As the EMT finished examining me, Agent Douglas Keller of the FBI folded his arms and gave me a look that reminded me of my father, who’d been a junior high principal. “You need to get to a hospital, Nick,” he said. “We’ll talk about all this afterward.”

“We’ll talk now,” I said. “Or we won’t talk ever again. I’m not kidding – Doug.”

We were standing in the middle of the southbound side of the Pelham Parkway in the Bronx. Behind me, for several miles, was a parking lot of cars that weren’t going anywhere for a while. To my left, on the northbound side, was a slow parade of rubberneckers, each and every face asking the same question with a wide-open mouth: What on earth happened over there? I could see the details they were taking in and trying to figure out: A flipped limo – with bullet holes? Police everywhere – and FBI, too?

Not to mention that NYPD photographers were taking pictures, measuring skid marks, and drawing a chalk line around D’zorio’s driver, who, despite his size, had somehow been thrown to his death. Remember, folks, always wear your seat belt. As for what remained of Zambratta’s body trapped in the sunroof, you don’t want to know.

“You do realize, Nick, that I’m not required to tell you anything,” said Agent Keller.

“That’s right. I get that much, Doug. Just like I’m not required to write about the FBI agent who stalked me for two weeks while threatening my life,” I shot back. “Is that ‘Keller’ with two l’s?”

He smiled. “Glad you find all this funny,” I said.

“For the record, I never actually threatened your life, Nick.”

“No, but that’s what you wanted me to think. You said I was in a shitload of danger.”

“You were in a shitload of danger. You still may be.”

“Yeah, but not from the FBI. Not from you. So why were you trying so hard to scare me?”

Keller shook his head as if to say, I can’t freakin’ believe I’m about to tell you this.

But he did.

It seems that one Vincent Marcozza, Eddie Pinero’s attorney, had been cooperating with the FBI for the past ten months, although not by choice, of course. He had been about to get nailed for income tax evasion, so Marcozza had cut a deal.

“What kind of deal?” I asked.

“Let me put it this way,” said Keller. “Marcozza agreed not to bring his ‘A’ game to the courtroom. He basically let Pinero get convicted.”

My jaw dropped and I must have looked like one of the rubberneckers passing us. “Did the Organized Crime Task Force know about this?” I asked next.

“You mean, were their prosecutors in on it?”

“Yeah. That’s exactly what I mean.”

“No, they had no idea,” said Keller. “I mean, maybe privately they were scratching their heads over Marcozza’s crummy performance during the trial, but that was it. Nailing Pinero was a huge victory for them. They took it and ran.”

And that’s where I had come into the story. Literally. I had walked into Lombardo’s and right into Eddie Pinero taking his revenge on Marcozza.

Only it wasn’t Pinero, as we later found out. It had just looked that way because it was supposed to.

“How did you know it was D’zorio – that it was a setup?” I asked Keller now.

“We didn’t know. That is, not until you did.” He motioned with his hand. “Give me your phone for a second,” he said.

I gave him a quizzical look. Then I handed over my iPhone.

Keller unlocked the touch screen and went into the settings. I watched as he scrolled down, then tapped into my “Password Lock” and entered a four-digit code.

“There,” he said, giving it back. “Good as new.”

Huh? “What was it before?” I asked.

Keller didn’t answer me. He didn’t need to. That’s how he had found me at my sister’s house. The FBI had turned my phone into a tracking device. But how? When? Who had done that?

“Yeah, you were pretty wrapped up in your newspaper that morning,” he said, playing off my expression. I flashed back to the Sunrise Diner and the first time Keller had approached me. “Is this your phone?” he’d asked.

“So, let me guess,” I said. “Because you saved my life, in return I never go public… I never write this story?”

“That’s the basic plan,” he said bluntly. “Especially given one other little thing I ought to mention.”

“What’s that?”

“The story’s not over, Nick.”