Icarus

FORTY-TWO

By three o'clock the next afternoon, the glass door had been replaced, an alarm system installed – the installer muttering, over and over again, "Who'd be crazy enough to try to break in from here?" – and a painter was at work on the living room and bedroom wall.

And Jack had spent just over three hours sitting in front of his computer, trying to find the Rookie.

She was the logical one to go after, partly because Jack suspected she had, over time, metamorphosed into the Destination, and partly because he had remembered back to winter, about two weeks into January. He remembered so specifically because it was the first day Kid had seen the Hopper painting. After checking the day he'd gotten the painting, then using his calendar to pinpoint his first session with Kid after that, it was not difficult to specify the exact day – January 17.

Jack could recall the conversation as if it were yesterday.

I regard Edward Hopper as the depressive's Norman Rockwell.

What!

Jack, I don't know shit about art. I'm just quoting.

A member of your fucking team?

The Rookie. She has very strong feelings about art.

Do me a favor and tell her to go fuck herself.

You don't want to mess with her, Jack. Not with what I've learned about her.

Your goddamn team. I don't think they even exist.

They exist, all right. Hey, the Rookie was even written up in yesterday's Times. She's famous.

He was annoyed as hell at the time, even hurt, but the words had still been mere banter then. Now they seemed so much more. The Rookie has very strong feelings about art. And clearly did not like Hopper. If the Rookie had been the one to break into his apartment the night before, was that why the Hopper had been removed from the wall? You don't want to mess with her, Jack. Not with what I've learned about her. Because she was so dangerous? Because she was capable of killing? And best of all: The Rookie was even written up in yesterday's Times. She's famous.

A starting point.

Using AOL, he went to nytimes.com. At the web site, he registered, typed in a password – "jacks" – and as various choices came up, he elected to go back into their selected archives. He typed in "January 16" and, suddenly, there was that day's newspaper of record up on the screen. He decided there was only one way to do this and that was thoroughly, so he began reading the paper from cover to cover. As he read, he took notes, keeping track of any woman being written about who conceivably could have had a connection to Kid or who could, in any stretch of the imagination, have been on the Team. After a few minutes of reading, he realized he should keep track of every single woman mentioned, just in case he needed to backtrack. So on a yellow legal pad, as he went through each section – front page, Metro, The Arts, Sports, Business Day and Dining In – he started dividing the names into three columns labeled Likely, Less Likely, and Unlikely. With each name, he jotted down any relevant information – a brief description, a job title, a company name or the name of an agent, anything that might help him locate her.

The first story he came to where the woman seemed "Likely" was about a young, dynamic assistant DA who was prosecuting the killer of a high school principal. The next was a hotshot Wall Street executive who was handling a large merger. He put a star by the name of a young professional tennis player who lost in the quarterfinals of a tournament. Others on that list were a policewoman who had been fired for posing nude in a magazine and the daughter of a real estate developer who was now in Paris modeling. Margaret Thatcher, who was lecturing on global economics at Harvard, was placed in the Unlikely column, as was a fifty-two-year-old lesbian colonel in the air force, a very overweight black woman who was the voice of a service that gave movie times, and Kathie Lee Gifford. Tipper Gore also went into Unlikely, although Jack's pen lingered over Less Likely for just a moment.

By midafternoon, he had twenty-two Likelys, twenty-seven Less Likelys, and a long string of Unlikelys. As he ran his finger over the final list, staring at the information he'd written down, one line popped out at him. It was when he came to the name of an up-and-coming young art dealer. She was getting attention for an avant-garde show she had put together at a gallery in SoHo. But it was the address of the gallery that got his attention: 137 Greene Street. It seemed familiar. He recognized it from somewhere. His mind drifted, trying to picture the street, imagining the last time he'd been in that neighborhood…

Bingo. One-three-seven Greene – the address of the Hanson Fitness Center, where he'd met Bryan and where Kid had worked. On the ground floor was an art gallery, the one with tons of sand in the window. It wasn't out of business, Jack thought. That was art.

The coincidence was too great. It had to be. He glanced down at her name again. Grace Childress. Yes, Grace had to be the third member of the Team.

She was the Rookie.

– "-"-"THE WINDOW OF the Waggoner Gallery was still filled with sand. Jack spent a moment studying it, realized he could stand there the rest of his life without figuring out what it was meant to say, so opened the gallery's front door and stepped inside.

The artist being displayed was named Pinkney Wallace. Jack learned from browsing through the catalog that his medium was the earth: sand, dirt, mud, grass. His artwork was scattered throughout the spacious ground floor. There were perhaps twenty large glass boxes that looked like fish tanks. Inside each box was a wave of sand or a mountain of mud. One was divided perfectly in half; one half of the box was completely empty, the other was jammed full of cut grass. He was staring at the grass when he heard a woman's voice from behind.

"Like it?"

He turned and Jack knew he had come to the right place. The woman who spoke to him was absolutely stunning. She was not tall, maybe five-foot-four, but somehow she seemed tall; her perfect posture and angular body seemed to add inches to her height. Her hair was hennaed a sparkly copper color, which was the only color on her entire body except for her bright blue eyes and thick, coppery-red glasses surrounding them. Everything else was black: a black tank-top T-shirt, covered by a sheer black blouse, a short black skirt, black tights, and mid-calf-high black boots. Her lips were thin and the tight smile they formed managed to convey an air of both confidence and vulnerability. Jack was dazzled.

"I don't understand it," he said, gesturing toward the glass box and the grass.

"It's postmodern," the woman said. "There is no understanding. Only confusion."

"Ah. Now that's something I'm familiar with." Jack stuck his hand out. "You're Grace Childress, aren't you?"

She nodded, put her hand in his, and they shook. Her grip was hard and firm and Jack felt the same electric shock he'd felt when he'd met the Mortician and the Entertainer. Although this woman was much more appealing. She had the sensual aura that the others had but she did not radiate the same air of danger, of walking too close to the edge.

"I'm Jack Keller," he continued. The name obviously meant nothing to her so he took a shot in the dark. "The Butcher," he said, and this obviously registered, he could see it in her eyes, as they narrowed, and in the curious cock of her head.

"What can I do for you?" she asked.

"I'm a friend of Kid Demeter's. I'm trying to find out what happened to him."

"He's dead."

"Yes, I know," Jack said. "I mean, I'm trying to find out how. And why."

"We know how, don't we?"

"Do we?"

"Yes," she said. "Somebody killed him."

Jack stared at her a moment, startled, then he couldn't help himself. A smile of relief spread over his face.

"Would you mind saying that again?"

"Somebody killed him. I think that's pretty obvious, don't you?"

"Yes," he said, "I do."

– "-"-"THEY WERE EATING in Jerry's, a casual place specializing in simple grilled food on Prince Street.

"The Rookie, huh?" Grace was saying. "Certainly not very descriptive."

"I think it changed. I think you got another nickname as time went on."

"Well, whatever it is, it's got to be better than the Rookie."

"It is," Jack said. "It's possible he started calling you the Destination."

Grace's eyes flickered, and she tilted her head down. "No," she told him. "That wasn't me. Kid told me about the Destination. It was someone from his past. Someone… well, let's just say he told me about her. I don't really feel comfortable sharing his secrets. Even now."

"He told me about her, too," Jack said. "But he also told me that he'd met someone he thought could be a second Destination. I think that could be you."

"Why do you think that?" Grace asked.

"Just a hunch. He told me a few things… and you seem to fit the description." Jack raised his hand and when the waiter came over, he ordered a second beer. He looked at Grace, who shook her head. She was still working on her first. "Do you know why he came up with the nickname 'Destination'?" Jack asked her.

"No."

"Topeka's a place, Cleveland's a town… Rome is a destination."

She smiled, a sad smile, and shook her head. "I don't know if that's me or not," she told him. "But he did always have this idealized, dewy-eyed fantasy about me."

"Maybe it was more accurate than you give him credit for."

"No. Believe me. I throw things, I bite my nails, I've done my share of things I shouldn't have done. Hell, I still do. I make a lot of mistakes."

"Maybe he just didn't care about them."

"No, he didn't see them. He didn't want to see them."

"How'd you get to know him?"

"He picked me up on the street. I was going into the gallery, he was heading up to the gym. I brushed him off – I'm not big on street pickups – but Kid was extremely persistent. He started coming into the gallery, we talked, and then one night I was out at a club with a girlfriend and he was there. He was by himself, it was late, maybe two or three in the morning, and he looked kind of rattled. I asked him what the matter was and he said he'd just had a fight with someone, an argument. He wouldn't tell me what it was about, not then, but he looked so vulnerable he was hard to resist. We wound up talking almost all night. And then… you know how these things happen."

"Did he ever tell you what the argument was about? Or who it was with?"

She hesitated. "I told you. I'm not completely comfortable sharing his secrets."

"Are there a lot of secrets to know about him?"

"There are a lot of secrets to know about everybody, aren't there?"

"Yes," Jack said, "I suppose there are." He took a long swig of his beer. "Were you still seeing him when he died?"

"No," she said. Again, she hesitated, seemed as if she were going to say more, but stopped.

"Who broke it off?" he asked.

"I did. It wasn't right. I mean, Kid was interesting and great-looking and I liked him a lot, but it wasn't going to go anywhere, not for me. He wasn't what I needed or what I wanted."

"How did he accept that?"

"He didn't accept it at all. I told you, Kid was persistent." She pursed her lips together. A memory. "Did you ever see him lift a really heavy weight? Well, that's what I was to him. He thought if he pushed himself harder, worked himself more, eventually it would happen between us. There was no quit in him. That's why I know he'd choose life – if he had a choice." She drained her beer. "Is there anything else you'd like to ask me?"

"Where were you when Kid fell?"

"Am I on your suspect list?" When Jack shrugged, she didn't seem offended, just said, "I had an opening at my gallery that night. Tons of witnesses." Grace waved her hand in the air, almost apologetically. "Listen," she said then, "Kid was a club guy. He knew every druggie and pervert below Fourteenth Street. It comes with the territory. Whoever did it, you'll never find him."

"I'm pretty sure that him is a her. There was a woman with him in his apartment the night he died."

That seemed to surprise her. "How do you know that?"

"The police."

"I thought you said the police weren't involved."

"They're not. But they were involved enough to know that."

She stuttered a bit over her next few words. The news had clearly thrown her. "But just being with him, that doesn't mean she killed him, does it? Even if you find her, it doesn't prove anything."

"Maybe not. But I won't know till I find her."

Jack didn't say anything after that. The waiter came and broke the silence and Jack paid the check. As Grace started to stand, Jack spoke. "Kid told me he spoke to the Destination. The new Destination. She told him a secret that bothered him a lot. And he told her things about himself. Some of the things were disturbing. Was that you?"

"It might have been." She sank back into her chair, closed her eyes briefly, and nodded. "I've got a secret or two. And he told me things. And they scared me."

"What things?"

"Things that still scare me."

"Tell me." But she shook her head. When he realized he would get no more information about that conversation, he asked, "Do you know the other women he was seeing? Did he ever mention their nicknames?"

"Like who?"

"Samsonite?"

"No."

"She fits with what you were saying. He said she works in a club, she wants to be a singer. In the meantime she deals."

"There are a lot of those. Who else?"

"The Murderess?"

She picked her head up, her blue eyes flashing. But the spark was immediately extinguished and she shook her head yet again. A brief pause, then, "Did he tell you why he called her the Murderess?"

"No. But Kid's nicknames were fairly pointed."

"I guess it would be too obvious if it was her, wouldn't it?"

"I don't think anything is too obvious right now."

Another silence settled in. It was broken when Grace reached across the table, touched his arm, and said, "You're going to go looking for them, aren't you?" The briefest of smiles. "I mean, once you check out my alibi." Jack nodded and she went on. "I know the club scene. Almost as well as Kid did. Let me help you find Samsonite."

"Why would you do that?"

Grace Childress stood now and ran a hand through her short, coppery hair. "That'll be one of my secrets," she said.

– "-"-"THE NEXT MORNING was a workout with Bryan. They were out on the balcony and Jack felt strong as he was put through his paces. He updated Bryan on his quest, told him about finding Leslee, the Entertainer, in her apartment, and Bryan was astounded by that. He told Jack he'd never seen a dead body before and he seemed genuinely troubled that Jack had had to experience it. Jack then told him about tracking down Grace, who turned out to be the Destination as well as the Rookie. He told him that they were going to hit a few clubs that night, searching for Samsonite and possibly even the Murderess. Again, Bryan apologized as he realized he must have known who she was from the gallery below the gym, just had never made the proper connection. As always, Bryan seemed interested but slightly confused. Jack was never sure how much information he was actually absorbing. He asked a few questions, said he was amazed at Jack's ability to track these people down, gave Jack the names of a few clubs Kid used to frequent, hoping that might be helpful. As the end of the hour approached, Jack was sweating and he felt invigorated, more than satisfied. But he noticed that Bryan seemed sad. Or sadder than usual.

"That's good," he said, as Jack started his second set of squats. He counted off with each one, as if he'd lose count unless he said the number out loud. "Six… seven… very good… Fuckin' A. You are Hercules Unchained, man."

"I've heard that one before." Jack finished his final squat, leaned against one of the weight machines to catch his breath.

"Yeah. Me and Kid, we used to tell each other that, down in the cellar, you know, to pump ourselves up." Bryan paused. He started to speak, stumbled over the first two words. Jack looked up and saw how nervous he was. "I-I s-saw him last night," Bryan managed to say. "Kid."

"What?"

"Yo, it wasn't him or nothin'. Just a guy who reminded me of him. And for a second, I kinda forgot he was dead." The sadness hit him full force now. "I miss him," he said. "Kid was the only person I could talk to."

"Dom."

"Huh?"

"For me, that's Dom. He was my father's best friend, now he's mine. I've been telling him things since I was twelve. Anything I've ever thought, Dom knows."

"Yeah, that was me and Kid. I didn't have to speak, even. He could always tell what I was thinkin'. Ever since we were little."

"You're lucky. Not many people ever have friends like that."

"Yeah, I'm gonna miss that. I really am."

– "-"-"JACK PICKED GRACE up at twelve-thirty that night. He couldn't help but notice that she was wearing a short white silk dress and white lace stockings that left very little to the imagination. And she couldn't help but notice that he was noticing.

"I'm not used to starting this late," he told her as she hopped into the cab and gave the driver an address in Tribeca.

"Hope you drank a lot of coffee because all we're going to catch right now is the early crowd. For the real players, you're going to have to stay up a little later."

On the way downtown, he gave her all the information he had on Samsonite. She didn't seem surprised at what she heard. She was more surprised when he'd finished the rundown and she looked up to find him staring at her.

"What?" she said. And then before he could answer, "Ohhh. I get it. You feel like you know me. You know all about me because of what Kid's said." When he nodded, she said, "Well, I know a lot about you, too."

"Do you?"

"All the key things, courtesy of Kid. I didn't know it was you at the time… but it was definitely you. You're disgustingly rich…"

"Oh, yes. Disgustingly."

"You went from twenty-four-percent body fat down to fourteen…"

"Twelve."

"Sick, insane Knicks fanatic…"

"Guilty."

"You've been pretty much a celibate shut-in since your wife was killed…"

Jack jerked his head up sharply. His eyes widened as he stared at her.

"Whoops," she said, when she saw his expression. "That was a fairly tasteless thing to say, wasn't it? I'm sorry."

"Is that what he said?"

"Is it true?"

Jack nodded, slowly and grimly.

"I am sorry," she said, and reached over to touch the top of his shoulder. Then: "Was it that terrible, what happened down there? Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," Jack said. "I don't. And I can't."

"Kid talked about it all the time. He was obsessed with it."

"Was he?"

"He talked about you all the time, too. You were his idol."

"What I was, maybe. Not what I am now."

"I don't think so, Jack. I think he wanted to be you in any of your incarnations." She grinned, moved one finger to touch his lips to gently change his solemn expression into a smile. "Kind of spooky, isn't it?"

"What?"

"You and me. You're his idol, and if I'm the Destination, I'm his perfect woman. His two ultimate fantasies coming face-to-face, colliding in space… Didn't they do a Star Trek about that once?" The cab pulled to a stop in the middle of the block. "We're here," she said.

Jack looked out the window at the empty and silent Tribeca Street. There were a few warehouses that had not yet been converted into apartments, a few small loft buildings, one four-story office building, and that was it. No sign of activity. No hint whatsoever of any kind of club. "Here where?" he asked.

"Welcome to downtown," she told him. "Follow me."

– "-"-"SHE WENT STRAIGHT up to a heavy steel door, its old red paint barely peeking through the rust, in the middle of the block. As she rang an unmarked buzzer, Jack looked up to see a dark building with no indication of life.

"Are you sure you know where you're going?"

Grace nodded. "There's no sign."

Grace nodded again. "They don't want to be found."

"Then how do you know it's here?"

"You just know."

The buzzer sounded and Grace struggled to push the heavy door open. Jack put one hand on the door and pushed along with her. They found themselves in a dingy hallway, with a wide stairway leading up to the first floor. They climbed and when they got to the equally dingy landing, there was another door. Jack looked questioningly at Grace, who waved her hand toward it with a flourish. He rang the buzzer to the right of the hinges, the door opened, and they were greeted by a huge bouncer, one of the largest men Jack had ever seen. His eyes ran up and down Jack's body, studying him, then he glanced at Grace and nodded.

"Let's go," she said. "You passed inspection." And with a quick raised eyebrow: "Barely."

From that moment on, Jack felt as if he'd stepped onto another planet.

Everything in the after-hours club was sleek, modern, and steel. The people were just as sleek and just as steely. The place was a winding maze, filled with smoke and pounding music, packed with extraordinarily beautiful models, male and female, lounging, sitting, dancing, drinking. Flamboyant transvestites paraded back and forth. Hard bodies were everywhere and almost every body part was exposed. The lights were low and sporadic; everything and everybody looked to be hidden in shadow. Grace took his hand and led him through the maze to a back room where there were sofas and chairs, a few tables, and a long bar. Jack brushed against two women, embracing and kissing passionately, backed against a steel column. One of the women turned and glared at him, then turned back to her partner and began licking her neck.

They found two seats on a sofa near the bar, wedged in next to two men, one shirtless, both busy fondling the other. Grace leaned over and said something into Jack's ear. He waved his hand, indicating that he couldn't hear a word she was saying.

"I said, 'Having a good time?'" she yelled as loud as she could.

He shrugged and yelled, "Come here often?" and Grace nodded happily.

They stayed for two hours, each nursing two drinks, sizing up the patrons, waiting to see if anything sparked any kind of connection to Kid, keeping in mind the description of Samsonite as a singer/bartender/dealer. There were two female bartenders, both attractive, and Grace asked them both about Kid. Neither of them had ever heard of him. One of them responded, "No, but Bruce Willis was in here last week."

When Jack finally signaled that he thought they'd had enough, Grace led him back through the throng and down to the street. The neighborhood was eerily silent after the explosion of noise they'd just been immersed in, and as Jack looked back at the building, the whole experience seemed as if it were a dream, a heavy-metal Brigadoon.

"Ready for more?" Grace asked, and when he nodded, they hailed a cab on Hudson Street and headed into the West Village.

She asked the cab to stop off at an all-night deli, and when he did, she hopped out of the cab, dashed in, and returned a few moments later with a six-pack of beer. Before Jack could say anything, she said, "Just wait. You'll see," then directed the cab toward Eleventh Street, right off Tenth Avenue. There, two buildings in from the corner, was a tiny music club called B Sharp. Jack paid the ten-dollar cover charge, then they stepped into a stripped-down basement. There were maybe ten small tables, each with two or three cheap folding chairs around them and no decorations other than a few black-and-white photos of jazz musicians on the walls. To the left of the room was a long bar. But there was no bartender and no liquor bottles. Spread across the bar was an array of plastic cups. At the front of the room was a small stage, a flimsy plywood platform that could fit four or five musicians. A trio, two black guys in dark suits and ties and one white guy with a buzz cut and a Hawaiian shirt, was playing as they entered – guitar, bass, and piano. Grace grabbed two plastic cups off the bar and they settled into a table.

"No bartender here," Jack asked. "How are we-"

"Just be cool," Grace said. "Have a beer and wait awhile. It's early."

They listened to the music, which was excellent – rhythmic, subtle, and just harsh enough to fit the room and the late hour – and drank some of their beer. By three-thirty, the place was packed with people. By then, Jack had noticed several people, perhaps ten in all, had surreptitiously slipped off behind the stage and disappeared through a curtain shielding the wall at the front of the room. He looked at Grace, nodded his head questioningly toward that wall, and she glanced at her watch. She looked over at a young black man with beaded dreadlocks who was now standing behind the bar. She quickly pointed with two fingers toward the curtain and the man nodded.

"How much money do you have on you?" she asked Jack.

"Why?"

"You have five hundred dollars?"

"Probably."

"Then let's go look for Samsonite."

She stood, walked to the front of the room, and he followed. As they passed the stage, Grace held her hands in front of her and applauded and the musicians eyed her gratefully. Then she was behind the stage, slipping into the folds of the curtain, Jack right behind her.

The curtain was not directly up against a wall, as Jack had thought. There were perhaps three feet between it and the wall at that end of the room. The thin walkway smelled faintly of urine. There was one door to the right that said "Toilet." Grace went to the other door, tried to turn the knob. It didn't turn, but she waited patiently, then Jack heard a faint buzz and she tried again. This time it worked and suddenly, they were in a back room, twice as large as the music room they'd just left. There was no live music here, just quiet jazz playing on a CD. This room was even darker and it took Jack a moment for his eyes to adjust. When they did, he saw perhaps twenty people seated in small, comfortable chairs or love seats. Most of them were smoking, both tobacco and marijuana. There was a small bar, this one reasonably well stocked with alcohol. Two women were behind the bar, one blonde, one brunette, both wearing tight jeans and tighter black T-shirts. The blonde was pouring from a bottle of bourbon. The brunette was using a paring knife to divide a small, flat plate of glimmering white cocaine.

"Come on," Jack murmured. "These places don't really exist."

Grace didn't answer. She just walked over to the bar and took a seat. He stood behind her.

"How much?" she asked the brunette.

The woman glanced up quickly, then turned her eyes back to her work. "Three hundred," she said.

Grace looked at Jack, gave him a quick nod. He reached into his pocket, pulled out three hundred-dollar bills, and handed them to her.

"To go or to stay?"

"To go. And two beers, please."

She pulled two bottles of New Amsterdam from beneath the bar. Both bottles were cold and dripping wet. The bartender twisted them open, set them down. Then she wiped her hands on a bar towel and again started separating the coke. Jack watched as she made small piles, about a gram each. When she was satisfied, she took out a baggie, scraped one of the piles cleanly into it, smoothed the powder into the bottom of the bag, folded the plastic neatly into a small square, and handed it to Grace. She then licked the tip of her finger, rubbed it down on the plate where the mound of coke had been. She held the finger out to Grace, who shook her head. The bartender shrugged, rubbed the finger across her own gums, and smiled contentedly.

"Haven't seen you for a while," she said to Grace.

Jack thought Grace squirmed a bit, but she just said, "Been traveling."

The woman said nothing in response to that, simply picked up her plate, turned, and disappeared into another room behind the bar.

"Surprised?" Grace said to Jack, without looking at him. When he didn't respond, she said, "I told you. Everyone's got secrets. This used to be one of mine."

"Used to be?"

"Mmm-mmm. I'm a working stiff now. We fast-trackers can't do this kind of thing anymore."

"I feel like I walked into some twisted version of the sixties. Or a bad Sammy Davis movie."

"Hey, drugs are big again. Coke, heroin, they're back. Even speed. You can't keep a good thing down."

"Kid used to come here?"

"I know he was here once. I brought him. I don't know if he came back, but he liked it, so he might've. I thought it was worth a try." She indicated the bartenders. "They seem like his type."

"Did he do this stuff?"

She shook her head. "The drugs? Are you kidding? Mr. Healthy Body? But he liked being around this kind of place. He thought it was exciting."

Yes, Jack thought. Christ Almighty, it was exciting. It felt sordid and wrong but it stank of danger and eroticism and Jack could already feel the atmosphere and the music seep inside his blood. He could feel his heart pumping faster and his head start to throb. It was light-years away from the confines of his restaurant, even farther from the isolation of his apartment, and it frightened him. But it was exhilarating. The same way the flash of thigh from the Mortician had been exhilarating. And the moment when the Entertainer had straddled him in her apartment. And…

He looked over at the Destination. At Grace Childress. She was watching him.

"I guess you and Kid have more in common than you thought," was all she said.

They stayed an hour, gradually drawing both bartenders into conversations. Neither of them were would-be singers. Neither of them knew Kid. And this time, when Jack took Grace's hand to lift her off the barstool and head her back to the street, that hand dug into his while her other hand lightly touched his back, and he felt his breath come hard now and heavy.

They went to two more clubs, the last one a place called Meyer's, down on the Lower East Side. It was the one Bryan had told Jack about, saying it was one of Kid's main hangouts. Both spots were dark and dominated by pulsating music, both filled with hard bodies and a sense of sexual urgency. But in neither could they find any substantive connection to Kid nor any indication that they might find the next Slash on Kid's team, Samsonite.

It was five-thirty in the morning when Jack brought Grace back to her apartment. She stepped out of the taxi, and by her lack of hesitation it was clear she expected him to get out as well. She sat down on the top step of the three-step landing that led to her building and said, "I'm sorry this didn't lead anywhere."

"It takes time. It's not a TV show where everything comes easy and works out perfectly first time around."

"Jack," she said. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Is there some reason I shouldn't?"

"Do you trust me?" she asked.

"Not entirely," he answered. "But mostly, yes."

"I was about to ask you up to my apartment. I was hoping for something a bit more positive."

"Do you trust me?" Jack asked.

"Yes," she said. "I do."

"Then tell me what Kid told you. Tell me the things that frightened you."

"God, I wish I still smoked. Or still did coke. What are you going to do with your purchase, by the way?"

Jack felt in his pocket, surprised, and pulled out the small packet of cocaine he'd purchased. He took several strides to a wire trash basket on the corner and tossed it in. Then he came back to stand inches away from Grace. She was staring at the trash can longingly.

"It's hard for me to describe. Yes, what he told me did frighten me. But partly because he was frightened. For himself and, I think, for you, too."

"Why would he be frightened for me?"

"I don't know. He was vague, he couldn't really explain. This might sound crazy but I had the feeling he wanted me to know certain things in case… in case you found me. I don't know how else to explain it. I got the feeling that there was something going on that had been going on a long time. For years. And I think he felt responsible for certain things, people getting hurt." She hesitated. "Maybe even getting killed."

"What people?" Jack asked very quietly.

"I don't know. I just know he seemed to feel some special connection to you. And it had something to do with the fact that bad things had happened to people around him. People he loved."

"I know what he means," Jack said.

"He didn't mention you by name, I didn't even know your name, remember, but now I'm sure it was you he was talking about. And he seemed to think he was putting you in some kind of danger."

"Why didn't you tell me this before?"

"Because I wasn't sure. I'm still not sure. But from talking to you, I just get a sense… it's a feeling I have, that's all. I can't be more specific."

There was an awkward silence, not broken until Grace's awkward laugh. "So now that I've put us both in the mood, do you want to come up to my apartment?"

"Yes," he said.

She got up, walked toward the door of her building. She turned, realized he hadn't moved from the sidewalk. "Are you coming up to my apartment?"

"No," he said. And then: "I'm not ready. I'd still feel like I'm cheating on my wife."

She slowly walked back down to where he was standing. She put her hands on his shoulders, lifted herself up, and kissed him gently on the lips. When the kiss ended, Jack slowly put his hand up and caressed her cheek. Then he turned and started his walk home.

When he was not quite half a block away, she said, "Be careful," and, as the first rays of dawn began to lighten the sky, watched until he crossed the nearly deserted street and turned the corner.

– "-"-"WHY DIDN'T HE Stop?

Why was he still looking?

He'd been warned but he was still asking questions and getting closer and…

What difference did it make, why he was doing it? Reasons weren't important. Kid had his reasons and they were lies. Reasons were always lies. What mattered most was the heart.

The last words that Kid had heard were I love you.

What would be the last words Jack Keller would hear?

It was time to find out.

– "-"-"JACK WAS ASLEEP fifteen minutes after he walked into his apartment. And he'd been asleep all of ten minutes when the phone rang.

"Jack," the voice on the other end said urgently, "it's Grace. I figured it out. I can't believe I was so stupid. It was right in front of us the whole time."

"What was?" Jack managed to say, his words thick with exhaustion.

"Can you meet me again tonight?" she asked.

"What are you talking about?" Jack said. "What did you figure out?"

"Samsonite," Grace gushed. "I know how to find her."