The October List

Chapter 1 Plotting

8:20 A.M., FRIDAY

2 HOURS, 40 MINUTES EARLIER

I’m going to tell you what I need. I need someone dead. Someone who’s bad and who’s been troublesome and has caused me and other people a great deal of pain. It’s a simple goal — a killing — but there are complications. A lot of complications.”

Peter Karpankov paused, as if these words were too dramatic. Or perhaps not dramatic enough, ineffectual in conveying the magnitude of the sins he wanted justice for. Today his weathered skin was more wan than normal and he seemed sixty years of age, not his actual fifty. The man’s bullet-shaped head, dusted with short, thinning hair, was looking out the window of Karpankov Transportation, Inc., a medium-sized company, which he had run for years, inherited from his father. The building, unimpressive and scuffed, squatted in Midtown, near the Hudson River. He had enough money to build a large, modern facility, but he kept the company’s original building. The same way he lived in the same two-thousand-square-foot red-brick detached house in Brighton Beach, Brooklyn, that had been in his family for nearly a hundred years.

His eyes still averted, Karpankov continued speaking. “I didn’t know where else to turn for help — because of the complications, you understand. And because I would have a clear motive for this man’s death. I’d be a suspect. That’s why I need you. You can make sure that the motives aren’t what they seem to be. You’re good at that. No, not good. You’re the best.”

He finally turned and his eyes met those of the woman across the desk. Gabriela McNamara looked back easily, taking all this in. “Go on, Peter.”

“Oh, and for this job, I’ll double your fee. Plus all expenses, of course.”

Karpankov didn’t need to mention the latter. He always paid for her expenses when she did a job for him. A murder or anything else.

Gabriela’s green eyes focused on his, which were, curiously, two shades of gray.

The mob boss continued with a raw anger in his voice, “I wish I could kill him myself. Oh, I do wish that. But...”

Gabriela knew Karpankov had not killed anyone in a long time. Still, the lean-faced man with the two-tone eyes, and matching gray stubble on his scalp, looked fully capable of murder at the moment.

She felt warm breath on her hand. She looked down; Karpankov’s huge dog, Gunther, had ambled from his bed in the corner to lick her palm. She scratched the spiky gray-and-black fur between his ears. Gabriela knew animals; she’d hunted with bird dogs from when she was a teenager. She and the Russian’s dog had bonded when he was a puppy. He was huge now. A month ago Gunther had killed a hired assassin who’d lunged at Karpankov on a walk in Brooklyn. Lightning-fast, the dog had snatched the assailant by the throat and shaken the life from the screaming attacker. Murdering the man who’d hired him — a Jamaican drug lord — had been Gabriela’s most recent job for Karpankov.

The dog licked her fingers again, nuzzled and returned to his bed.

“What’s his name, the man you want dead?”

“Daniel Reardon.”

“I don’t know him.”

Now it was Gabriela who looked at the Hudson River through the window, which was free of curtains. The putty in the frame was curling and needed replacing. She felt an urge to strip out the old wads and replace them and paint. She did a lot of the repair work herself, in her apartment in the city and at her hunting lodge upstate, in the Adirondacks, where she frequently hunted — both with her Nikon camera and with her Winchester .270.

Karpankov now touched his cheek, then the fingers settled on the chin. Rubbed it as if searching for stray bristles he’d neglected to smooth off that morning, though the skin seemed perfectly planed to Gabriela. He muttered words in Russian. “Hui blyad cyka.”

Gabriela was adept at languages. Since she worked frequently in Brooklyngrad and the other Eastern European immigrant areas of New York, she’d learned Russian. She understood “cocksucker.”

She asked, “What’s Reardon’s story?”

“You know Carole?”

“Carole? The daughter of your assistant, Henry?”

“That’s right.”

“Pretty girl. Teenager?”

“Twenty.”

“Henry’s been with you a long time.” Gabriela had noted, upon arriving, that Henry had not been at his desk in the anteoffice, and he was not here at the moment. Usually he was a constant shadow.

“Eighteen years. He’s like a brother to me.”

Karpankov’s tone — more than his earlier words — explained that this would be a hard story to tell.

He turned and poured some Stolichnaya into a glass. He offered it to her. She shook her head. He tossed down the whole glass then began the story. “Reardon picked Carole up in a bar. Took her back to an apartment his company keeps for clients. The Norwalk Fund. Somewhere on the East Side, in the Fifties. He seduced her, though it was really rape. He drugged her. He took pictures of her. Disgusting pictures. He tied her down on an iron coffee table. He used these tight knots he knows because he sails boats. It was like a game with him. She couldn’t move. Then he beat her with a riding crop.” His voice choked. “The pain was terrible... the pain.”

After another shot of vodka and a dozen slow breaths: “Then he and another man, they took turns... well, you understand. That was filmed too. Her face was visible, not theirs. Reardon threatened to put the videos out on the Internet. My God, Carole was in college, she taught at Sunday school! That would destroy her life.”

Gabriela took this information in with a faint nod. Her heart-shaped face revealed no reaction. To her these were just facts. Though she knew and liked Henry, she felt no personal interest in the matter whatsoever.

The ease of making this separation was part of her gift.

If gift it was.

Karpankov continued, “Reardon used the pictures to force Henry to divulge information about my operation. Computer files, passwords. Reardon and his associates broke into our system and stole nearly four hundred thousand dollars before we shut down the servers. Henry tried to kill himself. He took pills. I went to the hospital and he confessed what had happened.” After a pause. “I forgave him.”

“Carole?”

“What can I say? She’ll never be the same.”

Gabriela nodded.

On his large desk were papers and files and printouts and a large collection of model cars. Expensive ones. Metal. You could open the doors and hoods and look inside. They were really quite some works of art. Aside from the phonograph records the Professor had given her, Gabriela didn’t collect anything. There were no trophies in the upstate house; she hunted for the meat. And weapons? They were simply tools of the trade, to be discarded or swapped if a more efficient one came along.

“So. Reardon? He’s after your company?”

Karpankov Transportation didn’t transport much except laundered money, weapons and prostitutes — though, despite such limited specialties, it made a great deal of money.

“I think what happened with Carole was opportunistic. Reardon struck up a conversation with her, learned her father worked for a profitable company and he took advantage of that.”

“He and this other man? It’s just the two of them?”

“No, there are three who work together. One is Andrew. There’s an enforcer too, first name Sam.” Karpankov added solemnly, “I think Sam was the second man with Carole.”

“That’s their modus operandi? Finding innocents and exploiting them?”

Karpankov laughed. “ ‘Modus operandi.’ You studied Latin, I remember. Your father told me that. He was very proud of his schoolgirl.”

Her father had gone to the police academy right out of high school, but he appreciated education and had indeed been proud that his only child had graduated with honors from Fordham. He himself had taken continuing education courses, specializing in history, and would spend hours talking about New York’s past with Gabriela and her mother. They’d good-naturedly dubbed him “the Professor,” and the nickname had stuck.

“It’s one of his MOs,” Karpankov now said. His voice trembled; the sentiment of a moment ago was gone. “They come up with a lot of different schemes — extortion, blackmail, kidnapping, outright murder. Sometimes they masquerade as business consultants or insurance experts. They get close to executives, find inside information, learn their weaknesses.”

“Businessmen, insurance?” Gabriela mused. She found this an interesting strategy. She filed the fact away for her plans, which were already forming. “So you want Reardon dead, you want me to find out who Andrew and Sam are. And them dead too. And your money back?”

“That’s right.” Karpankov pulled a model car closer to him. She thought it was a Jaguar. She didn’t know much about autos. In the Adirondacks she kept a 1,000-cc Honda motorcycle.

The mob boss continued, “I don’t care about the money but—”

“Respect.”

“Exactly. Respect and revenge. You see what I mean by complicated?”

It was, yes.

But Gabriela lived for complications. She straightened her jacket, small white and black checks, houndstooth. And smoothed her skirt, which was gray as the Hudson’s unsettled water this morning. From her orange leather Coach bag Gabriela took a roll of knitting, blue and green yarn, and began absently working the needles.

Click click click competed with the sound of trucks from outside Karpankov’s window. He said nothing.

“Tell me what you know about Reardon,” she asked, matter-of-factly, which was her way of saying, Yes, I’ll take on the job. Of course I will.

“He’s in his late thirties. Good looking. Here.” He displayed a picture of a dark-haired businessman.

Good looking enough, yes, she decided. Broad shoulders. Gabriela felt a stirring, though only partly because of his physique and curious resemblance to the George Clooney of ten years ago. The attraction was primarily due to his narrow eyes. Cruel, they seemed. Savvy. Predatory.

“Ink?”

“Apparently no tattoos,” Karpankov said. “But he has a scar — on his chest and shoulder. He set a bomb in an arson scam and it went off prematurely. Apparently he claims he got it saving two children from a car crash, or when somebody saved him from a crash. He changes the story to suit the scenario.

“He has a degree in business from an Ivy League university. And he has a legitimate investment company he runs as a cover. The Norwalk Fund I mentioned. Makes a lot of money and spends it. Cars and boats. But he’s also a sociopath. Last spring Andrew and he killed a man who threatened to be a witness against him. Reardon could have shot the man when he was alone. But he killed the family too. I have to believe part of him killed them because he enjoyed it. The wife was tortured and raped. Sadist, I was saying — like with Carole.”

Gabriela, knitting.

She closed her eyes, letting thoughts churn. Karpankov remained silent; she’d worked for him for years and he knew how her mind spun, when to speak, when to demur. For several minutes she was in a very different place. Making order out of tangle. And he said not a word.

When she surfaced she was for a split second actually surprised that she wasn’t alone. She re-centered herself. “I have some ideas. I’ll need somebody else to help. Muscle. Not afraid of dirty hands. Better if he didn’t have too much of a connection to you.”

Karpankov thought for a moment. “There’s somebody I use on a freelance basis. He’s good. Very smart.”

“And he has no problem with?”

The sentence didn’t need to be finished.

“None at all. He’s done a dozen jobs for me. He’s here now, as a matter of fact. Downstairs,” Karpankov said.

“Let’s talk to him.” Her eyes settled on Gunther again. He looked back. His tail thumped with pleasure.

Karpankov made a call, politely asking the man to join them. Then disconnected. “What are you making?” A nod toward the yarn, green and blue.

A song she liked. James Taylor.

She said, “It’s going to be a shawl.” She gazed at the tips of the needles. Ideas were coming quickly.

Five minutes later there was a knock on the door and Karpankov called, “Come in.”

A large man with blond hair, thick and curly, and a square-jawed face stepped into the room and shook Karpankov’s hand. “Peter.” His eyes were confident and he glanced at Gabriela without curiosity or lust or condescension.

“This is Gabriela McNamara.”

“Joseph Astor.” The man’s face was a mask as he regarded her. He apparently didn’t know who she was, or care. That was good. Reputations were useless. Like praise and insults and high school sports trophies.

Hands were shaken. His skin was rough. She detected a faint scent she identified as shave cream, not aftershave. He sat in the other office chair. It groaned. Joseph wasn’t fat but he was solid, built like a supporting column.

“You go by ‘Gabriela’?”

“Yes, I hate nicknames.” To her, “Gabby” was a particular gnat. The only nickname she’d ever liked was her father’s. To him she was Mac. As he was the Professor to her.

“And,” Karpankov said, “I hate it when people call me ‘Pete.’ ”

The other of the triumvirate here said nothing but she sensed “Joe” was not a felicitous option.

The dark red needles tapped their dull tips. Karpankov explained the situation about Reardon to Joseph, much as he’d explained it to her. Then he added, “Gabriela is taking on the job of finding these men and eliminating them. She’s asked for an associate to help.”

Joseph said, “Sure. Whatever I can do.”

Silence, save for the clicking of the needles. Finally she said to Joseph, “What I’ll be doing is putting together a set. You know the word ‘set’?”

“Police talk for undercover operation. Like a play, sort of.”

“I still have to think out the details — I’ll do that over the next few hours. But in essence I’ll get some people at my regular job to put together an operation, a sting, to catch Reardon and his associates. It’ll seem like some police officers’re after me, so that Reardon’ll believe I’ve got access to a lot of money and some secrets or something like that. With the cops after me, he’ll be inclined to believe it’s legitimate. I can talk my captain into it, I’m sure.”

“Police?” Joseph said, confusion hazing his face. “Your captain?”

Gabriela said, “I’m a police officer.”

“You’re...”

“I’ll call and set up a meeting with them, my captain and a couple of other detectives in a few hours.”

“The police?” Joseph repeated, though with less uncertainty than before.

Karpankov filled in, “Gabriela’s a decorated NYPD detective. That job has been... helpful to us. As you can imagine.”

Joseph gave no reaction other than a time-delayed nod. He then lifted an eyebrow. “How did you happen to end up there?”

“My father was NYPD too,” she said calmly. “I followed in his footsteps. I was interested in photography—”

“She’s good,” Karpankov broke in. “Real good.” He gestured to a black-and-white landscape on his wall. “That’s one of hers.”

Joseph reviewed the image without reaction and looked back.

Gabriela continued. “I took a job with the Crime Scene unit as a photographer. One day we got a call in Queens. A shoot-out. Nobody checked my last name, and it turned out that my father was the victim.”

“Well.” Joseph’s brows dipped.

“There wasn’t any mystery; he was killed by friendly fire. Two junior detectives just emptied their guns at a kid they thought was an armed rapist — he wasn’t either of those, by the way. The investigators screwed up and had the wrong man. The supposed suspect was wounded superficially. My father — he was backing them up — was hit six times and died instantly.

“When the lead detective realized who I was they took me off the case — conflict of interest, of course — but I shot plenty of pictures anyway. I wanted to record who the killers were, his fellow cops.”

“They went to jail?” Joseph inquired.

“No. My father’s death was deemed accidental. They were suspended for two weeks — with pay. Then returned to duty. Like nothing had happened.”

“They’re still on the force?”

“They’re no longer with us,” she said quietly. Then she looked at Joseph. “But aren’t you really asking how I ended up here, working with Peter?”

“Yeah, I guess I am.”

“After Dad’s death, my mother fell apart. She was sick, emotionally sick, even before it happened. His death destroyed her. The department and the city didn’t do anything for her. It was like they couldn’t admit they’d screwed up. But Peter showed up on our doorstep. He saved her life, got her into a hospital. His wife took care of her too. It turned out that Dad had worked for Peter all along. I decided I was going to do the same.”

“I didn’t want her to at first,” Karpankov said. “But she was persistent. I’m glad she was. Ralph McNamara was helpful getting my organization inside information about investigations and the like. Gabriela’s been helpful with that... and with other skills.”

Gabriela didn’t tell Joseph that her father’s nature was ingrained within her. She could recall dozens of incidents at school where she’d ended up in the principal’s office, often along with security or even the police, after she’d lost it — madly attacking a girl or boy who’d bullied her or another student. The Professor’s status as a respected detective protected her from the juvenile system, and he helped her learn to control her urges toward violence.

But control only, never eliminate.

Now Gabriela disposed of family history with a click of knitting needles. “So, with Reardon, we’ll have the NYPD help us.” Ideas were continuing to come fast. This was how it always worked. The mind is an inventive and fertile creature. Some thoughts she discarded, some she wrestled into shape, some she let stand as perfectly formed components of her scheme. Her palms were damp with sweat and her heart beat a fast, visceral rhythm.

Joseph asked, “What can I do?”

“I’ll explain to my captain and the police that you’re a confidential informant working for me. That’ll let me keep you anonymous. We’ll use only your first name. I’ll be Gabriela... McKenzie.” Her eyes had taken in the brand name on the label of a bottle of whisky sitting on the credenza behind Karpankov. “Gabriela McKenzie, a businesswoman of some sort, and you’ll be extorting me for a lot of money.” A faint thud as an idea emerged. It was gold. “We’ll pretend you’ve kidnapped my daughter.”

“You have a daughter?”

“No. I don’t have any children. But you come up to me when I’m with Reardon and tell me that you’ve kidnapped her and you’ll kill Sarah if I don’t get you what you want.”

“Your daughter’s going to be Sarah?”

“That’s right. It’s the name of my horse. A filly I stable upstate and ride on weekends. But we’ll download some pictures of a six-year-old. Videos, too.”

Joseph nodded. “People’re idiots, how much they post online.”

“Isn’t that the truth.”

“What am I going to want from you that’s worth kidnapping a little girl?”

Another idea occurred. Sometimes they fell like snow. “A document. A secret list. Very valuable. A list that everybody wants — which means Reardon’ll want it too.”

“A MacGuffin,” Joseph said.

“What’s that?” Peter Karpankov asked.

Gabriela said, “Hitchcock.” She was surprised Joseph knew the term. Not because he seemed ignorant — just the opposite — but he was only in his forties and the film director had coined the term more than a half century ago. She explained to Peter Karpankov, “A MacGuffin’s a thing, an object that everybody’s chasing after in a suspense movie. The treasure of Sierra Madre, the lost ark, the NOC list of secret agents. Doesn’t matter that it doesn’t even exist. It’s what drives the story forward. I’ll come up with some bomb plot or something equally ridiculous. Blow up a bank or a stock market. The people on the list will stand to make a fortune from it.”

Joseph said, “What about we call this list something mysterious? Give it a name.”

Karpankov suggested, “I have an idea. How about the October List?”

Gabriela nodded. “Good, I like it. But why that?”

“The wife and I went to the Hofbrau last night, Third Avenue. Thursday’s Oktoberfest night. The best Wiener schnitzel and Sauerbraten in the city. Oktoberfest... October List. Just occurred to me.”

“Perfect. It’s mid-September; I’ll drop clues that whatever’s going to happen’ll happen next month. Now, Joseph, you want this mysterious list. And some money too. Reardon stole four hundred thousand from Peter. But let’s go for five — interest payment.”

The Russian nodded.

“How will you get the cash from them?” Joseph asked.

She considered this for a moment. “Ah, Reardon’ll come up with it for me to pay as the ransom. He’ll hit one of his accounts and cough up the money. Of course, what he’ll really use it for is to pay you — as an incentive to do business with them. Only you can tell them how to best use the October List. They’ll need you for that.”

Joseph too had a thought. “Let’s start out with four hundred thousand, but to add believability maybe you could miss a deadline and I up the ante to five hundred thousand.”

“Yes, I like that.” Her eyes shone. “And when I miss that deadline, you send me something of my daughter’s to show you mean business.” She happened to glance down at her fingernails, which were dark red. “Maybe... I know, a bloody finger.”

“What?” Karpankov blurted.

She gave a smile. “Just from a mannequin or a doll. Get some fake blood. Or buy a bloody steak.”

Joseph nodded, as if this were the most logical idea in the world.

She continued to him, “We’ll play it out till Sunday night. You pick a target zone — a safe house somewhere — and arrange to meet them. When they show up, you kill them.”

Joseph considered this. “I’ve got a warehouse in SoHo I’m just about finished with. I’ll use that. They think I’ve kidnapped your daughter, right? The place has a room in the back. I’ll put on some kids’ videos in there. When they go to check it out and open the door, I’ll take care of them from behind.” Then he frowned. “But what’ll you tell your captain? If it’s an undercover sting, won’t they be expecting to get evidence, from a wire or something?”

It was a good point but she’d thought that through. “I’ll tell them that you — my CI — went rogue, killed Reardon and the others and stole the money. Then vanished. Nobody trusts CIs anyway. It won’t look too great — a failed operation — but the fact is, my captain won’t be very pissed off. After Reardon’s dead, we’ll search his houses and office; we should be able to close a half-dozen cases he and his crew were behind. And they’ll’ve saved the expense of trial.”

“Brilliant, Gabriela,” Karpankov said reverently.

Tap, tap.

Gabriela added a lengthy row to the shawl she was knitting. She had another thought. “You know, Peter, it would be helpful if it looked like there was someone else after me. It’ll draw Reardon into the set more if he feels there’s another player after the October List too. Make it seem that much more valuable. Any thoughts?”

Now Karpankov, sitting back, was the one scanning the ceiling with his gray-and-gray eyes. “Would it make sense if this person died?”

“Interesting idea,” she replied. “It could work. Why?”

“I’m aware of something.”

“Yes?”

“There’s someone... this piss-ant from Brooklyn. Thinks he’s the Godfather. Hal Dixon. Do you know him?”

“I think I’ve heard the name.”

“He’s been talking about moving into Manhattan and Jersey. I’ve been thinking about taking him out. This could be the chance.”

Gabriela smoothed her skirt as she considered the additional player. She said to Karpankov, “You could meet with Dixon. Tell him you’ve heard that there’s this October List and that I have it. Give him the job to get it. When he comes after me, I’ll make sure nobody can see me and take him out. Afterward, I’ll tell my captain it was Reardon who did it.”

This brought up another thought, and the yarn ended up in her lap. “There’s a personal situation I need to deal with too.”

She squinted slightly as she explained, “I’ve been having some trouble with someone. It goes back a month or so. I’d finished a job and had taken care of the body, but the police were closer than I thought. I ducked into a movie theater and picked up this guy, so we could leave like a couple. It worked. But the problem is, he didn’t go away. It cost me a couple of dates. He’s turned into a bit of a stalker. He spies on me, shows up outside my apartment. He could eventually make the connection that I work for Peter. He’s even taken pictures of me when he thinks I don’t know.” Her lips tugged into a grimace. “He’s pretty sick — he’s got a shoe thing. He starts salivating when he sees me in high heels. Takes pictures of me with his mobile, and always makes sure he gets my shoes in the frame. Damn pervert.” She shrugged. “It would be helpful if he died too.”

Joseph asked, “What’s his name?”

“Frank Walsh.” She described him and added, “Let’s frame Reardon for his murder too.” She resumed knitting. The men looked at the aluminum needles. She got the impression they’d be wondering if she’d ever killed anyone with them. She never had. “I know what would work. After Reardon and I find the list, I’ll arrange to get it to Frank for safekeeping, maybe have it delivered to him. I’ll make sure Reardon’s prints are on the envelope or box or whatever I put it in. Peter, could you arrange for one of your men to be in the building we use for the set? Pretend to be a janitor. I’ll have him deliver it to Frank.”

“Sure. How about Rafael?”

“Yeah, he’s good.” Then she said to Joseph, “After the package is delivered — on Sunday — you go to Frank’s, shoot him and get whatever evidence has Reardon’s prints or DNA on it. So it’ll be at the target zone when you take Reardon and his associates out. But get Frank’s mobile and wipe his hard drive. He’ll have pictures of me on it.”

Joseph nodded. Then he said, “Your associates — the detectives, your captain — they’ll want to run surveillance on you. That could be a problem.”

She grimaced. “I know. Even after I tell them not to, they’ll try to put some eyes on me. I’ll just have to keep it in mind and make sure I lose any tails or electronic snooping.”

Putting down the knitting, Gabriela sat forward. She was pleased with Joseph, liked that he was smart and that he looked back into her eyes so easily, without challenge or timidity or flirt. “Now, before we go any farther, I want to say something: Obviously you’re familiar with movies. You know what method acting is?”

“I’ve heard about it. Don’t really know exactly.”

“It’s when actors mentally and emotionally become the characters they’re playing. For this to work, to fool Reardon and make sure both of us survive, I’m going to be the office manager and single mother I’ve created. Gabriela McKenzie. Gabriela McNamara will cease to exist.”

She didn’t share with Joseph or Karpankov that this would be an all-consuming transformation. She’d move into a different place entirely. She’d repeat the name of her fictional daughter over and over again — aloud and to herself — until the girl came alive. She’d come to believe that if she didn’t deliver the October List and the cash, she’d never see her beloved Sarah again. She’d feel regret at the death of Hal Dixon. At Frank Walsh’s too, even though he was in reality an irritating complication in her life. She’d feel genuine fear the police were after her. And she’d form a real attraction to Reardon, as if they’d mutually picked up each other in the bar, a spark igniting what might turn into a real relationship. She might even fuck him.

And after Joseph shot Reardon dead, she’d go through a period of mourning.

Gabriela was good at what she did precisely because she tricked herself as smoothly as she did her victims.

She looked levelly at Joseph. “You understand?”

“Yes.”

“I need you to do the same thing.”

“I get it.” Joseph looked off for a moment. “You know, talking about acting. What do you think about this? I could be like that actor who died, the one in that Batman movie a few years ago. Heath Ledger, the Joker. Taunting, unpredictable, eerie.”

“I like that. And what was his philosophy?” she reflected, thinking back to the film. “The only good is what furthers his interest. That’ll be your driving force.”

Joseph cocked his head. “The only good is what furthers my interest. I’ll remember that. I like it.” Then he asked, “One question, at the kill zone? You’ll be there too?”

She considered this. “No, they won’t want me there. Reardon and one of the others will want to meet with you alone. They’ll leave me with a babysitter, probably Sam — a safe house somewhere.” A look at Karpankov. “Most likely the same place they took Carole, that apartment in Midtown, the one his company keeps.” Then she said to Joseph, “I’ll text you the exact location when I know.”

“You’ll have a weapon with you?” Joseph asked.

“No. I can’t. But I’m sure Sam will.” She thought back to Reardon’s pattern. “Reardon will probably be planning on coming back to the safe house after he cuts a deal with you — probably to finish me off himself. And, considering what he did to Carole, I imagine he and Sam may have other plans for me first. More rope and knots.

“So after you kill Reardon and Andrew, get the key to the safe house and come over there. If there’s a chain or security bar on the door, I’ll take it off. You text me when you’re close and I’ll distract Sam or Andrew or whoever my babysitter is. I’ll tell him I’ve figured out the mystery of the October List, or something like that. You let yourself in. Whoever’s there probably will think it’s the other two returning and not be too suspicious.

“But we should be careful. When I hear the door open I’ll say one of two things. If I say ‘Is my daughter all right?’ that’ll mean Sam doesn’t have a weapon out. He doesn’t suspect anything. It’s safe to just walk in and shoot him. But if I say, ‘Daniel, what happened?’ then that means he is suspicious and has his weapon. Get back into the hall. It’ll be a firefight. I’ll take cover and do what I can from inside.”

Joseph nodded. “ ‘Is my daughter all right’ means I’m green-lighted to shoot. ‘Daniel, what happened?’ means take cover.”

“That’s right.”

“Got it.”

“Good.” Gabriela slipped the yarn and the half-finished shawl back into her bag. She glanced affectionately at Gunther, who wagged his tail once more. She rose, shook Karpankov’s hand then Joseph’s. “So. Let’s get to work.”

Chapter 2 Gabriela

11:00 A.M., FRIDAY

1 HOUR, 20 MINUTES EARLIER

Brad Kepler and Naresh Surani waited in an NYPD conference room that featured a single speckled window, which overlooked a building that, Kepler believed, overlooked New York Harbor. This was as good as most views got — at least for detectives third — in One Police Plaza. At least when they were involved in an operation that had no name, that nobody knew about, and that therefore could presumably fuck a career as much as make one.

Kepler admired his arm, less muscular than when he’d joined the force but more robustly tanned. He then regarded Surani, who had a nearly gray complexion, which stayed gray no matter how much sun he got. Both men were more or less mid-thirties and more or less fit, though Kepler’s physique reflected the reality of life as a detective: sedentary, with walking the most strenuous exercise on the job. He’d chased somebody a month ago, and caught him, but his hip still hurt.

Fucker.

“This guy the shit he seems to be?” He tapped a file on the table in front of him.

“Dunno,” Surani answered his partner. “Never heard of him. What’s this room for? I didn’t know it was even here.”

The office, near their division, Major Cases, was scuffed and dim and populated with a lopsided table, six chairs, three of them unmatched, a filing cabinet and dozens of boxes labeled Discard.

And the fucking useless view. But at least it was a view, unlike his cubicle, five or six or a thousand floors away, where the only thing he could feast his eyes on was the ass of Detective Laikisha Towne. Which was a lot to see. And that image appealed not in the least.

Kepler now regarded the boxes and decided it was amusing, the labels. The boxes looked like they’d been here for months. So why hadn’t somebody just discarded them, per instructions?

Welcome to the NYPD.

The time was just after 11:00 a.m. You could smell old oil, garlic, fish — like you could in much of the building from time to time, depending on prevailing winds and humidity, given the proximity, and the relentless encroachment, of Chinatown. As for Little Italy: Arrivederci!

“I’m hungry,” Kepler said.

“I am too. But.”

“Where is everybody?”

Surani didn’t know. So they took phone calls, they made phone calls.

“Because,” said Kepler, on his Galaxy, explaining to a perp he’d busted, now out on bond, “they wouldn’t knock it down any farther. It’s the best they’ll do, which means it’s the best you can do. Eighteen months. You can serve that standing on your head.”

“Shit, man,” came Devon’s voice from the other end of the line.

“Okay. Gotta go.” Kepler disconnected, snuck a look at his warm brown arm once more. He didn’t tell anybody its source was the lamps of the Larchmont tanning salon, fifteen miles from home. He told people he jogged every day, he played golf, he swam.

“That was Devon?” Surani asked.

“Yeah.”

“Eighteen months? Standing on his head? No way. He’s fucked.”

“I know that. You know that. Devon will know it. Too bad but he shouldn’ta drove the getaway car.”

“Which it wasn’t,” Surani said.

“What?”

“The car. Nobody got away.”

Kepler gave a laugh. “Captain’s late. They’re both late. And I’m hungry. You fucking ruled at trial yesterday.”

Surani said with some modesty, “Yeah, that went good. I was happy. Good jury. I like good juries.”

The two detectives bickered more than they complimented each other, and were sometimes downright insulting — but all forms of repartee were based on a similar affection. “Infuriating” was a word that often arose.

He and Surani had been lovers for the past seven years, and partners — in the professional sense — for four. Someday soon, one or the other would propose marriage. Kepler was pretty close to popping the question.

And God save anybody on the force who made a single comment about it, lifted a single eyebrow, exhaled a single sigh.

Kepler examined his phone again, to order takeaway. At the beginning of his address book on the Galaxy were three folders, !breakfast, !dinner, !lunch, the punctuation mark added so the files would stay first in line, before people. He was debating between the first and third — he was sort of in a pancake mood — when the brass finally cruised into the room.

The promise of sausages and waffles went away, along with the phone itself, when the harried man, in a suit, strode inside. Wrinkled of face, boasting multiple chins, Captain Paul Barkley was in his late fifties. He carried the round belly of somebody who ate when it was convenient for him, not when the long hours and necessities of a case required him to grab breakfast to go when it was really lunchtime, or vice versa.

Still, the man had a rep as righteous as Kepler’s tan — and far more genuine. Everybody knew Barkley had paid his dues and he carried bullet scars to prove it, according to legend. So none of the detectives griped, at least not too much, and definitely not to his face.

“Gentlemen.”

“Captain,” Surani said. A nod from Kepler.

“Busy day,” Barkley muttered and looked at his iPhone to prove it. Read a text. Sent a text, ignoring the men.

Kepler’s stomach protested. Waffles. He wanted waffles. Or maybe a club sandwich.

Barkley snapped, “So, what’s this about? Request for an undercover op?”

“Right,” Kepler said.

“Where’s Detective McNamara?”

“On the way,” Kepler said.

“Well, get started.” Barkley raised an intimidating eyebrow. Impatience ruled.

“Well, you know, sir, we’re not sure. We didn’t put it together.”

“It was—” Surani stopped speaking and looked behind the captain, into the doorway. “Here’s the mastermind of the op. She can give you all the details. Hey, Gabby!”

The beautiful but severe woman stepped into the room. Unsmiling, typically, she looked over all three men, nodding a greeting to the captain.

Kepler, with his proclivities, wasn’t the least interested in Detective Gabby for her body. But, man, she dressed well. He appreciated that. A thin white blouse beneath the black-and-white-checked jacket. What was that cloth called again? There was some word for it, that pattern. A gray skirt.

And those were great dark stockings. Nice high heels too.

He and Surani weren’t into cross-dressing, but if they had been, there were worse people to mimic than Detective Gabby.

She was a bit of a legend herself. Daughter of a detective working Organized Crime, she’d joined the force right out of college, working Crime Scene. When her father was killed in the line of duty, she became a detective and moved up to Major Cases, often working OC detail, like her old man had, specializing in the ultra-violent Eastern European gangs based in Brooklyn and Queens.

Known for her undercover work, she had a shining arrest record. And — more important — her conviction rate was off the charts. Anybody could collar anybody; having the brains and balls to make sure the fuckers went away for a long period of time was something else altogether.

Gabby pushed an ornery strand of auburn hair off her forehead.

The captain asked her, “So you want to run an undercover op?”

“Sounds like a TV show,” Kepler quipped, trying to get her to smile. Everyone ignored him and he decided to stop being cute.

“That’s right,” she told them.

“What’s the deal?”

“I heard from a CI of mine there’s a player who’s surfaced. Guy named Daniel Reardon.”

“Never heard of him. Organized crime?”

“No connection with any of the crews I could find,” Gabby reported. “According to my informant, he runs a small operation out of a Wall Street front. He’s got two partners he works with. Have first names only. Andy or Andrew, and Sam.”

“Or ‘Samuel’?” Kepler inquired.

She turned her eyes on him; usually they were green, today they were more yellowish, eerie. “Only ‘Sam.’ ” Spoken briskly, as if: Wouldn’t I have mentioned the longer name if that was what I’d heard? “Don’t know anything else about them. But my CI heard it’s an eight-figure operation.”

“Jesus. Who’s your informant?”

“Guy connected with the Sedutto crew.”

With some reverence, Kepler asked, “Your guy’s a confidential informant embedded with Sedutto? And he’s still alive?”

As if irritated at the interruption, she said curtly, “He’s very good. And I pay him a lot of money to be good.”

The captain asked, “What’re Reardon and his crew into?”

“It’s serious shit, Paul. Mostly cleaning money, some drugs, some guns. Offshore stuff. But the worst is he’s hit at least a half-dozen people. A couple witnesses and some rivals. And one of the witnesses? Apparently the guy’s family was with him. Killed them too.”

“Oh, man,” Surani said, shaking his head. He and Kepler were exploring adopting.

“Multimillion operation and hits,” the captain mused. He did not sound at all dismayed. Good press material, he’d be thinking. This was cynical but Kepler knew you had to consider image in this business. White Knight shit mattered at budget time, it mattered at promotion time. This was a game everybody learned and nobody felt guilty about playing.

“What do you have in mind for the set?” Barkley asked.

“It’s going to be tricky. Reardon’s smart. And suspicious as hell, according to my CI. I need to set up a fake office somewhere in Manhattan.”

“Office? What does that mean?” Barkley asked bluntly.

Her voice matched his: “A company. A business, an office. Probably an investment firm. I don’t need much. A couple of rooms, furniture. Some phony files I’ll gin up myself. Decorations, props. The office’ll be deserted — and half empty, like it was raided. That’s part of my plan.”

“We’re not Abscam, we don’t have a lot of money.”

“What’s Abscam?” Surani asked.

No one answered. Kepler reminded himself to explain to his partner that it was one of the biggest stings in U.S. history.

Gabby said, “Won’t cost us much. I was thinking we could use that place Narcotics closed up last month. It’s just sitting empty. Midtown. Turtle Bay. Oh, and I’ll need an unoccupied town house somewhere on the Upper East Side. Just for the exterior. The whole thing’ll probably come in under a couple G’s.”

Barkley grumbled, “That’s probably do-able.”

“I’ll have IT put together a fake website for the company. I’ll make it look like it was just raided. And I’ll do a Facebook page for my cover identity. Simple stuff. But good enough to fool Reardon if he checks. Which he will.”

Barkley grunted once more. “Hold up. You gotta convince me, Detective. Tell me more about Reardon.”

“Don’t have a lot. I’ve datamined him. He’s rich, lives fast. Owns a Maserati, but it’s slower than his Porsche. He’s got a fancy boat in Connecticut and another one in lower Manhattan.”

“Well, well,” said Surani. “We’re going after a whole new class of perps. Moving up in the world.”

“Or down,” Gabby corrected, frost in her voice. “He kills families, remember?”

At least Kepler wasn’t the only one she tapped with her whip.

“Reardon’s single. Never married, though my CI tells me he sometimes claims he’s divorced and sometimes he’s a widower. He’s got a loft in TriBeCa worth three million and a company on Wall Street. It’s legit — he’s involved in venture capital work. The Norwalk Fund. But he only made one point two million last year, according to his taxes. His lifestyle’s five times that. So the investing’s a cover for the money washing, arms sales and other things he does.”

“Maybe he just lies to the IRS about how much his legit company makes,” Kepler suggested.

“Not about his cover business. Why would he do that? Who’d do that? It’s suicide. He’s not stupid, Brad.”

Ouch.

Surani asked, “And the partners? Andrew and Sam? They’re connected to The Norwalk Fund?”

“I checked out the company, of course, trying to find their full names. And, no, they’re not.”

Of course...

“So whatta you want to have happen out of this?” Barkley asked. He was known for his love of the big picture.

“I’ll get close to Reardon, then lay out some bait, give him and Andrew and Sam the chance to hook up with my informant in something big. I’ll be an innocent, so they’ll have to take me out.”

“Nail them on criminal conspiracy,” Barkley said.

“Exactly. My CI, his name’s Joseph, will be wired. As soon as they meet with him and mention the kill word, we can move in. And get warrants for their offices and houses. If we’re lucky we can find something linking him to the earlier hits — weapons, records, cash transfers.”

“Seems like you’ve thought this through — like you always do, Detective. Tell me how you want to run it.”

She explained, “My cover for the set will be Gabriela McKenzie, manager for the phony business I mentioned. I’m calling it Prescott Investments. It’ll look like my boss — Charles Prescott — has been doing some kind of illegal stock trades. And you two have been investigating him for that. It’s time for the bust, but he’s disappeared. You come up to Reardon and me on the street. You break the news about Prescott. That’ll get Reardon’s attention. Then, after you leave, my Joseph comes up too. He’ll tell me that he was doing some illegal deals with Prescott and he’s pissed he skipped town. He’ll ask me to hand over this mysterious list that’s worth millions.”

Barkley asked. “What’s in the list?”

A good question, Kepler reflected.

“Doesn’t matter,” she said dismissingly.

Or maybe not.

“It’s a MacGuffin,” Gabby continued. “Could be anything. But I’ve decided to make it seem to Reardon like it’s a list of underworld kingpins involved in a plot to take down the stock exchange for a day or two and clean up in a big way. I’ll drop some clues for him to figure out. Like, one of Prescott’s clients is a German terrorist and arms dealer. I’m calling him Gunther. The others are brokers or traders, mostly overseas. And I’m working on a lease that has to be signed up in the next few weeks — for that property on Bankers’ Square in Manhattan, where the stock exchange is putting in a new communications system. Reardon may figure it out from that, but to be on the safe side I’m going to hide this memo in some files that I give him to examine, like I didn’t know it was there.”

She slapped another document on the table.

“The target date’s around Columbus Day, so I’m calling it the October List — the people in the syndicate Prescott put together.”

“Love it,” Kepler said. He was truly impressed. If he played for the other team, he could easily fall in love with Gabriela.

She continued, “Joseph’s also going to demand back the deposit he paid Prescott. Four hundred thousand dollars, something like that.”

“Whoa, hold on — I can’t come up with buy money like that,” the captain said quickly.

“No. I won’t need actual cash. It’s enough for Reardon to know the stakes are high. If the deposit’s four hundred K, then the operation’s dealing with serious cash. It’ll seal the deal.”

Barkley asked, “Why use your CI for the part? Why not an undercover detective?”

“Credibility. If Reardon checks around, he’ll find Joseph’s connected with the Seduttos. But, like I said, I will need at least a couple other officers, in addition to Brad and Naresh. I want Elena Rodriguez from Narcotics.”

“I’ll try to swing it,” Barkley said.

Gabby said firmly, “Make it work out. I need her. She’s good.”

“What’s her role in the set?” Barkley asked.

“She’ll be a fellow employee of mine at Prescott.”

Surani: “You said threaten you. How’s Joseph going to pressure you into giving him the list?”

“He’ll kidnap my daughter.”

Kepler blinked at this, surprised. She has a daughter? Gabby was the least maternal person he could think of.

She continued, “Reardon’ll stay close to me while I run around town trying to find the October List and the four hundred K. I’m sure he’ll call in Andrew and Sam — they’ll pretend they’re helping me get my girl back. But what they’ll really do is cut a deal with Joseph to sell him the list or go into business with him.”

“What if Reardon doesn’t bite?” Kepler asked.

“Then you’ve wasted a day or two when you could be playing golf.”

“He doesn’t play golf,” Surani said. “He watches golf.”

Kepler gave him the finger. Subtly. And an affectionate glance.

“And I’m out two grand for the set,” Barkley grumbled.

She looked at him as if he were a husband making an extremely petty remark about starch in his shirts.

Only Gabby McNamara, of the thirty thousand cops in the NYPD, could nail brass with a look like that.

“So, Paul, can we go forward?”

Or use their first names.

He debated a moment. “You got three days tops. We roll it up on Monday, whatever you find, or don’t find.”

“Deal. Thanks.” Her gratitude extinguished fast. “Now, a lot of the work’s going to be convincing Reardon this’s legitimate.” As if she were mentioning she had to drop her laundry off, Gabby said, “I need to shoot a cop.”

Did she glance my way when she said that? Kepler wondered.

Barkley said firmly, “No weapons discharges on the set. Can’t happen.”

“I need to,” she said, and the words were all the more forceful because she was so blasé. “If Reardon has any doubts, that’ll put them to rest. We’ll rig a gun with blanks or training rounds.” She steamrolled ahead. “We’ll get some youngster from Patrol. He’ll be jazzed.”

Kepler said, “No.”

Everyone turned to him, Gabby most piercingly. He said, “You can’t have Reardon next to you. The patrolman or witnesses would see him and he’d become a suspect. He’d go to ground or back off.”

“Good point. I hadn’t thought of that. I’ll make sure he’s at a distance.”

Barkley pointed out, “The press, the public, everybody’ll go ape shit, a cop gets shot. Suddenly it’s front-page New York Post. People’re going to ask questions about him.”

She said, “It’ll happen on a deserted street. Minimize witnesses. We’ll use a fake name. I’ve checked and there’s nobody on the force named Fred Stanford Chapman. My date to the high school prom. We’ll get a fake name tag and have a phony press release ready. Tell the head of the patrolmen’s union it’s part of a set.”

She fixed Captain Barkley with a sniper rifle gaze. And she kept mum. He said reluctantly, “I guess it’ll work.”

“I’ve got the whole set orchestrated.” Gabby dug through her purse. Kepler noticed a roll of yarn, blue and green. He remembered she relaxed by knitting. It seemed strange at first but he wasted time on Angry Birds and Sudoku and, yes, watching golf. She extracted a single sheet of paper and put it on the table in front of them. “This’s the script, day by day, starting this afternoon. Memorize it now. It gets shredded before I leave. There’ll be variations and improvisations but I’ll text you as plans change.”

The three men eased forward and read.

Barkley was obviously impressed, though he tried not to show it. “Man. It is a script.”

She said matter-of-factly, “With people like Reardon, you don’t improvise.”

He kills families...

Kepler asked, “You’re sure Reardon’ll run with you?”

“He’ll come along. I’ll make sure of it.”

“How’re you going to snag him?”

“Every Friday afternoon he swims at Battery Park Health Club—”

“Or plays racquetball or tennis,” Kepler pointed out fast.

She swiveled toward him. “The only reason to join that particular club is for tennis or the pool. My datamining shows he’s never paid for court time or bought balls. Ergo, he swims.”

I stand corrected. And she speaks Greek. Or was it Latin? What a woman. The other team was looking more and more interesting.

“After that he goes to Limoncello’s for drinks.”

“What’s Limoncello’s?”

“Restaurant on the harbor.” Gabby was getting pretty proficient at talking to Kepler while not looking at him. She continued to Barkley, “He generally has scotch or red wine. I’ll have some small bottles of each with me. I’ll see what he’s drinking and go to the ladies’ room, spill some on my sleeve. Make him think he’s stained my blouse. I’ll take it from there.”

On reflection, Kepler was thinking, Gabby might not be the best woman in the world to date.

“What do you mean that you ‘feign injury’?” Surani asked, tapping the script.

“I’ll have to seem vulnerable. To make Reardon believe I’m no threat. I’ll probably fall then bite the inside of my cheek — to make it look like I’m bleeding from a broken rib and ruptured lung. Also, it seems Reardon’s a bit of a sadist. My being in pain’ll be a turn-on.”

“You’d be armed?” Surani asked.

“How can I be? I’m an office manager of an investment company.” A glance at the script she’d written.

“A wire then,” Kepler offered.

Gabby said, “No.” Frowning as if infinitely perplexed he didn’t get it.

Surani said, “We’ve got some good gadgets from the tech department, Gabriela, surveillance gear, I mean. We’ve got a GPS and mike in a cigarette lighter—”

“You’d give me a cigarette lighter when I don’t smoke? What’s Reardon going to do with that?”

“I’m just saying. Something.”

“No. No wires. And no third-party surveillance either. You two and everybody... keep your distance. I can’t take any chances that Reardon’ll tip to the set. That’s the biggest danger. He hasn’t survived this long by being careless. Now read the script until you’ve got it memorized.”

She pushed the page forward and, like students in front of a stern teacher, Surani and Kepler did as she instructed. When they’d nodded, Gabby swept everything up and walked to a shredder. She plugged the unit in and made confetti. Then she slung her purse over her shoulder. She said to the detectives, “I’ll email you more details tonight. Intercept us on the corner near my apartment around ten or eleven.”

Surani recited, “ ‘Detectives Kepler and Surani contact Detective McNamara and Subject Reardon re: Charles Prescott fleeing city.’ ”

Her first and only smile. “Good.”

Kepler said, “One thing?”

Gabby regarded him seriously. “Yes?”

“Your CI, this Joseph. You trust him?”

“Pretty much I do.”

“Pretty much,” Kepler echoed. “Okay, Joseph’s boss? Sedutto? He’s trouble; you know that. Is there any chance Joseph’s running you? I mean, maybe he’s thinking that Reardon’s a source for some big money. And he’ll take you out too when he gets what he needs.”

The best confidential informants were morally always just an inch away from the perps they were embedded with.

Would Gabby be pissed off that he’d questioned her judgment in trusting this Joseph?

But she said only, “I appreciate that, Brad. But I’ve assessed the risk and it’s acceptable. Not much we can do about that.”

Then she was gone.

“Well, that’s one hell of a gal,” Barkley said.

A noun that neither Kepler nor his partner wanted to go anywhere near.

The captain then said, “I want eyes and ears on her.”

“But,” Surani pointed out, “she said no surveillance.”

“I don’t care what she said. I want to know everything she says and where she goes and who she sees. Twenty-four seven. This’s too dangerous to leave her spinning in the wind. Get on that now.”

Chapter 3 Fetish

12:20 P.M., FRIDAY

1 HOUR, 10 MINUTES EARLIER

“Gabby!”

She turned to see the pudgy redheaded man approaching through the aisles of the electronics superstore, near City Hall.

She thought again of her initial impression from a month or so ago, when they’d met. The round thirty-something had farm boy written all over him. A look you didn’t see much in Manhattan. Not that there was anything wrong with this image intrinsically (anything but the hipster look, Gabriela felt); the problem was just that it was too easy to picture him in overalls.

She smiled. “Hi!”

“What’re you doing here?” Frank Walsh asked her, smiling.

He wore a tan Polo shirt, which matched everybody else’s here. His name tag reported, F. Walsh, Computer Fix-It Dept. Manager.

She took his hand, which he turned into a hug.

Gabriela said, “Have a meeting downtown. Thought I’d say hi.”

His face seemed to glow. “No kidding! I was just thinking about you. Wow, Tiffany’s.”

She glanced down at the bag. “Just my comfy shoes.”

“I like the ones you’re wearing,” he whispered, noting the spiky high heels, which elevated her to his height. Stuart Weitzmans. They cost the same as one of the computers on sale at a nearby end cap.

“Try walking to work in them sometime,” she said with a laugh.

On the far wall scores of the same Geico commercial flickered from TV screens large and small.

Frank glanced at his watch. “You free for lunch?”

“No, I have to get back to that meeting. Got time for coffee, though.”

“Deal.”

They went to a Starbucks next door, collected their drinks — she a black coffee, Frank a frothy latte. They sat and chatted, amid the muted grind of blenders and the hiss of the steam device.

Despite appearances, Frank was about as far removed from the farm as could be. “Nerd” was a better descriptive, a word that she would have avoided but he’d said it about himself once or twice so maybe it was politically correct. Computers consumed him. His job here, of course. And he seemed to be an avid participant in online role-playing games; she deduced this from the way he had coyly asked her if she knew certain titles (she’d never played one in her life). Then, looking a bit disappointed, he’d changed the subject and didn’t bring the topic up again, probably embarrassed.

Frank Walsh was a film buff, too; he went to the movies twice a week. This they had in common.

They sipped coffee and chatted. Then he confided with a grimace, “I’ve got the weekend off... but I’ve got to visit my mother.”

“Congratulations. And all my sympathies.”

He laughed.

“She’s on Long Island?” Gabriela recalled.

“Syosset. But I’m back about noon Sunday. There’s a noir festival at the SoHo that starts then. You interested? Sterling Hayden, Ida Lupino, Dan Duryea. The best of the best.”

“Oh, sorry, Frank. Have plans Sunday.”

“Sure.” He didn’t seem particularly disappointed. “Hey, I’m making a mix tape with those songs you liked. Well, mix download. Mention ‘tape’ to a new clerk here and they’re like, ‘Huh?’ ”

“Wow, thanks, Frank.” Though she wondered: Which songs were those? She didn’t listen to much modern music, no pop at all. A lot of classical and jazz. Many old-time crooners and cabaret singers. Sinatra, Count Basie, Nat King Cole, Rosemary Clooney, Denise Darcel. She’d inherited a massive collection of marvelous albums. Hundreds of them, embraced by their beautiful, rich-smelling cardboard jackets. She’d bought a Michell GyroDec turntable a few years ago, a beautiful machine. When she cranked up the volume in her apartment, the sounds it sent to the amplifier were completely pure. Arresting. They stole your soul.

She may have mentioned this to Frank in passing and he’d remembered.

Conversation meandered: to De Niro’s latest film, to Frank’s mother’s health, to Gabriela’s plans to redecorate her Upper West Side apartment.

Then: “Funny you show up today.” Uttered in a certain tone.

“How’s that?”

“I was going to call you later. But here you are. So.”

Gabriela sipped the strong coffee. She lifted an eyebrow toward him pleasantly. Meaning, Go on.

“Ask you something?”

“You bet.”

“Any chance of us?” He swallowed from nerves.

“Us...?” Gabriela wondered if that pronoun was the end of the sentence, though she suspected it was.

Frank filled in anyway: “Dating, more seriously. Oh, hey, I’m not talking about marriage. God. I don’t even think that makes financial sense nowadays. But every time we’ve been out, it’s clicked. I know it’s only a few times. But still.” He took a breath and plunged forward. “Look, I’m not a Ryan Gosling. But I’m working at losing a few pounds, I really am.”

He looked down into his coffee. He’d made a show of using Equal, not sugar, and ordered with 2 percent milk, though Gabriela knew those were not the tools for fighting weight.

She told him, “Women like men for a lot of reasons, not just their looks. And I went out with somebody who was a dead ringer for Ryan Gosling once and he was a complete dick.”

“Yeah?”

“Hey, I like you, Frank. I really do. And, there could be an ‘us.’ I just want to take things real slow. I’ve had some problems in the past. You have too, right?”

“Hey-ay, I’ve been a mistake magnet.” He elaborated on what he’d told her a few weeks ago, about a difficult breakup. She couldn’t quite tell who was the dumpee and who the dumper.

As she listened, she counted sixteen freckles on his face.

“I respect that,” he said seriously.

“What?” Had she missed something?

“That you’re being reasonable. Taking time, thinking about things. And that you didn’t get all weird and run out of here.”

“How can I run? I’m wearing killer high heels.”

“Which’re pretty nice.”

And now that Frank had raised a Serious Topic and the matter had been debated, he dropped it, for which she was infinitely grateful. He rose, pulled three sugar packets out of the tray and returned, spilling the contents into his coffee, then stirring up a whirlpool. Before he sat, though, he whipped his Samsung phone out of its holster.

“Smile.”

“What?”

He aimed the camera lens at her and shot a few pictures, full length, from head to shoe, as she grinned.

Finally he sat, reviewed the pictures. “Some keepers.” Frank then sipped more coffee and looked up at her. “You know, that film festival’s going on all week.”

“Really? I’m free Tuesday if you like.”

“I’m working then—”

“Well—”

“No, if Tuesday works for you, I’ll swap shifts.”

“Really?”

“For you, yeah.”

“That’s really sweet, Frank. Really sweet.” She gave him a breezy smile.

Chapter 4 Fender Bender

1:30 P.M., FRIDAY

3 HOURS, 30 MINUTES EARLIER

The Prius, tinted in Toyota’s wan, innocuous light blue, eased through the winding streets of Bronxville, New York, past mansions nestled in spacious yards of yellowing grass, waning gardens, banks of crisp September leaves.

Accustomed to driving his Maserati, Daniel Reardon didn’t much care for the car, though he hadn’t expected power. It was mostly the quiet of the engine he objected to. He’d heard there were some cars that now added sound, sexy engine noises through speakers. This was a cheat and he thought it ridiculous. Daniel liked authenticity, for good or bad. The Maserati’s Tubi exhausts, for instance, resonated at a high pitch that could, in the upper gear ranges, threaten to pierce your eardrums.

He loved that.

Faint classical music was on the radio but it dimmed when an incoming call announced itself. Daniel answered and spoke to his client in the awkward language of business that is at the same time vague and precise. Finally, some technical legal and financial decisions made, he offered a pleasant farewell to the man who’d earned The Norwalk Fund close to two hundred thousand dollars last year. He disconnected. The classical music rose once more. Mozart. The clarinet concerto. An odd instrument and very difficult, he knew, to play well. He’d dated a girl once who’d been a clarinetist in a symphony orchestra. She’d explained that the reeds had taken her the most time to master. “You’ve got to negotiate the sound from them.”

Daniel had liked that expression quite a lot, which was why he remembered the sentence, while the image of the girl had all but vanished years ago.

In his gray Canali suit, Daniel was certainly dressed for this area. He seemed like any other businessman returning home early from his White Plains law firm or investment bank.

He drove carefully. The streets were slick with colorful layers; wind and rain had conspired to thin the canopy of oak and maple, decimating the foliage (almost literally, removing about every tenth leaf or so — Daniel grew irritated when people used the verb incorrectly).

He steered onto Henderson Lane, presently deserted of traffic, and continued past houses less opulent than the mansions but just as quiet. The windows of the structures were dark, mostly, and he spotted not a single person on the clean sidewalks. At a four-way intersection, he braked to a stop and let a Grand Cherokee, dark red, precede him, turning into Henderson. Daniel accelerated slowly and fell in behind the vehicle.

Several blocks away, when the SUV eased up to a stop sign, Daniel stabbed the brake pedal. The Prius skidded on the leaves and tapped the bumper of the Jeep gently.

He frowned and glanced forward. He saw the eyes of the Jeep’s occupants, the driver’s in the mirror and his college-aged passenger’s directly: The girl turned to gaze with some generic hostility.

Daniel winced and climbed out. He joined the driver, standing by the Jeep’s open door. He shook his head. “I am so sorry!”

The stocky man in a navy sport coat, tan slacks and blue shirt grinned ruefully. “Not like you were doing a hundred miles an hour.”

“I didn’t think the leaves’d be that slick. Man, it was like ice. I just kept going.” Daniel looked into the front seat. He said to the girl, clearly the man’s daughter, “Sorry, you okay?”

“Like, yeah. I guess.” The blond girl returned to her iPod. The day was warm but she wore a stocking cap pulled down tight over her long hair, and the sleeves of her thick sweatshirt extended nearly to her fingers.

The two men walked to the back of the SUV and regarded the vehicle. The Cherokee driver said, “They make ’em tough. I was going to say American cars, but, hell, I don’t really know where these babies’re built. Could be Tokyo.” A nod at the Prius. “And that could’ve been made in Arkansas. Parts of it anyway.”

Daniel looked around the immaculate neighborhood. All was still deserted. “Thomas, listen carefully. Are you listening?”

The driver kept grinning. Waiting for an explanation. When there was none, he asked. “Do I know you?”

“No, you don’t. Now, I want the name of the bank in Aruba your investment partnership uses. And the main investment account number and the PIN.”

“Wait. What is this?”

Daniel unbuttoned his jacket and displayed the narrow grip of an old Smith & Wesson revolver. A .38 special.

“Oh, my God.” His eyes went to his daughter, lost in the elixir of music.

“Just give me the information and you’ll be fine. She will too.”

“Who are you...?” His voice rose into a filament of sound, not unlike a note from a reed instrument.

“Hold on, hold on,” Daniel said, keeping a smile on his face, just in case anybody did happen to be behind one of those black windows. “Don’t panic. You don’t want to do that. This is just business. All I want is that information. I’ll verify it and then you go on your way. You’ll be out twenty million dollars but no one will get hurt. Besides, you didn’t exactly get that through socially minded investments, did you?”

“You’re insane,” he whispered. Panic was gone, anger had taken its place. And fast. “You fucker. You do this in front of my daughter? Who are you working for?”

“Thomas, you don’t have much time. I’ll shoot your daughter first, because I need you alive to give me—”

“All right. Don’t even mention that! Don’t even say it! All right, I’ll give it to you.”

Daniel placed a call.

“Hello?” came the low, melodious answering voice.

“Andrew.” He handed the phone to Thomas and instructed, “Give him the information.”

“I don’t have it memorized!”

“She gets shot first and—”

“I just mean it’s in my phone! It’s encrypted. It’ll take a minute.”

Daniel said into the phone, “He’s got to decrypt it.”

Andrew Faraday said through the tinny speaker, “Okay. But hurry.”

Daniel glanced into the Jeep. The girl seemed irritated that she couldn’t find a song on her playlist.

With Daniel watching, to make sure that Thomas didn’t hit 911, the businessman began typing on his mobile. He lost his place. He took a deep breath. Daniel told him, “Stay calm. Take your time.”

“He said hurry!”

“Calm,” Daniel said.

Thomas started over. He nodded at the screen and took the phone from Daniel’s hand. He began reciting numbers.

Daniel took back the iPhone. “Well?” he asked Andrew.

He heard keyboard taps. A delay. “It’s good.” The phone disconnected.

The whole incident from car tap to confirmation had taken four minutes, just the time for two drivers to good-naturedly swap insurance info and agree there’d be no point in calling the police.

“Now get in your car and drive home. It’s okay. You gave us what we wanted. It’s all over with now. Just go home.”

Thomas turned and reached for the Jeep’s door with shaking hands. When he’d opened it, Daniel took a paper towel from his pocket and, wrapping it around the grip of the gun, drew the weapon and shot the businessman twice in the back of the head. He leaned down and looked in the passenger compartment, where blood flecked the dashboard and the windshield and the face and hat of his daughter, who was screaming as she stared at her father’s twitching body. She was clawing frantically at the door handle.

Daniel held up a reassuring hand. She froze, uncertain about the gesture, he imagined, and turned slightly toward him. He shot her once in the center of the chest. As she slumped back, staring up, he shot her twice more, in the mouth. For the brain stem. This emptied the five-round cylinder.

Daniel dropped the gun on the seat and pocketed the paper towel. He returned to the Prius and pulled around the Cherokee slowly. He drove out of the neighborhood, occasionally checking the rearview mirror, but saw no lights, no emergency vehicles. He noted only a few SUVs, two, coincidentally, with nearly identical infant seats affixed in the backseat.

He took a direct route to the parkway and then headed into the city. Eventually he ended up in the South Bronx. GPS sent him to an intersection, near one of the better — or at least cleaner — housing projects. He drove to where a Taurus sat idling in a parking space. He eased up behind it and flashed his lights, though the driver had already seen him, he’d observed. When the Ford had pulled out of the space, Daniel parallel parked, wiped the interior for fingerprints, then climbed out and dropped the keys on the floor of the car, leaving it unlocked. He got into the Taurus’s passenger seat.

Daniel nodded to bald, fit Sam Easton, behind the wheel, and Sam lifted his foot off the brake and sped down the street.

“Heard it went good. Andrew called.”

“Fine. And no tail,” Daniel said. “I’m ninety-nine percent sure.”

Sam nodded, though — as Daniel would have done — he continued to check the rearview mirror more frequently than a prudent driver might.

Before the Ford turned onto the street that would take them into Manhattan, Daniel glanced back and noted two young men slow as they walked past the Prius, looking around, then easing closer, like coyotes sniffing out wounded prey.

Daniel read a text. The cash had been drained from the Aruba account and was already laundered.

“You want to go home?” Sam asked. “Or drop you at the usual place?”

“Downtown. The club.”

Daniel invariably spent Friday afternoons swimming at his health club in Battery Park, then would have a drink or two at Limoncello’s and take his boat out for a sunset ride in New York Harbor.

After that some Indian or Thai food and back home, where he’d summon one of the girls from the outcall service he used. Whom to pick? he wondered. Daniel was in a particular mood after the shooting — he found himself picturing the outstretched bloody body of the target’s daughter. This memory was persistent and alluring.

He decided he’d ask for one of the girls who allowed her customers to practice rough trade. Still, he reminded himself that he’d have to exercise a bit more restraint than several weeks ago when Alice — or was it Alina? — ended up in the emergency room.

Chapter 5 Where Her Victims Lie

5:00 P.M., FRIDAY

1 HOUR, 30 MINUTES EARLIER

Limoncello’s was not busy.

Perhaps it would be, probably would, since the restaurant was in the heart of Wall Street and it was Friday. And the place overlooked picturesque New York Harbor, offering a view of boats and endless waves, rising and falling like a metronome. This was just the spot for traders and brokers, who’d toyed with millions of other people’s dollars in the last eight hours, to celebrate their good decisions, to forget the bad.

But now, late afternoon, the bar was half empty. Those business folks who’d arrive later were still at their desks or writing up tickets on the floors of the closed exchanges or at health clubs and on jogs through Battery Park.

Here particularly, near the water, you could smell autumn in the air.

Gabriela wove through the brass- and oak-accented room, returning from the toilet to the tall chair at the bar, which she’d occupied for the past half hour. She slipped her black-and-white-checked jacket off, hung it over the back of the stool. A white silk blouse was tucked primly into a knee-length pleated gray skirt. She wore black hose and mottled burgundy-and-black high heels; she would change into her black flats — her walking-to-work shoes — later; that comfy pair were on the floor, in the faded Tiffany bag she used for footwear transport.

She resumed editing the documents she’d been poring over since she’d arrived. The top one was headed Open Items for Accountant. Several entries she crossed through completely. Others she marked with precise asterisks, each line of the sunburst an equal length. Beneath these were a half-dozen sheets headed with the names of companies and below that Balance Sheet and P & L. There wasn’t a single sheet that listed assets below $250 million. Another said, CP Personal Accounts.

She then turned to another contract, headed Short-term Commercial Lease. But there was nothing brief about the contents. Twenty pages of dense type. She sighed and started through it once more, pausing once to note herself in the mirror. Her hair was pulled back severely and pinned, which made the auburn shade lighter, for some reason.

She edited some then looked out the tall windows, sipped wine and caught a glimpse of City Pier A. The structure wasn’t as large as other piers farther north, in Greenwich Village and in Midtown, but this one had more history. The Professor had been particularly interested in the sagas of Downtown Manhattan and would spend hours reeling off stories to her. Built in the 1880s for the Department of Docks and the Harbor Police, Pier A had been witness to the relentless expansion of the city. She noted the seven-story clock tower, which had been built in 1919. The elaborate timepiece was a memorial to the U.S. soldiers killed in the First World War. This was particularly poignant considering that the original pier had been built by the son of a famous Union general in the Civil War.

She could listen to the Professor for hours.

As Gabriela returned to the lease, the man beside her set his drink down and continued to speak into his mobile phone.

Gabriela stiffened and blurted, “Oh. Hey.” When he didn’t respond she spoke more forcefully. “Excuse me.”

He finally realized that he was the object of the comment. He turned, frowning.

She was displaying her sleeve, which was stained brown. “Look.”

His square handsome face, eerily resembling that of a well-known actor, beneath close-cropped black hair, studied the sleeve and then her face. His eyes followed hers to his glass of scotch. His brows rose. “Oh, hell.” Into the phone, “I’ll call you back, Andrew.” He disconnected. “Did I do that? I’m sorry.”

Gabriela said, “When you put your glass down, yeah. Just now. On the phone, you were talking, and you turned. It spilled.”

“Sorry,” he repeated. It sounded genuine, not defensive.

His eyes migrated from the stain to her white blouse, all of the blouse, beneath which a trace of bra was visible. It was pale blue. Then his gaze settled back on the stain. “Silk?”

“Yes, it is.”

“I know what to do,” he explained. And took charge, summoning the bartender, a young man who seemed to be covering tats on his neck with makeup; this was a Wall Street, not an East Village, bar.

“Soda water and a towel, no, not the green one. The white one. The white towel. And salt.”

“Salt?”

“Salt.”

The remedies arrived. He didn’t apply the water and seasoning himself but let her do it. She’d heard the trick too — from her mother, as he had from his grandmother, he told her.

“Careful with the salt,” he said. “I don’t know how well it works on silk. You might hurt the cloth if you rub too hard.”

The magic trick did a pretty good job. Just the faintest discoloration remained.

She examined him with eyes beneath furrowed brows, then: “Why don’t you drink Martinis like everybody else here?”

“I don’t like Martinis. I’d probably have a strawberry Cosmo, and if that was the case, the stain would never come out. I’ll pay for the cleaning.”

“If I were a man would you make that offer?”

“I don’t make any offers to a man wearing a silk blouse.”

She kept a straight face for a moment then laughed. “No, thanks. It’d have to go to the laundry anyway.”

“Well, I apologize again.”

She lifted her palms. “Accepted.”

With détente achieved, she returned to the lease and he to his mobile. But when the last page of the document was marked up and when his call disconnected, the silence prodded them to glance toward each other — in the mirror at first — and conversation resumed.

“I’m sending you back home stinking of whisky. What’s your husband going to say?”

“He probably won’t find out. Since he lives thirty miles away from me.”

“Ah, you’re in that club too. I’m Daniel Reardon.”

“Gabriela McKenzie.”

They shook hands.

Conversation meandered for a bit, both of them testing the waters, and then found true north, which included the question you can never avoid in New York: What do you do for a living?

Daniel worked as a venture capitalist, private equity, he told her. “The Norwalk Fund.” He nodded. “We’re a few blocks from here. On Broad.”

Gabriela glanced at the documents. “I’m office manager for a financial adviser. Prescott Investments.”

“Don’t think I know them.” He glanced down at the documents before her, then away quickly, as if looking at confidential client details was tantamount to glancing through an inadvertently left-open bathroom door.

“It’s a small outfit. Charles was with Merrill years ago but opened his own shop. He’s a lot happier.”

“Your office is near here?”

“No, Midtown, east. Turtle Bay.” She sighed. “My boss — he’s a great guy, but he dumped this in my lap this morning. He wants to lease a warehouse on Bankers’ Square — near Wall Street — and the deal fell through. I got elected to check out some new space... and go over a forty-page lease. We need to sign it up in two weeks.”

“Two weeks?”

“Yep. And you know Bankers’ Square? It took hours even to get inside and look the place over. All that construction.”

“Oh, the new stock market annex. Supposed to be finished by now.”

“Anyway, I came here to jot some notes and unwind.”

“And get a drink spilled on you.”

“It sounded like you were working too, a business call.” She nodded at the two mobiles that sat in front of him. An iPhone and a Motorola Droid.

“I was doing a project with a partnership in Aruba. It just closed today. I’ve been banging out the details since nine.”

“Congratulations. And my sympathies.”

“Thanks.” Daniel laughed and sipped the scotch. “I went for a swim at my health club and came over here... to unwind.”

She smiled at the echo.

The talk veered slowly from the professional. Personal stats were recited. They both lived in Manhattan. He told her that he had two sons, living with his ex in Nyack.

“My husband and I have joint custody.” Gabriela tugged her phone from her Coach purse. She scrolled and displayed a picture. “This’s Sarah. She’s six.”

“Adorable.”

“She’s into ballet and gymnastics. But she just discovered horses. Oh, does she want a horse.”

“Where are you in the city?”

“Upper West. Two bedrooms, a thousand square feet. We could probably fit a horse in, but I don’t think they do well in elevators.”

“And Sarah’s dad?”

She said, “No. He’s okay in elevators.”

“You’re pretty funny.” Spoken as if Daniel didn’t date women who were.

“Tim lives on Long Island,” Gabriela continued. “But not in the horse stabling neighborhood.”

Daniel gestured to the bartender, who responded immediately. “Another for me. And the same for her.”

“No, really,” Gabriela protested.

“Cheaper than buying you a new Neiman Marcus blouse.”

“It’s Macy’s. But I didn’t mean no to the drink. I mean no to what I’m drinking. I’ll upgrade to the Merry Edwards pinot noir. Since he’s buying.”

Daniel lifted an eyebrow, impressed at her choice.

A moment later the drinks appeared. She wondered what tats the bartender was hiding with the makeup.

Occupy! Down with the One Percent!

Or maybe something simple: Fuck Capitalism.

She thought about saying this to Daniel but, while he’d probably laugh, she decided not to.

When the new glasses arrived, they tapped and talked about the agony and ecstasy of living in the city. About Ground Zero, which was visible from Limoncello’s. The Trade Towers would forever cast indelible shadows over the city.

Then a dozen subjects arose in easy conversation: restaurants, traveling, parents, politics — the last in a safely glancing fashion, though their views seemed similar.

When they were close to finishing their drinks, Daniel looked at his watch. Didn’t sneak a glance, just lifted the heavy Rolex and noted the time.

She nodded. “Dinner plans, sure.”

“Actually, no. I have a meeting.” Daniel’s eyes circled, her hair, her face, her eyes. “You have to get back to your daughter?”

She sniffed subtext. “I’ll pick her up tomorrow. She’s at her father’s tonight.”

“Don’t know if you’re interested, but that meeting? You have any interest in helping me out?”

“Doing what?”

“Actually, I’m meeting an interior designer to pick out upholstery.”

She shook her head. “That’s not a good come-on line.”

“I’m having new leather installed in my speedboat.”

“That’s a better one.”

He opened the backpack he used for a briefcase and took out a booklet of leather samples. She flipped through the pages, which were organized by color. Her favorites were the rich oranges, the sort she imagined as the color of seats in brash sports cars. The names were words like “carrot,” “pumpkin,” “amber,” “tomato.”

But her favorite was called “Princeton,” presumably after the school colors of the New Jersey university. It was the boldest offered by the company.

“I do have a preference,” Gabriela said slowly. “But how can I say for sure without seeing the boat?”

“We can fix that.”

Chapter 6 Rope, Sweat, Pain

6:30 P.M., FRIDAY

3 HOURS, 30 MINUTES EARLIER

The Aquariva Super cut an uncompromising swath through the dusk of New York Harbor, Daniel Reardon at the helm.

“How fast are we going?” Gabriela called over the sexy rumble of the engine, the wind, the waves.

“About forty.”

“Knots per hour?”

Daniel shouted, “You don’t say that. Knots include miles and hours. Forty knots. It’s about forty-five miles an hour.”

Gabriela nodded, smiling at the speed. “Feels faster.”

“Then you’d like the boat I keep in Connecticut. It’ll do seventy.”

She didn’t bother to ask knots or miles. Probably didn’t matter at that velocity.

There was no passenger seat in the front of the beautiful Italian speedboat as such — just a leather U-shaped banquette encircling the rear of the open cockpit. Gabriela could have squeezed in next to Daniel on the driver’s seat but she preferred to remain standing behind him, close, gripping his seat back, her head near his ear.

The thirty-three-footer, with her black hull and rich wood deck, plowed effortlessly through the temperate waves. The surface of the water was like dark linen and the cloudless sky over New Jersey glowed lava orange from the vanishing sun, the vista split by two purple exclamation marks of fume from distant smokestacks.

It was a photograph waiting to happen, though not to be shot by Gabriela. She worked exclusively in black and white, and this scene was about color only, without substance. Pretty didn’t interest her.

She turned her attention back to Daniel. He was a superb driver — which is what pilots of boats like this were called, she’d learned. He anticipated the drift and power of each wave, as if it were an opposing player on a sports field. Sometimes he crashed over it, sometimes he eased up onto a crest and used the mound of water itself to speed the boat forward.

She found his handling of the wheel and chrome controls intensely sensual, and felt that low unfurling within her as she noted his firm grip, half smile, utter concentration. The blue eyes were focused on the water, the way a lion sights for prey.

Gabriela leaned closer yet and smelled past his aftershave to his hair and scalp and skin.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“I’ve been on rowboats in Central Park,” Gabriela told him. “I’m not qualified to judge performance.”

The words might have been taken as flirt. He gave no response. She wondered how she felt about that.

She continued in a shout, “But on the surface — so to speak—”

He laughed.

“Incredible.”

Daniel throttled back and for a time they cruised. They could speak without raising voices now. He said, with a grim expression, “Well, hate to ruin the mood, but I don’t have much time left. I really need your help.” A reminder of the conundrum he’d mentioned earlier.

He nodded at a thick binder sitting on the floor of the boat between them.

She said firmly, “You have to go with the Princeton formula.”

“Princeton?” He frowned.

“Look on page thirty-eight. That’s the answer.”

He balanced the binder on his lap and flipped through pages. At one he stopped and stared down. “You’re sure? Princeton?”

“Absolutely no doubt.”

“That’s pretty risky, don’t you think?”

“Which is why I suggested it.”

He seemed uncertain.

Gabriela said, “But it’s your decision.”

“No, no.” Daniel looked around him. “Okay. I’ll go with it.” He laughed. “The Princeton Solution.” He added, “You’re a lifesaver.”

She blinked at the word. “Could you pick another figure of speech? I mean, considering we’re in the middle of New York Harbor and happen to be sailing toward that really big ship.”

He looked up. “It’s a mile away. That reminds me, I forgot to ask: Can you swim?”

“How bad a sailor are you?” she asked.

“I just mean I’ll give you a PPD.”

“Pee-pee what?”

“Personal protection device. Or, your word: lifesaver.”

“I can swim,” she said.

“Hold on.” When he noted her firm grip on the handholds, he steered into an impressive wake, took it head-on. The boat nearly caught air and slammed into the water on the other side of the crest. Spray dashed onto their faces.

“Come here.” Daniel reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a white silk handkerchief. “Decorative only,” he said, smiling. She leaned forward and he wiped the salt spray from her forehead and cheeks, then his own.

He now steered parallel to Manhattan. They took in the otherworldly sight of the lights of the city coming alive and growing brighter. In the deepening dusk, Gabriela was cold. She shivered and pulled her black-and-white jacket around her more tightly.

Daniel consulted his watch. Seven forty. “You still up for dinner?”

“Oh, by the way. I don’t get seasick.”

He frowned. “Should’ve asked too. Oops.”

“I would’ve told you. I just mean, in answer to your question, yes: I’m starving. And we should get back soon. On the nights I don’t have Sarah, I call her before she goes to bed. I never miss it.”

“I try to do the same, with the boys.”

He turned south down the Hudson and back into the harbor proper. Daniel eased the throttle forward. He had a devilish smile. “Fifteen minutes more?”

“Sure.”

He steered to the right, closer to the container ship she’d seen earlier, which was steaming at a good clip toward the Verrazano Narrows.

“God, it’s huge.”

“That one’s a post-Panamax. Means she won’t fit through the Panama Canal.”

“How high is it?” She was staring up as they approached the massive hull, red and scabby, laden with containers of all colors.

“I don’t know,” Daniel replied. “Ten stories maybe. Probably more. They’re classified by length and breadth, not height. She’s probably a thousand feet long, a hundred twenty wide.”

“ ‘She’? Are all boats girls?”

“No. They’re women.” Without a millisecond of hesitation.

Got me there, she thought. And had to laugh. “It’s magnificent and it’s ugly,” Gabriela called. “She is, I mean.” Then she tapped the dashboard. “Your boat — what’s her name? I didn’t look at the back.”

“Boat.”

The wind gusted. She shouted: “Right. What’s her name?”

“No, Boat’s her name.”

“That’s all you could come up with?”

“It’s all I wanted.”

“And ‘Boat’ wasn’t taken?”

“It’s not like you have to trademark names. But, no, I’ve never seen Boat. Most people are more creative.” He described and spelled some. “Irritable Bow. A Crewed Interest. Charley’s Tuition. Nauty Call.”

She groaned.

“Hold on. Here comes the monster’s wake.”

Impressive crests of water charged them.

She knelt, gripped more tightly yet, the backs of her hands pressed against his shoulders. It seemed that he settled back firmly against her knuckles. Daniel straightened the craft and expertly tricked the engine and wheel as they met the first wave.

Boat crashed into and over the swell. Gabriela felt her breath leave her lungs as they landed hard.

Another dozen collisions, each tamer than the one before.

The boat settled into a gentle rocking.

“Look,” he said with admiration bordering on awe in his voice. If the Chinese sea monster was impressive, the ship they saw to their right was breathtaking.

“It’s as big as a city,” she called. “What’s that one?”

“A VLCC. Very large crude carrier. A tanker. And see how high she’s riding? She’s in ballast — no oil on board. She off-loaded in Jersey.”

“Going to the Panama Canal?”

“She’s not going to fit either. She’s headed to the Mediterranean or all the way around the Horn.”

“Titanic.”

He laughed. “Titanic was half her size” — nodding at the supertanker.

“How fast is she going?”

“Even full they can do eighteen knots. Empty, twenty-five, I’d guess. If I was alone I’d race her to that buoy.”

“Why?”

Daniel shrugged. “Because it’d be fun.”

“No, I mean why only if you were alone?” When he hesitated she added, “Go ahead. Do it.”

“Race?”

“Sure.”

“I don’t know.”

She whispered, “You have me to thank for the Princeton Solution, remember? You owe me.”

Daniel steered toward the buoy and throttled back, as if giving the VLCC, which must’ve outweighed Boat by a hundred thousand tons, a head start. The speedboat’s exhaust bubbled, the wind hissed and behind them gulls shrieked a plea for chum.

“Ready?”

She cried, “Go!”

Daniel rammed the throttles forward and Boat sprang away, her needle-shaped bow lifting high as they sprinted for the buoy.

Boat and the massive tanker were on intersecting forty-five-degree courses. Every second it grew bigger and darker as they wedged toward each other. Soon the VLCC was an otherworldly thing, visible only in outline and running lights and occasional amber dots of windows. An unstoppable shape, absorbing the entire sky, yet still growing, growing.

“It’ll be close,” Daniel shouted. They both glanced to their right at the crude carrier, then ahead to the buoy, which was three hundred yards away.

Then two hundred.

One...

“Close!” Daniel repeated in a ragged shout. “It’ll be close. I can stop. You want me to stop?”

Her heart pounding, a primitive drum, electrified by the speed, by the looming nearness of the massive vessel, by the presence of the man at the wheel, inches from her, Gabriela leaned closer and put her head against his. “Win,” she whispered. “I want you to win.”

Chapter 7 Witness to the Seduction

10:00 P.M., FRIDAY

11 HOURS EARLIER

“You know, I have to be honest,” Gabriela told Daniel Reardon. “This’s been about as bizarre an evening as I can remember. Are you offended? I didn’t mean to offend you.”

He made no comment about her assessment. Instead he asked, “But was it a date?”

She thought for a moment. “It was date-like.”

“Date-lite?”

“Like,” she corrected.

“Ah.”

They were walking north on Broadway from Battery Park through the cool September evening. A checkerboard of windows in the nearby office buildings. Many illuminated, some dark. The worlds of law and finance never rest, even Friday night. The streets were still busy with traffic if dwindling of pedestrians. Limos queued in front of the posher buildings.

“Bizarre,” he repeated quizzically. “The restaurant, you mean?”

Well, that was part of it. They’d eaten in a dive of an Indian place, curry and tikka and Kingfisher beer. The air had been tropically humid and heavy with sandalwood, the canned sitar music corny and the food perhaps the best South Asian cuisine she’d ever had. The feature dominating the room was a massive saltwater aquarium, easily ten thousand gallons. Gabriela had been captivated by the colorful fish, which eased, or darted, throughout the tank. Shrimp was on the menu, she noted, but no other seafood was represented. (“Good thing,” she’d told him, nodding at the aquarium. “Just wouldn’t be right.”)

“Mostly by ‘bizarre,’ ” Gabriela said, “I was actually referring to what happened before dinner.”

“Oh. That.”

And thinking back to those hours, while there were many memories, most prominent was Daniel’s touch as he lifted a silk handkerchief and wiped the moisture from her brow. Once again she now felt the tumbling within her, low, as she had then.

Silence for a time as they walked toward subways — her station first. Daniel finally asked, “When you called your ex, I wasn’t listening, but I noticed you didn’t talk to your daughter for very long. Is everything okay?”

“Oh, she’s fine. Sometimes, when her dad has her and he’s nearby, she clams up. They get along fine. He’s good with her. But you know how it is: exes.”

Daniel’s wryly twisted smile said that he knew all too well.

A mid-September breeze encircled them.

“You cold?”

“A little.”

“Take my jacket.”

“No.” She pulled her own light tweed around her more tightly. “I’m fine.”

He didn’t persist; he’d probably sensed that once she’d come to a decision it would remain made. Which was largely true of Gabriela.

She gave a grimace and pointed to a plaza near Wall Street they were just passing. Bankers’ Square. “See that building there?” She pointed to a squat structure situated next to the new stock exchange facility, still bustling with construction work, even at this hour. On the other side was a medical center — a branch of a major uptown hospital.

“I have that to thank for my ruined weekend.”

“It doesn’t look that intimidating.”

“If you only knew.”

In a few minutes they were at the subway station where she’d catch the train to the Upper West Side, the Eighth Avenue line. Daniel would walk home.

“Look,” he said and fell silent.

Gabriela turned to him. She stepped aside so that the beam from a streetlight was not in her eyes.

“Look?” she prompted.

Daniel spoke like a patient saved by an emergency room surgeon: “I really owe you. For the Princeton Solution.”

“It would’ve worked out,” she said gravely.

“Not the way you handled it.”

“Did the best I could under... let’s say, difficult circumstances.”

But the expression of gratitude was, of course, a prelude to the inevitable.

He said, “Okay, I find you very attractive. But that’s only part of it. I like you. You’re fun, you’re artsy, you know business. So here’s the thing: I’m not seeing anybody and I haven’t been seeing anybody for a while. Can I call you?”

“Anybody can call anybody if they have the number,” Gabriela said. “The question is, will I pick up?”

Daniel looked pensive. “Remember the days before caller ID? That was life on the edge, wasn’t it? Do I pick up or not?”

She filled in, “Would it be a telemarketer, date, ex-boyfriend? A job offer?”

“Or a wrong number.”

“Or, God forbid, your mother.” Gabriela winced. “We’re soft nowadays.”

“Cowards.”

They stood three feet from each other. Businessmen scooted around them, cars shushed past.

It was time to part ways. They both knew it.

He leaned in for a cheek brush.

She felt heat, she felt a faint stubble. The residue of moisture from earlier, recalling his wiping it from their brows and cheeks. “Night.” His word was spoken softly.

“Night.”

She turned and started down the stairs, digging for her Metro pass. Then stopped. She called, “My shoes?”

“What?”

“That old Tiffany bag I had? With my grown-up shoes inside?” Earlier that evening she’d swapped her high heels for the Aldo flats she now wore. “I left it at the restaurant.”

He grinned.

“No,” she said, stifling a laugh. “Not on purpose.”

“You sure? Maybe for another chance to see me again?”

Gabriela said, “Sorry. I wouldn’t risk losing a pair of Stuart Weitzmans just to see a man again. Any man.”

Daniel said, “How’s this? We can avoid the phone call issue altogether. We’ll commit now. I’ll stop at the restaurant on the way to my home, pick them up and deliver them tomorrow at breakfast. How’s Irving’s Deli, Broadway. Nine?”

She paused then said, “I suppose.”

“I know,” he said, his face growing grave. “You’re thinking: Will breakfast be as dull as tonight?”

“Nothing could be as boring as the past three hours,” Gabriela replied and disappeared down the subway entrance.