Praise for the novels of

THE STOLEN

"The emotional dichotomy makes Parker

a captivating and complex protagonist, one whose

pithy observations about New York are dead on."

-- Publishers Weekly

"This thriller proves truly scary as it explores every parent's

worst nightmare. The next book can't come fast enough."

-- Library Journal

"An exciting whodunit...

Fans will appreciate this entertaining suspense thriller

with the right touch of sexual tension to augment a fine read."

-- Midwest Book Review

THE GUILTY

"A painstakingly refined story, from the realistically constructed

characters to the consistently pedal-to-the-metal pacing."

-- Chicago Tribune

"One of the great new voices in the genre."

-- CrimeSpree magazine

"A fresh tale with original characters...

Pinter knows what he's doing as his exciting plot

grabs readers from the first page."

-- South Florida Sun-Sentinel

"Those who enjoy their noir

with a dash of real-world research will love The Guilty. "

-- Bookreporter.com

"A fabulous thriller...

will prove to be one of the best of the year."

-- Midwest Book Review

THE MARK

"Pinter's a wizard at punching out page-turning action, and the

voice of his headstrong protagonist is sure to win readers over;

his wild ride should thrill any suspense junky."

-- Publishers Weekly

"An excellent debut. You are going to love Henry Parker,

and you're going to hope he survives the story,

but you're not going to bet on it."

--Lee Child

"A first-rate debut from an author who dares to take the

traditional thriller in bold new directions."

--Tess Gerritsen

"A harrowing journey--chilling, compelling, disquieting."

--Steve Berry

"A stunning debut by a major new talent!"

--James Rollins

"From the opening sentence to the exhilarating conclusion,

Pinter's debut thriller gets the reader's heart racing.

Pinter is clearly one to watch."

-- Library Journal [starred review]

"It's Front Page meets The Sopranos

with more than a little Scorsese thrown in."

--Jeffery Deaver

"A top-notch debut... Fast-paced, gritty and often raw,

The Mark is a tale you won't soon forget."

--Michael Palmer

"A fast-paced addictively suspenseful thriller."

--Allison Brennan

(r)

To the booksellers, librarians and readers

who support my work.

Thank you.

And to Bud White, who refused to die.

1

Paulina Cole left the office at 4:59 p.m. Her sudden departure nearly caused a panic in the newsroom of the New

York Dispatch, where she'd worked as a featured columnist and reporter for several years. Paulina was prone to late

nights, though many argued whether the nights were due

to a work ethic that was second to none, or simply because

she was more comfortable spending her time among competitive, ambitious and bloodthirsty professionals than

sitting on the couch with a glass of wine and takeout.

She had left that day after a particularly frustrating

conference call with the paper's editor in chief, Ted Allen.

Paulina had spent the better part of two years becoming

the city's most notorious scribe in no small part due to

her ambivalence concerning personal attacks, heated vendettas, and a complete refusal to allow anyone to get the

best of her. When her instincts faltered, she called in

favors. When she got scooped, she would trump the scoop

by digging deeper. And she held grudges like ordinary

folks held on to family heirlooms.

Which is why, after reading a copy of that morning's

New York Gazette, the paper Paulina used to work for and

now wished buried under a paper landfill, she demanded

8

Jason Pinter

to speak with Ted. She knew the man had a two o'clock

tee time, but she'd seen him golf before and cell phone

interruption might even improve his thirty-seven handicap.

That day's Gazette featured a story about the murder

of a young man named Stephen Gaines. Gaines's head

had met the business end of a revolver recently, and in a

twist of fate that Paulina could only have wished for on

the most glorious of days, the prime suspect was none

other than Gaines's father, James Parker. James Parker

also happened to be the father of Henry Parker, the

Gazette' s rising young star reporter, whom Paulina had

as much fondness for as her monthly cycle.

Paulina had cut her teeth at the Gazette, and had briefly

worked side by side with Henry Parker. But after seeing

what the Gazette had become--an old, tired rag, refusing

to adapt to new technologies or understand that hard news

was essentially dead--she'd made it her business to put

the paper out of its misery.

Nobody cared to read about the government or the economy--at least not on a grand scale. They only cared about

what they saw right in front of them, day in and day out.

Their mortgage payments. Their bank accounts. It was all

visceral. You bought the celebrity magazine so you could

make fun of the stars' cellulite with your friends.You shook

your head at the news program that exposed the foreman

whose building was overrun with rats because he refused

to pony up for an exterminator.You scorned the politician's

wife who stood silent at the press conference by her cheating louse of a husband. Paulina gave those with no life

something to live for, something to chat about at the nail

salon.

The New York Gazette was dead. It just didn't know

it yet.

The Darkness

9

So when Ted Allen suggested that Paulina write an

article about vampires, she was taken aback to say the least.

"Vampires are huge," Allen had said. "There are those

books that have sold like a gajillion copies. Now there are

movies, television shows, soundtrack albums. Hell, newspapers are the only medium that isn't getting a piece of

it. Teenage girls love them, and teenage boys want to get

into the pants of teenage girls. And this all scares the

living hell--no pun intended--out of their parents, so you

write a piece on vampires I bet it's one of our bestselling

editions of the year."

"What the hell do I know about stupid vampires?"

Paulina said, laughing at herself for even asking the

question. She stopped laughing when she realized Ted

was serious.

"Oh, I don't know," Allen had said. "Didn't I hear

about some boys and girls who go around biting people

on the neck because they think they can be vampires? Go

interview them. Even better, go undercover and pretend

to be one of them. You know, pretend you like to bite

people's necks and see what they tell you."

"Ted, I'm in my forties," Paulina said. "I don't think

going undercover with teenagers will fly."

"Are you kidding?" Ted said. "What's that term? Milf?

The teenage boys will love you."

That's when Paulina left.

Rain beat down upon the streets steadily, with the precision of soft drumbeats. The drops splashed upward as

they struck the pavement, and Paulina felt the water

soaking her ankles as she exited into the gloom. A bottle

of Finca Vieja Tempranillo was waiting at home. It was

a good red wine, with a slight plum taste, and she could

picture slipping into a warm bath with a glass in one

10

Jason Pinter

hand and a romance novel in the other. The rest of the

bottle sitting on the ledge just within reach, ready to be

tilted until the last drops were consumed. Ordinarily she

was not that kind of girl, in fact laughed at those who

were, but Paulina needed a night away from it all.

Paulina opened up an umbrella and stepped into the sea

of New Yorkers, entering the crowded bloodstream

known as the commute home. The streets were chock-full

of open umbrellas, and she tried to wedge her way into

the crowd without having her eye poked out by a random

spoke.

As she took her first step, Paulina heard a man's voice

yell, "Miss Cole! Miss Cole!"

She saw a man wearing a dapper suit and dark overcoat

approaching. He was tall, six one or two, with hair so

blond it was nearly white, peeking out from underneath

a billed cap. He looked to be in good shape, late thirties

or early forties, and for a brief moment Paulina felt her

heart rate speed up. The car service company had really

stepped up their recruiting.

"Miss Cole," the man said, stopping in front of her.

"My name is Chester. I'm from New York Taxi and Limo.

Ted Allen called to request a ride home for you."

"Is that so," Paulina said, barely hiding her smile. She

knew months ago that she had Ted by the balls. Things

like this proved it. Keeping her happy and pumping out

pieces was worth hundreds of thousands of dollars a year

to the Dispatch, and the publicity she received raised the

paper's profile more than their "crackerjack" investigative team ever could. That Ted would extend an olive

branch so quickly surprised her at first, but if she ran the

company she'd want to make sure her star reporter got

home safe, sound and dry.

The Darkness

11

"Please," Chester said, "come with me."

Chester opened up a much larger umbrella and held it

out. Paulina smiled at him, a big, bright, toothy smile, and

stepped under the umbrella. He led her to a Lincoln Town

Car which sat double-parked at the curb. Holding the

umbrella to shield her from the rain, the driver opened the

door. Paulina thanked him, picked up the hem of her skirt

and climbed into the backseat of the car. The driver shut the

door, and Paulina watched as he walked around to the front.

Two sealed bottles of water were set in a pair of cup

holders, and crisp new editions of that morning's newspapers were folded in the pocket in front of her. The rain

pattered against the windows as Paulina unscrewed one

of the bottles and took a long, deep sip.

The driver flicked on his blinker and pulled into traffic.

He headed uptown. The only sound Paulina could hear

was the rubber squeaking of the windshield wipers. The

only smell that of the car's leather.

"Good day, miss?" the driver asked.

"Better than some, worse than others," she replied.

Traffic was bumper to bumper, and the car inched along.

Paulina began to grow restless. As much as she hated taking

the subway, she probably would have been home by now.

"You think there might be a faster route?" she asked,

leaning forward slightly when the car stopped at a red

light. The driver turned around, grinned.

"Let's see what we can do."

The driver made a right turn, and soon the car was

heading east. When they got to First Avenue, Paulina

could see signs for the FDR Drive north. He pulled onto

the on-ramp and headed uptown. The FDR tended to get

flooded during heavy rain, but Paulina didn't mind chancing that to get home quicker. She watched the cars out-12

Jason Pinter

side, eyes widening as she saw her exit, Sixty-first Street,

appear in the distance. Yet instead of slowing down and

pulling left toward the exit ramp, the car sped along, bypassing the exit completely.

"Hey!" Paulina said, leaning forward again. "That was

my stop. This isn't NASCAR, pay attention."

"My apologies," the driver said, "I must not have seen

it."

"No kidding, Stevie Wonder." Paulina cursed under her

breath. The next exit wasn't until Ninety-sixth Street,

and then he would have to loop all the way back downtown. Just like Ted Allen to hire a car service and get a

driver dumber than a pile of bricks.

Traffic moved along steadily, and Paulina sighed as

they approached the Ninety-sixth Street exit.

"Exit's coming up," she said, making sure to remind him.

"Got it, thanks, Miss Cole."

As they approached the exit, Paulina noticed the car

was not slowing down at all.

"Hey, will you slow down? What the hell is wrong

with you? You're going to miss it!"

The car drove right by the exit without slowing

down one bit.

"Where the hell are you going?" Paulina yelled. The

driver did not answer. "I'm calling Ted. You'll work as a

brain surgeon before you ever work our account again."

"Put the phone down, Miss Cole." The driver's voice

had lost all of its pleasantries.

"Screw you. Now I'm calling the cops. Forget our

account. Your ass is going to jail." She took out her cell

phone and flipped open the cover.

"If you ever want to see your daughter with all her

limbs intact, you'll put the phone down right now."

The Darkness

13

Paulina's mouth fell open in a silent scream. Her

daughter...how did this man even know about her?

Paulina's daughter lived with her first husband, a loser of

a man named Chad Wozniak. He was a good father, an

aspiring architect who never progressed beyond the word

aspiring. He was a good man, a decent man, but not a

provider. That's what Paulina had wanted for her family,

but in the end she had to do what Chad could not.

Abigail. She was twenty years old. A junior in college.

A 3.7 average, captain of the soccer team at some allgirls' school up in Massachusetts. She and Paulina barely

spoke. Maybe once every few months, and usually only

when Abby's checking account ran low. Abby was beautiful, even if sometimes this budding young woman

seemed like a stranger to her own mother.

"You're a sick monster," Paulina said, closing the phone.

"Don't be like that. We're almost there."

The driver took the FDR to the Triboro Bridge, pulling

off once they'd arrived in Queens. He skidded around an

off-ramp, took several turns in a neighborhood Paulina

did not recognize, and slowly eased into an alleyway

bookended by two buildings that looked like they were

about to collapse. Paulina could see nobody, hear nobody.

She was all alone with this man. Through the rain and

desolation, nobody would hear her if she screamed.

The driver exited the car and walked around to the

backseat. Paulina locked the door from the inside. She

heard a click as the driver unlocked it with his remote.

Before she could lock it again, he threw open the door,

grabbed Paulina by her coat and spun her into the mud.

Wet slop splashed into her face. Paulina felt her eyes

grow warm, anger rising inside of her. She launched

herself at the man, her nails bared to rake at his face, but

14

Jason Pinter

he merely grabbed her by the neck, held it for one horrible

moment as he stared into her eyes.

Then Paulina felt him press something against her

side, and suddenly she felt a scorching pain worse than

anything she'd ever experienced. Her body twitched as

she screamed. She lost control of her bladder, then

dropped facedown into the mud. Paulina looked up to see

the man holding a Taser, smiling.

"I wouldn't do that again. I can smell your piss."

Paulina could feel hot tears pouring down her face. She

was on her hands and knees, caked in grime, and her

body felt like it had just been plugged into an electrical

socket. She slowly got to her knees, managed to stand up,

her breath harsh and ragged.

"What do you want?" she cried. "Money? Sex?" She

shuddered at the last word, praying he didn't, praying

there was something else, something that wouldn't leave

a scar. Pain she could take, but that kind of pain would

never leave.

The man shook his head. Holding the Taser, he reached

inside his overcoat, rain beading down the dark fabric.

The water spilled down his forehead into his eyes, but the

man who called himself Chester hardly seemed to notice.

He removed something from his pocket and held it out

to Paulina. She focused her eyes, then gasped.

It was a picture of her daughter, Abby. She was at the

beach, wearing a cute pink bikini, standing in front of a

massive hole she must have dug in the sand. The photo

looked fairly recent, within the last year or so. Abigail's

eyes were bright and cheerful, her skin a golden brown.

Abby. She looked so joyful.

Her daughter.

"Where did you get that?" Paulina yelled.

The Darkness

15

"Do you really need to ask? I had a dozen others to

choose from. You really should tell her to be careful of

what photos she posts on the Internet."

"You're a freak," she spat. "What the hell do you want?"

"I want you to listen to me very carefully," the man

said. He stepped closer, still holding out the photograph.

Water droplets landed on the photo but he didn't seem to

care. "A long time ago, I fought in a war. I fought alongside men and women who were like my own blood. Then,

one day, we found ourselves trapped. There was one man

I fought with who was like family, closer to me than

anyone. He was like a daughter. A mother. A brother."

Paulina shivered.

"That day, we found ourselves fighting for our lives. And

all of a sudden, out of nowhere, someone throws a grenade

at us. I was out of harm's way, but the grenade went off right

beside this man I cared about. I remember looking at him

after the smoke cleared. He blinked his eyes, looked around

like he was just confused. The only thing I remember more

than his eyes was the splash of blood beneath him. Right

where his legs had been blown clean off."

Then, in one fluid motion, Chester held the right side

of the photo with his thumb and forefinger, tore off a

piece and let it flutter to the ground. It landed in front of

Paulina, speckled by rain and mud.

"This is what your daughter will look like when I cut

off her legs."

Paulina felt her stomach heave, her mouth opening, her

eyes burning as she cried. She reached out for the photo,

but was too weak to do anything.

"Blood has its own smell. It makes you want to vomit.

And imagine what happens when you see that much

blood coming from someone you love."

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Jason Pinter

He gripped the picture, and ripped off another piece.

Again the shred fell, twisting in the rain.

"This is what your daughter will look like when I cut

off her right arm."

"Please," Paulina whispered, her throat so constricted

she could barely talk. She closed her eyes. "Stop. Just stop."

The man stood there, holding the mutilated picture out

for Paulina to see. "Open your eyes," he said. Paulina

shook her head. "Open them!"

She did.

"I have something for you," the man said. "I want you

to take it home with you and I want you to read it."

"What?" she said, blinking away the tears.

"When you've read it, I want you to write an article for

your newspaper based on the information contained

within. Your article will run this Thursday. If it does not,

for any reason whatsoever..." The man took the photo and

ripped off a piece. Then he dropped the tattered photo into

the mud.

"I will cut off your daughter's head and send it to

you in a box."

He walked over to Paulina, and before she could react

he grabbed her by the hair and thrust the Taser into her

side. Again Paulina shrieked, and again she fell into the

mud, panting.

"If you don't do what I say, before I rip your daughter

apart I will burn her in places only her mother knows about."

The man took an envelope from inside his jacket. It

was sealed in plastic. He gave it to Paulina.

"This is the last you'll hear from me if you do what I

say. If you tell anyone, I will tear Abigail apart limb by

limb. If you go to the police, I will know you did and I

will burn her body after I kill her. I will know. I'll burn it

The Darkness

17

so thoroughly they won't be able to identify a single piece

of her flesh, and the last time you will ever see your

daughter whole is in photographs. I will save her severed

limbs and leave them on your doorstep." The man paused,

watched the blood drain from Paulina's face. "If you live

up to your end, your daughter will be able to live the rest

of her life like a normal girl. She will be blissfully ignorant of what happened tonight. Otherwise, she will know

a pain of which you've only felt a fraction of tonight."

"Please," Paulina mewled.

Chester looked at the remains of the photograph of

Abigail on the beach, her smile wide like a small child. "If

not, the only bliss she'll know is whatever happens to her

soul after she dies."

Paulina took the plastic, turned it over in her hands.

Then she looked at him, confused.

"In there is everything you need to know. And make

sure you don't lose the piece at the bottom."

Paulina looked at the bottom of the clear folder and

saw what appeared to be a small, black rock, no bigger

than a pebble.

Paulina sat there, crying, sniveling and drenched. Chester

stared down at her, rain dripping off the tip of his nose.

"For your sake, I hope your daughter doesn't have to die.

Terrible thing to lose one's family. But that's up to you."

By the time she looked up, the driver was back in his

car. Then the engine revved, and he was gone. Paulina sat

in the rain, mud staining her dress brown.

She watched him go, waiting to make sure he was

gone. Her body was racked with pain, and she could

barely stand. Her hands felt like they'd held a battery from

both ends, and when she dialed the car service it took

three tries to get the number right. When the operator

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Jason Pinter

asked where she was, Paulina had to walk ten minutes just

to find a street sign.

"What the heck are you doing way out there?" the

man asked.

"Just get here, fast," she said before hanging up.

It was half an hour before the car service arrived.

Paulina huddled under a nearby tarp to stay dry. The

driver, a short, thick man with a bushy mustache, got out.

He looked her over, his lip curled up. He was as confused

as she was.

"Miss," he said, "are you okay? Do you need me to

take you to the hospital?"

"Just take me home," she said. "And help me up."

The driver bent down, put his arm around Paulina and

helped the shuddering reporter into the backseat of his car.

As he drove away, the man said, "Don't worry, miss.

I'm taking you home. Everything's okay."

Paulina looked up at him, slimy mascara stinging her

eyes. And she thought, No. It's not.

2

Monday

New York City exists in a perpetual headwind. If you

live here or work here, you can either lean into the wind

and brace yourself, moving forward a step at a time,

keeping pace with the other people who are doing the

same. Or you can lose your balance and be blown away

like a crumpled newspaper. Some people lean into the

wind and try to walk faster. They press ahead, moving at

greater speeds than the rest of us. But with greater reward

comes greater risk, and the more you lean the faster you

can lost your balance and be blown away.

My brother fell. My idol and mentor, Jack O'Donnell,

fell. I was still leaning into the wind, sometimes hard

enough to lose my balance. I'd lived and worked in this

gusty city for several years now, and thought I was used

to it. But time and time again, the city showed me just

how strong the winds could be.

I got to the office of the New York Gazette at eight

o'clock sharp, half an hour before I was supposed to be

there, and even fifteen minutes before I'd said I'd be

20

Jason Pinter

there. To put it mildly, this was the most excited I'd been

about the job in a long time.

The last few weeks had been a maelstrom of violence

and secrets. I'd recently learned that my father had had

an affair thirty years ago, and that affair resulted in the

birth of a boy named Stephen Gaines. My brother.

I didn't learn about Stephen until just a few weeks ago,

when he showed up out of nowhere at the offices of the

New York Gazette, where I worked as a reporter. Gaines

was stoned and scared out of his mind that night, and for

that reason I didn't give him a chance to tell his story. I

didn't see the man up close until a few hours later. After

I learned he'd been shot to death in his own apartment.

When I saw him next, he was lying on a slab in the

morgue.

Not what you'd call the most enjoyable family reunion.

I'd pieced the truth together in a large part spurred on

by a book written by Jack O'Donnell called Through the

Darkness. In that book, he discussed the murder of a lowly

drug dealer named Butch Willingham who was possibly

murdered by an elusive drug kingpin nicknamed the Fury.

Yet the truth wasn't whole. If the Fury did exist, then

something big was on the horizon. Butch Willingham's

murder was one of a spate of drug-related murders, and

if history did repeat itself, that meant Stephen's murder

was merely the beginning.

Coming to grips with the life and death of the brother

I'd never known was difficult, if not impossible. It was

something I was still struggling with. Eventually we

tracked down the man who killed him, a low-level drug

dealer who seemed to want Gaines dead to open up the door

for his own upward mobility in the New York drug trade.

But something about it still didn't sit right. It was too

The Darkness

21

neat, too clean. Too many questions still lingered, an

open wound that wouldn't close.

And leave it to Jack O'Donnell to throw a crowbar

into the wound.

I was wearing a suit, the same one I'd worn on my very

first day in the office several years ago. I remembered the

day clearly. Meeting Wallace Langston, the paper's editor

in chief, being led to my desk where I'd write the stories

I was born to write. Seeing the man, Jack O'Donnell, in

person for the first time.

The man was a legend of the New York newsroom, as

synonymous with this city as any one of its towering

monuments. But every monument has cracks, ignored

by those who prefer to see their gods as unfailing, monuments pristine in their foundations and men pure in their

humanity. Yet while Jack raised the bar for journalism,

his cracks had begun to show themselves not just to me,

but to millions of people.

We all knew that Jack drank. But when you told people

Jack drank, you raised your eyebrows and enunciated the

word drank like it was hepatitis. Jack O'Donnell drank.

Three-martini lunches might have fallen out of fashion, but Jack was trying to keep the tradition going almost

singlehandedly. And who else would expose the cracks

in the foundation but someone who resided as low to the

ground as possible.

Paulina Cole used to work with Jack at the Gazette. A

few months ago, she penned a hatchet job to end all hatchet

jobs, exposing Jack's drinking problem on the front page in

our rival paper, the NewYork Dispatch. It was a colossal embarrassment to his reputation, personally and professionally.

Then Jack disappeared.

Whether he was in rehab or lying in the gutter some-22

Jason Pinter

where, I figured the man needed time to figure out if he

was going to be swallowed whole by his demons, or if he

still had the strength to fight them off. My answer came,

surprisingly, when I needed him the most.

After I learned the truth about Stephen's killer, Jack

found me at my home just as my girlfriend, Amanda, and

I were packing up. He told me he'd needed a "dialysis of

the soul." He looked good. Healthy. And raring to go to

answer the questions that Stephen's murder just touched

upon.

Anyway, that's what I was doing here early in the

morning. I wanted to get here before him. Though we'd

worked in the same offices for several years, I'd never had

the chance to work side by side with Jack. I was eager to

prove what I'd learned, eager to prove that there was

someone waiting in the wings to carry on the traditions

he'd started. And what better way to show I was ready

than by beating the man to his desk on his first day back

in the office?

So when I got off on the ninth floor, pushed through

the glass doors to the newsroom, rounded the corner to

the sea of news desks, I was shocked to see Jack O'Donnell surrounded by our colleagues, looking like a kid at

his own birthday party.

He was sitting on his desk, feet on his desk chair,

speaking loudly and buoyantly while the other reporters

and editors laughed and slapped him on the back. I hadn't

seen Jack with this much energy since, well, ever. And

any frustration I felt in getting here late disappeared when

I saw the smile on the old man's face.

It was like a returning war hero being embraced by his

countrymen. While Jack was gone, one of the things I

wished I understood better was the newsroom's opinion

The Darkness

23

of him. While I always held his professional career in the

highest regard, there were no doubt others who looked at

his departure as something of an embarrassment. Any

time a paper's reporter ends up in the headlines instead

of below them, it was considered an affront to the integrity of the establishment. The New York Times went

through it with Jayson Blair, and the Gazette had gone

through it twice in the last several years: the exposure of

Jack's alcoholism by Paulina Cole at the Dispatch, and

when I was accused of murder. And while the truth about

my situation eventually came to light, the harsh reality

was that every word in Paulina's story was true. Granted

she handled it with the class and dignity of a five-dollar

hooker, but her words touched a nerve because they cut

deep.

The stain on my reputation had begun to disappear

over time. I didn't know if Jack's ever would.

"Henry!" Jack's voice boomed over the newsroom.

He was waving me over, the reporters around his desk

looking in my direction expectantly. I smiled, big and

wide, and walked over.

"Jack," I said, "how's the first day back?"

"Coffee still sucks, elevator's still slow, and the receptionist still doesn't know my name. Just another day at

the office, and I'm loving it."

He was wearing a suit and tie that both looked new.

His beard, usually shaggy, was neat, the gray more

evenly spread. The bags beneath his eyes looked to have

dissolved, and his movements were sharper, livelier. It

was great to see him like this, and though my smile was

wide on the outside, it was nothing compared to how I

felt inside.

Jonas Levinson, the paper's science editor, said, "We

24

Jason Pinter

didn't know when we'd see you again, old boy. No note,

no forwarding address. Who are you, my ex-wife?"

"I guess when you have enough of them," Jack said,

"you start to inherit their best qualities." The group laughed.

"Coffee tastes a whole lot better with a sprinkle of

Beam in there," Frank Rourke said. "I got a bottle at my

desk, Jack. Stop by if you need a taste."

The smile disappeared from Jack's face. "Hey, Frank?"

"Hey, Jack-O?"

"Why don't you go back to your desk and slam a

drawer on your head a few times."

Rourke seemed taken aback. "Christ, it was just a joke,

O'Donnell."

"Just leave. Amazingly you've got less tact than brains,

and that's not an easy feat. Go on, git. "

Rourke walked away, fuming. Jack's face warmed

again, then he turned to me. Speaking to the rest of the crew,

he said, "Fellas, would you give me and Henry a minute?"

They all gave Jack a firm handshake, a pat on the back,

a hug or two. I could tell Jack hadn't been hugged a

whole lot. He wasn't sure where to place his hands. Once

the crowd had thinned, he motioned for me to pull up a

chair. I grabbed one from an empty desk a few rows away

and pulled it into his cube. "Sit down," he said. I obliged.

"It's great to have you back," I said. "I wasn't sure--"

"You're late," Jack said. I checked my watch.

"It's not even ten past eight. You told me to be here at

eight-thirty."

"If a press conference is called for four and you show

up at three-thirty, you'll be sitting in the back row with

the reporters from the high school newspapers."

"I get your point," I said.

Jack continued. "So far, you've made it by on talent

The Darkness

25

and luck. You want to be great at this job, you need to add

a spoonful of brains. With the story we're going to be

chasing, there's no half an hour early. Murderers don't

want for you to be on time. Drug dealers don't use personal data organizers. When you catch people off guard,

that's when the truth comes out. Never give someone the

time to make up a lie."

"I know how important this is," I said. "I know that

what my brother was killed for goes higher than the

assholes who pulled the trigger."

Jack stared at me. "You don't know anything, Henry.

You never go into a story 'knowing' anything. A good

reporter is open to every possibility. If you have on

blinders, you miss the bigger picture. You might think

there's a massive conspiracy, but then you look for facts

to support your thesis. You may be right about Gaines.

But you don't know anything yet. So let the picture paint

itself for you."

"Gaines was killed because somebody thought bumping

him off was the quickest route to money and power," I said.

"And they wouldn't have thought that without a reason."

"You said there was a connection between Gaines and

some company, right?"

"718 Enterprises," I replied. "I think it's a shell corporation. I saw a battalion of drug dealers leaving the

company's midtown headquarters, but I didn't find out

what it is or who runs it. Plus my buddy at the NYPD,

Curt Sheffield, told me that five people connected to 718

have been killed over the last few months. 718 is hiding

something major, and for some reason its employees have

shorter shelf lives than a chicken at KFC. So you think

we should start by looking into 718?"

Jack put his thumb to his lip, tapped it as he thought.

26

Jason Pinter

Then he shook his head. "You don't get a story by meeting it head-on. You need to confront the big dogs with

facts, not accusations. We need to poke around. Find out

who and what exists at the peripherals. We..."

Just then my cell phone rang. I noticed that the red

message light was blinking at the voice mail on my desk.

Whoever was calling had tried to reach me at the office

and was now calling my cell.

My first thought was Amanda, but she was likely on

her way to the office. I took the phone from my pocket;

the number on the caller ID made my stomach lurch.

There's no way he'd be calling this early in the morning

unless something had happened. Something bad.

I answered the phone. "Curt?" I said.

"Henry," Curt Sheffield said. Curt was an officer with

the NYPD. A good buddy and dedicated cop. He'd helped

me with numerous cases over the last few years, often

giving me scoops ahead of other papers because he knew

I'd do the right thing with them. A lot of other news outlets,

not that I'd name names, would takes quotes out of context,

make officers who stuck their necks out look bad.

The thing you learned in the news business was that

the cops needed you almost as badly as you needed them.

If the cops needed to swing public opinion on a certain

topic, or if they needed help from the community in

catching a perp, they turned to the papers and television

anchors. It wasn't enough for them to come up with a

sketch of an alleged rapist--they needed a medium to get

the guy's face in front of millions of people. Curt understood that. He wasn't looking for fame, or to see his name

in the paper. He didn't have the sense of rebellious pride

most sources had. He was just trying to be a good cop.

"You should come down here right away," the cop said.

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27

"Where are you?" I said. "What's going on?"

"There's been a murder. Just dredged the body up

from the East River this morning," he said. And something in Curt's voice told me this wasn't just any run-ofthe-mill domestic quarrel or guy jumping off the Triboro

Bridge kind of death. "We've identified the body. His

name was Ken Tsang. We checked his records, and

Henry...the guy was Hector Guardado's roommate."

"Jesus," I said, my heart pounding. Jack's eyes were

wide open, imploring me to tell him what was going on.

Hector Guardado, I believed, worked as a drug courier

for 718 Enterprises. He was a colleague of the men who

killed Stephen Gaines, one of the anonymous suits who

delivered their drugs to buyers in their homes.

Guardado was killed just a few days ago. And now his

roommate was dead as well.

"I'll be right down there," I said. "Where are you?"

"Eighty-fourth, by the East River, on the promenade,"

Curt said. "You might want to bring some antinausea

medication."

"Why?" I said. "What happened?"

"Whoever killed Ken Tsang," Curt said, "wanted his

corpse to have more in common with a boneless chicken

than a human being. Somebody broke every single one

of his joints. Turned his toes, fingers, arms, legs and

finally neck in all sorts of ways they ain't supposed to go."

3

By the time Jack and I arrived at the East River, the smell

of vomit was choking the air. The view from the promenade was breathtaking early in the morning. The sun glistened off the river, as New Yorkers jogged, walked their

dogs, sat in silence admiring the beauty. Normally you

would see fishing poles out. Today's catch must have

driven them away.

The scene on this day, though, had the promenade at

a standstill. There were no bystanders going about their

business; they were all being held back by the same

yellow police tape that would soon cordon off my colleagues and competition.

I could see three cops who, by the look of them, were

a breakfast short and still green around the gills. They'd

roped off about fifty feet along the red brick walkway, and

from just beyond that I could make out a white sheet

covering the outline of a body. An ambulance waited

twenty feet away. Its lights weren't on. They didn't need

to be. There was no rush here.

"You never like to see cops this quiet," Jack said.

"Most of the guys on the force, they've seen everything.

Drive-by victims, people burned to death, children, every- The Darkness

29

thing. One thing we have in common with them, you

need to learn to desensitize yourself from the horrors you

see sometimes. Without that, you won't last a year on

either job. It takes a lot to send a shock wave through

those nervous systems."

I saw Curt Sheffield among the crowd of cops. He saw

me and began to walk over. I didn't see any other reporters just yet. Curt must have given me first shot at this.

"Hey, Henry," he said, nodding. He didn't offer his

hand, and I didn't expect it. Even though we were friends,

cops were expected to keep their distance from reporters.

They were naturally distrustful of us, and as much as I

hated to admit it, sometimes rightfully so. I'd seen what

the media could brew without all the facts. News, like a

bell, could not be unrung. Once you were accused of

something, once information was given to the public, it

was nearly gospel. And for cops, once your uniform was

stained, fair or unfair, it never washed off.

"Hey, man," I said. "Thanks for the heads-up on this."

"Don't mention it," he said. Curt was a good-looking

guy, about six-two, and filled out his uniform. As a young

black officer, he'd made high marks and was even used

in some promotional materials for the department when

recruiting was down. The taglines on the poster read:

Good People Make Good Cops. Good Cops Make a Great

City. Curt was a good cop, and, as much as he hated to

admit it, a good poster child. Thankfully for him he didn't

get recognized on the street much anymore. "I see a few

motherchuckers in the crowd."

"You see that body," Curt said, "you'll lose your last

three meals, guaranteed."

"You look fine to me," I said.

"That's 'cause the girl I'm seeing, Denise, can't cook

30

Jason Pinter

anything that doesn't say 'microwavable' on the box. And

even then I have to remind her to take it out of the box."

"You're kidding me."

"Oh yeah? I had chicken casserole a la cardboard two

nights in a row. I swear, if the girl didn't screw like a

jackalope..."

"How's the leg?" I said. Talking about sex in front of

Jack had the same appeal as discussing it with my parents.

Curt had taken a bullet recently, the bullet nicking an

artery, necessitating some time off the streets. The man

went stir-crazy, but considered his scar a badge.

Not to mention he liked to talk about it more than sex.

"Feels good today. Hurt like hell yesterday. Touch and

go. Know the worst thing about being shot in the leg? You

can't really show people the scar without causing a

scene." Curt looked at Jack. I realized they'd never met.

"Sorry. Jack, this is Officer Curtis Sheffield. Curt, Jack

O'Donnell."

They both nodded, familiar with the drill.

"Henry's talked a lot about you," Curt said. "I figure

he must go through your garbage the way he knows you

front to back. Take care of our boy, he's one of the few

journos we can trust in this burg."

"I'll teach him everything I know," Jack said with a smile.

"Hey," I said, "how's Detective Makhoulian? I didn't

really get to thank him for his help."

Detective Sevag Makhoulian was the officer assigned

to investigating my brother's death. He'd been an invaluable asset to the investigation. Plus he had impeccable

timing. Makhoulian was Armenian. Quiet and intense, as

no-nonsense as they came, but he'd proved his reliability and dedication. I owed him, big-time.

"He's doing well. Mandatory leave for an officer

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31

involved in a shooting, but it's a clean-cut case and he'll

be back on the street any day now."

"Good. City needs more cops like you guys."

"Not going to argue with you there. I keep telling my

captain that they need to clone my ass. Sure as hell save

the city some money, and they need to save every penny

they can these days."

Jack decided to chime in. "So according to Henry," he

said, "Ken Tsang's body was beaten pretty bad?"

"Naw. The cops pushing three bills who have to play

center field on our softball team get beaten pretty bad.

This guy looks like somebody took a baseball bat and

decided to flatten him out to the point where you can slip

him inside a mail slot."

I felt a bad taste in the back of my throat.

Curt said, "Worst part is, Forensics thinks at least half

of the bone breaks were inflicted postmortem. Which

means whoever killed Tsang didn't just want him to hurt.

They wanted people to see him look more like a bean bag

than a person."

"First Hector, now his roommate. Somebody is taking

out drug runners in the city."

"Taking them out," Curt said, "with extreme prejudice.

This isn't just about somebody cleaning up their mess, this

is sending a message that if you don't watch your back,

you'll find yourself dumped in the East River a whole lot

more flexible than when you woke up that morning. What

I want to know is, who is this message going to?"

"Officer Sheffield, where exactly was the body

found?" Jack asked. He'd taken out a small notepad, uncapping a pen with his teeth. I did the same, feeling

somewhat foolish. Normally when I talked to Curt it was

informal. Friend talking to friend, both aware of the

32

Jason Pinter

other's professional responsibilities. But Jack was right.

The story came first. Curt looked at the pad, saw Jack was

waiting for his answer.

"Garbage scow saw a big canvas bag floating in the

river, a few blocks south of the garbage transfer station

on Ninety-first Street."

"The body was in a bag?" I said.

Curt nodded. "Big, heavy burlap sack."

"You said it was floating," Jack said. "How would a

canvas bag with a body inside float on a river without

sinking?"

Curt blinked. He wasn't holding back. He just didn't

know.

"Hold on a second," he said. He walked off quickly,

and I could tell Curt was as curious about the answer to

that question as we were.

Jack was busy scribbling in his notepad. I held back a

smile. His eyes were focused, his handwriting sloppy, but

that didn't matter. Mine was no great shakes either, but

as long as we could decipher our own it would make do.

Of course recently my handwriting had taken a turn for

the worse, which led to several notes from Evelyn Waterstone, the Gazette' s managing editor, with helpful tips

like "Learn basic penmanship."

"How you feeling?" I said to Jack.

"Hm?" He didn't look up from the page.

"Just wondering how you're feeling. That's all."

"Fine," he said. "Why wouldn't I be?"

I waited to see if he was going to laugh, but Jack was

totally serious.

"I mean, come on, this is your first day back on the job

in almost a year. You disappeared faster than Michael

Moore at a Weight Watchers convention, and nobody's

The Darkness

33

heard from you. Just, you know, want to see how you're

holding up."

"Just fine," Jack said with a wry smile. "If I start to

slag, be sure to tell me."

I just nodded, then saw Curt Sheffield walking toward

us. There was a strange look on his face, his lip turned

upward as if processing information. He came over to

where we were standing and said, "Guy was inside a bag

that was tied to a buoy."

"A buoy?" Jack said, eyebrows raised.

"Yeah, the body was in a big burlap sack, but get this.

Whoever dropped it into the drink attached it to a freaking

buoy. Not only that, but they tied a freaking balloon to

the buoy so it could be spotted. A garbage scow noticed

the balloon and rope this morning and called it in."

"They're sending a message," Jack said. "Using us as

the messenger."

"Us?" I said.

"This will make the first ten pages in every newspaper. The message isn't for cops. It's for other dealers.

They read about what's happening to their friends, they

keep their noses clean. So to speak."

"You could be right," Curt said.

Jack tapped the pen against his lip. "You said the bag

was found by a garbage scow a few blocks from the

Ninety-first Street transfer station. Do you know if that

was where the body was dumped from?"

"That isn't public knowledge yet, and I think I'll get a

reprimand if I tell you guys anything else. Listen, I gotta

run, but we'll release more info as it comes. Meantime,

you two are smart enough to put two and two together."

"Actually, I'm waiting for Jack to teach me that."

"Yeah, take it easy, Henry. Mr. O'Donnell."

34

Jason Pinter

"Officer," Jack said. When Curt was out of earshot, Jack

said to me, "Hundred bucks says the body was dumped

from the transfer station."

"Why?"

"This whole thing...the body pulverized, the bag

attached to a buoy, I mean, who does that? Once this

story breaks, every lowlife in the city will know that Ken

Tsang was mutilated in an ungodly way."

"Not to mention the garbage connotation. That he's

nothing but filth."

"That, too."

"But if this message is going to dealers, who's sending it?"

"The same people who killed Hector Guardado. And

most likely your brother, too," Jack said. "My guess is

Hector might have some more info for us."

"Hey, Jack, you might have missed the memo, but

Guardado's dead. Kind of hard for him to be a source

of new info."

"The man's got friends. Colleagues. Let's wait until

the news breaks, and then tomorrow morning we see

which of Hector's old friends are scared enough to talk."

4

They could hear whispering from behind the door before

they'd even knocked. The three of them walked down the

hallway, the floor covered in cigarette butts and crack vials.

The two men walked in front, the woman trailing them

behind. She wore a jacket over a tank top, her arms loose

by her side. The man on the left was blond, trim, and

grinned like he'd been looking forward to this. The other

wore a long coat and a scowl, and was in no mood to smile.

The men behind the door had been waiting for their

arrival. The whispering was excited, impatient. So when

the two lead men finally did knock on the door, it opened

barely a moment later.

The bodyguard who opened it was massive. Six foot

six at least, and well over three hundred pounds. There

was perhaps muscle under the flab, but he was no doubt

employed as much for his ability to absorb bullets as for

his ability to fight. The man looked like he could stop a

tank shell in that gut.

"You Mr. Malloy?" the behemoth asked. The woman

looked at the younger of her two accomplices, the blond

man in his early forties. The blond man nodded.

"At your service."

36

Jason Pinter

The bodyguard stared at his sunglasses. Or more

specifically, what held them up. "Man, what happened

to your ear?"

The blond man ignored the question. "We're here to

see Mr. Culvert."

The bodyguard looked at the woman standing behind

Malloy. She had dark skin and luminous green eyes. Her

skin was the color of cinnamon, and she looked a few

years older than the blond man. Her body was toned,

sinewy, her breastbone visible above the curve of her

tank top. The bodyguard let his gaze hover over her an

extra moment, then ushered the three people inside.

The apartment was located inside a largely unoccupied

building in Harlem. The man they were going to see

owned the premises, and other than letting family members stay from time to time, he kept it mainly for business

dealings. And that's what this meeting was about. Business.

The bodyguard ushered them down a hallway into a

room that was lit only by two weak floor lamps. The

windows were blacked out, and there were no phones or

other electronic devices present. Three couches were

arranged in a semicircle, and sitting on these couches

were four men. Three of them were dressed all in black

trench coats, and were just as big as the guy who opened

the door. Machine guns were strapped to each of their

chests. They made no efforts to hide them.

The one man who was unarmed was dressed in a

simple track suit, and wore enough gold chains to bring

down a hot air balloon. He was thirty-two years old, and

worth nearly twenty million dollars. The woman looked

around the place, slightly disappointed that there was no

evidence of his successful rap career in the building. No

The Darkness

37

platinum albums, no framed magazine covers. For what

she had in mind, those trinkets would have made the

ensuing story that much more vivid.

The chains clinked together as the man twitched involuntarily. He constantly licked at his lips and rubbed

his hands together. His eyes were wide, the whites almost

eerie in the gloom. He smiled broadly when they entered.

"Mr. Culvert," Malloy said. "Good to see you again."

LeRoy Culvert stood up. He gripped Malloy's hand

with both of his and shook them energetically. He looked

warily at the two people Malloy was with. The other man

he viewed with skepticism. The woman he eyed with fear.

"Mr. Culvert," the woman said. "Let's talk about

the future."

"Absolutely," LeRoy Culvert said, sitting back down.

The four bodyguards watched, guns at the ready. "Here,

take a seat."

"That's all right," she said. "We'd prefer to keep this

short."

"Whatever you say, ma'am," Culvert said with a laugh.

The man was stoned out of his mind. That was clear. And

the woman knew exactly what drugs he had taken.

"So?" she said. "You've clearly sampled our product.

What do you think?"

LeRoy Culvert leaned back, his head tilted toward the

ceiling. Then he whipped it forward.

"See, normally I'd lie to y'all. I'd tell you your

'product' is shit, and that you should feel lucky if I'd sell

it to the poorest crackheads who live in the subway. See,

that way I'd bargain you down, get you to sell it to me at

a discount, and I'd keep the profits for my own."

"Smart business strategy," the woman said.

"But I ain't gonna do that to you. You're good peo-38

Jason Pinter

ple. Listen, this be the finest product I have ever tried

in my whole life. Fact is, if you hadn't come on time

today I'd have to get my man Buttercup to track you

down and get some more down here because my stash

is out. "

"Buttercup?" Malloy said.

The massive, milky-white bodyguard nodded. "That's

what people call me."

"Intimidating," the woman said.

"Listen, lady," Buttercup said, "I will break your bony

ass over my knee."

"Hey, my man Cup, there's no need for that," Culvert

said. "These people are our friends. They're going to double

your salary, because I'm gonna be worth twice as much."

"At least," the woman said.

"So look, I want in. I'll start with a million worth of

the rock. I have enough dealers on the streets that we'll

probably be sold out in a month. Then we'll re-up, and

go from there. Everybody makes money. You have the

product, I have the distribution. Together, we'll blanket

the city. Every two-bit street demon with a habit and a

ten-dollar bill will be aching for a taste of this."

"You do have the streets," the woman said. "And that

is commendable. Very nineteen eighties. But to be honest,

I'm thinking a little higher than street level."

"What you mean?" Culvert said. "Higher, where?"

"That's not important. I'm just glad you enjoyed the

product."

"Enjoyed?" Culvert said. "Man, I'm gonna buy ten

grand worth just for my own personal enjoyment. What

do you say to that?"

Malloy shrugged. The woman did not move. The other

man stayed quiet. He looked uncomfortable.

The Darkness

39

"Who is this dude?" Culvert said, nodding to the

quiet man.

"This," the woman replied, "is Detective Sevag Makhoulian of the NYPD. He's our liaison inside the department. He will keep us apprised of any police awareness

of our operation."

"Smart bitch, you is," Culvert said. "So, let's make a

deal."

"Sorry," the woman said. "No deal."

Culvert looked like he'd been punched in the stomach.

"What do you mean, no deal? You gave me the product

to test, I tested it, and now I want to take it to the streets.

We all make money."

"We make money," she said. "You don't."

LeRoy Culvert jumped from the couch, his chains

clinking, baggy pants fluttering. "Listen, bitch, I want my

stash. Business or not, I got to have more of that stuff.

Those rocks are life, man."

"I'm glad you're satisfied with our product," she

said, "but that does not change the fact that this transaction is done."

"Man, fuck y'all," Culvert said. "You gonna be like

this, I'm gonna have to take over your operation. Buttercup, gut this bitch."

Buttercup went for the gun in his waistband, but before

his hand ever got there the woman ripped a blade from

inside her coat and ripped it through the soft meat of Buttercup's throat. The wound yawned open a ghastly red,

and Buttercup made a choking sound as he dropped to the

ground, flailing. Blood poured from the severed veins.

The woman wiped her hand on the couch.

LeRoy Culvert stared at the bloody mess. "What the

hell are you doing?" he said. "We're partners!"

40

Jason Pinter

"Yes, we are," the woman said. "You're going to help us

get the word out about our product. I'm just sorry that your

corpse is going to be the vehicle for delivering the message."

Suddenly Malloy pulled two machine pistols from his

coat, and in less than two seconds shredded Culvert's bodyguards in a hail of bullets. Blood and pillow feathers spattered the apartment, which was lit brightly by the gunfire.

When Malloy had stopped firing, he paused and saw

LeRoy Culvert cowering behind one of the couches. He

was muttering sweet Jesus, sweet Jesus over and over

again as he rubbed a gold cross hanging around his neck.

"Jesus won't save you," the woman said, walking over

to the cowering man. "But give him my best."

With one thrust, she buried her knife up to the hilt just

under LeRoy Culvert's jaw. He tried to open it, instead

aspirating a cloud of blood. When Culvert's eyes rolled

back in his head, the woman pulled the knife free.

Culvert's body toppled to the ground.

The woman looked at the bloody knife in her hand.

"Three days," the woman said to her associates. "Once

Paulina Cole does her job, and the police tie this into it,

we'll have enough product on the street to saturate the

entire city in less than a week."

Malloy stood there, staring at the bodies. He made the

sign of the cross. The woman turned to Malloy and put

her arm across his shoulder.

"I know you're thinking about him," she said. "But I

promise you, he won't have died in vain."

"Thursday," Malloy said. "I've been waiting for this

day for twenty years."

"Me, too," she said. "Now come on, we have some new

recruits coming in. I want this room to look like something

out of Stephen King's nightmares."

The Darkness

41

The woman took the knife and drew it across the wall,

leaving a bloody smear. Just a few strokes later, the F was

visible. When she completed the rest of the word, and the

apartment was sufficiently coated, they left the building and

waited for Detective Sevag Makhoulian to report the crime.

5

Amanda Davies arrived home at eight o'clock. She

called it home even though it was anything but. The

reality was it was the home of her friend and coworker

Darcy Lapore, and Darcy was campaigning for most altruistic human being on the planet by allowing Amanda

to stay there.

Living here wasn't what she'd expected after coming

to New York for law school. She figured she'd graduate

from NYU near the top of her class, which she did, then

find a cushy job in some high-profile firm and become

one of those high-powered career women who had brassy

blond hair (hers was auburn, so this would be tricky),

wear smart Hillary Clinton pantsuits, get married at

thirty-six, kids at thirty-nine, realize by fifty that you

never really spent much time with your family, sixty

before you realized you were never really happy in your

marriage and my, didn't life go by fast?

Instead, she met a guy named Henry Parker who changed

her world. Well, part of it was her own doing, choosing the

not-for-profit sector of legal aid rather than one of those

cushy jobs. She didn't make the money most New York

lawyers did, but she was pretty sure she slept better at night.

The Darkness

43

It took a few years, but looking back Amanda realized

how much of her life she'd missed. It was as if she'd taken

her expected life and turned it around. Her parents had

died when she was young, and after being shuttled back

and forth for years, she was adopted by a kind couple

named Lawrence and Harriet Stein. The Steins were everything foster parents could be. Except for real parents.

Amanda went through the first twenty years of her life

without knowing a real relationship of any kind, and she

didn't figure that would get any better.

Then she met Henry in extraordinary circumstances,

literally picking him up on the side of the road, later to

find out he was wanted for murder. Thankfully he was

innocent. That would have been a deal breaker.

They'd leaped into a relationship faster than either of

them knew what they were doing, and for a while it was

good. Really good. Then just as they met under extraordinary circumstances, so were they torn apart. Henry

broke up with her for reasons that he believed were noble,

but devastated them both. And after some tentative patchwork, they'd decided to give it another go. Slowly this

time. They were starting like they should have from the

beginning. Movies. Dinner. Holding hands while walking

through Central Park, picnic lunches on the Great Lawn.

She'd moved in with Henry too quickly last time. For

now, Darcy would do, but every night spent in that cold

guest room, with the hard mattress that was meant more

for show than for use, with the artificial orchids everywhere and paint so white that it seemed to have been

bleached of all personality, she couldn't wait for the day

when she could feel his warmth next to her every night,

where she could lean her head on his chest whenever she

felt like it and listen to the beating of his heart. She craved

44

Jason Pinter

that intimacy, that security. He needed it, too, she knew

it. But if it took a few extra months to build protection

for the rest of their lives, she supposed she could wait.

The alternative would have been unbearable.

When she used her spare key to open the apartment

door, she had to fumble around in the hallway for the light

switch. It wasn't by the door like it would be in a normal

apartment. The hallway light was part of some intricate

module by the entrance of the atrium that controlled all

the lights in the house. That was one of the things she

loved about Henry's previous apartments. There were no

modules, and definitely no atrium.

Once she found the panel and turned on every light in

the house before finding the one to her bedroom, she

went inside, stripped out of her work clothes and threw

on a pair of shorts and a tank top. Darcy and her husband,

Devin, were out at their summer home in Oyster Bay.

Every weekend they begged Amanda to come with them,

and every weekend she declined. She hated being the

third wheel, and having to do it four and a half days of

every week (they usually left for Long Island early on

Friday) was enough. And while sitting at the edge of a

beach, dipping her toes into the luscious water of the

Long Island Sound seemed like the perfect antidote to the

stressful Manhattan life, it didn't mean a thing without

Henry. And he wasn't the "dip your feet in the water and

laugh like a fool" kind of guy.

He had two modes: work and play. When the switch

was on Work, Henry was as driven and ambitious as

anyone she'd known. When it was on Play, there was

nobody else in the world but the two of them. Everything

faded away when he held her in his arms.

And she loved both sides of him unconditionally.

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45

Amanda called Henry's cell. It went right to voice mail.

"Hey, babe, hope you're having a good day and Jack

hasn't led you off a cliff or something. Give me a call

when you get a chance."

When she hung up, Amanda turned on her laptop and

put Aimee Mann on high. She was a massive fan, but

found she couldn't listen to her favorite song, "Wise Up,"

as often as she used to. The lyrics were about finding what

you thought you wanted most, only to realize that once

you had it, it wasn't what you thought it would be. Every

time she heard it, she thought about their relationship.

She'd never been a goopy girl, the kind who read her

horoscopes or gossiped over cosmos while wearing

outfits that cost more than the GDP of the Congo. She

wasn't superstitious either, but she didn't want to think

about losing what she wanted. What she had.

She figured if Aimee knew what she and Henry had

been through in their few years knowing each other, she

wouldn't take offense.

Kicking her shoes off, Amanda lay back on the hard

bed, wanting to think about nothing until it was time to

get up for work the next morning. The one thing she did

like about Darcy's place was that the girl didn't spare the

pillows. The guest room had no less than a dozen pillows

of various shapes and sizes covering the bed. Amanda had

spent her first week deciding which ones were right, and

picked the right half-dozen to fall asleep to. When she and

Henry lived together it always drove him crazy. Mainly

because he would wake up on one side of the full-size bed

with one nostril covered and a feather sticking out of the

corner of his mouth.

Amanda groaned as she rolled off the bed, blowing a

hair strand from her eye. Darcy and Devin had a fifty-six-46

Jason Pinter

inch flat screen in their bedroom, one of those cool wallmounted units that seemed to hover without wires or a

bracket. It probably cost more than her education, so

Amanda figured she'd make use of it.

The remote control was some digital monstrosity that

took Amanda ten minutes just to turn on. She was

always amused by Darcy's taste in television, so she decided to see what her friend had recorded. The DVR

listed thirty-two episodes of Sex in the City, ten of

Gossip Girl, three of Desperate Housewives... and this

morning's newscast. Amanda laughed. One of those

things didn't quite fit.

She pressed Resume Playback on the news program,

and saw swarms of cops roaming around what appeared

to be a crime scene. A reporter's voice-over spoke of

some horrendous murder, some young man's body found

pulverized in the East River. The reporter was using her

"ultra serious" tone of voice reserved for crimes that were

not just bad, but truly terrifying. Amanda felt her heart

beat faster. Why the hell had Darcy taped this?

"Kenneth Tsang was survived by his mother and father

and young sister. According to the police there are no

suspects at this time, but sources confirm that the brutality

with which the killer or killers ravaged Mr. Tsang's body

was done with some sort of message in mind. And since

the city medical examiner Leon Binks has confirmed that

over one hundred of Mr. Tsang's bones were broken

before the body was found in the river, that message will

be heard loud and clear."

Amanda shook her head. It was still hard to fathom just

how much evil there was in the world. How normal

people seemed to be at risk leading normal lives.

And then she realized why Darcy had taped the segment.

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47

Standing by a yellow line of police tape, talking to a

uniformed officer, was Henry.

Amanda watched. Henry was just doing his job, but

something about him being so close to death always

unnerved her.

When the clip ended, Amanda walked back into the

guest room and grabbed the cell phone. She dialed Henry's

number at work. It rang through and went to voice mail.

Then she tried his cell again. Right to voice mail.

"Henry...it's me. I know I just called, but I just wanted

to say I love you and please be safe."

Amanda hung up the phone and put on her pajamas.

Then she tucked herself under the warm covers and

turned off the light. Not for sleep. That wouldn't come.

Not until the phone rang. Not until she knew for sure

Henry was on his way home.

When I got home it was close to midnight. I sloughed

off all the detritus from the day: wallet, keys, loose change,

cell phone. The phone was off. I'd forgotten to turn it back

on after Jack and I had left the crime scene. I turned it back

on, saw there were two messages waiting for me.

My heart sank when I heard Amanda's voice on both

of them. In the first she seemed relaxed. The time stamp

meant she'd likely sent it just after getting home from

work. The second was sent less than half an hour later,

but she sounded worried, hesitant. I had no idea what

could have happened in that short time frame, but the

moment I erased the messages I was calling her back.

She picked up before the first ring was finished.

"Henry?" her sweet voice said.

"Hey, baby, it's me."

"Are you home?"

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Jason Pinter

"Sure am. Pretty exhausted, but it's been a hell of a

day. I'll fill you in tomorrow."

"Are you home for good?"

"You mean tonight?"

"Yeah."

"Yes...just getting ready for bed."

"Do me a favor. Make sure your door is locked."

"Is everything okay?" I didn't know where all of this

was coming from. "Do you want me to come over?"

"No. Just promise me you'll stay safe."

"I promise," I said.

"Good. Thanks, Henry. Now get a good night's sleep.

I'll talk to you tomorrow."

She hung up, but something gnawed at my gut. Like

Amanda knew something I didn't.

6

Tuesday

I was on the corner of Fifty-seventh and Sixth. It was

seven-thirty in the morning. Jack had told me to meet him

at eight-thirty. So unless he showed up an hour early just

to prove a point, I'd be the first one there. Of course you

could make the argument that I showed up an hour early

just to make my own point, but that was semantics. I

wanted and needed Jack to respect my work ethic. If my

professional accomplishments hadn't yet convinced him,

he'd just have to witness it firsthand.

I was still a little on edge from my conversation with

Amanda. We'd spoken briefly this morning before she left

for work, and something was definitely wrong. Again

she'd told me to promise that I'd stay safe. She'd never

done anything like that, at least not without cause or some

psycho killer breathing down our backs. I'd see her tonight.

We'd talk, and hopefully everything would be all right.

They needed to be. I needed that much stability in my life

right now, and I needed her to know that I was reliable.

At eight-fifteen the familiar tweed jacket rounded the

corner. Jack was clutching a large coffee and munching on

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Jason Pinter

a bagel. Cream cheese was stuck in his beard. He nodded

as he drew close, said, "Henry. Way to be on time."

"I could say the same thing to you. Hey, got a little

cream cheese there." I motioned to his beard. He ran his

hand through it, but all that did was spread it around. I

laughed, which Jack didn't take kindly to. He took a napkin and wiped himself down thoroughly, finally getting

it out.

"Better, Dad?" Jack said.

"Better, sport."

"Good. Now that the silliness is over, let's go talk to

some of these 718 guys."

"I don't know all of them," I said, "but the ones I did

meet got pretty vicious. Two of them, Scott Callahan and

Kyle Evans, are dead. Two others I didn't know, Guardado

and Tsang, are dead, too."

"They must have a hell of a life insurance policy,"

Jack said.

"I don't get it," I said. "Stephen Gaines worked for

these people. He ends up dead. Tsang has his bones

ground to powder, and there are still people dealing for

these clowns. I mean, if your colleagues are dropping like

flies, why do you stay on? Why not go to the cops, spill

on whoever's paying you? Seems like you have a better

chance of staying alive at least."

"That's a good question, Henry, and it's one that we're

going to have to answer because obviously these people

disagree with your assessment."

"Survival," I said.

"Come again?" replied Jack.

"Human instinct. The number-one priority is survival. If

someone isn't opening up, it's because they want to survive.

Ken Tsang, that wasn't just a murder. It was a message."

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51

"I think I've seen that kind of message before."

"Yeah? Where?"

"Wrote a story once where I had to interview the foreman after an accident at a quarry. The foreman told me the

victim's body looked like the bad guy after Indiana Jones

smushed him in that rock crusher. Said he looked like

something that was squeezed out of a tube of toothpaste."

"You know, sometimes I feel I'd be better off not

knowing about all your previous stories."

"Thought it might be pertinent," Jack sniffed.

"Come on, the building where 718 operates out of is

over there."

We entered the building, and I wasn't shocked to find

a different security guard on duty than I remember. He was

an older man, mid-sixties, with a tuft of gray hair parked

on the top of his head like a wind ornament. He had on

thick reading glasses and was reading a newspaper. We approached, and I said, "We're here for 718 Enterprises."

The man looked up. I could see a crossword puzzle on

the table in front of him. Only three of the words had been

filled in. And let's just say he wasn't aware the word

nuclear had an a.

"Sorry, come again?"

"718 Enterprises," Jack said. "Can you ring them up?"

"Just a second." He pushed the newspaper away and

brought out a large binder. Opening it, he began to flip

through pages, studying the telephone numbers with his

index finger. I watched as he scanned, unable to see the

numbers for myself.

"I'm sorry, there's no company here by that name.

718 Enterprises, you said?"

"That's right. They definitely work here," I added.

"I've been here before," I lied.

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Jason Pinter

The guard curled his lip up, flipped through the binder

again. He looked confused, frustrated. "Sorry, nothing

here by that name."

"Hold on a second," I said. I took the logbook from

the counter, began to look at all the people who'd signed

in. Last time I was here, Scott Callahan and Kyle Evans

had signed in when they visited 718 Enterprises. But to

my surprise, nobody was here to visit the company. Not

a single name I recognized.

"Sir, please give that back," he said, his voice growing

impatient. "If you don't I'll have security down here right

quick." Figured they'd have security. Old Man River here

didn't look like he was hired to do much strong-arming.

"What's your name, friend?" Jack said.

"Edgar," the guard replied.

"Edgar, I'm Jack. My friend Henry here is a little impatient, for that I apologize. We were under the impression this company was located at this address.... How

long have you been working here?"

"It's my fourth day," Edgar replied.

"Really," Jack said. His voice was modulated to feign

interest, but I could tell that bothered him. "Who else

works this shift?"

"Nobody anymore. Building manager called the agency

that was looking to place me, said they needed a new

morning man five days a week, Monday through Friday.

They didn't tell me about the last guy, but this is a full-time

job. Thank God, because in this economy heaven knows

my savings and 401k aren't worth squat anymore."

"Thanks, Edgar," Jack said. "Come on, Henry." He

didn't say my name like we were partners, but like I was

his subordinate.

As we left the building, I said to Jack, "Next time

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53

you're going to do the good cop, bad cop shtick, how

about letting me know ahead of time that I'm going to be

the bad cop?"

Jack shook his head. "This is about the story, Henry.

Not your pride or your feelings. If I need you to be my

patsy to get someone to open up, that's just what I'll do.

And I'd expect you to do the same with me if the situation called for it. In fact, if you didn't, I'd wonder why I

was letting you tag along in the first place."

"Tag along? This is my sto..." I stopped talking. This

wouldn't get us anywhere. "I can tell what you're thinking."

Jack nodded. "Whoever did work here packed up and

left faster than my second wife left with my collection of

antique pens."

"You think it's because of Tsang?" I asked.

"No way. At least not entirely. Tsang was killed

yesterday. Edgar started a few days ago. If Tsang was

connected to 718 Enterprises--and ipso facto your

brother--they were long gone before they crushed his

bones into oatmeal."

I don't know what we should have expected to find,

but I guarantee it wasn't nothing. Not the nothing as in

"well, we got there but didn't quite find what we were

looking for." There was no trace of 718 Enterprises whatsoever. It was simply gone.

And as Jack and I stood there in the morning sunlight,

I couldn't help but think about the hundreds of people

who went about their day oblivious to this. Who'd walked

by this building for perhaps years, unaware that it was a

drug refueling station. And that all of a sudden whatever

had been there had suddenly been packed up and shipped

off as quickly and as easily as a parcel.

"Back to the office," Jack said. "We're not going to

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Jason Pinter

learn anything standing on the corner waiting for melanoma to sink in."

His hands were on his hips, a look on his face that

showed he was pissed off but wouldn't stop here. I'd

never seen Jack work, unless you counted watching him

hunched over a keyboard sipping coffee that smelled suspiciously like something you'd find on tap at an Irish pub.

I had the same gene. The "hell if I'll stop now" gene.

I smiled inwardly as Jack ran into the street to hail a cab,

moving like a man half his age. Not only did he have a

story to chase, but after months spent away from the game,

this was the closest he'd been to fresh meat in a long time.

"There has to be a building manager," I said. "A corporation who cashes the lease payments."

"Great minds, Henry. Great minds." He told the driver

to take us back to Rockefeller Plaza. I felt my cell phone

vibrate, picked it up, saw Amanda had left me a text

message. I opened the mail. It read, Luv u. I smiled. Sent

her one back that read, u 2 babe.

Then just before I closed the phone, I saw that I had

another unopened text. This one was from Curt Sheffield.

It read: News out about Ken Tsang's murder. Undercover cops say dealers are scared shitless, holing up.

Informants running like roaches.

And the text ended with one line that gave me chills.

Message delivered.

7

Morgan Isaacs didn't want to wake up. He was lying in

bed, forcing his eyelids closed, even though a few quick

peeks told him it was after ten o'clock and the day had

started without him. Again.

It had been just a week since Morgan had met with the

real estate broker as well as his dad's accountant (who

didn't charge him, thankfully, chalking it up to years of

family service). Both advised him, without a moment of

hesitation, to sell his two-bedroom apartment on Park

Avenue. Morgan pleaded his case, said he'd be back on

his feet in no time, but Morgan wasn't trying to convince

the advisor as much as himself.

He'd have to give it up. All of it.

It was a sweet pad, with nearly seventeen hundred

square feet, brand-new appliances, a hundred-fiftysquare-foot terrace, a fifty-two-inch plasma and a view

that most Manhattanites would chop off their left thumb

for. It was the kind of place Morgan dreamed of when he

first enrolled in business school five years ago, taking on

the kind of debt that would choke a third world country.

Sure, there were bigger apartments in NYC, but you had

to start somewhere. And even with the real estate market

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Jason Pinter

taking a nosedive recently you couldn't find a good twobedroom for under a million three. To get the three-and

four-bedroom pads you had to plunk down close to two

mil, and even though his debts were almost all paid off

he thankfully had decided to stick with the twofer until

his next promotion.

But then it all crashed down faster than a load of bricks.

The rumors began to swirl about a month ago that the

bank Morgan worked at as a trader was having tough

times, that its liquidity was nowhere near what the CEOs

were claiming. Then he read a newspaper article saying

there was a chance it would be bought out by one of the

company's competitors. Then, a week ago, Morgan got a

call from his boss at eleven-thirty on a Saturday night,

telling him to be at the office at 9:00 a.m. Sunday morning.

Morgan was there, dressed in a suit and carrying his

briefcase, unsure of what to expect. When he got to the

conference room he was informed, along with several

dozen of his colleagues, that the firm's equity had been

bought for five cents a share, that the employee stock

purchase plan was essentially worthless. Oh yeah, and

that they were all out of a job. They would not be permitted back to their desks, and any personal items would be

mailed to their forwarding addresses.

Morgan blinked. It was all he could do. They would

receive one month's severance for each year they'd been

with the company. For Morgan, that was three months.

Three months that would cover his mortgage and BMW

payments until he could find a new job. Surely that

wouldn't be hard. He had his MBA, his CFA, and had

graduated from Wharton in the top five percent of his class.

Whether that severance would pay for the nearly

thirty-three thousand dollars in credit card debt he'd

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57

racked up...he didn't even want to think about it. Uncle

Sam giveth, and Morgan would be damned if he'd let

Uncle Sam taketh away.

Then the next day another bank closed. And suddenly

the terrifying realization hit Morgan that he would be

competing for jobs in a market where opportunities had

just been halved, and his competition increased by two

hundred percent. In less than a month there were nearly

twenty thousand young men and women just like him,

many of whom were just as qualified if not more, looking

for the same opportunities he was.

Suddenly those monthly payments, over eleven thousand a month, loomed like a pile of bricks about to rain

down on his head.

He went out that night to a dive bar in his neighborhood, fully intent on getting stinking drunk and hooking

up with whatever girl noticed the two grand in jewelry he

wore. Brianna be damned, she was going to break up with

him anyway. He had no illusions about why she was with

him. She didn't care about cuddling or having doors

opened for her. She wanted the gold. Literally.

Just like Morgan, Brianna would be getting a severance package, maybe a small diamond necklace, no more

than a grand. Morgan was a big fan of The Sopranos, and

he always thought Tony was brilliant for giving his jilted

paramours a small token when he divested himself of

them. The kind of women who dated Tony Soprano were

the kind of women who dated Morgan Isaacs; they loved

the money, the power (granted with Morgan it was on a

slightly smaller scale). Once Brianna learned the truth,

she'd be gone and in the pocket--and pants--of some

upper manager who managed to hold on to his sevenfigure job.

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Jason Pinter

So it was a morning like this, a Monday, a day where

he should have already been on to his third Red Bull and

second cigarette break, that Morgan Isaacs couldn't bring

himself to unwrap himself from the fifteen hundred

thread count Egyptian cotton sheets.

He'd let his dirty blond hair grow too long, and

whereas he used to weigh a trim hundred and eighty

pounds, Morgan was now threatening to blow past the

two bills mark. In fact, there was a pretty good chance

he'd already done so, but was too frightened to step on

the scale and know for sure.

Maybe he'd fix a breakfast. Toast with peanut butter

and strawberry preserves sounded good. There were some

good judge shows on in the afternoons. For some reason

watching brainless poor people fight with some condescending judge over twenty-three dollars made Morgan

feel better about his own situation.

Then he heard the chirp of his cell phone, still set to

The O'Jays' "For the Love of Money." He didn't recognize the caller ID, and assumed it was a telemarketer. He

was about to spin the dial to Ignore when he considered

the faint possibility it could be one of the firms that still

had his resume and had sworn to get back to him.

He answered the phone with a peppy "This is Morgan," hoping to sound like a man who'd been awake all

morning and not someone trying too hard to sound like

he didn't still have sleep schmutz in his eyes.

"Morgan Isaacs?" the man on the other end replied.

"That's right."

"I was referred to you by a former colleague, Kenneth

Tsang. I hope you don't mind my calling."

"Kenneth, yeah, of course," Morgan said. Ken was a

good guy, went a little too crazy at the strip clubs back

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59

when he was still working at Wachovia, and even after

he was laid off the guy threw bills around like they were

tissue paper. Ken was a good guy, but if you were stupid

and careless, eventually you'd piss off the wrong person.

At some point, Morgan was sure, Ken would do just that.

"My name is Chester. Kenneth was doing some work

for my firm and he passed your name along to us before

his unfortunate passing."

"That's mighty kind of him," Morgan said, scooping

some gunk from his eye. "What firm did you say you

were with?"

"If you're interested in employment that will pay you

quite handsomely with fair hours, meet me on Fifth

Avenue at noon. Northwest side of the street between

Fiftieth and Fifty-first. Right in front of the statue of Atlas."

"I'm sorry," Morgan said. "I don't mean to be rude, but

can I have a little more information? I want to be prepared, you know, just in case."

"Noon in front of the statue," Chester said. "Ken vouched

for you. He said you were reliable and that you enjoyed the

lifestyle your former employment afforded you. I promise

that if that's the case, you won't be sorry you came."

"Wait, how will I know who you are?" Morgan said.

His voice reached only an empty phone. Morgan sat

there a moment, thinking about the call. Then he stood

up, tossed off his briefs and marched right to the shower.

He had just over an hour and a half. An hour and a half

to get his life back.

8

Sifting through ownership records and property deeds

was nearly as much fun as it sounded. We found papers

for the nearly two dozen companies who currently held

leases in the building formerly housing 718 Enterprises,

but for whatever reason there was no deed of ownership

of the company itself. We found public listings for a

brokerage firm, a jewelry store, three law offices, a psychiatrist, a pet psychiatrist, and a tantric yoga studio.

Only in New York.

"Look at this," Jack said. We were sitting in a conference room, two laptop computers with several open

windows each, our eyes beginning to strain from staring

at various ownership deeds. I leaned over to the computer

Jack was working on and looked at the screen he had

pulled up. "According to tax filings, the law offices of

Kaiser, Hirschtritt and Certilman occupy floors seventeen

and eighteen. No other company in the building occupies

more than one floor, or even appears to pay for more than

one office space. If you were running a drug syndicate

from an office, wouldn't you want a little more privacy

than a single office would give you?"

I stared at the screen, thought about the morning I

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61

went to the building and watched a stream of young, energetic drug dealers enter and leave with briefcases full

of narcotics. I had a hard time picturing them all fitting

inside a row of cubicles. Plus I doubted a truck pulled up

every now and then to refill their supplies. They needed

space to store the drugs. Space to allow for easy pickups

for dozens of couriers.

And enough lack of clutter to allow them to pack up

and get the hell out of Dodge on a moment's notice.

"The building is managed by a company called Orchid

Realty," I said. "According to their Web site, they have different managers for each property. It doesn't spell out which

one is managed by who, but we can call and find out."

"Screw that," Jack said. "Why call when we can show

up uninvited?"

I smiled. I liked the way Jack thought.

Orchid Realty was on the eighth floor of a stainless steel

complex in midtown, not too far from many of the tony

properties they managed. Jack and I walked into the lobby

side by side. A pair of security guards manned a long

wooden desk. They did not seem intimidated by the purposeful look in our eyes. Installed in the front of the partition were two televisions, each running infomercials for the

building itself. The sets looked recently installed, and the

volume was far too loud. My guess was, with the economy

tanking, the building had lost a bunch of leasing companies

who couldn't pay their bills, and were looking for fresh

blood (and fuller bank accounts) to replenish the coffers.

We stopped at the security desk, and Jack said, "We're

here for Orchid Realty."

"Name of contact," the monotone voice came back.

"Mr. Orchid," Jack replied.

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The guard looked up, a bored sneer on his face, like

he knew Jack was screwing with him but didn't have the

time or inclination to care.

"Name of contact," he repeated.

"Call the front desk," Jack said. "Tell whoever answers

that we're here to talk to whoever's in charge of the 718

Enterprises account." He took out his identification, underlining the words New York Gazette with his thumb.

The guard looked at him, the apathy turning into confusion.

"This is my official ID," Jack continued. "Which

means I have the official authorization to have a news

crew down here in less time than it takes for you to put

on that cute tie in the morning. It also means you and your

friend here will have their friendly faces on our 'Community Outrage' Web site, as impeding an official news

investigation." He pointed at the phone. "One phone call.

All it takes."

The guard's eyes went wide, and he picked up the

phone and dialed three numbers. Jack was full of crap,

but news was about information, and that was information they didn't need to know.

The guard covered the phone's mouthpiece with his

hand, his eyes growing more animated as he spoke.

Clearly the person on the other line wasn't too keen on

us coming upstairs, but it looked like the guard wanted

as much to do with our Community Outrage Web site as

I did with bedbugs.

Finally the man hung up, pressed a button and printed

out two badges from his computer kiosk. Handing them

over, he said, "You promised, right? No cameras or news

crew? I don't want my son to see me on the Internet."

"We'll see how things go upstairs," Jack said. "Come on."

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63

I followed him to a bank of metal turnstiles, manned

by another security guard, this one looking much less

awake on the job than the guys at the front desk. We

showed him our badges, and he pressed a button that

swung the turnstiles. We passed through, made our way

to the elevator bank and headed up to the fourth floor.

Jack hummed a tune I couldn't recognize as we ascended,

and I felt slightly anxious, wondering just how far this

would take us. I was also somewhat concerned about

pulling my weight on this story. As much as I wanted to

find out just what the hell was going on with this shadow

corporation, earning the respect of Jack O'Donnell was

a close second.

The doors opened, and we followed a sterile beige

hallway to a pair of double glass doors with the words

Orchid Realty stenciled on them. I opened the door for

Jack, the glass swinging out effortlessly and without a

sound. A heavyset woman with curly reddish hair sat

behind an oak desk, a pair of old-fashioned headphones

resting on her ears that looked less Bluetooth than long

in the tooth. The nameplate read Iris Mahoney.

Iris was filing her nails, pausing every few moments

to blow nail dust from her hands and onto the floor.

As we approached, her eyes rose and a wide smile

crossed her lips. "You must be those boys from the newspaper," she said. "Welcome to Orchid."

"Hi," I said before Jack could open his mouth. "Miss

Mahoney, if it's not too much trouble we'd like to speak

to one of your property managers."

"Certainly, sir. Which of our managers would you like

to speak with?"

"Whoever handles the building which until recently

leased space to a company called 718 Enterprises."

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Jason Pinter

The receptionist pursed her lips, sucked in air and

squinted. "Hmm...that doesn't ring a bell. Let me check

our database."

She put down the nail file and began typing. Two

fingered. One finger at a time. Slow enough that I could

hear Jack breathing heavier as his frustration grew. Every

few moments the lady would mutter a pleasant "no"

under her breath and continue typing. After several minutes she looked up at us and said, "I'm sorry, sir, we

don't have any records for a 718 Enterprises. Are you sure

you have the right realty corporation?"

"You do manage the building leases at sixteen-twenty

Avenue of the Americas, right?"

"Now that sounds familiar. If my memory serves me,

they have a wonderful tantric yoga studio." She blushed

slightly. I pretended not to have heard anything.

"That's the building," Jack said. "Listen, hon," he continued, approaching the desk, a warm smile on his face.

It was shocking to compare this to his countenance

downstairs. Different folks responded to different temperaments. Jack didn't get his reputation by assuming

everyone reacted the same way to everything. "We're not

here to cause trouble. We're investigating a story for our

newspapers, it's our job, really, and we just have a few

questions about the building. If you could just let us know

who manages that property, we'll be out of your hair in

no time. What do you say?"

The apple-cheeked receptionist smiled, and if I didn't

know any better, it looked like she might have suddenly

developed a small crush on the elder newsman. "Hold on

one second. If you'll have a seat, I'll have somebody out

here to assist you right away."

"You've made my day, darlin'." Her smile widened.

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65

We took seats in two leather chairs. I shuffled through

a pile of uninteresting magazines before putting them

back. Jack just sat there. He didn't need any distractions.

After thumbing through the pile of outdated magazines

for a second time--in case Victorian Homes had magically been replaced by Sports Illustrated--a middle-aged

man with a short haircut and mustache entered the waiting room. His eyes settled on us, and I caught him taking

a deep breath. He wasn't making any secret that he didn't

want to be talking to us, and resented the fact that we were

even here.

I stood up, assumed Jack would do the same. When he

didn't, I looked at him. He didn't seem to have noticed there

was someone else in the room; either that or he didn't care.

"Mr. O'Donnell?" the man said. Now Jack's eyes

perked up. He didn't say a word, waited for the other man

to speak. "Bill Talcott. How can I help you?"

Jack stood up. Gave Talcott a once-over, sizing him up.

Talcott shifted as he stood there, eyes meeting the floor.

Jack was trying to make the guy nervous, take him out of

any comfort zone he might have. It didn't look like Talcott

had much of one when he joined us, but I guess Jack

wanted to break his spirit completely.

"Thanks for finally joining us," Jack said.

"My apologies for the wait." He glanced at Iris with a

condescending, apologetic smile, as though blaming her

for the delay. Iris didn't look up from her desk. This did

not paint Mr. Talcott in an impressive light.

"Actually Iris was quite helpful," Jack said. I noticed

Iris's face look up slightly. "You have no need to embarrass her. Or yourself."

Talcott's face went pink, and he stammered. "Of

course, I didn't mean to put anybody down. We're all

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Jason Pinter

under an enormous amount of stress these days, as you

can imagine. And if I can say so, without embarrassing

myself again, I'm a fan of your work, Mr. O'Donnell."

Jack nodded, but did not respond to the compliment.

"Should we go somewhere more private?" he said.

"Is this an issue that requires privacy?" Talcott said,

confused.

"I'd say so."

Talcott nodded, said, "Right this way." We followed

him down the hallway behind the reception desk. The

corridor was filled with gray metal filing cabinets. A few

people stood by, filing, rifling through papers with a

quickness that said they'd done it for years. On the walls

hung pictures of buildings. Some residential, some commercial, obviously the properties Orchid Realty managed.

We passed by a small kitchen and a large conference

room, and eventually were led into Talcott's office. He

ushered us in and closed the door. There were two leather

chairs in front of a heavy marble desk. The desk, as well

as the windowsills and bookshelves, were lined with

snow globes from around the world. The man had literally hundreds of them.

"I buy one in every city I set foot in," Talcott said

proudly. "Three hundred and forty-eight and counting."

Jack and I sat down. Talcott seemed disappointed that

we weren't impressed. We took out our notepads and pens

as Talcott sat down. He waited a moment to see if we might

compliment his collection. When it was clear we weren't

going to, he said, "So, gentlemen. What can I do for you?"

"First off, Mr. Talcott, this is my associate Henry

Parker. My apologies for not introducing him earlier."

"Parker," Talcott said. "Where have I heard that name

before?"

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67

"It's a pretty common surname," I replied.

"Any relation to Peter Parker?" Talcott asked.

"You mean Spider-Man?"

"Is that the character's name? I could have sworn I

knew someone else named Parker. In any event, your

name does ring a bell."

I looked at Jack, hoping we could move on. He seemed

to get the nod.

"Mr. Talcott," he said, "do you manage the property at

sixteen-twenty Avenue of the Americas?"

"I do," Talcott said.

"Are you aware of a company called 718 Enterprises

that, up until recently, occupied space in that building?"

Talcott took a moment before responding, "No."

Jack's eyebrows raised. "You're saying there was

never a company at that location with the name 718 Enterprises, or anything similar to that?"

"Yes," he said.

"Yes, there was a company, or yes there was not?"

"There was no company with that name at that location."

Jack turned to me, shifting his whole body. I realized

Jack had never seen the sign for the company, he hadn't

witnessed the young men marching in and out of the

building with full bags. I was the only witness, at least

the only one who was on our side.

"Mr. Talcott, do you read the news?"

"Of course I do. I'm quite fond of Mr. O'Donnell's

work, as I said."

"Do you read it regularly?"

"I would say so."

"Well, then do you recognize the name Stephen

Gaines? Or a company called 718 Enterprises?"

This time Talcott's "no" was hesitant. There was rec-68

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ognition on his face, but he wasn't about to incriminate

himself.

"Let me give you a little backstory. Stephen Gaines

was murdered a few weeks ago. Shot in the head in a

dingy apartment in Alphabet City. It was in the news

quite a bit, especially after the primary suspect was

cleared."

"That does ring a bell," Talcott said. "So much strife

in the news these days, who can remember a name? But

the case does sound familiar. Boy's father was accused

of the crime, wasn't he?"

"That's right. Want to know something else?" I said.

Talcott seemed unsure of how to respond, so he simply

said, "Sure."

"Stephen Gaines was my brother."

"I--I'm sorry to hear that. My condolences."

"See, my brother worked with those two guys, Scott

Callahan and Kyle Evans. And my brother confided everything in me." This part was BS. We'd had one conversation lasting thirty seconds and I didn't even know he

was my brother at the time. "And he told me that Scott

and Kyle were employed--that's a loose term--by 718

Enterprises. Who worked out of your building. Now, if

you still don't remember them I can get you the documentation and you'll see it at the same time we print it." I

looked at Talcott's desk. Saw a photo of him with a

woman and young boy on a beach, all three beaming. "I

don't know how I'd explain to my son why Daddy's

picture is all over the news."

Talcott turned a ghastly shade of white, and rocked back

in his chair. The chair, unfortunately, did not lean back with

him, and he nearly toppled over before righting himself.

Talcott cleared his throat before suddenly leaning

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69

down to rummage under his desk. I felt my fingers gripping the sides of the chair--was he going for a gun?

My nerves quieted when I saw what Talcott was reaching for a bottle of Glenfiddich single malt, aged twentyone years. Slightly less dangerous than a gun, though

from the shaking of his hands my guess was that after we

left, Talcott would drink enough to make him sleep like

he'd been shot.

He brought up a small tumbler, filled it to the brim, and

downed it, closing his eyes. He looked at us, slight embarrassment on his face. Then he pushed the bottle toward

us.

"No thanks," I said. "I didn't have breakfast."

Jack looked right past the bottle. I watched his reaction, but there was none.

Talcott coughed into his fist. His eyes were a little

watery. I got the feeling he didn't particularly enjoy the

scotch, but needed it enough to get around that small detail.

"You don't know what it's like out there," he said.

"Out where?" said Jack. "What are you talking about?"

"The economy is in the toilet. The dollar is barely

worth the paper it's printed on."

"I cash my paychecks," I added. "We know this."

"But companies...they're getting hit the hardest. There

aren't as many customers to go around, and the customers that they do have, well the money they pay doesn't

buy what it used to."

"What's your point?"

"Sixteen-twenty Avenue of the Americas, we've lost

a dozen tenants from that building in the last two years.

Two years! And you know how many tenants have moved

in? One. That's a few hundred grand that we used to be

making that just disappeared in the wind."

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Jason Pinter

Talcott paused, eyed the bottle.

"We needed the extra money."

"And..." I said.

"That company...718 Enterprises...they never leased

the property," Talcott said. "They were never officially on

our ledger. They never paid us a dime."

"Then why did you say..." I replied, but Jack cut me off.

"So what does that mean?" Jack said. "They didn't pay

for the space? How did you bring in money?"

"The company itself didn't pay us," he replied, eyes

looking at the bottle like it was a well-aged steak. "There

was a law firm."

"Kaiser, Hirschtritt and Certilman," I said. "They

occupied the floor above."

Talcott nodded, his eyes red. He bit his lower lip. Hard.

"Go on," Jack said.

"The law firm leased one floor. Eighteen. About a year

after they leased it, our tenants on seventeen moved out.

We needed money bad. So when Brett Kaiser came to us

and made a proposition, we had no choice. The tenant that

occupied that floor had left three months earlier. We

couldn't afford to take another hit without recouping

some of our losses."

"What was the offer?" I said.

"Somebody would occupy the seventeenth floor. Only

for legal purposes, the firm would be listed as the leaser.

They would take care of monthly payments for both

floors. That was that. We treated it like a tenant was

simply occupying two floors."

"So who was on seventeen?" I asked.

"I don't know," Talcott said. "That was part of Kaiser's

deal. He said the people on seventeen would never need

anything from Orchid, and we should never ever contact

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71

them for any reason. I never went to that floor, and they

never even hired a cleaning crew as far as I know. One

time, though, one of our maid services told me she accidentally got off on the wrong floor, got lost. She said the

offices were closed, and had some sort of security system

she'd never seen before. Like something out of the space

program, she said."

"Doesn't sound like something a law office would

employ," I said to Jack. He didn't respond.

"There's something wrong with that company. I don't

know what it is, but I had a feeling that some day

somebody would ask me these questions. I never wanted

to know what they did. But I had to lease as much space

as possible or the building could have gone under."

"I'm sure Kaiser knew that," I said. "And knew you

wouldn't ask questions as long as the checks arrived on

time."

"I never needed to or wanted to ask questions," Talcott

said. "There are plenty of tenants whose businesses I'm

not fully acquainted with. As long as they're running a

legal operation and paying on time, they have their right

to privacy."

"And you have a right to know where your money is

coming from," I said.

"What if," Jack said, "you had a choice between getting

paid and having a tenant running a legal operation?"

"I've never had to make that choice."

"Never had to, or never wanted to think you had to,"

Jack replied.

Talcott said nothing, but that bottle of scotch was practically gravitating toward his hands.

"One more thing," Jack said. "Do you have contact information for Brett Kaiser?"

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Jason Pinter

"Sure," Talcott said. "Cell phone, home phone and

e-mail address. Will that be all?"

"Just the contact info," Jack said. "And if there's anything else you can think of, here's my card."

Jack handed it to him. Talcott stared at it like it might

spontaneously burst into flame, then pocketed it.

"Not a problem." Talcott took a piece of letterhead

from his printer and scribbled the information on it. His

handwriting was sloppy and careless. My guess was that

Iris was responsible for his "personal" notes.

When he finished, Talcott folded the page and inserted

it into an Orchid Realty envelope. Jack took it and stuffed

it inside his jacket pocket.

"Pleasure meeting you," Jack said, pointing at the

bottle of liquor. "Now we'll leave you two alone."

9

Morgan Isaacs kept one hand on his BlackBerry, which

was nestled snugly inside his front pants pocket. To

anyone on the street it looked like he might be playing a

game of pocket pool, but this Chester guy was ten minutes

late and Morgan didn't want to miss a phone call. He considered leaving. I mean, who in the hell meets about a job

on the street? And Morgan didn't like to wait. In his

previous job, people waited for him. He shared a secretary, a cute piece of ass named Charlotte he could have

had at any moment. Sometimes he would send her out for

coffee just because he could. When she came back, he

wouldn't even thank her, just go into his office, pour the

cup into the bottom of his fake plant, and pull out a can

of Red Bull.

But this guy was late. Just a few short months ago,

Morgan wouldn't wait for anybody. Some asshole wanted

him to wait five minutes? Screw you, let's reschedule.

Now, Morgan didn't know when he'd even find work

again. And with bills piling up he needed to earn scratch

no matter what the cost. So if he had to suck up his pride

for a little while, so be it. A necessary evil. And whoever

this jack-off was who had him wait, well, if the company

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was good enough, Morgan would be running it within a

few years anyway. Then he'd be the one making people

late.

He felt a sense of anger rise within him as he

watched hundreds of people walking down the streets,

oblivious to him, unknowing and uncaring of what he'd

been through. Men, women, dressed in natty suits with

the finest accoutrements, they had no idea that in the

time it took to snap your fingers they could be out of

a job just like him. They had no right to be so confident, so careless, while Morgan stood there, his immediate future resting in the hands of a recommendation

of Ken Tsang and the charity of some guy he'd never

met before.

In the cab ride over--he would have preferred the bus

to save money, but Chester didn't give him a whole lot

of time--Morgan wondered whether or not he'd take the

position if one was offered. Then he chided himself. Now

was not the time to be prideful. The bills would continue

to come, the debt would continue to mount. Even a modest income would provide a stint for the bleeding, and at

least he would have health care. Time to suck it up for a

few months, Morgan had told himself. Guys with his

talent and drive didn't grow on trees. And every bumpy

road led to riches down the line.

Morgan squeezed the cell phone--thought he'd felt

it vibrate.

"Mr. Isaacs?"

Morgan turned around to see where the voice came from.

Standing directly behind him, almost inappropriately close,

was a tall, well-built man with close-cropped blond hair. He

had on a pair of rimless Cartier sunglasses, must have run

at least five hundred bucks. Not too shabby. His gray suit

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75

was stretched over a lean frame, and Morgan could tell the

guy had enough strength in those biceps to crush a tin can.

Morgan didn't blink. Never show weakness, never

show admiration. He was never rude, but on a job interview you wanted to appear confident, not too eager. Like

they would be lucky to have you work for them.

"And you are...Chester?" Morgan said.

The man smiled and took off his sunglasses, folding

them and tucking the pair into his breast pocket. He held

out his hand. "Nice to meet you. Thanks for coming on

such short notice."

"No biggie," Morgan said. "Just had to reschedule a

few things, that's all."

"Really? Such as what?"

Morgan stammered, "I, uh, meetings, you know.

Banks. A bank."

"Oh, well I hope the bank understood," Chester said

with complete sincerity. If this guy realized Morgan was

full of shit, he wasn't letting on. "Let's walk."

Morgan followed Chester as he strolled down Fifth

Avenue. He matched the man step for step, tried to keep

his stride the same length but damn, the man had long

legs. Instead Morgan shortened his paces and walked

faster. It was two blocks before Chester spoke again.

"How's the job hunt going?" he said.

"It is what it is. There's always room for good workers,

I figure I'll take a little time, weigh my options and see

what the best fit is for me."

"Really," Chester said, his voice either distant or disbelieving. "Any good leads? Anything coming down the

pike?"

"Always something coming down," Morgan replied.

"Just a matter of who makes me the most attractive offer."

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Jason Pinter

"I understand that," Chester said. "Hold on a second."

Chester stopped at a vending cart and ordered a hot

dog. He paid, then slathered ketchup, mustard and relish

on it. He wolfed the dog down in three bites, still standing

at the cart, then wiped his lips with a napkin and continued walking.

"Sorry, did you want one?"

"S'okay," Morgan said. "I just had breakfast an hour

ago."

"Really," Chester said softly.

Morgan silently cursed himself. It was nearly twelvethirty. The fact that he had a late breakfast gave away

that Morgan had woken up late. If he'd woken up late,

he had nothing better to do. No job, no interview.

Morgan could feel himself falling behind, and hoped

Chester would let it slide.

"Your friend Ken spoke highly of you," Chester said.

"It really is a shame. Always the young, talented ones

who go before their time."

"I know what you mean," Morgan said. The truth was,

Ken was only a half-decent worker. A man with some bad

habits and with maybe a quarter of the brainpower

Morgan possessed. He didn't say any of this to Chester,

of course, but if this guy spoke so highly of Ken Tsang

he'd be simply blown away by Morgan Isaacs.

If it took this little to impress Chester, Morgan could

probably have his job in less than five years.

"I know I mentioned this to you before," Chester continued, "but Kenneth did some work for our firm. He was

a good man, a good soldier, and recommended you as

someone who could do the same kind of work if, well, if

you ever decided to pursue other opportunities."

"What kind of work did Ken do for you?" Morgan

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77

said. "Whatever it was, modesty aside, sir, I guarantee

Ken didn't know the half of what I'm capable of."

"Is that right?" Chester said, eyebrow raised.

"Yes, sir."

Chester nodded. He seemed pleased.

"I don't know what kind of money you were making

at your last job," Chester said, "but I hope you'll find that

if you do decide to work for us, the pay will be commensurate with what you'd expect."

Morgan was slightly surprised, considering this guy

was bringing up salary before even discussing the job. It

must be either crap work or a crappy salary, and Chester

probably figured he wouldn't waste any time, that if

Morgan didn't like the payoff, he'd walk away.

"What kind of figures are we talking about?" Morgan said.

"Well, we would have to start you out at the bottom of

the ladder. I'm sure you understand. So many people

competing for so few jobs these days. If you're not comfortable with that, I can move on. Ken did give me a few

other names."

Morgan felt his neck grow hot under his collar.

"What kind of money are we talking about?"

Chester stopped walking. He reached inside his coat,

pulled out a ballpoint pen. Then he walked over to a garbage can on the corner, tore a page off a loose newspaper. He scribbled something on the paper, then held it out

for Morgan to see.

Morgan felt his stomach lurch, felt his hands go cold.

Chester crumpled the scrap up and threw it back into the

trash, then he kept walking. Morgan was unable to move

for a moment, before snapping out of it and jogging to

catch up.

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Jason Pinter

This couldn't be right. Nobody started at the bottom

of any company and made that much money.

Chester was walking faster. Morgan's short legs

couldn't keep up, so he found himself half walking, half

jogging to keep alongside the man.

"If you're interested," Chester said, "you'll be downstairs outside of your apartment tomorrow at 1:00 p.m.

You'll be dressed just like you are now. Let me make this

clear. You do not have the job. Not yet. If you tell anybody

about the offer, or if you're one second late, you'll never

see me again."

"I'll be there," Morgan gasped.

"Good," Chester said. The man stopped walking. Out

of nowhere, a black Lincoln Town Car pulled up alongside them. Chester walked over, opened the door and

climbed in.

"Wait!" Morgan said. "Don't you need to know where

my apartment is?"

Morgan's words faded into the roar of the exhaust as

Chester's car sped away, leaving the young man confused, excited and ready.

10

When we arrived back at the Gazette, I followed Jack to

his desk. Yet as we rounded the corner, I saw Tony Valentine approaching. When Tony saw me his face lit up.

Actually I couldn't tell if his face lit up, considering there

was enough self-tanner on there to make George Hamilton

look pale, and his face was pumped with enough Botox to

iron out a shar-pei. But he did have a big smile on his face,

and his gait picked up when he saw me coming.

"Henry!" Tony exclaimed, jogging up and placing his

arm around me. "I've been looking for you. Where've you

been all morning?"

"Chasing a story," I said. "Tony, have you met Jack

O'Donnell?"

Tony shook his head, but took Jack's hand and did a

neat little bow. "Not yet, but your reputation precedes

you, Mr. O'Donnell. It's a pleasure."

"Pleasure's all mine, Mr. Valentine," Jack replied. His

tone surprised me. As a hard news man, I didn't think Jack

would have much use for Tony Valentine. Tony had recently been brought on board at the Gazette to kickstart

the paper's flailing gossip pages, which had grown stale

with coverage that revolved mainly around celebrities who

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stopped being famous before I was born. Tony was one of

the top names in the gossip field--if you could call it

that--and already his columns were among the most

e-mailed on the Gazette Web site. He dressed like he was

auditioning to be James Bond on a daily basis, and smiled

like he was being paid to. We had nothing in common other

than our employer, and I preferred to keep it that way.

"Henry," Tony said. "Glad we ran into each other. Do

I have an offer for you!"

"I already have life insurance," I said.

Valentine laughed. "That's a good one. Seriously now,

have you heard of Belinda Burke?"

The name sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn't

place it. "Sounds familiar," I said, "but I'm not sure why."

"Belinda was a contestant on Marry My Mother-in-

law. She won a million bucks by setting her mother-inlaw up with the dentist who walked from Dallas to

Newark stark naked."

"Oh, yeah. Right. Match made in heaven."

"Well, Belinda has quite a story to tell. So naturally

she's decided to write a memoir."

"That's nice. Literature was getting a bit stale."

"I totally agree! Anyway, she was going to use this

ghostwriter named Flak. Just one word, like Madonna. He

ghostwrote Joe the Plumber's autobiography, did a wonderful job. Anyway, Flak came down with syphilis and I

thought you might want to give it a crack. I know Belinda's

agent and could get you two a meeting, no problem."

"Um...why would I want to ghostwrite the memoir

of a D-list celebrity nobody's going to remember in

twelve months?"

"Because there's fifty grand in it for you if you can

deliver a manuscript in a month."

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81

"Somebody thinks she's worth fifty grand?"

"Oh, heck no. She got a million bucks for the book.

You get fifty k just to write it."

"She can't write it herself?"

Valentine laughed, deep and hearty. "Henry, I don't

think the woman can read. But that's not the point. Her

publisher is a little worried Belinda might have a short

shelf life, and they want to get the book out before the

next season of American Idol takes attention away from

her."

"The money sounds great, but I'm just not really into

that kind of thing. I never saw myself as that kind of

writer." I looked at Tony. "Just out of curiosity, why come

to me? What's in this for you?"

Tony grew a sly smirk. His eyes narrowed. I could tell

Tony Valentine was far more calculating than he let on.

"See, I knew you were a smart one. Here's the deal,

Henry. If you take this job, you get the money. That's how

you win. If Belinda publishes the book, she adds a few

ticks on to her fifteen minutes. She wins. And because I

got you the job and we work at the same paper, you feed

me exclusive info from the book that I can run in my

column. I win. We all win, Parker."

"Wow," I said. "It's like a whole big circle of ethics

violations."

"Say what you will, but who loses here?"

"Sorry, Tony. I have to say no."

"No apologies necessary," Tony said, taking a hair

pick from his suit jacket and running it through his glistening hair. That was a first. "But I hope you understand

why I put it on the table."

"I do. I appreciate you looking out for me. And

Belinda. And you," I said. "If you know anyone who

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wants me to test canned food for botulism, my Friday

night is free."

"See, that rapier wit. One more thing I love about you,

Henry. See you around. And it was nice to meet you, Mr.

O'Donnell." Tony walked away, whistling a tune I

couldn't identify but was definitely Sondheim.

"Have a good one," Jack said as Valentine rounded

the corner.

"Have a good one?" I said to Jack. "It took you a

month just to give me the time of day."

"You should be nicer to him," Jack said.

"You can't be serious," I replied. "Jack, he's a gossip

hound. A bottom feeder. He makes a living shoveling

garbage."

"And he's necessary for the survival of this newspaper," Jack said abrasively. "You can ride your high horse

until it dies of thirst, but this is not a business that's

growing, in case you haven't noticed. We didn't have a

real gossip columnist for years. Now, people are talking

about Tony. Besides, what do you think a newspaper is?

Every day, we print a hundred pages, give or take, and

reach over a million readers. You think every one of them

wants to read about crime and corruption? Some of them

need cheddar-flavored potato chips in their daily routine.

Something you know is crap but you enjoy it anyway. You

like steak, Henry?"

"Yeah, why?"

"How do you like your cut--lean and tough, or a little

more flavorful?"

"More flavor, I guess. Why?"

"You know what puts the flavor in steak? Fat. Too

much fat, in case you don't keep up on healthy trends, is

bad for you. But it makes the steak taste like a slice of

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83

heaven. That's what gossip is. It's fat. Without it, the

paper is leaner, tougher, but doesn't have as much flavor.

Maybe it's the kind of flavor that increases your cholesterol or hardens your arteries, but most people live in the

moment. You get what I'm saying, sport?"

"I get it," I said. "Doesn't mean I have to like it."

"You like your job, don't you?" I nodded. "Then live

with it. You do your job the best you can, don't worry

about everyone else."

"But don't you think, you know, that the Gazette

should have a higher standard? You've been here, what,

thirty years?"

"What do you think the Gazette is?" Jack said with a

laugh. "Our job is to report the news for the paper. It's

not the news's job to get to us. This company is the sum

of what we make of it. Now, if you want to work for a

company that only reports what you want, go start a blog."

"I understand what you're saying, but I don't have

to like it."

"Like it, hate it. It ain't changing," Jack said. "Now

here's the deal. I want you to call Brett Kaiser."

"Why me?"

"I've heard of his firm before. They handle civil litigation, among other things, including libel. Which means

they know a lot about newspapers, which means, no

offense, kiddo, he'll be a little less threatened by a--how

should I put this?--wet-behind-the-ears guy like you."

"I'm not that wet behind the ears," I replied.

"Come on, Henry. What was it, a year ago that you

could finally rent a car without paying extra fees?"

Rather than argue (and lose), I just nodded. We went

to my desk, Jack perching on the corner while I picked

up the phone. I dialed the number for Kaiser, Hirschtritt

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and Certilman from the paper Talcott gave us. A woman

picked up on the first ring.

"Kaiser, Hirschtritt and Certilman, how may I direct

your call?"

"Hi, I'd like to speak with Brett Kaiser."

"And who may I ask is calling?"

I looked at Jack, knowing where this was about to go.

"My name is Henry Parker. I'm with the New York

Gazette. "

"Hold on," she said, wariness in her voice. "I'll put

you through."

The next thing I heard was a dial tone. I placed the

receiver down.

"You got hung up on," Jack correctly surmised. I

nodded. "Go home."

"What?"

"It's been a long day. Get some rest. We're going to

be working like dogs over the next few days, and I don't

need you conking out on me."

"In case you haven't noticed, I've got almost fifty

years on you."

"True, but while you were smoking from atomic bongs

and doing keg stands in college, I was chasing leads. Get

some rest, Parker. I'll see you here tomorrow. Nine o'clock."

"I'll see you at eight," I said.

A smell greeted me in the apartment that I did not

immediately recognize. It resembled some sort of meat,

maybe chicken or fish, something sweet and citrusy--all

mixed with the tangy smell of something burning.

Making my way through the pungent stench to the

kitchen, I found the oven on and some sort of concoction

roiling and baking inside that, from the look of the sauce

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coating the insides of the appliance, didn't seem to be

enjoying it. As I got closer, a small bit of smoke escaped

the oven, so I quickly shut the device off.

"Amanda?" I yelled. "Are you here?"

There was no answer, so I tried again.

"Amanda?"

I heard a squeak as the bathroom door opened. The

shower was still running, and I could see Amanda's wet head

poking from behind the curtain. Her hair was filled with

shampoo and her eyes looked at me through a haze of steam.

"Henry?"

"Amanda, what the hell are you doing?"

"Bowling. What does it look like I'm doing?"

"You're aware that this apartment was about thirty

seconds from being on the eleven o'clock news."

"What?" she said, wiping suds from her face.

"I saved your mystery meat dish just in time before it

burned down the neighborhood."

"No way. The timer was supposed to go off after half

an hour. I didn't hear anything."

"You are in the shower, you know."

"No way. I have a keen sense of hearing."

"When you pressed half an hour," I said, "what exact

buttons did you press?"

"I held the button until it read three zero minutes and

zero seconds."

"Really," I said. "You're sure about that?"

"Sure. Why?"

"There's no seconds on the oven. It's just minutes and

hours. You set the timer for three hours and zero minutes."

"Oh. Crap. Sorry."

"It's okay," I said. "Just...never cook again. And apologize to the fish in there."

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"It was supposed to be orange chicken," she said.

"Well it's probably got the texture of volcanic rock

right now. You feel like pizza?"

She offered a sheepish grin, and said, "Let me finish

up in here and we'll order."

"Sure you don't want me to join you?"

"No, the toaster is on, too. Would you mind checking

on it?"

"The toaster? Are you ser..."

"Just kidding. Give me five minutes."

She closed the door and I collapsed on the couch. I

turned on the television and clicked through a hundred

and fourteen channels before deciding that there was

nothing worth watching. It was just as entertaining to sit

there and go through the events of the day, and prepare

for the next.

Hopefully Brett Kaiser could fill in much of the information that was missing. Somebody had to be paying

Kaiser's firm's share of the lease money, and with any

luck that person would have intimate knowledge of just

who my brother was working for and why he was

killed. I still didn't buy that it was totally a power play.

Stephen came to me because he was scared of something. If you work in a company and have problems

with underlings, there are ways to circumvent any

actions. Now when somebody above you wants you

gone, that's when you have a problem. If you feel that

your termination--pardon the term--is inevitable, you

begin planning an exit strategy. In the workplace,

maybe you look for another job, prepare a lawsuit,

something so that you're not thrown from an airplane

without a parachute. When Stephen came to me that

night, scared out of his mind (a mind already addled),

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he was looking for his exit strategy. Granted the actions

you take are a little different when you led a life of

crime as opposed to life in a cubicle, but the principle

still stood.

What I needed to know was who set Stephen on the

path to his eventual exit. Even though he didn't make it,

he had something to say. A story to tell.

Amanda came out of the shower. She was wrapped in

a towel, and over the towel she wore a pink bathrobe.

Above this contraption she was tousling her hair with

another towel. The combination of towels and thick

bathrobe made Amanda look about twice as thick as she

normally did, and I couldn't help but laugh.

"This is my routine," she said. "You should be used to

it by now."

"I am," I said, "but that doesn't mean you don't look

a little silly."

She took a seat on the couch, wrapping the towel into a

turban where it sat perched a whole foot above her head.

I'd bought the couch at an apartment sale for about a third

of what it would cost at a department store. It was brown

leather, with big cushions that I constantly rotated to change

up the stains. Made me feel like it was a little less worn.

"How was your day?" she asked, absently flipping

through the stack of the day's newspapers I kept on the

coffee table.

"Still working on this story with Jack," I said. "It's

interesting, working with him for the first time."

"In what way?"

"Jack was in pretty bad shape my first few years at the

Gazette. I hate to admit it, but there was a moment or two

when I wondered if this was really the same guy I grew

up wanting to be. Not many kids dress up like a journal-88

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ist for Halloween. It was important to me that he was who

I thought he was."

"You did not dress like a journalist," Amanda said.

"You bet your ass. Had a row of pens in my shirt

pocket, a camera and notepad and everything. Everyone

assumed I was Clark Kent."

"I would have paid to see that," Amanda said.

"There aren't a whole lot of photo albums back in

Bend. My dad wasn't exactly the sentimental type."

"How do you feel about how things are going?" she

asked. I took a seat next to her, thought for a moment.

"When I found out Stephen was dead, I felt numb. Like

someone was prodding me with a stick I could see but

couldn't feel. I was supposed to feel remorse, but it didn't

come at first. Someone can tell you that you lost a family

member, but if you didn't even know the person it's not

the same. It should be, I guess. Blood is blood, but in a

way it isn't. Now, it feels different. Like maybe I did lose

someone who could have-- should have--been closer to

me." I looked at Amanda, saw she was listening to every

word. "Without you, I'd have no one."

"Don't say that," she said, looking away. "That's not

true."

It was true, but I didn't want to argue. I'd made mistakes during our time together. Knowing when to shut up

was an important lesson.

She went back to reading the paper. Her fingers were

still a little wet, and I could see the print rubbing off on

them. She went to wipe her hands on the towel, then

smiled and thought better of it.

"You see this?" she said, holding up a copy of that

morning's Dispatch.

I shook my head. I rarely read the Dispatch. Not

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because I held a grudge against them--though I did--it's

because they never had much I felt was worth reading. It

was the kind of paper that rarely presented an even story.

It was all about eliciting a reaction, stoking a fire, presenting a story so biased in one direction or the other that

readers would either be incensed or infatuated. I had all

the major New York City papers delivered to my door in

one bundle. I could care less about the Dispatch, but it

didn't cost anything more and every now and then I

enjoyed reading the sports section.

"I must have missed it," I said. "What'd you see?"

"Paulina Cole," Amanda said. "Says here her column

will be suspended until Thursday while she deals with a

personal matter."

"Really?" I asked. That surprised me. Paulina Cole

was the kind of woman who didn't take personal leaves.

If my mental image of her was accurate, she stayed in her

office while darkness crept in, waiting for some scoop to

brighten her desk. And if she didn't get one, it would only

fuel her fire to make the next scoop even juicier.

I wondered what could be so important that she'd

suspend her reporting, even just for a few days. It would

take either an act of nature or a revolt by the paper's

shareholders to get rid of Paulina. Which meant somewhere a storm was brewing. Not to mention I'd be lying

if I didn't hope, after everything she'd done to Jack and

me, that it made her life a living hell.

No doubt Paulina would come back on Thursday with

a story that would open some eyes.

11

Wednesday

Paulina Cole glanced over her shoulder. Still nobody

there. The Mercedes was empty when she climbed in,

empty when she started the engine, and empty when she

pulled onto the FDR Drive toward I-95. She even checked

the trunk--nothing--but wondered if there had been

enough time for someone to climb in during the split

second when she closed the trunk and climbed into the

driver's seat.

The anger welling up inside Paulina was a firestorm.

She was scared, and God, she couldn't stand that feeling.

The idea that someone controlled an aspect of her life that

she did not, it was like being trapped in cement while

people poked you with a stick. That night, the night that

man took her, Paulina had experienced emotions she

didn't think she'd ever felt. Not when her husband left her.

Not when he took half of her money because his deadbeat

ass barely made a dime, not when she was fired from her

first job as a secretary for "not being presentable." Of

course this translated as she wouldn't wear a blouse lowcut enough that the partners could see her tits, but even

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then Paulina Cole didn't feel this sensation. Even then,

she knew her future was in her hands. Small people

thought small. She was meant for something bigger,

grander, and nobody, no idiotic men--whether spouse or

employer--would ever slow her down.

Until that night.

There were burn marks on her right side, just below

the curve of her breast. It ached every second of every

day, and she had to wear a massive bandage, otherwise

all the aloe she put on it would seep through her shirts.

She'd never been brutalized. Not like that. She could take

criticism. She could take people hating her. Hate came

when you got under somebody's skin, and Paulina was

nothing if not a provocateur.

But she did nothing to deserve this.

And neither did Abby.

Thinking about what that man threatened to do to her

daughter made Paulina shriek inside. And when Paulina

Cole got scared, she took those emotions and turned them

inside out. Fear turned to rage, and rage had to be directed

somewhere. She just didn't know where yet.

She arrived at Smith College at just past noon, the

entire hundred-and-sixty-mile-plus drive taking just over

two and a half hours. Luckily there wasn't much traffic

leaving Manhattan that early in the morning. Lots of

people lived outside the city and commuted in. Not a

whole lot did the opposite. No sense paying New York

living prices and make a non-NYC wage.

Finally Paulina found herself on College Lane, which

was bracketed on the north by Elm Street. Figured, she

thought, that this pagan sanctuary of a university would

have an Elm Street.

The office of admissions was a three-level white-92

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thatched cottage with a second-level deck that hung over

the entryway. The front door had several sun chairs on the

porch, though Paulina couldn't for the life of her figure

out who exactly would choose to spend a beautiful day

sitting in front of the admissions office.

Paulina parked the rental on the lawn directly outside

of the admissions office, purposefully ignoring the yellow

sign that clearly stated VEHICLES WITHOUT PARKING PERMITS WILL BE TOWED. Paulina knew this

game. In order for her car to be towed, the admissions

office would have to call the college's office of public

safety. The public safety office would have to dispatch an

officer to survey the vehicle. If the vehicle was, in fact,

parked without a permit, the public safety officer would

then have the go-ahead to call the local police department,

who would then dispatch a tow truck to remove the offending vehicle. The entire process, beginning to end,

would take about forty-five minutes.

Paulina didn't plan to be there more than five.

She walked into the admissions office, trying to avoid

eye contact with the students huddled in the foyer reading

the campus paper and checking their cell phones for text

messages. She went right up to the registrar and planted

her hands on the counter in front of the ruddy-faced man

who looked at her like she was some vicious bear come

in from the wilderness.

"Hi," Paulina said with the conviction of a woman

who knew she'd get whatever information she wanted and

might just tear out your spleen to get it. "I'm looking for

my daughter. I was wondering if you could let me know

what dorm room she's in."

"Your...daughter?" the man said, surprised. Paulina

could tell from the man's demeanor that he was probably

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not considered any sort of threat to the student body of

this all-girl school.

"Yes. My daughter. Abigail Cole." The man sat there

unmoving. "Is there a problem?"

"Well no," he replied. "It's just that, well, most parents

have their children's phone numbers and dorm rooms

etched into their brains. You know, one of those 'always

know where to reach your loved ones' deals."

"Yeah, well I'm not one of those parents," Paulina said.

"No, you don't seem to be." He picked up the phone.

"Would you like me to call her for you?"

"No," she said. "I'd prefer if you just told me where

she lives. I'd like it to be a surprise."

"Surprise. Sure. Can I just see some ID?"

Paulina handed it over. The man took it gently between

his thumb and index finger like one might handle a piece

of forensic evidence. He looked at it, typed a few keys

into his computer, then slid it back to her.

"Thanks, Ms. Cole. Abigal lives in room three-ohthree of the Friedman apartments."

"Where can I find that?"

"It's the housing complex at the corner of Elm and

Prospect streets. But you'll need somebody to let you

in--like Abigail. The doors are locked 24/7, and campus

security is always on the lookout for people who don't

necessarily look like they know what they're looking

for."

"Thanks for the tip," she said, and left.

She drove over to the apartment complex and found a

spot in the student lot in between a Volvo that looked

sturdy enough to withstand tank fire and a Prius with a

Kerry/Edwards bumper sticker lovingly forgotten on the

rear bumper.

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She walked across the lawn toward the middle of the

three dorms, for a moment thinking back to her own time

at college, wondering where it all went. She barely remembered the days that seemed to have flown by in a blur

of books and late nights, staying up until four in the

morning to ace the test that nobody else figured they

could pass. Paulina smiled as she watched all the young

women, these silly young women who probably had no

idea what kind of world awaited them. Most looked like

they didn't have a care in the world, and who knew,

maybe they didn't. But, one thing Paulina knew for sure,

it was the ones who cared too much who succeeded. The

ones who refused to stay down when they were beaten

down. The ones who refused to take "no," and instead

took everything. She prayed for years that her daughter

was like that. Sadly, she'd resigned herself to the fact that

it was not meant to be.

Approaching the dorm, Paulina stopped two young

women carrying backpacks and chatting. "Excuse me,"

she said. "Can you tell me where I can find room threeoh-three?"

The thicker one who had short hair and stringy-looking

tassels lining it, pointed to the dorm on the left, then

middle. "One hundreds, two hundreds, three hundreds."

She finished by pointing at the dorm on the right.

"Thanks very much," Paulina said, and waited until the

girls left. She walked up to the entrance, a glass door

leading into a small atrium that was also locked from the

outside. She took out her cell phone, pretended to send

text messages while she waited. Finally a girl approached

the door, looking in her purse for a key. When she found

it and inserted it into the lock, Paulina stepped behind her

and put the phone away. The girl opened the door, and

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Paulina caught it before it could close, following her into

the atrium. The girl turned around, looked at Paulina.

"I'm sorry," she said, her young blond hair looking so

tender, so naive. "We're not supposed to let strangers

inside the dorms."

"Oh, I'm no stranger," Paulina said, laughing. "Do

you know Abigail Cole?"

The girl's eyebrows lifted. "Why do you ask?"

"My daughter," Paulina said, shrugging. "Surprise visit."

Suddenly the girl smiled, enthusiasm radiating from

her. It took Paulina by surprise. "No way!" the girl nearly

shrieked. "I'm Pam. I've asked Abby so many times about

her family and, well, I guess you know what she's like.

When she decides to clam up, no crowbar in the world

can get her talking."

"That's Abby," Paulina said. "So you know her?"

"Know her?" Pam asked, somewhat surprised. "Hasn't

she mentioned..."

"We don't talk much."

"Oh. Because we've been...I don't know, seeing

each other."

"Really," Paulina said.

Pam nodded, hesitating before she spoke. "But I guess

Abby didn't tell you."

"Must have slipped her mind."

"Here," the girl said, opening the inner door and holding it for Paulina. "Sorry to keep you."

"She's in room three-oh-three, right?"

"She might be."

"Might be?"

The girl began to look nervous. She brought a finger

to her lip and began to chew. "She's kind of been hanging

out at my place. Just for the last few weeks."

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"Is she there now?"

"Probably. She doesn't have psych until three."

"Do you mind then?" Paulina said, pointing toward the

elevator bank.

"Oh, we're on the first floor. Follow me."

The girl led Paulina down the corridor, filled with

campus notices, posters and random detritus. When they

arrived at room three-nineteen, the girl knocked.

"Abby, are you decent?" she asked.

Before the door could open, a voice from inside called

cheekily, "I don't have to be."

"Abby, open up," Pam said.

"All right, don't get your panties knotted." Paulina

heard a latch being undone from inside, and the door

opened. Standing in the doorway was a girl Paulina both

recognized and did not. Those green eyes, that long,

equine nose she got from her father, she'd recognize those

traits anywhere. But the jet-black hair, the nose ring, the

thick eyeliner--it nearly obscured the girl Paulina had

raised all those years ago.

"Hi, Abby," Paulina said.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," came her

daughter's startled reply.

12

Morgan stood outside of his apartment, his cheeks still

stinging from that morning's shave. It was a good pain,

though, one that reminded him of what it felt like to wake

up with a purpose, to wake up knowing that the day would

take him somewhere. Shaving wasn't a big deal on the

surface. Lots of people liked scruffiness, women especially these days, as though there was a magnetism to the

inherent laziness of it. Morgan loved the feel of running

a sharp blade over his face during a hot shower, the feel

of patting his skin after drying off. He knew that whenever he felt like that, things would go his way. A big paycheck. Some honey who knew he brought home the

money whereas that bearded artist who spent every penny

he owed on cheap paints and canvas could not.

Cleanliness. Right next to godliness. Perhaps somewhere in that equation was Morgan Isaacs.

He didn't dare bring a cup of coffee with him, or anything more than his wallet and keys. He had no idea what

this guy Chester wanted, this guy with the hair so blond

it nearly disappeared in the sunlight. He didn't look like

he belonged in New York, this guy. His ear-length blond

hair and lanky but strong build reminded him of a pro

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surfer, maybe one of those guys you saw pumping iron

on Venice Beach. Someone who took care of their body

for a reason. Not a gym rat like most New Yorkers, but

someone whose vocation required it.

The day was crisp, the streets quiet after rush hour.

Morgan wondered why Chester wanted to meet at one,

such an odd time. Something about the whole deal

smelled not quite right, but Ken Tsang was nothing if not

a bloodhound for straight-up cash, so if he ended up

working with this guy there had to be money involved.

Just when he was thinking about what kind of payday

could be involved, a shiny black Lincoln Town Car pulled

up right in front of Morgan, the tires screeching to a halt.

Morgan watched as a driver exited, an older white guy

wearing one of those hats that said he'd probably been

driving rich folks around most of his life, and opened the

back door. When nobody came out, Morgan stepped

forward. Chester was sitting inside. He was wearing a

sharp gray suit and sunglasses, his blond hair a striking

contrast against the black leather.

Chester tapped the seat next to him and said, "Get in."

Morgan nodded and slid into the backseat, pulling

the door closed behind him. The car sped off as swiftly

as it stopped. Morgan turned to see Chester staring at

him, smiling.

"Glad you could make it," he said. "You ready to make

some money?"

Morgan smiled right back.

The car cruised effortlessly downtown, turning left

onto Fifth Avenue. Morgan felt a slight lump rise in his

throat as they sped by his old office building. It wasn't

right that he was gone. All his life Morgan Isaacs had

dreamed of making his living in finance, working for a

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bank or a hedge fund, having a different, brilliant suit for

every day of the week. He would have one of those

massive corner offices, a bar stocked with decanters filled

with the most expensive liquors money could buy. He

would have a beautiful young secretary, some hot girl just

out of college who had no desires in life other than to

work until the day she met someone like him, someone

like Morgan, who could satisfy their every need and pay

the bills so she would never have to work another day in

her life. She would have dinner ready, shop (but not too

much), be a doting mother and always have a good reason

as to why Daddy came home late.

He wouldn't be one of those absentee fathers. No,

Morgan actually looked forward to having children. He

wanted vacations to the Greek islands, ski trips to Telluride.

He wanted a pied-a-terre in France, a vacation home in the

Bahamas. He wanted to send Christmas cards and have

picture frames littering his massive desk. He wanted everything. Right now, sitting in the back of this shiny black car,

with a perfect stranger next to him on whom Morgan's

future might well depend, this was most definitely not the

direction Morgan had expected his life to take.

This was not too much to ask, Morgan thought. Everything was going perfectly until the economy went

downhill faster than an Olympic skier and soon he was

out on his ass with thousands of other men just like him.

Men with GPAs in the high threes, impeccable references

and several internships and jobs from which they could

draw experience. Even if (and this was an if the size of

the Grand Canyon) a job opened up, it would be like

trying to get a drink at a hot bar at one in the morning.

Thousands of people pushing and shoving like barbarians

to get the attention of one person. Was one resume really

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better than the other? It didn't matter. But Morgan had

Chester. Good old Chester.

"Anything stand out to you?" Chester said as they

passed through midtown.

"Um...it's a nice day?" Morgan said, not sure what

Chester was getting at.

Chester smiled. "It is that. But look at the streets.

Notice anything?"

"Uh, not really."

"Not really," Chester said. "Exactly what I noticed."

"Wait, what do you mean?"

"These streets, they used to teem with professionals. It's

lunch hour and you can count the suits on two hands. What

is the financial workforce down, ten, twenty percent?"

"At least," Morgan said.

"These streets used to mean something," Chester said,

his voice almost wistful, making Morgan wonder if Chester

had ever held a job here. His attitude and dress were corporate all the way, but he was loose enough to hang with

the boys at a steak house or strip joint. Morgan's guess was

that Chester was in upper management, the kind of guy

everyone else reported to who could act with a little disregard. The kind of guy Morgan couldn't be...yet.

"Did you know," Chester continued, "that over a hundred thousand people have lost their jobs in this city in

the last two years? I mean, Christ, think about it. Think

about how many of those hundred thousand used to work

here," he said, gesturing to the towering skyscrapers that

housed floors and floors of seasoned pros. "Think how

many of them used to walk these streets. And now think

about how many of them are sitting at home right now,

watching their savings dwindle, waiting for one call that

probably won't come."

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101

Chester looked out the window as he said those last

words, but Morgan could tell they were directed at him.

Talking about many like him. Morgan stayed quiet.

Didn't want Chester to know what he was thinking.

"Think how many of those people," Chester continued,

"would give anything for the chance to replace that income." He stopped. Looked at Morgan. "And then some.

What would you do for that chance?"

Morgan's eyes met Chester's directly. Without hesitation, he said, "Anything."

"We'll see."

13

"I, uh...I think I'll go check my mail," Pam said.

Abigail looked at her and said nothing. Paulina said,

"That's not a bad idea. If you wouldn't mind giving us a

few minutes."

"She doesn't have to do anything she doesn't want to,"

Abigail said, her eyes burning a hole through her mother.

"No, she doesn't. That's why I'm asking. And," Paulina said, digging into her pocketbook and producing a

twenty-dollar bill, "I'll pay for her next beer run."

"Classy, mom," Abigail said. She sighed, looked at

Pam. "This won't take more than fifteen minutes."

"Half an hour," Paulina said. Abigail looked at her

mother as though no greater torture had ever been imposed upon man or beast. Paulina stared right back.

"Fine. Half an hour. And take the money."

"I really shouldn't..." Pam said.

Abigail continued, "Trust me. It doesn't begin to cover

what she owes me."

Pam reluctantly took the money and left the room,

leaving Paulina and Abigail alone.

"Can we talk inside?" Paulina said. She peeked into

the dorm room. It was a flat-out mess. The floor was

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covered in strewn paper, dirty clothes and burnt incense

sticks. Their furniture was comprised of two beanbag

chairs, a twin bed with a frame that looked as stable as

Paulina's ex-husband, and a ratty couch that some homeless person had probably sold to them for less than the

twenty she just gave to Pam. Whatever, Paulina thought.

She didn't have to live in this mess. If her daughter chose

to, so be it.

"Fifteen minutes," Abigail said, checking her watch.

"Then I want you out of here."

"I don't like being here any more than you like me being

here," Paulina said. "Trust me, I'll make it as quick as I can."

They nodded, and Paulina entered the room. She took

a look at the beanbag chairs, then pulled out the tiny desk

chair. She eased herself onto it, and watched as her daughter launched herself into a blue beanbag chair. Abigail

pulled out a cigarette and lit it, opening the window

slightly to let the smoke drift out.

"When did you start smoking?" Paulina asked.

"When did you start caring?" Abigail answered.

"You're not going to make this easy, are you?"

"Is that what you want? You want me to make this

easy? Sure, why not? I mean, we have all these great

memories to fall back on, all these great mother-anddaughter moments we both cherish." She said the last

words with biting sarcasm. "Why are you here, Mom?"

Paulina leaned forward, put her face in her hands, took

a breath. "I need to ask you a few questions."

"Is this for, like, one of your newspaper articles?"

"No, it's nothing like that. Just promise me you'll answer

me, and be honest. I don't care about the answers and I won't

judge you. I just need to know it for safety reasons."

"Safety reasons? What the hell are you talking about?"

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"There's a photo, of you. It was taken at the beach. I

need to know how someone could have seen it?"

"I go to Jones Beach every weekend during the summer," Abigail said. "You'll have to be more specific."

"You're wearing a pink bikini. Yellow sunflowers on

it. You look like you dug some sort of big hole, and...you

look happy. And you were still a blonde."

Abigail thought for a moment. Then she smiled, too.

"Like two months ago," she said. "I went to Jones Beach

with some friends, and buried this guy named Ryan in the

sand. He's dating our friend Marcia. Good times."

"How could somebody else have gotten a hold of that

photo?" Paulina asked.

Abigail's scornful look disappeared, and suddenly

she became concerned. "Why are you asking that?

What happened?"

Paulina leaned back in the chair, the wood stiff and

playing hell with her neck. "There's some guy...he's

trying to get to me, to threaten me, and he said...well, and

he found that photo of you somehow. I need to know

where he could have gotten it."

Abigail's fright took center stage now. She cupped her

hands together, started breathing into them. Paulina was

unsure of what to do at first, but the sight of her only

daughter terrified was too much to bear. She stood up

and went over to her daughter, placing her hands on

Abigail's shoulders.

"Listen, Abby, I would never let anything in the world

happen to you. You might hate me, and you might have

reason to hate me. But I'd sooner let my body be ripped

limb from limb than let anything happen to you."

Abigail choked back a laugh. "Can't we just avoid both?"

Paulina laughed. "Hopefully."

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105

"I posted a set of those photos to Facebook," she said.

"Maybe a month ago. I'm not sure."

"So who could see the photos?"

"Anyone I'm friends with online."

"How many friends do you have on Facebook?"

"Hold on, I'll check."

Abigail went over to the desk and sat in the stiff chair.

She turned on the laptop, waited for it to boot, tapping her

dark, polished fingernails on the desk. When the computer

started, Abigail opened Internet Explorer and logged on

to her Facebook account. Paulina saw that Abigail's

profile photo was a close-up of her face, specifically her

left eye and cheek. It was so close you could see every

individual pore. It looked faux artsy, the kind of thing you

took with a webcam and thought it to be poignant.

"A hundred and ninety-six," she said.

"Jesus," Paulina said. "A hundred and ninety-six

people have access to photos of you in a bikini."

"You want to judge me, Mom? I've heard some stories

about you."

"This isn't about me. Somebody used one of these

photos. Is there any way to see who's accessed the set?

Or who's printed them out?"

Abigail shook her head. "Nope. Privacy issues."

"Privacy my ass. Listen, Abby, I need you to print out

a list of all your friends on this thing, anyone who has

access to those photos."

"No way, Mom. Other people have privacy, too."

"Trust me, these other people would prefer this than

the alternative."

Abigail looked her mother in the eye, huffed and said,

"Okay. Fine. But nobody else sees them besides you."

"You have my word. And if these 'friends' have e-mail

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addresses, that would be helpful. I'm not looking to pry,

I just want to be sure. I promise once I'm done it'll all be

shredded."

"You gave your word," Abby said.

"One more question, then I'm done," Paulina said.

"Have you recently seen a man around campus--tall,

blond hair, about ear length? Late thirties or early forties

and well built?"

"Doesn't ring a bell. Sure he's not one of 'your'

friends?" she said pointedly.

"No. He's not."

"I haven't seen anyone like that. Trust me, he'd stand

out on this campus."

"All right then."

Paulina stood up. Abigail did not. Paulina waited to see

if her daughter would, to see if there was any chance at a

last embrace before she left. Abigail was already opening

her page and scrolling through photos. Paulina leaned in

closer. Abby was staring at one of her and Pam, standing

in front of a gushing fountain, holding hands and smiling.

When she noticed her mother was looking, Abigail

covered the screen with her hand.

"I'll scan it and e-mail it to you," Abigail said. "You'll

have it by tomorrow morning."

"Thank you," Paulina said. "You know, Abby, I don't

even have your cell phone number."

Paulina laughed at this. Abby did not. It took a moment,

but Paulina understood why that wasn't quite so funny.

"That's not a surprise," Abigail said, "considering I

hear from you once a year. I figured either you didn't have

my number or you just couldn't find more than five

minutes every twelve months."

"I know I could have done a better job, could have

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107

been a better friend. Consider this my attempt to make it

up to you."

Abigail considered this for a moment, then said, "Fine."

Paulina took out her cell phone, plugging in the numbers as her daughter spoke them.

"That's it?" Paulina said.

"That's it."

"Thanks, hon, I promise I'll call soon."

"Mom?" Abigail said.

"Yes, Abby?"

Abigail's face looked far more pale than it did when

Paulina first entered. Eyes wider, more fearful. A pang of

guilt ripped through Paulina, knowing her daughter

wouldn't have to deal with any of this if that blond bastard

hadn't needed her to promote his sick agenda. She knew

many more lives were at stake than Abby's...but this was

her daughter.

"That photos set I mentioned," Abby said. "The picture

you mentioned was in that set. It was Pam's favorite

picture. She told me she loved it, and she said she wanted

to keep one just for us."

"Wait," Paulina said. "What are you saying?"

"I never posted that photo online. That guy you're

talking about...somebody else must have given it to him."

14

"Nothing," Jack said, slamming down the phone in

disgust. "I've called his office, his cell phone, his secretary, his publicist, his wife, his alleged mistress, and

nobody will connect me to Brett Kaiser. Please tell me

you have something."

I shook my head, discouraged. "I've spent the entire

morning trying to reach Marissa Hirschtritt and Joel Certilman. Nothing. They won't talk to me, or refer me to

anybody who will. And they said that if anything is

printed about their firm, their official position is 'no

comment.' At least until they sue us for whatever libel

they seem certain we're going to print. That firm is locked

up like a vault. And the worst part is that they know we're

looking into them, so they can already start preparing."

"And knowing our good-hearted chairman, he's not

going to want to pay thousands of dollars in legal fees to

fight a law firm over a story that we have no backing to

go on yet." Jack paused, thought for a moment. "When

people aren't responding to you, there's only one way

around it."

"What's that?" I asked.

Jack stood up. Picked up his briefcase. "You walk

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right into the enemy's camp, lay down your weapons and

ask to speak to their leader."

"You learned this, where, reporting from the jungle?"

"Vietnam, actually."

"No kidding. I never knew you reported from Vietnam."

"Spent most of my time in Laos," Jack said. "Worked

a lot with a great photographer named Eddie Adams. You

enjoy photojournalism?"

"A little. Back in Oregon," I said. "Before I was old

enough or smart enough to really understand history, I

used to love flipping through old magazines just for the

photo inserts. A great picture can be a snapshot of a time

or place that words could never fully describe." Jack

nodded, agreeing. "I used to really admire a photographer

named Hans Gustofson. I remember he took this fantastic photo of President Reagan standing next to the 'You

Are Leaving' sign that had just been removed from along

the Berlin Wall."

"Great eye, Gustofson. Didn't he die a few years ago?"

"Yeah," I said, shifting uncomfortably. "Badly."

Jack nodded.

"Eddie Adams," I said. "Why does that name sound

familiar?"

"Nguyen Ngoc Loan," Jack said.

"Excuse me?"

"General Nguyen Ngoc Loan. Chief of the National

Police of the Republic of Vietnam. You say you liked historical photographs, you might remember that one. Loan

was the commanding officer during the arrest of a Viet

Cong political operative. The national police mistakenly

identified the prisoner as having plotted the assassination

of numerous Viet Cong police officers. And so on February first, nineteen sixty-eight, in the middle of a des-110

Jason Pinter

olate street in Saigon in broad daylight, with the unarmed

man's arms tied behind his back, General Loan took out

a pistol, put it to the prisoner's head and pulled the trigger.

Eddie Adams was the man who took that photograph.

That one snapshot, taken right as the bullet entered the

innocent man's brain, was one of the catalysts that singlehandedly changed American perception of the war in

Vietnam."

"I remember that picture," I said, feeling a chill, remembering the first time I'd seen it in Time magazine. "I

remember the prisoner was wearing this plaid shirt. And

the look in the general's eye...like the man he just killed

was nothing. Had meant nothing."

Jack nodded. Then he said, "In the background of that

picture, just over the general's left shoulder, there's a

man. You can't really make out his face or what he's

doing, but he's there."

I looked at Jack. The lines in his face, veins in his hands,

a body that had seen more than I might in two lifetimes.

"That was you," I said. "You were there that day."

"It was actually my wedding anniversary," Jack said

with a slight laugh. "When my first wife asked where I was

that day, I showed her the picture. Suddenly she didn't feel

so bad about my not being able to spend it with her."

"Why do you still do it?" I said. "Once you've been a

part of these...these...moments that change history. I

mean, that's what every reporter dreams of, right? Being

there at the right time. Casting light on something that

was covered in darkness. Once you've done that...how

do you stay motivated?"

"I was never looking for those moments," Jack said.

"If they came, they came. If not, I went right on working. But a real reporter doesn't seek out those moments.

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111

We don't judge what's happening in front of our eyes.

History creates those moments. All we can do is share

the truth through our words. And if we're honest, and

there's a story in that darkness, the moments come.

But I never sought them out. I sought the truth. And if

you keep digging for it, under every goddamn rock in

this world...you'll find a few of those moments."

"If I die having had just one of those moments," I said,

"I'd die a happy man."

"Maybe you already have, Henry," Jack said. "You

just don't know it yet. Maybe this story is even it."

"Well, if it is, Brett Kaiser sure isn't going to make it

any easier."

"Well, let's try the good old-fashioned ambush

method."

"What do you suggest?" I said.

"I'll go to the firm's office, buy myself a big old cup

of coffee, sit in the lobby and wait for Mr. Kaiser to leave.

If security doesn't want a fellow such as myself loitering, I'll simply wait outside. And if they tell me to leave,

I'll tell them to kiss my wrinkly old ass."

"And my job?"

"Why, you're going to wait at Mr. Kaiser's Park

Avenue apartment building and do the exact same thing.

You might even try sweet-talking his doorman. You have

no idea how much information those guys have, and what

they're willing to tell you if you treat them like human

beings. Unlike Park Avenue tenants who usually treat

their doormen like they're one step above pond scum."

"And what if Kaiser shows up?"

"Simple," Jack said. "You tell him what we have, and

ask him to discuss it with you. Guys like this, these alpha

male pricks, hate hiding behind publicists and lawyers,

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even if they are one. They don't like being shown up by

punks like you."

"Punks like me?"

"Yes," Jack said, arching his eyebrow. "Punks like

you. At least that's how he'll see you. Actually, I'm kind

of hoping he does see you first. Young guy, you're less

of a threat. Probably figures you write for the school

newspaper. If you see Kaiser, you don't walk away with

less than something we can print that doesn't rhyme with

'Woe Bomment.'"

"I think I can manage that."

"Good. Keep your cell on. I'll call you if anything

happens on my end." I got up to leave. Jack put his hand

on my shoulder, said, "Good luck, Henry. Get this."

I nodded, went over to my desk and packed my things.

15

I arrived at Brett Kaiser's apartment at just after two

o'clock. There was a Korean deli on the corner where I

bought a cup of coffee and an energy bar.

I walked over to the building, a bright Park Avenue

complex that by my count was twenty stories high, with

beautiful western views where you could see all the way

down for miles. There was one doorman on duty, a man

in his early forties wearing a blue uniform and the kind

of top hat you only saw in movies about the 1920s. He

was slightly heavyset, the beginnings of jowls on his

face, a fresh razor burn under his chin.

A cab pulled up, and the doorman approached, leaning

down to open the car door. A slender blonde in her forties

slid out, thanked the doorman and went into the building.

The doorman watched her as she entered the building,

holding his gaze just long enough for me to know that had

she turned around, she wouldn't have been pleased.

When the woman disappeared into the elevator, I approached.

"Afternoon," I said.

The man nodded. "Can I ring someone for you, sir?"

he replied.

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"Not yet," I said. "Is Mr. Kaiser home?"

"I haven't seen him yet today."

"Ah, let me guess, you're on the eight a.m. to four p.m.

shift. I guess that means Mr. Kaiser is up and at work

early." The doorman looked at me oddly.

"Sir?"

"No sweat, just making an observation. Name's

Henry," I said, extending my hand. The doorman hesitated. "I'm a reporter with the New York Gazette. "

If he'd considered shaking my hand before, that idea

was now gone.

"As I said, sir," he replied, his voice much colder, "Mr.

Kaiser is not home at the moment."

"I know, you mentioned that. I have to ask him a few

questions."

"Questions?"

I had to stop myself from smiling. Here's the thing

about New York City doormen: they love to talk. Your

average doorman opens and closes a door for eight hours

a day, but barely gets more than two words from their

tenants. If you stop to chat, they'll talk your ears blue. So

few people actually talk to doormen, that if you gave

them an inch they'd take eight miles.

And I was prepared to give this one a few feet.

"We're investigating a... I can't really talk about it yet.

But hopefully Mr. Kaiser can answer all our questions

thoroughly. And I promise, you won't be mentioned."

"Why would I be mentioned?" he said, that voice

thawing with concern.

"You won't be," I said. "If you knew anything about

Mr. Kaiser, anything suspicious, even something you

thought one day and just dismissed, it would help his

cause and ours. I'm looking for the truth, Mr...."

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115

"Anderson," the man said. "Donald Anderson."

"Well, Donald..."

"You can call me Don."

"Okay, Don. Thanks for being so agreeable."

"Am I?"

"Are you what?"

"Being agreeable." Don blinked as he spoke.

"Yeah, you are. So, are you friendly with Mr. Kaiser?"

"I mean, in so much as he doesn't say much, I've never

gotten any complaints from him."

"No complaints. Any compliments?"

"He's not what you'd call the most talkative guy," Don

said. "He tips over the holidays, kinda gives a little nod

when he's on his way out or back in. Other than that he

don't say much."

"You ever try talking to him?"

"You ever work as a doorman?" Don asked.

"No, I haven't."

"Every tenant's got a different personality. You got to

learn how each person acts and reacts towards you, and

tailor your personality towards that. I swear, my first few

months on the job I felt like I was going crazy, developing one of those, whaddaya call 'ems, split personalities.

Mrs. Delahunt, she walks her dog like clockwork at

seven-thirty in the morning. She always says, 'Say hi,

Toodles!' like she's expecting the dog to talk to me. At

first I couldn't figure out why she treated me like such a,

pardon my French, such a bitch. Then Charles, the evening doorman, told me I had to say hello back to Toodles.

So every day at seven-thirty, I say hi to this little rat dog

Toodles. And every year at Christmastime, Mrs. Delahunt

gives me a tip twice as big as most tenants. All because

I say hello to her freaking dog."

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Jason Pinter

"So how does Mr. Kaiser fit in?"

"My first few months, I tried to be real polite. 'Hello,

Mr. Kaiser. Have a good day, Mr. Kaiser. Welcome home,

Mr. Kaiser.' I never get more than a grunt. One day I must

be thinking about something else--maybe Mrs. Delahunt's

fine daughter--and I forget to say hello to him. I just open

the door, not even thinking, and then I hear him say,

'Thanks, Don.'I swear it was like Christmas came early that

day."

"So what did you do?"

"I realized Kaiser didn't like being spoken to. Gestures

were fine, but man, did he think highly of himself. The

most effective method is a little nod as he comes through

the door. Closer to the holidays, tip time, I might give him

a tip of the cap. But that's all. I don't engage in conversation, I don't say a word to the man."

"Sounds like you've got this down to a science."

"Still refining my game," Donald said. "Always room

for improvement."

"So I need to ask one more question about Mr. Kaiser,

Don, and I'll be out of your hair."

"Shoot. Just promise you won't tell him I spoke to you,

and please don't print my name."

"This really has nothing to do with you, it's just to help

me understand Mr. Kaiser. You've watched all these

tenants for years, right?"

"That's right."

"Is there anything about Mr. Kaiser, either his mannerisms or something else, that strikes you as kind of

strange? Something that stands out as different?"

Don laughed. "Everyone's different in their own way.

There's one guy, a psychiatrist on eleven. Different prostitute every Friday night."

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117

"Um, I don't think I needed to know that," I said. Don

shrugged. "Is there anything about Brett Kaiser, though,

that's different?"

Don scratched his chin. "Actually, this did seem a little

strange, but I guess I got used to it. Every Tuesday night

at midnight, Mrs. Kaiser leaves the apartment. And about

five seconds after she leaves, this guy comes over."

"Wait. She just leaves?"

Donald said, "That's right. Goes to the 24/7 coffee

shop on the corner."

"How do you know that?"

"Every now and then she'll bring me a cup of coffee

and a Danish. The bags were always from that shop."

"Do you have any idea who this guy is? Business

partner? Maybe a lover?"

"Hey, man, I don't know that much about my tenants'

private lives. But I don't think so, as far as the gay stuff

goes. He was a real tall guy. Wore sunglasses a lot, even

at night. Looks a little like a G.I. Joe action figure.

Stands real straight, even less personable than Mr.

Kaiser if that's possible. Even after he'd been coming

over for a few months the guy never even looked me in

the eye. Got the blondest hair I've ever seen, kind of

wavy. He comes out at midnight and stays for just about

an hour. Then he leaves at one, and Mrs. Kaiser comes

back just as he's left."

"Do you have any idea what he's doing?"

"No, sir. Shows up, stays an hour, then leaves. No idea

why or who he is, but he never causes trouble and always

seems pleasant enough."

"What's his name?" I asked.

"Sir?"

"When you buzz him up, what name does he give you?"

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"I don't buzz him up anymore. By this point I know

he's okay so I don't bother."

"But at the beginning," I continued, "he must have

given you a name. Do you remember it?"

Don thought for a moment, then he said, "Chester. I

think it was Chester."

"You sure?" I said.

"Not a hundred percent, but I think so."

"What else can you tell me about him?" I said. Suddenly Don stood up straight and took several steps back

from me. He straightened his hat, then stepped forward.

I turned around to see a Lincoln pulled up at the curb. Don

was approaching the backseat door, which he opened,

bending over slightly while holding his hat with his free

hand. When the door was fully open, a man stepped out

and nodded at Don.

He was about six feet tall, slightly stocky, a middleaged man who clearly took care of himself. His black hair

was slicked back into a neat coif, and his skin was evenly

tanned. His watch glimmered in the afternoon sun, and I

didn't need to look closer to know it was real, and had

likely cost nearly as much as my education.

He strode up to the entrance, and I could tell from

the slightly scared look in Don's eyes that this was

Brett Kaiser.

"Mr. Kaiser," I said, matching his pace. Not an easy

feat. "My name is Henry Parker. I'm with the New York

Gazette. Can I ask you a few questions?"

Kaiser turned to glare at me, barely breaking stride. "I

have nothing to say to you," he sniffed.

"Can I ask you what you know about 718 Enterprises?

Do you know a man named Stephen Gaines?"

Kaiser stopped, turned to face me. His eyes were

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119

cobalt-blue, but there was an anger in them that went well

beyond that of a businessman annoyed at a prying reporter.

"Listen here, you little prick," he said. "I don't know

who the hell this Gaines fellow is, and I sure as hell am

not going to talk to you about anything else. I--"

"So you know about 718 Enterprises."

"That's not what I said."

"You denied knowing Stephen Gaines, but didn't

deny being aware of a company that was allegedly paying you for lease space in your office building. Why not

deny that as well?"

"Like I said, I have nothing to say to you."

"One question," I said. "One question and I'll leave."

Kaiser held a moment. I could tell that this man hated

being shackled by a "no comment," didn't believe he had

to bow to anybody or pretend his nose was clean. He ran

his business the way he chose, and he'd be damned if

anybody else told him that he might have erred on the

wrong side of the law.

"One question," he said, "and then if I ever see you

again I'll have your job taken away faster than you can

clean all this mud off of you."

Cute line, I thought. It never ceased to amaze me that

men like Kaiser could so calmly keep potentially devastating and illegal secrets, yet somehow I was the bad guy.

"Why?" I said. "Why take their money? Your practice

seems to be thriving. Why take the risk?"

Kaiser opened his mouth, but just as I expected a

lengthy response, a beautiful gem that would perhaps

unravel the spool just a little more, his cell phone rang.

When Kaiser looked at it, I could have sworn his face

went pale. He shoved it back into his pocket, looked at

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me and said, "Goodbye, Mr. Parker," and walked inside

the building and disappeared into the elevator.

I stood there, trembling, angry that I had felt so close

to getting him. Don came up to me and said, "Sweet

guy, ain't he?"

"Yeah, he's going on my Christmas list for sure." I

watched as the elevator light clicked, bringing Brett

Kaiser to the twentieth floor. I eyed the windows facing

the street. No doubt Kaiser had a great view. Then the

curtains were drawn closed, and I figured Brett Kaiser

was looking for a little privacy.

"Thanks, Don. I appreciate the help. Keep up the good

work, and thanks for being agreeable."

Don laughed. "Gotta tell my wife that one. 'Honey,

a reporter told me I was agreeable.' Not sure if that will

win me points at the dinner table, but it's a good conversation piece."

"The least I could do," I said. "Take it easy, Don."

I walked to the corner, thinking about my next move.

I wasn't going back quite empty-handed. Even in his

non-answer, Brett Kaiser had confirmed that he was well

aware of 718 Enterprises. I believed him when he said he

didn't know about Stephen Gaines. If my brother was

involved in some sort of drug trade, his work on the street

was twenty floors below Brett Kaiser's penthouse.

I was about to call Jack when I felt my cell phone vibrate.

Assuming it was Jack calling me, I took it out, looked at

the caller ID. I didn't recognize the number, but it was from

a 646 area code. It wasn't Jack; he had a 917. Might have

been somebody from Kaiser's firm calling to threaten me,

could have been a wrong number. Either way it seemed like

a good time to screen my calls. I didn't want to waste any

time on a conversation that wasn't vital to the investigation.

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121

When the phone stopped vibrating, I waited for the

little envelope to appear that signaled I had voice mail. I

called it, plugged in my security code and listened.

And at the first word, my blood ran cold. I knew that

voice. Hadn't heard it in a long time, but there was no way

I'd ever forget it. I hadn't spoken to her in almost a year,

when I was dragged kicking and screaming from her office

after she'd tried to ruin the life of the man I admired most.

It was Paulina Cole.

"Henry, this is Paulina. You know the last name, so I

won't keep you. We need to talk. Off the record. It's important. You know damn well it's important because you

can bet I don't like calling you any more than you like

hearing this message. But we need to talk."

She left her cell phone number and home phone number. Not her work number. I couldn't believe her audacity

in calling me, but the fact that she only left her private

lines clearly meant something was up. Something she

didn't want her bosses at the Dispatch involved in.

And while I was making my mind up whether to call

her back, Brett Kaiser's apartment exploded in a massive

orange fireball that shot flaming debris half a block and

cascaded smoke down upon Park Avenue.

16

"Who was that?" Morgan asked.

Chester closed the phone, putting it gently back into

his coat pocket. He looked at Morgan blankly and said,

"Just checking my voice mail." He then offered a smile.

"I didn't hear voice mail pick up," Morgan added.

"You one of those dogs, hear high-frequency pitches

and everything?" Chester asked.

The Town Car hit a bump, and Morgan gripped the

armrest. "No."

"Well, that's too bad. Because when dogs hear something, they don't ask questions. But if they start barking,

that's when their owner is bound to get upset. You get

me, Morgan?"

"I get you."

"Good," Chester said. He looked out the window. They

were heading toward the Queens-bound midtown tunnel.

Morgan could make out the East River, Roosevelt Island.

Morgan had never considered living outside of the

city. If he was going to be a power broker, a master of the

universe, he had to live within the castle walls. But now

the powers that be were trying to evict him, trying to get

him to leave the grounds he so desperately wanted to

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123

remain on. They'd taken his job, his livelihood, his dignity. It was up to him to figure out a way to stay.

So if Chester wanted to bullshit him about who he

was calling, that was fine. Morgan didn't need to know

everything. As long as the paychecks cleared, that's all

that mattered.

"We're almost there," Chester said. Morgan nodded,

looked out the window across the river.

Somewhere in the distance, he could hear fire trucks

screaming.

17

For at least a minute, I couldn't hear a thing. The ringing

in my ears pounded like I was being pummeled by a

hammer, and shutting my eyes and clasping my hands

over them didn't do a thing. A dozen of us had run to the

corner, under the scaffold of a construction site, to escape

the brick and ash that was dropping from the sky like

small mortar shells.

I looked up at the Park Avenue building, still shocked

to see the gaping hole where Brett Kaiser's apartment had

once been. Where just a moment ago I'd seen his blinds

close. Where just a moment ago I'd questioned the man

about his potentially illegal dealings with a company that

may or may not have been responsible for the death of

my brother.

Where a man and his wife once resided. Where at least

one of them was now dead.

As the world slowly came back into focus, I could hear

the sirens of police cars and fire trucks speeding to the

scene. Onlookers stared at the building with masks of

horror. Mouths open wide, hands covering them, tears

streaming down their faces.

Then I saw Donald, my new good friend, standing

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125

across the street, his face covered in soot, his lower lip

trembling as he watched flames lick at the open space

where there used to be a window.

Dozens of people were pouring out of the building,

screams and cries when they saw the devastation above

them. Some people wondered whether it was a terrorist

attack, or another prop plane accidentally banking into a

residential building. I wasn't sure if the truth, that Brett

Kaiser had undoubtedly been murdered, would comfort

them or make it worse.

When the first cop car pulled up, four officers exited

and stood outside of the building looking up. One of them

was barking into a walkie-talkie. I watched a small piece

of gray ash float down and nestle itself on his brown

mustache. He didn't notice. The other cops looked at it

for a moment, then turned back to the burning building.

A fire truck pulled up, and immediately nearly a dozen

of New York's finest went to work hooking the hose up

to a hydrant in front of the building. As they did this, I

walked over to the cop car. When he noticed me coming,

one of the officers turned to me.

"Sir, we're going to have to ask you to step back. We

don't know how much damage there's been to the structure of the building."

"I understand that," I said, taking my wallet from my

back pocket. I slid my business card out and handed it to

him. "My name is Henry Parker, and I'm with the Gazette. "

He rolled his eyes and prepared to hand the card back

to me. "Mr. Parker, I--"

"I spoke with Mr. Kaiser. Just minutes before this happened. I don't know if I was the last person to speak with

him but...I thought someone should have this in case they

need to get in touch with me. If there are any questions."

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The cop looked at my card, understanding. He nodded,

then slipped it into his uniform. "I'll give it to the lead

detective," he said.

"Thank you," I said. "And good luck."

He nodded, turning back to the gaping hole in the

brick building.

I walked a few blocks away, making sure I could hear

right again and was away from the commotion that would

surely envelop that area for the next few days. I took out my

phone and called Jack. He picked up on the second ring.

"Hey, Henry, good timing. Brett Kaiser left about

twenty minutes ago. I think he's headed toward you. I

didn't get much, but if you--"

"Brett Kaiser is dead," I said. There was a pause on

the other end.

"Wait...what did you say?"

"I said he's dead, Jack. I caught up with him about ten

minutes ago when he pulled up in front of the building.

I talked to him for about thirty seconds, then he went

upstairs. And less than a minute after that, somebody

turned his apartment into a gigantic barbecue pit."

"Wait a damn minute," Jack said. His voice was

uneven, shaky. I'd never heard Jack like this before.

Scared. It put a lump in my stomach, as the enormity of

it all began to sink in. "You're saying somebody killed

Brett Kaiser?"

"A few times over," I said. "Somebody wanted to make

sure he didn't have a chance to talk to anyone. But I do

know that he knows about 718 Enterprises, and if I'd had

him another minute he would have spilled everything."

"Jesus, be careful, Henry. It's possible somebody saw

him talking to you."

"Wait, no way, how could they..."

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127

"Don't be stupid," Jack said. "If someone knows he was

talking to you, they might think he told you something."

"But he didn't," I said, pleading my case with nobody.

"Whoever killed him doesn't know that," Jack said.

"Be careful. Meet me back at the office in half an hour."

"No can do," I said, unsure of why I was going to do

this but sure that I needed to.

"And why the hell not?"

I couldn't tell Jack. If he knew, it would toss our whole

relationship into jeopardy. But we had the same blood,

the same gene that refused to allow us a moment's breath,

that refused to give us rest if there was one unanswered

question. But Paulina had nearly ruined his career. And

he couldn't know.

"I have to meet someone," I said. "A source. I'll be

back in a couple hours. We'll catch up then."

"Fine, Henry. But watch your back."

"I will," I said, and then hung up to go meet the one

person I was absolutely sure would never have my back.

I opened the phone back up, and called Paulina Cole.

18

The diner smelled the same as I remembered it. Diners

never changed, but I had a history with this one.

Fried onions, eggs, hash browns, stale coffee. Today

was only the second time I'd ever set foot in here, and

once again my only companion would be Paulina Cole.

I wasn't a big fan of diner food in general, with the exception of Sunday mornings when a late breakfast consisting of a mushroom-and-Swiss omelet with a cup of

hot coffee was better than a Swedish massage.

Meeting Paulina was pretty much the opposite of all

of that.

Paulina Cole was waiting for me in a back booth, a

half-empty cup of coffee in front of her. There was no

food, no condiments, just the coffee. She was wearing a

flannel shirt over a tank top, her hair done back in a bun.

Her eyes, a fierce green that normally seemed to ache for

you to put up a fight, were subdued. She wore a minimum

of makeup, no perfume that I could smell. This was

unlike Paulina, whose switch seemed to be permanently

set to "on."

"Thank you for coming," she said as I sat down. I

nodded, unsure of how to feel.

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129

"The last time I was this close to you," I said, "I was

ready to hurl you in front of a speeding bus."

"Understandable," she replied.

"You tried to ruin his life," I said. "Jack O'Donnell

has done more for this city and for this industry than you

ever will. And you try to throw it all away for what? To

sell a few extra copies? To put a big old smile on Ted

Allen's face?"

"Henry," Paulina said.

"Don't try and justify it to me," I said. "You're a coward."

"If I was a coward," Paulina said, her voice taking on

a metallic edge, cold and lifeless, "I would have hidden

a drinking problem for years. I would have mortgaged the

futures of my coworkers and my employer by reporting

with enough liquor in me to inebriate all of Green Bay. I

wasn't the coward, Henry. Jack was. If I'm the coward

for telling the truth about Jack, you have a pretty warped

view of what it means to be a reporter."

"Jack wasn't news," I said, gritting my teeth. "Millions

of people are losing their livelihoods. So what gets plastered

on your front page? An old man and his drinking problem."

Paulina laughed, and I felt anger rising within me.

"Jack is news, Henry, and it's time you realized that.

Maybe right now he's a broken-down old man, but he still

has a name. A reputation. And a man with that kind of reputation is beholden to the public. You just don't get it,

Henry. And you'd better soon, because even if Jack is back

he won't be around for much longer. And Harvey Hillerman's paper is going to need someone else to step up and

be the next golden calf. And if it isn't you, like Wallace

hopes it will be, then they might as well declare bankruptcy and use their papers for a grade school art class."

"You called me, and you're lucky I'm here at all. So

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Jason Pinter

if you want to throw mud, I'll get up and leave. I'll need

a shower after this anyway."

"If you had any intention of leaving without hearing

what I had to say," Paulina said, "you wouldn't have

come in the first place."

I sat there, staring at her, willing my body to stand up and

walk right out of the diner. But after what happened to Brett

Kaiser, after the murder of my brother, I needed something

I could control, something I could follow through to the end.

"Talk," I said. "Why did you call me?"

Paulina sat back and took a long drink of her coffee.

I wondered if she'd had more than one in the time it took

for me to get there. Then she looked at me and said,

matter-of-factly, "A few days ago, I was kidnapped."

My jaw dropped. "Wait...what? What do you mean,

kidnapped?"

"Well, not kidnapped in the usual sense. It's not like there

was a ransom note and the whole thing lasted about an hour

in total. Somebody posing as my driver took me to Queens

and..." I heard a slight choking noise come from Paulina's

throat. I wondered if she was faking this, doing something

to get me to sympathize with her, but deep down I knew it

was real. Paulina Cole was never one to let anyone see her

bleed, and the only thing worse than that would be to

pretend. She wouldn't allow herself to be seen that way.

And I knew whatever had happened to her a few days ago

must have scarred her deeply. "He threatened someone I

care about very much. And I believed him. I still do."

"He just threatened you and left?" I said. "Did he hurt

you?"

Paulina hesitated for the briefest moment before

saying, "No."

I didn't want to press. But I knew she was lying.

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131

"Not me," she said. "He threatened to hurt someone

close to me."

"You have someone close to you?" I smiled at the dig,

but she did not. And for whatever reason, I felt somewhat

guilty for it. "I'm sorry. Go on."

"My daughter," she continued. "He threatened to hurt

my daughter."

"I'm sorry," I said, feeling an odd combination of guilt

for making light of the situation, and surprise that Paulina

had a daughter. In our brief time working next to each

other, she never had any pictures. Never talked about her.

"That's okay. I didn't ask you here to sympathize with

me."

"Good thing for both of us."

"I asked you here because I want to find the guy who

did it."

I sat there, watching her. "And?" I said.

"And I need your help."

I laughed. "You need my help? What can I do that

you can't?"

"You have friends," Paulina said. "Friends that I

don't have."

"You're talking about cops," I said. She nodded. "It

doesn't matter if they like you or not, this is a criminal

matter and they'll investigate..."

"I can't go to them," Paulina said. "I can't go to the cops."

"Why not?"

"He told me if I did, he would know."

"You think he has an informant in the department?"

"I have to assume he does."

"How do you know he was telling the truth?" I said.

"Because if I assume the other side, and I'm wrong,

my daughter is dead."

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Jason Pinter

"Dead... You say he threatened to hurt her, not..."

"I was being kind. Maybe to myself, because I didn't

want to think about it. But yes, he threatened to kill her."

I sat there in silence. Paulina was staring at me, a

curious look on her face.

"What?" I said.

"I bet there's a part of you that's a little happy about

this. You feel like I had it coming."

"I'm not like you," I said. "I don't take joy in the

miseries of others."

Paulina smiled, a mischievous grin. That was the

Paulina Cole I remembered. The one who pushed your

buttons until they bled.

"I'm sorry for what happened to you," I said. "You and

I, we'll never be friends, but I wouldn't wish that kind of

thing on anyone. Not even you, whether you want to

believe me or not."

"You know," she said with an odd smile, "I actually

do believe you."

"Well, that's peachy. But I still don't know why I'm

the right person for this."

"My daughter is closer to your age than mine. You

have access to the cops, and you know the world she

lives in better than me. You could figure out how someone

got a photograph of her."

"What do you mean?"

"My daughter, Abigail. The man showed me a photograph that my daughter said came from a set she posted

online. Only this particular photo was never posted, the

only one from the set that wasn't available online. This

one was private, yet somebody got it."

"What's the photo of?"

Paulina shifted in her seat. She looked uncomfortable.

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133

"It's a recent photo. Taken within the last year. Abigail

wearing a pink bikini, and she's standing in front of a big

hole on the beach. And she's smiling."

I took out a notepad and wrote it all down. I tried not

to look at Paulina. This couldn't be easy for her.

"Don't worry," I said. "Nobody sees this but me."

Paulina nodded, but it was clear this was as enjoyable

for her as an endoscopy.

"Do you know how to use MySpace? Facebook?

Whatever the hell else people do to exploit themselves

these days?"

"I have accounts," I said, "but I really don't use them.

I had a cyberstalker once and...long story, but let's just

say my girlfriend won't let me go to Staten Island anymore. Go on."

"Well, if you know how to log on you've got a leg

up on me. Between that and your access to the cops,

you can get information. There's bound to be a news

story in this. And even though I'm still pissed about the

last time you boned me over on a scoop, if you come

up with a trail that leads to something printable...it's

yours. And I think you're the only person I could trust

to keep it a secret."

"I'm not sure if I should be flattered."

"You need to find out who the man is who got the

photo," she said.

"And who he could have gotten it from."

"That's right."

"And what makes you think there's a story in this?" I

asked. "Beyond what this guy did to you. How do you

know he wasn't some random nutjob?"

"Because he asked me to do a favor for him, too," she

said. "And this favor wasn't exactly the kind of thing that

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Jason Pinter

a nutjob asks of you. It was something planned. It's part

of a much bigger plan."

"A plan?" I said. "What did he ask you to do?"

"It's not important," she said. "Well, it is, but important

enough that I'm only going to trust you with so much."

"Are you going to do it?" I asked.

Paulina met my eyes. "You'll know in a few days."

"I assume that means you're no longer taking any

personal time and that your column will be back shortly."

"Safe assumption, Sherlock."

"You're a real charmer, Paulina. You know that, right?"

"Listen, Parker. There's a story here. Trust me on this.

That's all I can say. And that's the trade-off. You find this

man, you get to follow the trail to wherever it leads. We

both come out ahead. And I promise you, this trail will

lead somewhere."

I nodded, thought about it. If this man who kidnapped

Paulina did have a photo of her daughter and did go so far

as to pose as her driver, it meant the crime was planned out

well in advance, weeks if not months. Nobody went through

that kind of trouble unless the ends justified the means.

"Tell me about this man," I said. "What did he look

like? Please be specific."

"Tall, about six-one or two," she said. "Weighed, I'd

guess, between one-ninety and two-ten. In good shape,

too. Good-looking guy."

"Black? White?"

"White," she said. "He had blond hair. Kind of wavy."

"Any tattoos or identifiable features?"

"Not that I could see. He was wearing a suit. I think

his eyes were green, but I'm not sure."

"Did he walk with a limp? Anything else that could

identify him in that way?"

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135

"I don't think so," she said. "He made some sort of reference to fighting in a war. I don't know if he was telling

the truth or not. He's not an old guy, so he would have

had to fight in the last twenty, twenty-five years. And he

talked like he'd lost someone. Someone close to him.

Maybe a family member. Again I don't know if that was

a lie or not."

"Is there anything else?"

Paulina thought for a moment. "Chester," she said.

"He said his name was Chester."

An alarm went off in my head. Chester. Blond hair. It

couldn't be...could it?

"What are you thinking?" Paulina said. "You look like

something just made sense."

"No, nothing," I lied. "Just thinking how I'm going to

approach this."

She nodded. "You have my cell phone. Don't call

me at work."

"No problem." We both stood up. Paulina extended her

hand. I looked at it for a moment before shaking it.

"Henry?" she said.

"Yeah?"

"One more thing."

"What's that?"

"Drugs," she said. "This guy...he has something to do

with drugs. A lot of them."

"What do you mean?"

Paulina looked down at her cup, then back up. There was

a look in her eyes I hadn't seen, and I could tell that something was eating at her beyond what she was telling me.

"Just trust me," she said. "Drugs."

"I'll look into it."

"Henry?"

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"What?"

"Thank you."

I shook my head, laughed. "I bet that was hard as hell

for you to say."

"You'll never know. And don't expect for it to ever

happen again."

I shook my head. "You don't have to thank me for

anything. We haven't found him yet. And to be honest, I

don't know if I could turn down this request from anyone."

Paulina smiled, but I noticed a slight smirk in there,

like she found that statement funny. "That's why I love

you, Henry Parker. Everyone's knight in shining armor."

"Goodbye, Paulina. I'll call you when I have something."

I turned around and walked out of the diner, hoping

she wouldn't notice that my palms were practically bleeding sweat. She couldn't know. Not yet.

Because I was pretty certain that the same man who

threatened to kill Paulina Cole's daughter was the same

man who just blew Brett Kaiser halfway to hell.

19

It sure didn't look like a financial company. In fact, if

Chester had told Morgan that they made rivets and

girders, or maybe the occasional swamp creature there,

he would have been more likely to bite.

They were somewhere in Queens, a borough just off

the island of Manhattan but a world that couldn't have

looked or felt any more different. It wasn't that Morgan

hadn't traveled to the outer boroughs, but as soon as he

landed his first job the rest of New York City became a

foreign territory. He used to have friends in Queens,

Brooklyn, Staten Island. But when you work fourteen

hours a day, you hardly have the energy to get out there.

So he kissed that life goodbye, and hadn't thought much

about it since.

For a brief moment, as they were driving up to the front

gate of what looked like an abandoned factory, Morgan had

second thoughts. They only lasted a moment, but they were

pure, pungent. A shot of hesitation mixed with an ounce of

fright, stirred with a straw of what the hell am I doing here?

Did he really know this guy, Chester? Sure he came

with a recommendation from Ken Tsang, but Ken was

dead so obviously his hunches didn't always pan out.

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Jason Pinter

But then Morgan remembered his debts. His mortgage.

That bank account that had swollen so large and was now

deflating like a punctured balloon. Even if this turned out

to be nothing, even if Chester was full of crap and offered

him nothing more than being a three-card monte dealer

in Times Square, it was worth the trip. Not like he had any

plans today, and even if there was a one percent chance

of paying off his mounting debts, it was worth the trip.

As the Town Car approached the gate, Morgan saw a

man approach from the other side of the chain link fence.

He was big, about three hundred pounds big, and Morgan

couldn't be sure but what looked like a rifle or machine

gun of some sort dangled from his left shoulder.

Morgan's eyes went wide, and he turned to Chester.

Chester seemed to notice this, and he smiled.

"Not to worry," he said. "That's Darryl. He's part of

our private security force, and he's the best there is. We

run a relatively small business, and have had to relocate

our operations over the last few days, so security is at a

premium. This might not exactly be what you're used to,

but I'm sure you won't mind."

Morgan shook his head as though agreeing with Chester's assessment, but he couldn't help but stare at the black

muzzle pointing at the ground, wondering how often, if

ever, it had been fired. And if so, what it had been fired at.

When the gate opened, the car drove through. Gravel

crunched under the tires, and Morgan caught this armed

man, Darryl, eyeing the backseat window intently as the

car came to a stop. The driver got out, and Morgan went

to open his door.

"Not yet," Chester said. Morgan looked at him, confused, but then the driver came around to Morgan's door

and opened it for him. The driver bowed down, and

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139

Morgan slid out. Though this odd gesture in front of some

sort of run-down warehouse confused him even more,

Morgan did not let it show.

Chester came around to him and said, "Follow me."

The blond man led him up the driveway to a door. It

wasn't quite a front door, since this building didn't seem to

have been built with traditional comings and goings in mind,

but Chester punched a security code into a small black

keypad and an LED light turned from red to green. Chester

turned the latch, opened the door and ushered Morgan in.

They were in a gray stairway, steps leading up and

down. Chester took the path upward, and beckoned

Morgan to follow. They went up two flights of stairs.

Morgan could see numerous cameras lining the stairwell,

each with red lights. At the top of the third-floor landing,

Morgan noticed that the camera was in fact moving,

panning over the entire stairwell.

"Security measures," Chester said. Morgan nodded.

Again Chester punched numbers into a keypad, and Morgan heard a latch unlock. Chester smiled at him, and

opened the door.

"Go on in," he said. "Take any open seat."

"Thanks," Morgan said, and stepped into the room.

And if he'd been confused before, this just took it to a

whole new level.

The room inside was wood paneled, as though it had

been transported from some high-end hotel. In the middle

of the room was a long, dark mahogany conference table,

polished and gleaming. Track lights illuminated the entire

room. But what struck Morgan more than anything was

not the room's decor, but rather the dozen young men,

dressed to the nines just like him, surrounding the table.

20

Morgan didn't know what to say. The other men turned

to see him when he walked in, but then turned away. They

all had looks on their faces that looked startlingly like his

own: confidence on the outside, but eyes that showed

confusion, discomfort, and above all desperation.

Every face was cleanly shaved, every suit neatly

pressed. The ties were knotted perfectly, and the room

reeked of designer cologne. There were young men of

every race and ethnicity. Black, white, Asian, Indian,

Arab. Tall, short, fat, skinny. Some had full heads of hair,

some looked to be going prematurely bald. None of the

men looked to be older than their early thirties, and some

looked barely old enough to have graduated college. Yet

every one of them looked like a hungry dog waiting for

a meaty bone.

Morgan felt Chester's hand on his back, and a soft

voice said, "Sit down, Morgan." The voice had become

much firmer than Morgan was used to.

There was an empty seat in between a lanky Indian

man and a chubby white guy with a red face and thick

shoulders who was fiddling with his cuff links. Morgan

walked over and sat down. The chairs were red leather,

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141

plush and comfortable. Morgan debated leaning back,

but noticed that all the other guys were sitting straight,

waiting for something, not wanting to be viewed as too

aloof. Morgan guessed that they were all there for the

same reason he was: money.

There was something oddly familiar about the grouping, and it didn't take Morgan long to realize what it was.

Everyone at the table, their clothes, their mannerisms,

their style and smell, all reminded him of men he used to

work with.

Morgan looked back at the doorway, wanted to see

Chester's reaction to all of this, but the blond man had

closed the door. Morgan noticed there was another small

keypad on this side of the door he'd entered from. The

LED light on it was red. They were all in here until

someone let them out.

There were few noises. Chubby played with his cuff

links. A black guy at the opposite end seemed to have the

sniffles. A young guy with red hair and a pocket square

was rubbing what looked like a razor burn on his neck.

And then the door at the other end of the conference

room opened. Every eye in the room turned to face it,

pupils wide, breath being held.

In strode a man who stood about five foot ten. Brown

hair, neatly trimmed and parted to the left. He wore a

suit that Morgan guessed to be Brooks Brothers, maybe

Vestimenta. There was a gold watch on his left wrist,

and a thick silver wedding band as well. He had wide

eyes, narrowed ever so slightly. He wore a pair of smart,

stylish glasses and gave off an air of both confidence

and wealth.

He stood at the doorway for a moment, his eyes traveling around the room, gazing over every single person seated.

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And then he walked over to the head of the table, put his

palms on the wood, hunched over and stared at them.

"I know why you're here," he said. "I know why you

all went to bed early last night, got up this morning, took

hot showers, broke out those shave brushes and dolled

yourself up like you were going to the fucking prom. I

know why you did that."

He looked at the chubby kid, fingers squeezing one

cuff link like a pig trying to get the hot dog out of the

blanket. "Son?" the man said.

"Sorry?" Chubby replied.

"Those things aren't going to fly away. You don't need

to keep touching them."

"Sorry," Chubby said. He stopped fidgeting, and

placed his hands on his lap.

"Anyway," the man continued, "my name is Leonard

Reeves. But you're not here to be my best buds, so let's

cut to the chase. Two years ago, I was making one point

two million. I had a sweet corner office at one of the most

prestigious firms on Wall Street. I had it all. When people

say they had it all, they're usually bullshitting you, but

man, I had it all. Beautiful wife who could've put those

Swedish bikini models to shame. A penthouse spread

overlooking Central Park with a terrace bigger than most

people's homes in the Hamptons, and a secretary that I

could tell wanted to blow me every time I stepped into

the office. Everyone in my life acted like I walked on

water, and that's how I felt as well."

Chubby smiled. He must have liked that mental image.

"But then, just like that, I lost it all. Every cent. My

company got bought by another, larger corporation. Overnight my millions in stock options were worth less than

the Pope's cock. I owed three million dollars on my

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143

mortgage. When I hadn't found a new job in a month, my

wife left me. For one of my best friends, who was lucky

enough to be working at the same company only in a sector that didn't overlap. She divorced me on the grounds

that I was emotionally distant, which, to be honest, I

probably was."

Morgan heard a few muted laughs, but they were respectful rather than dismissive. They'd all been there. Or

knew those who had.

"So I got thrown out of my apartment," Leonard said.

"My parents offer me a place to stay, but I refuse. Stupid

decision, I gotta say, because you know where I end up?

On the street. Borrowing money to buy drugs that I can't

pay for. One day I wake up in an alleyway on a Hundred

and Thirty-eighth Street with three broken fingers and a

dislocated kneecap."

He held up his left hand. Three of the fingers were held

at an awkward angle. Morgan grimaced looking at them.

"I'm in the hospital, but of course I don't have insurance. Second day I'm there, a guy comes to visit me. I

don't know him from the inside of my ass, but he tells

me all my bills are paid for. He tells me he knows who I

am, and where I've come from. His name was Stephen

Gaines, and he saved my life. Want to know how Stephen

saved me?" Leonard said.

The room nodded.

"He gave me my life back. More importantly, he let

me become a man again. See, once I lost my job, lost my

wife, lost it all, I wasn't a man anymore. I was a dickless

nothing wandering the streets waiting for someone to put

me out of my misery. And Stephen took me from that, and

he gave me my life back."

"What did he do?" Chubby asked. Leonard smiled

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and walked over to Chubby, knelt down and stared at him

in his bright red face.

"He let me earn again."

Chubby nodded, and suddenly Morgan realized he

was doing the same thing.

"I know each and every one of you," Leonard said. He

looked at Chubby. "Franklin LoBianco. Laid off from

Morgan Stanley three months ago.You're listed as owning

a four-bedroom apartment on Madison and Thirty-fourth.

Nice neighborhood, Franklin, but I bet you're wishing

you didn't splurge on that four-bedroom now."

Franklin lowered his head.

Leonard walked around the room and stopped by a

young Indian man with a slight goatee and an earring.

"Nikesh Patel," Leonard said. "You were the chief financial analyst at a hedge fund that was worth one point two

billion dollars. But then that fund blew up, and you were

without a job. I bet it makes paying for your parents'

home in New Delhi rather difficult."

Nikesh opened his mouth questioningly, but shut it as

Leonard walked around the room some more. Morgan

went rigid as Leonard stopped right by him and looked

down at him.

"Morgan Isaacs," Leonard said. "A few years ago, you

bought your apartment for one point eight million dollars.

I'm sure at the time it seemed like a good buy. A good

investment. But records show that that same apartment

was listed two months ago at one point five. Then one

month ago at one point two. Now, it's currently off the

market. Figure between costs and renovations, you're out

a million dollars minimum. And this real estate market

isn't going up anytime soon."

Morgan felt the eyes of the room locked on to him, but

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when he met their gaze he saw there was no condescension, no patronage, no disdain. Instead there was pity. And

Morgan smiled when he saw his fellow brothers, knowing

they were right there with him.

"In the past twenty-four months," Leonard said, standing straight up and walking back to the front of the room,

"I have made two point three million dollars. Twice as

much as I ever made on Wall Street. And that's in the

worst economy in decades."

Morgan could tell his eyes were just one of a dozen

pairs that went wide when hearing that sum.

Leonard continued. "And that's after taxes."

A few hushed whispers now rose through the room, including one person who said, quite audibly, "Bullshit."

Leonard locked eyes with the speaker, a bald, black guy in

his early thirties. "Two point three after taxes, that's, what,

four million before Uncle Sam takes his cut?You're telling

us you went from being broke-ass on the street to making

seven figures after taxes in two years? In this economy?"

Leonard nodded. "Welcome to the new America," he

said.

"How?" Chubby said, suddenly springing to life.

"How," Leonard said, rubbing his chin as though debating the question. "That's the key. How. And I'm guessing not just how, but how can you do it, too. That's kind

of a multipart answer. And let me tell you this. If you

aren't comfortable with the first part, you won't be right

for the rest of it. Ready? Here goes. You will make money.

You will also file a W-2. You will do everything a good

taxpaying citizen of this great country does, including

paying state and federal income tax...only what you will

be doing to earn that money will not be legal."

"The money is illegal?" Nikesh said.

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"Money itself is never illegal," Leonard said. "It's how

you obtain it that determines the legality."

"So what will we be doing, exactly, that determines the

legality?" the black guy said.

"It's actually very similar to what you've all done

throughout your entire adult lives," Leonard said. "What

is finance? What is the stock market? It's a drug. It's

gambling. It's doing something that feels so right, that can

change your mood, change your mind, change your

outlook on things. Just like a drug, the stock market can

either expand your mind, or make you lose it. It all

depends on who's doing it and how responsible they are.

You're all pretty responsible guys, it's not your fault you

found yourself on the sole of God's shoe. So you'll be

doing exactly what you've done, and what you're good

at. Selling people things that make them feel good."

"Drugs," Morgan said.

Leonard cocked his head. "That's right."

Nikesh said, "I don't understand. If you sell drugs, how

can you file taxes on it?"

"That's for us to know and you not to worry about.

Once you come on board you'll file your taxes just like

anyone, and through our company, 718 Enterprises,

you'll be just like that waitress on the corner. Nobody

looks at her tax return, and nobody will give yours a

second glance either."

"What do we need to do?" Nikesh said.

"Simple. Every morning, you will arrive at a predetermined location at eight o'clock. You will be given different items in different quantities. You will dress the same

way you did today--like a businessman. You will carry

on you a cell phone that will be given to you on your first

day of work. Throughout your shift, you will receive calls

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on your cell phone, alerting you to the location of your

next customer. We will also tell you what the customer

requires, and how much. You will go to the customer's

location, exchange money for goods just like anyone,

and leave. At the end of each day, you go home. Eighthour days. None of the ten, twelve, fourteen-hour crap

you're used to. The next morning you'll come back, drop

off all the money you received the previous day, fill up

your bags and start again. The faster you are, the more

runs you'll be given throughout the day, the more money

you will make. Those of you who prove that they can

handle a lot of runs will be promoted to later shifts. More

action, more money. At the beginning you will work with

a partner. This is for trust. You are your partner's eyes,

and vice versa. But you are also our watchman."

"Watchman?" Chubby asked.

"This business is built on trust," Leonard said. "Because of the sensitive nature of our business, we cannot

take risks. We thoroughly check out every single person

before we bring them here. We know everything about

you. Your background, your families, brothers, sisters.

Your son, Greg."

The black guy swallowed.

"If you do your job, you will make money. If you

decide you do not want to continue, that is your prerogative, provided you give us the customary two weeks'

notice. But if you decide that you suddenly want to, say,

alert anyone outside of our employ as to your job activities, you will be reprimanded. Severely. There are no

second chances, no third strikes. You are not in kindergarten. If you make your bed, you lay in it, and your first

offense is a punishable one."

"Punishable by what?" Morgan asked.

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Leonard stopped. Looked at Morgan. "Let's hope I

never have to answer that question for you." Morgan said

nothing. "If you agree to be a part of our company, you

will start this Monday. You each came here with a

sponsor, and that sponsor will call you Friday night with

the location where you refill and drop off your merchandise and money. Work that starts Saturday morning. Yes,

Saturday. Your sponsor put their reputation on the line

bringing you here. Don't embarrass them. In a short time,

we will be starting an initiative that has the potential to

bring in even more revenue than I've already discussed.

But you only get to be a part of it if you start now. So if

you want to be a part of our organization," Leonard said,

"stay seated. If you decide this is not right for you, I'm

sorry to have wasted your time."

Nobody moved. Chubby had forgotten all about his

cuff links. Nikesh was absently rubbing his back pocket,

where his wallet was surely kept. Greg looked at the

table, briefly, considering the offer, then looked right

back up at Leonard. His eyes said that he was in.

Morgan did not move. The money seemed too good

to be true, but he knew Ken Tsang had fallen on hard

times and had gotten out of it. And if things didn't work,

he could always quit. But the opportunity was too good

to pass up. This was Morgan's way back in the game.

Suddenly a chair squeaked. Everyone turned to the

back of the room to see a short, balding man stand up.

He waved his hands, as though trying to explain a crime

he hadn't committed.

"I...I'm sorry," he said. "I can't do this."

Leonard tilted his head, a look on his face like a parent

who's been disappointed by a child they've put so much

effort into. "Jeremy, are you sure?" Leonard said.

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"I--I'm sure. I can't be a part of this." He moved to

the back door, still wringing his hands.

"You've disappointed us," Leonard said, motioning to

the rest of the room, still riveted to their seats. "One last

time, Jeremy. Stay. You heard what I said to everyone

about our rules."

"I know, I...I heard you, but...I'm sorry, but I have

to go. Good luck, guys," Jeremy said, and he reached

for the door.

"Good luck, and farewell, Jeremy," Leonard said.

Then, lightning quick, Leonard reached into his waistband and pulled out a gun. And before Morgan even knew

what was happening, a crack echoed throughout the

room, and Jeremy's head erupted in a spray of fine pink

mist.

The dead man's body slid to the floor, leaving a grotesque red trail from the gaping wound in his skull.

Morgan recoiled, nearly tipping back in his seat, and

when he righted himself he shivered when he realized that

the conference room was dead quiet. The eyes that had

bugged out of their sockets were now growing accustomed to the violence that had just taken place. The heads

slowly began to swivel from the body back to Leonard.

He watched them do this, a look of apathy, a look of

simple that's what happens on his face. Morgan recognized

that face. He knew the emotions. He couldn't help but smile

when he realized who it reminded him of. His old boss.

"There will be no dissent," Leonard said. "There will

be no second-guessing, and there will be no turning back.

Every one of you came here for one reason, and that's to

regain some of the respect you had for yourselves. Jeremy

did not have this self-respect, and now he's dead. But

before you start thinking to yourselves that I'm some

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kind of monster, let me tell you that if Jeremy had stayed,

like every one of you is going to stay, you will make every

penny you did at your old jobs. There will be no layoffs,

no cutbacks, no downsizing. If anything, your earnings

will grow at a faster rate than they ever could while you

sat in some wretched cubicle or soulless office. We will

be introducing a new product in the next few days that

promises to help you erase all those debts. Keep making

those mortgage payments. Keep driving that Lexus, keep

that sweet Russian girlfriend who wants to spend five

grand a month at Chanel. You'll have all of that--and

enough just in case you want to throw a dime on the football games on Sunday. Now, you can either take Jeremy's

way out, the coward's way out, or you can get back to

work and stay the man you were supposed to be. So,

men, are you in, or are you worthless?"

Morgan stood up. He felt a surge of energy through his

veins, his skin felt like it was on fire. "I'm in," he said.

Within seconds, every other man in the room stood up

and joined him. Leonard's eyes met each recruit as they

pledged to be a part of this. Morgan looked at each one

of them, silently bet himself that he would outearn each

and every one of them. And he knew from the way their

eyes met his that they were thinking the exact same thing.

Morgan Isaacs smiled.

Let the games begin.

"No second chances," Leonard said. "I'll see the rest

of you on Monday."

21

Amanda had just settled down on Henry's couch with a

glass of Pinot Noir, and the first sip tasted better than

anything she'd eaten in weeks. She'd skipped dinner, but

hell, wine had nutrients, didn't it?

It had been one of those days that never wanted to end.

Her feet felt like they'd been trapped inside thimbles and

she needed something to take the edge off. She'd been

with a client at the office until nearly eight o'clock, and

Amanda had come to the pretty secure conclusion that

humans were not meant to wear high heels for twelve

straight hours. So by the time she got to his place, weary,

weak, her dogs barking like nobody's business, she

wrenched that cork from the bottle faster than Pamela

Anderson dropped her drawers around a rock star.

And while all those excuses were reason enough to

have a drink--whether or not she continued with the bottle

depended on several factors--another reason was Henry.

Things were going well. They'd endured more rocky

periods in their relationship than the next twenty couples

combined, and she fully believed they'd come out stronger than ever. She never doubted his love for her. Even

when that brain of his got in the way, which it often did,

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she knew it was only because he could be torn between

the right thing to do and the smart thing to do. It still surprised her how rarely those two choices were one and the

same.

Still, she'd learned a long time ago that trying to

change him was not only impossible, but defeated the

purpose and would undermine their entire relationship.

Henry was relentless. That was the bottom line, and God

did she love him for it. As much as her heart pounded

during the times where he scared her half to death with

his latest bit of reckless behavior, it was that full throttle

stopatnothingishness that made him a great reporter and

a great partner. Sure he did stupid stuff. He was a guy;

that was embedded in the DNA.

For every time he brought home flowers, he would

leave his underwear hanging from the bedpost. For every

time he said "I love you," he would chew with his mouth

open. But that's what made them so great. He wasn't

fake and didn't pretend to be perfect. Amanda had met

plenty of guys who did everything right: held the door

open for her, pulled her chair out at dinner, chewed with

their mouth closed. But these men were nothing but

painters, carpenters, covering up holes in the frame with

pretty wallpaper or a fresh coat of paint. Eventually the

hole would reveal the truth, and the facade would crumble. With Henry there was none of that. He wore his holes

proudly.

Still, she wondered when they might take the next step.

Amanda was never one of those girls who dreamed about

her wedding when she was six. She didn't name her unborn

children, or buy Modern Bride magazine. If love came, she

would deal with it then. For years, love to Amanda was like

taxes. You only thought about it when you had to.

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Yet Henry had changed that. Every so often she would

think about what he would look like in a tuxedo, and

thought about who would be her maid of honor. She caught

herself smiling at things she once found cheesy, and more

than once had felt that terror-and joy-filled moment of anticipation when she thought he might pop the question.

Yet she didn't want to rush him. Or rush herself. She

wasn't sure if she was ready to commit, and wanted to

make that decision when the time came.

Still, it felt nice to think about it. If only once in a while.

Amanda heard someone jiggling the doorknob. She

stood up, glass in hand, and watched as Henry entered the

apartment. His sport jacket was rumpled, slacks dirty

around the cuffs. There seemed to be some sort of dirt or

substance, something gray and ashy on his lapels. He saw

her and smiled, and that was enough to make her smile, too.

"Hey, hon," he said, dropping his briefcase on the floor

and joining her. She felt his arms wrap around her, and

she hugged him back. "You smell like tannins."

She held up the glass of Pinot. "Got started early. That

kind of day, you know?"

"Do I know." He went into the kitchen and took out a

glass. Not a wine goblet, but a regular drinking glass.

Then he went over to the dining room table where she'd

put a stopper in the open bottle. He wrenched out the plug

and filled his glass up nearly three-quarters of the way.

Then Amanda watched in both horror and admiration as

he downed the entire thing in one gulp. But when he

went back for a refill, that's when she stepped in and took

the bottle.

"Let's talk first," she said. "That first glass was enough

to knock you out."

He looked at her, then back at the bottle, debating

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whether it was worth arguing over. Eventually he nodded

and went over to the couch, plopping down and emitting

a deep sigh as he plunged his head into the soft leather.

"So," he said, his eyeballs straining to see her from his

position. "Tell me about your day."

"The Morgansterns were in today. They've been trying

to keep custody of their adopted daughter for the past few

months. The birth mother was a crack addict, and her

daughter was taken away from her after she left her in an

alley wrapped in newspaper. Apparently the mother

managed to clean herself up, get a job, and most importantly marry a man with enough money to make a go at

challenging for custody. It's going to be long and it's

going to be ugly."

"Do you think you can win?" Henry asked.

"I hope so. The adoptive parents deserve to keep the

girl. The mother...she might have cleaned up, but there

are certain people who you know aren't good parents. I've

met her twice, and neither time did she look me in the eye.

Her husband does all the talking. She stands there, hands

folded across her lap, like she's almost embarrassed."

"You think he's pressuring her to try and get the

daughter back."

"That's what I think."

"Yeah," Henry said. "You're gonna win."

Amanda smiled. Moved over to Henry, clasped his

hand, leaned over and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

"You think so?"

"I know so."

"Thanks, babe," Amanda said, moving back to talking

distance. "So how was your day? Any good stories? Jack

keeping you on your toes?"

Henry looked at her, and immediately Amanda felt a

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sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Her smile disappeared. She'd seen that look before.

"There was an explosion today, on Park Avenue. An

apartment..."

"Some lawyer, right?"

"That's right. Brett Kaiser."

"I saw that on the news. Terrible. The police are saying

they think somebody murdered him."

Henry looked at her. "I was there."

Amanda recoiled slightly. "Wait, what?" she said, incredulous. "What do you mean you were there? Like,

when the news crews came after the explosion?"

"I mean I was at the explosion. At Brett Kaiser's apartment building. Kaiser was tied into the story Jack and I

have been chasing, and I was at his building trying to get

some comments from him. When he left me, he went

upstairs to his apartment, and a minute or two later everything just erupted."

"Oh my God," Amanda said. She held her hands to her

heart, her mouth hanging open, dry. "Oh my God, Henry,

are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he said. "A little ringing in my ears, but it's

going away."

"You were...there?" she said. He didn't say anything.

Then Amanda wiped at his lapel, her hand coming away

with gray dust. "Is this..."

"Christ," Henry said, jerking up and going into the

bathroom. She heard the water running, and a few minutes later Henry came back out wearing shorts and a

T-shirt. Normally she'd make some sort of suggestive

comment about how he looked in shorts, but her mind

couldn't even fathom levity right now. "Sorry about that.

I didn't even realize it."

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Then Henry actually laughed a little bit. Amanda

wanted to join him, but her mouth wouldn't work. "Hey,

baby, you okay?"

Amanda shook her head. She felt her face grow hot,

her eyes beginning to water. No, she told herself. She

refused to cry. This was what their relationship was. This

was what Henry was.

She couldn't protect him. Not right now. Maybe not

ever. If he'd been closer to the explosion...if Kaiser had

invited Henry upstairs for an interview...if a chunk of

brick or concrete had come down at the right angle...he

wouldn't be here right now.

Amanda stood up. She went over to the table, picked

up the wine and took a swig right from the bottle.

When she put it back down and wiped her mouth, she

heard Henry whistle from the couch. "That must have

felt good."

Amanda shook her head. "No. Not really."

"I understand," he said. "I didn't mean to joke about

it. I know what you must be thinking. I'm fine. Not hurt

one bit. They weren't trying to hurt me. Wrong place at

the wrong time."

"Always seems to be that way," Amanda said, feeling

the wine warming her body, her mind going fuzzy. It felt

good, and she didn't try to stop it.

"You know I don't mean for things like this to happen,"

Henry said. He walked up behind her, put his arms around

her waist, leaned in close. She felt her eyes close,

breathed him in, brought her arms around his and held

him tight. She felt his breath on her neck, taking her

away. "I love you, and I also want to be the best at my

job I can possibly be. I'm not scared of chasing stories

like this. Maybe I should be, but I'm not. I've been

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through enough the past few years, a lot of it with you,

to the point where I know this is what I'm meant to do."

"I know it is," Amanda said. "I'm not sure if I wish it

wasn't, but I know that's what you are and what you do.

And I'm proud of you. I just...you don't know what it's

like to hear the person you love say things like that."

"No, I don't," he said. "And God willing, I'll never

have to."

"I hope not either." She turned around. Kissed him long

and hard. "So, at least tell me this. Did you get anything?"

Henry unwrapped his arms from her and went back to

the couch. He sat down, and she joined him. Henry

scratched his head. She could tell he'd learned something, and was troubled by it.

"I got a call today. From someone I wasn't really expecting to hear from, like, ever."

"Your dad," Amanda guessed.

"No," Henry said, somewhat relieved. "But you're

close. Paulina Cole."

"No freaking way," she said. "Why the hell would that

bitch call you?"

"Something happened to her. Recently. Someone kidnapped her, threatened to kill her daughter."

"Oh God," Amanda said. "What happened?"

"The guy let her go, but asked her to do some sort of

favor for him. She wouldn't tell me what she had to do."

"Was it," Amanda said, grimacing, "sexual?"

"I didn't get that feeling. But she wants to find out who

this guy is, but can't go to the cops. My guess is she thinks

this guy is connected. And maybe he is."

"So she came to you," Amanda said.

"She told me if I found the guy, I could have whatever

story there was."

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"If there is one. If this guy isn't just some loon who

took umbrage with one of her scorch-the-earth columns."

"I get the feeling it was more serious than that. One

thing I know about Paulina Cole, she doesn't scare easily.

This guy was serious, and he scared her so bad that she

won't go to the cops and came to me. I have access to the

cops she doesn't. And I can investigate without drawing

attention, because if this guy does have a mole in the

NYPD he wouldn't expect anything from my end. They're

watching her. Not me."

"But if they find out that someone is asking questions

about this guy, it won't matter who it comes from."

"Curt," Henry said. "I can trust Curt."

"Maybe," Amanda said. "But who can he trust?"

Henry didn't seem like he could answer that, so he just

leaned back. "I don't know."

"Don't you think you might be putting him in danger?"

Amanda said.

"When I talk to him," Henry said, "I'll tell him everything. Including that we think they might have people

inside the PD. Curt is smart. If there's information to get,

he can get it without drawing suspicion."

"And how do you know he'll do it?"

Henry looked at her, his eyes full of confidence.

"Because Curt is like me."

"Yeah," she said. "I suppose he is. What are you going

to tell Jack?"

Henry sighed. Looked back over at the table. Stared

at the bottle of wine, debating pouring another glass. As

much as she enjoyed watching him pass out, watching

him breathe as he slept, she was kind of hoping he'd be

in the mood to fool around a little.

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"That's a little more complicated." He looked at her.

"I can't tell him."

"About Paulina?"

Henry nodded. "I have to cue Jack in on the lead, but

if he finds out I got it from Paulina, that I'd even spoken

to the woman who tried to ruin his career...he'd never

speak to me again. Plus Jack deserves better."

"From who?" Amanda asked.

"From me. I don't really know. But the bottom line is

that he doesn't need to know. Not right now. If we catch

this guy, it's old news. But for now...I can't do that to him."

"You know him better," Amanda said. "If you think it's

the right thing to do, then trust your judgment. But at some

point you need to tell him, because he'll eventually find out."

"I know and I will. But now's not that time. We're

getting close on this story, and I still need to know who

was really responsible for my brother's death. Somehow

this all connects with the Fury."

"So you do believe this boogeyman exists."

"I think there's someone who knew about the plans to

kill my brother before anyone else, and maybe even

pulled the strings. Stephen was working for some sort of

cartel, and in every organization, legitimate or not, there's

someone at the top of the ladder."

"You think that might be this guy?"

Henry shook his head. "The CEOs never get their hands

dirty. They have people below them to do that for them. If

this person does exist, he's been able to hide in the shadows

because he didn't take stupid risks. The blond guy is acting

on this person's behalf. So even if he's not the gold at the

end of the rainbow, he knows where the pot is located."

"So what are you then, some sort of freaky ass leprechaun?"

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Henry laughed. "Got me the luck of the Irish."

"You're not Irish," Amanda replied.

"Yeah, but Jack is. I knew he was back for a reason."

"Come to bed. I hear leprechauns are lucky."

"Are lucky, or get lucky?"

Amanda stood up. Pulled her shirt over her head.

Smiled at him as he gazed up and down her body.

"I guess we'll have to find out."

22

The glass sat in front of him. Empty. The last remnants

of the liquid sloshed in his mouth, and he finally swallowed it, his taste buds begging for more.

"Fill it up, Jack?"

Jack O'Donnell looked at the bartender, a big Irish

bloke named Mickey, and said, "One more. Then I'm cutting myself off."

Mickey laughed. "If I had a nickel for every time I've

heard you say that, Jacky boy."

"I mean it this time," Jack said, but something in his

voice made the barman laugh. Jack had to smile. "Hit me

once more."

"You got it."

Mickey took the nozzle from beneath the bar, brought

it up to Jack's glass and filled it to the brim with fizzy,

bubbly soda.

"Here," Mickey said. He reached into a small plastic

tray and removed a single maraschino cherry. Holding it

by the stem, Mickey delicately placed it on top of the soda

and said, "Voila. Figure since you're drinking girly drinks

these days, you might as well go the full nine and have

it look girly, too."

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"You're a saint," Jack said. He raised the glass and

tipped it toward Mickey. "To never swilling a pint of that

godforsaken ale again."

"You can toast to that, my friend. 'Fraid if I do the

same I'll be out of a job."

"This world today you'll be out of a job in the next six

months anyhow."

"Did you come here just to ruin my day, Jack?"

"I'm the black cloud hanging over every man's driveway," Jack said with a grin. He sipped the soda.

"As long as you pay your tab," Mickey said, cleaning a glass.

Jack held up the soda glass, shook it gently, the ice

cubes clinking. "This stuff, what do you charge for it?

Two bucks a glass?"

"Four," Mickey said, slight embarrassment in his voice.

"Four dollars," Jack said. "What does it cost to manufacture? Three cents?"

"No idea," Mickey said. "I'll tell you one thing, it

costs a whole lot more than three cents to buy the syrup."

"See, this is exactly what's wrong with this country,"

Jack said.

"Christ, here we go."

"No, hear me out. My paper, you can buy it on the

street for fifty cents. And for that fifty cents, you get hundreds of articles written by some pretty smart people--

okay, some of them are dumber than my shoes--about

everything you need to know about the world. Now, for

this little glass of sugar piss, you could buy one of my

newspapers for eight straight days."

"I thought it was more expensive on the weekends."

"Don't be a smart-ass," Jack continued. "Anyway,

people don't value things like that anymore. When I

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started out in this business, you couldn't walk down the

street without seeing everyone carrying a copy of the

morning's paper under their arm. Now, they're doing everything but reading. iPods, BlackBerries, video games,

text messages, bird calls, Pictionary. It's like people go

out of their way to be ignorant."

"Why are you here, Jack?" Mickey asked. Jack was

surprised to see that the look on Mickey's face wasn't

jovial, but serious enough to get Jack to forget about his

rant. "You say you're on the wagon. Haven't had a drink

in two months. I give you credit for that, my friend, and

it's always good to see you back around here. But it seems

kind of stupid to me for a man trying to stay off the sauce

to hang out at a bar. Not exactly the best atmosphere to

keep you focused, know what I mean?"

Jack nodded. He didn't have a reply for that. It just felt

natural, coming back here, like a memory that haunted

you but kept tugging at the edges of your subconscious.

It was only in the last few years that the drinking had

really become a problem. Back in the day, a lunch without

three martinis was a lunch wasted. An after-work cocktail

wasn't an occasion; it was part of the job. You went home

sauced, you woke up hungover, and everything in between was done to even it out. Now, drinks at lunch were

almost passe. Expense accounts had been slashed like a

murder victim, and if you ordered a second drink you

might get a look.

Now, everything was moderated. People judged you. It

was a few years ago when Wallace Langston pointed out

that Jack's face was looking red, puffy. Wallace recommended a good dermatologist who helped cure his wife's

rosacea. Jack, perplexed, took the number but never called.

He lied to Wallace and told him he'd seen the doctor,

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Jason Pinter

though in retrospect that might not have been the wisest

course of action since it made the editor in chief even

more suspicious when the symptoms began to worsen.

He'd never wanted to leave. Never dreamed of putting

down the pen until he was either good and ready, or dead

and buried. And last year, he was neither. It was Paulina

Cole who forced his hand, by printing a newspaper article

that swung an ax at his reputation, left him alone and

crying on his bedroom floor.

Jack O'Donnell refused to go out like that. Refused to

go out a laughingstock.

In order to restore his reputation, he needed one last

home run, one last story to remind the public just why

they'd trusted him for the better part of half a century.

First, though, he needed to clean up. Funny thing, he

was never in denial about his alcoholism. With every

drink, Jack knew he was feeding the beast. It was easy to

justify, easy to rationalize. Jack was one of the city's

most respected newsmen. He'd earned that reputation.

He'd sold nearly a million books, written God knows

how many bylines.

Jack used to have an agent. Good guy named Al Zuckerberg. Tall, wispy Jew who had a company down in

Union Square. For two decades, like clockwork, Al would

negotiate his contracts every two or three years. And if

Jack was ever late with a manuscript or running short on

ideas, Al would be over with a bottle of Johnnie Walker

Blue within the hour.

Jack couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Al.

Jack hadn't written a book in nearly ten years. At some

point, Al must have given up. No squeezing blood from

a stone. Jack had wrung himself out.

Good businessman, Al was. He realized that once Jack

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165

was tapped out, his energies would be better spent on

other authors who would bring in new money. Jack still

received royalty payments, but they were dwindling.

They'd afford him a few nice meals a year, maybe pay

off some of his mortgage. But that's all.

This story, this lead he was chasing with Henry, Jack

knew this was his last chance. A big hit, and his reputation was restored. Jack still had some fight left in him,

but what really stoked the coals was watching Henry

work. Watching his career take off like Jack's had long

ago. He was a pit bull, that young man, clutching a lead

with his teeth and shaking it until the truth came loose.

Jack felt strong coming back. Felt like he had enough

strength and desire to do his best work in a long, long time.

But when that was over, Jack wasn't sure how much

he'd have left. At least, he thought, the paper would be

in good hands with Henry. If Jack had died, if the alcohol

had overcome him, he would have died a joke. His reputation would have been reduced to a pile of smoldering

ashes. Now, he could change that. Going out with a bang

wasn't such a bad thing.

The glass began to grow warm in his hand. The ice

cubes had begun to melt. Jack watched the soda turn

from black to muddy brown as it mixed with the melting

ice. He pictured, just for a moment, Mickey reaching

behind the bar, picking the bottle of Jim Beam up, tilting

that long neck and pouring a healthy swallow of bourbon

in. He could taste it on his tongue, smiled briefly. Then

he looked at the glass and set it on the table.

"Getting the urge, huh," Mickey said. He took the

glass of soda away from Jack, gently, poured it out and

placed the glass behind the bar. "Maybe you should go

home, Jack."

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Jason Pinter

The old man laughed. He reached into his briefcase

and pulled out an orange prescription tube. Mickey

looked at it, confused.

"What's that?" he asked.

"Antabuse," Jack said. "My little blue pill."

"I don't get it," Mickey said. "What's that, for depression or something?"

"No, think of it as insurance. You're supposed to take

one of these babies once a day. The chemicals in this tiny

pill, when mixed with alcohol, make you feel like Keith

Richards after a six-month bender. Kind of the negative

reinforcement equivalent for alcoholics of sticking your

finger in an electrical socket."

"So, what, you drink and you get sick?"

"So sick you'll never want to drink again."

"Does it work?"

Jack shrugged. "Damned if I know."

"I thought you said you took a pill once a day."

"You're supposed to," Jack said, "but I haven't taken

a single pill."

"Well, why the hell not?"

Jack stood up. He tugged a crumpled twenty from his

wallet, flattened it out and put it on the table. He then took

the pill bottle and placed it on top of the money.

"Because when I decide to do something, whether it's

track down a story, get a source to open up, or quit drinking," Jack said, "I don't need a damn pill to motivate me.

See you around, Mickey."

Jack walked outside. He stood outside the bar for a

moment, looked up and down the street. Some days he

could barely recognize this city. Since his return he'd

become more sensitive to what it used to be. Keenly aware

of what it was not anymore and never would be again.

The Darkness

167

Even his old habits like drinking could not be enjoyed,

replaced by something artificial that was meant to fill the

void. If not for Henry, if not for the injection of new blood

into his old, tired veins, Jack O'Donnell knew there was

a good chance his disease would have been the end of him.

Tomorrow was a new day, and would hopefully bring

new leads. He was proud of Henry for finding out information on Brett Kaiser's possible killer. That the doorman

had seen this blond man coming and going at odd hours,

while Kaiser's wife left the apartment, left him no doubt

that this man held the key to many, many questions.

Tomorrow they would hopefully answer those, but he

also could be certain that new questions would be asked.

The key to reporting was answering the questions faster

than new ones could be asked, catching up with the trail

of lies while it was still warm. Give any suspect enough

lead time, they would cover their tracks sufficiently, prolonging the investigating or snuffing it out altogether.

Tomorrow they'd be back on the trail. Jack felt invigorated, for the first time in years knowing he was working

on something important, that his job and reputation were

no longer being held hostage by the bottle.

At some point they would unravel the whole spool of

thread. At some point, Jack would restore his damaged

reputation.

And at some point, Jack would need to know why

Henry Parker was lying to him.

23

Thursday

"So tell me about this Mr. Joshua."

Curt Sheffield held a pad of paper in his hands and a

small pen. The pen hovered above the pad as he waited

for me to speak.

We were sitting on a bench next to each other in Madison Square Park. It was early morning, just after seven

o'clock. The day was crisp and cool, and the park was

crowded with couples walking their dogs and sipping

coffee. I wasn't surprised to see a line already beginning

to form outside the world-famous Shake Shack. Possibly

the best burgers in the city, but the kind of meal your intestines could only handle once or twice a year.

Before Curt had taken out his writing utensils, there

had been a breakfast burrito that disappeared down his

throat in about 1.2 seconds. His breath smelled like fried

grease, but that's not the kind of thing you tell someone

you're approaching for help. Especially when they're

armed.

"Mr. Joshua?" I said.

"Mr. Joshua? You know, from Lethal Weapon? Played

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169

by crazy-ass Gary Busey, who got his blond ass handed

to him by the man from down under at the end?"

"Oh right," I said. "I kind of stopped watching Mel

Gibson movies after the whole sugartits thing."

"You know it's weird. Who would have thought that

between Gary Busey and Mel Gibson that Busey would

turn out to be the less crazy dude."

"So what's with the Joshua reference?"

"Well, you said this dude you're looking for is blond,

Mr. Joshua was blond, thought I'd give him a nickname

since you don't know who the hell he is."

"That's why I'm coming to you. So we can eventually

call him by his real name."

"Gotcha. One more anonymous baddie, coming up.

Like we don't have enough to worry about right now."

Curt spoke these words with a little more bite than I was

used to. He wasn't above bitching about his job, but there

was a current underneath this that caught my attention.

"You okay, buddy?" I asked.

"Yeah, just, you know."

"No, I don't know. What do you mean?"

Curt shifted, blew into his hands and rubbed them

together. "Department has been hit hard lately. The city's

budget's been slashed beyond belief so the mayor could

make his budget targets, and we're taking it in the ass just

like everyone else."

"In what way?"

"Well, frankly, the city has no money."

"Yeah, I remember the governor's press conference

where he made it seem like we were some sort of third

world country outpost."

"You wouldn't think it, you know? That a city where they

can charge fifteen bucks for a martini would go broke?"

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Jason Pinter

"Tourists," I said. "The dollar is so weak that people

from pretty much all over the world can come here and

buy anything basically half off. They pay it because they

can, and we get stuck with the inflated prices because we

have no choice."

"The rich get richer and...you know how the rest

goes," Curt said. "But right now there are parts of the city

with less cops. And less cops means less supervision,

means the bad guys get emboldened."

"But the NYPD?" I said, confused. "Isn't that one area

they don't have a choice but to keep fully loaded?"

"They're trying," Curt said. "Louis Carruthers, the

Chief of Department, said the brass is looking into more

funding, but it might take a little while. At the state and

city level right now, they have less money than Michael

Jackson. A lack of money means the city is cutting back

on pretty much everything that the government picks up

the tab on. Overtime, patrol routes, even new recruits.

Starting pay for a first-year police officer is just below

your average hot dog vendor."

"Which is just above that of a journalist," I said with

a smile.

"Yeah, at least you get those fancy suit jackets with

elbow pads."

"I've never heard anybody claim to be jealous over

those."

"You can never guess where fashion trends go. If

tomorrow Kanye shows up with one of those tweed

jackets, five million kids will show up at Diesel begging

for them. So what do you got for me on this guy besides

hair color?" Curt said.

"First off, you need to know that anything you do

could come back and bite you in the ass."

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171

"Isn't that why we're friends?" Curt said. "I don't have

enough problems at work or at home, so I come to you to

satisfy my daily craving for emotional and physical trauma."

"Your breath is terrible," I said.

"Point proven," Curt said.

"Seriously. It smells like you ate a hot dog, then burped

up that hot dog, then fried the burped-up hot dog, ate it,

and burped it up again."

Curt stared at me. "I think my stomach just threw up

inside of itself."

"Then my job here is done."

"You're a laugh riot. Go on. Tell me what you know

about this dude."

"I was outside of Brett Kaiser's building right before

it turned into something out of Dante's Inferno. The

doorman told me a guy with blond hair came and went

at freaky hours."

"You told me this. That's not a hell of a lot to go on."

"I'm not done. You know Paulina Cole, right?"

"Of course. Hot piece of ass who works at that dirt rag

and has no love lost for you. Am I close?"

"Enough for a shave."

"I don't know her personally, but I've heard some of

the guys talking about her. She doesn't have a lot of

friends in the department. Ever since she wrote that article

accusing NYPD recruits of being underqualified and unmotivated. Things like that tend to rub cops the wrong

way. Rumor has it they won't give her scoops anymore

because of the crap she's written, so she has her lackeys

covering the crime beat act as spies for her."

"Yeah, well, that's part of the problem. Turns out she

was kidnapped a few days ago, and I'm ninety-nine

percent sure the guy who did it is the same one who char-172

Jason Pinter

broiled Brett Kaiser. Her description of him matched the

same one I was given by Kaiser's doorman to a T. Blond,

late thirties or early forties, muscular."

"Does she know the same guy is a suspect in the Kaiser

murder?" Curt said.

"No. You're the only person I've told."

"So I'm looking for a blond guy, about six-one or sixtwo, two hundred ten pounds or so if he's well built."

"Sounds like a ballpark to work in."

"Right. That ballpark narrows it down to about ten

thousand men in New York."

"There's one more thing," I said. "Paulina said he's

involved in drugs."

"Drugs."

"Yeah."

"Care to elaborate on that?"

"That's all I know. Let's just say she was a little secretive on that part."

"So we have a blond guy. Somewhere between six

feet and six foot two, two hundred and ten pounds, who

for all we know has smoked weed sometime in his life."

"Chester," I said. "She said he introduced himself as

Chester. And she said he might have lost a family

member, and it didn't sound as though it was as a result

of natural causes."

"Sounds to me like Paulina could be cooking up a

stew of major league bullshit to me."

"I don't think so," I said. "Paulina is a lot of things,

but she had to swallow some major pride to ask me to help

her. And she's not a woman who's too keen on losing

face. Especially to me. And this guy threatened her

daughter. Paulina's low, but not low enough to make up

something like that. She wants this guy caught. All

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173

between the physical description and the alias, it should

give you enough to at least do some digging."

"Plus if this is the same guy who turned Brett Kaiser

into burnt toast," Curt said, "it wouldn't surprise me if this

guy has some sort of explosives or military background."

"That's gotta narrow your ten thousand down a bit."

"Maybe so."

"Be careful," I said. "Paulina's pretty sure this Chester

has eyes in the NYPD. Can you do some digging without

anyone seeing your shovel?"

"That sounds sexy," Curt said.

"Come on, Curt."

"I'll grow eyes in the back of my head," Curt said.

"Digging, I can do. But if we find out who this guy is,

I'm going to need to bring Paulina in to ID him so we can

charge him."

"I hear you. But wait until you know who he is for

certain before we make a move. And make sure you only

tell people you can trust."

"Yeah, and if you need help typing or proofreading,

I'll give you a hand. Come on, I know how to do my job,

Henry," Curt said.

"Just looking out for you, buddy."

"Appreciate it."

"How are things, you know, with the job?"

"Strange times, Parker," Curt said.

"Care to elaborate?" I said, smiling. Curt did not return

the pleasantry.

"This city, you know, just a different vibe right now.

People see cops now, they look at us differently. Like they

really need us. Not that they ever didn't, but it's like the

city is waiting for another shoe to drop. You know that

dude who lost fifty billion dollars in a Ponzi scheme?"

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Jason Pinter

"Madoff," I said.

"You know the city spent more money protecting that

scumbag than it does Joe Six Pack? People just don't trust

anymore. You know the saying, but it's true. People

expect things are gonna get worse before they get better."

"The city needs cops like you," I said. "Protect and

serve, right?"

"Yeah, I appreciate that, man. Anyway," Curt said,

standing up, "break time is over. Gotta get back to protecting the rest of this overcrowded island." He breathed

into his hands, then held it up to his nose. "My breath

really that bad?"

"Makes my toes curl just talking to you," I said.

"That's the way I like it. This way I don't ever have to

pull my gun."

He held out his hand, and I shook it.

"Later, Henry."

Curt walked off. I stretched my legs, felt the cup of

coffee I'd inhaled half an hour ago take hold. Amanda was

probably still in bed, still asleep thanks to her friend the

snooze button.

Right as I was about to head toward the subway, my

cell phone rang. It was Jack. I knew the man's mind was

always working, but it was not normal for him to be

calling me before breakfast, especially when we had no

meetings planned.

I answered the phone. "Hey, Jack. Either you're up

early or you're up really late."

"Why the hell aren't you here yet?" Jack said.

"At the Gazette? It's barely seven, and I was meeting

Curt Sheffield to give him more details about the Kaiser

investigation."

"That's old news," Jack said. "Wallace and Harvey

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175

Hillerman are about to bite our nuts off, so get your ass

over here right away."

"Why? What happened?"

"Have you seen the cover of today's Dispatch? " Jack

said.

"No, figured I could wait until getting in before reading

about which celebrities were caught in the Dominican

Republic sunbathing in the nude with their boy toys."

"Laugh all you want, but Henry...we got scooped."

"Yeah, right. By who? We have every inch of this town

covered, so unless I've been working in a different city...

By the way, who scooped us?"

"Paulina Cole," Jack said. "She's got an exclusive

that'll make your eyes pop out."

24

I hailed a cab, which slowed to a crawl once we hit

midtown. I got out at Fifty-first and Lexington, threw the

driver a good tip and sprinted the few blocks over to

Rockefeller Center. I was nearly disemboweled pushing

through the security turnstile when my ID failed to work,

and got off on the eleventh floor out of breath and with

possible internal bleeding.

I entered the newsroom, and as I walked through the

sea of desks my heart dropped when I saw Tony Valentine approaching.

"Henry," he said, huffing as he jogged over. "Do you

have a minute?"

"Actually, I don't. Not right now," I said.

"Come on, Parker, you've been avoiding me since I got

here. At some point you'll need to open that hard heart

of yours for a get-to-know-you session."

"Listen, Tony, I appreciate that, and at some point we

will. But right now I have a situation to deal with."

"A situation? That sounds juicy. Do tell."

"Like I said, Tony, not right now."

"Do you have a problem with me?" Tony asked, his

eyes narrowing, offset by a strangely playful smile.

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177

"I'm just trying to be a good sport. Fit in with my new

colleagues."

"Listen, Tony, I'd be lying if I didn't think our two

types of...reporting didn't really overlap. But today there

actually is something going on. No joke."

He looked me over, trying to determine if I was telling

the truth or lying just to get out of a conversation. I certainly wasn't above doing that, at least not with Tony.

That I didn't have much respect for the profession of

gossip columnist was no secret to anyone who'd ever had

a conversation with me about the job. I ranked its importance on the Journalism Scale of Importance somewhere

between the people who filled up tubes of Wite-Out and

telemarketers.

"Fine," he said. "I'll take a rain check for today. But

at some point I'm going to cash in all my checks and

you're going to have lunch with me."

I offered a noncommittal nod/shake, and Tony walked

away. In the meantime, I had one person who might

actually skin me alive if I didn't answer to him soon.

I arrived at Jack's desk only to find it vacant. It didn't

take me long to figure out where he'd gone.

The shouting coming from Wallace Langston's office

could be heard throughout the entire newsroom, and reporters who tended to make more noise than the average

airbus on takeoff sat dead silent listening to the barrage.

Wallace tended to be a fairly mellow guy. In fact, in

my few years at the Gazette, I'd rarely heard him chew a

reporter out, rarely saw him get pissed at the copy desk

(if he had, Evelyn Waterstone might have impaled him on

one of the flagpoles outside). What really burned Wallace

was losing a story to the competition. And since Jack was

the newsroom's elder statesman, he surely took the brunt

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Jason Pinter

of it. And since I was partnering with Jack, he no doubt

wanted me there to take some of the small-arms fire.

I walked past Wallace's secretary. She was usually

kind to me, always with a good word, but today she

looked at me like I was marching right into the sights of

a firing squad. I could have sworn she gave me one of

those "please, don't go in there" looks usually reserved

for the girlfriend in horror movies who pleads with her

man not to go into the basement where the killer is waiting with a machete the size of a guitar.

Sadly, I could not heed her advice, and knocked on

Wallace's door.

"Who is it?" he yelled from inside.

"It's Henry," I said.

"Get the hell in here."

I gripped the doorknob, took a breath, and hoped

Wallace's machete was dull.

I opened the door to see Jack seated in front of

Wallace's desk. Wallace was not seated behind it, as per

usual. Instead he was pacing around the room while

Jack's head swiveled trying to keep pace.

Wallace looked like he'd come in to work properly

dressed, hair combed, clothes ironed. But now his graying

hair was askew, glasses crooked on his nose. And the pads

on his elbows looked like they were being worn away.

"Where the hell have you been?" Wallace said.

"Meeting with a cop about the Kaiser investigation,"

I said. "He's going to find out what he can about the guy

who might be responsible."

"That's dandy," Wallace said. "While you were out

pussyfooting with your boys in blue, did you happen

to see this?"

He walked over to his desk and picked up a copy of

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179

that morning's New York Dispatch. Wallace stomped over

to me, holding the paper much as you would a bag of dog

poop. I looked at Jack, wanted to see if he had anything

to say, but the old man sat there, head down.

Wallace handed me the paper. "Read it," he said.

I looked at the front page. Immediately my stomach

lurched up to my throat, frustration and anger welling

up inside me.

I turned to where the front page article continued, and

read the whole thing. Slowly. Word by word. Then I

closed the paper and threw it across the room, cursing

loud enough that Wallace's secretary would probably

have to apologize to whoever she was on the phone with.

"How the hell did she..." I said.

"Don't you dare ask that question," Wallace said. "It's

your job to know what goes on in this city. You handle

the crime beat. It is your duty to know every nook and

cranny of this island, from the mayor's office to the bums

who live beneath the subway. For something like this to

get past you...you must have been asleep at the wheel."

He looked at Jack, waited for a response. "Either that or

the two of you have become so narrow-minded with this

Kaiser murder and Gaines follow-up that you can't sniff

what's under your nose."

"I didn't know anything about this," I said. "Paulina...I

don't know where she got it. And I don't know which

cops she spoke to, but if you look at the article they all

spoke on condition of anonymity. I just met with my man

in the NYPD, and he's as clued in as anyone. He didn't

mention a word of this, and he doesn't keep things from

me. Not like this. Something about this piece doesn't

pass the smell test, Wallace."

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Jason Pinter

Wallace picked the newspaper back up. He held the

cover out for us both to see.

On the front page of the Dispatch was an enlarged

picture of what looked like a small stone, possibly a piece

of gravel, pitch-black in color with a rough texture.

The headline next to the photo read The Darkness.

The subtitle said, The Drug That's About to Take Man-

hattan Back to the Stone Age.

25

Darkness Rising

As a deadly new drug hits the streets,

police and citizens silently fear a return

of chaos a quarter century old

Most New Yorkers did not know Kenneth Tsang.The

son of Chinese immigrants who passed away before

he graduated high school, Tsang received his MBA

from Wharton and spent most of his twenties raking

in the dough while working at two prestigious investment firms. Most New Yorkers did not know that,

despite his income,Tsang owed nearly half a million

dollars in taxes and mortgage payments, and that he

burned through his money nearly as fast as it came in.

Most NewYorkers know thatTsang was found dead

this week, his body pulverized and found floating in

the East River.What they do not know is that a balloon

marker was tied to the buoy that Tsang's body was

tethered to.They do not know that inside that balloon

were half a dozen small, black rocks, left by Tsang's

killer. These rocks were no bigger than a piece of

gravel, but each contain enough destructive power to

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Jason Pinter

clinch a plastic bag around the head of a city already

gasping for air.

Now, come with me for a moment. I have a brief

history lesson to impart upon you.

For those of us who lived through New York in the

1980s,much of the information within this article will

ring horrifyingly familiar.Let's backtrack for a minute,

about twenty-five years ago to 1984. George Orwell

would have been proud. Or terrified.

New York as we know it today did not exist.Following the oil shortage of the 1970s, the Son of Sam

murders, and an economy on the verge of chaos, the

plumbing system that was New York was about to get

hit with a cherry bomb that nearly destroyed it totally.

That cherry bomb was a new drug known to scientists as methylbenzoylecgonine. Or as it is more

commonly known, crack.

Crack first appeared on our shores in 1984. Before

that, the drug of choice was cocaine. But as cocaine

became more plentiful, prices dropped and dealers

began to lose much of their profit margin.

Poor them.

So to get back the money they were losing on coke,

they came up with a new way to profit. In a nutshell,

they used baking soda or other bases to cut the cocaine.

This increased the volume of their product while retaining the same toxicity of the drug. It was the equivalent

of taking a dollar bill, mixing it with a few pennies, and

turning it into two dollars.

By 1986, just two years after crack hit the streets,

over fifty-five thousand people were admitted to

emergency rooms around the country with crackrelated injuries (most often this was either from

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183

overdosing, or violence which was a result of the

drug trade).

For those of you who lived in New York during

that time, as I did, the effects of the crack epidemic

were as visible as a streetlamp. Crime in this city hit

highs never before seen. Murder and rape rates rose

dramatically. Cases of aggravated assault skyrocketed

from just over 60,000 in 1980 to over 91,000 by the

end of the decade. Burglaries. Larceny.Vehicle theft.

New York began to resemble less of a modern, cosmopolitan city than an outpost of Beirut.

Thankfully, this trend reversed itself in the 1990s,

and through the new millennium New York has

enjoyed its lowest crime rates per capita since the

1960s. New York was known as one of the safest big

cities in the country, and if you live here or came to

visit, you could walk down the street feeling safe.

After the atrocities of 9/11, New Yorkers banded

together to create a safer city. One that reclaimed its

place among the grandest in the world.The virus that

infected us twenty-five years ago had long been forgotten.

To my horror, though, recent developments have

proven that this virus was not extinguished, but had

rather been lying dormant, in remission, waiting for a

catalyst to revitalize its poisons.

That catalyst has finally found us.And it is not a terrorist,or a crooked financial institution.It exists in the

tiniest form possible: a small black rock.

Though the human eye might not register this tiny

specimen as anything more than a pebble, a piece of

gravel,something that might even pave a driveway,the

properties that exist within it threaten the very

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Jason Pinter

sanctity of the city we have fought so bravely to

protect.

The culprit? A simple black rock that dissolves on

your tongue as fast as a breath strip.

Nobody is quite sure where the Darkness came

from, who manufactures it, or whether this drug has

spread to other states. Crack began in primarily metropolitan cities. New York. Los Angeles. Washington,

D.C.Cities with large urban populations. Cities where

there was enough poverty to turn the need of a cheap

hit into gold for the men and women whose lack of

humanity drove them to produce it.

As of press time, the police had no leads on who

deals the drug. A high-ranking member inside the

NYPD did comment, off the record, stating,"We are

fully preparing for another epidemic similar to the

rise of crack cocaine we saw in the 1980s. Though

privately, we're worried that this one will be much,

much worse and have a potentially more devastating

impact considering that our infrastructure is already

damaged."

So what's the harm in a little black rock, you might

ask? Why should I care about some idiots getting high?

Because increases in drug production and consumption lead to increases in crime.But here's where

this drug differs: a normal crack user will find successive hits of the drug granting decreasing effects.The

hits, as they are, are not as potent.

With the Darkness,however,some insane chemical

genius has figured out a way around this.

The human brain produces a certain amount of

dopamine, a neurotransmitter often associated with

pleasure.Dopamine is released through many pleasur- The Darkness

185

able experiences, including food, exercise, sex and, of

course, drugs. Simple crack cocaine releases a larger

amount of dopamine than the brain is accustomed to,

so when the user takes a second hit before the brain

can replenish dopamine, a lesser amount is released.

Yet the Darkness circumvents this by causing the

brain to produce more dopamine. This means that

each successive hit will have the exact same impact

as the one preceding it,making it more addictive than

nearly every drug on the market.

It's no wonder the cops are nervous.They're facing

streets about to be teeming with a drug that's cheaper,

more plentiful, and delivers, pardon the expression,

the best hit money can buy.

God help us all.

26

Friday

The call came close to midnight. Morgan wondered

what the hell had taken them so long.

He didn't recognize the voice on the other line. It wasn't

Chester, and he didn't think it was Leonard. Not that it

mattered much. He assumed there had to be more to the

operation than the two guys he'd met. There were twelve

other men in that room--well, eleven after the accident

with Jeremy--and they'd all been recruited like him.

Leonard had said that they'd each been recruited by a

different person, as Leonard had been brought in by this

guy Stephen Gaines. If each new recruit was brought in

by a different guy, a la Chester, that meant at least eleven

people on Chester's level.

Morgan wondered just how many people were a part

of this organization. Then he wondered how long it might

take before he could be promoted, and how much money

he'd have to bring in. Didn't matter. He'd do it.

In his mind's eye, Morgan could see Jeremy's lifeless

body sliding down the wall, clumps of his blood like egg

yolk on the wallpaper behind him. Morgan wished he felt

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187

remorseful, wished he felt some sort of sympathy for

Jeremy, but as hard as he tried he simply could not.

When Leonard described what the job entailed, it

was a zero sum equation: either you had the sack for it

or you didn't.

Jeremy didn't.

It was clear from the moment the mission was explained. Morgan had seen that look before. He found it a

little funny, considering he'd gone so far in business

because of his ability to spot men like Jeremy. Men who

wouldn't take the extra step, who worried so much about

teetering on the diving board that they couldn't even see

the riches hidden beneath the water's surface.

Morgan saw it all. He had a knack for it, could see

deals before they materialized. That was the rule of

thumb: first one in, last one out. See the profits before

everyone else did, and stay longer than everyone else

who got cold feet.

That look in Leonard's eye said it all. New product.

That's when Morgan knew he had to jump in.

When you introduced a new product to the marketplace, you didn't trust it to people who couldn't sell it,

who couldn't get the job done. A new product has an extremely narrow window of opportunity to work, and

while that door is cracked open, you needed to wedge everything but the kitchen sink in there because once that

sucker closed up, it wasn't cracking open again.

Morgan sold to people. Plain and simple. He sold them

investments in their future. He sold them the belief that

if they did not trust him then they were putting their

family's stability at risk.

Was this any different?

Morgan had done a few lines in his day. A night out at

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the strip joint with his buddies, a bump or two in the

bathroom to make those lights flicker just a little faster.

He didn't quite have the taste for it, though, felt if you

needed an external force to get high you were simply

doing the wrong drugs.

Not that he judged them. Most people were simply not

born with the same drive and instincts Morgan had been.

His parents were blue collar all the way, but had good

enough credit to get him a decent financial aid package.

Morgan knew a lot of kids from his hometown that

weren't so lucky.

They were the ones who filled up his tank at the gas

station. They were the ones who sprayed perfume on his

mother when she went to the mall. They were the ones

who needed something to take the edge off the real world,

because if they spent too much time with their own life

and their own thoughts eventually it would occur to them

what they had never become.

So this new product, Morgan guessed, was just one

more thing to take the edge off. And that was fine. He

trusted these guys. Jeremy was a message. Like no limit

hold 'em, you're either all in or you fold.

Jeremy folded. Morgan's stack of chips wasn't as high

as it used to be, but what was that great line from Rounders?

Kid's got alligator blood.

Morgan liked the sound of that.

When the caller told him the address, Morgan was a

little surprised at first. He'd actually been there once

before, a few years back when he'd first started dating this

French model named Claudia who was in town for some

photo shoot where she was supposed to pose in a pink tutu

atop the Brooklyn Bridge.

Morgan never really understood art.

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189

She'd insisted that they go to the Kitten Club, the rationale being more along the lines of it being a trendy

hotspot rather than a place where actual enjoyment

could be had.

Morgan remembered that the music was deafening,

the light show transfixing, and the drinks ridiculously

overpriced.

And then that rich diva Athena Paradis got killed there,

and somehow the Kitten Club became even more popular.

Now why Morgan was supposed to be there at seven

o'clock in the morning, a good sixteen hours before the club

even opened its doors, was beyond him. But it was his first

day. And Morgan knew well enough not to ask questions.

He took the subway downtown, then walked to the

meatpacking district where the Kitten Club, and its

brethren, served generous amounts of alcohol to hip,

young New Yorkers seven days a week. At midnight, you

couldn't walk down the block without having to cut

through any one of a number of long lines dedicated to

keeping impatient drinkers outside until the Lord of the

Velvet Rope decided it was time to allow them entry.

The Kitten Club used to have one of those large neon

signs above the awning, this one depicting a feline in

naughty attire sipping from some sort of pink cocktail.

The lights were arranged so that it looked like the cat

was tipping the drink back. As the glass hit the cat's

lips, the drink actually appeared to disappear down its

furry throat.

If you had enough money, you could get anyone to

make you anything.

As Morgan approached the entrance, the front door

opened up. He immediately recognized the man who

held it open.

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"Morgan, good to see you," Chester said. "Feels good

to be up bright and early, doesn't it?"

Chester said this with the slightest air of contempt, as

though he knew that Morgan hadn't needed to wake up

before noon anytime in recent memory. Though he felt

his cheeks flush slightly red, he did feel a bit of pride in

rejoining the workforce.

"If it's worth getting up for, there's no such thing as

too early."

"Words to live by," Chester replied. "Come on in."

Chester held the door ajar, and Morgan slipped

inside. He couldn't help but find it funny that for the first

time he hadn't needed to wait in line to enter a club.

Maybe he needed to go clubbing at seven in the morning

more often.

Chester led Morgan through the club, the earlymorning sun peeking through black-tinted windows,

casting an eerie glow on a floor that seemed ghostlike

without the cavalcade of dancing, drinking bodies. The

first floor of the Kitten Club was essentially one large

open space, nearly the length of a football field.

At either end was a bar, about thirty feet long, that

housed four different bartenders in order to make sure

drinks were served promptly, and that every penny was

squeezed out of every patron.

Large birdcages hung above the floor, with doors big

enough to fit the dancers who gyrated inside them all

night. Morgan could see a pulley system keeping them

high, attached to a chain that could be lowered. Still, the

dancers had to keep going all night. Made you think twice

before entering a giant birdcage.

Chester led Morgan across the first floor, toward a

sign marked Restrooms. Morgan followed, but slowed

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191

down when Chester turned toward the door to the women's bathroom.

"Um, dude, you can't go in there."

Chester turned around, looked at Morgan like he'd

sprouted another head.

"You're really going to question me? Now?"

Morgan felt a chill travel down his spine. He simply

shook his head, and whispered, "Sorry."

Stupid, Morgan thought. His gut reaction, of course,

was to question why the hell they were going into the

ladies' bathroom in a nightclub at seven in the morning.

On the surface, not the most egregious question to be

asking. But Morgan should have known better.

So when Chester pushed open the door to the women's

room, Morgan followed obediently behind.

The women's room was cleaner than most clubs, especially considering it was known for being a veritable

petrie dish of chemical indulgences. There was an irony

in that the club was owned by Shawn Kensbrook, who

was as clean as they came. Hell, the guy became a

regular on the Today show after Athena Paradis died.

One of those celebrities, like Puff Daddy or P. Diddy or

whatever the hell his name was now who skyrocketed

to fame after the death of someone close. And when

fame came knocking, the mourning period lasted all of

about two more seconds before the checks started

rolling in.

Kensbrook himself was clean, but the Kitten Club

itself was as dirty as a public restroom. And like a

public restroom, Morgan held his nose when he took

one whiff of the foul odor that permeated this particular restroom.

He couldn't tell where it was coming from, but got an

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idea when Chester walked over to a closed stall door

clearly marked Out of Order.

Morgan followed, peeking over Chester's shoulder as

he pushed the stall door open.

Yup, that was it. No doubt whatever had died had done

so in this stall.

The toilet seat itself was covered in a brown foulness

that nearly made Morgan retch. The wall behind it was

chipping, the plaster coming loose. The metal toilet paper

holder was rusted and gross, and the floor tiles had hints

of yellow that reminded Morgan of writing his name

without hands on snow days in his youth.

Without hesitation, Chester stepped through the rusted

door and stood over the toilet.

"Dude," Morgan said, "that's pretty nasty. I'm sure

there's a working one in here that doesn't look like something out of Trainspotting. "

Chester appeared to ignore him, instead leaning forward.

Morgan couldn't make it out, but Chester was apparently

doing something against the wall, either scratching it with

his fingernails or pushing on something, he couldn't tell

what.

Suddenly Chester stepped back, and Morgan heard a

brief clicking noise before the entire compartment--the

toilet and the wall behind it--simply slid backward, revealing a walkway behind it.

"You've gotta be kidding me," Morgan said. "Who

are you, James Bond?"

"Guess I got the blond hair right," Chester said. "Come

on."

Morgan stepped into the passageway. It was a long

narrow hallway, metal on both sides, no deviations. At the

end of the hallway stood a simple metal door. There was

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193

no doorknob, no metal slats. Nothing except two video

cameras perched above the doorway, each pointed down

to capture whoever was about to enter.

"Who's back there?" Morgan said.

"What did I tell you about questions?"

"Not to ask them."

"You're a quick learner."

Chester kept walking until he was standing directly in

front of the door. He looked up at the cameras. Smiled.

Morgan was about to ask if whoever was back there

could see him, but remembered the previous conversation.

"The cameras don't work," Chester said.

"Huh?"

"That's what you were about to ask. Do you see any

wires? Any outlets?"

Morgan eyed the cameras. "Nope. But there's a red

light on."

"Runs on a battery," Chester said. "Fakes out most

burglars and trespassers. You can buy these things at

Radio Shack for sixty bucks."

"So then how do they..."

"Trust me, security is a lot tighter than a simple

camera. Just don't bring any of your friends here. They'll

be dead before they count to five."

"What..."

Before Morgan could finish his question (something

he was thankful for), the metal door slid open. Standing

there was Leonard.

He was wearing black jeans and a green turtleneck. He

held a clipboard in one hand, and gripped the door's

handle with his other.

"Hey," he said to Chester. Then he looked at Morgan.

"Glad you could make it. You guys are late."

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"Traffic," Chester said.

"Of course." Leonard took a pen from the clipboard,

checked something on it and went back into the room.

"Come on," Chester said, and Morgan followed him

inside.

The room was fairly small, and resembled an atrium

of some sort. There was another door off to the side, and

that was all. The only light was overhead track lighting,

and Morgan noticed a dozen cameras pointed at different parts of the room.

The first person he saw was Nikesh. The Indian boy

was standing in the center of the room. He was wearing

a black pinstripe suit, with a red tie and wingtip loafers.

His hair was freshly cut, and Morgan noticed a small

shaving nick under his chin.

Nikesh turned around. He nodded when he saw Morgan.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," Morgan replied, wittily.

Then Nikesh turned around, and Morgan saw that he

had a large briefcase slung over his shoulders. The bag

was full, but not overstuffed. There was a combination

lock on the front, and the clasp was done.

"Patel, you're finished here. Flanagan?"

The chubby white kid from the conference room

ambled out of the side room. He was also clutching a

briefcase, this one stuffed even more. Though the bag

looked ready to burst, Chubby--aka Flanagan--seemed

to have no trouble carrying it. Obviously whatever was

inside didn't weigh much.

"You two have your orders," Leonard told them. "And

you remember everything I told you."

Patel and Flanagan both nodded. They looked confident.

Whatever Leonard had told them, they remembered it.

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195

Leonard clicked something in his ear, nodded, then

motioned for the duo to follow him. He slid the door

open, revealing the corridor. When they'd stepped

outside, Leonard pulled the door back into place.

"Your turn," Leonard said. "Time for orientation."

Leonard walked over to the side door. This one looked

fairly standard, with a doorknob and everything. Leonard

simply turned the knob, pulled it open and beckoned

Morgan to follow him.

Tentatively Morgan came forward, surprised at first

that the door wasn't guarded by some super electromagnet or something else similarly complicated.

As he approached the door, another young man

stepped out. Morgan recognized him from the conference room. He was black, about five foot ten. Stocky but

not fat, with a neatly shaved head. He wore a creamcolored suit and a blue tie, a pocket square neatly tucked

into his jacket.

"Theodore W. Goggins," Leonard said. "This is Morgan

Isaacs."

Morgan extended his hand. Theodore shook it. His

grip was tight.

"Call me Theo."

"Call me Morgan," he replied. "So 'W' huh? Like

George W. Bush?"

"Do I look like I was born in Texas?" Theo said. "The

'W' is for Willingham, my uncle's last name."

"Keeping it all in the family," Morgan said. "Nice."

Theo laughed. "You keep up, brother, you and me are

gonna get along just fine."

"Get along?" Morgan said.

"You two are partners, for the time being," Leonard

said. "You ever use the buddy system on school trips?"

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Neither of the young men answered, but they both

knew what he was talking about.

"Same principle. Theo, you're responsible for Morgan.

Morgan, you're responsible for Theo. Either of you get

into any trouble, it's up to the other one to help out."

"No problem," Morgan said. "That's a pretty sweet

tie," he noted, admiring the silk.

"Only kind I wear," Theo said. "Red is too loud. Says

you're trying too hard. Lighter colors--yellow, green--

those are pansy-ass colors. Black, white, hell, you're not

even trying. Blue is the perfect in between. It's bold, but

it doesn't say that. It's like a backrub. Sounds pretty

innocent, but it's going to get your panties off before the

night is over."

"I'm not wearing any panties. So I guess you already

won."

"Enough, girls," Leonard said. His voice grew stern,

and he moved forward until his face was just inches from

Morgan's. "Theo is also your insurance policy, Isaacs,

and Isaacs is yours, Goggins. If you ever try anything

funny, ever do anything to place yourself or your partner

in danger...well, there's a quarter-million-dollar bonus in

it for your partner if he turns you in."

"Wait, what?" Morgan said. "He gets two hundred

and fifty grand for ratting on me?"

"Yes and no," Leonard continued. "I already explained this to Theo, but you need to know it as well. If

your partner does anything--talks to the cops, tells his

friends, tells his family, tells his fucking shih tzu--if you

inform us you get quarter-million-dollar bonus. Tax

free."

Morgan could tell Theo was eyeballing him. He

didn't like it.

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197

"But," Leonard said, "if one of you lies just to get

the money, you won't need money where you're going.

So before you decide to play games, ask yourself if the

risk is really worth the reward. You can either continue

to make money--good money--working for us. Or

you can get cute, try to get rich quick, and end up like

Ken Tsang."

Morgan's stomach felt like someone had just poured

acid inside of it.

Leonard and his people couldn't have been responsible

for Ken's death--could they?

"Hopefully you'll never need to know what it feels like

to be able to touch your knee to the small of your back,"

Leonard said. "Or for your arms to suddenly grow another

joint. Because Ken sure did."

Theo didn't move. Did not react. Morgan stared at

Leonard. He was scared, and Leonard seemed to recognize this.

"Now, don't get ahead of yourself thinking all doom

and gloom. Ken was stupid," Leonard said. "I'm hoping

you're smart. Because if you are, it's nothing but gravy

for all of us. Theo here is your guardian angel, and the

bomb collar strapped to your neck. He will protect you

at all costs, but if you try and remove him in any way

whatsoever--he'll still be around long after the bomb

goes off. Do you get this? Both of you?"

Theo nodded. He didn't seem to care, didn't seem

affected in the least. It was as though he knew he would

never turn. Never lie to these people. He was there for the

money. And as long as he did what he was told, that green

would pour in.

"I get it," Morgan finally said. The acid had gone. The

look on Theo's face had made it dry up. This was Morgan's

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chance to get his life back. He would never do what Ken

did. And he knew Theo would never turn on him.

They both had too much to lose.

"Great. Now that we're clear on the rules, let's go

over everything. But first, let's give you a look at your

merchandise."

Leonard opened the door up wider. Theo went back

inside, and Morgan followed. And when he saw what

was inside, it was all he could do not to gasp.

"How much..." he said.

"Doesn't matter," Leonard said.

Morgan looked around. In a dozen neat piles, each

about twenty feet wide and five feet tall, were small, individual bags. Each of these bags contained what looked

like a different kind of narcotic.

Cocaine. Ecstasy. Weed. Pills. Things Morgan didn't

recognize in the slightest.

And then, in the back corner, he saw something that

piqued his curiosity.

Bags filled with what looked like small pieces of black

gravel. Rocks so small and so insignificant that they

looked like they could have been taken from his grandmother's driveway.

"What's that?" Morgan said.

"That," replied Leonard, "is going to revolutionize

our business."

Morgan stared at it. Theo's eyes were wide open.

"We call it 'the Darkness.' And in one week's time,"

Leonard said, "you'll be so busy selling those bags you

won't have time to spend all the money you make." Then

Leonard smiled. "But I imagine you'll find the time."

27

"Nobody knows anything."

Even though I was holding a telephone to my ear, I

wanted to wrap my hands around the piece of plastic and

choke the life out of it.

"You can't be serious," I said.

"I'm telling you, Henry," Curt said. "Nobody here

knows a damn thing about Paulina Cole's article. Nobody

knows who gave her those quotes, nobody knows where

she got her information, and if it makes you feel any

better nobody here has even heard of this so-called magic

drug, Darkness or whatever. It's like she pulled the whole

thing out of thin air."

My head hurt. Both from the chewing out by Wallace,

the frustration in having been scooped by Paulina Cole,

and the feeling that Curt was telling the truth. Curt had

his finger pretty well placed on the pulse of the NYPD,

and whenever a bombshell was about to drop, even if he

didn't clue me in ahead of time he was rarely surprised.

Right now, though, he spoke as if he was as pissed off as

I was. It sounded like Curt felt he'd been scooped by

Paulina as well.

"This whole thing doesn't make any sense," I said.

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"And the details about the rocks inside the balloon--you

didn't mention that."

"I didn't even know about that until I saw the article,"

Curt said, frustration growing in his voice. "Listen,

Henry. I know the rank and file. I know the guys who

work narcotics detail, the guys sweeping the street

corners for dealers, the ones who confiscate this crap, and

even the ones who log it in to evidence. None of them,

let me repeat, none of them, have any idea what the hell

she's talking about or where she got the info from."

"Either she pulled enough information from her ass to

make her walk funny for a month, somebody in your department has loose lips, or something is being kept a

pretty big secret from all of us."

"I don't know about you, but I think her article is

half bull."

"And the other half?"

Curt was silent for a moment. I could feel my heart

pounding in my chest. I knew his answer before he said it.

Bull or not, there was a lining of truth in Paulina's article.

"The other half," he said, "I'm just praying she's

wrong about. I grew up in this city in the eighties,

Henry. I had a cousin who got hooked on junk. He stole

two twenties from some junkie's wallet because he

needed money to cook more of that poison on a spoon.

He ended up taking eight bullets. From a six-shooter.

Which meant the junkie who killed him reloaded and

then shot him two more times. I know what crack did

to this city. I saw it, man. I'm not comparing apples to

oranges, belts to syringes. I'm just saying that if there

is any truth to Cole's story, and this stuff is already in

the marketplace, it's a faucet that's gonna be real tough

to shut off."

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201

"If this thing is as big as Paulina claims it is," I said,

"won't it be easy to track down?"

"You'd think so, but I know a dozen narco officers

who have eyes and ears and informants up the yin yang

with access to all kinds of dope. They know everyone

from the absolute bottom of the totem pole to the people

at the top. And not one of them has heard a single peep

about Darkness."

"I just don't see Paulina making this up. I mean, she

presses every button there is, but she's not an all-out

liar. Even when she torpedoed Jack, everything she

said was true. It was a pretty despicable takedown, but

she wasn't lying."

"Listen, Henry, I hear you, but this isn't my beat. I

can only go by what the guys in Narcotics are telling me.

And if I hear anything I'll let you know. But right now

there's nothing."

"Thanks, Curt. Good luck out there. For your sake, I

hope Paulina had a sudden case of the truthful yips."

"Truthful yips. Sounds like a good name for a band."

"Yeah. I'll let you know when I form it. You can

play bass?"

"Always saw myself as more of a saxophone man. You

know, Charlie Parker. Sure you don't have a black uncle?"

"Hey, man, you know how my father plays hide-andseek with the truth. It wouldn't shock me. But as far as I

know I don't."

"Gotcha. Take it easy, Henry."

"Later, Curt."

I hung up the phone. I noticed Jack had come over, and

was standing next to my desk.

"Was that your buddy Sheffield?"

I nodded, leaned back in my chair and stretched.

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"I don't get it. Curt knows this stuff, and he said

nobody in the department has heard one word about

this new drug."

"Is it possible his ear is just a little too far from the juice?"

"It's possible, but Curt's been pretty reliable when it

comes to big stories."

"Well, until we hear otherwise, we have to assume

that the Wicked Witch of the West Side scooped us fair

and square."

"I don't think that's going to make Wallace like us any

more."

"No. He'll bitch and moan for a day or two, until we

break something big and Ted Allen at the Dispatch has

to eat a nice big turd sandwich."

"He has to deal with Paulina every day. That's gotta

be enough punishment for one man."

Jack laughed. It felt strange, though, as though he was

laughing more to gauge my reaction than out of actual

emotion. Then he stayed silent for a minute, just thinking.

"So where are we at?" he said. "It seems like our number

one lead got himself a one-way ticket to the big adios."

"Well, my gut says for certain that Kaiser knew

exactly what I was talking about when I asked him about

718 Enterprises. Of course he was killed before I could

get any deeper."

"So think about this, sport," Jack said. "I'm guessing

Kaiser's demise was not due to a leak in his gas stove.

He was killed. So who benefits from Kaiser being out of

the picture? And why kill him now?"

"It was probably no secret that we were looking at him,

so whoever killed him was worried he would talk."

"Did he seem like a talker to you?"

"Are you kidding? If he'd given me another thirty

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203

seconds he would have told me what his wife was like

in bed."

"So someone ices him before he can talk. Who?"

"I'm pretty sure it's this blond guy the doorman saw

coming at odd hours. He clearly had business with Kaiser

that couldn't take place during the light of day."

"Didn't you say his wife left when he came over?"

"Yeah," I said. "Mrs. Kaiser left and went to a coffee

shop on the corner. She let this guy and Brett do their

thing, then she'd just come back like she'd gone to the

beauty salon. Nothing strange about her attitude, according to the doorman."

"So you know who we have to talk to now?" Jack

said.

"Victoria Kaiser. Wonderful. Nothing I need more than

bothering a grieving widow."

"You're too mushy, Parker. If I was a grieving widow..."

"You'd be a pretty widow," I said. Jack ignored me.

"If I was a grieving widow, I'd sure as hell want to find

the bastards who killed my husband."

"Isn't that the job of the NYPD?"

"Yeah. And they did a real bang-up job investigating your brother's death. Since Stephen Gaines is connected to 718--per your estimation--I have a funny

feeling the NYPD might be taking this whole thing a

little lightly."

"Why would they do that?" I said.

"Easy," Jack said. "For whatever reason, somebody

over there thinks it's in their best interests to let this story

slide. And that's where we come in, little buddy."

"Okay, Gramps. Let's see if we can get in touch with

Mrs. Kaiser."

Jack stood up. I noticed a bulge in his pants pocket.

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"What the hell do you have in there?" I asked, slightly

worried and a little grossed out at the same time.

"This? Just a soda." He took the can out of his pocket.

"You walk around carrying soda cans in your pants."

"Just in the office. Need a little sugar rush from

time to time."

I acted as though that made perfect sense.

"How's the...are you still on the wagon?" I asked. I

wasn't sure how Jack would take my asking. He could

have been offended, he could have told me it was none of

my business, and I wasn't sure if it was. But as long as I

was working with him, as long as I was trusting him, I

needed to know he was all there.

That wasn't the only reason of course. If I found out Jack

was back on the sauce, to be honest it would have devastated me. I needed to see Jack the way he'd been during his

prime. Even if he'd lost a few miles off his fastball, I needed

to see the Jack O'Donnell who'd earned the reputation of

being one of the best newsmen in the city's history. Though

I wasn't sure if I needed it more for Jack's sake, or for mine.

"Two months," Jack said. There was sincerity on his

face, and it made me breathe easier.

"I'm glad to hear that, I..."

"It's not easy," Jack said. "I'm not going to lie to you,

Henry. You do something every day for almost fifty years,

it's not like a switch you can just turn off. It's almost a

part of you. And when you don't do it--drink, I mean--

it's like there's a space that needs to be filled."

"Hence the soda," I said.

"Sometimes the space is literal," he said, patting his

stomach. "Not the exact same, but it helps."

"Like a nicotine patch."

"Kind of like that, only that doesn't rot your teeth."

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205

"If you need any help," I said, "physical, emotional..."

"Sexual?" Jack grinned at me.

"I'm not into necrophilia, old man."

This time Jack closed his eyes when he laughed.

"Come on, Parker, let's go. Victoria Kaiser is probably

being held by the cops for questioning and protection. I have

a man at One Police Plaza who can put us in touch with her."

"Sounds like a plan," I said. "I'll meet you outside. Just

gotta make a quick call."

"To who?" Jack asked.

"Amanda," I lied.

"What about?"

"We're planning a vacation. Just wanted to see if she

booked it yet."

"That's nice. You could use a little time away. I'll be

waiting in the lobby. Don't take so long that I'll need

to sit down."

"I'll be right there."

Jack left. When I saw him enter the elevator vestibule,

and the doors closed on him, I picked up my phone. I took

out my cell phone, scrolled down to the number I'd just

recently entered and filed under Ray's Pizza. Didn't need

anyone knowing the truth right now.

I dialed the number, and chewed a fingernail as it rang.

Finally a voice answered.

"I recognize the prefix," Paulina Cole said. "There had

better be a reason somebody's calling me from the Gazette. "

"It's Henry Parker," I said.

"Oh. Parker. What do you want?"

"What do I want? The article you wrote today,

what's the deal?"

"I don't know what you mean," she said, defiance and

annoyance battling for supremacy in her voice.

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"The cops don't have any idea what you're talking

about. And nobody has seen this drug. Not to mention you

didn't even mention it when we spoke."

"What, I ask a favor of you and suddenly I need to tell

you everything I'm working on?"

"No, but I..."

"I told you there was a quid pro quo."

"Wait...the guy who threatened your daughter...did

he make you write that story?" I waited for Paulina to

answer. "Hello? You still there?"

"I told you there was a quid pro quo," Paulina said.

"That's all you need to know. Goodbye, Parker. Thanks

again."

She hung up.

I sat there, shaking.

Paulina Cole was no pushover. I'd believed her when

we spoke, but for her to do this kind of favor, to write

a story that might have had no factual basis, it went

beyond morally wrong into ethically wrong. Paulina

was a good reporter; too good sometimes. She might

have had a nose for the tabloidy, for the melodramatic,

but she almost never got her facts wrong. So why the

heck would somebody want her to print that? Why

invent a drug if it didn't exist? Why falsely quote a cop

if the story was grounded in a lie? For her to print this,

it either meant she'd fabricated a hell of a story with

somebody else's help...or that the story was true. And

whoever wanted the story written wanted it seen by

millions of people for a reason.

Did that blond guy who killed Brett Kaiser also blackmail Paulina Cole into writing that article? What the hell

did he have to do with this new drug? And if he had

something to do with it, no doubt Brett Kaiser did, too. I

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207

could only hope Victoria Kaiser could shed a little light

on this, because just like the drug, this story felt dangerous as hell and getting darker.

28

Morgan held the metal bar as the train sped uptown. He

was standing next to Theo Goggins, the two of them

carrying briefcases with enough narcotics to last Scarface

until the sequel.

Morgan admired Theo's suit, and his blue tie was bold

and bright.

"You were right about the tie," Morgan said. "It works."

"You think I'd lie about something as important as

that? I started off making cold calls. First time I got a fish

to bite on a stock, I was wearing a blue tie. First time I

closed an account--blue tie."

"First time you sold stuff that would get you jail time."

Theo smiled. "Blue tie. But I ain't never going to jail.

Only way I go to jail is if you rat on me, and I ain't never

going to give you cause to do that. So you make up a

story, it's your ass they find broken into itty-bitty pieces

floating in the East River."

"Same to you, my friend."

"See," Theo said, smiling, "we're going to get along

just fine."

Morgan's palms were sweaty. His legs shook from

time to time, as he waited for somebody to come up to

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209

him--maybe a cop or one of those transit workers--grab

him by the collar, rip open the briefcase spilling pills and

dope all over the dirty car floor.

But that didn't happen.

Nobody batted an eye at them.

It was about eight-thirty in the morning, and Morgan

and Theo were on their way to meet their first customer

of the day. Morgan wondered who ordered drugs along

with their morning cup of joe, but he figured there were

enough people in this city who either worked from home

or were unemployed that there was a 24/7 market for

their wares.

Theo was whistling something softly. Morgan couldn't

tell what it was, but he figured trying to guess would

keep his mind off the legal ramifications of being caught

with his goods.

Guessing the tune was impossible. First of all, Theo

didn't seem like a particularly good whistler. Instead

of a clean, high-pitched noise coming from his lips, it

was more like a low rattle punctuated by occasional

bursts of spit.

Theo paused to wipe his mouth, then he said to Morgan,

"You need something?" Morgan hadn't realized that he'd

likely been staring at his partner for nearly five minutes.

"Just wondered what you're whistling," he said.

"A little Jay-Z."

"Cool."

Theo resumed his "whistling." Morgan held the rails,

his mind beginning to wander.

"So what's your story?" Theo said, snapping Morgan out of it.

"My story?"

"Yeah. How'd you end up in the basement of some

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nightclub loading up on this stuff. Not exactly the kind

of job you find on Monster.com."

"I got laid off," Morgan said. "A few months ago."

"How much you owe?"

"Excuse me?"

"Come on," Theo said, smiling. "You wouldn't be

here if you didn't have debts pouring out your eyeballs.

So how much?"

"In total?"

"No, itemize it for me, asshole."

Morgan smiled back. He liked Theo.

"All in all? A little over nine hundred thousand."

Theo whistled. For whatever reason, this time the

sound came through clean.

"Let me guess, most of that tied up in your pad."

"Most of it. Still have almost a million on my mortgage."

"You try to sell it?"

"Yeah. No takers. What about you?"

"Same shit. Only I got laid off a year ago."

"How much do you owe?" Morgan asked.

"Three million."

"You're kidding me."

"Uh-uh," Theo said. "I bought up half a dozen properties in the city. Made the down payments, figured I could

rent them out, have other people pay my carrying costs

and then I'd just sell them down the road and make a

killing."

"Man, talk about bad timing."

"Yeah, tell me about it. My credit is shot. I couldn't

get a loan for a pack of gum right now."

"So who'd you know that got you in?" Morgan asked.

"My uncle," he said. "Used to use. Never dealt, but got

friendly with one of his dealers. I used to be a major

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211

pothead, and I started buying from his guy after my uncle

quit. Pretty soon I couldn't afford to buy, so my man

asked if I was going through tough times. I told him what

had happened, and he offered to make an introduction for

me. I'm not above this. To me, it's all the same whether

you're selling junk, real estate or stocks. In the end you're

giving something to somebody that they think will make

them happier. And whether it's financial, emotional or

chemical happiness, who the hell are we to judge? Are

the people who get strung out on dope any worse than

people like me who lose everything on some bad bets? I

figure if I can do something to get myself out of this

mess and make some coin, why not?"

"I know what you mean," Morgan said.

"I bet you do."

Theo and Morgan got off the train at Twenty-third and

Park and headed east. The Manhattan neighborhood of

Gramercy tended to be full of young professionals who

enjoyed the area's local bars (both dive and trendy).

Morgan used to come here often for the movie theater at

Kips Bay, and noticed that over the last few years the

population appeared to grow a little more affluent, likely

due to doctors working at Bellevue and small business

owners who moved into vacated storefronts.

They walked side by side, matching briefcases slung

over their shoulders. If anybody looked at them, it was

only because they might have been slightly jealous that

two younger guys had weathered the economic storm,

as that could be the only explanation for their attire and

accessories.

Morgan took out the cell phone from his coat pocket.

It was old, nearly an antique, and he was amazed that this

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piece of junk still even worked. Still, Leonard had given

it to them for a reason.

Right after they'd packed up their briefcases with

specific quantities of various drugs, Leonard had given

them each a cell phone. And this was how it worked.

Before they left the warehouse/club, they'd be given

an address. The address was of their first customer of

the day. The customer had called somebody, probably

some sort of switchboard at another location, and

placed an order. That order was relayed to one of the

courier teams, who were then dispatched to the

location. The customer would also have placed an order

and they were also quoted a price. Once arriving at the

location, Leonard said, they would make the transaction

with the customer.

Once leaving the customer's address, they would call

the number programmed in the cell phone as Home.

After confirming the deal, they would be sent a text

message with the address of their next transaction, as

well as the price quoted to the customer for whatever

they'd requested.

Obviously there would be a little flexibility, as sometimes the customer would buy more than they'd initially

requested. And sometimes, of course, they would buy

less, often because the customer didn't have enough

money to pay for the goods.

It was a regular business, Leonard said.

All orders would be kept track of, and Leonard's

people also knew the exact quantities of drugs given to

the couriers as well as their value. At the end of the day,

Leonard said, just like any other business they would

make sure the goods matched the receipts, and confirm

that all the money was handed over.

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213

Assuming Theo and Morgan were honest, they would

have no problems. If there were ever any payment issues,

or they'd taken in more (or less) money than expected,

all they had to do was relay the information.

The quicker they worked the more money they made,

the more stops they'd be able to hit during the day. You

wanted to take a two-hour lunch? Your take would suffer.

Get caught in traffic? Tough shit.

The only people who moved up in this world were the

ones who fully dedicated themselves. You want vacation

days? You got 'em. Only your creditors don't really think

of them that way.

The first stop was on Nineteenth and Third, off the

corner of the avenue, a brownstone wedged between a

cellular phone store and a diner. Morgan walked up and

pressed the buzzer for 5A, taking a quick look around

them to see if anyone was watching.

"You need to relax, man," Theo said. "Ain't nobody

thinking twice about us."

"Who is it?" came the scratchy voice.

"Delivery," Morgan said.

"I didn't order... Oh wait, yeah, come right up."

Another buzzer went off and the door unlatched. They

entered the lobby and went over to the elevator. It was not

a particularly nice brownstone. The floor tiles were

chipping, and it looked like with just minimum force he

could have pried open any mailbox he chose.

The elevator arrived and they took it to the fifth floor

in silence. Morgan held his briefcase, feeling the plastic

crinkle through the leather. Theo watched him do this but

said nothing.

When the door opened, they turned left (A-D) and

rang the doorbell for 5A.

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"Who is it?" the familiar voice said.

"Delivery," Morgan said.

"Oh yeah, right, come on in."

The door opened, revealing a tall, thin guy in his

mid-thirties wearing pajama bottoms, a loose T-shirt

and slippers. The apartment behind him was sparingly

furnished. There was a cot covered in faded blankets,

an old twenty-four-inch television, and a bookshelf

with textbooks. Morgan looked closer. The textbooks

had odd titles like Principles of Economics and Finan-

cial Management: Theory and Practice. The books

looked well used.

The man had a three-day beard growth and his hair

looked like it hadn't been combed since the last time

he'd shaved. His eyes were red-rimmed, and his breathing was quick. Morgan had no doubt the man had a

serious coke problem. He supposed that's why they

were there.

The man moved out of the way and ushered them

inside, waving his hand like he was shooing away an unpleasant smell.

"Two of you," he said, looking at Theo. "Is he like your

bodyguard?"

Theo simply replied, "One eight ball. That right?"

The man nodded his head vigorously and reached

out his hand.

Theo placed his briefcase on a small wooden coffee

table, stained with circular rings and other substances that

couldn't even be guessed. Theo undid the lock and rummaged through the case, eventually coming up with a small

plastic pouch containing white powder. Marked on the

outside were the numbers 1/8, for an eighth of an ounce.

The man's eyes went wide.

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215

"That's a hundred and fifty," Theo said.

The man reached into his pockets (it didn't occur to

Morgan that they made pajama bottoms that had pockets)

and pulled out seven crumpled twenties and two fives. He

handed them over to Theo like he was getting rid of toxic

material. He put out his hand eagerly and Theo dropped

the pouch into it.

"Pleasure doing business with you," Theo said.

"Hey, man, one sec," the guy said, his eyes rimmed

with red. "I heard about this new drug, dark something."

"Darkness," Theo said.

"Yeah. Supposedly it'll mess you up right. You ever

tried it?"

Morgan shook his head. Theo said, "No."

The guy stammered, almost embarrassed. "You wouldn't

happen to have any, would you?"

"Matter of fact," Theo said, "we do. How much do you

want?"

"I'm not sure," the guy said. "How much is enough for

a few good hits? I don't want to love the stuff and have

to call you right back."

"Three rocks," Theo said. "We have an introductory

offer, and it's enough for a few hits."

"And how much is this introductory offer?"

"Three rocks? That'll run you fifty bucks for the first

purchase. Call it a beginner's discount. After that it's

twenty-five a pop."

"S'not bad," the guy said. "Can I try the intro offer?"

"Let me see the money."

"Yeah, money, hold on one sec."

The guy walked out of the living room and into a side

room. Morgan heard him rummaging around and cursing.

Then he came out with five neatly folded tens.

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Jason Pinter

"My old lady'll kill me if she knows I used this. Supposed to be for emergencies and stuff. Ever since we

both lost our jobs, money's hard to come by."

"Don't I know it," Morgan said. Theo shot him a look.

"Fifty for three," Theo said. He took another small

plastic pouch from the briefcase, containing three small

black rocks.

"How do you...do it?" the guy asked.

"Two ways, either a pipe--same way you'd smoke

weed--or you can crush it up, cook it and inhale like that.

They're both pretty potent."

"Gotcha." He handed Theo the bills, and Theo dropped

the pouch on top of the cocaine.

"That it?"

"That's it until my unemployment check comes at the

end of the week. Thanks, fellas."

Theo didn't say a word. Morgan followed him out the

door. When the elevator door had closed behind them,

Morgan said, "That was impressive. Not sure if I would

have remembered all of that."

"For your sake I hope you do. I'm not gonna be doing

all the talking at every stop."

The elevator began to go down, but then there was a

screeching noise and the car ground to a halt. Morgan

looked up at the display. The light had stopped between

the second and third floors. They were stuck.

"Just perfect," Morgan said.

"No," Theo said softly, an undercurrent of anger in his

voice. "No! Goddammit, come on!"

"Hey, man, take it easy. I'm sure we'll get going in no

time."

Theo kicked the elevator door hard, leaving a small

dent in the metal. "Let's move this crate!" He jammed his

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217

thumb against the emergency button. When he released

it, he jammed it in again.

"I think they heard us," Morgan said.

"Are you kidding? Roach motel like this, I bet the

super doesn't even live on the premises. We could be

stuck here all day."

Morgan looked at the roof of the car, hoping there

might be some easily opened hatch where they could boost

each other out onto the roof, then find a ladder or escape

hatch that would lead them to freedom. Sadly, Morgan

realized, those kind of things only existed in Die Hard

films, and the roof of this car was one solid piece of metal.

"Okay," he said. "Maybe we can pry the doors open."

Theo kicked the door again, widening his boot imprint.

"I don't think that's helping."

"Listen, asshole," Theo said. "Every second we're

stuck in here, there are other folks selling product. And

when they come back at the end of the day with higher

receipts than us, you tell me then to calm down. I'm not

in this to lose, Morgan."

Morgan stood there, nodded, figuring anything he said

would only enrage Theo more.

Five minutes went by. Ten. Theo stopped kicking.

He tried his cell phone, but they didn't get reception in

the elevator.

Theo was shaking. His hands were trembling, knees

knocking against one another. A sheen of moisture appeared on the young man's lip, and he licked it away, his

eyes darting around the car looking for some way out.

"Theo, you okay?"

"Shut up, I'm trying to figure out how we can get

out of here."

"I don't think..."

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Jason Pinter

"I said shut the hell up."

Morgan moved into the corner of the elevator, looked

at his watch and hoped for a miracle.

Finally, after fifteen minutes, Morgan felt a jolt and the

elevator began to move.

"Oh, thank God," Theo said.

Morgan held his breath until they reached the first

floor, then as soon as the doors opened the pair bolted into

the lobby before the elevator could change its mind.

"Holy crap, man," Theo said. His hands were shaking,

and his brow was covered with sweat. "I was worried

we'd be stuck in there until the cleaning crew came by or

the thing just detached from its cables."

"Well, we're out now," Morgan said. "We can get back

to business."

"Next stop," Theo said, still breathing heavy, "you

handle all the talking."

"No problem. I'm a fast learner."

"You might be a fast learner, but I've already learned."

Theo looked at Morgan with a cocky smile, letting him

know that they weren't just partners, but competitors.

Theo wanted to move up the ranks just as much as

Morgan did, and the longer it took Morgan to catch up

the farther ahead Theo would pull. His reaction inside the

elevator only proved it. Theo didn't want to waste a single

second not making money.

They exited the building into the early sunlight,

Morgan squinting as he took out the cell phone to wait

for the location of their next customer.

"That went easy," Theo said.

"Yeah. Hope they're all like that."

"I'm sure some of these freaks will be a little more

strung out than our man up there but just remember that

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219

all they want in the end is the stuff. They don't want to

haggle and they don't want a lot of fuss. Some of these

guys might have coke muscles, but if in the end they

think you're going to hold out on them, they'll bend faster

than an elbow."

"I hear you."

"So what's the next stop?" Theo asked.

Morgan looked at his cell phone, reception returning

after the elevator fiasco. He had one new text message.

Morgan pressed Retrieve Messages, and an address

appeared on the screen.

"That can't be right," Morgan said.

"What? Where is it?"

Morgan checked the time and date it was sent. The

time stamp was dated just minutes ago, while they were

stuck in the elevator.

"Hold on, I need to confirm this."

Morgan went to the address book and dialed the

number marked Home. A strange, deep, robotic voice

answered. It was clearly being masked by some sort of

voice-altering technology.

"Yes?" the voice said.

"Hi, uh, this is Isaacs and Goggins. We just wanted to

confirm the address just sent to us."

"Three-forty East Nineteenth. Apartment five A," the

voice said.

"Yeah, um, that's where we just left."

"And that's where you're going back to."

"Uh, okay."

The voice explained the situation to Morgan, who

stood there, eyes widening. He understood everything

that was being relayed, but couldn't understand why it

was happening so quick.

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Jason Pinter

He didn't know what was in those little black rocks,

but it must have thrown pajama dude in 5A for a loop.

The other line went dead. Morgan closed the phone

and put it back in his pocket.

"What was that?" Theo said.

"We're going right back upstairs," Morgan said. "That

guy we just sold to, he took one hit of the Darkness and

put in an order for half a dozen more rocks at the standard

price. Guy said it was the best high he's ever experienced."

"Good for him, good for us," Theo said.

"And," Morgan continued, "after we're done here

they're sending over another address where the customer

wants another ten. Home base said to expect a lot of

Darkness deliveries today."

"Another hundred and fifty bucks for five minutes'

work," Theo said. He tried to whistle, but again it came

out more like an aborted attempt at a raspberry. "Let's not

keep the man waiting."

"Agreed," Morgan said. He felt a strange sensation,

and for a moment couldn't place it. Then, as they were

about to reenter the brownstone, it occurred to Morgan

the last time he'd felt that singular feeling of joy, confidence and ambition.

The day he got his first paycheck at his old job. That

was the first day he truly felt like he was going to

conquer the world.

"Let's hurry it up," Morgan said. "But this time let's

take the stairs."

29

"Always makes me smile a little," Jack said.

"What does?"

"Tourists. They spend thousands of dollars to see this

city, but they really know nothing about it. You don't get

a sense of Manhattan by taking pictures or sitting on a

double-decker bus."

"Not everyone has had the fortune of being at gunpoint

in Vietnam," I said. "For some people this is as close as

they can get."

"I suppose," Jack said, "but sometimes I wonder if I

even understand the city after all these years."

"Are you still thinking about Paulina's article?" I asked.

"A little. I never used to get scooped, Henry. Every time

I went out for lunch, I could feel a dozen eyes on me,

hating me. They were other reporters, and they were staring

daggers through me because they knew I was working on

stories that they'd never get. They'd be working mop-up

duty on yesterday's page seven while I was breaking news.

It's a great feeling to be hated for doing your job well. And

right now, I hate Paulina Cole. Not because she tried to ruin

my life, but because she got a story that I didn't. So not only

do I hate her, but I hate her for making me hate her."

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Jason Pinter

"That's a lot of hate to be carrying around," I said. "But

what we're working on could squash that."

"You aren't going to know that until we follow the

bread crumb trail to the end. Maybe we find something,

maybe we don't."

"I know there's something at the end," I said. "My

brother didn't die for nothing. Somebody had him killed.

And I know whoever had him killed knows what 718 Enterprises is."

"You told me your brother was a courier," Jack said.

"Right?"

"I think so. He was somewhere on the drug ladder, and

not at the bottom."

"You think it's a coincidence your brother gets killed--

you claim by someone higher up on the food chain than

he was--and then such a short time later this story breaks?"

"I don't know," I said.

"I think you have a feeling, the same one I do.You talked

to Butch Willingham, you know my reporting on the Fury."

"I know you didn't have enough to go on to report

more than you did," I said. "And that wasn't much. If the

Fury even exists."

Jack stared me down, backed me down, knowing what

we both full well believed.

"Twenty years ago," Jack said, "I thought I was certain

that there was some sort of kingpin, some sort of Wizard

of Oz named the Fury. And for whatever reason, that

person was eliminating midlevel drug dealers."

"Yeah, so?"

"Paulina might have beaten us to the story, but I don't

think she got the full story. Not even close. If the Fury

exists, he came to power in the eighties, right around the

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223

time the crack epidemic was strangling the life out of

New York. I don't think that's a coincidence."

"Go on," I said. I felt that familiar rush.

"Twenty years later, your brother is killed. Then this

guy Ken Tsang is killed. Both around the same age, both

likely somewhere on the totem pole in the drug game. And

then Paulina's article about this new drug, the Darkness,

gets printed. Two dealers killed. A new drug hitting the

streets. I think this person was instrumental during the

eighties, and is now taking it to a whole new level."

"History repeats itself," I said. "But this isn't the same

city as it was twenty years ago. I mean, between Giuliani

and 9/11, you can't argue that we're not more secure."

"Security is all relative," Jack said. "When the economy takes a turn for the worse, especially when it nosedives like it has, it breeds crime and corruption. They're

both sides of the same coin. You get one you get the

other. You know the expression, 'can't see the forest for

the trees,' right?"

"Of course."

"Right now, this city is staring at the forest. It's looking

at the big picture. Terrorism, biohazards, all noble and important things to be watching out for. In the eighties and

nineties, we didn't have to worry about things like that. So

guys like Giuliani, Ray Kelly and Bill Bratton could look

at it from the street level, the trees. There's a reason Fortysecond Street looks like Walt Disney threw up all over it

and not like hooker paradise anymore. Twenty years ago,

the cops could look at the city through a microscope.

Nowadays, they need to look at it via satellite. And when

you look at things from a macro perspective, when you're

looking at rooftops and airplanes, you miss the rat holes.

Beneath our noses, there's something big brewing. And

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Jason Pinter

whoever's behind it is smart enough to know that this is

the right time, and that we might be defenseless."

"Paulina's story," I said, "all it's going to do is create

demand for the product."

"Without a doubt. Nothing gets people motivated like

being told they shouldn't do something. Word of mouth

takes a match to ignite it. For all of Paulina's moxie in

getting this story, I worry that she's going to inadvertently

do the exact opposite of alarming the public--she's going

to make them want it even more."

I suddenly felt nauseous. When I'd met with Paulina, she

told me there was a quid pro quo with the man who kidnapped her and threatened her daughter. She would have

to do something for him in order to keep her daughter safe.

Now I knew what that quid pro quo was. And why

it was asked.

The blond man, the same one who'd killed Brett

Kaiser, had told her to write the article. He'd gotten her

all the information she needed, perhaps even fabricated

a few quotes, and those were her "unnamed sources."

I'd never seen Paulina scared, and I'd never seen her

lie. In the last few days I'd seen both. And they scared the

hell out of me.

Whoever the man was that asked her to write the article

knew that it would create an automatic demand for the

product it featured. Paulina's weapon was words, and

he'd given her ammunition to forge something dangerous and potentially deadly.

I had to tell Jack. This was getting too big. This man

had scope and vision and knew exactly what getting to

Paulina would do. Jack needed to know.

And he was staring right at me. Knew full well I was

thinking something.

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225

But to my surprise, the look on Jack's face wasn't full

of wonder at what I was thinking...it was one of disappointment because he knew I was hiding something.

"Time to spill it, Henry," he said. Jack's face turned

to stone. This was a look I hadn't seen before, and immediately I felt awful, lying to the man I'd idolized for

so long. The man who'd been my partner on this story,

who was motivated to come back to work because of

what I'd uncovered.

I left that man in the dust, but now he'd caught up to me.

"After the explosion at Brett Kaiser's apartment..." I

said, trying to look at Jack but finding it hard. Finally I

met his eyes. "I got a call."

"From who?" Jack said. He said it as much just to get

me to admit it as he did to find out the answer.

"Paulina Cole."

If Jack's face had been stone, this caused it to crack a

bit. His eyes opened wider, mouth opened just enough to

show the surprise on his face.

"Paulina," he said. "Why in God's name..."

"She was kidnapped," I said, the dam bursting. But

truth be told, it felt good.

"Kidnapped? By who? And why the hell would she

call you?"

I could see Jack's eyes reddening, but his anger at

learning the truth was now tempered by his desire to

know the full story. And he'd get it.

"She doesn't know," I said. "But the man who did it

threatened to kill her daughter."

"You know I always kind of assumed Paulina was

some sort of devil spawn. I'm moderately surprised to

learn that she has a reproductive system."

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"She thinks the guy who did it has connections in the

NYPD. He said if she went to the cops he'd know."

"So she goes to you because you know cops you can

trust."

"Partly, yeah."

"So what does she want from you?"

"To help her find the man who did it."

"And in return, let me guess, you get the story."

I nodded. "That's right."

"Jesus, Henry," Jack said, tilting his head back, wiping

his forehead with the tips of his fingers. "The story she

wrote this morning, did you know it was going to run?"

"No, I swear I didn't."

"But?" Jack said.

"But she told me she had to do something for him.

That was the deal for him not to harm her daughter. My

guess is the story this morning was what she promised,

what he made her do."

"That would explain why the cops don't know anything and why nobody would go on the record. Strange

that for an article about a potential drug epidemic nobody

from the narcotics division was quoted, or even knew

about it."

"Or why the cops patrolling the streets haven't heard

about it."

"Today," Jack said, taking a breath, "was the comingout party for this drug. Paulina's story was the spark to

get the Darkness into the mainstream. A cover story in a

major New York newspaper will be read by over two

million people, and another few million will see the

headline and remember it."

"Word of mouth," I said. "Best marketing in the world,

and they got it for free."

The Darkness

227

Jack lowered his head. "They used us."

"There's more," I said. "I'm ninety-nine percent sure

that the guy Chester who kidnapped Paulina is the same guy

who killed Brett Kaiser. Physical descriptions matched.

Curt Sheffield is helping me track him down, going off the

physical info plus access to explosives and drugs."

"Do you think this guy," Jack said, "could be the Fury?"

"I don't think so," I said. "The descriptions from both

Paulina and Kaiser's doorman peg the suspect in his late

thirties or early forties. It's not impossible but I suspect

twenty years ago he would have been a little too young

to run a drug empire."

"So then he must be working for somebody," Jack

said. "Somebody smart enough to go after Paulina, and

somebody powerful enough to have their fingers dug

into the NYPD."

"So how the hell do we find out who this guy is?" I

said. "Sheffield is looking into it, but if Paulina is right

then most of my contacts in the department are useless.

Paulina said this guy showed her a picture of her daughter

that was part of an album posted on a social networking

site. The way these things work is that the only people

who have access to the pictures you post are the people

you accept as friends."

"You're saying this guy would be stupid enough to be

her friend online?"

"No," I said. "But I think he found someone who was

because this particular photo was left off the site. Paulina

gave me a list of everyone her daughter is friends with.

Jack, I know you're used to typewriters and ink quills, but

this is going to take some electronic legwork."

"I can use the Google," Jack said.

"Yeah...I was afraid you'd say that. The list is upstairs.

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Forget about Victoria Kaiser for now. What we need to

do is cross-check everyone on that list with Abigail Cole,

if need be call everyone she's friends with online."

"She's in college, right? That could be hundreds of

people."

"Good thing you don't have any children, you won't

go into it knowing how damn difficult it is to talk to

someone in their late teens or early twenties."

"You're not that far from that age, Henry," Jack said.

"Yeah, I know. Why do you think I know they're all

nightmares?"

Jack laughed. "Okay, sport, let's go. Just one thing."

"What's that?"

"I accidentally spilled coffee on my keyboard. Can you

ask the help desk for a new one? This would be my fourth

and I don't think they'll give me another one."

"Sure," I said. "Come on, George Jetson, let's go find

Mr. Joshua."

30

I forgot what it was like to be a college student.

Abigail Cole had one hundred and ninety-seven

friends on Facebook. Many of them had public profiles,

and from that I was able to glean phone numbers and

sometimes e-mail addresses. To those who had e-mail addresses, I sent notes asking to speak to them in a matter

pertaining to an ongoing investigation. I clearly identified

myself, hoping one would cop to giving Chester the

photo.

At least four of them picked up their cell phone during

class. I could tell this because someone said quite audibly

that if the phone wasn't turned off posthaste, F would be

merely the first of four letters on that student's papers.

When I was in college, one of my dreams was to have

a beeper some day. As young as I was, sometimes I felt

pretty old.

Frustration began to seep in after I'd contacted nearly

thirty of Abigail's friends and made no headway. I wasn't

even sure how many of these people she was still close

to, or whether or not they were real friends or just random

friends-of-friends-of-friends.

There had to be an easier way to do this. And just

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Jason Pinter

when I was about to brainstorm what that was, Jack came

walking over.

He had a big smile on his face, the kind of smile that

you didn't often see on a man approaching seventy. This

was more along the lines of a young child who'd accidentally discovered a hidden Christmas present that they

didn't expect to be there. Jack almost looked embarrassed

to be happy.

"What's got you so toothy?" I said.

"I think I found it," he said.

"Found what?"

Jack took a chair from an empty cubicle and pulled it

over to my desk. He laid a series of printouts in front of me.

They looked to be from some sort of Web sites. They were

chock-full of random ruminations, thoughts and pictures.

"What is this?" I said.

"Well," Jack continued, the pride in his voice unmistakable, "I took the list of all of Abigail Cole's online

friends. I did every kind of search imaginable--Google,

Yahoo, LexisNexis, you name it--and cross-referenced

her name along with Web sites that contained photos. I

figured if somebody had access to personal photos, they

might have had access even earlier than when Paulina was

first taken."

"Why would you assume that?" I said.

"Whoever took Paulina wanted her to write that article

to help publicize the Darkness. Which means these plans

have been in the works for a lot longer than the little time

gone by since her abduction. This blond guy needed to

know how to get to Paulina well before he actually did

it, meaning he needed to be sure of who had access to her

daughter's photos ahead of time. So when I did all that...I

found something."

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231

"A Web site," I said.

"A blog," Jack continued. "Not active anymore, but get

this. It was deleted just three days after Paulina was

abducted. Coincidence, right?"

"Could be," I said. "What makes you think it has

anything to do with this story?"

"The blog was deleted, but a few cached pages were

still available to see. Other Web sites had links to it.

That's part of the reason I was able to find it."

"And?"

"And the blog's creator is a girl named Pamela

Ruffalo," Jack said. "I know you haven't had time to read

all of these pages I printed out yet, but I'll save you the

detective work. Pam Ruffalo either was, or, more likely,

still is Abigail Cole's girlfriend."

"You're kidding me. Her girlfriend posted pictures of

her on the blog?"

"No sir, Henry. Take a look for yourself."

I picked the half a dozen pages up, began to shuffle

through them.

There were about fifteen blog entries on the pages.

They were dated starting about three months ago, and

continued up until the last few days when the account

was deleted.

The posts were fairly specific about their relationship.

According to the second entry, Pamela had met Abigail in

college during a job recruitment fair. They'd both been

online to hear more about an environmental consulting firm,

got to talking, and had dinner at a campus eatery that night.

Their first official date was that weekend. Weekend at

Bernie's, which Pam had rented on Netflix. She marveled

at how they both had an appreciation for bad movies. And

since that first date had gone so well, Pam had ordered

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Showgirls, Battlefield Earth and Mother Dearest for her

new romantic interest.

As the relationship progressed, Pam began to post

pictures of the couple on the page. Some of the pictures

were innocuous. The couple out at a party. Watching a

field hockey game together. Sitting under a tree reading.

Some of the pictures, though, were far more intimate.

The first one that caught my attention was the two girls

lying in bed, sheets up to their chins, bare shoulders

visible. The photo must have been a self-portrait taken by

one of the two girls, as a finger smudge obscured part of

the right side of the shot.

In another photo, the girls were dressed up in bustiers

and garter belts. It looked like they were about to go to

some sort of party.

And in another shot, the two girls were snapped kissing passionately. I'd say one thing, they were kind of

cute together.

"These all came off the blog?" I said.

"Every one."

"Were there any photos of Abigail Cole in a bikini? Or

on the beach at all?"

Jack squirmed. "Listen, I know she's a good-looking

girl but I'm not about to..."

"No, that's not why I'm asking. Paulina said when the

guy took her, he showed her a photo of her daughter

wearing a bikini on the beach. Paulina told me the photo

the guy used was private. She said Abigail never posted

it online, and she was clear about that. So where did the

photo come from?"

"I think I know," Jack said. "But I need two things to

confirm it."

"What are they?"

The Darkness

233

"First off, I need you to find out one thing for me

online. I don't have access to it, but either you do or

know someone who does."

"What do I..."

"And the second thing," Jack said, looking me dead in

the eyes, "is that I need to talk to Paulina Cole."

31

I stood in the middle of Rockefeller Center with my

hands in my pockets, watching people go about their day.

The sun was bright and there was just a wisp of breeze.

A tour group passed us by, clinking and clanking as

the binoculars and cameras jangled about their necks.

There were lots of tour groups always walking about this

area, and they would often look at me in my work clothes

like I was some sort of alien species. These people didn't

seem to believe that anyone actually lived or worked in

Manhattan, that we all just bused in day after day and

wandered about starstruck, wondering when we might

run into Derek Jeter or Sarah Jessica Parker on the street.

I think they believed only celebrities and homeless people

lived in the city.

I watched the corner of Fifty-first Street, knowing

that's the direction she'd be coming from. Paulina wasn't

too keen on meeting me up by the Gazette, partly because

she didn't like to move for anybody and partly because

when she left the paper she was thought of just about as

fondly as Mussolini.

"Parker?" Paulina Cole said. She had just rounded the

corner and was staring at me like I'd just thrown a pie at

The Darkness

235

her from across a crowded room. She was wearing black

leather boots and a knee-length skirt. Her hair was recently done, and I hated to admit it but she looked pretty

good. "You'd better have a damn good reason for calling

me up to the Hard Rock Cafe."

I'd heard Paulina refer to Rockefeller Center by that

moniker before. And she didn't mean it as a compliment.

To her, this neighborhood was a tourist mecca, drastically

overpriced, and as close to real New York as the Hard

Rock was to being the real Arnold Schwarzenegger. "I

expense my cell phone bill and cab rides, and if you keep

calling me I'll have some explaining to do when the

finance department reviews it."

"Nice to talk to you, too, Paulina," I said. "Thanks

for coming."

"Don't thank me. I came because you said you had

more information about my daughter."

"Yeah...you might want to sit down."

"What, you think whatever you have to tell me is going

to make me suddenly pass out in your arms or something?

Get over yourself, Henry. Nothing surprises me anymore."

"Well, I don't want to tell you what to do. But there is

news."

"Did you find the man?" Paulina said. She said it like

she'd expected us to do so all along. There was no appreciation in her voice. Whatever, that wasn't quite her style.

"No. But we know where the photo came from. The

one of your daughter at the beach."

"How did you find it? Where did it come from?"

"Well, I'll let the person who figured it out tell you all

about it. Hey, Jack."

Paulina whipped around to see Jack O'Donnell standing right behind her. He had a massive smile on his face,

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Jason Pinter

and he was standing close enough to her that he could

almost tickle her nose with his beard.

"Hey, Cole," Jack said. "Long time. How's the exhusband and your kid?"

"You've got to be kidding me."

The surprise in Paulina's voice proved that Jack

O'Donnell was the last person she expected--and

wanted--to see.

The reporter stood there, looking like she wanted to

kill Jack, kill me, then tear our bodies to pieces.

Instead she merely said, "You've got to be fucking

kidding me."

"I am neither kidding nor fucking you," Jack said.

"But I am going to help you."

Paulina's face contorted, as she sneered at Jack. I stood

there wondering if this was a good idea. But Jack insisted

that this meeting take place. He said it wasn't a vendetta,

and it wasn't because he needed to get even with the

woman who nearly ruined his career. He said it was

because it was the right thing to do.

"What the hell do you want, you dried-up old mummy?"

I wondered if Jack still felt like it was the right thing

to do.

"You know the old saying, people only call you names

if they really care about you? Well, between your sweet

nothings and that big kiss of an article you wrote about

me, I'm willing to bet most New York psychiatrists would

testify that you're head over heels in love with me."

"What the hell is this, O'Donnell? Parker, you'd better have a reason for this that goes well beyond morbid

curiosity."

"Jack asked me to set this up," I said. I didn't have to

worry about throwing Jack under the bus here; he told me

The Darkness

237

he wanted it fully known that this was his decision. "But

I knew you'd want to hear what he has to say."

"I only want to hear one of two things come out of your

mouth," Paulina said. "One, that you know who threatened my daughter. Or two, you're leaving this business

and wanted to thank me for showing this city what a

washed-up, drunk old hack you really are."

I saw Jack flinch at that, but he stood his ground. Paulina

was staring daggers into Jack's eyes, but he didn't waver.

"I can't say either of those," Jack said.

"Then why the hell am I here? Serves me right for

trusting you, Parker."

"You trusted me for a reason," I said. "Now hear him

out."

Paulina looked at Jack, shook her head. "I'm surprised

you had the balls to poke your head out from whatever

rock you've been under the last few months."

"Balls have never been my problem," Jack said. "It's

knowing when to think with my head instead of my balls

that's gotten me into trouble."

Had Jack been thirty years younger, I could see these

two having the best enemy sex in history.

"Seems like that's a problem a lot of male journalists

have. Even Henry here. Right, Parker? No reporter's had

his life threatened more times in a few years than your

protege, Jack. These balls? How would you feel if one day

Henry gets too close to the fire and gets burned to a crisp?"

"Shut the hell up," I said. Paulina smiled.

"There are those balls I talked about," she said. "You're

a reporter, Henry, not a soldier. You're not supposed to

have emotion or take sides. And you're not supposed to

come this close to getting yourself killed on every story

you report."

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"I do what I need to in order to get to the truth," I said.

"You don't seem to care much about the truth in the

story I wrote about Jack," she said. "You might hate me

for it, but every word in that was true. And you don't

judge him the way you're judging me right now."

"You see, that's where you and I aren't alike," I said.

"I don't look at life as one big story to report. There's a

big difference between blood and ink. It's a shame you

never learned that."

"Enough of this crap," Jack said. "Do you want to

hear what we found or not?"

"Fine," Paulina said, folding her arms across her chest.

I could tell this was a practiced look, sternness crossed

with just a hint of pouty sexuality. She was used to pressing just hard enough to elicit a reaction, but not hard

enough to drive people away. Jack had information she

needed, but she wouldn't stay quiet without letting him

know what she thought. And it was then that I realized

Paulina didn't write that article just to get publicity, she

did it because she truly loathed Jack.

"Does a girl named Pamela Ruffalo ring a bell?" Jack

said.

Paulina didn't give any indication that she recognized

the name. "No. Who the hell is that?"

"She's a student at Smith College," Jack said. "A

junior, I believe, according to her Facebook page."

As Jack spoke, I could see the blank look on Paulina's

face changing. She recognized the name from somewhere.

"What does Pam have to do with any of this?" she said

in an argumentative tone, hoping Jack would answer her

in a way that would vindicate Pam. Not only did Paulina

know Pam Ruffalo, but for some reason whatever Jack

was going to say was going to hit her--hard.

The Darkness

239

"A few months ago, Pam Ruffalo began posting to a

personal blog. She talked about a lot of things on the site,

one of which was her relationship with her new girlfriend. A girl named Abigail Cole."

Paulina watched, and I could have sworn she didn't

blink for a minute straight.

"Keep talking," she said.

"She posted a lot of photos on the site. But she never

posted any photos like the one you described the blond

man having that night."

"So if she didn't post those photos," Paulina said, "why

do you think she was involved?"

"Pam shut the blog down, according to records, just a

few days after you were abducted. In the days leading up

to the cancellation, there was nothing to suggest that there

was anything wrong in her life. Did you ever tell your

daughter what happened to you?" Jack said.

I was surprised, looking at Jack, to see a hint of

sympathy in his face. He had no love for Paulina Cole as

a reporter, but considering her as a human and a mother

outweighed that.

"Yes," she said. "A few days after it happened. I went

up to Smith and told her about it. Only to keep her safe."

"Do you think it's fair to assume," Jack said, "that Abigail

told her girlfriend what you told her? That she told Pam?"

Paulina stood there, then wiped at her eyes which were

reddening. For some reason I felt ashamed watching this.

"It's possible," Paulina said. Jack nodded slowly.

"Henry was able to log on to Facebook and contact a

few of Abigail's friends. Through them, he found the

photos you referred to, the beach shots. They were taken

by a girl named Samantha Isringhausen, who then uploaded them to her account."

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Jason Pinter

"I called Samantha," I said, "in her dorm room. When

I asked her about the photos, specifically the one of

Abigail in front of the hole, she told me that when Pam

saw it she immediately asked for the only copy. She loved

that picture so much that she never wanted it to be seen

by anyone other than her. Samantha agreed, and said after

sending the file to Pamela and uploading the rest, she

deleted them from her digital camera."

"So the only person who had that photo," Jack said,

"was your daughter's girlfriend."

"Wait," Paulina said, tears starting to run freely now.

"Are you saying..."

"I'm saying that the man who attacked you that night,"

Jack said, "got the photo from Pamela Ruffalo, your

daughter's girlfriend. She sold your daughter out."

32

Paulina didn't move. Her entire upper body trembled as

she looked from Jack to me and back again. Then she

stared at me long and hard, without taking her eyes away.

I couldn't understand why at first, but then I realized that

she trusted me more than she trusted Jack.

Paulina was hoping I would tell her that none of this

was true.

Instead I walked up to Paulina, and I'll be damned if

I know why I did this, but I took the woman's hand in

mine and held it.

"It's true," I said. "We haven't spoken to Pam or Abigail yet."

"Why not?" she said.

Jack replied, "Because you're Abigail's mother. And

you're a reporter, too. Because this part of the story needs

to be reported by you."

"How can I..." Paulina said, trailing off. "My daughter, she'll be..."

"She'll hate you," I said, "for a while. But eventually

she'll know the truth. And she'll respect you for it."

Paulina laughed bitterly. "My daughter hasn't respected me in a long time."

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Jason Pinter

"Well, if she doesn't respect you," I said, "she'll sure

as hell love you for it."

"What about you two? What happens next?"

Jack said, "We'll be waiting for your call. Your promise to Henry still stands. We did our part and will continue

to."

Paulina nodded. Then she looked at her watch.

"I can be there in a few hours," she said.

"So go," I said.

"Yeah. Right." She looked at her hand, still held in

mine, and pulled it back. Then she ran it through her hair,

and straightened her jacket. "I'll call you once it's done."

As Paulina turned to walk away, Jack called, "Don't

we get a thank-you?"

She turned back, glared at Jack. "I'll thank you once

that blond bastard is either behind bars or in the ground."

Then Paulina Cole walked away.

"I think that's the closest she's ever come to a real

thank-you," Jack said. "I had a wager with myself, fiftyfifty odds that she slapped me before she left."

"You might have just saved her daughter's life," I said.

"I think that's at least enough to avoid a slap."

"Eh, women like Paulina don't always need a reason.

Especially when they feel like they've lost some sense of

power or authority, they get it back by lashing out. It's a

gimmick for sure. In a way, I respect her more for that.

She's so confident, she didn't even feel the need to slap me."

"If you're disappointed, I can take her place. I have a

mean right hook."

"I think I'll pass," Jack said, "though at least you

wouldn't have nails. Those things leave scars."

As we watched Paulina leave, my cell phone began to

vibrate. Jack heard it, too, said, "Your lady friend?"

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243

I checked the ID, recognized it as Curt Sheffield.

"Hey, Curt," I said. "How's my favorite boy in blue?"

"Been better," he said.

"Dunkin' decided to discontinue their donuts?"

"That's a terrible stereotype perpetuated by the media,

just like you."

"My bad, man. What's up?"

"It's been a hell of a day," he said. "I'll give you the

heads-up because I didn't know about Paulina's story

until too late...but it's true."

"What's true?" I asked, feeling my heart begin to beat

a little faster. It was a strange sensation. The excitement

of another thread unspooling mixed with the dread that

came with Curt's apprehension.

"Homicide down in Chelsea," Curt said. "Gruesome

stuff. I just left the scene, and...it's bad, man. Real bad."

"What happened?"

Jack's composure from talking to Paulina was gone,

as he watched the conversation, trying to decipher my

reaction. I tried to keep a straight face, but when Curt told

me the details I felt my whole body drain of blood.

"We got the call about an hour ago," he said. "A tenant

on the floor above. A girl comes home to find her husband

passed out on the floor. He'd been laid off a month ago,

and took every spare cent they had and spent it on drugs.

When she found out, she told him she was going to leave

him, then divorce him and take all their savings. And

that's when he took a knife from the kitchen and sliced

her head nearly clean off."

"That's horrible," I said. "Who'd you hear this from?"

"The killer himself," Curt said. "The guy confessed to

everything, right before his brain nearly short-circuited.

He'd spent every cent they had around the house on what

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Jason Pinter

he said was some new drug, something called Darkness

he said. Said it was the best high he'd ever had, and he

wasn't going to give that up for anything, including his

bitch of a wife."

"So Paulina's story was true," I said.

"We've had half a dozen calls today, from robbery to

assault to this, and all of them have one thing in common.

All the perpetrators ingested these little black rocks."

"That'll be all over the news tomorrow," I said. "Not

just the Dispatch, but we'll have to cover it, too."

"Best publicity you can get," Curt said. "But man, I

hope Paulina's wrong about one thing, because if this drug

blows up we're gonna have major problems in this city."

"What do you mean?"

"Hell, the NYPD's lost a thousand jobs since last year.

The narcotics division is strapped thin as it is, and our

men and women on the street haven't caught a wink of

this thing. If the Darkness is being sold, it's not being sold

through traditional dealers."

I heard a siren in the distance, and I lost my focus.

Then I heard Curt's voice again.

"Henry, Henry, you there, man?"

"Yeah, sorry, Curt. Just thinking about all of this."

"Yeah, us, too. But listen, Henry, the main reason I

called, I wanted to tell you about one more thing."

"What, this stuff isn't enough? I got enough material

here for a week's worth of stories."

"Yeah, well, try this on for size and tell me if you

want to drop it. I think I found your man. The blond guy

who kidnapped Paulina."

"No shit," I said. "Who is he?"

"I haven't told anyone else yet because, hell, after

what you told me and Paulina's story quoting nonexis- The Darkness

245

tent members of the department, I'm officially a member

of the church of paranoia."

"I've belonged there for a while," I said. "So what

did you find?"

I heard Curt take a deep breath and say, "You gotta

swear to me this doesn't come back with my name on it

until you figured out what the hell is going on. 'Cause this

stuff is scaring even me."

"You know you have my word."

"I think you're going to want to sit down for this one."

And when he told me who and what this man was, I felt

my knees go weak. Jack came over and we both sat down

on a bench in Rockefeller Plaza. I thought I was through

with stories like this, stories where the fire was so close it

could burn me. I looked at Jack, wondered how many

times he'd been through the kind of hell I'd gone through.

And knowing it all, feeling the scars beneath my clothing,

I knew there was a chance it could get bloody again.

"What is it, Henry?" Jack said.

The fact that he didn't call me sport or kiddo or any

one of those nicknames scared me even more.

"Curt," I said. "He found our man."

"Who is it?" Jack asked.

"You know how Paulina wrote, in that article, about

how close this city was to burning down twenty years ago?"

"Yeah," Jack said, his voice soft, monotone. "I lived

through it."

"Well, I think someone's turned the gas tank back on

and is getting ready to light this place up all over again."

33

Morgan threw open his apartment door, tossed his coat

onto a chair and plopped down onto his couch with an

audible thump. He could feel his pulse racing as he

clenched and unclenched his fists.

He couldn't sit there, not with this kind of energy, this

kind of juice flowing through him.

Standing back up, Morgan walked to the refrigerator

and to his delight saw that there were two more tall boys

resting inside, nice and cold. He popped the top on the

first one and guzzled it down in one long messy gulp, then

wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He took the second beer

back to the couch and sat back down, buzzing, feeling

alive for the first time in months.

When he and Theo finally parted ways at five o'clock,

Morgan could scarcely believe how the day had unfolded.

At first he was unsure about this new opportunity. Sure

Morgan had done some blow in his day, never one to throw

a good party off its axis. But he never knew just how high

the demand was for product right now, and he never realized

just how many poor saps there were sitting in their apartments without a job, without hope, all their joy coming in

the form of some fine white powder...or a small black rock.

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Morgan had no idea what the stuff did beyond what

Theo told him. According to his partner, this stuff, the

Darkness, was the most potent and addictive substance

to hit the populace since opium. It was cheap, it was

strong, and it gave you a rush every single time.

Morgan had no desire to try the stuff. Theo didn't seem

to care either. When you had a good thing going, like they

did, you didn't gum up the works by losing your head.

At the end of their first day on the job, Morgan and Theo

had sold nearly ten thousand dollars' worth of product.

Over a full year, that amounted to well over three

million dollars.

And they were just one team out of God knows how

many.

And they were working, according to that Leonard

guy, the slow shift.

If all his calculations were correct, and this enterprise

had as many teams as Morgan supposed they did--then

this was a billion-dollar industry.

To be a part of something like that, with potential for

rapid growth, you didn't take any chances.

It was unbelievable to think that Ken Tsang, who was

a relatively smart guy as far as Morgan was concerned,

would be stupid enough to rat out his partner. At first,

when Morgan found out he was dead, there was a fleeting

moment of remorse, of sadness. Now, he thought of Ken

Tsang like a homeless person you saw on the street.

Nothing more than pity, nothing less than scorn because

whatever predicament they were in, it was most certainly

of their own doing.

Morgan's tongue tasted nothing, and he laughed, realizing he'd finished his beer several minutes ago.

For the last few months, Morgan Isaacs had spent his

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nights on the couch, sitting alone, tipping back beers and

watching basketball games with teams he didn't give a

rat's ass about. The nights usually did not end until around

three o'clock in the morning, when, tired of infomercials

and out of snacks, Morgan would pass out on his sofa,

covered in a thin blanket, where he would sleep until the

sun woke him up midday.

It was a sad, dreary existence, but Morgan felt to some

extent that this was his penance, a punishment for not

living up to the promise he'd seen in himself.

How could he be a confident boyfriend--or lover at

all--with no income? How could he buy a girl a drink

knowing that he was three months behind on his credit

card payments? How could he buy his buddies a round

when there was a chance the card would be declined?

None of that existed anymore.

Morgan's first paycheck would give him more than financial breathing room. It would give him his life back.

Morgan picked up his cell phone, scrolled through

his address book until he found her name. And then

Morgan smiled. Svetlana. When in doubt, go with the

Russian model.

Svetlana was beautiful and nearly six feet in heels,

with jet-black hair, legs that were longer than a New York

City lamppost, and a body that would make Putin himself

kneel and beg for mercy.

She was a tough one. Her father was a doctor, and he'd

been killed recently or something, and Svetlana refused

to ever discuss it. Not that Morgan minded; if anything

he preferred that they keep their relationship as uncomplicated as possible.

The sex was freaking mind-blowing, and damned if he

didn't miss that the most. And now that he could treat her

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again like he did in the old days (well, at least he was

getting there), he felt that sizzle, that confidence that had

been robbed from him all coming back.

He dialed the number and held it to his ear, praying

that she wasn't somewhere without service or, God help

him, with another man. If she was, Morgan might just

have to kill him.

"Who is this?" the female voice said on the other end.

It wasn't said with any sort of real curiosity, but with

anger because she knew exactly who was calling.

"It's me, babe," Morgan said. "What are you doing

right now?"

"What am I doing?" she said. God, he loved that

accent. "I am sitting on my ass because my worthless

friend Sabina decided to go on a date with some lawyer.

So I was about to open a bottle of wine when you called.

Why the hell are you calling, Morgan?"

"What are you wearing?" he said.

"What am I wearing? What the hell is wrong with

you? Why does that matter?"

"Because I want you to pick out your hottest outfit

right this minute, put it on and meet me at the Kitten Club

in half an hour."

"And why would I do that?" she asked, her hesitancy

melting.

"Because I'm back, sweetheart, and I'm going to get

us both wasted and then I'm going to make you thank

God you were born a woman."

"Morgan?" she said.

"Yeah?"

"I'll be there in fifteen."

34

She didn't remember the drive taking this long. Maybe

because last time, time was of the essence. Or maybe last

time there was an excitement about seeing her daughter

for the first time in months.

As the yellow lines sped past in a blur, as the trees on

I-95 merged into one long emerald line, Paulina thought

about those days nearly twenty years ago when she first

held Abigail in her arms. She was so tiny, so fragile, and

Paulina remembered breast-feeding her, thinking that this

small person was dependent on her for love, for life. And

though she'd never wanted that feeling to die, it had done

just that a long time ago.

Paulina had never wanted to be one of those corporate

mothers who took a week off for maternity leave, was

back in the office like nothing had ever happened while

her child was raised and cared for by nannies with calloused hands and heaving bosoms. She never wanted her

daughter to grow up hearing somebody else's voice read

her bedtime stories, never wanted her daughter to feel the

same sense of loneliness that Paulina had as a little girl.

Abby would be her daughter forever, and she would

not let her daughter grow up without a true mother.

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251

Of course, life didn't work out that way. As soon as

they wanted her to take on bigger stories, she jumped at

the chance. Paulina told herself that it was only for a

short period of time, that she would make money and

make a name for herself so that when she finally stepped

back from the job, she would have created a better life

for Abigail.

But Paulina never stepped back.

The stories got bigger and bigger, and the chase became intoxicating. And when her name didn't grow at the

pace she wanted it to, she left the Gazette and took a job

at their rival. And now, finally, after so long in the

trenches of this industry, Paulina was a name, a brand,

making the kind of money that she always hoped to.

Some people said newspapers were a dying industry,

but if you wrote what people wanted to read, they'd never

bury you. There was always a medium.

And then one day, Paulina looked back and realized

that Abby was gone. A grown woman, a college student,

with her own hopes and dreams and desires and loves.

And Paulina had not been there for any of it.

Which is why this drive felt like the longest hours of

Paulina's life. Because just as she'd reentered Abby's life

the other day, today she was going to pull the shade over

a part of Abigail's life that Paulina had been too busy to

realize had even felt sunshine.

She arrived at the dorm as the sun was setting, casting

a beautiful orange hue over the treetops and green grass.

The red brick of the dorms looked radiant in the glow, and

for a moment Paulina had to stand and watch them.

Then as shadows began to creep across the grounds,

Paulina locked the car door and prepared herself.

She walked up to the front door and dialed Abby's cell.

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She had no idea what her daughter's schedule was,

whether she had evening class, what time she went to

dinner, if she had plans to see a movie tonight.

It didn't matter. She'd wait at the door all night if

she had to.

Fortunately Abby picked up right away.

"Hello?" she said.

"Hey, Abby, it's your mother."

"Oh, hey, Mom." Abby laughed and continued. "You

know when you said you'd try to call more I didn't think

you meant it."

"Oh, I meant it," Paulina said. "In fact, would you

mind buzzing me in? I'm downstairs."

"You're what?"

"I'm downstairs. In front of your dorm."

"Why are you..."

"Just let me in, it's important."

"All right, fine, hold on a second."

The buzzer rang, and Paulina entered. She made her

way to Abby's dorm room and knocked on the door.

Abigail answered, wearing a green tank top and shorts.

A bowl of popcorn was on the coffee table and the television was on. The menu of a DVD was on the screen.

And sitting on the couch was Pam Ruffalo.

Her brown hair was done up in a ponytail, and she was

wearing socks without shoes. Her legs were crossed

underneath her on the couch. She munched popcorn, then

swallowed it when she saw Paulina standing there.

She coughed out a kernel and said, "Hi, Ms. Cole."

Paulina looked at her. Her eyes widened, and she

turned to her daughter, pleading.

"We need to talk alone."

"You don't even say hello back, Mom?"

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253

"Hi, Pam. Can you ask her to give us a few minutes?"

"Why? What the hell is going on now?"

"Please, Abby, don't ask me to..."

"You asked Pam to leave the first time you came here,"

Abigail said, "and I agreed. I don't answer to you and I

never have, so whatever you say to me you can say to her."

"Abby, she really shouldn't..."

"Mom, I love her. She has a right to know whatever

you have to say to me."

Paulina stepped back, her breath caught in her throat

for a moment. She looked over at Pamela, a massive grin

on the young girl's face at that statement. Abby had a look

of pride, both at her love for this girl and her confidence

in telling her mother off.

"Fine, Abby, if you want to do this by your rules, so

be it. But remember I asked for privacy."

"I'll remember to tell that to the judge," Abby said.

Pam laughed. Paulina had to struggle not to shoot the girl

a dirty look.

And then she looked at her daughter, her young, beautiful vibrant daughter, who might never speak to her again

after today.

"I found out more about that...issue I talked to you

about the other day."

Abigail placed her hand against the door frame. It

was clear she'd tried to put it out of her mind, and

from the change in her stance it looked like she'd succeeded until now.

"What did you find out?" Abby asked, almost perfunctorily.

Paulina looked at Pam again, then back at her daughter.

"Last chance," she said.

"Spill it, Mom."

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"Okay then. I had some friends look into the photo

and the album it came from. Did you know Pam here

had a blog?"

Abigail smiled, turned to her girlfriend. "Of course I

did. She showed me every posting before it went up."

Pamela blushed and said, "At first I wanted to make

sure Abby was okay with it. Then she just trusted me."

"How sweet," Paulina said, her voice emotionless.

"Do you know a girl named Samantha Isringhausen?"

Abigail squinted, trying to figure her mother out.

"You're talking to me like a reporter," Abigail said. "Asking

me all these questions like you're going after a story. 'Do

you know this person? Have you heard of such and such?'

Be an adult, Mom, and tell me what the hell is going on."

"Fine," Paulina said, "but if I'm going to talk to you

like an adult, you're going to have to act like one when

I'm done."

"I'm sure that won't be a problem."

"Your words," Paulina said. Then she nodded at Pam.

"Your girlfriend there sold you out."

"What?" came the confused cry from both girls.

"You heard me," she said.

"Mom, I swear to God, you and me have never really

gotten along, but if you ever want to talk to me again

you'd better have a damn good explanation for this."

"I do," she said, "and take a second to look at your

'girlfriend.' She doesn't seem that angry."

They both turned to Pamela. The girl's mouth was wide

open, but it was more out of protest than surprise. "I don't

know what the heck she's talking about," Pam said.

"Samantha Isringhausen," Paulina said, "took those

photos at the beach. You then posted the album online.

All except for one photo. The photo that man showed me

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the night he threatened your life and burned me to drive

his point home."

"Burned you?" Abigail said. "What are you talking

about?"

Paulina lifted her shirt to reveal a deep red burn mark,

several inches long. Abigail and Pam both sucked in

their breath.

"Mom..." she said.

"That doesn't matter now," Paulina said. "You told me

you didn't post that photo, it doesn't go public, and yet

somehow Pam ends up with a copy."

"What the hell is she talking about?" Abigail said to

Pam.

Pamela stuttered. "Okay, I wanted a copy for myself.

So what? You looked gorgeous, Abby. I thought it was

kind of romantic."

"And then Sam deleted the memory card, right?"

Paulina said.

"I saw her do it," Abigail said. "She had a set of her

ex-boyfriend on there and erased the entire memory card."

"So if you two are the only ones who had a copy of

the photo," Paulina said, "can you explain to me why a

man who threatened my daughter's life had one, too?"

Abby stared at Pamela, the girl's mouth flopping open

and closed.

"I..." Pamela said.

"Pam," Abigail said, her voice trembling. "Pam, did

you do something?"

Tears began to flow down Abigail Cole's cheeks, and

Paulina felt her heart ache at the sight of this. She knew

exactly how this was going to play out, but there was nothing

that could steel her for the sight of her daughter crying.

"How much did he give you?" Paulina said.

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"What?" Pam said. Not that she didn't hear, but that

she wasn't expecting the question.

"Or did he threaten you, too?"

"Pam?" Abigail said. "Pam, please tell me..."

Pamela looked at Abigail, then back at Paulina. She

composed herself, uncrossed her legs and set them on the

floor.

"He came up to me one day, after econ," Pam said, her

eyes on Abigail. "At first he was really nice and kind,

saying he was a friend of your mom's. Then he told me

he wanted a picture of you. A picture nobody else had.

Something private so that when Abby saw it, she'd know

it was special. He told me with a private photo, you'd both

know how serious he was. I still don't know how he knew

we were together..."

"Your blog," Paulina said. "He knew he could get to

me through Abigail, and he could get to Abigail through

you. You made it all public for him. You made it easy."

"He offered me ten thousand dollars!" Pamela

screamed. "I'm on financial aid. I'm going to have six

figures in debt by the time I leave this stupid place. He told

me he was going to give it to you as a present. I thought,

I don't know, that he was your boyfriend or something."

"Are you stupid," Abigail said, wiping at her nose, "or

just ignorant?"

Pam stared daggers at her, then softened. "I never

thought it would hurt you."

"You didn't think about her," Paulina said. "Only you

and that money. So don't give us the 'I never thought it

would hurt you' bull. You just pocketed the dough and

crossed your fingers."

"Pam?" Abigail said. Her face was a wreck, tears flowing down in rivulets, eyes red and devastated. Paulina

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257

closed her eyes for a moment, and hated herself for what

she'd done.

"What, Abby?"

"Pam, did you...did you give him that picture?"

"Abby, please, I--"

Abigail screamed, "Did you give him that picture or

not?"

Pam looked at her girlfriend, nodded once, and that

was all she had to do.

"I want you to leave," Abigail said, looking at Pam.

"Abby, I--"

"Right now. Or I call the cops."

Pam began to sob, too, but surprisingly Abigail's tears

had stopped running.

"I love you," Pam said.

"No, you don't," came Abigail's reply. "Just leave."

Pam stood up. Before leaving, she stared down Paulina, who returned the gaze.

"Don't you even think about staring me down, you

little bitch. You do this to my family and you want to hate

me? Get the hell away from here and don't ever speak to

Abigail again."

Pam looked like she'd been slapped. Before she left,

she took out her cell phone and turned back to Paulina.

"What's your phone number?" she said.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I need your cell phone number."

"I'm not giving you any..."

"I took a picture of him. With my phone camera. When

he was walking away, I took a picture of him. I don't

know why I did it, maybe I wanted to remember what he

looked like. I just wanted to send it to you. Maybe it'll

help you find him."

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Paulina's anger multiplied, and every part of her wanted

to curse this girl out and tell her to leave. But that photo

could come in handy. So she gave Pamela the number.

The girl plugged it in to her cell phone, and a moment

later Paulina's phone chirped. She opened the message,

and found a grainy photo on the screen.

It was him. No doubt about it. Paulina shivered, remembering the man's face as he tore the picture of Abby

to shreds, threatening to end her daughter's life as easily

as he defaced her image.

The picture was a profile of the man, from his left side.

She recognized the wavy blond hair, the eyes. She had to

give Pam a little credit for being smart enough to take it,

but it was far too little and way too late.

"Now go," Abigail said. So Pam turned and left.

"Baby, I'm so sorry," Paulina said. "I know this must

have been hard for you, but I'm going to get this guy."

"I want you to leave, too."

Paulina stood there for a moment, stunned.

"What did you say?"

"You heard me, Mom. I want you to leave, too. And I

don't want to speak to you again. Not for a long time."

"Abby, baby, I came here to help you. You needed to

know the truth."

"And now I do. So you can leave."

Abigail went to the small fridge/microwave combination and pulled a beer out. She twisted the cap, grimacing

as the top dug into her palm.

"This was for your own good. I'm just trying to help.

Abby, please, let me stay."

"You did what you came here to do. I bet when all this

is over you'll have a hell of a story, and I can tell all my

friends what a great reporter my mom is. But I don't

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want to see you right now. So please, please leave. Don't

make me ask again. I don't want to cry anymore."

Paulina felt her face grow hot, her eyes beginning to

water as she stared at her daughter, hating every word

she'd said but deep down, in some way, understanding it,

too. She knew the night would come to this, that these

revelations would destroy her daughter's relationship. It

had to be done, Paulina knew, and she'd have to deal

with being the messenger.

She would take the misplaced anger, and she would

let her daughter cool down over time even though it

would kill her every second she thought about what

might have happened.

And that, Paulina thought, walking out the door, dabbing at her eyes with a tailored sleeve, was what she

supposed being a mother was all about.

35

"Major Chester A. Malloy," Jack said. He was holding

in his hand a printout of all the information we could find

regarding Malloy. And it didn't make us feel any better.

Jack's eyes were wide as he read, scanning the print.

I wondered if he was as nervous as I was.

"According to his file," Jack said, "Chester A. Malloy

was a member of the Special Operations Task Force assembled in 1989 to overthrow Manuel Noriega's control

of Panama. Along with ten other members of his unit, Operational Detachment Bravo, Major Malloy encountered

a brigade of the Panama Defense Force, where several

members of their squad were killed. The rest of the squad

was returned to the U.S. after Noriega's capture, and

that's where the trail ends."

"So what the hell is a goddamn Special Forces major

doing kidnapping New York journalists?" I said.

"Look at this," Jack said. We huddled over his computer, where nearly a dozen Internet searches were pulled

up. Jack pointed to one, a photograph of eleven young

men and women, identified in a military photo as the

Bravo unit. I read the names.

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Franklin K. Loughlin.

Andros I. Browning.

Roy Winnick.

Eve S. Ramos.

Chester A. Malloy.

Rex M. Malloy.

Wendy C. DiBonaventura.

Harrison L. Daughterty.

Shonda P. Williamson.

Emmett R. Douglas.

Bill E. Hollinsworth.

Chester A. Malloy, along with the rest of his team, was

wearing his Special Forces uniform. Green sport jacket over

white shirt. Black tie. Nameplate on the right of his chest.

All the uniforms were decorated with various medals and

pins, and they all wore their Green Beret caps raised to the

left, the signature of their division of the Special Forces.

Standing to the left of Chester Malloy was a man named

Rex Malloy. According to the documents, Rex Malloy

was Chester's younger brother by three years. They were

both members of Special Forces, both Green Berets.

And both had looks on their faces as serious and

deadly as a man who threatens to kill a teenage girl.

I pointed at Chester Malloy.

"Nice and blond," I said. "That's our man."

"Hey, Mr. Cottontail," Jack said, smiling.

Just then I felt my cell phone vibrate in my pocket. I

pulled it out, saw I had a new message. Not a voice mail,

but a text message. It was from Paulina, and it contained

an attachment.

I opened the note. It said: Taken one month ago by

Pam Ruffalo. This is our guy.

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"I'll be a monkey's uncle," Jack said.

"Wow. I haven't heard anyone say that since the sixties."

"Oldie but a goodie."

"That one either. Hold on, I'll enlarge it."

I plugged the phone into my computer and waited for

the image to download. When it finished, I opened it up

and enlarged the shot.

It was a grainy image, taken with some sort of low-res

camera or cell phone. The man could be seen from his

left side. Only the left side of his body and face were

visible. What was visible, though, was that shock of wavy

blond hair.

"Holy crap," Jack said. "Look at this."

He pointed to the photo of Chester Malloy in the army

photograph.

"That's not the same guy as in this photo," Jack said.

"Look at his ear."

"I don't see it," I said. "What, is there an old earring

hole or something?"

"Didn't you ever wrestle?" Jack said.

"Uh, no. I watched a little WWF when I was growing up."

"That's as close to real wrestling as Harvey Hillerman's hair plugs are to the real deal. No, look closely at

Chester Malloy's ear in the earlier photo, and then

compare it to the ear in this new one."

I did, and while I couldn't be sure, it looked like the ear

in the recent shot was slightly puffy, slightly deformed.

"That's called cauliflower ear," Jack said. "Wrestlers

get it all the time. It's when fluid collects in the ear, causing

the cartilage to die and harden. The result ain't pretty, but

it's kind of a badge of honor for a lot of wrestlers. Unless

you treat it right away, drain the fluid, it's not going away.

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263

Chester Malloy doesn't have cauliflower ear in this new

photo. But look who does in the earlier one."

I stared intently at the military shot, and clear as day

was the left ear of Rex Malloy. It was deformed, puffy,

just like the ear in the later shot.

"This means that the person in this recent photo wasn't

Chester Malloy," Jack said, "but his brother Rex. My

guess is Rex was a wrestler before joining the army, and

he had the bad ear when this photo was taken."

"And notice something else?" I said.

"And look at Rex's hair in this photo," Jack replied.

"It's not blond."

"That'd be a fine shade of black," I said. "And it's

straight, not wavy at all."

"That means that it wasn't Chester Malloy who kidnapped Paulina," Jack said. "It was Rex, all dolled up to

look like his brother."

"So if that's Rex Malloy in the picture, and it was Rex

who took Paulina, where is Chester Malloy?"

"That's the million-dollar question, sport."

"So we're back to this again," I said.

"Until further notice," Jack replied. "So Rex Malloy

grew out his hair, dyed it blond, gave himself a nice perm

and is now going by his brother's name."

"Come on, who doesn't do that?"

"I have a brother. Name is Roy. Man's got a head

balder than an eight ball and smells worse than Oscar the

Grouch. If I ever dressed like him, you'd have permission

to throw me off the nearest suspension bridge."

"That would make sense. Paulina told me the man

who kidnapped her insinuated that he'd lost someone.

Maybe he was referring to his brother," I said. "It looks

like he's purposefully dressing just like his brother

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Chester. And if the guy in Paulina's photo isn't Chester,

but Rex, why call himself Chester? Why not make up

some other completely random alias?"

"Some sort of psychotic tribute perhaps," Jack said.

"Now look at the rest of this squad. Eleven men and

women. The Department of Justice should have records

on the rest of them. We need to know where the rest of

this squad is, and get any more information about Malloy

that we can. Maybe somebody who knew him can explain

why a Green Beret seems to be armpit deep in some new

drug epidemic."

"Noriega was a massive drug trafficker," I said. "If this

Bravo squad was flown in to help depose Noriega, they

obviously had some part to play in the Panama drug war."

"Maybe," Jack said. "But the question remains. Whose

side were they on?"

We split up the list, Jack taking five names and myself

taking six. Our job was to track down the remaining

members of Rex Malloy's Detachment Bravo team and

contact them to find out whatever information we could

about the Malloy family.

The DOJ had every member of the squad on file, but

to my surprise only three of my six were still alive.

And one of those was not Chester Malloy.

The surviving members on my list were Rex Malloy,

Eve Ramos and Frank Loughlin. There were no records

of employment or housing for either Ramos or Loughlin,

and according to the DOJ, Frank Loughlin was serving

twenty years for the murder of a homeless man on the

streets of Atlanta.

Researching the newspaper records, I discovered

Loughlin had pled insanity, his lawyer making the case

that Loughlin still suffered from post-traumatic stress

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disorder from his time in the military, and that his client

was better served under psychiatric supervision than

under our federal prison system.

Loughlin had been returning home from a movie when

a homeless man approached him on the street. After

asking for change and being denied, the man placed his

hand on Loughlin's shoulder. The ex-Special Forces

agent then threw the man to the ground and pressed his

boot against the man's neck until his larynx was crushed

under the force.

Police testified that when they arrived on the scene,

Loughlin was sitting on the curb by the body, crying.

Nevertheless, the judge disagreed that Frank was missing his marbles, and now the man who once fought for the

United States was rotting in one of its very own jail cells.

Not the kind of irony that brings a smile to your face.

Seeing as how Frank Loughlin couldn't be involved in

this unless he somehow gained the ability to walk through

walls, cross state borders and look like one of his former

squad mates (a possibility considering the amount of

drastic plastic surgery you see in New York), I went to

find Jack to see if he had any more luck.

I found him at his desk, on the phone, writing on a

notepad.

He didn't pay me any attention, just kept nodding as

though the person on the other line could be persuaded

by his nonverbal approval. I took that moment to glance

around Jack's desk.

He'd been back for such a short amount of time, and

since then he'd done nothing to make his desk more personal, nothing to show that a human being actually

worked, breathed and dwelled there.

I wasn't the most sensitive guy in the world and I had

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no need to plaster my workspace with pictures of every

living relative, every birthday party and a child from

every conceivable camera angle, but you could walk by

my desk and know that somebody took the time to make

it more habitable.

There was a photo of Amanda and me taken a few

years ago at a concert at Jones Beach. I had a clipping of

the first article I ever published in the Gazette, and the

first piece I ever published in the Bend Bulletin from

back in the day when I was cutting my teeth.

Those articles were steps to me. Chapters in a life and

career. I wasn't sure what the next clipping would be. I

supposed I would only know when, well, I knew.

Finally Jack hung up the phone and turned to me.

"Whaddaya got?"

"Very little," I said. "Three of my six are still alive.

One of them is in prison, one has no records of pretty

much anything, and Rex Malloy hasn't been heard from

in almost fifteen years. The kicker, though, is that Chester

Malloy is dead."

"I had a feeling," Jack said.

"Turns out the older brother was killed in action in

Panama. He was in a transport vehicle with his brother Rex,

Eve Ramos and William Hollinsworth when they made a

wrong turn and ended up on a street not far from Noriega's

headquarters. They were approached by members of the

PDF who tried to detain them, but when the squad resisted

they opened fire. As far as I can tell Chester Malloy was

the only casualty, but according to news reports, all four

members of the team were seriously injured."

Jack stroked his beard, thinking. Either that or he was

ignoring me. But since I doubted that, he just continued

to stroke his beard.

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267

"That give you good luck?" I asked.

"Been doing this my whole adult life. So depending

on your perspective, probably not."

"What did you find out?"

"Well, not as much as you, but between the two of us

I think we know exactly where to go."

"What did you find?"

"Of my five squad members, four are dead. The only

living Bravo Detachment member is Bill Hollinsworth.

Hollinsworth was deployed as a Special Reconnaissance

officer. His job was to gather intelligence on the enemy

and their tactics."

"This is the guy who was in the car with the Malloys

when they came under fire."

"Exactly right. And get this. Hollinsworth is a professor of American history, post-World War II at Columbia."

"What you learn in war you teach to future generations," I said.

"If he was in Panama, he probably knows Rex Malloy.

I called over there. Hollinsworth has office hours today

until six."

"We should meet with him right away," I said.

"No worries, Henry. I already called the history department and they said he never leaves until six on the dot. And

apparently he's not the easiest guy to get along with, because

the lady who answered the phone seemed rather shocked

that we wanted to meet with him. She said students steer

clear of Hollinsworth like you do from matching clothes."

"Or you from denture cream," I said.

"Go screw yourself," Jack said. "Come on, let's see

why this guy's friend is poisoning our city."

36

As soon as Morgan Isaacs got off the subway to head

home, his cell phone rang. He didn't recognize the

number, but picked it up anyway, figuring after all the

money he and Theo made that day everything in his life

was taking a turn for the better.

He couldn't believe how well this new drug, these

small black rocks called the Darkness, were selling. It

seemed every customer had either bought recently and

needed a refill, or heard about it from a friend and wanted

a go. It thrilled Morgan to no end that he was carrying a

product that was so desired. It made him feel powerful

again, for the first time since everything was snatched

from him so unfairly.

To Morgan, he wouldn't trade that feeling away for

anything. And he would do anything to make sure it

never left him.

The sun was beginning to descend, and the Manhattan

skyline looked a gorgeous dark blue in the evening sky.

For months, Morgan wondered how long he would be

able to look at that view, if his lack of employment would

force him to relocate, take some job outside the city where

he'd be a nobody, a nothing, working for a company that

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269

the Wall Street Journal barely knew existed, a company

whose CEO wore a cowboy hat rather than a three-piece

suit. Where the offices were decorated with shag carpeting and the secretaries were all fifty and overweight.

That was a world Morgan refused to live in.

So he took in the crisp air, and remembered why he

fell in love with this city in the first place. And he thanked

his benefactors for giving him the chance to stay.

"Hello?" he said.

"Morgan, it's Chester."

"Oh, hey, what's up?"

"Just wanted to let you know I talked to Leonard, and

he told me you and Goggins cleared almost twenty grand

today. That's quite a haul."

Morgan smiled. He was well aware of how much

money they were bringing in, but he'd learned one thing

in business and that was never to brag to your boss about

how well you were doing. At the end of the month, when

all the receipts were tallied up, you'd get all the praise you

needed. Braggarts were so nineties.

So to hear this from Chester during his first week of

work, to Morgan that was all the praise he'd need for a

month.

"I know you haven't received a paycheck yet," Chester

said, "but you deserve a bonus."

Morgan's jaw dropped. He stopped walking and

leaned up against a mailbox. Then he had to move when

a man asked him to move so he could deposit a letter.

"I...I don't know what to say... Thanks, I guess."

"You've earned it," Chester said. "But you will need

to do one thing for me."

"Anything."

"I'm glad to hear that. And if you do this for me, you'll

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get a hundred grand on the spot. I'll need you to sign one

piece of paper, for tax purposes, but you'll have six figures

to play with by the time you're hungry for dinner tonight."

"You're kidding me, right?"

"Yes, I'm kidding you. In fact, we never want to see

you again. Goodbye, Morgan."

"Wait! I was kidding, too!"

"I know, stupid. Be on the corner of Thirteenth and

Avenue A in half an hour."

"I'll be there."

"One more thing, Morgan."

"What's up?"

"Do you like the suit you're wearing?"

"I guess so. It was one of the first ones I bought when

I got my job in banking."

"Too bad. Because you're never going to wear it again

after today."

37

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Jack said. He was staring out the

window of our cab as we sped uptown to meet William

Hollinsworth.

Rather than responding, I studied Jack's face. For

some reason it made me think about his clean desk, how

for some reason there was something holding him back

from returning fully to a normal life.

We'd never had a chance to have a real talk about

Paulina's article and what it had done to him, and it was

probably for the better. When a man's reputation, and

maybe his soul, is nearly destroyed, the last thing he

wants to do is revisit it. But it was clear that Jack hadn't

quite gotten past it, that he was still between two worlds.

The wistful look on his face confirmed my thoughts.

It was not the look of a face simply admiring the beauty

of a city, but the look of a man who wasn't sure if he'd

ever see these sights again.

Sixth Avenue was crowded, full of taxis, livery cabs

and black company cars carrying executives and bluecollar workers alike home from a long day's work. Traffic

in the city had actually gotten better over the last few

months, but it was a wolf wrapped in sheep's clothing.

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Jason Pinter

The decrease in traffic was primarily due to a cutback

in both taxis and hired car services, but also a massive

drop in truck deliveries that ordinarily clogged up New

York's arteries during the early morning. With so many

stores and restaurants closing due to massive revenue

drops, there was natural belt tightening in the quantity and

frequency of transports it took to ship in new supplies.

Nevertheless, traveling through the city during the

seemingly endless rush hour times was still a harrowing

proposition, and the fact that it took forty-five minutes

rather than an hour to go from midtown to upper Manhattan was a small victory at best.

We eked past taxis crawling slower than they needed

to, trying to squeeze out a few extra pennies from their

charges. Businessmen who would normally be glued to

their BlackBerries in the backseat, blissfully unaware of

this common practice, now stared at the rising fare ready

to berate the driver for taking his sweet time.

Prior to leaving, I left Curt Sheffield a message filling

him in on where we were headed. He needed to know

what was going on. Like Paulina said, I didn't know who

to trust, but I wanted to leave a trail just in case. I could

trust Curt to follow it if something bad happened.

We merged onto Central Park West, and several minutes later arrived at the Columbia campus. Jack paid the

driver and tucked the receipt into his wallet. We got out,

checking our pockets to make sure all our belongings had

arrived with us.

A few months back, I'd forgotten my wallet in a taxi,

and was dismayed to think I'd have to spend the whole

day in line at the DMV while explaining the situation to

my credit card companies and, worst of all, Wallace

Langston, who would need to order me a new corporate

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273

card. Yet just half an hour after realizing the gaffe, I

received an e-mail from a Mr. Alex Kolodej, the kindly

driver who'd found my wallet in the backseat of his cab,

put two and two together between my driver's license and

business card, and even drove by my office to drop the

wallet off.

He refused any sort of reward, and drove off with the

plain smile of a Good Samaritan.

Amanda, on the other hand, had forgotten her purse at

a bar just a few weeks ago, and returned home later that

night to find no less than twenty-five hundred dollars in

charges racked up. Ironically they were not at jewelry or

electronic stores, the bastion of people looking to make a

quick splurge with a stolen card, but rather from places like

Home Depot and Ace Hardware. A sign that whoever had

taken her bag was way behind on their home renovations.

A small thing perhaps, but I considered it a sign of the

times. For years, after the mayor and cops had cleaned

the city up, New York was known as one of the safest big

cities in the world. Like any city, of course you needed a

modicum of common sense, the knowledge that despite

this change if you wandered into the wrong neighborhood

at the wrong time you were playing Russian roulette.

But now, New York didn't feel quite as safe. There was

a constant tension, a thickness in the air, that something

combustible could ignite at any moment. There were too

many people out of work, too many people unable to afford

their homes, too many businesses hanging on for dear life.

And when a city is being stretched like a piece of taffy,

just the slightest bit of tension will cause it to snap.

The Columbia University department of history was

located in a building called Fayerweather Hall. It looked

like a building transported from Victorian England,

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Jason Pinter

redbrick and laced with intricate scrollwork. It felt as out

of place in Manhattan as I did several years ago.

We entered the building and the receptionist, a middleaged woman whose nameplate read Carolyn, directed us

to William Hollinsworth's office on the first floor. The

door to William Hollinsworth's office was wide open. I

entered first, Jack following me.

Hollinsworth was about forty years old, with a severe

crew cut and intense green eyes. His hair was specked with

gray, and he wore a pair of square-rimmed reading glasses

that sat on the tip of his nose. He wore a well-cut gray suit

jacket that did little to hide the taut frame underneath.

I'd met many athletes, cops and military personnel

over the years, and they fell into one of two categories.

Either they continued their fitness routines to a T after

leaving their vocation, or let themselves go entirely. Bill

Hollinsworth clearly had not let his post-military career

become a detriment to his fitness.

"Professor Hollinsworth?" I said.

He stood up, removed his glasses.

Hollinsworth was not a tall man, maybe five-ten or

eleven, but he stood up straight as an arrow and held his

shoulders back like he was expecting a salute.

"You must be Parker," he said. Jack had followed behind

me, and peeked his head out. "And Jack O'Donnell."

"It's a pleasure, sir." Jack extended his hand. Hollinsworth took it, shook it, then motioned for us to sit down.

Jack took his seat, and I noticed him rubbing his hand

and grimacing.

I closed the door to the professor's office, took a seat

as well, and glanced around the room.

The former Special Forces officer kept his office as

clean and free from excess debris as he kept his body. The

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275

bookshelves were all neatly aligned, every paper neatly

arranged. Even his in-and out-boxes, which were full,

somehow managed to be perfect examples of immaculate

care. There were no picture frames, no trinkets, no souvenirs, posters, awards or plaques. Nothing that led you to

believe that William Hollinsworth had anything in his life

but his work.

If the sign of a sick mind was a clean desk, then

William Hollinsworth was Hannibal Lecter.

The professor sat back down, folded his hands and

crossed his legs.

"Mr. Parker. Mr. O'Donnell. What can I do for you,

sirs?"

"Professor Hollinsworth," I said.

"Bill," he said with a smile. "I ask my students to call

me Professor Hollinsworth, so unless you've just applied

here to be an undergraduate I don't expect the same formalities from you, Mr. Parker."

"All right then, Bill, as we told your secretary, we're

here from the New York Gazette. "

"Carolyn did mention that to me, yes. What can I do

for you?"

"Twenty years ago, you were a member of a Special

Forces unit in Panama. Is that correct?"

Hollinsworth shifted in his chair. He clearly wasn't expecting this line of questioning.

"That's right," he said. "I was there for a little over a year."

"You were with Operational Detachment Bravo, along

with ten other men and women. Correct?"

"That's correct," he said, a hint of agitation dipping

into his voice. "Did you just come here to confirm things

we both already know?"

"Sorry to waste your time," I said, "but Mr. O'Don-276

Jason Pinter

nell and I did some background research on you and your

squad before we came here. But we both know that what

you read in the newspapers and what you experience in

actual life can differ greatly."

"That's true. Fair enough."

"According to military records, you and three other

members of your squad were attacked by members of

Manuel Noriega's military deployment, the PDF, on

January sixth, nineteen-ninety. Is that right?"

Hollinsworth's eyes narrowed. He was no longer shifting but staring straight at me. I couldn't tell if he was

angry that I was dredging up old memories, glad that his

near-death experience was still a topic of discussion, or

furious to the point where he might rip my head off with

his bare hands.

"That's right."

"One man was killed that day. Chester Malloy." Hollinsworth nodded slowly, as his eyes softened.

"Were you close with Major Malloy?" Jack said suddenly. I turned to face him, but he was looking at Hollinsworth.

"I was," the man said. "Our whole unit, Bravo, we

trained together, fought together. I would have died for

any one of them. And I wish I had been able to. But..."

Then Hollinsworth trailed off.

"But what?" Jack said.

"I have no problem giving my life for my country, or

for one of my countrymen. But that day, we shouldn't

have been in a position for anyone to lose their life."

"Why not?" Jack said.

"We knew not to mess around with the PDF," Hollinsworth said. "A few weeks earlier, Second Lieutenant

Robert Paz was coming out of a restaurant in Panama

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277

City. He came across a PDF squad. He was alone. Now,

any smart man or woman would have had the common

sense to know when the right time is to fight, and that was

most certainly the wrong time. We never got an official

number, but civilian reports said that Lieutenant Paz was

outnumbered at least eight to one."

"He decided to fight," I said.

"Not fight," Hollinsworth said. "See, Paz was a member of a special unit nicknamed the 'Hard Chargers.'

Their job was to actively provoke the PDF, to incite them

either to violence against American troops or Panamanian

civilians."

"Why would they do that?" I asked.

"Because until then, we had no reason to go after

Noriega. Nothing official, anyway. Lots of innuendo, and

we knew for certain he was trafficking in enough drugs

to fill the Grand Canyon fifty times over. But you can't

overthrow every dictator that's dabbling in illegal goods.

If that was the case we'd be at war with half the known

world. No, we needed something more tangible. Something we could sell to citizens back home."

"That's where Paz came in."

Hollinsworth nodded slowly.

"It wasn't supposed to go like that, though. Hard

Chargers were never supposed to travel alone. Paz just

happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and

they recognized him."

"So they killed him," I said.

"Not immediately. Paz quickly realized that things

were going to get out of hand, so he tried to run. But

because the PDF had set up a legitimate roadblock, they

felt they were justified in killing him. That's the way

Noriega spun it. Have you heard of Franz Ferdinand?"

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"Of course," Jack said. "His assassination in Sarajevo

was the primary catalyst for World War I."

"That's right. Well, Robert Paz was our Archduke Ferdinand. Until December sixteenth, nineteen eighty-nine,

no members of the United States military had been killed

by Panamanian forces. When Lieutenant Paz was killed,

suddenly we had all the cause in the world. And on

December twentieth, the floodgates opened. We went

into Panama with a vengeance, and we took Noriega out

of power and that bastard has been rotting in prison ever

since."

"So how does this all play into Chester Malloy getting killed?"

Hollinsworth said, "Why are you so interested in this?

All of this happened almost twenty years ago and suddenly you want to know about it? I'm not buying it. What

else are you looking for, Mr. Parker?"

I looked at Jack. He said to Hollinsworth, "We finish

our interview, you can start interviewing us."

He pursed his lips, said, "Fair enough."

38

Morgan couldn't believe how fast his heart was pounding. Even when he used to snort a few lines at a club then

dance until his blood felt like lava, he couldn't remember

ever feeling quite like this. Those nights when he was

high, there was always a sense of floating above the

world, that the Morgan who was doing those things, saying those things, would wake up the next morning a different person.

The world didn't really count when you were out of

it. Everything you did could be explained. This, though,

there was no explaining it. No justifying it. If he accepted

what was being proposed right now, he would wake up

tomorrow the same Morgan Isaacs, remembering every

detail and never be able to wash it away.

Which is, perhaps, to his great surprise, the reason he

didn't feel the slightest hesitation.

The gun was heavier than he expected it to be. You

always saw movies where guys swung guns around like

they were made of tissue paper, aiming them sideways

and backward and doing cool tricks. Not this gun, though.

He held it in his hand, and it felt just fine.

"This is a Glock 36, .45 caliber handgun," Chester

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Jason Pinter

said. He was looking at Morgan with dead seriousness in

his face. Chester had been nice to him during the short

time he'd known the man. A good conversationalist, even

jokey at times, but right now Morgan got the feeling that

if he even cracked a smile Chester would throw him out

of the car.

They were driving uptown, passing by the glistening

Time Warner Center, the natural beauty of Central Park

on the right as they drove up Central Park West. Morgan

never spent a whole lot of time in the Park, or in any

sort of nature. When he wasn't behind a desk, he was

at home with a beer or at a club throwing back martinis

like they were iced tea. At first the idea of traveling all

over the city to hawk his wares worried him. What if

he didn't like it? What if he couldn't take all the time

on the subway, didn't want to deal with the asshole

who often paid with crinkled twenties and smelled like

dirty socks?

But when that money started rolling in, when he saw

the smile on Chester's face, Morgan knew he could hack

it, and hack it quite easily.

"You sure you can do this?" Chester said. His eyes

betrayed no sympathy; he was simply making sure that

Morgan was up to the task.

"Yes," he said emphatically. "I am."

"Well, all right then. Once we pull up to the building,

the office is number A17. You're going to walk straight

past the receptionist. If she gives you a hard time, just tell

her you're going to the bathroom. Her name is Carolyn.

Don't look at her, just walk right past and say, 'Just going

to the bathroom, Carolyn, thanks.'"

"Got it."

"Once you enter the hallway past her desk, make a

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281

quick left, and it's the third office on your right. You

know who your target is."

"I do. Why..."

"No whys," Chester said. "Once it's done, you run as

fast as you can back here. The car will be idling in front

of the entrance. The door will be open. You just climb in,

hand me the gun, and we're gone. The gun will be disposed of before the police arrive on the scene. And we

want you to wear this," he said.

Chester handed Morgan a baseball cap, underneath

which and sewn in to the cap was a blond wig. Morgan

put it on his head, and Chester adjusted it so that none of

Morgan's black hair could be seen.

"Anything to throw them off a little bit. Carolyn will

be the only witness, and she's an old lady. They'll be

looking for a young blond guy wearing a baseball cap."

"Okay."

"We'll drop you off near the subway after we ditch the

car. Call your girlfriend. Have her come over, get her good

and drunk and screw the shit out of her. She'll be another

layer of protection, so to speak. Then wake up tomorrow,

come to work and act like this never happened."

Chester handed Morgan a folded piece of paper. The

young man opened it. It was a money order for $50,000,

made out to him.

"Just in case anyone asks, you've been doing some

contracting work on the side," he said with a grin. "You'll

get the second half once it's done. And Morgan?"

"Yeah?"

"Make sure nobody asks."

Morgan nodded, then folded the slip back up and

slipped it into the inside of his coat pocket. It felt good

to have it there, and it would feel even better tomorrow

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when he deposited a hundred thousand dollars into his

bank account.

Those debts, the ones that had nearly crippled him for

so long, would be wiped clean by the end of the month.

"You ready?" Chester said.

"Ready?" Morgan said with a smile. "I'm bored. Let's

do this."

39

"Go on," I said.

"Our troops invaded Panama because of Paz's death,

but because he ran from a PDF blockade the Panamanian

government claimed they did nothing wrong. So folks

back home in the States began to feel the same way, especially when more people started dying on both sides

of the conflict. Two weeks after Paz's death, a marine

unit was supposed to infiltrate a Noriega drug lab, but

instead they found themselves trapped in an alleyway

where they were ambushed by the PDF. They all managed to get out alive, but there were some on our side that

wondered if they were given the wrong directions on

purpose."

I said, "That they were led into a trap in the hopes

they'd be killed to strengthen the cause for the invasion."

"Exactly," Hollinsworth said. "Nobody knew for sure."

"That day in January," Jack said, "when your squad

was attacked...the same thing happened, didn't it?"

I could see Hollinsworth struggling to remain passive,

remain calm, but there was something behind those eyes that

he was unable to hide. It wasn't grief or sadness; it was rage.

"I know we were set up," Hollinsworth said. "We were

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Jason Pinter

scheduled to join up with a Ranger regiment. I was given

directions, instructions on when and where we'd meet. But

by the time we got there, it was just us and the armed guard.

By the time the survivors got back to the base, Chester was

dead. And the Rangers had no idea what the hell I was

talking about. The military discharged me a month after

that, and I went back to school to get my master's degree.

I never saw anyone else from our squad again."

"So Chester Malloy was killed that day," Jack said,

"but Rex Malloy and Eve Ramos lived."

"Rex, Chester and Eve were close," Hollinsworth continued. "The whole squad was like a family, but those

three were the tightest. When Chester died, it hit Rex and

Eve hard. Some of us thought Chester and Eve might have

been seeing each other behind closed doors, but we never

knew for sure."

I felt something then, a twinge, a faint bell going off.

I decided to go after it. I had a feeling we were close

to the truth.

I pulled my cell phone from my pocket, searched

through my e-mail in-box and found the message. Clicking on it, I opened the attachment. When it finished loading, I handed it to Williams Hollinsworth.

"Do you recognize that person?" I said.

Hollinsworth squinted, adjusting his glasses to view

the grainy shot better.

"It's hard to tell, with the angle and the picture quality

being, well, substandard. But if I had to guess...no...it

couldn't be." He looked at me. "Chester Malloy?"

"Close," I said. "You knew both Malloy brothers. Look

at the ear."

Hollinsworth took another glance, then nodded. "I

remember Rex's ear. We used to call him Potato Head

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285

because his ear looked like a mashed potato. But everything else is wrong. The hair. Rex's hair wasn't blond."

"You're right there," I said. "Rex's wasn't. Chester's

was. Rex Malloy is alive, and he's taken on his brother's

look, his dress, even coloring and styling his hair like

Chester used to."

"Okay," the professor said, "so you say. But so what?

I haven't seen Rex Malloy in almost twenty years."

"About a week ago," Jack said, "Rex Malloy kidnapped a woman and threatened to kill her daughter."

Hollinsworth's head snapped up, his eyes wide open.

"He did what?"

"You heard me," Jack said.

"Jesus, how do you know this?"

"Because the girl who took that photo was paid ten

thousand dollars by Malloy to help him."

"I don't understand," Hollinsworth said. "Why would

he do such a terrible thing?"

"The woman he kidnapped was a reporter," I said.

"Like us. He blackmailed her into writing an article for

her newspaper."

"I don't read the papers," he said.

"So I gather. I just happened to bring a copy with me."

I took out the copy of the Gazette with Paulina's article

and slid it across the table to Hollinsworth. He picked it up.

And as soon as he read the headline, I knew the whole

story was about to unravel.

"That's...that's impossible," he said.

Hollinsworth ripped open the paper to Paulina's story

and read the entire piece. We sat there, watching his face,

studying it, transfixed by the multitude of emotions that

ran through it.

When he finished, the professor dropped the paper to

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the floor. The man's shoulders were slumped, his eyes

nearly closed. He stared at the floor.

Then finally he said, his voice barely above a whisper,

"I never thought they'd do it."

"Do what?" I said.

"Darkness...Ramos...Rex and Eve were always talking about some new drug Noriega's people were developing, something that if synthesized properly would be

twice as potent but half the cost. But the way they were

talking about it...it wasn't kosher. I always got the feeling

that if we didn't keep tabs on them they could--"

Then, before William Hollinsworth could say another

word, the door to his office banged open. Standing in the

doorway was a young man wearing a suit along with a

baseball cap. His hair was blond, but I noticed a tuft of

black hair beneath it. He was wearing a wig.

And I knew what he was going to do even before he

pulled the gun out.

Suddenly the world became a blur, and before I could

get out of my seat the young man was holding a small,

black gun and pointing it at William Hollinsworth.

The professor's eyes went wide and I heard him

scream, "No!"

Then there were three deafening blasts, and three

gouts of blood erupted from the former Special Forces

agent's chest.

I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, watching helplessly

as Hollinsworth toppled backward in his chair, a horrific

spray of blood covering the back wall of his office, decorating the space with grisly red where the professor

himself had declined to hang any decorations.

The shooter's eyes met mine, and to my surprise there

was no anger or malice in them, but pure and simple fear.

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287

His head shook as our eyes met, and suddenly he

turned and ran away.

"Jack, call 911!" I shouted, jumping from my seat and

racing into the hallway.

Peeking out from the doorway to make sure there

wasn't a muzzle waiting for me, I saw the coattail of the

man rounding the corner and heading for the lobby.

I ran after him, screaming and shouting echoing in the

halls behind me. I couldn't sense anything else; my world

narrowed to a tunnel.

Turning the corner at the end of the hall, I heard some

sort of commotion and a loud crash. Again I leaned out

from the corner, only to see that the shooter had tripped

over Carolyn's desk and was gathering himself up.

Carolyn was screaming, holding her head in her hands

and she stared at the man with terror etched on her face.

Then I saw it. The gun. It had fallen from his grasp and

was sitting mere feet away.

I had one chance.

Without thinking, I sprinted forward and threw my

weight into the man's back.

I heard a humph as his breath was driven from him, as

we both fell forward onto the ugly brown carpeting.

The man swung his elbow around at my head, but I

was able to duck it. As he did so, the ball cap and wig fell

off, revealing the man's hair and face.

His hair was short, black, and he was breathing heavy,

sweating. One thing was for sure, this man was far from

any sort of professional.

The suit. Something snapped together in my mind,

and I knew why this man was here.

Then I heard him pleading with me.

"Let me go! Please!"

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What kind of killer said please?

I held on tighter, tried to get a better grip to immobilize

the man. I needed to hold him down long enough for

someone to help me incapacitate him until the cops arrived.

"Get off him!" I heard somebody scream. I turned

around slightly to see Carolyn hovering over us holding

her desk lamp. It was a big thing, brass colored, metal and

a foot and a half long. We both looked, and then she

swung the pole at us.

Then I felt a massive crunch on the back of my neck,

and for a moment the world went black. I could feel the

man getting out from under me, so I blindly grabbed at

him. I managed to catch my fingers inside some sort of

pocket, which tore away as he escaped.

When the darkness cleared, I looked up to see Carolyn

standing over me. Her hand was covering her mouth as

she stammered.

"Oh my God! I'm so sorry, I was trying to hit him!

Are you okay?"

I nodded, but felt exactly like I'd been hit with a metal

pole on the back of my neck. Carolyn dropped the lamp

and went over to help me up.

When I got to my feet I looked around. My stomach

lurched when I realized that he was gone. Not only that,

but the gun was gone, too.

I ran/stumbled out into the street, hoping to see a flash

of suit jacket, something. But the street was empty.

Business as usual. If anybody had seen where the shooter

had gone, they weren't letting on.

I turned around and jogged back inside where Carolyn

was still blubbering. That's when I saw Jack enter the lobby.

His shirt was covered in blood, and his face was a terrible

crimson mask. He looked at me, his lower lip trembling.

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289

"Hollinsworth," I said.

"He's gone," Jack replied.

"Goddamn it!" I yelled. "Who the hell knew we were

coming here?"

Jack came over to me and held out his hand. I thought

he was going to hug me, so I said, "Not now, Jack."

Instead he walked right past me, leaned down and

picked something up off the floor.

"What is that?"

Jack stood back up and showed me. It was a piece of

black cloth from the pocket I'd ripped during the struggle.

Beneath it was a folded piece of paper. Jack opened it.

"What the hell..." I said.

In Jack's hand was a money order. It was made out for

fifty thousand dollars to a Morgan Isaacs.

"I bet this guy knows," Jack said.

The payee on the order was a man named Leonard

Reeves.

40

"Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,"

Morgan said.

That his heart hadn't exploded yet was shocking, but

every pore in his body seemed to be leaking sweat, every

nerve ending on fire.

Once he was able to get away from the guy who'd

tackled him, Morgan found the car waiting for him just

like Chester had said it would. The door was open, and

somehow Morgan managed to dive into the car a split

second before it went speeding off.

Once inside, he found Chester waiting for him, a huge

smile on his face.

"The gun," Chester said.

Morgan handed it to him, his hand shaking like a leaf

in a hurricane. Chester took the revolver and put it into a

valise on the floor below him.

"You okay?" he said.

"I don't know," Morgan replied. "He's dead. Oh man,

he's really, really dead."

"How many times did you shoot him?"

"Three."

"Did all the bullets hit?"

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291

"I think so. I was pretty close, but everything...man,

everything just went crazy after that."

"It's a good thing you got away," Chester said. "You're

a resourceful man, Morgan."

"Thanks," he said. Morgan's heart rate was finally beginning to slow down.

The car sped down Broadway, and Morgan was pleasantly surprised to see that nobody was following them.

"No cops," Morgan said. "Nobody, they..."

"Don't worry about that," Chester said. "I'm just glad

you're all right. You did a great job, Morgan. I knew we

could trust you."

Morgan beamed inside. "You always can, sir."

"Yes," Chester said, "I know that now."

Chester leaned over and put his arm around Morgan.

It was an odd gesture, but for some reason Morgan felt

strangely comforted.

"Hey, uh, can I get the second part of the payment

now? Just don't want to forget."

"The money, of course. I knew you wouldn't forget."

Then Morgan felt something sharp pierce his neck, and

then a terrible burning sensation began to creep its way

into his bloodstream.

He jerked backward, and Chester moved away. "What

the hell was that?" he cried.

Then he saw the syringe in Chester's hand, and Morgan knew exactly what the man had done.

"Sleep," Chester said.

Morgan tried to reach for the man, but suddenly his

entire body felt weak. His arms hung limply at his sides,

as Morgan felt his body begin to slump down in the seat.

"Why..." he said. "I...I would have done anything

for you..."

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Jason Pinter

"I know that," Chester said. Morgan caught the slightest hint of remorse in the man's face. "And you gave as

much as you possibly could have."

"My mom..." Morgan groaned, barely able to make

out the words.

"She'll never see you again."

"I..."

"We're here," another voice said from the front seat.

It was the driver. Morgan hadn't had time to see him

when he jumped into the car.

The driver turned around briefly to talk to Chester.

That's when Morgan saw who was driving the car.

Theodore Goggins.

"Sorry, man," Theo said. "No hard feelings."

"Tell them to chop the car and burn the body," Chester

said. Then he looked back at Morgan. Morgan's eyelids

were falling. He could feel his heart slowing down,

draining him. It was all he could do to retain a small

sliver of light to see the man who'd killed him.

"Good night, Morgan. I hope wherever you're going

you find all the money you can possibly dream of."

And then Morgan Isaacs died.

41

I told the cops everything I knew, which wasn't much,

even though it was apparently too much. I didn't recognize the shooter, didn't know where he'd come from, who

hired him, or why he wanted William Hollinsworth dead.

Well, that wasn't entirely true.

There was no doubt in my mind that Hollinsworth

was killed because somebody was frightened of what he

was going to tell me. And for good reason. Hollinsworth

had confirmed several things before his death, and every

one of them scared me to death.

I sat in a coffee shop with Jack, the two of us frazzled

beyond belief. I'd called Amanda and told her what happened. Her voice told me that she was deathly afraid for

me, but I couldn't come home just yet. We were so close;

after all this time so many of the pieces were coming

together.

What still itched at me was the police response to

Hollinsworth's murder. I'd been around death before, had

seen it up close. I'd seen death as personal as it got. And

regardless of who was killed, whether it be the most respected cop or the lowliest drug dealer, there was always

a police response.

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Jason Pinter

But when Hollinsworth was killed, the response was a

simple blue-and-white patrol car and a small forensics team.

It was more like a motel cleaning crew than a homicide

investigation.

I'd asked the officer in charge, a round, pleasant man

in his early forties named Hanrahan, if they were expecting more on the scene. He laughed, but not in a condescending way, a way that told me I shouldn't expect more.

"The department is stretched thin as a dollar bill," said

Hanrahan. "If we're the only ones here it's because there's

nobody else who responded."

It felt like a cloud had descended over this city, something far more menacing than Jack or I knew. I thought

about my brother, the now prophetic words he'd spoken

just hours before he was gunned down in a dingy apartment building, alone and unloved.

This city's gonna burn.

If this city was going to burn, I could already smell the

smoke.

Jack sipped a cup of coffee. Black, he grimaced as he

drank it. I had a soda in front of me. Caffeine would have

been a mistake. I didn't need it. The way I felt right now I

wasn't sure my blood pressure would ever return to normal.

"Somebody knew we were going to speak to Hollinsworth," I said. "And they knew early enough to be able

to send someone to kill him."

"It doesn't make sense," Jack said. "We didn't decide to go up there until about an hour before we got

there. Who knew?"

"The only person I told," I said, an icy chill making its

way down my spine when I said it, "was Curt Sheffield."

Jack stared at me, the mug resting against his lip. He

put it down, cupped it with his hands.

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295

"Is there a chance..."

"Not in a million years," I said. "I know Curt. And

more than that, I know people. I know how they act. I've

talked to Curt about this a dozen times since my brother

was killed. I would have known if he was involved. I

would have seen it in his eyes, I would have heard it in

his voice. He couldn't have known."

"He couldn't be involved," Jack said, "or you don't

want him to be involved?"

"Both," I said without hesitation.

"Until we know for sure," Jack said, "you don't say a

word to Curt Sheffield or anyone else."

"You either," I said. Not that I needed to tell Jack. I

trusted him, but I wanted to level the field, let him know

that my contacts were trustworthy ones.

"Even Amanda," Jack said. "You don't know who has

access to her, and information you give her."

"Jack, come on..."

"It's us or nothing now, Henry," he said. "I don't trust

anyone in this city and I won't until we know what the

hell is going on."

I heard my cell phone beep. I took it out, saw I had a

text message. It was from Curt Sheffield.

Four people dead in midtown hi-rise. Looks like a

triple murder-suicide. Bags of the Darkness found all

over the place. One of the victims was Lil' Leroy.

I snapped the phone shut. "This is not good," I said.

"What happened?"

"According to Curt, they found four bodies, one of whom

was LeRoy Culvert, also known as the rapper Lil' Leroy."

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Jason Pinter

"Damn," Jack said. "He's famous enough that even

I've heard of him."

"He was found with three other bodies, and they're all

dead, drawn and quartered. I mean the place looks like a

bloody Rorschach test. And apparently the cops found

drugs at the scene. Darkness."

Jack lowered his head.

"There's something else..." I said. "Somebody wrote

'Fury' on one of the walls. In blood."

"Just like Butch Willingham. This is how the bloodshed

begins. This is how it starts. Things will only get worse."

"This will be all over the papers tomorrow," I said.

"Front-page stuff, probably, and it will go national. The

Fury only killed dealers. And once people know what

kind of drugs Culvert was killed over..."

"People all over the country will want it."

"Guy had to be worth millions," I said. "Always saw

him drinking expensive champagne and hanging out on

yachts. Guy like that only indulges in the good stuff.

Killing him creates instant demand. This is the best marketing money could buy."

"I've never seen anything like this," Jack said. "Even

crack...it took a while to seep in. This drug sounds like

it's already swimming in the city's bloodstream, polluting it from the inside out."

"And people are literally dying to get their own

taste," I said. Then I went into my wallet and pulled out

a piece of paper.

Jack's eyes widened. "You didn't give that to the

cops?" he said.

I opened the money order made out to Morgan Isaacs,

looked at it.

"Like you said, I don't trust anybody either now. This

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297

is our only lead. And even though I trust Curt, I don't trust

the whole department. We lose this, it might never be

seen again."

"Henry, this is dangerous," Jack said. "You could get

in trouble for that."

"I don't care," I said. "This isn't about a story anymore.

It's about stopping whatever the hell is happening to this

city."

"Leonard Reeves," Jack said. "Who the hell is he?"

"Let's find out. His name is on this order. He has to

live and work in the city. And I'll bet he has some connection to 718 Enterprises. And maybe to my brother."

"So, what, you think we can just dial four-one-one and

the operator will connect us?" Jack said.

"No, but guy like this has to be connected. He has to

have access to a large amount of money, or at least people

who can get it. I want to use my LexisNexis account, see

what we can find."

"Great, let's go to the office."

"No way," I said. "Like you said, trust no one. We're

doing this from my apartment."

"Your apartment? Won't your lady friend mind?"

"Her name is Amanda," I said, slightly annoyed.

"You've met her. You know that."

Jack nodded. "You're right. I'm sorry. You guys

doing well?"

"Just fine," I said.

"Glad to hear it."

I laughed. "Come on, Jack. We both know it wasn't too

long ago you told me to dump her in so many words. And

I stupidly listened to you, and it almost ruined my life to

do it. I trust your relationship advice as much as I trust

your recommendations on aftershave."

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Jason Pinter

"You do what you want," Jack said. "I'm in no position

to judge anyone. I do seem to remember you standing

over me in a puddle of my own puke."

"Glad you remember that," I said. "Not exactly either

of our finer moments."

"Not something I'll want brought up in my eulogy.

Come on, let's see what we can find out."

"You'll behave yourself?" I said.

"What do you think I am?" Jack said, finishing the last

of his coffee and dropping a few singles on the table. He

wiped at his shirt where a few drops of black liquid had

stained it. "Uncouth?"

42

I turned the key in the lock. Amanda was staying at my

place tonight. Odds were she was asleep and I didn't

want to wake her.

But when I turned the knob and opened the door,

Amanda was sitting on the couch, a beer in her hand,

staring at the door like she'd been patiently waiting for a

toaster to go off.

The room smelled like flowers, and I could tell she'd

been burning one of her scented candles. A copy of a Nora

Roberts book lay dog-eared on the table, and a spoon

covered in chocolate lay next to it.

She wasn't one of those girls who did that kind of thing

often. She didn't eat ice cream when she was depressed,

didn't have a weakness for chick flicks or romance

novels. At least not for the same reasons as most people.

Amanda only did those things when she was nervous,

when taking her mind far away from the real world. When

reality was too frightening a place to be in.

When she saw me, Amanda slowly stood up, came

over and threw her arms around me. I felt a cold splash

of beer drip down my back, but I didn't care. I closed my

eyes and hugged her back.

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Jason Pinter

"I'm going to have to install a GPS device on you," she

said. I laughed. Then she pulled her head from the crook

of my neck and kissed me hard. I pressed my lips against

her, held her tight.

I felt her hand travel down my lower back until she was

cupping my butt. It felt great, and for a moment I totally

forgot that I hadn't come home alone.

Then Amanda saw him and shrieked.

"Mr. O'Donnell?" Amanda said, her arms still around

me, but her hand jerking away like she'd touched a hot

stove.

"Sorry to intrude, Ms. Davies," he said. "Your boyfriend and I have been through a lot today, and we unfortunately have to take up a little more of your time."

"Henry?" she said. "What's going on?"

"We found something at the scene," I said. "A document

that we hope will connect the guy who killed Hollinsworth

to 718 Enterprises. We just need to find out who he is."

"And then what?" she said. "You're going to call the

cops?"

I looked at Jack. He shrugged, as if to say this is all yours.

I turned back to Amanda. Her arms had slipped from

my shoulders. I took her hand, held it, but she was reluctant to hold on.

"Not yet," I said.

"Why not?"

"Somebody knew we were meeting Hollinsworth. I

don't know how they found out, but until we know who

did it we're going to play this pretty close to the vest."

She nodded, understanding it though it was clear she

wasn't happy about it.

Then she looked at Jack, said, "How are you? Feeling better?"

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301

Jack smiled. "I am. Thank you for asking."

"So get on with it," Amanda said. "If you don't mind,

I stopped reading in the middle of a really good sex scene.

Have you ever heard the term 'purple-headed warrior'?"

"Uh, no," I said, "but whatever floats your boat."

"I think the warrior in this book does float," she said, "at

least according to the narrator. His 'mast' sounds big

enough to sail down the Amazon. Anyway, good luck,

guys."

Amanda went back to the sofa, lay down, kicked her

feet up and dove back into the book.

"She's a pistol," Jack said.

"Sure is. Here, we can sit at the table."

Jack took a seat at our meager dining room table as I

hooked up my laptop. Once I powered it on, I accessed

LexisNexis and did a search for Leonard Reeves.

Half a dozen hits came up. I opened the first one.

It was from The Daily Princetonian, the student newspaper at Princeton University. We searched through the

highlighted article and finally came across the name

Leonard Reeves. The passage read:

The Princeton economics department, spearheaded by

Professor Sheila DeWitt, has seen its fair number of notable

professionals in the fields of finance and economics.

The article was accompanied by a photo of a middleaged black woman who must have been Professor DeWitt.

She was standing at the front of a small classroom. Two

students were visible in the front row. One was a girl, early

twenties, with a ponytail and wearing a skirt and blouse.

The man was dressed in slacks and a button-down shirt,

his hair short, and he wore glasses. The caption read:

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Jason Pinter

Rachel Vine '93 and Leonard Reeves '94 are capti-

vated by the renowned professor.

"Is that him?" Jack said.

"I don't know. Let's see the next article."

I pulled up the next search result. It was from Crain's

business daily. The article was from 1998, and the headline

was: Economic Boom Sees Rise in Dot Com Investors.

We found Leonard Reeves's name halfway through the

piece. It read:

Flush with cash, many young men and women who

have prospered during unparalleled growth are putting their money into what many consider to be

risky investments--namely Web sites and Internet

domains. Leonard Reeves, a graduate of the Princeton economics department and executive at Morgan

Stanley, admits to finding thrill in such a venture.

"You don't get into this industry to watch from

the sidelines," said Reeves. "The people who take

the biggest risks reap the biggest rewards."

Reeves, who already owns three apartments in

New York City, says he plans to take his earnings

from Internet ventures and invest even further in the

housing market.

"Man, that can't have worked out too well for him,"

Jack said.

"Holy crap," I said.

"What?"

"Look, there." I pointed to the next article. The headline said it all.

The piece was from 2001, and was published in the

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303

Wall Street Journal. It read: Reeves Named as Liaison to

New York City Department of Finance.

The article was also accompanied by a photograph. It

was definitely the same guy from the Princetonian article.

"He worked for the government?" Jack said. "You've

got to be kidding me."

I sat there, stunned. How was that possible? Could this

have been the same guy?

The other articles were not dated any later than 2004,

and all were references to Reeves's job with the DoF. There

were no other hits for the name, nothing else came up.

"It has to be him," I said. "But I don't get it. If this is

the same Reeves as on the order made out to Morgan

Isaacs, what the hell is someone who worked for the government and who worked for one of the biggest brokerage

firms in the world doing associated with 718 Enterprises?

I mean, these people are drug dealers, plain and simple,

and the crap they're producing is killing people. How did

someone like Reeves get connected to that?"

Jack sat there, thinking. Not listening to me, but lost

in his own thoughts. Then I heard Amanda's voice from

the couch.

"What if Reeves didn't just use to work for the government?" she said. "I mean, what if he still does?"

"That's crazy," I said. "Obviously Reeves fell on hard

times somehow and ended up selling his soul for a pile

of black rocks."

"Not necessarily," Jack said.

"What do you mean?"

"Have you ever heard of the name Gary Webb?"

"It rings a bell, but I'm not sure why."

"Okay, well, have you heard of the Dark Alliance?"

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Jason Pinter

"That's a little more familiar," I replied. "Something

about Nicaragua, right?"

"Something like that," Jack said. "In the eighties, Gary

Webb was a reporter for the San Jose Mercury News. "

"Now it rings a bell," I said.

"What does he have to do with this?" Amanda said.

"In nineteen ninety-six, Webb published a three-part

series of articles in the Mercury News called 'Dark Alliance.' See, in the eighties, President Reagan was embroiled

in the Iran-Contra affair where it was determined that the

U.S. government had supplied a group of Nicaraguan

Contras with financial aid through the sale of weapons to

Iran, in part thanks to our buddy Oliver North. Our government was supporting the Contras as part of the Reagan

doctrine, which supported organizations that opposed communistic and socialistic regimes. The Nicaraguan government in the eighties, let's just say, fit the bill.

"Webb claimed in his articles," Jack continued, "that

not only did we supply the Contras with funds through the

sale of weapons, but through the sale of drugs as well."

"That's ridiculous. We weren't selling drugs," Amanda

said.

"We weren't," Jack said. "But the Contras were reaping

millions of dollars through the sale of drugs within the

United States. Crack cocaine spread like wildfire through

urban areas in the eighties, and much of the money from

those sales went directly into funding the Contras. Webb

claimed that members of the NSC, or National Security

Council, were aware that money from drug sales in the

U.S. was being funneled to the Contras. Webb found out

that not only was our government aware of this, but

members of the NSC purposefully withheld that information from the Drug Enforcement Agency. They felt that

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305

by curtailing drug sales and cracking down on shipments,

we would effectively stem the flow of money to the

Contras and in turn hurt their efforts to overthrow Nicaragua's communist FSLN government."

"So in essence," I said, "they were selling drugs in our

cities, killing our citizens and choking the national crime

rates. And we turned a blind eye because we felt it pushed

our agenda in another country."

"Pretty much," Jack said. "When Webb published

these articles, he caused a firestorm unlike many seen in

journalism. It was without a doubt one of the most controversial articles of the past twenty-five years. So what

happened to Webb? Well, he was completely discredited

by the government which issued denials faster than meter

maids issue parking tickets. He was eventually pushed out

of the Mercury News, and after years in which he failed

to get another job at a major newspaper, Webb put a gun

to his head and pulled the trigger."

"Damn," Amanda said.

"Twice," Jack added.

"Twice? How does someone shoot themselves in the

head twice?"

"Don't get your panties in a bunch," Jack said. I glared

at him. "Apologies, Ms. Davies. Sometimes I forget that

I'm around a lady."

"This lady thinks she could kick your old ass," Amanda

said.

"Now that's my kind of lady," Jack said. "Hold on to

this firebrand, Henry. Anyway, common thought was that

Webb had been bumped off. But it turns out Webb was

genuinely depressed and had written despondent letters

to his family. And an autopsy and gun residue test proved

that the man really did shoot himself twice. It doesn't

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Jason Pinter

happen often, but it does happen if the suicidal person

happens to have lousy aim."

"So, what, you think the sale of drugs in New York

City is being funneled to, who, some shady overseas organization? Some anti-Taliban fighting squad?"

"Not at all," Jack said. "If what I'm thinking is correct

at all, and if this guy Reeves is connected the way I

suspect he is, then the sale of drugs in this city isn't going

abroad. It isn't being diverted to an anti-terrorism foreign

legion. What I'm saying is that money gained through the

sale of drugs like the Darkness is going directly to the city

itself. I'm saying that not only is our government turning

a blind eye, but it's taking a cut of the profits."

"The layoffs, the deficits," I said. "You're saying

they're trying to make up for budget shortfalls by taking

a cut of drug payoffs?"

"Words to live by, especially in politics. If something

worked twenty years ago, it'll probably work again now."

Just then I heard my cell phone ring. I went over to pick

it up, but when I saw the caller ID I stopped. Looked at Jack.

"Who is it?" he said.

I shook my head, confused.

"It's Curt Sheffield," I said.

"Curt," Jack said, taken aback. "Well, pick it up!"

I answered the phone. Tried to play it cool.

"Hey, man, what's up?"

Then I listened as Curt explained to me what was

going to happen in just a few minutes.

When I hung up, I looked at Jack and said, "You

need to leave."

Needless to say this was not exactly what he was expecting to hear.

"What the hell are you talking about, Henry?"

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307

"In less than half an hour, somebody is going to come

here to sell me drugs. And unless you want to try and pass

off as my pot-addicted uncle or something, we can't have

any trace of you in this apartment."

43

Curt Sheffield had only been working for the NYPD for

five years, but the past two days made it feel like a lifetime.

Two days. Twelve dead. All deaths related to this new

drug, the Darkness.

For years, New York was considered one of the safest

big cities in the world. The crime that existed was relegated to back alleys and dingy apartments. Upstanding

citizens had little to fear as long as they used common

sense.

The drug dealers were easy to smoke out. They were

usually junkies themselves. They sold because that's all

they had, all they knew. They were uneducated, unloved,

and an honest day's work for an honest day's pay was a

foreign concept.

And that's why dealers were so easy to break.

In real life, those dealers in their teens and twenties

didn't have any sort of real loyalty to the drug lords. It

wasn't like television. There was no "game" and no

loyalty beyond a wad of cash. Your employer was simply

whoever could pay that day.

When a man making seventeen thousand dollars a year

selling crack is forced to choose between turning in a man

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309

he barely knows or spending five years behind bars, the

decision was always easy.

That's why people on the top never lasted long. They

could never offer the people below them a life worth risking on the streets. Every moment was fleeting, but when

push came to shove a fistful of crumpled twenties wasn't

enough to keep someone from saving their own ass.

This drug, though, was different. The narcotics division was sweeping all those back alleys, talking to all

their sources, offering all their informants good, hard

cash for one tip that could loosen the first thread.

So far, they'd come up empty-handed.

And it wasn't because the informants had suddenly

grown balls or a sense of loyalty. It's that they didn't know.

However this product was being moved, it was being

done away from the streets, away from the bottom feeders, away from the men and women who sold the very

same drugs they ingested.

This was different. And that's what scared Curt the most.

This city had the best police force in the world, but

now that force was being slashed like an unfortunately

located forest. A thousand cops, vanished from the streets,

victims of a mayor legally beholden to a budget that had

come in four billion dollars in the red.

Curt stopped to pick up a pizza on the way home. Half

mushroom, half pepperoni. He had no bigger plans than

to throw on his Rutgers sweatshirt, lounge on the couch

with a few slices and a few beers and flip between games

and late-night Cinemax.

As he approached his apartment building, he noticed

a man hanging on the street corner. He was wearing a

T-shirt and sweatpants, and had a pair of slippers covering

his bare feet. Ordinarily such a thing wouldn't catch his

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Jason Pinter

eye, but this guy was swaying slightly, looking like every

few seconds he had to remind himself not to topple over.

It was a chilly night, and clearly the man had either gone

out knowingly underdressed or was so zoned out that he

hadn't noticed.

Suddenly he found himself walking over to the man,

balancing the pizza in one hand while checking his gun

to make sure it was at the ready. Curt had never been

forced to use his gun off duty, but something about this

man made him tense up. It was the jittery movements,

how he looked like he might fall asleep one moment and

then suddenly jerk awake the next. He looked like a

classic user, and Curt had learned long ago that someone

high could only be trusted as much as the drugs allowed

them to be.

Curt approached slowly. His hand was getting warm

from the bottom of the pizza box. As he got closer, he

called out, "Hey, man, you okay?"

The man didn't respond, just kept swaying. His right

arm shot out and caught a lamppost to steady himself.

"I said, you okay, man?"

Then the guy whipped around, and the look in his eyes

made Curt glad his gun was so close. His eyes were bloodshot, but they were wide open, crazylike, and he stared at

Curt with a mixture of confusion and apprehension, like an

animal cornered who might bare its fangs out of pure panic.

Curt slowly knelt down and laid the pizza on the sidewalk. He hoped this guy was just drunk, and that he could

throw him in a cab, be done with it and retreat to his pepperoni. But getting closer, he knew it wouldn't be that

simple.

"Hey, man," Curt called out. "You're not looking so

hot. Why don't you head home. Sleep it off."

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311

The man shook his head. Slowly at first, but then more

rapidly until Curt was worried he might hurt himself.

"Whoa, slow down there. I'm a cop. See?" Curt took

out his badge, showed it to the guy. "My name's Officer

Sheffield. I'm here to help."

"No," the man moaned. "No. No. No. Nooooooo. "

"It's okay. We've all had bad days. Why don't I call a

cab..."

"It's all gone," he said, his body swaying faster than

the breeze.

"What's gone?"

"All of it," he said. "All of it. It's gone."

"I don't know what you're talking about, but I'm sure

you have some in your fridge."

"No. I can't get anymore."

Curt kept playing along. "Why not?"

"Money," he said, his voice like tar pulled through a

pasta strainer. "I need it to buy more."

"More what?"

"Darkness," the man said, his eyes fixated on Curt.

Sheffield felt his body tense up. The drug was too

early in its life for cops to fully know how users reacted

to it, how their bodies responded. Each drug did different things to people who took it, and as a cop you learned

how to deal with each of them. You had to be supple with

your voice, malleable with your body language. The

wrong tone or stilted reaction could set someone off,

putting you or others at risk.

Curt didn't know how to deal with people who used

this new drug. They were unpredictable, but if anything

the last few days had proven without a doubt was that they

were uncompromisingly violent. He'd been trained on

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how to deal with addicts of various substances, but this

seemed to go well beyond the training manual.

"Why do you want more, man? What say we get you

somewhere safe. St. Luke's hospital isn't too far from

here. We'll get you a nice bed, get you cleaned up..."

"I don't want to be cleaned up!" the man yelled. Curt

stepped back, the look in the man's eyes giving him

pause. He thought about calling for an ambulance, figuring whether he liked it or not this guy could use a night

in detox. The only worry was whether in the time it took

for an ambulance to come, this man was intent on hurting

Curt or someone else.

"Hey, I hear you. That stuff is good. But being able to

think clearly, ain't nothing you buy can replicate that

feeling."

"You're wrong," the man slurred, his eyes closed as he

smiled. "I feel...alive. I feel...fine." Then his mood

turned sour, the smile disappearing. "There's no more

money. No more money. It's gone. I can't have any more."

"It's okay, we can just..."

"I can't have any more!" he shouted.

"Come on, buddy, that stuff isn't going to do anything

for you. Let's talk."

Then the man reached into his pocket and pulled out

a cell phone. "They won't take my calls anymore," he

said. "The last guy who came, Vinnie, he told me unless

I had cold hard cash he wouldn't sell me anything." The

man held up the phone like it was a soiled diaper, and

dropped it into the trash can. "Where am I going to get

more money? I can't find anybody to trade with me."

"Trade with you? What the hell are you talking

about? Listen to yourself, man. You don't need more,

you need help."

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Curt took out his phone and dialed 911. When the

operator picked up, he said, "This is Officer Curt Sheffield, currently off duty, I have a ten sixty-nine in progress. Adult male, mid-thirties, high on I believe this new

drug, Darkness. Guy looks pretty out of it and potentially

dangerous. Send a unit and an ambulance to Eighty-eight

and Amsterdam."

"Ten-four, Officer Sheffield. Ambulance will be en

route. Might have to wait for a squad car. Busy night

tonight. Can you watch him until the EMTs get there?"

Curt sighed. Always shorthanded.

"I'll do my best." He hung up.

The man's body was draped across the lamppost now,

as he barely looked able to stand. Curt took a few steps

closer, put his hand in his jacket pocket where he felt the

comfort of his holster.

"Listen, buddy. I got a few friends coming. They're

going to take care of you. They..."

"My wife," the man said.

"What's you say?"

"My wife is dead," the man said in a guttural rasp.

"She died."

"I'm so sorry... How did she die?"

"I killed her."

Curt stopped moving. His fingers went from tickling

the gun to gripping the pistol.

His eyes darted back and forth as he spoke.

"I wanted to sell her wedding ring. She told me I

couldn't. I could have bought so much with it, but she said

no. I didn't know what to do. I needed it so badly. So I

took a knife and I cut it off of her."

"Oh, Jesus..."

The man looked down, reached into his pocket.

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"Okay, my friend, I'm going to come over there. I

have a gun on me. Please, don't move any more and take

your hand out of your pocket."

Without warning the man yanked his hand from his

pocket. It took Curt a second to realize what he was holding.

In the man's hand was a severed finger. A glittering

diamond ring still attached to it.

"I don't know what to do!"

Suddenly the man dropped the finger, turned around

and ran out into the middle of the street.

"Stop!" Curt shouted, sprinting forward.

Half a dozen cars were speeding up Amsterdam, headlights blazing in the dark blue sky. Their horns started blaring

as the man weaved in and out of the way of thousands of

pounds of metal passing him by at forty miles an hour.

Suddenly there was a flash of metal, sparks, and a terrible

crunching sound as Curt stopped dead in his tracks. Curt saw

the man's body go flying, literally lifted into the air, where

it spun end over end until landing in a heap by the curb.

The car, a dark sedan, came screeching to a halt. The

driver leaped out of the car, hands holding his head in disbelief. Cars ground to a stop all around the sedan, whose

hood was dented, grill smashed inward. A slick of blood

pooling around the hood ornament.

And just below the front of the car was a sight that

would never leave Curt Sheffield as long as he lived.

Resting on the asphalt, in a perfect row as if placed

there gently, was a pair of slippers.

"Oh my God," he said. The man looked at Curt, his

mouth wide open. "You...you saw that. He ran out in front

of me. He...oh, sweet Jesus..."

Curt ran over to the body, knelt down next to it. The

man's face looked like it had been bludgeoned with a

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315

sledgehammer, and his limbs were twisted in a way that

God had most certainly not intended.

He ripped his phone from his pocket, dialed 911. "Ten

fifty-three," Curt said, his mouth dry, the words tumbling

out. "Officer needs assistance. We have a motor vehicle

accident. One civilian is down and hurt, potentially fatal.

He's not breathing."

Curt put his fingers to the man's neck, searched for a

pulse.

He felt nothing.

Picking up the man's wrist, he tried again. Still nothing.

No use. He was long gone.

"I think I lost him," Curt said into the phone.

When he was assured an ambulance was en route,

Curt stood up, took in the scene unfolding in front of him.

Cars were lining up down the street, drivers getting out

at first to see what was causing the traffic holdup. Then

when they saw what was going on, phones came out as

they called 911. Onlookers began to crowd the sidewalks.

A few people started heading toward the body. Some

looked concerned, fearful, but a few had a glint in their

eyes that Curt didn't like. He knew that not everybody

was concerned for this guy's well-being.

Curt stood up, pulled out his badge. Let his arm hang

loose so his jacket opened up a bit, revealing the gun and

holster inside.

"NYPD!" he shouted. The surge stopped. A few people slipped back into the crowds and disappeared, disappointed they didn't have a chance to search the man

for jewelry or money. "An ambulance is on the way. I'm

going to need everyone to back away and clear room."

He walked toward the crowd, and they stepped back,

obeying. Then Curt remembered something.

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He turned and jogged back to the street corner where

he'd seen the man. Reaching into the garbage can, he

managed to find the man's cell phone he'd dropped

inside. He wiped off the crud and liquid, relieved to see

the machine was still working.

He clicked it on.

The home page blinked on, and an LCD screen read

Gil's Phone.

Gil. That was the dead man's name.

Then Curt scrolled through the numerous functions

until he found a button marked Recent Calls.

He clicked on it, and saw Gil's call log from the last

twelve hours. Incoming calls marked with an orange

"down" arrow, outgoing with a red "up" arrow.

Then Curt felt his breath catch in his throat.

There was one phone number that stood out. Gil had

called it no less than ten times in the last three hours.

And the number had a 718 prefix.

Without hesitating, Curt called the number from

Gil's phone.

It rang twice, and then was picked up.

"Mr. Meadows, we've already explained to you the

situation. Until you have legal tender available, we cannot

serve you. Goodbye."

The person on the other end hung up.

And as soon as they hung up, Curt called one more

number. A number he never thought he'd be calling to

help him do his job.

Curt had never gone undercover. He wasn't sure he

could pull this off.

But he knew, without a doubt, that Henry Parker

could.

44

"You're insane," Amanda said, watching as I went

about straightening up the apartment. I had already

cleaned up my dirty socks, stacked the magazines into a

neat pile, organized the DVD collection and even cleaned

the stove top.

"They should be here in less than fifteen minutes," I said.

"Who the hell are you expecting? Martha Stewart? It's

a freaking drug dealer, Henry. They're not going to care

if your floor is clean enough to eat off of. In fact, they'll

probably be a little suspicious if the place doesn't look

like, oh, I don't know, somewhere a junkie might live."

"I don't have to be a junkie," I said. "Just a guy who

wants a late-night hit to calm my nerves." I smiled at her.

"It has been a long week."

She was right, of course. I was cleaning more out of

nerves than anything.

I didn't know what to expect. Curt's call had come out

of the blue, something about getting a lead on 718 Enterprises. He had a plan, he said, but to me it sounded like

a plan he'd hashed up in about thirty seconds.

Not that it mattered.

To this point, all of the investigating I'd done on 718

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Enterprises, this shadowy person known only as the Fury

and this new drug called Darkness had been done in just

that: darkness. I hadn't written a single word of copy for

the Gazette, and as far as I knew the police had no leads

and didn't seem to be banging down a whole lot of doors

to get them.

With Curt in the game, at least I knew whatever we

found would get sent up the ladder. If I could trust him.

Not that I had much choice. And if Curt was somehow

in on all of this, there were far easier ways to get to me.

To get to people close to me. But deep down I didn't

believe there was any chance he would turn. Curt was a

good cop, respected the badge. Hell, he'd even taken a

bullet because of me. You couldn't buy that kind of

loyalty. At least as far as I knew.

And Jack took it surprisingly well. I fully expected him

to put up a fight, to tell me that he'd put as much effort

and risked as much of his reputation on this story--if not

more so--than I had. And that gave him every right to be

present. I expected him to suggest hiding in the closet, in

the bathroom, or to actually pose as my pothead uncle or

something. And I would have to let him down, gently, and

tell him that if whoever came got even a whiff of Jack's

presence, he would not only be putting our careers on the

line but perhaps something much, much more.

But Jack just left.

He made sure I had his cell phone number, and made

me promise to call him when I knew more. I told him I

would, and I meant it. But right now it was all Curt and

myself. I could tell from Curt's call he was having the

same doubts I was. Wondering who to trust, feeling like

his world had been closed off. Something had happened,

and I wasn't sure what yet, but Curt had decided that he

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319

was going to trust me with this. And it was all I could do

to not let him down.

As I picked up around the apartment, Amanda followed me dirtying it up. Finally I gave up and realized

she was right. Better off looking like an apartment two

people actually lived in rather than a setup. Or an apartment in which the tenants could actually afford to hire a

cleaning person.

Ten minutes later, we were both sitting on the couch,

finishing the last of the wine.

"Are you sure wine is okay?" I said. "Not too highclass? He won't think we're some sort of rich couple?"

"That bottle of red cost twelve ninety-nine. I think

we're safe."

We sat there, waiting, my stomach fluttering. And then

the buzzer rang and the nerves went away.

I pushed the call button and said, "Who is it?"

"It's Vinnie."

"Come on up."

Unlocking the front door, I looked at Amanda. Her

face was a mask, no nerves either. She wanted me to

crack this story, too. I smiled at her, knowing how much

she was risking for this.

I waited by the door, shifting back and forth. When it

rang, I waited three seconds before opening it. You know,

so the guy wouldn't know I was actually waiting by the door.

Opening the door, I saw a man standing there. He was

about five foot ten, black, a bit chunky but barely winded

from walking the three flights up to our apartment.

He was wearing a suit, pinstriped, slightly rumpled,

and his striking blue tie was loosened just slightly.

"Hey," I said, again wondering if that was the right way

to start the conversation.

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"Can I come in?"

"Yeah, of course."

"Vinnie" stepped inside and let the door close behind

him. He walked over to the dining table and set his

briefcase on it. I tried not to stare, but remember that it

wasn't too long ago when another drug-filled briefcase

sat on my table.

And a man had died because of that.

I pushed it from my mind, but couldn't help but realize

I'd never actually spoken to a real dealer before. Not that

I'd had no experiences with illicit substances--it was

college, and unlike former presidents, I did inhale--but

whenever drugs were present they seemingly appeared

out of nowhere in little plastic bags. I assumed some of

my friends had connections, but down the road I realized

I was just blissfully ignorant. I didn't want to have to

involve myself, didn't want to think of myself as trading

money for it.

Now there was no choice.

"Hey," the guy responded. "You called for Vinnie, right?"

"That's right. But you don't look like a Vinnie."

"You don't look like an asshole, so don't be one."

"Sorry, just making conversation. How's your night

going?"

"What are you, a fucking reporter? Shut up and let's

do this."

I decided less talking was better.

"So what can I get you?" he said.

"This new thing...Darkness, right? What will fifty get

me?"

"Fifty will get you three tabs. That's an introductory

offer. After that, it's twenty-five a pop."

I took out my wallet, counted out fifty, and handed it

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321

over. He counted quickly, then unlocked his briefcase

and pulled open the flap. He rummaged around inside as

I tried not to stare. I looked over at Amanda on the couch.

She was sitting there reading a magazine and sipping her

wine, acting like this was a totally normal evening occurrence. Monday we go to the movies, Tuesdays are date

nights, Wednesday we invite over our dealer. Just like all

normal city kids.

"Vinnie" took out a small bag with three tiny black

rocks inside. They looked like pebbles, the exact same

rock that was featured in Paulina's article.

He handed me the drugs and closed up the briefcase.

"Pleasure doing business with you. One quick thing.

If you're going to reorder tonight, make sure you have

cash on hand. We've had, um, troubles with people who

ordered and then didn't have the money to pay."

"People really reorder this stuff the same night? Is it

that good?"

"Vinnie" laughed.

"If we don't hear from you within the next few days,

it's 'cause you ran out of money or you're dead. So let's

just say I'm hoping to see you again real soon."

As Vinnie turned to leave, I looked at Amanda. She

peeked up from her wine. I rubbed my pointer finger and

thumb together and mouthed Tip?

She looked at me like I was insane and gave her head

a quick "no" shake.

Vinnie opened the door, nodded, and left.

I ran over and put my ear to the door. Vinnie was a big

guy, and his footsteps were easily heard as he clomped

down the stairs.

I waited ten seconds and then called Curt Sheffield.

"Henry, I saw him go in. Did he leave?"

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"He should be leaving the building any second now."

"Got it. You know the plan, right?"

"You're going to follow him on foot, I take your car

and wait for you to contact me. Then I meet you with the

car and we tail him to wherever he refills on dope."

"You got it, boss. Keys are in the tire well, wait until you

can't see our friend anymore before you come down. Last

thing we need is this guy to think you're following him."

"Got it. I've done this before."

"But don't wait too long, I don't want to chance somebody stealing my ride. You don't exactly live in the safest

neighborhood, bro."

"Hey, Curt?"

"Yeah, Parker?"

"Are you sure about this? Am I really the guy you want

tagging along with you tonight?"

Curt was silent for a moment on the other end.

"I hear what you're saying. Fact is, I don't know who

to trust right now. Just the other day I got a tip on some

fired banker who might have been running drugs, cat

named Morgan Isaacs. We were just about to put a tail on

him when the guy disappears into thin air. Nobody knows

where he is, not even his parents have seen him in weeks.

Doesn't add up."

"Morgan Isaacs," I said. "The man who killed William

Hollinsworth had a money order on him made out to

Morgan Isaacs. If that was Isaacs, he was hired to kill

Hollinsworth."

"Which means he's no longer in this country, or no

longer of this earth," Curt said. "I got that feeling. So right

now, you're the only man I trust. I know why you're in

this, Henry. You want to know the truth about Stephen

Gaines, and I want to get rid of this crap that's turning

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our city into Beirut. Two paths, same destination, my

friend."

"Then I'll meet you there."

"See you soon, Parker. Oh wait, here he comes. Later."

"Good luck, Curt."

We both hung up.

I looked out the window and could see Vinnie exiting

our building. As soon as he stepped outside, he put his

cell phone to his ear. Then he nodded a few times, clicked

it off, put it in his pocket and headed east. The subway

was in that direction.

When Vinnie rounded the corner, I saw Curt Sheffield

trailing him, walking briskly but with enough distance

that hopefully our mark wouldn't notice. I silently wished

Curt luck again.

"That wasn't so bad," I said to Amanda. She'd put

down the magazine and wine. Standing up, she went over

to the table and picked up the baggie with three rocks of

the Darkness.

"Amanda, you're not going to..."

Before I could say another word, she walked over to the

bathroom, opened the bag and dumped the rocks into the

toilet. Then she flushed it. Once she was sure the rocks were

on their way to some sewage treatment plant, Amanda

came over to me and planted a massive kiss right on my lips.

"That's the closest I ever want that stuff to us," she

said, her arms warm around my neck.

"Same here. You know the reason I'm doing this is to

stop whatever this stuff is from getting out there more

than it already is."

"I know that. And I hope you do. But given a choice

between that and you staying safe... Just come home to

me, Henry. That's all I want."

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"I will," I said. "And hopefully I won't have to say this

too many times, but don't wait up for me."

She sighed. "I won't wait up for you, but that doesn't

mean I won't be thinking about you."

"I'd never tell you to stop doing that," I said.

She kissed me again and said, "Now go help Curt."

I nodded, grabbed my coat from the closet, gave her

one last look and headed outside.

45

Curt drove a Ford Fusion. The key was in the tire well

just like he said. As I climbed into the car and adjusted

the seat, I couldn't help but think Curt was a pretty conscientious guy to own a hybrid. I started the car and put

my cell phone in the cup holder by the armrest, just to be

sure I wouldn't miss it if he called.

For the next few hours, most likely, Curt would be on

his own. He wasn't supposed to call me unless there

was an emergency, as anything that could lead the dealer

to know he was being followed was curtailed until we

met up later.

So all I had to do now was wait.

I picked through the CDs. Some good stuff. Jay-Z, Lil

Wayne, T-Pain. Then, underneath all of them, I found a

Barry Manilow CD and I cracked up. When this was over,

Curt would surely have to explain himself on that one.

An hour in, I ran to the corner deli and got a big,

steaming cup of coffee and a muffin. So far this was the

lamest stakeout ever. I wasn't even staking anything out,

I was just sitting in a car on the side of the street, waiting

for a call so I could then follow someone. I couldn't

complain, though. It wasn't too long ago I did just what

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Curt was doing, following one of these dealers, trying to

find out just where their stash was hidden.

And then I found it, but when we went back it was

gone. They obviously hadn't given up, but had simply

moved to a new location.

Tonight we were going to find out where 718 Enterprises was hoarding their stash. Then Curt would take it

down with his fellow boys in blue, Jack and I would get

the exclusive, eyewitness story, and everyone would go

home happy.

At least that's how it all played out in my mind. What

happened next was something, far, far different.

Two hours into my stakeout of, well, nothing, my cell

phone rang. It was Curt.

I picked up it, said, "Hey. Where are you?"

"One-hundred-twelfth and Amsterdam," Curt said. "I'm

pretty sure our boy is going home for the night. He just took

off his tie, and he's swinging that briefcase like it's full of

air, not powdered substances. Start making your way over

here. I'll call you when I get a more precise location."

"On my way," I said.

"See you soon, Dick Tracy."

Starting the car, I pulled onto the street, turned my

beams on and began the drive over to 112th and Amsterdam, just on the western edge of Morningside Heights.

It was a foggy night, a fine mist surrounding the yellow

streetlamps, casting an eerie glow over New York. Most

cars had their windshield wipers on. Mine made a rapid

snick snick every thirty seconds, wiping the condensation

away in a perfect arc.

The streets uptown weren't particularly crowded for a

Saturday night, most of the Columbia University crew

were either in bed or already at the bar and beginning their

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327

long trek to drunkenness. Meanwhile I was in a car,

heading to meet my cop friend, hoping to finally put to

bed once and for all who had killed my brother. And who

was poisoning the city.

This neighborhood was familiar. I'd met a guy up here

named Clarence Willingham, the son of a small-time

dealer who'd been killed by the Fury twenty years ago.

Clarence was still trying to come to grips with his father's

murder and his family's history of drug abuse and dealing. It was only then that I learned the truth about how

close Clarence was to my own family. Secrets. Sometimes I wondered if more secrets were kept from us in the

light of day as opposed to the dark of night.

I idled on the corner of 110th, right where Columbus

Avenue turned into Morningside Drive. I'd just put the

car in Park when I was jolted by a rapping on the passenger side window. Whipping around, I saw Curt Sheffield's

face peering in at me, his eyes squinting as rain began to

fall harder around him.

He mouthed the words open up and I unlocked the door.

As he slid inside, Curt ran his hands through his hair,

spraying a layer of rain onto the seats. He was wearing

jeans and a brown coat, sneakers and a T-shirt. He looked

like a normal guy.

"If that's your undercover look, I gotta say it works."

Curt ignored me. "His name is Theodore Goggins."

"How'd you get that info?"

"He stopped into a Starbucks. I waited outside, but

saw him pay with a credit card. After he left, I waited

a minute and went inside and told them I found his

ATM card. And I needed his name in case I couldn't

catch up with him. He lives just down the block. Definitely not his building, because he had to buzz up. But

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the guy who lived there said 'come on up, Theo' as he

buzzed him in."

"He worked in finance," I said.

"How do you know?"

"All these guys do. Tens of thousands of young professionals out of work in this city, most of whom lived a

few miles beyond their means. Then they get laid off

when the economy goes in the crapper, and they're left

with huge mortgages and bills on toys and apartments.

That's where 718 comes in. They offer to pay these outof-work go-getters to go house to house. They make good

money. It's a win-win. They can still afford the lifestyle

they're accustomed to."

Curt sat back, put his hand on his forehead. He

looked troubled.

"That's why," he said.

"Why what?"

"The narcotics division. They haven't been able to

find out where this drug, Darkness, where it's coming

from or who's selling it. But they're looking in the wrong

place. They're so busy turning over logs and monitoring

alleys that they're not noticing the business assholes."

"Nobody looks at a guy in a suit and thinks he's guilty

of anything more than white-collar stuff. Fraud and laundering, but these guys are much dirtier."

"Ken Tsang," Curt said. "That's where we got a lead

on Morgan Isaacs. They worked at the same bank, both

got laid off on the same day and Ken's coworkers said

they were friendly. We cross-checked his phone records

and found half a dozen calls a day to the same 718 number I found on a dead man's cell phone. Ken was working

for these creeps. I'm willing to bet on it."

"And you found him with less bone density than the

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Pillsbury Doughboy," I said. "That probably doesn't bode

well when it comes to finding Morgan Isaacs in one piece."

Curt just sat there, rain dripping from his hair into his

lap as we watched cars zip down the street, the errant

noises of a night unaware of its own shadow. We could

see Theodore Goggin's awning from the car, and we kept

the windshield on fast enough where we wouldn't miss

any activity.

And so we waited. Sat in the car until the morning. When

Theodore Goggins would leave his apartment and head

toward wherever it was that the refills were being kept.

All we could do was keep each other awake through

our silences and the knowledge that something foul was

lurking just beneath the streets of our city. But it wasn't

until the next day that we realized just how deep those

sewers ran.

46

Saturday

It was six-thirty in the morning, and we were both awake.

My brain was fogged over with that thick haze that comes

from a night spent ingesting too much coffee while thinking too much about terrible things that would keep you

up under normal circumstances.

Curt's eyes were open, too, but they were more aware,

less troubled. He seemed less like someone running on

fumes, like I was, and more like a hawk poised to strike.

Waiting for that moment when his prey poked its head

from the shadows. And at six-thirty, that's when our prey,

Theodore Goggins, poked his head out from his uptown

apartment.

"Right there," I said.

"I see him." Curt quickly combed his hair, opened the

mirror above the windshield to get rid of the whole "I

stayed up all night in a car" look. Whether that kind of

makeover could be done without trained professionals

and Heidi Klum, I wasn't sure.

"Same drill," Curt said. "I follow our man to his destination, then I call you. We're not going to have a ton of

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331

time because I have no idea where this guy is headed. Just

be on alert."

"I'm going to head over to the West Side Highway," I

said. "Better to have access to a faster road. Just in case."

"Good thinking, Parker. I'll call you when Goggins

takes me...wherever," Curt said. "And Henry?"

"Yeah, Curt?"

"Be careful. I don't know how this day is going to

unwind."

I nodded, didn't need to say anything. Curt knew I was

game.

"Okay, let's get this party started."

"Some party. Six in the morning."

"Can it, buddy. Stay focused."

"Good luck, Curt."

He exited the car, walked over to a sidewalk newspaper salesman and bought a copy of the Gazette. At least

he was supporting my paper.

Theodore Goggins left his apartment wearing a different suit, this one straight black, with shiny shoes and

another sparkling blue tie. He headed south on Columbus,

right toward where Curt was standing reading the paper.

When Goggins passed him, Curt waited thirty seconds

before starting his tail. After they'd both disappeared, I

started the car and headed west on 110th Street. The

morning sun was rising above the trees as I drove on the

south side of Morningside Park. The lush green foliage

was such a stark contrast to the brick and stone just south

across the street.

Suddenly I realized that the West Side Highway had just

two entrances near my location: one on 125th Street and

the other on Ninety-sixth. They were a mile and a half apart

from each other, and given Manhattan traffic it could be

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fifteen minutes easily from one exit to the other. If I chose

the wrong one, I could miss Curt and Goggins entirely.

I slowed down briefly approaching Riverside Drive,

then made a decision and turned south toward Ninetysixth. I figured Goggins went south; best guess was that

his pick-up point was south of our location.

I pulled the car over on Ninety-sixth and waited for

Curt to call.

Thankfully, I didn't have to wait long.

My phone rang less than fifteen minutes later. It was

Curt. He was breathless, panting.

"I almost lost him," Curt said. "Stupid MetroCard was

out of cash. Anyway, get your ass downtown to the meatpacking district."

"On the way," I said, putting the car into Drive and

easing onto the Henry Hudson Parkway. "Where to?"

"You know the Kitten Club?"

"Um...yeah. Unfortunately. Why?"

"Our friend Theodore Goggins just walked inside."

"You're kidding me," I said. "I knew Shawn Kensbrook was dirty, but he's got his hands full in the mud."

"You think this is the new depot where the lackeys get

their refills?"

"It would make sense," I said. "I've been to the Kitten

Club and that place has more unexplored territory than

the Jonas Brothers. Plus it doesn't fill up until late at

night, so nobody's there during the day to watch it."

"Given the history of this place," Curt said, "it

wouldn't surprise me in the least."

"What do you mean?"

"I'll explain when you get down here. Meet me on the

southeast corner of Washington and Little West Twelfth

Street."

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333

"Will do. I'll be down there right away."

I exited my spot and pulled Curt's car onto the Hudson

River Drive south. The traffic wasn't bad, rush hour still

an hour or so from reaching its apex. The sun cast a brilliant glow on the water, the shores of New Jersey visible,

the highway directly across from Port Imperial Marina.

I took the Fourteenth Street exit and made my way

south on Tenth Avenue toward the Kitten Club. There

were plenty of spots available, so I pulled up on the corner

of Washington and Twelfth and rang Curt's cell phone.

He didn't answer, but then I saw him walking toward me.

Hanging up the phone, I unlocked the passenger side

door. Curt slipped in and stretched out.

There were massive bags under his eyes, and his

clothes were rumpled. Plus he smelled kind of funky.

Not the Curt Sheffield I was used to hanging out with.

"How was your night?" I said. "I feel like we bonded

a bit." I jokingly punched Curt in the arm.

"Let's not go there. You know for a chunky guy,

Goggins has a motor that would make Jeff Gordon piss

his pants."

Across the street, we could both see the entrance to the

Kitten Club. I'd been there twice. Once to cover a murder,

the second to rescue Amanda when I felt she might be in

danger. I was getting a little tired of this place.

"You said something about the club not surprising

you," I said. "What did you mean by that?"

"You're not a native New Yorker," Curt said, "so you

wouldn't remember. For about ten years during the midseventies and eighties, the space the Kitten Club currently occupies was a different club called Mineshaft."

"Sounds hot."

"You have no idea. While it was open, Mineshaft was

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Jason Pinter

one of the most popular gay bars in the city. They had

dungeons, cages, S and M, bondage, you name it. Then

the city shut the club down in eighty-five, claiming that

all the rampant sexual activity was helping to spread the

AIDS virus."

"Holy crap, are you serious?"

"Yessir. Apparently Mineshaft--and a number of other

clubs--had back rooms and basements where club-goers

could partake in, let's just say, activities that did not

require clothing. Rumors had it that the club was actually

Mafia owned and operated. The mob started losing

money hand over fist, and the lunkheads figured people

just weren't spending money, but the sad truth is they

were losing a lot of their clientele to the virus. After it was

shut down, the club was a ghost lot for almost twenty

years and was basically nothing more than an abandoned

warehouse. It was supposed to be torn down until somebody--guess who--bought the lot."

"Shawn Kensbrook."

"Bingo. This place is all sorts of bad news. It wouldn't

surprise me in the least if an entrepreneur like Kensbrook

was padding his wallet by giving some of those hidden

rooms to 718 Enterprises."

As we watched the club, a young man wearing a suit

turned the corner and entered the front door.

"You saw that?" I said.

"Sure did."

"So what do we do now?" I said. "You want to call

for backup?"

"Not yet. Right now we have no probable cause. I

didn't see Goggins enter with any drugs and we haven't

seen anybody leave with them. We go charging in now

without a warrant, the whole thing gets thrown out."

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335

"Come on, Curt, we have to do someth--"

And then I stopped talking.

"There," I said, pointing out the object of my curiosity

to Sheffield. "We follow that."

Curt focused his eyes on what I was staring at. It was

a shipping truck, and it was parked around the back

entrance of the Kitten Club. On the side were written the

words Sam's Fresh Fish! The slogan was accompanied

by a cute illustration of a live fish standing on a plate

smiling while holding a sign that read, I'm Fresh!

And standing behind the truck were two men, unloading boxes and carrying them inside the club.

"This place serves dinner," Curt said. "And those little

hors d'oeuvres with salmon on toast points. It's a fine

attempt, Parker, but you're reaching."

I turned to Curt. "Fish isn't delivered on Sundays."

He cocked his head. "What are you talking about?"

"The markets are closed on Sundays. That's why when

you order fish on a Sunday, you're getting food that's

been on ice over the weekend."

"You're kidding."

"No, sir. I did a piece on the South Street Seaport a few

months ago. Took seven showers to wash that smell off

me. And one thing I learned is that there are no fish deliveries on Sundays in this city."

"So if that truck isn't delivering fish," Curt said, "then..."

"Then we follow the truck."

"The truck?"

"This place is a refilling station. My guess is they

don't keep more than a few days' supply in here. Wherever the Darkness is coming from, it's not here. But I have

a feeling Sam the fisherman might have an idea."

"Lead the way."

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Jason Pinter

But I couldn't lead the way. That was up to the employees of Sam's, or whatever front the Sam's truck was

used for, and they took their sweet time. The men

unloaded at least a dozen large boxes, which they carefully brought inside the Kitten Club. Curt and I sat there

and watched in silence, trying to figure out just how much

the merchandise inside those boxes was worth, where it

came from, and where it was being manufactured.

Finally, at about eight-thirty, just as the New York

streets were beginning to clog up, one of the men climbed

into the driver's side and churned the ignition. He slowly

pulled away from the club, turning south onto Ninth

Avenue and then right on Fourteenth Street heading east.

Fourteenth was one of the major Manhattan arteries, so

going crosstown took some time. The driver of the truck

didn't seem in a particular hurry, never honking or making

any maneuvers that would have gotten him noticed.

When we got to Third Avenue, the truck headed north,

and then took a right at Thirty-sixth.

"Is he headed to the tunnel?" Curt said.

The truck seemed to answer that question for us as it

merged left on Thirty-sixth into the Midtown Tunnel,

heading out toward Queens.

"What the hell is in Queens?" Curt asked again.

"I hope you're just thinking out loud and not expecting

me to answer," I said, "because I'm as confused as you are."

Once through the tunnel, the truck stayed on 495-East,

not going a single mile over the speed limit. After about

seven miles, the truck merged onto the Grand Central Expressway, then took the Van Wyck south. I was now thoroughly confused, and I could tell from Curt's expression

he was, too.

As we neared the Briarwood section of Queens, the

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337

truck abruptly turned off of the Van Wyck, still keeping

legal speed, and continued south until it began to slow.

At this point I slowed the car as well; traffic was easing

up, making us more noticeable. We were still two cars

behind the truck, and I was hoping that driving a big rig

made it a little harder for the driver to spot us.

Then, a mile down the road, the truck made another

right and disappeared.

"This isn't good," I said, slowing down and pulling

over to the side of the road.

Running at least half a mile was a fence made of

chicken wire, the top lined with sharp barbs. We were a

good few miles from any sort of body of water. "My guess

is they don't ship fish here," I said. "What do we do now?"

Curt sat there, shaking his head. "We don't have

PC," he said.

"Screw probable cause, Curt. We go in there, I'll bet

my father's eyes we'll find it within thirty seconds."

"I don't know," he said. "We don't even know what

we'd be walking into."

"You're a cop and I'm a reporter at one of the biggest

papers in the city," I said. "They can't just kill us."

As I said that, suddenly we whipped around as something rapped at the passenger side door. There was a man

standing there leaning over, gently knocking his knuckles

against the window.

I felt a lump rise in my throat. What the hell was he

doing here?

Curt immediately lowered his window and said, "Detective Makhoulian, I... How did you get here?"

Detective Sevay Makhoulian, wearing a light brown

jacket that fluttered in the wind, nodded, gesturing across

the front seat toward my window.

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Jason Pinter

We turned around to find another man there. This one

I'd never met before, but I knew him right away. He was

in his early forties, with wavy blond hair and an ear that

looked like a bad science experiment.

It was Rex Malloy, and he was smiling as he aimed a

gun at my head.

47

Rex Malloy opened up the backseat door and slid in,

keeping his gun trained on the back of Curt's head. Detective Makhoulian was walking in front of us, leading

us toward the path that the Sam's fish truck had pulled

into. I now knew that Makhoulian had tipped them off

about our meeting with Hollinsworth. Curt had trusted

him. And so had I.

"Weapon, please," Malloy said to Curt.

"I'm not packing."

"And I'm Tiger Woods. Weapon. Please."

I closed my eyes as I felt the muzzle of the gun pressed

against my head. Curt reached down and unstrapped a

gun from his ankle, then handed it over.

"Thank you," Malloy said. "Was that so hard?"

I could see Malloy through the rearview mirror. His

gun was held level, steady, and there was even the slightest hint of a grin on his face.

Curt looked straight ahead. He was quiet, but I could

sense that he was seething inside. As a cop, I could imagine it was a massive blow to your ego to be ambushed like

this. But it wasn't Curt's fault. At least now we knew who

the mole was inside the NYPD. And it was the very man

who'd helped "investigate" my brother's murder.

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Jason Pinter

"How long has Makhoulian been working for you?" I

asked. Up ahead we approached a gate, which opened for

us.

Malloy tilted his head just slightly. "Now come on,

Henry. There'll be plenty of time to ask questions. And

please call him 'Detective.'"

"He's no more a detective than you are a soldier," I spat.

Malloy squinted his eyes just slightly, and the hint of

a grin became a full-blown smile.

"You know, I wasn't sure how much Bill Hollinsworth was able to get out before we quieted that rat,"

Malloy said.

"He told us everything," I said. "I know about Panama,

about the Hard Chargers. I know that your brother was

killed and you've decided to emulate him in some sick

game, you whack job."

"Emulate?" Malloy said. "My friend, I am a living

tribute to my brother."

"Shame you didn't both get plugged over there," Curt

said. "Save us all a lot of time."

"Even if I did," Malloy said, "it wouldn't have changed

anything except my post-military career. You two just

happened to be caught up in the current, and lucky enough

for you, you'll actually get to know the truth before you

die. Well, at least all the truth that's fit to print."

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" I said.

"Just sit tight," Malloy said. "We're almost there."

I followed Makhoulian down a long dirt road, both

sides bracketed by fencing topped with razor wire. The

forest was thick behind the fence, blocking our path from

view. The road snaked and twisted for over a mile, before

it opened into a large open field, surrounded by more

fencing and still closed off from the rest of the world.

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341

There was a large brown warehouse in the middle,

some sort of facility. As we approached the facility, two

men carrying machine guns came out to meet us. They

stopped on either side of the car and waited.

"Get out," Malloy said.

"Or what?" Curt replied.

"Or I'll kill your friend Parker. And if Parker doesn't

get out, I'll kill you. And if you both refuse to get out, I'll

kill every member of your family."

Hatred burning through me, I opened the door and

stepped out. Curt did the same.

As we stepped out, I was shoved up against the car and

searched by the man with the machine gun. The man on

the other side did the same to Curt.

From me they confiscated a Bic pen, and from Curt a

Swiss army knife that was attached to his key chain. Then

they took the whole key chain as well.

I was sweating terribly, my mind and heart racing. As I

stood back up, I was finally able to get a full glimpse of our

surroundings. Parked around the side of the warehouse

was the fish truck, the rear backed in to what looked like a

loading dock. And if there was a loading dock here, I had

no doubt that this was where they shipped the Darkness.

"Come on," Malloy said, "she's waiting for you."

"Who the hell is waiting for us?" Curt said. Then he

turned to Detective Makhoulian. "And you, you fucking

rat. If I don't leave here alive, I swear to God you're coming with me."

Makhoulian just stood there and said, "I'm sorry,

Curtis. You're a good man, but you're out of your league."

"What the hell does that mean? And who is this 'she'

you're talking about?"

"Eve Ramos," I said. "She was one of the survivors of

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the attack in Panama. She's the Fury." Curt looked at me,

confused, then his eyes widened as the totality of our situation sank in. "She's the one who wanted my brother killed."

"Henry," he said.

"I know."

Malloy said, "Follow me."

As if we'd had second thoughts, the two gunmen proceeded to follow us as Malloy led us up to the warehouse. He entered a code on a side door, opened it and

ushered us in.

We were in a long, narrow stairwell, painted a dull gray.

Cameras were positioned at several spots at every landing.

Malloy walked in front of us, taking us up two flights of

stairs before we stopped in front of a door with another

keypad. I counted three cameras, red lights glowing steadily.

"You come with me," Malloy said, looking at Curt.

"You're staying here."

"I'm not going anywhere," Curt said.

Malloy ripped the gun from his waistband and jammed

it under Curt's jaw, hard enough to make the man wince.

"You're going to come with me, right now. "

Malloy signaled to the two gunmen, and they kept

their muzzles trained on me as Malloy led Curt somewhere upstairs. When he was out of sight, one of the men

turned to me and said, "You're going to wait in here."

He jabbed a code in with a calloused finger, and when

the LED light turned green he pushed it open.

To my surprise, the door opened into a medium-sized

conference room, complete with varnished wood table

and comfortable leather chairs. There was even a speakerphone hooked up and sitting on the middle of the table,

like a cadre of suits was about to walk through the door

and talk shop while scarfing down bagels and coffee.

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343

"What the hell..." I was able to say before I was

pushed inside, the door slamming shut behind me.

The first thing I did when the door clicked shut was

run to the table and turn on the speakerphone. I wasn't

shocked to find that there was no dial tone.

"Shit!" I yelled at the top of my lungs. It wasn't quite

a substitute for "Help" but nobody could hear me anyway.

I walked around the room, looking for anything I could

use. There was nothing. I debated unscrewing one of the

wheels from the chairs to brandish as a weapon, but in a

warehouse filled with people armed to the gills it was

more apt to get me killed quicker.

They wanted me here for a reason, or they would have

killed me already. Besides, this room was too pretty to

commit murder in.

At least, that's what I thought until I saw the light red

stain on the carpet by the door I'd come in through. It had

clearly been scrubbed numerous times, but damned if

blood wasn't just too difficult a liquid to get out.

"His name was Jeremy Robertson," a voice said. "And

he didn't listen."

I whirled around to find a woman standing at the other

end of the room. From the lines and age in her face I made

her out to be in her early to mid-forties, but the tone and

muscle definition was striking beneath her black tank

top. She had long black hair that I could see spread out

behind her waist and her green eyes looked at me with a

strange kind of calmness that would have given me chills

if I wasn't scared to death.

"Jeremy killed himself," she said. "We only bring in

men who have something to lose. Unfortunately, as we

learned later, Jeremy had nothing."

"Eve Ramos," I said. "You're the Fury."

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Jason Pinter

Ramos laughed, her voice high-pitched, full of delight.

"The Fury," she said. "I always found such enjoyment in

that name. And to think how many people trembled at the

very sound of a person who might not even exist. I

suppose it works the same way with Satan and even Jesus.

Beholden to deities we will never know exist until the day

we die." Eve Ramos looked up at the ceiling. "I bet

Jeremy Robertson knows whether there is a devil."

"You manufacture this poison," I said. "I'm pretty sure

that if there is a devil, that puts you on an even keel with

him."

"Oh, Mr. Parker," Eve said as she crossed the room to

where I was standing. Then, moving faster than I knew

possible, she had gripped my throat in her hand and said,

"Who's to say the devil is a man?"

She then pushed me backward. I coughed once, but

stared her down.

"You killed my brother," I said. "Just like you're responsible for about a dozen more deaths from this drug."

"A dozen?" Ramos said. "Henry, you don't know the

half of it."

"So what do you want?" I said. "And where's my

friend?"

"Officer Sheffield is fine," she said. "Unfortunately, as

a police officer, we cannot simply dispose of your friend

until we can be certain it is done in a way that is, shall

we say, less than incriminating."

"And me? Why am I here?"

"Henry, you came to us, remember?"

"Why am I alive?"

"You're alive because you have use to me. Before you

die, you have a chance to do one last noble deed. And then

when the time comes to meet your maker, you can be sure

it will be the right one."

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345

"I don't understand," I said.

"Please," Ramos said. "Sit."

I didn't move.

"Fine. You'll be sitting enough anyway." She went to

the head of the table, pulled out a leather chair and lay

back, propping her feet up on the table. She was wearing

dark boots, dirty and worn. This was not a woman who

preferred high heels. "You are a newspaperman. I take it

you know much about our product from the reporting of

Ms. Paulina Cole."

"I read her article," I said. "And I know how you got

her to write it."

"See," she said, smiling. "I knew you were a bright

young man. There's no way Ms. Cole could have had

access to that information without anybody else knowing

about it. Yes, we fed it to Ms. Cole. And now you are

going to write another article for your newspaper. And

once that is done, you can leave this world in peace,

knowing you've kept your loved ones from harm's way."

"My loved ones?"

Eve took her feet down, leaned forward. "You came

to my attention right after your brother, Mr. Gaines, was

killed. How fortunate for us that another man was accused

of his murder, that was an unexpected bonus. But when

you figured out who pulled the trigger, we needed a way

to keep you in check. It is part of my job to learn about

people. Their families, backgrounds, careers, loved ones.

I know you have barely seen your parents in ten years. I

know you have little family or friends. But you do have

a woman who holds your heart. So piercing her would

pierce you." She smiled. "So to speak."

"My brother," I said. "You were behind it. You killed

him."

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Jason Pinter

"Guilty," she said. "When you run an organization, the

buck stops with you. When your brother learned about our

plans to diversify our product, he objected. In my line of

business you cannot have employees questioning decisions, or threatening to divulge company secrets. He came

to you, and that's when I decided he had to be dealt with."

"Dealt with," I said. "That's a pleasant term for coldblooded murder."

"Nothing around here happens without my say-so,"

Ramos said. "And if you do not write this for me, I will

take your woman, Amanda, and I will make her scream

so loud that even if you do make it to heaven, Henry, her

cries will pierce the ears of God himself. I will grind her

bones to paste, and coat the walls of this room with her

blood. And I will make sure you are alive when all of it

takes place. And only when you have no screams left to

offer will you join her."

I sat there, my whole body cold. Amanda.

"You see, when I kill a person, their death must not be

in vain. It must represent something. Your brother's death

was a sign that even our highest-earning lieutenants were

not invulnerable. Kenneth Tsang's death was a warning to

new employees as to what could happen if you weren't

trustworthy. Brett Kaiser's death showed that we can reach

anybody, anywhere. To me, blood and bone are like paint

and a brush. With the right artistry, one can create a work

of art that speaks to people. Your family, Henry, would be

a message that our reach does not stop within our organization, but that we can touch even the smallest, most insignificant lives."

"You wouldn't..."

"I wouldn't?" Ramos said. "Your mother and father

live in Bend, Oregon, on a sunny little street called East- The Darkness

347

view Drive. I can have a man there tonight. Your parents

could be dead before the evening news. Your parents are

insignificant, which is why their deaths would be all the

more glorious."

"You're a monster."

"I'm only a monster because this involves you, Henry.

How many monsters do you see, day in and day out, in

your line of work? Proximity heightens emotions.

Things could be different. You could have been down on

your luck, penniless, and come to work for me. And

then, like so many of these young men, you would have

understood."

"I don't know anything besides what Paulina wrote,"

I said. "There's nothing more to the story."

"That's not true," she said. "You've been quite an

explorer. Tell me what you know."

I looked up at her, and if looks could kill Eve Ramos

would have been dead several times over. "I know that you

and Rex Malloy were in Panama together, and that your

troop was attacked and Chester Malloy was killed. I also

know that it was in Panama that you learned how to synthesize Darkness, and you managed to smuggle it back to

America. I know that all your drug mules are young men,

and you're using their debts to get them to work for you."

"Great thing about those young men," Eve said, "is

that they have something to lose. You see, when a man

has pride, he will do things he knows are wrong to prove

his worth. These men were born with nothing, but worked

their way into high-paying jobs. When those lives were

taken away, that ambition, that pride, left a gaping hole.

I simply offer to fill that hole. I will not use men from the

slums, poor urban souls who have nothing to lose.

Dealers are nothing more than hungry animals. You feed

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Jason Pinter

them, throw them an extra bone here or there, they'll do

anything for you."

"Even die for you."

"Not by choice, but yes."

"Why 718 Enterprises?" I asked.

"Ha! That's simple, Henry. I was born in Queens."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

There was a knock at the door behind Ramos. She

went and opened it. A man stood there. He was wearing

a suit, brown hair neatly combed. And he was holding a

legal pad and pen.

"Leonard, come in," she said. "Meet Henry Parker."

"Mr. Parker, it's a pleasure." He didn't offer a hand.

Just as well.

"Leonard Reeves," I said. He looked at Ramos with

evident discomfort.

"How much does he know?"

Eve chuckled softly. "Apparently more than I thought."

"Leonard Reeves," I said again. "Graduated from

Princeton in 1993. Former executive at Morgan Stanley,

and liaison to the Department of Finance."

I watched as Reeves's eyes widened, rage drumming

up inside of him.

"How do you--"

"Which leads me to this question," I said. "How much

is Eve Ramos paying you to sell out our government?"

Now it was Ramos who couldn't contain herself,

laughing hysterically. Reeves looked at her. His rage

seemed to subside as he saw how unperturbed she was by

my knowledge.

"Henry, you have this all wrong," she said. "We're not

selling out the government. Hell, we're working for them."

48

"Working for them," I said. "You mean the city is

making money off of you. That's why I found a money

order made out to Morgan Isaacs for fifty grand from

Leonard Reeves. Reeves works for 718. You set your

drug cartel up as a legit business, and the government is

making millions of dollars in taxes off of dead people and

blood money."

"Millions right now, maybe. Soon it'll be hundreds of

millions," Ramos said. "And once the Darkness spreads

to other metropolitan areas--Los Angeles, Boston, Chicago--it'll be in the billions."

"How can they let this happen?" I said. "Don't they

know these drugs are killing people? Don't they know

who you are?"

"Know who I am?" Eve said. "Not only do they know

who I am...they're the reason I'm here."

"Panama," I said. "The Hard Chargers--you were

one of them?"

"Yes and no. I certainly did my share of hell-raising

down there. Nothing helps sell a war like violence against

our troops. But those bastards weren't supposed to kill

me. And it's their fault Chester died."

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Jason Pinter

"Hollinsworth said you found a way to synthesize

Darkness," I said. "So why would the government still

work with you if you stole this from Noriega?"

"Oh, they didn't know," she said. "In fact, they trusted

me so much that when the CIA-backed cartels in the

eighties got out of hand, guess who they put in charge to

oversee things?"

"That's why you're the Fury," I said. "They installed

you as a watchdog because their money was at stake. With

you there, they could make sure the money was going to

fund the Contras."

"Yeah, but that stopped being fun after a while. Why

be a watchdog when you can be the top dog? Those

cartels made billions, but the leadership had more balls

than they had brains. They were more than happy to let

someone take over who could handle distribution on a nationwide basis. Unfortunately word got out and that

reporter Webb found out about it. The CIA tried to pull

the plug. But when you're running a covert operation,

pulling the plug doesn't mean ending things so much as

pretending they never happened."

I said, "So they left you in charge of the largest drug

cartel in North America."

"Your tax dollars at work. And Mr. Reeves here was

kind enough to set up a deal where not only could we work

in peace, but we'd benefit the city of New York as well.

Thousands of federal employees laid off due to a lack of

funds, and that's exactly what we're giving them back."

"Makhoulian," I said. "He was the mole in the NYPD.

He knew everything we were doing."

"More or less. I am a little surprised by how persistent

you are, Henry."

"So why this?" I said. "Why now?"

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351

"Well, the truth is we weren't able to perfect the

mixture until recently. But if you believe in fate--like I

do--then everything came together for a reason. Look at

this city, Henry. Its infrastructure is crumbling. It's

billions of dollars in debt. Millions of people have lost

everything, and the people who pump the most money

into this economy--the rich--are losing their jobs. The

pipes have been rotting for years. With the Darkness, I

managed to build the greatest cherry bomb the city has

ever seen, and dropping it into those pipes now will cause

the whole system to come crashing down. Cities burn

from the ground up, not the top down."

"All because you think you were sent to die in Panama.

This isn't about money. It's about payback."

"Call it what you want. Truth is, I'm doing this city a

favor. New York will have a chance to bring itself back

from the wreckage. Twenty years ago this city teetered

on the edge, and it was brought back. When a city comes

so close for a second time, it needs a little push. That's

where I come in."

"No matter how many people die in the process."

"I read somewhere that over a hundred billion people

have died since the earth was created. Am I really

supposed to shed a tear for a few more?"

"You're settling a grudge," I said. "You feel you were

sent to die, so you're taking revenge."

"Not to mention a handsome profit," she said. "If

there is a better feeling than seeing the same fat, stupid

men who sent you to die line your pockets, I don't know

what it is."

Reeves came over and placed the pad and pen in front

of me. Then he stepped back and folded his arms behind

his back. I could tell he wasn't happy about this, wasn't

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Jason Pinter

happy I knew the depth of his involvement. But Ramos

kept him fed. And that was good enough.

"You write your article, including the facts I've told

you. Once it is written, Leonard and I will go over it to make

sure it doesn't contain anything that we don't approve of.

After that we will e-mail it to your boss, Mr. Langston."

"And then what?"

"And when it runs, we can assure you that Amanda

Davies will live a long, happy life. Well, a long life at least."

"And me?"

"Having saved a life, you can go to your grave with

the nobility many men do not."

"And you get to promote the Darkness even more."

"The New York Dispatch is only read by half the city,"

she said. "With your paper we'll get the other half, too."

I eyed the pen, wondering if there was a way I could

use it. Not that I'd been trained in any Bourne-esque dojo

where they taught you how to kill two people with a

single pen.

"Mr. Reeves here will watch you. I don't expect your

finest work, Henry. Time is of the essence."

I didn't know what to do. Amanda's life versus thousands of people who would read about this drug and be

tempted to buy it. I pictured Amanda, sitting at home, while

the city burned around her. Then I pictured her grieving at

my funeral, not knowing I'd given my life for her.

What the hell could I do?

Before I could do or say anything, there was another

knock at the door behind Eve Ramos. It startled her very

briefly, and I took a step forward.

She opened it, and standing there was Rex Malloy.

"Eve," he said. "We've got a problem."

"What kind of problem?"

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353

"Sheffield and Parker," he said. "They didn't come

alone."

Ramos stood there, unsure what to make of what

Malloy had said. We had come alone. What the hell was

Malloy talking about?

Suddenly I heard a loud noise come from outside the

compound. A second explosion, then a third, rattling the

floor, reverberating. Somebody was shooting at the warehouse from outside. Eve Ramos's eyes narrowed as she

stared at me. I had no answers.

They didn't come alone.

Had somebody followed us?

"Get up, Parker," Ramos said, her voice gone to steel.

She marched over and grabbed me by the hair, pulling me

up. I stood, wrenched away.

"Get off of me."

Then I realized where the gunfire had come from. We

weren't being shot at from outside. Somebody inside the

compound was firing at someone outside.

Then it dawned on me.

We had been followed. By Jack O'Donnell.

49

The first volley of gunfire drove them to dive behind the

police cars, bullets strafing the metal, punching quartersized holes in every car. Jack O'Donnell felt a pain in his

arm as he hit the ground, dirt kicking up around him.

He was surrounded by two dozen of New York's finest,

and now that the level of violence had escalated there was

sure to be SWAT and helicopter backup. But for now it

was just this ragged old journalist and a bunch of cops

who'd walked into a buzz saw.

"Is this normal?" Jack shouted when the gunfire stopped.

Chief of Department Louis Carruthers, his back

pressed up against a blue-and-white, shook his head. "Not

in the least. It only means one thing, so you'd better keep

your head down."

"What's that?"

"It means they're not planning to be arrested."

Jack slowly picked himself, peeked over the hood of

a car, just in time for another round to rip up the car and

force him back to the ground.

His heart was beating a million miles a minute, but

something besides fear coursed through the old lion.

Neither Henry or Curt knew Jack had followed them all

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355

the way from Parker's apartment, and it gave Jack a slight

bit of pride to know he still had a little left in the old oil

can. But when he saw the two men force Henry and Curt

to follow them at gunpoint, he knew the time for hideand-seek was over.

It was less than ten minutes before the cavalry arrived,

and it took less than one to tear open the gated entrance and

force themselves inside. Jack didn't know what to expect,

but when he saw the massive warehouse and the sentry

guards, the fence barricading the area from both trespassers

and onlookers, he had a feeling they'd stumbled onto the

very heart of where the Darkness was produced.

"Do we just wait until they run out of bullets then?"

Jack yelled above the storm.

Carruthers looked at him and shook his head.

Then he yelled to the rest of the cops perched outside,

"There are two innocents in there, including one of our

own. Let's get them the hell out of there!"

Then a barrage of gunfire strafed the outside of the

warehouse, shattering glass, shredding brick, smoke and

dust pouring from everywhere.

Jack covered his ears, felt dirt and gravel raining down

around him, stinging his face and neck. And below the pain

in his arm, the rapid pace of his heart that scared the hell

out of him, Jack had a feeling this was just the beginning.

50

When the gunfire first erupted, Eve Ramos went into

the stairwell to find out what was going on. I could see

her and Rex Malloy talking. Malloy was animated, pointing somewhere I couldn't see, gesturing like mad as

Ramos stood there impassively, processing it all. Behind

them, still in the room with me, was Leonard Reeves.

And unlike his two comrades, Reeves's eyes betrayed

him. He looked nervous, the kind of man who might

dish out violence but never expected it to come back to

him.

Whatever Rex Malloy was saying, it was frightening

Leonard Reeves something bad.

While they were preoccupied, I picked up the pen and

quietly walked over to where Reeves was standing. He

was not an especially large man, about five foot ten, not

fat but without much discernible muscle definition.

Sometimes you could take one look at a person, the way

they carried themselves, and know how brave they were.

What kind of fight they would put up. In Leonard Reeves,

I got the sense of a man who talked a big game but once

cornered, would piss his pants faster than an eight-yearold with a tiny bladder.

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357

So with little time to decide my course of action, I took

a chance that could lead either to my freedom, or my death.

Gripping the pen in my fist, the point sticking out two

inches, I wrapped my left arm around the front of

Reeves's neck and jammed the pen right under his jawline

on his carotid artery, hard enough that I felt the tip

threaten to pierce skin. Reeves was surprised and struggled, crying out, but I whispered into his ear, "Move once

more and you'll see your blood all over Malloy's nice

blond hair."

Reeves relaxed. His hand was still on the arm that

held his neck in place, but there was no strength in it.

I could feel the gun against my hip, and holding the

pen I quickly grabbed it and swapped the writing utensil

for the pistol. Not a bad choice. I flicked the safety off.

I'd only held a gun once before, and even then it was out

of self-defense. I didn't want to fire it.

Right now, though, I was certain that if need be I would

use it. I wasn't sure who was more frightened: me

knowing I could be forced to end a man's life, or Reeves

knowing his life was in the hands of a man who had

nothing to lose.

I led Reeves into the stairwell where Ramos and

Malloy were standing. Windows opened onto the front of

the compound, but Ramos and Malloy were blocking my

view. I couldn't see who or what was out there. Whoever

it was clearly had their attention.

Eve Ramos turned around. Rex Malloy did as well.

They both stared at me, Malloy seeming more pissed off

while Ramos smiled at me like I'd just built a nice big

house of cards.

"Take me to Sheffield," I said. "As soon as we're outside, I let Reeves go. If not, he's a dead man."

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Jason Pinter

"Henry," Ramos said, cocking her head to the side, that

smile still spread on her face. "I give you credit for

keeping your balls intact. But you have gravely overestimated Mr. Reeves's worth to me. Especially in light of

his less than stellar reflexes."

With that, Eve Ramos pulled a gun from her waistband

and put a bullet right in Leonard Reeves's head.

He dropped to the floor, his body becoming dead

weight in less than a second. I felt sticky blood on my

hands. I looked at Ramos. She seemed oddly disappointed.

"Sometimes," she said, "you don't have time to paint

a picture."

I held Reeves's gun out, pointed it at Ramos.

"Let us out of here," I said.

"Or what? You shoot me and end up looking like something the butcher threw away? Put the gun down, Henry,

before you get hurt."

And just like that, the window behind Ramos shattered, gunfire riddling the stairwell. Sparks cascaded all

around us at the bullets ricocheted off the metal bars.

Whoever was outside was now firing back.

We all ducked, covering our heads as glass came

pouring down around us. Ramos knelt on the floor below

the window, her back against the wall. She held a hand

up to her cheek. It came away slick with blood where

she'd been cut by an errant shard. Malloy was on his

stomach, and crawled over to see if she was all right. And

right there I saw my one chance to live.

While they were distracted, I rushed forward and shoved

Malloy as hard as I could. His body, already off balance,

went toppling down the stairs. He landed with a thud two

floors below, screaming in pain and clutching his leg.

Before Ramos had a chance to recover, I leaped back

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359

into the stairwell and began to climb. They'd taken Curt

somewhere upstairs, and I could only hope to find him

before the entire warehouse was shredded.

As I ascended, relief spread through me as I saw that

Ramos was still pinned down in the stairwell below me.

I tried the door one flight above but it was locked from

the inside. There was no keypad I could see, no way

inside. So I kept going up, hunched over, trying not to get

shot or sliced.

One more flight up and I'd reached the top level of

the warehouse. Peering over the railing, my breath

caught in my throat when I saw that neither Ramos or

Malloy were still there. They weren't on the stairwell

though, so I had a small window to figure out what the

hell to do.

The stairwell here had one door, and this had an electronic keypad. I tried several combinations, including

718, but none of them worked. But just as I was about to

give up and turn to my nonexistent plan B, I heard the

doorknob turn from the other side.

I stepped back to allow the door to open. The handle

turned and into the hall walked another man. He was big,

with a gleaming bald head, numerous tattoos running

down his arms. And, oh yeah, he was also holding a big,

black assault rifle.

I was hidden between the door and the wall, my gun

held out in defense, but the man didn't see me as he raced

down the stairs. When he'd gone down several steps, I

spun around the closing door, stuck the gun muzzle into

the crack, threw it open and pulled the door shut behind

me just as I heard a startled "Hey!" from below.

Turning around, I found myself in a narrow hallway.

It was painted stark white. There were two doors at the

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Jason Pinter

other end, and I could see an LED light blinking red on

the farthest one.

Curt.

I ran as fast as I could to the other end and banged

on the door.

"Curt!" I shouted. "You in there?"

It took a moment, but then I heard someone say,

"Henry?"

"Yeah! How do I open this thing?"

"Four eight two one nine," he said. "I saw the guy enter

it when he put me in here."

I pressed the numbers on the keypad, and the light

turned green.

I yanked the handle and pulled the door open, just as the

door as the other end flew open, revealing the guy with the

rifle. He yelled some sort of curse, but I dove inside Curt's

room and pulled the door closed just as a spatter of bullets

hit the metal. I held my foot against the door, keeping it

open just slightly to make sure we didn't get locked inside.

"Holy shit," Curt said, "you okay?"

"Yeah, fine," I said, noticing a trickle of blood on my

arm where glass had cut me. "No big deal."

"How the hell did you get away?"

"No time. Here," I said, handing Curt the gun. "You're

probably better with this than I am."

Another round of gunfire hit the door, and we parted

on either side. Dimples punched out on our side of the

door every time a round hit it.

"That's an M16," Curt said. "A4, I believe. Thirty

round magazine. And he's fired twenty-three of them."

Another burst of gunfire shelled the door. Curt looked

at the dimples, said, "Seven. Get your shit together,

Parker, here we go."

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361

Curt turned the handle and kicked the door open,

training the gun on the rifleman just as he was popping

out the old magazine.

"You move and I take your head off," Curt said. The

man stood there, unsure of what to do, the magazine clattering to the ground. "Take your hand out of your pocket."

He did so, holding a fresh mag.

"Drop it," Curt said. The bald man looked at him,

trying to size Curt up. Then, instead of putting down the

magazine, he snapped it into place and raised it to fire.

Three loud reports exploded in the hallway, and the

rifleman was driven backward, three fresh holes in his

chest. As he fell he looked at Curt, surprised that he'd

actually pulled the trigger.

Without a moment of hesitation, Curt went over to the

fallen gunman and picked up the rifle. He checked the

new magazine, then came back over to me and held out

the gun, butt first.

"You've used one of these before, right?"

"Um, not on purpose."

"It's easy. Safety's already off. Aim with two hands

and squeeze. None of this holding the gun sideways or

upside down or any of that stupid gangster, Angelina

Jolie crap in the movies. You hold it straight, two hands,

squeeze hard for each round and take kickback into

account. Aim for the chest. Think you can handle that?"

"If I say no will it matter?"

"Not really, but we don't have a choice. Come on,

Parker."

Curt led the way, rifle snug against his shoulder, as we

crouched outside the door to the opposite stairwell from

where I'd come from. This was where they'd brought

him from, and somewhere below was the way out. And

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Jason Pinter

we had to get out fast, because the gunfire from both sides

was turning this place into Swiss cheese.

We stood on either side of the door, both of our guns at

the ready. Curt reached over and pulled it open, and as he

did I swung the gun into the opening, ready for anything.

It was empty.

Curt joined me, using the rifle as a sight to confirm that

we were the only people there. I could hear Curt breathing hard, but his eyes were focused. He nodded down.

I'd lead, he'd cover me.

He mouthed age before beauty. I gave him the finger,

and slowly crept into the stairwell.

If I remembered correctly, the entrance was three flights

below us. But looking down, I saw that the stairwell continued below that one to a basement. Four levels in total.

The noise in the stairwell was deafening, the gunfire

echoing all around us. I made my way down the stairs,

sensing Curt's muzzle right above me.

The landing below us was empty. Curt stood one step

above me, then flicked the muzzle once. Two more flights.

My heart pounding, the gun shaking ever so slightly

in my hands, I moved down to the next level, the third

floor. Nobody there. One more to go.

Between the blood roaring in my veins and the deafening noise surrounding us, even if there was someone below

us hiding, we wouldn't know. Only one way to find out.

No time for creeping around. I leaped down the next

flight, to the second floor, recognizing the same door

they'd brought us through, the same cameras recording

everything. Curt stepped onto the landing as well, the rifle

still aimed forward. He nodded at the door. I reached for

it, turned the knob. Felt it go. One step from freedom.

But then I looked below me, saw the landing of the

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363

next floor below us, and knew there was one more thing

to do. To know.

Below us, on the basement landing, was a small pile

of black rocks. It was Darkness, the drug, the cherry

bomb Ramos was using to tear down the city. And I knew

what that basement was used for, and that I couldn't leave

without knowing for sure.

I nodded to Curt. He rolled his eyes, said, "Come on."

And he was on board to see what lay below us. To see

what kind of evil Eve Ramos had been waiting to unleash

upon this city.

51

The door below us opened with the same combination

as Curt's holding cell. And as soon as that smell hit our

nostrils, we knew what we'd found. It was only when we

entered the room that we saw the extent of it.

The basement of the warehouse was nearly the length

of a football field, and nearly every inch of it was piled high

with pills, rocks and powders of different sizes and concentrations. There were bags of powder stacked fifteen feet

high, piles of black rocks that you could literally dive into.

I lowered my gun, the blood draining from my face.

"Holy shit," Curt said beside me. "Are they supplying

the whole country?"

"That's the idea," I said. "First New York, then anywhere that needs a fix. And I don't see any mixing agents

or supplies here, so my guess is it's brought in across our

borders somehow.

"This is incredible," I said. "But we can't let it survive this."

"What do you mean?"

"Makhoulian," I said. "Who knows if he's the only cop

in on it? We let this stuff go into evidence, what are the

odds it leaks out? Seventy-five? Ninety?"

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365

"So what do we do?" Curt said.

"I don't know, but this place has to burn."

As I said that, a hail of gunfire drilled the wall behind

us, sending us running for cover. It had come from

inside somewhere.

"I know you're in here, asshole," the voice yelled. It

was Rex Malloy. "Let's make this easy."

Another round let loose, this time grinding up a pile

of black rocks beside me, the dark soot raining into the

air, burning my eyes. I sure as hell hoped Curt was

counting this guy's rounds, too.

Curt was crouched behind a steel beam. He tried to

lean out to look, but gunfire drove him back behind it.

Asshole.

Only one asshole. That was my chance. Malloy

thought there was only one of us.

I ran around the side of one pile, then crouched down,

holding the gun in front of me. I tried to listen for footsteps, but heard nothing. Then more gunfire sounded,

aimed at Curt's hiding spot. It was a matter of seconds

before he got close enough to get a good shot.

I rounded the pile, gun outstretched, and saw two boot

heels pass me. Rex Malloy. He was closing in on Sheffield.

As he passed, I stepped out behind him and raised my

gun to his chest level. As Malloy raised his gun to fire, I

could see the side of Curt's face. And if I could see it,

Malloy could hit it. One shot. That's all I had.

So I pulled the trigger.

The force of the gunshot drove my hands upward, but

I didn't stumble. Rex Malloy grunted as he fell forward,

his rifle clattering to the floor as he fell. And then he lay

there, still.

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Jason Pinter

"Oh my God," I said, stepping over the body. "Oh my

God. Curt? You there?"

Sheffield came out from behind the beam. "Nice

shooting, Tex."

I looked at him, then felt like I was going to vomit.

Then something stirred, and I felt something crack the

side of my head.

I fell down, shook it off, and turned to see Rex Malloy

standing up. There was no blood, nothing. Then I saw

the hole in his vest. He rapped it once with his knuckle.

"Was a nice shot," he said. Then as he raised the rifle

toward me, a gunshot rang out and Malloy fell to one

knee, blood spurting from his leg. Curt ran up to us,

aimed at Malloy's head, but the man struck out lightning

quick and knocked the gun from Curt's hand. Then he

punched Curt in the throat.

Sheffield, wheezing, tried to catch his breath, but

Malloy was on top of him. He wrapped his hands around

Curt's throat and began to squeeze. My head throbbing,

I picked up Malloy's dropped rifle, ran over, and drilled

the butt into Malloy's head. He went down, but was

simply shaken.

As he tried to get up, Curt stomped on Malloy's hand,

a sickening crunch as his fingers broke. Malloy cried out.

Curt placed his knee on Malloy's left shoulder, pinning

him. I ran over and grabbed his other arm, trying to neutralize the man's strength. Then Curt reached over and

grabbed a handful of the black gravel and shoved it into

Malloy's throat.

The former Special Forces operative hacked and

coughed, but Curt drove him backward with a vicious

head butt, and I could hear Malloy swallow the rocks.

Then Curt raised his fist and brought it right onto

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367

Malloy's windpipe. Once, twice, until there was another

sickening crack as his windpipe broke.

Malloy tried to claw at his throat, but we held him

fast. Finally the man stopped struggling, his eyes glazing over. Curt felt the man's pulse, looked at me, nodded. We were both breathing hard, and the side of my

head felt wet.

"Let's get the hell out of here," I said.

"Good plan. Come on."

We ran back to the stairwell and up one flight, bursting

through the door into the late-morning sun. The sudden

glare caused us to cover our eyes, but when we opened

them we saw a phalanx of cops outside the warehouse,

guns trained on us.

"Don't shoot!" a voice yelled. "He's a cop!"

"And he's a reporter!" yelled another.

Jack. I laughed, never happier to hear the old man's

voice.

Three cops ran over to us, guns trained, and led us

back to the group. We were dirty, bleeding, but didn't

feel any of it.

The shooting had stopped. All guns were still trained

on the warehouse, but the area had gone silent. The calm

after the storm.

Then I felt a pair of arms squeezing me to death, and

I looked up to see Jack O'Donnell.

"Jesus Christ, kid, what are you, a method journalist?

You don't need to kill yourself to get the story."

I laughed, hugged the man right back. "You followed

us," I said.

"Damn right. I have to admit it was a little selfish.

Didn't want you and your cop buddy learning the truth

without me."

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Jason Pinter

A man came over to us. He said, "Louis Carruthers,

Chief of Department. Who's left in there?"

"I don't know. At least three are dead. Leonard Reeves,

another gunman and Rex Malloy."

"We've taken out another three, but we don't know

how many there were to begin with. Are there any other

innocents? Do we need to go back in?"

"Back in? Why would you do that?"

"Look," Jack said.

I turned around to see orange flames licking at the

windows of the warehouse, thick black smoke pouring

from inside.

"How'd it catch on fire?" I said.

"Don't know," Carruthers said. "But that smoke isn't

from fire."

"The Darkness," I said. "Somebody's burning the

place down from inside."

Before I could speak again, I heard a single gunshot

report. Then there was something wet and sticky on my

chest. Then I looked into Jack's eyes and knew what had

just happened.

"Henry," Jack said, "what..."

Then the old man was flung backward, a red rose

blooming on his white shirt.

"Jack?" I said.

He looked at me as he fell, his eyes wide and fearful.

Then another gunshot sounded out, this one hitting the

adjacent car, less than six inches from where I stood. We

ducked for cover, waiting for the firing to end. I stared at

Jack, then quickly looked up to see who was shooting at us.

Eve Ramos was standing at the doorway, gun out, her

face covered in blood and ash.

And then a barrage of gunfire like I'd never imagined

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369

tore the air apart, ripping Ramos apart in a hail of bullets

and blood. Her body was flung through the air like a puppet,

her gun firing wildly into the air, before she fell, lifeless,

next to the burning building that housed her life's work.

I knelt down next to Jack, a knot in my throat as I

hovered over him. A thin trickle of blood was streaming

from his mouth.

"We need an ambulance!" I shouted as loud as I could.

"Somebody help us!"

Two cops ran over, one of them carrying an orange kit.

He placed it beside Jack, opening it, and began to work

on my friend. My mentor. The man who was responsible

for the person I'd become.

"You're gonna be fine, Jack," I said, holding his hand,

praying for one squeeze.

Jack's eyes were open, and to my surprise he was actually

smiling. That's when I felt that squeeze, the old, cracked

palm in mine. The blood on my shirt from a man who'd lived

a life that had seen more than I could ever hope to.

"It's okay, Henry," he said, his voice weak, raspy. "I've

told my story."

"No," I said, tears welling, as I squeezed his hand

harder. "You can't. This is our story. You and me."

Jack smiled. Then he said, "I know. Butch and Sundance, Henry. Thank you for saving my life."

Then Jack O'Donnell closed his eyes for the last time.

Epilogue

Amanda held my hand through the entire funeral. I

didn't cry once, and when the service was over, when the

church had emptied, I hated myself for that. But then I

realized that Jack had ended his life the way he wanted

to, chasing that one big story, his name once again where

it belonged. His final story.

Through the Darkness Comes the Dawn

by Jack O'Donnell and Henry Parker

Rex Malloy was dead. Eve Ramos was dead. Sevag

Makhoulian was found less than an hour after Jack's

death, hiding in a gas station in Queens. He was under

indictment for enough crimes to keep him in prison until

the rapture.

No less than a dozen people, ranging from accountants

who handled the 718 assets to the mayor himself, were

under investigation. And I had no doubt that what they

would find would end perhaps the largest drug conspiracy

the city had ever seen.

And by investigators' estimates, nearly ten tons worth

of narcotics had gone up in flames in that warehouse.

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371

Though he died to tell the story, Jack had saved hundreds,

if not thousands of lives.

He would be remembered the way he deserved to be.

A journalist who told the truth, a man who uncovered the

greatest stories never told.

The day of the funeral, the Gazette ran a special edition

with an insert that collected some of Jack's most famous

pieces from his nearly fifty years on the job. Reading them

on the subway to work reminded me of just what an amazing

career he'd had. And just how rich a life had been lost.

When I got to my desk, there was a voice mail waiting

for me. It was from Linda Veltre, the woman who'd edited

Jack's book Through the Darkness nearly twenty years

ago, chronicling the rise of the drug trade, the story where

Jack had first learned of the Fury. Her publisher wanted

to reissue Jack's book. And she wanted me to write the

introduction.

Plus, she said, if I had any thoughts of writing my own

book about the investigation of Eve Ramos and 718 Enterprises, she'd love to talk to me over lunch. Apparently

she'd already received a call from Paulina Cole's literary

agent expressing interest in writing a book about the

story, but the editor felt mine was the right one to tell.

It was something to think about, but another day.

The day after Jack's funeral I walked into the offices

of the New York Gazette, and immediately something felt

different, off. I received several nods from my colleagues,

the same ones who congratulated me with their eyes, but

were afraid to speak because they knew what Jack had

meant to me.

Sitting down, I looked out over Rockefeller Center, at

a city Jack had known better than most people know

themselves. It was a city that pulsed with a million dif-372

Jason Pinter

ferent veins, a million different stories. And those stories

were still out there, waiting to be discovered.

Life would go on. Jack would have wanted it to.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Wallace Langston

making his way across the newsroom floor. There was

somebody with him. I couldn't see who it was, but Wallace

was talking to him earnestly, pointing at things as they

walked.

As they got closer, I could see that Wallace was leading

around a young man. He looked to be twenty-one or

twenty-two, a good-looking kid with short black hair,

sharp features, and an air of wonder about him. He was

following Wallace's lead like a child experiencing a

museum for the first time.

A new reporter. I smiled. The day Wallace had shown

me the ropes didn't feel that long ago.

Wallace was not introducing the new guy to anyone.

That would come later.

Then Wallace took a detour and stopped by my desk.

The new guy's cheeks were red, embarrassed, and he had

trouble making eye contact.

"Henry," Wallace said. "This is Nicholas Barr. He's

fresh out of J-school."

"Nice to meet you, Nicholas," I said, offering my hand.

"Yeah, nice to meet me, too. You. I mean meet you.

Me, nice to meet you."

"Easy there, Nicholas," I said.

"You can call me Nick," he said, his voice shaking. "Or

Nicholas. Nicky. Whatever you want."

"Nick it is."

"That's cool," he stammered. "I mean, okay."

"We'll catch up later, Parker," Wallace said, and I felt

the veteran editor's hand on my shoulder. Wallace would

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373

miss Jack as much as I would. It'd be good to tell stories

of the old man. "Maybe you'll show this new kid the

ropes sometime."

"You got it."

And then, when Wallace and Nick Barr had left my

desk, I heard the young reporter whisper enthusiastically

to Wallace, "Dude, that was Henry Parker."

"He's a great reporter," Wallace said. "And actually, I

think the two of you will get along quite well."

"Unreal," Barr said. "This whole place. Unreal."

I smiled, thinking about several years ago, my first day

at the Gazette, when I swiped Jack O'Donnell's coat with

my hand just to see if it was real. I remembered the pride

and disbelief in knowing I'd be working just mere feet

from a living legend.

Unreal. It had all seemed unreal.

Then I looked at Nick Barr, standing where I'd been

just a few short years ago, and knew that Jack might be

living on through me.

* * * * *

Author's Note

This book is a work of fiction, but many of the events discussed, specifically in regard to the growth of the drug trade

in the United States in the 1980s and the CIA's involvement

in the distribution of crack to fund Contra groups, are based

in fact. Gary Webb's series of "Dark Alliance" articles in the

San Jose Mercury News contributed mightily to the development of this book. As is often the case, the truth surrounding Webb's reporting and his alleged suicide is far

stranger (and more terrifying) than fiction.

The full text of Webb's reporting is online, and can

be read at:

www.narconews.com/darkalliance/drugs/index.htm

The murder of Robert Paz was an actual international

incident, and one that was instrumental in sparking the

U.S. invasion of Panama and the eventual capture of

Manuel Noriega. The manner of Paz's death described in

this book is accurate, as was his alleged membership in

the "Hard Chargers," a U.S.-backed insurgency brigade

whose purpose was to incite conflict with the Panama

Defense Forces in the hopes of inciting retaliation that

would positively impact public opinion about the conflict.

While the actual event in which Ramos and Malloy

were ambushed during their time as members of the

Special Forces in Panama is fiction, it was inspired by the

facts surrounding the murder of Robert Paz.

For further reading on these topics, I recommend the

following books:

DARKALLIANCE by Gary Webb (Seven Stories Press)

KILL THE MESSENGER by Nick Schou (Nation

Books)

LEGACY OF ASHES by Tim Weiner (Anchor Books)

CRACK IN AMERICA: edited by Craig Reinarman

and Harry G. Levine (University of California Press)

COCAINE by Dominic Streatfeild (Picador)

THE COMMANDERS by Bob Woodward (Simon

and Schuster)

Acknowledgments

As always, my sincerest thanks to Dianne Moggy,

Margaret O'Neill-Marbury, Donna Hayes, Michelle

Renaud, Heather Foy, Don Lucey, Adam Wilson, Christine Lowman, Craig Swinwood, Catherine Burke,

Belinda Mountain and the whole worldwide MIRA team.

My editor, Linda McFall, has seen both Henry and

myself through thick and thin, and her quick pen and

spot-on instincts make his stories that much richer.

Joe Veltre is a first-class agent and a great friend.

Here's to another book together.

The crime-writing community has been incredibly

supportive of my books. For that I must acknowledge Jon

and Ruth Jordan of CrimeSpree, George Easter and the

staff of Deadly Pleasures, Lynn Kaczmarek at Mystery

News, Andrew Gulli of The Strand and everyone at ITW

and MWA who allowed me into their families.

My two extraordinary families--one by birth, one by

marriage--continue to be my biggest fans and I am incredibly fortunate to have your love and support.

James Ellroy's stunning novel L.A. Confidential was

the main inspiration for this book. Thanks to your searing

tale, this story exists.

And to Susan, who has been my partner in every way,

shape and form, the person whose approval means more

to me than anything, thank you for again making me a

better writer and a better man.

These Henry Parker fans went above and beyond

helping to spread the word about my books. A sincere

thank-you to all of them. Stacy Alesi, Alex Bash, Will

Bernier, Vickie Bolton, Nicole A. Bowling, Michael

Cader, Mike Cane, Simon-Luke Clark, Nancy Cobb,

Rhonda Despins, Alex Faye, Seth Harwood, Ron Hogan,

Dante Howard, Brenda Janowitz, Toni Kelich, Christopher Lawson, Mary Beth Lee, Michele Lee, Becky

LeJeune, Dave Letus, Catherine Mambretti, R.J. Mangahas,

Kevin Manning, Charles B. Mauldin III, Mary Menzel,

Tricia Mescall, Michael O'Neill, Lisa Pietsch, Allison

Pinter, Tracey Prindle, Yvonne Roberts, Tori Scott,

Jennifer Shew, Jamie Singerman, Joy Smith, Jessica

Stachak, Laurence Vergowven, Sarah Weinman, Chris

Well, Jason Wells, Dave White and Jamieson Wolf.

(r)

ISBN: 978-1-4268-4425-6

THE DARKNESS

Copyright (c) 2009 by Jason Pinter.

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or

utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic,

mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including

xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or

retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher,

MIRA Books, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are

either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and

any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments,

events or locales is entirely coincidental.

MIRA and the Star Colophon are trademarks used under license and registered

in Australia, New Zealand, Philippines, United States Patent and Trademark

Office and in other countries.

www.MIRABooks.com

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