Don’t Blink Page 16

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

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

  Click!

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

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

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

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

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

  I shrugged. “Same old, same old.”

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

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

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

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

  Chapter 76

  SO MUCH FOR joy and happiness and all that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Chapter 77

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Again I nodded. “Yes. I knew that.”

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

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

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

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

  “What is it?” I had to ask.

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

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

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

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

  “What’s on it?” I asked.

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

  “How do you know that?”

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

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

  “Sure,” I said. “What is it?”

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

  “Absolutely.”

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

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

  “You don’t. It’s just that I was…”

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

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

  If it’s the last thing I do.

  Chapter 78

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

  “Tails,” said Brison.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Oh yeah, I forgot,” I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Yeah, sure. That’ll be a first.”

  Chapter 79

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

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

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

  “Hey, did you hear me?” I said.

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

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

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

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

  Shit, what do I do? Do I press it?

  No. Not yet.

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

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

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

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

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

  Pffft! Pffft!

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

  Oh no! No! No! No!

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

  Run, Nick! Run now!

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

  Barely!

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

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

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

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

  He raised his gun and my heart nearly stopped.

  Keep running, Nick!

  Chapter 80

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

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

  And I’m bringing company.

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

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

  That’s when I heard it.

  Nothing.

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

  He was taking the elevator.

  Shit!

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

  Up?

  Down?

  Stay put?

  What do I do?

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

  Oh no! The police.

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

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

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

  The fifth floor…

  The fourth floor…

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

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

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

  The third floor…

  The second floor…

  I had to get to the lobby first!

  Nobody else could die on my watch.

  Chapter 81

  THE LITTLE THINGS we take for granted.

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

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

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

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

  I did neither.

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

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

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

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

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