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  “Why are you so nice to me?” I said.

  Mary Catherine’s smile lit up the back porch.

  “You know, that’s funny. I keep asking myself the same question,” she said.

  I reluctantly went back to my wretched reading. As I pored over the case files, I was again struck with regret over not being able to keep Berger’s death out of the press. If Apt really was brainwashed, we could have used it to somehow lure him in.

  But had we lost it after all? I suddenly wondered. What if we set up some sort of memorial service? Maybe something in Central Park, across the street from his building. A chance for all his friends and family, if he had any, to pay their respects.

  I heard the phone in the kitchen a few minutes later. I didn’t want to know who it was. The commissioner, probably. Someone in a position of authority, without a doubt, ready to dole out more responsibility or more punishment. I wanted neither.

  It turned out I was wrong. It was actually worse.

  “It’s that woman from the FBI,” Mary Catherine called out coldly from the back door.

  I sat up as if I’d just been busted doing something.

  “Uh,” I said. I forgot I had given her the number of the beach house just in case my cell battery died.

  “Take the call, Mike,” Mary Catherine said. “She’s practically drooling on the other end. ‘Is Michael there? Can I speak to him, please? Is this Mary Catherine?’ ”

  “Hello?” I said, back in the kitchen.

  “I hope I’m not bothering you, Mike.”

  “Pity the thought,” I said. “What’s up, Emily?”

  “You know how we’re having trouble placing Apt in the databases? Well, I think I found out why. I just got a call from an agent friend on the Joint Terrorism Task Force. A cousin of his might have some information on Apt. She wants to set up a meeting for Monday.”

  “Why can’t this cousin tell us over the phone?”

  “She works in Intelligence, Mike. As if this case needs some more intrigue. Apparently, the CIA has something to do with this now.”

  Chapter 86

  GERSHWIN PLAYED FROM A PIANO as Apt shook another peanut into his mouth. A $19 cocktail called a Whiskey Smash sat untouched on the black-granite bar in front of him.

  The place was the Bemelman Bar in the luxury Carlyle Hotel on Madison Avenue, only a few blocks from Lawrence’s apartment. Carl knew it was risky to come here, but he didn’t care. The white-jacketed waiters, the art deco furniture, the dreamy lighting. Like the Tea Garden at the Plaza Hotel, and the 21 Club, it was one of his favorite places in the city.

  He looked at himself in the bar mirror. Form-fitting Dior Homme black polo, Raf Simmons skinny black jeans, chunky gold Rolex Presidente. Confident, stylish, a sense of moneyed swagger. He fit right in, didn’t he? Which was quite odd when you considered where he’d come from.

  He would have said he pulled himself up by his bootstraps, but he hadn’t been able to afford boots. He’d had to pull himself up by the dirt on his bare feet. He’d grown up in Appalachia in a place called Manette Holler, Pennsylvania, near the West Virginia line. His family had been backwoods poor, living in a trailer butted up against a junkyard. His half-toothless, alcohol- and drug-addicted mother worked sporadically at the truck stop Burger King when she wasn’t turning tricks with the semi drivers in the parking lot out back.

  His Uncle Shelly was the owner of the junkyard. The sadistic son of a bitch used to beat him just for the hell of it. After a while, he’d almost gotten used to it. Once he got to school, the bigger kids would try to beat him, too, but they had nothing on his malicious uncle.

  The military was the only way out of Manette Holler for him, and he took it at seventeen. The 82nd Airborne Rangers had been like a dream come true—three squares and a place to sleep. They’d taught him to kill and how to survive in the wilderness. He was a quick study.

  He’d still be serving his country in the Special Forces if they hadn’t royally fucked him over. But once out, he went underground. Eastern seaboard, Key West to Maine. Wandering, living on the streets or the Appalachian Trail, riding the freights.

  He would have done that for the rest of his life had he not met Lawrence. Not only had Lawrence discovered that he had dyslexia but he’d actually taught him how to beat it. At the age of thirty, Carl had been introduced to reading. Lawrence had been his benefactor and his tutor, like Aristotle was to Alexander the Great.

  He thought about all the books and meals and discussions he had enjoyed. How wonderful to read quietly by his window as the wind howled through the trees of Central Park. The drives up to Connecticut in the fall on Route 7, the Mercedes’s engine purring. He could have done that for the rest of his life. Happy, alone, living the good life, the clean, dry life of the mind.

  But then Lawrence was diagnosed, and they learned his enormous heart was failing. He’d thought that all the good things had come to an end. That’s when Lawrence came to him with a not-so-modest proposal. If Carl eliminated all of Lawrence’s enemies, his education and aesthetic discoveries would continue for the rest of his life, courtesy of Lawrence. Once the last of the people on Lawrence’s list was eliminated, Carl would receive the number to an account in Geneva.

  After all, he’d killed for his country for no more than his mother had been paid at the Burger King. Killing for his friend with a $20 million inheritance was a no-brainer.

  Apt ate a couple more peanuts, his eyes moving left to right then right to left, the scan of a hawk perched on a utility pole. He stirred his drink and continued to people-watch at the tables. A nipped-and-tucked divorcée on the prowl. A well-groomed, swarthy little Prada-wearing fuck with three gorgeous Asian women. A black male model in a white sport coat who kept trying to catch his attention.

  Then he spotted her, a busty pale blonde in her late twenties sitting at the other end of the bar. There was a sexy, slutty, Old World Hollywood glamour about her, Marilyn Monroe.

  Carl knew her name wasn’t Norma Jean Baker but rather Wendy Shackleton. She’d made Berger’s list for showing up from an escort service for Lawrence one night and taking one look at him and turning on her heels. The whore had totally rejected his good buddy before he’d even had a chance to open his mouth. She’d hurt Lawrence’s feelings very badly. Bad move.

  Carl made eye contact as he carried his drink over.

  “Good-bye, Norma Jean. Though I never knew you at all,” he sang, taking her hand as he sat down beside her.

  She laughed demurely.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, letting her go after a second. “How forward of me. My computer company just went public, and you’re just about the most glamorous-looking woman I’ve ever seen. You could be Marilyn herself.”

  “You’re very kind,” she said, checking him out with approval. “Are you staying at the hotel?”

  “Yes, I am,” Apt said. “I actually rang the opening bell down at the stock exchange this morning. It’s been one of the most exciting days of my life, and I need someone to share it with. Please, please, please, let me buy you a drink.”

  “Sure, sure, sure,” she said, giggling. “What a gentleman.”

  “Are you looking for some company tonight?” she said in his ear when her $20 dirty martini arrived.

  “Oh,” he said, feigning surprise. “Oh, wow. You’re um…”

  “Working. Yes,” she said, nodding, smiling. “Does that bother you?”

  “Bother me? I’m bothered, all right. Hot and bothered in the best way possible. How does it work?”

  “You’re not a cop, are you?”

  Carl laughed and took a sip of his Whiskey Smash.

  “Hardly,” he said.

  “I didn’t think so. How does it work? Let’s see. You give me a thousand dollars, and I give you a lovely night you won’t forget.”

  “Heck, let’s get to it, then,” Carl said, taking her hand again.

  She banged his bad knee as she was pulling out her bar stool.

  “I�
�m so sorry,” she said.

  “No problem,” he said, his eyes tearing with the pain. She was going to pay for that, Carl thought.

  His limp became more pronounced as they left the bar and headed for the opulent lobby’s elevator.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Old war injury,” Carl said. “Don’t worry. Everything else works fine.”

  “Glad to hear it. What should I call you?”

  “My employees call me Mr. Rifkin,” Apt said. “But you can call me Joel.”

  Chapter 87

  MONDAY MORNING, I sat at my desk at One Police Plaza still as a Zen master, breathing slowly, eyes closed, mentally prepping myself for my upcoming reaming at the task force meeting.

  After reading the morning papers, I needed the meditation. Berger’s lawyer, some fool named Allen Duques, was crying false arrest and police negligence and was insisting on a thorough investigation into his client’s death. Only the Post piece happened to remind everyone that his client was a child- and cop-killing wacko.

  I was thinking about getting into the lotus position to counteract all the bad karma when there was a knock on my cubicle wall. I reluctantly opened my eyes. Then I smiled. It was Emily Parker.

  “Mike, are you… okay?” she said.

  “Fine,” I said.

  “Good, because my friend’s cousin is downstairs waiting for us.”

  “Oh, right. The spook,” I said, standing.

  “Shh,” Emily said. “The walls have ears.”

  Outside on the street half a block east, a massive silver Lincoln Navigator sat idling. A bony, attractive brown-haired woman sat behind the wheel. Even more unexpected was the six-month-old in the car seat behind her.

  “Mike, Karen. Karen, Mike,” Emily said as we climbed in.

  Emily grabbed shotgun while I was relegated to the backseat next to the baby on board. I flicked some cheerios off the leather before I sat.

  “Please tell Mike what you were telling me, Karen. You worked with Carl Apt in Intelligence, right?”

  “I did,” the thin woman said, checking her mirror.

  “How about the baby?” I said, smiling at the cute little girl.

  “She’s a civilian,” Karen assured me with a smile. “I worked for the Company until a year ago. Now I’m a Larchmont soccer-mom-in-training. Who knows what tomorrow will bring? Love makes you do some damn strange things.”

  “I know what that’s like,” I said.

  Emily shot me a look from the front seat.

  “I thought it was Carl when I saw the security shot in the Post,” Karen began, “but I didn’t come forward because of national secrecy, yada, yada, yada. But after the recent death of that woman, I couldn’t stay silent anymore. What I’m about to tell you is classified information. You didn’t hear this from me. Agreed? In 2002 I worked in Yemen with the CIA SAD.”

  “Is that the stay-at-home-dad department?” I said.

  “Special Activities Division,” she said as we hooked a quick left down an alley-wide Chinatown street. “We were responsible for covert military raids on Al Qaeda targets. Carl was on one of our strike teams. He was the bomb tech. All the other Delta guys deferred to him for all things explosive. He actually won the Intelligence Star commendation in our operation when he used a predator drone to knock out a pickup truck loaded with bad guys who were coming in on our position.”

  “You’re kidding me,” I said.

  “I made some phone calls,” Karen said. “Carl, while great at war, wasn’t too hot on the domestic front. He was working at Fort Bragg as a Delta Force trainer up until 2003, when he got into a beef with his new supervisor. He was about to be transferred out of the group, when the CO found some C-four wired to his car battery. When they came to ask Apt about it, he was gone. He’d bugged out.”

  “He went AWOL,” Emily said.

  “Not just that,” Karen said. “A month to the day after he left, the supervisor didn’t show up for work. They found him sitting at his kitchen table in his bathrobe with the top of his head blown into his bowl of Blueberry Morning. Coroner retrieved two .forty-five ACPs from his brain pan. He’d been double tapped, execution-style. No forced entry. Apt must have picked the lock. Delta Force SOP. Apt came back and finished the job.”

  That explained a lot, I thought. Apt’s dedication, his bomb-making flair. It also explained the connection he had with Berger. Both warped bastards had been “wronged by the world.”

  “That’s what I call Army strong,” I said as the baby grabbed my thumb. “Do you know anything about Berger?”

  “The rich fat guy?” Karen said. “Not a thing. I just thought I’d let you know who you’re up against. Apt knows tactics, counterinsurgency. He’s one dangerous son of a bitch. I said more than once that I was glad he was on our side. Only now he’s not.”

  “Any family?” Emily said.

  “Only family on his army record is a mother. Deceased.”

  I looked out at the street then turned and looked at the baby.

  “You wouldn’t know where Carl is right now, would you?” I asked the little girl.

  Chapter 88

  AS SPY MOM DROPPED ME and Emily off in front of One Police Plaza, I felt a tingle run up my side. Instead of my Spidey sense cluing me in to Apt’s current location like I was hoping, it was just my cell phone that I’d left on vibrate.

  “The good news is that you don’t have to attend this morning’s piss-and-moan session,” my boss said. “One guess what’s behind door number two.”

  I took the phone off my ear and just stared at it as I leaned back on one of the massive concrete bomb-blast planters out in front of the building.

  “Another one?” Emily groaned.

  “How? Where?” I finally said into the phone.

  “The Carlyle Hotel,” Mirlam said. “Madison and Seventy-something. Looks like a hooker, Mike. You need to get up there before the news vans. This guy just won’t quit.”

  Emily and I got my car and went crosstown to Sixth Avenue and made a right. It was another sidewalk-scorcher of a day. The overtaxed A/C started spitting water by the time we made it to Midtown. As we approached 42nd, the traffic actually halted, and we did the stop-and-go thing in the white-hot glare. I thought there was an accident or maybe the president was in town, but it turned out to be just a traffic agent blocking off two right-hand lanes for no discernible reason.

  “Are you freaking kidding me? Get the hell out of the way!” Emily screamed, practically climbing out of the passenger window to get a piece of the stringy white traffic lady as we roared past.

  “And an abusive morning to you, too, Agent Parker,” I teased as I gunned it, hoping the city worker didn’t catch our plates. “You want to stop for an iced coffee? Or I could pull over and throw open a fire hydrant for you to cool down if you want.”

  “I don’t know how you do it, Mike,” Emily said, taking her pulse. “This city. This heat. No wonder everyone here is nuts.”

  “Present company most definitely included,” I said, pointing at her.

  We rolled east over to Madison and picked up the pace. Fancy boutiques with even fancier foreign names started sailing past. Emanuel Ungaro, Sonia Rykiel, Bang & Olufsen, Christian Louboutin. Were they luggage shops? Jewelry stores? Law firms? If you had to ask, you couldn’t afford it, and I most definitely had to ask.

  The Carlyle was between East 75th and 76th on the west side of Madison Avenue. It was also right around the corner from Berger’s Fifth Avenue co-op building. Was Apt getting sloppier now? I wondered. Was he homesick? Or was he taunting us? If he was, it was working. I most definitely felt taunted.

  We had to circle around the block in order to double park on 76th near Fifth behind a patrol car. As we approached the Carlyle, I saw that a section of the hotel was actually under renovation. There was a sidewalk shed and an exterior construction elevator connected to the pale limestone of its north face. Outside the construction entrance, about twenty hardhats, half of them
shirtless, were enjoying coffee and cigarettes and the passing women. They immediately shifted their attention to my partner as we passed.

  The Carlyle had one of those lobbies that immediately makes you check the shine on your shoes and look to see if there are any spots on your tie. A piano played from somewhere as chandeliers the size of minivans glittered between palace walls of pristine white marble. The black stone floor was so highly buffed, I looked for a “Slippery When Wet” sign.

  An almost-as-buffed short black man in a tailored blue suit immediately button-holed us by the check-in desk. The man looked incapable of perspiring, like he’d long ago had the offensive glands removed.

  “I’m Adrian Tottinger,” the manager said. “The um… unfortunate person is actually downstairs, where they’re working.”

  It was hot again once we entered the hotel’s drab concrete back stairwell. At the bottom of it, a uniform snapped his cell phone shut and led us along a stifling corridor past the hotel’s kitchen and a rumbling laundry room.

  Beyond some hanging plastic and another door, the section of the hotel under construction smelled faintly of an open sewer. The sound of nail guns and shouts rang from above as we walked over gravel to a corner where three more uniforms were standing.

  The “unfortunate person” was lying in a large tublike pan used for mixing concrete. The woman had actually been cemented into the tub with just her head and arms and lower legs exposed. As if perhaps she’d mistaken the pan of ready-mix for a Jacuzzi and had fallen asleep.

  She was pale and had white-blond hair and a Marilyn Monroe or Madonna look. Even with most of her face beaten black and blue and her neck swollen and purple, she’d obviously been quite attractive. Now she was naked and dead and tossed like so much trash among the construction site’s drywall screws and spackle-flecked-compound buckets.

  “Let me guess. This fits with the Joel Rifkin profile somehow,” I said.