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  I looked back up at Emily’s terrace one time as I walked out onto the street. Then I just shook my head and headed uptown, searching for my car.

  Chapter 94

  SAVORING THE LAST BITE of his Magnolia Bakery cupcake, Carl Apt crumpled the wrapper and, without breaking stride, hook-shot it at the corner garbage can he was passing. It bounced off the light post a foot in front of the can before landing in the exact center.

  Bank shot! Yes! Swa-heeet! he thought as he pumped his fist.

  Wiping frosting off his nose, he continued to walk south down Christopher Street in Greenwich Village. He now wore a pair of black suit pants, a crisp white shirt, red silk Hermès suspenders, and an undone red silk Hermès tie. The point of buying the outfit at Barney’s after killing Wendy was for him to blend in on the street, and it was working like a charm.

  Except for his gun in the laptop bag strapped to his side, he could have been just another Wall Street hump trudging home from a busy day of destroying the world’s economy.

  Despite the APBs and whatever video the NYPD had of him, he knew he was okay. He knew how hard it was to catch someone with means on the move if he didn’t want to get caught. With his ATM card and Lawrence’s dough, he could walk around forever if he wanted. If he didn’t do something stupid to get himself arrested, he would never get caught.

  And the last thing he was was stupid.

  He was on his way to one of his safe houses, the one in Turtle Bay, where he was going to gear up for tonight’s grand finale. He could hardly believe he was almost done. There was only one more name to go. One more target. One more hit. It was a doozie, too. He was actually looking forward to it because it was the biggest, ballsiest challenge of all.

  Spotting an HSBC Bank on the opposite corner, he remembered he was running low on cash. How much would he need? he thought as he crossed the street. Two hundred? Screw it, three. After all, it was only money.

  “Hey, bruva. How about a dollah, bruva?” said someone at his elbow as he was carding himself into the alcove of the bank.

  He looked up and shook his head, smiling.

  He’d seen white street guys with rasta dreads before, but never a pudgy Asian. The short Chinese-looking guy even had a six-string guitar with a Jamaican flag on the strap.

  New York was a trip. You never knew what was going to happen next. He was going to miss it.

  “Maybe, bruva. We’ll see,” Apt said.

  WELCOME TO HSBC, the screen of the ATM inside said. PLEASE INSERT YOUR CARD.

  “The pleasure’s all mine,” he mumbled as he followed the instructions.

  His account kicked out a thousand a day for expenses. Since he didn’t have to use the whole grand every day, there was more than nine grand in it.

  Tonight when he was done, it would have a lot more.

  Eight million more, to be exact.

  It was his big payday. His retirement money. The real reason he was going to such incredible lengths to take out everyone who had ever crossed his dearly departed and extremely wealthy friend, Lawrence.

  He wiped the smile off his face. He had to stop thinking about it. After all, he wasn’t done yet. Couldn’t start counting those chickens. Couldn’t get cocky now.

  He typed in his card’s PIN: 32604. It was the date he’d killed his Delta Force boss. The day he’d shown bad-ass Colonel Henry Greer who really had the bigger set of balls. Greer had tried to get him transferred, but he’d ended up getting himself transferred, hadn’t he? Into the great beyond.

  Apt was busy reliving his own Ode to Joy of putting two ACPs in the back of the big, ball-busting bastard’s head, when a little screen popped up that he’d never seen before:

  CODE 171. INVALID ACCOUNT.

  He cocked his head at the screen like a poked rooster.

  Huh? he thought. That was funny. Not funny fucking ha-ha, either. Not even a little.

  He hit the cancel button, trying to get back the card to try again. But nothing happened. He tried it again, hitting the cancel button harder this time. Same result. Nothing. Shit. Why wouldn’t it return his card?

  He punched in his PIN again. Nothing.

  He pounded the screen, clanging panic bells going off in his head. What the hell was this? What the bloody fuck was going on?

  After a moment, the screen changed, and the PLEASE INSERT YOUR CARD crap came back up.

  No! he thought, cupping his head with his hands. How could this happen? Without the card and the money, he was wide open, on his own, completely and utterly screwed. Something was wrong. Very goddamn wrong.

  “How about that dollah, bruva?” said the Asian street musician, stepping in front of him as Apt exited the bank.

  There was a snick sound as Apt whirled instantly. He embraced the man from behind, knife already in his hand, blade in, the way they’d taught him.

  The derelict’s guitar gonged against the sidewalk as the kid dropped to the sidewalk, holding his slit throat. Apt, already at the corner, calmly went down into the subway pit, Metro-carded through a turnstile, and hustled down the crowded platform.

  A train came a second later, and he got on it without caring where it was going, his mind a blank screen of burning, pulsing, white-hot rage.

  Chapter 95

  LAWRENCE BERGER’S LAWYER, Allen Duques, lived in New Canaan, Connecticut. His house was a nine-thousand-square-foot Tudor mansion on a fifteen-acre estate set back off an unpaved road filled with similar ridiculously ostentatious castles.

  Apt knew this because he had been there twice, running errands for Lawrence. Apt knew Duques was the executor of Lawrence’s estate, which was why he was paying him a visit.

  Apt used an electrical meter to check the rear chain-link fence for voltage, then bolt-cut a hole in it, all the time listening for dogs.

  Through the window of the massive five-car garage was, of all things, a blue Mercedes convertible. It was an S65, even nicer than Lawrence’s, with something like 600 horsepower.

  Apt smiled at his luck as he checked the load in the suppressed Colt M1911 pistol. Instead of the rental car, which he’d left on the service road, he’d drive the German luxury rocket out of here when he was done.

  He walked quickly around the perimeter of the imposing house until he spotted where the underground power and phone lines went in behind some azaleas. Sparks shot from the bolt cutter’s blade as he snipped them both at the same time.

  He started to pick the rinky-dink lock on the rear kitchen door, then decided instead to tap in its window with the handle of the bolt cutter. He was inside, approaching the dining room, when he saw it. A paper printout banner stretched chest high across the threshold:

  MR. APT, I KNOW HOW UPSET YOU ARE. I AM NOT HOME. THERE IS A CELL PHONE ON THE DINING ROOM TABLE. PLEASE HIT THE REDIAL SO WE MAY SPEAK. ALLEN.

  A trick? Apt thought, listening very carefully. Duques was smart, almost as smart as Lawrence.

  After a minute, Apt broke through the banner and picked up the Motorola in the center of the huge antique Spanish farmhouse table.

  “Carl, I’m so glad you called,” Duques said with audible relief.

  “Where’s my money, Allen?” Apt said.

  “I froze the account. I didn’t know any other way to contact you. There have been some developments.”

  “You have my complete, undivided attention, Allen.”

  “I’m sorry to tell you this, but Mr. Berger is dead.”

  Carl closed his eyes as he took a long deep breath. Knowing this was coming didn’t make it hurt any less.

  He opened his eyes and stared at the painting over the sideboard. It looked French Impressionist, but he could tell right away that it was actually a cheap French Impressionist knockoff bought in Vietnam.

  Carl swallowed, his eyes watering.

  Lawrence had taught him that.

  Lawrence had given him everything.

  Chapter 96

  “WAS IT HIS HEART?” Apt finally said.

  “No. It looks like he
committed suicide. He had some sort of pill hidden in his mouth when he was arrested. At least that’s what the police are saying.”

  Carl thought about that. Lawrence dying alone. His friend. It broke his heart. If only he could have been there.

  “Carl, are you still there?”

  “Yes,” Apt said, hiding the sadness howling through him. “What now?” he said.

  “First off, in case this is being recorded, I would like to state that I, Allen Duques, am in no way complicit with any illegal activities, but am merely in the process of dispensing the will of the Lawrence M. Berger estate, of which I am sole executor.”

  “Whatever,” Apt said. “Where’s the money?”

  “Yes, of course. In front of you, down the hallway, is my den. Do you see it?”

  Apt crossed the room and pushed through some French doors.

  “I’m there.”

  “Excellent. On the leather couch are two valises.”

  Apt clicked on the desk light.

  “The black suitcases?” Apt said, spotting them.

  “Yes.”

  Apt opened them without checking for wires. The thought of Duques blowing up his anal-retentive-designed interior of his mansion was laughable. Inside the bags were hundred-dollar bills. Lots and lots and lots of them. Stacks upon stacks.

  “I apologize for the cumbersome number of bills. I would have liked to wire it to the account of your choice, but I had a visit today from the authorities that makes that extremely impractical. Lawrence actually anticipated as much and had me make these arrangements as a precaution. I believe there’s a note for you in the bag on the left.”

  Apt opened it and slid out an expensive stationery card. Carl smiled at Lawrence’s beautiful handwriting in his signature green ink.

  Carl, my most excellent friend,

  Thank you. Only you could make my last days my best.

  Never stop learning,

  Lawrence

  “Mr. Berger wanted you to be happy, Carl,” Duques said in his ear. “He always spoke of you so fondly.”

  Apt lowered the phone to wipe a tear away with his thumb before tucking the note back in the money bag. He was beyond touched. The big guy had done the right thing after all. His good buddy had more than taken care of him. How could he have doubted it for even a second?

  “Carl, before I forget. Mr. Berger left a message for you. He said, and I quote, you needn’t bother with the last name on the list. End quote. Whatever that means. He said you’d understand.”

  Apt thought about that. That didn’t sound right. If anything, Lawrence had been most excited by the last name on his list. Did the Big L have a change of heart?

  “You sure about that?” Apt said.

  “He was quite emphatic about it. Consider your services rendered in full. Enjoy your reward. You’ve earned it. As this will be our final communication, it’s been a pleasure knowing you.”

  “You, too, Allen. I have just one question.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Where do you keep the keys to the S Sixty-five?”

  “My new car?” the lawyer sputtered. “Why? That has nothing to do with these arrangements.”

  “I thought we’d make a new arrangement.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “How’s this?” Apt said. “I get the S Sixty-five and you don’t come home to a smoking crater where this palace used to be.”

  There was a short silence.

  “They’re hanging on the back door to the butler’s pantry,” Duques said and hung up.

  “Pleasure doing business with you,” Apt said to the darkness as he backtracked toward the kitchen.

  Chapter 97

  THERE WAS A LARGE CROWD waiting out in front of the Sugar Bowl when I rolled past around eleven. A live band was playing tonight. It was the last concert of the summer, I remembered from a flyer. An up-and-coming band out of Ireland called the Gilroy Stompers was being touted as the next U2.

  I thought Mary Catherine might like to go for a goof.

  I parked and went inside the Bennett compound. The tiny house was still and quiet. I found Seamus asleep in front of the TV. Instead of waking him, I tossed one of the girls’ pink Snuggies over him, then took out my phone and snapped a picture of him. I couldn’t resist.

  I peeked inside the door of the girls’ room and smiled. There was more bed in the room than floor space. I stood for a moment, watching them sleep. The sight of them lying so peacefully warmed me in the way only being a parent can. While my day might have sucked, they’d managed to tack on another hopefully happy memory or two, grown another day older.

  Who knows? Maybe they’d even grown a little stronger, a little more capable of dealing with this chaotic world they would one day inherit. I hoped so. I had a feeling they were going to need all the help they could get, the way things were going.

  Kids could be challenging, oftentimes a downright pain in the ass, but in rare moments they made you see that maybe you were trying after all. Maybe you really were doing the best you could.

  Stoked from my warm-and-fuzzy moment, I went into the kitchen, searching for a beer. I was popping open a can of Miller High Life when Mary Catherine came in from the back porch, a book and a blanket in her hands.

  A smile started and spread wider and wider over my face as I stood staring at her. Beer foam spilled over onto my hand, and I kept smiling. I don’t think I can properly describe how happy seeing her made me.

  She was tan and glowing and looked fabulous.

  “You look… fabulous,” I said.

  “Yes, I do, Mike,” she said. “Is that so surprising?”

  “No. Fortuitous, is how I’d put it.”

  “For who?”

  I was speechless for the second time that night. I was really losing my touch.

  “Hey, you want to hear some rock music at the Sugar Bowl?”

  Mary smiled.

  I smiled back.

  “You wake up Seamus,” she said, rolling her Irish eyes. “I’ll get my flip-flops.”

  Chapter 98

  THE SAFE HOUSE APT had rented on 29th Street between Lexington and Third was a small brick town house that actually had a one-car garage. After he coded open the box on the sidewalk, he drove the S65 in and closed the gate behind him. He left the convertible running as he grabbed the money-filled suitcases piled on the front seat. This wouldn’t take long.

  In the back of the loft-style space’s bedroom closet, he took out a North Face knapsack. Inside were several driver’s licenses and passports with his picture on them.

  He’d paid a hundred thousand dollars for them to a Canadian counterfeiter who’d just gotten out of jail. They were excellent forgeries, virtually indistinguishable from the real thing. He’d picked up a few things from the Intel people he used to run with in his other life. Names of folks who could get you things. Guns. Documents. Whatever. It was all about the networking.

  As he shouldered the bag of documents, he glanced at the bulging garment bag above it. In it were the clothing and equipment and research he’d done to prepare for his final hit. He stared at it for a second, regretfully. All that recon for nothing. A shame, he thought, heading outside. Oh, well. Next life.

  Back inside the garage, he sat for a moment in the front seat of the S65, thinking. He’d been planning on heading down to New Orleans, where a pretty girl he’d gone to City College with was living, but now he wasn’t so sure. He’d stirred up one hell of a hornet’s nest here with all these killings. What if the news had gotten to her?

  He finally decided to ditch that idea and head down the coast to Key West for some extended R & R. Dip his toe into the Gulf of Mexico until he figured out his next move. With the bulging suitcases beside him now, he could certainly take his time.

  He hit the garage door and cranked the Benz. He sat in the car, listening to the purring thunder of its engine, as he stared out at the open road. It was a warm and lovely night. A haze hovered along the edges of the str
eet lamps down the slope of 29th Street. It was one of those magical moments in New York when it feels like it’s all yours: the buildings, the streets, all of it built for you, waiting on you, pivoting on you.

  He kept sitting there. What the heck was he doing? What was he waiting for? He was done now. Time to hit the road and see exactly how free $8 million could make him. How good he could make himself feel.

  But he didn’t go. Instead, he shut off the car and hit the garage door down and went back inside. When he came out again he was holding the garment bag. He laid it down on the front seat on top of the money and stared at it.

  He was probably being foolish, but he just couldn’t leave things like this. Fuck what the lawyer, Duques, had said about Lawrence’s having changed his mind. He knew what Lawrence would have wanted him to do. He understood the big man better than anyone. Maybe better than the guy understood himself.

  Lawrence had done so much for him. It wasn’t about the money. He realized it never had been. This was about friendship. About faith, respect. Lawrence had been the father he never had. You couldn’t put a price tag on that.

  Besides, he thought as he opened the garage door again and revved the engine.

  He always completed the mission.

  He unzipped the bag and took out the MapQuest sheet for the final target and turned on the Mercedes’s nav system.

  Point of start? the screen asked.

  Manhattan, he typed.

  Point of destination?

  Apt’s fingers hovered above the keyboard for a moment and then he typed it:

  Breezy Point, Queens.

  Chapter 99

  IT WAS A LITTLE AFTER MIDNIGHT when Carl Apt drove out from underneath the second-to-last stop of the A subway line in Rockaway, Queens.

  A sign said the name of the stop was Beach 105th Street, but there was no beach in sight. There was just a razor-wire fence outside some sort of industrial plant. Some ant colony high-rises, an ill-kept ball field.