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  I glanced over at Dwayne, expecting him to be relieved at the news. We’d be among the first to be interviewed.

  Except Dwayne wasn’t there. He wasn’t anywhere. He’d just up and disappeared.

  Gone.

  Again.

  Chapter 12

  IT TOOK ANOTHER two hours before I finally got out of Lombardo’s. While I was being interviewed by one of the detectives, I kept waiting to be asked about Dwayne’s disappearance. The question never came. That probably explained how he was able to escape Lombardo’s undetected – there were just too many people for the police to control, too much commotion. It was truly a mob scene.

  A prophetic choice of words, as I’d soon discover.

  Anyway, the last thing I felt like doing later that night was go to a party, but Courtney wouldn’t take no for an answer, not even under the circumstances.

  “You’re coming, and that’s that. You promised me,” she told me over the phone. “Besides, you need to get your mind off what happened today. Compartmentalize, Nick. Just stuff it into a box for a little while.”

  I had to chuckle. Compartmentalize? Stuff it into a box? That was Courtney at her best. And worst, I guess.

  Since I first met her ten years ago at the National Magazine Awards banquet, I’ve yet to meet anyone who could – for lack of a better word – compartmentalize better than she could. Like any normal person she was shocked and horrified to hear what had happened at Lombardo’s that afternoon. But she was also a born and bred New Yorker and knew the importance of being able to get on with your life, no matter what had happened to you.

  It wasn’t just talk with Courtney, either. Her younger brother had worked in the South Tower of the World Trade Center. Ninety-seventh floor. And she had really loved him, too.

  So at eight o’clock I walked into the white marble splendor that was Astor Hall in the New York Public Library. The party was a benefit for New York Smarts, a citywide tutoring program for grade-school students. Courtney was one of its board members and had purchased a table for ten on behalf of Citizen magazine. Good for her. Even better for the kids. A thousand dollars a plate can buy a lot of tutoring.

  “There you are!” I heard over my shoulder. Courtney had found me where you can always find me at these types of events: the bar. “And I see you’ve discovered the house Scotch,” she said.

  Indeed I had. It was a Laphroaig 15 Year Old, which happened to be my personal favorite. Courtney obviously had some pull with the event’s liquor committee.

  “Thank you,” I said, tipping my glass. “I definitely needed this.”

  “You’re welcome. Just try to leave a little for the other guests, if you can,” she said, deadpanning.

  “Okay, but just a little.”

  Courtney helped herself to one of the flutes of champagne that were being passed around. “Well, so much for being able to take your mind off today,” she said.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because Lombardo’s is the talk of the party, Nick. Hell, it’s the talk of the city.”

  I was hardly surprised.

  The front page of the New York Post’s late edition had screamed, “DEATH DU JOUR!” Meanwhile, the local and cable news networks were having a field day. By the time they hit the airwaves with live feeds outside of Lombardo’s, they were able to report the identity of the first victim – the guy sitting next to Dwayne and me.

  I could’ve sworn I knew him, and I was right.

  His name was Vincent Marcozza, and he was the longtime lawyer – excuse me, consigliere – for reputed Brooklyn mob boss Eddie “The Prince” Pinero.

  “Everyone’s convinced today was payback,” said Courtney. I nodded. “I guess.”

  Eddie “The Prince” Pinero had been convicted the week before on criminal usury charges, otherwise known as loansharking at an interest rate that would make even your credit card company blush.

  The case was the first time Vincent Marcozza – a legal heavyweight, in every sense of the word – had failed to spring his biggest client. But hey, even Bruce Cutler didn’t win every time on behalf of John Gotti.

  But Marcozza’s performance in the trial had been heavily criticized by legal pundits. They said he’d been uncharacteristically sloppy and at times seemed ill prepared. As Jeffrey Toobin told Anderson Cooper on CNN, “Marcozza really took his eyes off the ball this time.”

  His eyes, huh?

  Courtney raised her champagne glass. Then she gave me that big blue-eyed wink of hers. “So here’s to you, Nick.”

  “Me? For what?” I asked.

  “For starters, being alive,” she said. “I had no idea you were such a magnet for danger these days. A girl could really get in trouble hanging around you.”

  We clinked glasses, but what followed could only be described as an awkward silence between us. It was all due to the subtext of what she’d just said.

  Which brings me back to the second thing you need to know about Courtney Sheppard.

  I owe you that one, remember?

  Chapter 13

  THE PROBLEM BETWEEN us was as clear as the ten-carat diamond on her finger.

  Courtney was engaged.

  And not just to anybody, but to Thomas Ferramore, one of the wealthiest guys in New York. We’re talking loaded here. Super megabucks. A one-man stimulus package, if you will.

  Ferramore owned commercial real estate, lots of it. He owned an airline. He owned over a dozen radio stations. Two soccer teams.

  Oh yeah, and he owned Citizen magazine.

  After their yearlong “whirlwind courtship” that rivaled the likes of Lindsay Lohan, Britney Spears, and Brangelina for boldfaced mentions in the gossip pages, the two of them were scheduled to be married this fall at the ultraposh San Sebastian Hotel here in the city. You guessed it. Ferramore owned that, too.

  The whole thing promised to be the don’t-miss social event of the season. A real storybook wedding. Problem was, there’d been an unexpected chapter written. Only two people knew about it, and Thomas Ferramore wasn’t one of them.

  The night before I left for Darfur, Courtney and I had slept together.

  We immediately agreed that it was a one-time thing, a complete lapse in judgment due to our close working relationship over the years. And our friendship, platonic up until then. Sometimes histrionic, often hilarious.

  “We can’t pretend it didn’t happen, nor do I want to,” she said the morning after. “But we have to act like it didn’t happen, Nick, okay? And that’s that.”

  Compartmentalizing again.

  But I suspected it wouldn’t be as easy as “that’s that.”

  Sure enough, after her little toast to me, “it” was suddenly the big white elephant in the big white marble room of Astor Hall. We couldn’t ignore it, not until we at least had discussed it some more. As much as we might have tried, there was no way to stuff that elephant into a box.

  More important, I didn’t want to. For better or worse, Courtney needed to know how I felt about her, and maybe it had taken getting shot at in Africa for me to fully understand that.

  So I took a swig of my Laphroaig 15 Year Old Scotch, followed by a deep breath. Here goes, well, everything, I was thinking.

  I turned to her. She was wearing a long black dress with a jewel neckline, her auburn hair elegantly pulled back behind her ears. Beautiful – and so, so sweet.

  “Courtney, there’s something I need to -” “Uh-oh,” she interrupted.

  Uh-oh?

  But she wasn’t reading tea leaves. This had nothing to do with what I was about to say to her. Instead, Courtney was peering over my right shoulder. She’d seen someone, hadn’t she?

  “We’ve got big trouble at twelve o’clock,” she announced.

  Chapter 14

  “HELLO, NICK,” I heard coming up behind me.

  I turned to see Brenda Evans, the very blond, very attractive on-air stock market analyst for WFN – the World Financial – based here in New York. Her nickname, mai
nly among men, was the “Bull and Bear Babe.” I, however, knew Brenda by a different moniker.

  My ex-girifriend.

  “Hello, Brenda,” I said. Those two words were the first I’d spoken to her since she’d broken up with me a little less than a year ago. My next five words were a complete lie. “It’s good to see you.”

  “You too, Nick,” she said. She was probably lying through those brilliantly white teeth of hers, but I couldn’t be sure. That’s how good she was.

  As Brenda and Courtney quickly exchanged air kisses and pretended they liked each other, I realized Brenda wasn’t alone. With her was David Sorren, the all-powerful Manhattan district attorney, not to mention one of People magazine’s “25 Most Eligible Bachelors.”

  “Hi,” he said to me, not waiting for Brenda to introduce us. “I’m David Sorren.”

  “Of course you are,” I said jokingly. Jeez, he had shiny white teeth, too.

  Beyond the cover of People, I’d seen him on the news at least a hundred times, usually standing on the steps of the Manhattan Criminal Courthouse touting the latest conviction of some bad guy. Now, with any luck, Sorren would be a complete prick in person so I could immediately hate him.

  “And you’re Nick Daniels,” he said as we shook hands firmly. “I’m a big fan of your writing. In fact, I think you got robbed last year on the Pulitzer.”

  So much for hating the guy.

  “Well, as we runners-up say, it was an honor just to be nominated. But thanks,” I said.

  “Don’t let him fool you – he cried for three days straight,” said Courtney, chiming in with one of her patented wisecracks. She began to introduce herself, but it was another case of someone who needed no introduction.

  “Yes, hello, Courtney,” said Sorren, giving her the extrafriendly two-handed grasp direct from the Bill Clinton play-book. “I’ve been wanting to meet you for quite some time. I’m glad our paths have finally crossed.”

  Courtney wasn’t born yesterday.

  “You’re not just saying that so Citizen magazine will run a big puff piece on you after you announce your candidacy for mayor next week, right?” she said.

  Sorren wasn’t born yesterday, either.

  “Of course I am. Let me know if it works,” he answered with a wink. “In the meantime, congratulations on your recent engagement. Is Mr. Ferramore here?”

  “No, he’s actually traveling on business,” said Courtney. “He’s in Europe. Home next week.”

  Brenda promptly took back the reins of the conversation, another thing she was always good at.

  “So, Nick, I understand you had quite the eventful afternoon,” she said. “That must have been terrible. I’m sorry you had to see it.”

  I was about to ask how she knew I had been at Lombardo’s when I remembered that this was Brenda Evans, the dogged reporter. Her sources extended well beyond her Wall Street turf.

  “Yes. It was terrible,” I said. “I’m sorry I was there, too.” I didn’t really have anything more I wanted to add. Thankfully, Courtney saved me. She turned to Sorren and instantly made like the investigative reporter she used to be.

  “David, I’m sure you’ve heard all the speculation about Eddie Pinero being responsible for Marcozza’s murder, right?” she asked. “What’s your take on it?”

  As leading questions went, this one was a major gimme. Sorren, like a young Rudy Giuliani – albeit better looking and with a full head of thick hair straight out of a men’s shampoo commercial – had made cleaning up organized crime one of his highest priorities as Manhattan DA.

  “At this point,” said Sorren, “most of my thoughts are with the families of those two officers who were gunned down.” He paused and drew a deep breath. “That said, I can assure you of this: We’ll nail whoever committed those murders. And if it turns out that Pinero was connected, I’ll be swinging the hammer on him myself, and I’ll be swinging it hard.”

  Whoa. Easy there, Popeye…

  I could see the veins in Sorren’s neck pop through his skin as he finished that last sentence. It was more than mere conviction. It bordered on vengeance.

  It also brought the conversation to a screeching halt. All that remained were the obligatory parting pleasantries. So good to see you again… Yes, we really should try to get together sometime… Blah, blah, blah…

  And that was that.

  I was done talking to Brenda and her new boyfriend for the evening. At least, that’s what I thought.

  Chapter 15

  “SO, WHAT WERE you and I saying before we were interrupted by Blond Ambition?” asked Courtney when we were alone again. “You were about to tell me something, no? So tell me, Nick.”

  Yes. Yes, I was. But timing is… um… uh… everything, and the moment for that heartfelt declaration had come and gone. Along with my having the guts to say the actual words to her.

  All the more reason why I suddenly didn’t feel like sticking around at the benefit.

  “I guess it’s jet lag,” I explained to Courtney. “I need to catch up on some sleep. You okay with that… boss?”

  She probably knew I was making an excuse to leave, but she also knew the only reason I had come in the first place was because she’d asked. Plus, I’d had a rough couple of days, right?

  “We’ll talk tomorrow,” she said, giving me a sweet kiss on the cheek. “As soon as possible we’ve got to get you back together with Dwayne Robinson. We need that interview, Nick.”

  I couldn’t have agreed more. I definitely wanted this story as much as she did.

  A minute or so later I was on the steps outside the New York Public Library – smack between its two landmark lion sculptures, Patience and Fortitude – when I heard someone call out my name.

  I turned to see David Sorren catching up to me. He was jogging, actually.

  “You got a second?” he asked.

  “Sure,” I said.

  Sorren reached into his jacket, removing a pack of Marlboro Lights. I was surprised to see that he smoked, if only because of his widely known political ambition. Gallup poll: candidate + cigarettes = less trustworthy. Obama didn’t go on the patch just for health reasons.

  “You want one?” he offered. “No, thanks.”

  “Yeah, I know, bad habit. Don’t tell the press,” he said, lighting up. “Wait a minute, you are the press.”

  I smiled. “I’ll consider this off the record. Besides, I’m not much for petty crap.”

  “Good, because I actually have a favor to ask you.” Sorren slid the pack of Marlboro Lights back into his jacket. When I saw his hand again, he was holding something else.

  “Here,” he said. “Go ahead, take it.”

  It was his business card. I looked at it as if to ask, What’s this for?

  “Now’s not the time, but I was hoping the two of us could maybe talk on Monday about what you witnessed at Lombardo’s,” he said. “I shouldn’t be saying this to you, but I’m convinced Eddie Pinero was behind it. Now I have to figure out some way to prove it. Believe it or not, I am torn up about those two detectives.”

  “I understand,” I said, taking the card. “I’ll give you a call. Monday.”

  “Great – I appreciate it. Because if it’s the last thing I do, I’m going to bring that cocksucker Pinero down for good.”

  I nodded. I mean, I think I nodded. Tell you the truth, I was still pretty taken aback by the district attorney’s intensity. He wanted Pinero bad. Really bad.

  Sorren firmly shook my hand again and was halfway back up the steps when he turned around.

  “Hey, one other thing,” he said. “Brenda told me that the two of you used to be a couple.” He let go with a slight chuckle and shake of the head. “Small world, huh?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Small world.”

  Maybe a little too small.

  Chapter 16

  CUE THE NIGHTMARES.

  I knew I’d have trouble sleeping that night. There wasn’t enough warm milk and Ambien in the world. As soon as I close
d my eyes, it was as if I were back in Lombardo’s, living it all over again in a continuous loop. I could hear the screams, the chorus of terror that ripped through the restaurant. I could see the shine of the scalpel in the killer’s hand, the dark plum color of the blood that was suddenly spurting everywhere.

  At one point it was even my eyes being carved out.

  Finally, I raised the white flag.

  I got out of bed and into the chair behind my desk. If I couldn’t sleep, maybe I could at least get some writing done.

  Perhaps that was the only silver lining in my missing the interview with Dwayne Robinson – I could put all my focus into the piece on Dr. Alan Cole and his work in Darfur with the Humanitarian Relief Corps. First things first, I needed to sort through the hours’ worth of recordings I had made with him, taking careful notes to string together an outline. Note to any kids reading this: outline – always!

  The reality is, the longer I do this, the more I understand that there are no shortcuts in journalism. At least not any worth taking.

  So I flipped on my laptop and grabbed my tape recorder. I was about to hit the rewind button when my hand suddenly froze. I realized something.

  In the horror of those moments at Lombardo’s, as well as in the haze and commotion of the aftermath on the killing floor, I’d forgotten that I had already been recording when Vincent Marcozza and those cops were murdered.

  I didn’t get my interview with Dwayne Robinson.

  But what did I get?

  Part of me almost didn’t want to know. After tossing and turning half the night, I didn’t particularly want to relive the murders yet again.

  But how could I not?

  Taking a deep breath first, I braced myself for what I knew was coming. Once more, I’d hear Marcozza crying out in agony. I’d hear the shots that had brought down the two detectives.

  But before all of that, there had been something else, something I couldn’t believe as I listened to the tape recording now.