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  After they turned again onto a numbered street, Janos rushed ahead of them for a moment and motioned them into a narrow parking lot between a large parking structure and a small Italian restaurant called La something. Many letters were missing from the sign. Tommy showed no reluctance to turn in to the dark lot, where a row of cars were parked on top of each other in a heavy-duty rack.

  At the far end of the rack, half a block in from the main street, they stopped and Janos turned Tommy toward him. Janos said, “Dude, why didn’t you listen to us?”

  Tommy didn’t answer.

  Janos said, “I did use the word ‘dude’ properly, didn’t I?”

  Tommy just nodded.

  “You’re never going to come around to our way of thinking, are you?” Janos gave him a little smile and patted him on the shoulder to get him to relax.

  Tommy shook his head. “No, no, I’ll never think working for Henry again is a good idea.”

  Janos said, “That’s too bad. That’s too bad, dude.” He smiled at his use of the American slang.

  Alice knew it was also his signal. She was standing directly behind the computer hacker. He was just an inch or two taller than her, so it was no problem to loop her wire garrote around his throat. It was as clean as she had ever done it, over his head and dropping onto his chest under his throat without a single hitch. It was so fast and smooth that she doubted Tommy even knew what was going on.

  She gripped the plastic handles attached to either end of the wire, crossed her hands, and used all of her strength, from her lats through her chest, to tug the wire tight around the young man’s throat.

  She heard his surprised gasp. Or partial gasp, as the wire cut off his wind.

  Janos took a step back. Ever since he had been sprayed with blood when a wire cut a target’s carotid artery, the Romanian was always careful to keep his distance. He could be a diva sometimes. He preferred to use a gun.

  She couldn’t see Tommy’s face, but she knew his eyes would’ve rolled up in his head. His hands flailed at his throat. It was too late. It was always too late. Once she had the garrote around someone’s throat, they never got away.

  He gurgled and Alice knew it was almost done. This was the most exciting part. She kept steady pressure on the garrote.

  She had a tinge of regret, because he was cute, in a nerdy kind of way. But they’d already wasted enough time. She hated to be fooled twice by the same person.

  She kept the pressure on until his body started to sag. One knee dropped to the filthy asphalt. She took a second to glance in every direction. No one was close by.

  He finally stopped moving completely, hanging in the air with his arms dangling almost to the asphalt. His head drooped forward, and a line of spittle mixed with blood dribbled out of his mouth, but Alice did her traditional ten count, just to be sure.

  Janos was still in front of her. He nodded, she released the wire, then she pulled it away from Tommy Payne’s lifeless body. Janos pushed Tommy next to the restaurant wall, behind the racks of cars. His throat was raw and lacerated, but not ripped open. Alice liked it when things went that way. She wasn’t big on a lot of blood.

  They walked quickly in the opposite direction they had come from. Janos put an arm around Alice’s shoulders to make it look more casual. He said, “You okay?”

  She worked her shoulders and said, “Sometimes that’s more of a workout than I expect. Did you get the photos?”

  Janos let out a laugh and said, “I like how you always think about business. I got the photos and will send them to Henry whenever you want.”

  Alice said, “Did you figure out the next target on our list?”

  “We can start first thing in the morning.”

  Alice smiled and felt a little more spring in her step.

  Chapter 14

  When you’re used to getting up early for work every morning, you don’t change just because you’re on suspension. Like any officer-involved shooting, mine was under investigation, and standard procedure dictated that I could not go in to work. I read that to mean that I could not work at the office.

  Having gotten out of bed early, I thought I might as well do something useful. I had a couple of ideas. As long as no one found out, I figured I’d be okay.

  I heard Chrissy talking in a weird voice and poked my head into her bedroom. She was on a yoga mat, trying to model a downward dog pose for our cat Socky.

  I asked, “What cha doing, beautiful?”

  She didn’t change position. “I was wondering if a cat could learn a dog position. It’s really more of a science experiment.”

  I chuckled and said, “You keep up the good work in the name of science, but be ready to leave in a few minutes.”

  Jane, one of my high schoolers, struggled with a three-foot-by-two-foot folder and her regular textbooks.

  “What’s this?”

  Jane acted like it wasn’t awkward to hold the giant folder. “My portfolio for art class, with Bridget’s help. I thought I’d do a retrospective of fashion since the nineties.”

  I said, “Wow, all the way back to the nineties. How’d you even find photos from back then?”

  “Funny, Dad.”

  I thought it was.

  I walked past the small TV in the kitchen with the sound off. I knew what the story was just by the image. The Reverend Franklin Caldwell was standing behind a mound of microphones. I didn’t need to turn up the sound to know he was screaming for my head.

  I kissed Mary Catherine, who was straightening up the mass of dishes following the feeding frenzy known as breakfast. The kids were scattered around the apartment, getting ready for school.

  I said, “I’ll go get the van. Tell the kids to meet me out front.”

  “You don’t have to drive them. I can do it today.”

  “What else do I have to do? Besides, I have a few errands to run later. My city car is at the office. I’m not supposed to drive it on suspension anyway.”

  She caressed my face with her hand. “Have a cup of coffee and relax. Watch TV for a change.”

  I looked at the silent screen displaying Reverend Caldwell and decided I wouldn’t be following her advice today. “I’ll go get the van.”

  Going down in the elevator, I kept telling myself to make this a normal day. It felt right so far. I usually caught the shift change of the doormen at this time of morning. They were both army vets, regular guys doing a regular job, and I enjoyed hearing their stories. I appreciated their humor and perspectives.

  They were standing together out front on the sidewalk when I came through the door. I had surprised them; otherwise one of them would have jumped to open the door. But they greeted me like an old beer buddy.

  “Hey, Mike,” called the larger of the two men. He was about fifty-five and still hit the gym every day.

  The other man, Lou, was a little younger and not nearly in as good shape. Lou held out his hand and said, “I’m glad you’re safe.”

  I said, “Thanks,” as I shook his hand. It was always awkward after a shooting. People never knew how to react.

  We all chatted for a few moments. Then the taller man, Johnny, said, “Mike, what really happened yesterday?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “I don’t want to sound like an asshole, but did you really need to shoot that kid?”

  I briefly considered an answer, then just walked toward the van. What can you say to a question like that? I guess I didn’t really need to shoot RJ. I could’ve let him shoot me in the face. Then I wouldn’t have to answer stupid questions.

  When I got to the van I realized I hadn’t answered any stupid questions. I had just walked away.

  Son of a gun, is this what maturity felt like?

  Chapter 15

  Somehow all the kids were waiting out front when I pulled up in the van. Johnny, the doorman, couldn’t look me in the face when I stopped at the curb. I’d said stupid things before. I knew how he felt. I wasn’t going to make it any worse. But
I wasn’t going to make it any easier, either.

  The kids filed in as always: youngest in the back, leading up to the oldest in the most comfortable, forward seats. You see, when you have so many kids, you can’t leave things to chance. You buy a big-ass van, like this Ford Super Duty twelve-passenger monster, and then assign seats. It was a microcosm of the country. When you allow for too much choice, it always leads to some form of chaos.

  For a change, we weren’t racing the 8:45 deadline at Holy Name. Sister Helen, who had been taking over more of the early morning duties, looked shocked to see the van pull up almost six minutes early. A new record!

  She even walked over to the van and leaned in the door as the kids scooted past her. “And how are you this morning, Michael?”

  “Fine, Sister Helen. And you?”

  “Like everyone else around here, thanking God you’re safe.” She wandered off without another word to me. It may have been the sweetest thing anyone from a Catholic school had said to me since I was six years old.

  It gave me a little jolt to get my day started.

  I burned up my phone on my ride north. After I stashed the van in a parking lot in Washington Heights, I had my first meeting in a Starbucks. I hate the chain restaurants and coffeehouses. I also hate that I like Starbucks coffee. But I had to go where people were willing to talk to me, and this was where Detective Teresita Hernandez wanted to meet. The eight-year veteran was waiting for me as I stepped through the front door, sitting alone at a two-person high-top in the corner, where no one would hear us.

  As I approached, she slid a cup across the small, round table. She smiled as she said, “I remember old goats like you prefer simple black coffee.”

  I had to laugh. She’d come a long way from a rookie detective in Manhattan North Homicide five years ago.

  We caught up for a few minutes. She was working on her master’s degree in public administration at City College. Picturing Teresita on a college campus, I laughed at the idea of some young undergrad hitting on her. He’d think he was trying to impress a beautiful coed with long, dark hair, and she’d be deciding whether to break him in half like a pretzel.

  Teresita had been my muscle sometimes when she worked in our squad. No street criminal worth his salt would ever admit that a female had roughed him up. Tough and fearless, she’d left one of the best jobs in the department because she believed she could make more of a difference in the Bronx.

  It was probably true. And I respected it.

  I said, “Your dad must be glad you’re working on a master’s degree.”

  She shrugged. “He wanted me to join him in his accounting firm. But he sees what a difference a good cop can make, so he’s supportive. Quietly. Real quietly.”

  Finally we got around to business when I said, “I don’t want to get you in any trouble, Terri. Thanks for meeting me.”

  She waved me off. “How can I get in trouble when I’m not on duty yet and this isn’t an official meeting?” She waited a moment and added, “See? I learned a lot from you in Homicide. Besides, you saved my ass plenty of times.”

  “To be clear, I’m trying to help on the homicide of the nurse and her daughter. Even though I saw the suspect during my own shooting incident.”

  “The Bronx is getting stirred up about it. The Reverend Caldwell has been banging the drum pretty hard.”

  I said, “I can see why he would. A white cop shoots a black resident.”

  Terri laughed. “The reverend doesn’t see black and white. When something like this happens, he only sees green. You can’t believe how much money he collects. I heard he also gets a cut of any negotiated settlement.”

  I moved back to what I was interested in. “You ever heard of a guy with the street name Tight?”

  She shrugged, then took a quick look around the room. It was a police habit, but she was also making sure no one could hear us. “Just from our Homicide guys. They say he’s a possible suspect in our nasty double. The report I read said you gave the detectives the name after your shooting. From the description, he sounds like an oxy addict. And crazy. Scary crazy.”

  “So you don’t know him?”

  “No. And I haven’t been able to find out anything about him. I don’t know if it’s from fear or that he moves around a lot. He’s not clearly visible in the footage of your shooting. He stayed off to the side. Then there’s a blurry image as he backed away from you and tried to pull his gun.”

  That surprised me. “There’s video of my shooting?”

  “Yeah, but you can’t tell anyone. I was only allowed to see it because I’m helping with the mother-daughter homicide. But the footage is pretty clear. The guy you shot, Ronald Timmons Junior, had the drop on you. You showed good tactics. You should teach.”

  I laughed out loud and said, “No one ever has suggested that before.”

  Terri said, “Teach tactics, not tact. Or attitude. Or procedures—”

  “I get it, I get it.”

  “Or respect for command. Or…”

  I left the Starbucks smiling.

  Chapter 16

  My next meeting was a few blocks away. It wasn’t at a Starbucks. I saw the man waiting for me in Convent Garden on 151st Street. It was just cool enough that some of the remarkable flowers the place was known for were not blooming, and the wooden gazebo was empty. This should be a quick, casual meeting.

  I approached the skinny African American man from the opposite end of the park. He stood in the shadow of a tree in a corner. I wanted to give him a chance to look around and to see me clearly. Maybe I was getting a little paranoid, but informants were not known for their loyalty. And there’d been more and more ambushes of police officers across the country.

  His lanky frame leaned against a section of the tall metal fence that surrounded the park. The way he scratched his arm and shuffled back and forth on his feet made me realize he wasn’t using. Sometimes that was good and sometimes it was bad; I could never tell how it affected the information provided.

  He noticed me. His eyes darted all around the park and the bits of street that could be seen beyond the bushes. He didn’t want to be seen talking to me, and I couldn’t blame him. No informant wants to be seen talking to a cop. Especially a cop whose face has been plastered all over the news.

  He looked nervous, but then again he always did.

  I said, “Hey, Flash, you doin’ okay?” I had never asked him how he got his street name. I probably didn’t want to know. It was my hope he was just a fast runner.

  He merely nodded and scratched his neck with both hands. He looked frantic.

  I said, “Can’t score anywhere?”

  He said, “Does it look like I scored? Everyone come down so hard on pain pills, can’t find nothin’. H is easier to score. Don’t make no sense.”

  I liked that he was comfortable enough with me to discuss felonies. But if cops only dealt with Boy Scouts as informants, nothing would ever get done. It wasn’t the seventies and I wasn’t in Narcotics, so I wouldn’t let him shoot up even if he had some. It was a tough part of the job that no one ever talked about: dealing with informants meant you were dealing with criminals and drug users.

  I said, “Did you find out anything about the guy named Tight?”

  “Could be I know him. Skinny as me. A little shorter. Dude’s wrapped way too tight. That’s how he got his street name.” He ran a hand over his close-cropped hair, then scratched it. He dug in his ear, too. I waited as he inspected whatever had come from his ear.

  I said, “Real name?”

  He shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Who knows?” His brown eyes took another look around the green space. “I seen him around. He likes the pills just like me. He hit ’em a lot harder than I do. Says it’s his medicine.”

  I didn’t think I had to add that technically it was medicine. It was just that people like him had ruined a useful tool for people in pain.

  I said, “You know anything that could help me find this Tight?”

&nbs
p; Flash shook his head.

  We stood in an awkward silence until he said, “Ain’t you goin’ to ask me about the kid you shot? Ronald Timmons Junior?”

  “Nope. Separate investigation. I’m just a subject in that one.”

  “The Reverend Caldwell sees it different. He’s got everyone in the Bronx thinking you just kilt that boy. I knew RJ. He wasn’t a bad kid.”

  “He made a bad choice.”

  “The good reverend says you’re a killer.”

  I thought, At least I’m not dead. It was hard for anyone to understand a police shooting. Cops make mistakes. They’re human. But they also have to deal with something like fifty thousand assaults a year. How many of those would result in police fatalities if not for training? No one would ever convince the Reverend Caldwell of that line of reasoning.

  I walked out of Convent Garden feeling down again.

  Chapter 17

  Harry Grissom was curt on the phone. He said he’d pick me up at my apartment in twenty minutes. I told him I needed forty-five to get ready. Really, I needed to race home and act like I hadn’t done any unauthorized investigations today.

  Harry was his usual gruff self when I slid into the front seat of his Suburban. “No questions. No smart-ass comments. And show some respect.”

  I had to ask, “Where are we going?”

  “What did I just tell you? Enjoy the ride.”

  “That’s what they used to tell inmates on their way to Sing Sing.”

  “That’s a good metaphor. Even if you just made it up.”

  That didn’t make me feel any better as we drove south on West Street. Like a little kid, to make sure I didn’t ask stupid questions, I tried to occupy myself. I guessed where we were going. We had passed the building that housed the DEA, which eliminated one choice.

  Of course One Police Plaza was the most likely stop. That’s where the big brass could really lay into me if they thought it might help their position. The public opinion shift on cops was slow to sweep over the profession. But now that it had, some politically minded managers would do anything to make the department look better. That could mean sacrificing a detective like me. Oh, they’d say it was based on facts and evidence, but I’d know better. And there would be little I could do about it.