Truth or Die Read online

  ONE GOOD setup deserved another. Only mine had to be better, because I’d already discovered theirs.

  Less than three hours later, I was sitting on one of the concrete benches lining the perimeter of Bethesda Terrace by the Lake in Central Park. I’d tried to get a little sleep beforehand back in the spare bedroom at my apartment, but it was impossible. Closing my eyes just seemed to magnify everything, if that makes any sense.

  In my lap now was a Nikon D4, the 300mm lens peeking out beneath the bottom of the Daily News. With the weather warm and breezy and no clouds in sight, I couldn’t have asked for a more picture-perfect day.

  About thirty yards in front of me was the famous fountain known as the Angel of the Waters, the lily being held in the bronze statue’s left hand representing the purity of the circular pool around her. Claire had told me that. I suspected it was why I’d chosen the location. That, and the crowds of people. There were joggers passing by, locals sipping coffee and hanging out, even some early-bird tourists looking in their guidebooks or just looking lost. All in all, safety in numbers.

  Claire had cleverly hidden the Stopper behind her seat in the taxi, but her other two phones had been in her purse, which had disappeared with her killer. He sure didn’t have it when he showed up dead in the tub at the Lucinda. Question was, who had the phones now?

  I’d sent the text to Claire’s BlackBerry, the phone provided and paid for by the Times. I was posing as a confidant—someone she knew and trusted—and as roles go, it was hardly a stretch. The tough part, in every sense, was acting as if she were still alive. Timing was everything. The text had to be sent before her death had made the morning news. Same thing for the meeting.

  R u up yet? Need to c u asap. Think kid might be telling u the truth. Meet me in park, far end of Bethesda Fount at 9. Something to show u.

  Ten minutes later, after I’d left the Lucinda, the reply came. A text from Claire’s BlackBerry.

  Ok, c u there.

  Even if Claire had still been alive, I would’ve known the reply wasn’t from her. She hated the shorthand of texting, countless times complaining to me that it was dumbing down kids and adults alike. Not only would she never use shorthand, but she made fun of me whenever I did.

  Ok, see you there, she would’ve typed. Not a vowel or consonant less.

  Either way, the time and place had been set. All that was left was the guest list. My end was simple. It was just me. I could’ve told Lamont about it, but that would’ve changed everything.

  Police detectives might not have the equivalent of a Hippocratic oath, but there was no way Lamont would’ve allowed me to set this trap alone. He’d either have to handcuff me to a large inanimate object far from the park or be right next to me by the fountain. Most definitely with backup.

  That was the difference, really. Why I hadn’t told him. His job was to arrest people for what they did, not why they did it. If I had involved him, he’d immediately have brought this person in for questioning. Possession of stolen goods, at the bare minimum, with an eye toward accessory to murder.

  Or was it accessories? Who knew who could show up, or how many? That was their end of the guest list.

  So I had to be patient. Take pictures. Not take them in for questioning. Be their shadow. Identify them, follow them, and figure out the why. Because if you want to get some real answers from people, the last thing you do is let them know you’re watching them.

  I pulled back my shirtsleeves, checking my watch. Two minutes after nine. As much as I didn’t know who I was looking for, I knew it wasn’t the elderly man and woman deep in conversation who’d been sitting by the far side of the fountain since I’d arrived.

  Turning the page of the Daily News spread between my hands, I continued to pretend to read. Through dark sunglasses, I kept peeking above the paper, my eyes scanning for anyone who might be approaching, or at least looking in the direction of, the elderly couple on the bench.

  The minutes kept ticking away. No one looked suspicious or out of place. Then again, neither did I. Or so I thought.

  I was about to check the time again when I felt the quick, short vibration of my cell. It was an incoming text. Only it wasn’t from Claire’s phone. In fact, I didn’t know whose phone it was from. The sender was anonymous.

  Get out of there! it read.

  But it was too late.

  CHAPTER 22

  HE CAME out of nowhere. A man wearing sunglasses even darker than mine, walking around the curve of the fountain and heading straight toward me.

  Not fast. Not slow. Just walking. The click of his heels with each step now the only sound in the world.

  How had I missed him?

  He was dressed in a dark suit with an open-collared white shirt. He looked to be in his thirties. Short-cropped blond hair and in good shape. I couldn’t see his eyes behind those sunglasses, but I had little doubt they weren’t aimed at anyone else. I could literally feel his stare.

  Or was it just the rush of fear shooting up my spine?

  Suddenly, I didn’t know what to do with any part of my body. My feet were stuck to the ground, my hands frozen and locked in the air, the newspaper pinched between my fingertips feeling as heavy as one of those lead blankets they cover you with before an X-ray.

  He had a newspaper, too.

  I didn’t see it at first, the way it was tucked neatly under his left arm. Now it was all I could look at. There was something about it, how it was folded so tightly as if there was something … shit.

  Inside it.

  His right arm was a blur as it swung across his body, his hand outstretched with his fingers spread. All at once, his left arm loosened, the paper holster sliding down to his elbow while beginning to open. The way he caught the gun in midair, I was instantly sure of two things. One, he’d done this before. And two, I was simply done.

  It’s not true what they say. You don’t see your life flash before your eyes. You see your death. In slow motion, no less.

  He’d come to a complete stop, ten merciless feet in front of me, with the Angel of the Waters rising up behind him. But she wasn’t looking my way.

  Others were, though. There was a woman screaming to my left, her high pitch and volume sending nearby pigeons scattering in the air. To my right, there was the sound of feet scampering, someone literally running for his life. Gun! Gun! Gun!

  I heard it all. Still, I couldn’t move.

  His arm began to unfold, the barrel of the gun lining up with my head. It was the only thing I could see. Until, out of nowhere, there was something else.

  It was another blur, I couldn’t see what exactly. More importantly, neither could my executioner. He was being blindsided, someone tackling him at full speed.

  Like a linebacker.

  CHAPTER 23

  I WATCHED as both bodies slammed against the pavement and rolled, a tumble of arms and legs hurtling over and over. I couldn’t tell who was who, but I was convinced I knew one of them. Lamont! It had to be him.

  But it wasn’t. As the bodies separated, both sprawling on the ground, I could tell this guy was younger. He was at least half the detective’s age. And not nearly as big.

  Big enough, though. I certainly wasn’t complaining.

  He pushed himself up, standing quickly, if not a little wobbly. “The gun!” he barked, pointing.

  I hadn’t seen it go flying, but there it was, matte black against the terra cotta of the Roman bricks around the fountain. It was closer to me than to him. As for the gun’s original owner, he was somewhere in between and staring right at it.

  Then at me.

  Then right back at the gun.

  It was up for grabs.

  I sprang from the bench into a headfirst dive while my camera, launched from my lap, shattered to pieces. Scooping up the gun, I whipped my arm and locked both elbows, and dammit if the view wasn’t so much better from this angle.

  “Stay down!” I yelled, jabbing the barrel of his Beretta M9 straight at his chest. With its
fifteen-round staggered box magazine, he and I both knew I could remind him over and over who had the upper hand.

  Yeah, I knew guns. I knew them well. Ever since my high school days at Valley Forge Military Academy. I shot them, cleaned them, took them apart and put them back together again. Even once while naked, blindfolded, and being blasted by a power washer during the school’s version of Hell Week.

  I hated guns.

  “Call nine-one-one,” I said with a quick glance at the guy who’d saved my life. Man, did he look young. He was practically a kid. Hell, he was a kid. He was also way ahead of me, his cell already in hand.

  “On it,” he said.

  I could hear him perfectly amid the hush that had fallen over the terrace and the fountain. Never had so many New Yorkers been so quiet all at once. I could feel them, though, as they began peeking out from whatever they were ducking behind, at least those who didn’t have the camera lenses from their cell phones trained on me. I was about to trend mightily on YouTube.

  All the while, I kept my eyes fixed on the man on the ground, hoping he wouldn’t even blink until the police arrived. Turned out, his gun wasn’t the only thing that had gone flying when he was tackled. Gone, too, were his sunglasses. Good thing.

  If he’d still had them on, I would never have known about his partner.

  CHAPTER 24

  IT WASN’T much of a poker face. In fact, if anything, I could’ve sworn he cracked the slightest of smiles the second he glanced over my shoulder.

  Following his eyes, I quickly turned to see the only person in the crowd who was actually running toward us—a second guy in great shape sporting short-cropped hair and apparently the de rigueur wardrobe among the assassin set. Dark suit, white shirt, open collar … and a semiautomatic handgun.

  So much for my having the upper hand.

  He was racing down the farther of the two massive staircases that connected Bethesda Terrace to the Seventy-Second Street Cross Drive. Fifty yards away and gaining. Fast. He might as well have been Moses, the way people were parting for him. Wielding a deadly weapon has a funny way of doing that.

  “C’mon, let’s go!” said the kid.

  The kid.

  The way he’d said it, as if there weren’t even a decision, it all clicked. He was Claire’s source. He was the one at the Lucinda. He was what this was all about—even though I still had no idea what this was really all about. Except that this was him. The kid.

  “C’mon,” he repeated. “Let’s go!”

  He took off, hurdling the concrete bench where I’d been sitting. He was sprinting across the lawn, heading for the cover of the trees lining the Lake. I didn’t need any more prompting to follow him, but it came anyway with the crack of a single shot splitting the air. People and pigeons were scattering all over again.

  I might have been the only other one with a gun, but the bullet wasn’t intended for me. Assassin #2 was aiming for the kid and nearly got him, the divot of grass flying up a mere foot to his left as he ran. There was a better-than-good chance the guy wasn’t going to miss twice … unless I did something.

  Hopping over the concrete bench, I didn’t run right away. Instead, I spun around, crouched, and let go with a few rounds. Then a few more. Not at him, though.

  You still smiling, buddy?

  The guy on the ground had seemed all too pleased to stay there and watch me sweat, but as I sprayed a circle of bullets around him, he was quick to find the fetal position. Even quicker was his partner, who got the message. From a full sprint he stopped on a dime, lowering the gun to his side.

  I was about to tell him to lay it on the ground and back away. Problem was, I didn’t have much of a plan from there. I was just buying time, and only a few extra seconds at that. As soon as he stepped back, I was taking off, and then we’d see how fast we both could run.

  That was when I glanced up and saw her.

  There she was, the Angel of the Waters, perched high in the air and watching. Now she was looking out for me, and her plan was a hell of a lot better.

  I jerked my head at the fountain. I didn’t need to explain. In fact, I didn’t say another word. All I did was keep aiming where I was aiming.

  Maybe I have it in me to shoot your asshole partner, or maybe I don’t. But do you really want to take the chance?

  My two would-be killers exchanged glances, the one on the ground nodding somewhat helplessly at the one with the gun. He nodded back. Then—plop!—he tossed it into the fountain.

  One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three …

  I was waiting until the count was ten, long enough for the barrel to fill with water. Would it still fire? Sure. But first he’d have to fish it out and shake it dry, and even then the compression would be off. And as for me?

  Eight Mississippi, nine Mississippi, ten …

  I was off and running.

  Sprinting for my life across the open stretch of grass, I could feel my lungs on fire. Only when I reached the trees did I look back for the first time, relieved as hell to see they weren’t chasing after me.

  Still, I kept running. Fear of the unknown, partly, and the rest hoping I could find the kid. But he was nowhere to be found. Until, that is, I felt the quick vibration of my phone again. It was another text from him.

  Last 4 of ur SS#

  I knew right away what he was doing—making sure it was really me who had my phone. He obviously hadn’t hung around to see how things played out back at the fountain. Couldn’t blame him. But I also couldn’t figure out how he would know my Social Security number. Just add that to the litany of questions I had for him.

  I texted back the last four digits, and within seconds he responded with a location where we should meet. Finally, I was going to get some answers.

  Careful what you wish for …

  CHAPTER 25

  I DIDN’T look around the street before opening the door to the Oak Tavern on Seventy-Fourth off Broadway, but I knew he was watching me from behind some stoop or parked car, or more accurately, watching to see if anyone was following me. The kid wasn’t dumb. That was why he was still alive. That was why we were both still alive.

  So this guy walks into a bar with a Beretta M9 tucked under his shirt …

  Most New Yorkers can tell you that last call in the city is 4 a.m. Far fewer of them can tell the flip side—first call, the time at which a bar can legally start serving. It’s 8 a.m. I knew it only as trivia.

  For sure, the four guys scattered along the stools, who didn’t even bother to glance my way as I approached the bartender, knew it as a way of life.

  “Double Johnnie Black, rocks,” I ordered.

  The fact that I was having whiskey for breakfast didn’t seem nearly as relevant as my having just had a gun aimed at my head. Drinking to numb the pain of Claire’s death was one thing; drinking to settle an entire body of frayed nerves was another.

  The bartender, tall and thin and hunched with age, nodded, completely expressionless, before heading off to grab the bottle. He might as well have had a sign hanging around his neck that read NO JUDGMENTS.

  Waiting for him to return, I looked around a bit. Fittingly, the Oak Tavern was a genuine throwback, not the kind of place that hung reproduction crap on the wall to imitate a time gone by.

  Instead, what hung on the wall was actual crap and old as shit. Signed photos of D-list celebrities from the seventies. A painting of a horse that looked as if it had been bought at one of those hotel art fairs off the highway. And right next to it, a coatrack missing half its pegs.

  Genuine as well was the musty smell of the place. I could practically feel the dust traveling up my nose with each breath.

  “Five fifty,” said the bartender, standing in front of me again and pouring.

  I gave him seven, picked up my glass, and headed for the rear of the tavern and a row of booths. They were those classic high-back ones, the crimson leather so worn and cracked it looked like a marbleized porterhouse. I slid into the last booth on the left,
beyond the line of sight from the bar.

  A few minutes later, the kid arrived.

  As he walked toward me, I noticed that almost everything about him was a contradiction. He was skinny, with unusually broad shoulders. He had disheveled hair and slacker clothes and was staring ahead with the most focused eyes I’d ever seen. His gait was slow and deliberate, and yet his hands couldn’t keep still. He was rubbing them together as if they were under some imaginary faucet.

  The kid sat down across from me without saying a word. No introduction. No offer of a handshake, either, lest one of those hands of his might actually have to stop moving while waiting to grip mine. Finally, he spoke.

  “Sorry for all this,” he said.

  That was the biggest contradiction of all, as far as I was concerned. “For what?” I asked. “You saved my life.”

  “I’m the only reason it was ever in danger, dude.”

  “We’ll get to that in a moment,” I said. “That, and whether I’m really going to let you call me dude. But speaking of names, what’s yours? And don’t say Winston Smith.”

  “It’s Owen,” he answered.

  “And you already know mine, don’t you? Among other things.”

  He nodded.

  “Are you some kind of hacker?” I asked.

  “It’s not what I do for a living, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

  “Okay. What do you do for a living?”

  But it was as if he hadn’t heard me. Or, more likely, as if he needed to ask a few questions for himself before answering that one.

  CHAPTER 26

  “WHAT’S YOUR connection to Claire?”

  “Close friend,” I answered. It was a good enough explanation for the time being.

  “Are you a reporter?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t work at the Times?”

  “No.”

  He hesitated, reluctant to ask his next question. He needed to know, though, and I needed to tell him.

  “She’s dead, isn’t she?” he asked.