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  “She’ll be right back – she’s seating someone,” he said, barely looking up at me. He was average height and build, his tone sprinkled with an air of superiority that presumably came with the job. “Are you the man with the jacket?” he asked.

  Actually, I was the man without the jacket.

  Although not for long.

  Before I could answer, I heard a voice over the manager’s shoulder. “You made it,” she said.

  She remembered me. I certainly remembered her. “Tiffany,” I said, extending my hand. “Like the pretty blue box.”

  She smiled. Great smile, too. “Hi, Mr. Daniels,” she said.

  “Please, it’s Nick.”

  I followed Tiffany to the coat-check room opposite the bar area. “Your jacket’s over here,” she said with a glance back at me. “We kept it nice and safe for you.”

  I nodded. “Listen, I appreciate your calling me. I didn’t even realize I’d left it here.”

  “Pretty understandable, given the confusion that day.” She stopped on a dime, turning to me. “Confusion. That word doesn’t really capture it, does it?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  Tiffany shook her head. “You know, I was going to quit this job the next day. Go back to Indiana where I’m from. I even discussed it with Jason.”

  “Jason?”

  “The guy you talked to at the desk. The manager.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “That this was New York, and I should just suck it up, and I would if I belonged here.”

  “What a sweetheart.”

  “I know, tell me about it,” she said. “Then again, look around at the crowd of ghouls. I don’t know whether to be amazed or really depressed.”

  I could see what she meant. Lombardo’s Steakhouse was even more crowded than usual, if that was possible. Call it the perverse logic of hipness, especially in Manhattan and, I would guess, LA. After serving as the backdrop to three vicious murders, the joint actually gained in popularity.

  Tiffany continued on to the coat-check room, grabbing my jacket. “Here you go,” she said. “It is yours, right?”

  “Yep, that’s it, all right.” A leather car coat I had gotten for a near steal years back at a Barneys outlet sale.

  As I folded it over my forearm, something occurred to me. “Tiffany, how did you know this was mine?” It was a good question, I thought. It’s not as if I had my name sewn inside the collar like some kid at summer camp.

  “I went through the pockets. Hope you don’t mind,” she answered. “I found one of those e-tickets for a flight you recently took to Paris. It had your name and a phone number listed. That’s how I -”

  She stopped.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  Tiffany’s jaw dropped. I could practically see the wheels churning behind her dark brown eyes.

  “Oh my God!” she blurted. “You were here with the baseball pitcher that day, weren’t you? The poor man who just killed himself?”

  “Yes, Dwayne Robinson,” I said. It still hurt just to say his name. “I just came from his funeral, actually. Very sad.”

  She shook her head slowly. “I couldn’t believe it when I saw it on the news.”

  “You remember him, huh? From when he was here that day?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “And from the day before, too.”

  I looked at her sideways as her last sentence knocked around in my head.

  The day before?

  Chapter 29

  IT DIDN’T MAKE SENSE, none at all. Dwayne Robinson hadn’t been at Lombardo’s that first day. He had stood me up.

  But he had been here. At least according to Tiffany.

  “When?” I asked. “What time was it? Sorry to bother you, but it’s important to me. I was supposed to do a story on Dwayne. For Citizen magazine.”

  “I’m not sure exactly. It was on the early side. Noonish, maybe.”

  That had been before I’d arrived, about a half hour before Dwayne and I were supposed to meet. Odd. Crazy.

  “You’re sure it was him?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “Of course, I didn’t think anything of it at the time. I remembered seeing him only after they showed his picture on TV. I’m not a big baseball fan. I didn’t know who he was until then.”

  “Did you seat him?” I asked.

  “No. I didn’t even talk to him.”

  “What was he doing? Did you happen to notice? Anything at all?”

  “I don’t know. I was busy with other customers. I just remember seeing him at one point. He was looking around.”

  For me?

  Had he thought we were meeting at noon instead of twelve thirty?

  I stood there utterly perplexed, trying to think this new mystery through. All I knew for sure was that Dwayne had been at the restaurant the following day at twelve thirty. Courtney had said she’d never bothered to ask his agent why he had stood me up. Could Dwayne have thought I had stood him up? But then why would he have gone to the trouble to meet with me the next day?

  For the past dozen years, asking questions has been second nature to me. It’s how I do my job. I ask questions, I get answers, I find out what I need to know. Boom, boom, boom. Simple as that. Especially when I’m really into a story.

  But this was different. The more questions I asked Tiffany, the less I understood about what had happened.

  “I’m sorry to keep pressing, but is there anything else you can remember?” I asked. “Anything at all?”

  She turned her head away, thinking for a moment. “Not really. Except…”

  “Except what?”

  “Well, he did seem really nervous.”

  “You mean, like, he was pacing?”

  “Nothing quite so obvious,” she said. “It was more his eyes. He was a big guy, but he looked almost… scared to be here.”

  I literally smacked my forehead as a Latin expression from my school days at St. Pat’s came rushing back to me. “Entia non sunt multiplicanda praeter necessitatem.”

  I was always so-so at Latin, yet this mouthful I’ve somehow never forgotten. It’s the basis for what’s commonly referred to as Occam’s razor. Translated, the phrase roughly means “entities should not be multiplied more than necessary.” In other words, all things being equal, the simplest solution is the best.

  And what was I simply forgetting about Dwayne Robinson?

  His anxiety disorder. Of course.

  It made total sense now. He had arrived early to meet me for lunch that first time. He looked scared, according to Tiffany. That’s because he was. He was nervous about doing the interview and perhaps just nervous to be in the crowded restaurant, period. People could see him; some of them would definitely recognize Dwayne Robinson.

  So he got cold feet and left.

  I thanked Tiffany for my jacket and her time and help. I thought she’d thrown me a curveball about Dwayne Robinson, but as I walked out of Lombardo’s, I was convinced I had it all figured out. “Entia non sunt multiplicanda praeter necessitatem.”

  Unfortunately, what I didn’t know at the time – what I couldn’t know – was that I actually had it all wrong. Because as theories go, Occam’s razor isn’t foolproof. Sometimes, the simplest solution isn’t the best.

  Like I said, I wasn’t terribly good at Latin. Downright horribilis, to tell the truth.

  Chapter 30

  DAVID SORREN JUST loved one-way mirrors. To him, they represented the heart and soul of his job as Manhattan DA, a literal metaphor for his success.

  I’ve always got my eye on you.

  And I never blink.

  Ever since he’d been a rising-star prosecutor out of NYU Law, he’d been standing behind these one-way mirrors, his arms crossed, tie loosened – watching, gauging, sizing up hundreds and hundreds of criminals. Occasionally there’d be an innocent person thrown into the mix, but they were few and far between.

  The simple truth was, if you ever found yourself in a police station, on th
e wrong side of a one-way mirror, the over-whelming odds were that you had something to hide.

  And David Sorren’s job – no, his mission – was to find out what it was.

  Then nail you to the wall for it and throw the proverbial book at you.

  “I say we play the recording for this douche bag bastard and watch him squirm,” came a voice over Sorren’s shoulder. “Make ’im squirm, make ’im turn.”

  As in, turning state’s evidence.

  Sorren heard every word of what his assistant DA Kimberly Joe Green was saying, but his eyes remained locked on Eddie “The Prince” Pinero on the other side of the glass.

  Dressed in a natty gray-pinstriped suit with his trademark black handkerchief stuffed into his lapel pocket, Pinero was seated with his attorney – his new attorney – in the second-floor interrogation room of the Nineteenth Precinct.

  No stranger to these rooms, Pinero clearly knew he was being both watched and recorded. He wasn’t saying a word to his attorney, and he was staring straight into the one-way mirror with a smile on his handsome, ruddy face that declared, Here I am, folks. Stare at me all you like!

  “Yeah, play him the tape,” came a second voice behind Sorren in the observation room. It was Detective Mark Ford. “Pinero’s about to return for sentencing. If there was ever a deal to be made, the time is now. Hate to admit it, but I’m with Kimberly Joe on this one.”

  Ford, a first-grade detective, and Green had an openly contentious relationship, to put it mildly, having endured numerous run-ins over the years. That said, they both knew how good the other was at their job. Respect, even when it came begrudgingly, trumped just about everything in law enforcement.

  Finally, Sorren turned around to face Green and Ford. He could feel the heat rising to his head.

  “A deal? Fuck, no,” he said. “There’s no way I’m ever giving that son of a bitch immunity.”

  “But -”

  Sorren cut Green off. “The hit on Marcozza got two detectives killed. Two good guys with wives and children, seven kids between them. No, there’s only one way I want Pinero, and that’s with his head on a plate,” he said.

  But even more than the words, it was the way he said them.

  Teeth clenched.

  Eyes unblinking.

  As if the life of everyone in the room depended on it.

  “Christ, did I say immunity? What was I thinking?” joked Green, dialing up her deadpan sense of humor. As an assis.tant DA she was smart enough to know when to fall in line behind her boss. “Okay, so let’s wait on playing the tape. Who knows? Maybe Pinero will dig his own grave.”

  Sorren’s scowl crept up slowly into a satisfied smile.

  “Exactly,” he said. “Now let’s go give the prick a shovel.”

  Chapter 31

  EDDIE PINERO GAVE a quick tug on the starched French cuff of his Armani spread collar shirt as he watched the three people enter the interrogation room. Look who it is, the Three Stooges!

  If he could whack each one of them and get away with it, he would. In a heartbeat. He’d pull the trigger himself, smile while he did it.

  Especially when it came to Sorren, that Eliot Ness wannabe!

  Pinero was sure that if it weren’t for the DA’s hard-on for organized crime, he wouldn’t be on his way to serving two to four years upstate. Of course, his former lawyer, Marcozza, hadn’t exactly helped the situation. Pinero still couldn’t understand how his consigliere had allowed him to take the fall for some trumped-up loan-sharking charges. At the trial it had been as if Marcozza had been phoning it in.

  Pinero had a new attorney now, Conrad Hagey, called the “White-Collar Knight” among New York defense attorneys. His usual clientele were Wall Street and CEO bigwigs, mostly WASPs. In fact, Hagey had originally turned down Pinero’s request to represent him because he hadn’t wanted to sully his image.

  That’s when Pinero had taken out his checkbook and a diamond-encrusted Montblanc pen. A half-dozen zeroes later, the tall and lean Hagey had had a sudden change of heart. Funny how that happens.

  “Gentlemen,” began Hagey. “I’d like to reiterate for the record that my client has come here voluntarily and will certainly leave here voluntarily. It’s further understood that the sole purpose of this meeting is to ask him about the death of his -”

  “The murder,” interrupted Sorren.

  “Excuse me?” said Hagey.

  “Vincent Marcozza was murdered. As were two New York City police officers. All three of them were murdered.”

  “And my heart goes out to all of their families,” said Pinero, inserting himself into the conversation.

  “I’ll bet,” said Sorren with a sneer. “You’re just all beat up over it, aren’t you?”

  Hagey resumed his preamble only to have Pinero raise a palm to him. “Let’s get to the questions,” he said before turning to Sorren. “Sound good to you, Mr. Mayor?”

  Sorren smiled at the jab but gave away nothing more. He wanted to tangle with Pinero but not about his own political aspirations. Indeed. Let’s get to the questions.

  “Do you have any idea who might have wanted Vincent Marcozza dead?” asked Sorren for starters. “That is, besides you?”

  “I loved Vincent,” Pinero shot back. “We were very close, for a lot of years.”

  “Even after he completely botched your trial? I mean, that was a real butcher job he did. Why am I telling you – you were there.”

  Pinero turned to Kimberly Joe Green, the assistant DA. Green had prosecuted the case. “Your boss sure doesn’t give you much credit, does he?”

  Green didn’t take the bait. She simply waited for Sorren to continue – and he did.

  “Here’s the thing, Mr. Pinero. If Marcozza was so close to you, who would have been crazy enough to kill him – and disappoint you so greatly?” asked Sorren.

  “That’s a damn good question. I guess I’ll have to keep watching the news to find out,” answered Pinero. “Which reminds me, how’s that little news reporter of yours, Brenda Evans, doing? Nice little piece you’ve got there, if I do say so myself.” He leaned forward on the metal table, his arms crossed. “Listen, do you really think I’d be stupid enough to whack my own lawyer?”

  Sorren shrugged indifference. “Stupid enough? I don’t know about that. Angry enough? Perhaps.” He turned to Hagey. “Better watch your back with this guy, counselor. Either that or just make sure you never lose a case of his. Like this one.”

  “Don’t you worry,” said Hagey, an ex-forward on the Princeton basketball team. He’d taken more than his share of hard elbows while delivering a few in return. “All I’ve heard here so far is a lot of talk and zero evidence. You do remember what evidence is, don’t you, Mr. Sorren?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” said Sorren. “Not only do I remember it, I have it.”

  Pinero immediately broke into laughter. It was loud and from the gut, like he was in the front row at Caroline’s comedy club. He kept laughing until everyone in the interrogation room had to stop to watch him.

  This was the very last thing Sorren would ever have expected him to do, and Pinero knew it. Or maybe it was the second to last thing.

  The very last thing was what happened next.

  “So, is this when you play us the recording from Lombardo’s?” asked Pinero. “Gee, I can hardly wait.”

  Sorren’s face said it all. He couldn’t hide it. How the hell does he know about the recording?

  Pinero tugged on the cuff of his shirt again, leaning back in his chair with a self-satisfied grin that stretched straight back to his porcelain-capped molars.

  “What’s the matter now, Sorren?” he asked. “Cat got your tongue?”

  Chapter 32

  “I’LL TAKE ONE dog with the works,” I said. Culinary snobs will tell you that ordering a hot dog on the streets of New York is like playing Russian roulette with your gastrointestinal tract. Maybe so. But what better way to find out if you can stomach this city or not?

  I�
��ve never gotten sick once. Well, maybe once. But that was on the Staten Island Ferry.

  It was a little past noon now and I’d just come from the Daily News headquarters on West 33rd Street, where I was picking up my latest fix of Yankees tickets from my buddy Ira at the paper. Years back I had helped him get a job there as a sports reporter. Ever since, he’s been regularly landing me in the first row behind the Yankees dugout right near where Rudy Giuliani always sits. That’s my kind of quid pro quo.

  “Here you go,” said my hot dog man from behind his cart. Clearly he took pride in his work, as he bestowed upon me a perfectly layered masterpiece of onions, ketchup, mustard, and sauerkraut. I took it on faith that somewhere beneath it all was the actual hot dog.

  Not that it really mattered by this point. I was starving, having worked straight through breakfast. This was my first bite of food all day, and as I began walking east on 33rd Street, I couldn’t wait to dig in.

  That’s when I heard a guy’s voice over my shoulder. “Hey, aren’t you Nick Daniels?”

  It’s pretty rare that I get recognized out on the street. It happens maybe once or twice a year, mainly because my picture appears every week in the Contributing Writers section of Citizen magazine.

  I’d be lying if I said these little encounters didn’t stroke my ego a tad, but unfortunately this guy’s timing couldn’t have been worse.

  I spun around, hot dog in hand, praying that whoever the guy was, he didn’t want to talk my ear off about some article I’d written.

  Turns out, he barely wanted to talk at all.

  Standing before me was a stone wall of a guy wearing dark wraparound sunglasses and a New York Knicks sweatshirt. At least I thought it was the Knicks – the orange and blue logo had faded more than the team itself during these past few years, ever since that James Dolan guy took over and ruined everything.

  “Yeah, I’m Nick Daniels,” I said to the guy. “How you doing? What’s up?”

  “Get the fuck in the car!” was his response.

  Huh? What?

  He jerked his head at a beat-up black van parked alongside the curb. The side door was already open. As if to give me a little encouragement, he lifted the side of his sweat-shirt to reveal a pistol tucked between his jeans and a bulging gut.