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  “Why, Courtney? Tell me why.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Nick, because I’m engaged!”

  “But you don’t love him.”

  “You’re wrong, Nick. I do love him. I love Tom very much. I do.”

  It hurt to hear her say that – worse than any of the punches I’d just taken – but I wasn’t about to stop now. She meant too much to me. If I hadn’t known that before, I sure did now.

  “I don’t believe you,” I said. “I’m sorry, but I don’t, Courtney.”

  “You need to, Nick.”

  “No. You may want to believe that you love him.”

  I looked at her. That’s all I had to do. The big white elephant was back in the room. I hadn’t meant for it to happen; neither had she. But it had happened. Courtney and I had slept together. We had made love. Not just lust – which had been part of it, I’ll admit – but love. We’d been intimate with each other. Very much so. We had talked until dawn.

  “I told you, that was a mistake,” she said.

  “It didn’t feel like a mistake. Not to me, anyway.”

  “Nick, it did to me.”

  I got up from the couch. That one hurt, too.

  “Do you really mean that?” I asked her. I was trying desperately not to let my eyes plead.

  “Yes,” she said again.

  “Are you sure?” I asked, taking a step toward her. She raised her hand. “Stop,” she said. “Don’t.”

  I took another step toward her. She didn’t say Stop this time. She didn’t say Don’t. She didn’t say anything. All she did was stare at me with those amazing blue eyes.

  But before I could take another step, the door to my office suddenly swung open.

  “There you are!” said Thomas Ferramore, Courtney’s fiancé, the man she said she loved.

  Chapter 39

  I GUESS I couldn’t blame him for not knocking or, for that matter, acting as if he owned the room the moment he stepped foot in my office. Thomas Ferramore literally did own the room. The entire building, in fact. What better way to cut down on rent for his Citizen magazine than to buy the building that housed it?

  I stood and watched as Ferramore, with his salt and pepper hair and perennial tan, strode over to Courtney, planting a kiss on her lips. It seemed to last for a couple of eternities, and probably would’ve had Courtney not finally pulled back.

  “Tom, what are you doing here?” she asked. Very good question. Didn’t Ferramore realize that Courtney and I were falling in love now?

  “What else would I be doing here? I’ve come to see the most beautiful woman in the world.”

  “You know what I mean,” she said, rolling her eyes playfully. (Ugh.) “You told me you were coming home tomorrow.”

  “Change of plans,” said Ferramore. “Aren’t you happy to see me, Courtney?”

  “Of course I am,” she said. “Why wouldn’t I be? Even here at work.”

  He was still supposed to be in Paris making his latest acquisition. For all I knew he was buying the Eiffel Tower.

  Now here he was in my office. You do know this is my office, Mr. Ferramore, right? Or that I’m standing here, too?

  Apparently not.

  Not until Courtney shot me the world’s most uncomfortable glance. She didn’t say a word, but I could read her mind like the first line of an eye chart. Did my fiancé just walk in on another man professing his love for me?

  Yeah, he sure as hell did.

  “Sorry, Nick, I didn’t see you standing there,” said Ferramore before his eyes immediately collapsed into a squint. “Holy shit, what happened to your face?”

  “You should see the other guy,” I said, dusting off the old joke, which happened to be accurate in this case.

  Ferramore humored me with a quiet chuckle, but as he resumed his full attention on Courtney, it was clear he couldn’t care less what actually had happened to me or my face.

  He reached out, taking both of Courtney’s hands in his. (Ugh again.) “Actually, sweetheart, there is something I need to discuss with you.”

  I took that as my cue. (Shit.)

  “Why don’t I leave the two of you alone,” I said with a step toward the door.

  “Nonsense. This is your office, Nick,” said Courtney. “Come, Tom, we’ll go to mine. Nick has a lot of work to do.”

  Before Ferramore could even nod in agreement, though, my office filled with the sound of Courtney’s cell phone. Instinctively, she reached into the pocket of her Chanel suit to check the caller ID.

  Out of the blue, Ferramore’s entire personality changed. He looked anxious and concerned. Now what was going on? Was it about me? Or Courtney and me?

  “Who is it?” he asked Courtney.

  She seemed momentarily baffled that he would want to know, let alone ask her outright. “It’s Harold Clark,” she finally answered him.

  Clark was a seasoned reporter with the Associated Press. His nickname was “Baskin,” short for Baskin-Robbins. In other words, he was known for his scoops.

  “Don’t answer it!” Ferramore practically shouted at her.

  “Why not?” asked Courtney. “What’s going on, Tom?”

  “That’s what I need to talk to you about, sweetheart.”

  Chapter 40

  “MORE COFFEE, NICK?” asked the waitress behind the counter at the Sunrise Diner near my apartment the following morning. She had the glass pot hovering and ready to pour as she waited for my answer.

  “Absolutely,” I told her. “Thank you, Rosa.” I was going to need the extra caffeine today.

  There was no way I could’ve known what Courtney and Ferramore had discussed once they’d left my office. Even if I had been so nosy as to approach Courtney about it afterward, there was still no way I could’ve known.

  That’s because I couldn’t find her.

  Courtney had basically disappeared – poof! – for the remainder of the day. Her terrific assistant, M.J., said she’d stormed out of the office without saying a word. That night she didn’t answer her phone at home.

  But then came the morning. And now I understood everything.

  So did the rest of Manhattan, if not the world.

  Someone had posted a video on YouTube. It starred the French supermodel Marbella, backstage a few days earlier at the Hermès fashion show in Paris. The stunning brunette had a cigarillo in one hand, a glass of champagne in the other – and next season’s must-have Jimmy Choo shoe planted firmly in her mouth.

  A voice off camera asked the supermodel who the richest man she’d ever slept with was.

  After a sip of the champagne and a puff of the cigarillo – removing the shoe from her mouth first – she looked straight into the camera and answered with her French accent. “Thomas Ferramore. Far and away, him!”

  “When was that?” the off-camera voice asked.

  She giggled and whispered, “Last night.”

  Whoops.

  I hadn’t actually seen the video, but news of it was splashed all over the papers, especially the New York Post that was opened on the diner counter in front of me as I gobbled up my fried eggs over easy and a stack of wheat toast. How do I stay at my current weight of 175? A very good gene pool. There’s no other possible answer.

  Anyway. Of course I felt horrible for Courtney that she would have to endure such a public humiliation, but at the same time I couldn’t help selfishly hoping that this would change everything between her and Ferramore.

  “Excuse me, is this your phone?” I suddenly heard to my left.

  I turned to see a man sitting on the stool next to me. He must have just sat down, because I hadn’t noticed him. He was pointing at my iPhone on the counter between us.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, moving it closer to me.

  “No, it’s fine, it wasn’t in my way. I only wanted to make sure it was yours and not the person who was sitting here before me.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Thanks. It’s mine, all right.”

  I was about to turn back to my new
spaper when he motioned to the article about Ferramore.

  “That’s pretty amazing,” he said, “don’t you think?”

  “Yep, it sure is,” I said, if only to be polite. I knew diner counters were prone to communal chitchat, but I really just wanted to finish eating and reading in peace, then get off to work and whatever else awaited me at Citizen that morning.

  But the stranger wasn’t finished with his spiel. “That’s the thing about gossip. Everybody loves to stick their nose into other people’s business,” he said. “Then again, how much sympathy can you have for an engaged billionaire who sticks his prick in some Euro-trash supermodel’s business, right?”

  I said nothing. I didn’t want to encourage the guy too much.

  Not that it mattered.

  “Isn’t that right, Nick?” he asked again.

  Huh?

  Not only did he not need any more encouraging, he clearly didn’t need an introduction.

  “Do I know you?” I asked.

  “No, Nick, you don’t. But I know you,” he said with a dead stare. “I also know you’re in a shitload of danger. The two of us should talk.”

  Chapter 41

  OKAY, YOU’VE OFFICIALLY got my attention. Now let’s rewind the tape a bit. Who the hell are you?

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said.

  “It does to me. Especially if you want this conversation to continue.”

  He smiled, a real shit-eating New Yorker’s grin. He was enjoying this. “You can call me… Doug. Don’t you want to hear why you’re in danger, Nick?”

  “I don’t know yet,” I said. “But for sure the cops sitting at the other end of the counter might. Would you like me to call them over?”

  I have to admit I felt pretty smug pointing out the two policemen in uniform saddled up to the counter with their coffees about a dozen stools away.

  But the stranger – Doug? – didn’t even bother to look. He kept his eyes trained on mine.

  “The last time you were in a restaurant with two cops – that didn’t work out too well, did it? I don’t think so.”

  I suddenly didn’t feel so smug, or protected, either.

  “What do you want?” I asked. “Why did you follow me here?”

  He casually pulled back the lapel of his sport coat to show me his holster. It sure wasn’t empty, and I was getting tired of seeing guns lately.

  “What I want is for you to ask me nicely why it is that you’re in danger, Nick Daniels,” he said. “Say please. Better yet, say pretty please.”

  I glanced at all the people around me. The Sunrise was packed for breakfast as usual, just like Lombardo’s was for lunch.

  I could literally feel the sweat beginning to seep out from my pores. Not so good.

  “Please tell me why I’m in danger,” I said, my voice nearly cracking. The stranger stared at me, saying nothing. He was waiting.

  “Pretty please,” I added.

  He leaned in close.

  “You see, that’s what’s so intriguing,” he whispered. “Because I think you already know the answer, Nick.”

  He tilted his head, inspecting the bruises around my eyes and mouth. They were now ripening to a soft purple. “In fact, you might say it’s written all over your face.”

  “Who do you work for?” I asked.

  “What makes you think I work for someone?”

  It was actually a pretty good question, because he certainly didn’t come across as the “for hire” type. Unless, that is, IBM was doing the hiring. This guy was clean-cut, straight-laced. He didn’t look scary at all. Actually, he looked like a “Doug.”

  And that was scaring me even more.

  “You obviously know a lot about me,” I said. “What is it that you want me to do? Tell me what you want.”

  “Now we’re making some progress. Finally,” he said with a satisfied nod. “What I want you to do is nothing. Whatever you’re planning on doing, whatever you’re even thinking of doing, I don’t want you to do it. Do you follow what I’m saying?”

  “I think so.”

  “Good. Because if you do nothing, maybe – just maybe – you’ll live to see another sunrise. Hey, make that another Sunrise Diner.”

  With that wisecrack, he stood and walked away. Out the door, and out of the diner.

  Gone.

  But definitely not forgotten.

  Chapter 42

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER, I was marching very quickly into One Hogan Place, otherwise known as the New York County District Attorney’s Office. Or David Sorren’s home away from home.

  “Hi, Nick Daniels to see Mr. Sorren,” I said to his secretary, a young woman with big hair and an attitude to match. She acted as if I’d just interrupted her wedding ceremony.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “Nick Daniels,” I repeated my introduction of myself. “I’m here to see David Sorren.”

  “That’s what you think.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Do you have an appointment to see Mr. Sorren?”

  “No.”

  “Is he expecting you?”

  “No.”

  “Yeah, like I said, that’s what you think.”

  Cute, very cute. But in case you haven’t noticed yet, I’m in no mood for cute today. I’m a man with a mission, a man on fire.

  I stormed right by her.

  “Hey!” she shouted. “Come back here!”

  But she was a little too slow on the draw. By the time she scrambled out of her evil little chair on wheels, I’d already opened the door to Sorren’s office. The funny thing was, he barely batted an eyelash as he looked up from a file he was reading.

  “Hey, Nick, have a seat,” he said. Almost as if he actually was expecting me. “It’s all right, Molly.”

  “Yeah, it’s all right, Molly,” I echoed him. “We’re good.”

  I winked at his secretary, who shot me the royal stink eye as she closed the door on her way out. Then I did exactly what Sorren had invited me to do. I took a seat facing his big wooden desk.

  Frankly, I didn’t know where to start. The threatening guy I’d just “met” at the Sunrise Diner? My bout with the manager of Lombardo’s? Or perhaps what I had learned from the hostess there?

  Turns out, Sorren decided for me. As I began to apologize for barging in on him, he interrupted my train of thought with one of his own.

  “So, how was your visit with Eddie Pinero?” he asked. “That’s quite a spread he’s got out there in Sheepshead Bay, huh? Crime does pay after all. Boy, does it ever.”

  My jaw dropped. How did he know I’d been there? Quickly, it occurred to me. “You’ve got his place staked out? There’s surveillance on Pinero?”

  Sorren leaned back in his chair with an easy chuckle. “Hell, no. That would require way too many man-hours, too much overtime pay,” he said. He pointed his finger in the air. “There’s a much cheaper way.”

  “Satellites?”

  Sorren brought his finger down, tapping his nose. Bingo.

  “It’s kind of ironic, actually,” he said. “These capos love to talk outside to make sure we’re not listening. Little do they know we can practically read their lips now. That’s how well we can see ’em.”

  He did a double take, squinting at the bruises on my face. “Though I don’t recall seeing any punches thrown during your visit.”

  “There weren’t any punches. At least not there,” I explained. Then I told Sorren everything else – the whole shebang, what I’d learned since I’d first called him about my recording from Lombardo’s.

  As clear as those satellites were, he’d see why I was concerned. Right?

  “So let me get this straight,” he said with a befuddled look. “You think we’ve got the wrong man? You think Eddie Pinero had nothing to do with Marcozza’s murder? Or the two cops? Is that your conclusion, Nick?”

  “I don’t know anything for certain. All I’m saying is that I have my doubts
.”

  Sorren swung his black wingtips up onto his desk, the perfect heels landing against the wood with a jarring thud. He’d been cool and easy-breezy up until this point. Now that same intensity I’d first encountered was bubbling up to the surface.

  “I don’t get you,” he said finally, shaking his head. “You come forward with that terrifically useful recording, what amounts to a smoking gun, and here you are now trying to make me forget about it. What gives, Nick?”

  “I’m not trying to make you forget about anything, David. I simply want you to rethink it, that’s all.”

  “Rethink it? What’s there to rethink?” he asked, his voice booming. “There’s a reason the only currency we trade in around here is cold, hard evidence. Because evidence speaks for itself, clear and simple – just like the killer’s voice on your recording. Remember? I have a message from Eddie.”

  Before I could even respond, the intercom on Sorren’s phone beeped. It was his secretary, Ms. Stink Eye. “Excuse me, Mr. Sorren, but they’re waiting for you downstairs.”

  “Thank you, Molly. I’m done here.” He shot me a look that said, We’re done, Nick. For now.

  Then Sorren jumped up, grabbing his suit jacket from behind his chair. He swirled it through the air like a matador’s cape as he put it on.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a press conference to give,” he said. “Big one, too. You might want to stick around for it. This morning, Eddie ‘The Prince’ Pinero was arrested for ordering the murder of Vincent Marcozza.”

  Chapter 43

  I WOULD HAVE sooner volunteered for a double root canal than stuck around for Sorren’s press conference that morning.

  Still, there was no escaping it later that night on the news. It was everywhere on the dial – not that I was too surprised by that. Americans have always loved a good mob story.

  But was David Sorren telling the public the right story? Was it the truth?

  With practically every flip of the channel there was a clip of Pinero in handcuffs followed by another clip of Sorren facing the hordes of media on the steps of his building. And to watch and listen to Sorren was to make no mistake: the New York Country DA’s Office was his building.