"You know, I think they might green-light the ever-elusive five-star circus. Just for Athena."

"The news ran video of Costas Paradis getting off his 52.private jet this morning. I've never much sympathized with billionaires, but you have to feel for the guy."

I said nothing. Didn't have to.

"Give Jack my best. Knock the story out of the park, Henry."

"Will do," I said. "Stay quiet." I hung up. Jack was holding back a thin smile. "What?"

He allowed a small chuckle. "Like two sweet jaybirds, you two," he said. "Hope you don't mind my taking amus.e.m.e.nt in the love rituals of the young and naive."

I eyed Jack's hand, barren of any rings or jewelry other than a sw.a.n.k Omega wrist.w.a.tch. I knew he'd worn a ring, years ago. He never showed any desire to discuss it.

I took my press pa.s.s out of my pocket and looped the lanyard over my head. Jack did the same. We rounded the corner and immediately became two small fish in the biggest school I'd ever seen. There must have been five hundred members of the press corps standing outside of city hall.

Dozens of cameras, many of them live, along with Brylcreemed reporters and onlookers peeking out of open office windows for blocks in every direction. Millions of people would be watching this conference, whether live or on the evening news. Which made our jobs near impossible. How do you find a shadowy corner when there are hundreds and thousands of eyes scanning every inch?

We ducked under a rope and tried to push our way to the front.

"Easier to dig to China," Jack said. "Screw this. I don't need to be close to hear Perez."

"He'll have the text up on his Mys.p.a.ce page within an hour anyway."

"Perez has a Mys.p.a.ce page?"

"Facebook, too. Wants to hit the young voters."

"Do young voters like him?" Jack asked.

53."I wouldn't vote for him," I replied. "A little too much selfpromotion for my tastes."

Jack pulled a pair of folding binoculars out of his pocket.

He stared through them, peered along the dais and around the surrounding area. When he was done he pa.s.sed them to me.

I took in the scene. The marble steps leading to city hall were polished a gleaming white. The podium was empty, waiting for Mayor Perez and, I a.s.sumed, Costas Paradis.

Three uniformed police officers stood on either side of the podium. They stood straight, arms at their sides, guns visible.

I swung the binoculars from right to left. When I saw who was standing directly to the left of the podium, I nearly dropped the binoculars.

"I saw him, too," Jack said. "He's not here for you. Be a professional."

"Professional," I said, my mouth dry. "Right."

Standing to the left of the podium was Detective Lieutenant Joseph Mauser. One year ago, Detective Joe Mauser had chased me halfway across the country, shot me in the leg, and barely escaped with his life after taking three bullets in the chest.

I had followed Mauser's recovery over the months. Visited his guarded hospital room and was turned away by the very cops who'd wanted me dead before they found out the truth.

After two months in the hospital--fully recovered, minus one spleen, two ribs and twenty pounds--Joe Mauser transferred from the FBI to the NYPD. He attributed the transfer as a tribute to his fallen brother-in-law and in-arms, John Fredrickson. The man whose death I was responsible for, indirectly or not. Mauser wanted to be closer to his sister, Linda, John's widow. In various interviews, Mauser insinuated that he held no ill will toward me. That given the circ.u.mstances 54.he would have defended his life and honor, as well. But a wound is a wound, no matter how it's caused, and the simple fact was his brother-in-law would still be alive if not for me.

Mauser had sold the book and film rights to his story for a reputed seven figures. He said the money wasn't for him, but would feed his sister's family, educate her fatherless children. If not for Mauser, my life wouldn't have been saved by a beautiful stranger. The same woman who now shares my bed. I guess we could call it even.

Mauser looked good, healthy and even a little tan. He looked like the kind of man who was proud to serve his city.

And I was glad to finally be on his side.

I could barely hear over the noise as reporters chirped into cell phones, cameras ran their feeds. Suddenly a hush came over the crowd and I saw Mayor Dennis Perez stride to the podium through the ma.s.sive columns bracketing city hall.

Walking alongside Mayor Perez was Costas Paradis. The normally confident man looked pale, tired. But looking through the binoculars, I could see the anger that burned for his murdered daughter.

The mayor wore a striped gray suit and walked with a purpose. His mustache was neatly trimmed as always, but his eyes were bloodshot. He probably hadn't slept since Athena died. And Costas wasn't the kind of man to mourn. He was the kind of man whose grief turned to anger, whose anger turned to rage, and whose rage could scorch the earth. I just stood and hoped they found the killer before more families experienced that grief.

The crowd grew quiet. Though the majority in attendance were paid to speak, discuss and bloviate as loud as humanly possible, they also knew that if they missed a single word they could miss a scoop, fall behind, give 55.people a reason to pick up a paper or watch a newscast other than theirs.

I thought about Wallace's sign by the elevators. Then I looked at the sea of microphones and suits. Just like a marathon, a giant ma.s.s beginning as one. But that wouldn't last. The good ones would break away.

Mayor Perez stepped to the podium. Costas Paradis stood next to Perez, and I could sense the mayor's discomfort, like a child forced to admit wrongdoing in front of an angry parent.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began. His eyes traveled from right to left. Making sure he made eye contact with every camera he could. Give each station their half second of exclusive content. "At approximately one thirty-seven this morning, Athena Paradis was shot and killed as she was leaving a nightclub. This is a shocking and heinous crime, perpetrated by an individual whose depravity knows no bounds.

At this very moment we have unleashed the very best men and women upon the crime scene to establish just who is responsible for Ms. Paradis's death, as well as their motives in doing so. No stone will remain unturned, not a second will go by where Ms. Paradis's murderer will have a chance to breathe."

Jack was scribbling in a notepad. I was watching their eyes. Mayor Perez. Costas Paradis. Joe Mauser. There was worry in them. Right then I knew they had nothing.

The mayor continued.

"The true test of a city is challenge. The test of a family is grief. In this investigation, we will grieve for the memory of Athena Paradis, but rise to the challenge of bringing her killer to justice."

"Second book," Jack said, pen hanging from his mouth.

56."What?"

"That line. From Perez's second book. Just made himself another ten K in royalties right there."

I shook my head as Perez continued. "What we do know at this time is that the shooter is most likely a lone a.s.sailant, the murder weapon a high-powered rifle which was discharged from the roof of a building several blocks away from the club where Ms. Paradis was performing that evening. We have taken casts of footprints discovered at that rooftop, and are matching them with known offenders as we speak."

Bulls.h.i.t, I thought. I thought. Officer Lemansky told me the rooftop Officer Lemansky told me the rooftop was covered in gravel. Unless they developed some way to detect footprints in rocks, they're throwing us a hollow bone.

He continued. "We have many unfortunate witnesses to the crime itself, but as of yet n.o.body has come forward who has been able to positively identify the a.s.sailant."

At this point Costas Paradis moved a half inch closer. His eyes seemed to be burning a hole through Mayor Perez's neck. The mayor swallowed. He held his hand up, index finger extended.

"Let me a.s.sure you that the NYPD is using every available resource to find this heartless and soulless coward, and the NYPD will not rest until the a.s.sailant has been brought to justice."

Perez's eyes became sorrowful and he lowered his head.

"At this time I would like to express my sincerest condolences to the Paradis family. I have known Athena's devoted father, Costas, for many years, and suffice it to say his daughter's death is not only felt by the Paradis family, but is felt by his family and friends both in this city and around the world.

Justice will be served."

Hotel Paradis, Paradis Park, Paradis Skating Rink, I I thought. Not only was there a murderer loose, but there were 57.millions, perhaps billions billions of dollars at stake. Maybe Perez of dollars at stake. Maybe Perez should quote a few more lines from his book. Catching Athena's killer was not only a moral and legal priority, but one the mayor needed to help pay for those campaign reelection ads with spiffy production values.

Perez went on for another few minutes. He spoke a great deal but said very little.

"I've seen mimes more eloquent," Jack said. He leaned in closer. "Listen, I've got a contact in the medical examiner's office. As soon as this little soiree breaks up I'll have him on the phone. I want you to talk to him before we file any copy."

"What do you want me to do?"

"He owes me a solid. After you talk to him, I want you to go back and canvas the area around the Kitten Club. People don't like talking to cops. Answering questions makes them feel like they're being accused of something. Too many freaking Law & Order Law & Order spin-offs. Anyway, tell them who you spin-offs. Anyway, tell them who you are. A newsman, their voice, the voice of the people. You make 'em believe it, they'll let you hold their newborn."

"Got it."

At that moment, Mayor Perez said, "And now I'd like to turn the podium over to Police Commissioner Alan Bradley, who will answer further questions."

"Might be worth leaving now," I said. "Get a head start."

"Not yet," Jack said. "Leaving early is how you miss the big stuff."

Commissioner Bradley, a stocky bald man in his early fifties, shook hands with the mayor and Costas Paradis. He stepped to the podium with a look of gravity and sincerity.

Then I noticed something strange.

Joe Mauser was flinching. He brought his hand up to his eyes, as if shielding the sun. I took the binoculars, followed 58.his line of sight. He was looking at a building across the way.

Then I saw what he saw--a faint glimmer of light off of... something-- something-- and then all h.e.l.l broke loose. and then all h.e.l.l broke loose.

Mauser dove to his left a millisecond before the air was shattered by a deafening crack. I saw a fountain of red explode by the podium, and suddenly hundreds of people were screaming and running and cursing and fleeing.

I heard someone yell, "He's been shot!" EMS workers sprinted up the stairs. I watched in slow motion detachment, arms and legs pummeling me as they flew past. A man and a woman in white knelt down beside a fallen person atop the stairs. Police had their guns drawn and were yelling into walkie-talkies. Their eyes were all looking up, guns drawn.

At the rooftops. Where the gunshot had come from.

I looked through the binoculars to get a better view of the carnage.

I could see a group of cops ushering the mayor and Costas Paradis inside city hall. An ambulance was trying to get through the pandemonium but was having no luck. The cops were shaking, ready to fire at an instant's notice.

I saw the EMS crews working as fast as they could on the downed officer, but through the binoculars I could see one of them shake her head. Watching fingers of blood drip down the steps, I knew what she was thinking. This one can't be saved.

As they placed the cop on the stretcher, I increased the magnification. I could just make out the face.

My breath left me. I dropped to my knees. Panting. Felt Jack's hand on my shoulder. Felt the world swimming away.

Saw the face again. Saw his brother in-law's face. Both men lying in a pool of their own blood.

The downed cop was Detective Lieutenant Joe Mauser.

8.

She was lying on her back. Propped up against three pillows.

One more across her chest. One more by her right arm. She felt warm, safe, comfortable. Henry made fun of her for this. Said she was building a fort every night.Yet when the lights went out, after Amanda had burrowed into her pillow castle, she would push the pillows aside and gently lay her head on his chest.

She would listen to Henry breathe. Listen to his heart beat.

She knew when he was thinking about a story--his heart beat a little faster. She knew if the day had been long and challenging, or fast and invigorating. All this from his heartbeat.

She would glide her finger down his chest, tickling his side.

She knew he was sensitive, but he never told her to stop.

Sometimes she would run her finger along the scar where the bullet had come so close to ending his life. She knew that in some way she was responsible for that scar. For some reason, despite the pain it had caused Henry, she was glad it was there.

She knew he was awake. His breathing was shallow.

Henry's eyes had sunk. His body looked as though it had been sapped of all energy, like one of those video game characters after some evil shaman sucks their soul right out of their body then yells something cheesy like "Fatality!"

60.Another death. Reporters weren't supposed to see lives end in front of them. Henry wasn't off in a tank in Iraq. How much more could he take?

Henry's breathing had grown steadier. Maybe he had fallen asleep. She hoped so.

And then the shrill noise of Henry's cell phone broke the silence, and Amanda kicked herself for forgetting to change the ring tone.

Henry didn't stir, so Amanda reached over to the nightstand and picked it up. She expected to see Wallace Langston or Jack O'Donnell calling about some urgent scoop.

But no, it was Mya Loverne. Undoubtedly calling again in the desperate and pathetic hope that her old boyfriend would return her affection. That some previously severed synapses would again begin firing.

Amanda stared at the phone and felt a terrible pressure beginning to settle behind her eyes. She pressed and held the power b.u.t.ton until the phone went dark. Then she gathered all the pillows, held them close to her chest and hoped sleep would arrive soon.

For both of them.

9.

The Boy sat on the bed. Elbows on his knees. Feet planted on the floor. He read the newspaper again. Third time he'd done so. Then he put it on the chipped wooden nightstand and turned off the light.

He lay in the dark. He could feel his heart beating fast. It wasn't just the thrill of the kill that did it, it was the beautiful antic.i.p.ation. Then the memory of the blood.