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  “You want some orange juice? I’m off cola.” Charlie shrugged. “And beer. Obviously. I could make some coffee.”

  “I’m good. Thanks.”

  “Have a seat.”

  David sat on the edge of the sofa, and Charlie sat in his desk chair, swiveled around to face David. “Kids are okay? Your wife?”

  “All good,” David said.

  “Right. So. What are you doing here?”

  David laughed. “Straight to it, huh?”

  “You know I’m glad to see you,” Charlie said. “But it’s sudden, you know?”

  “Charlie, I’m afraid I’m here to be a jerk,” David said. “We haven’t spoken in forever, and then suddenly I show up to ask you a favor. Not cool, right?”

  Charlie scratched at his beard for a moment. “No, it’s cool. I get it. I never had no kids, you know, but I can imagine. You had your hands full. You had your life happening.”

  “I wouldn’t be bothering you if it wasn’t important.”

  “You’re not bothering me.” He grinned. “Yet. Maybe I’d better hear what this favor is.”

  David told him the story. The man breaking into his house, how he nearly got his ass handed to him, the fact the intruder was poking around in Amy’s desk. He even told him how the cops made fun of him for being a stay-at-home dad. He wrapped the story by reaching into his pocket and coming out with the sheet of paper with the intruder’s fingerprints. He handed it to Charlie.

  Charlie squinted at it. “You think there’s more to this guy than the cops know?”

  “I hope not,” David said. “Frankly, if you could work your magic and confirm everything is just as the police claim then that would be just fine with me. I can forget all about it.”

  Charlie tugged at bits of his beard just under his bottom lip as he looked at the fingerprints again. “Okay, I think we can work with this. Sit tight and let me jam on these.”

  David sat back on the couch and watched him work.

  Charlie scanned in the fingerprints and then started to bring up databases, stitching them together for cross-referencing purposes. His hands flew over two different keyboards, all the monitors coming alive with data.

  Charlie glanced over his shoulder at David. “Back when I was your handler, I left behind lots of backdoors into the system. They purged some of them, but I can still get in, and the other systems will all spread their legs for any other system with higher clearance. Thank you, Patriot Act.” He went back to work and then turned to David again a few seconds later. “Don’t tell anybody that.”

  “Don’t worry,” David said.

  Five minutes later, Charlie was nodding and pointing at the largest monitor. “Okay, here we go. Nolan Jakes. Got a police record here says everything you told me, robbery, burglary, petty larceny, the whole basic Whitman’s Sampler of street crime.”

  “So it’s the real deal?” David asked.

  “Oh, sure.”

  David blew out a sigh of relief.

  “But it’s also bullshit.”

  “What?”

  “I mean it’s a real police record in that it’s really in the system and official,” Charlie said, “but I smell bullshit.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s not messy.”

  “Talk me through this nice and slow,” David said. “Because I’m not following you.”

  “If you’ve looked at police records before you know they’re messy.” Charlie pulled at his beard again, trying to figure how to explain. “You ever see a planned community?”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “All the streets are laid out evenly,” Charlie said. “A perfect grid. Planned and predictable. Then look at some old European city. The streets and alleys were made up as they went along. The place evolved over centuries. It’s messy, but it’s real. Has a completely different feel.”

  “You’re saying the police report feels wrong?”

  “Yeah. Because it’s not messy,” Charlie said. “With this kind of rap sheet, it all gets added on a little at a time. Reports come through the system from other precincts or from out of state. I should be getting search hits from all over the place on this guy, but instead it’s all just right there. Boom.”

  “So…” David groped to follow what Charlie was saying. “It’s like somebody wrote the whole thing at once.”

  “Exactly,” Charlie said. “And look at the PDFs of the police reports. They’re all typed perfectly. Not even one spelling error, nothing crossed out. Cops can’t type for shit, trust me, I know. The file on this guy was put together and inserted into the system, so anyone looking him up would find this instead of his real record. And whoever did it wasn’t figuring on somebody like me looking too closely at it.”

  David let that sink in. Ordinary beat cops like the ones he had spoken to last night wouldn’t even blink. They checked the record like they always did, and that was that.

  He considered the flash drive the burglar had attempted to steal, thought about handing it over to Charlie to see what he could do with it. But he’d just connected again with the man and didn’t want to push it so soon. Besides, David wanted to go over it himself first.

  “Charlie, with those fingerprints is there any chance you can poke around and find out who this guy really is?”

  A shrug. “Yeah. No guarantees, but it’s worth a try. I’d have to run some really slow search programs, underneath radar encrypted type stuff. It’ll take some time, but we can see what we see.”

  “Look, I know this computer stuff costs money,” David said. “And you’re spending time on this. You’ve got to let me toss you a few bucks.”

  Charlie waved him away, laughing. “Naw, man, this kind of thing is fun for me. Don’t sweat it.”

  “Charlie, come on.”

  “Hey, you think I need the money? Don’t worry about old Charlie. He’s doing fine.”

  David glanced around the room. He hadn’t bothered to notice when he’d come in but the interior of the apartment was far nicer than the exterior of Charlie’s building would indicate. The furnishings and carpeting were every bit as good as what David had in his own house.

  Maybe Charlie was reading his mind. “This is my neighborhood, you know? So I came back here. I could live anywhere, but I came home. These are my people. You pass that hot dog cart when you came out of the subway?”

  David pictured the hot dog cart outside the station, the skinny old man standing next to it. “Yeah.”

  “That’s Saul. I bought that cart for him and in return, he kicks back to me each month. I clear maybe thirty to forty bucks a month on Saul.”

  “Thirty to forty a month,” David said deadpan. “So you probably hang out with Bill Gates and Donald Trump all the time is what you’re saying.”

  “Yeah, yeah, you always were a funny guy,” Charlie said. “But multiply that times a hundred and seventy-four carts and it adds up.”

  “Ah.”

  “And it’s tax free in cash,” added Charlie. “Don’t tell anybody that.”

  David made a zipper closing gesture across his mouth.

  “And with my setup”—he waved a hand at the computers—“I’m able to pick up an insider stock tip once in a while. Don’t tell anybody that, either.”

  David held up his hands in surrender. “Okay. You can help me for the sheer fun of it. Hell, maybe you should lend me a few bucks.”

  Charlie laughed. “Look, Captain—David—it’s good to see you again. Let me see what I can find out. Maybe nothing, but who knows? But if you’ve got motherfuckers breaking into your house, then hell yeah, of course I’ll help.”

  “Thanks. It means a lot,” David said. “Let me give you my cell number. It’s unlisted.”

  “Don’t bother.” Charlie grinned. “Unlisted just means it’ll take me an extra thirty seconds to find it.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Amy looked up at the knock on her office door. “Come in.”

  The door opened, and the district
attorney walked in.

  Amy stood. “Bert.” She would have expected her assistant Jenny to announce him first, but this was one of Bert’s favorite tricks, waltzing in and catching people off guard. Amy made a mental note to talk to Jenny about that.

  “Please,” Bert said. “Sit. Just a casual pop-in to see how my new right hand is getting along.” Bert was a short, tidy man in his late fifties, neatly tailored gray suit, round glasses, and a tight haircut. Gleaming Stanford Law cuff links. He lowered himself into one of the chairs opposite Amy.

  She sat, gestured to the ton of paperwork stretched across her desk. “Remember when I thanked you for the promotion? I take it back. This is all one case.”

  “But an important one,” Bert said. “Dante Payne is the leading figure in the city’s organized crime world, and hardly anyone knows it. He’s done one heck of a job making himself look legitimate. He even won some kind of community award a few months ago for helping arrange a new hospital cancer wing. And there are three different politicians waiting to see how this turns out, so they can decide if they’re going to take sizable campaign contributions from him or not. He needs to be put away, but if we botch it, we’ll make some powerful enemies. I’d like for all of us to keep our jobs.”

  Amy nodded. She knew all of this already, and Bert knew that she knew. This was just his way of letting her know he was anxious, and that made her anxious. Bert’s feathers didn’t ruffle easily. He was nervous.

  “I know,” Amy said. “There’s a lot hinging on a single witness. We’ve been trying to get others to corroborate his story and strengthen the case, but it’s tough. People are afraid to come forward. And Payne butters too many people’s bread.”

  Bert nodded, bit a thumbnail, jaw tight. “And where is our Mr. Preston now?”

  Del Preston. The witness. The one man in the city prepared to sing his heart out and put Payne behind bars. Amy didn’t know if he was brave or crazy, but the case hung on his testimony, which was the linchpin that allowed all of the circumstantial evidence to link up neatly. Without Preston the case fell apart.

  “He’s arriving soon. Any minute now actually,” She said. “In police custody for his own protection.”

  “I’ll feel better once he’s inside the building,” Bert said. “With all the metal detectors and bailiffs and security cameras, it’s probably one of the most secure places in the city.”

  Amy would be glad when the entire affair was over. Since her promotion, her caseload had been reduced to one. Payne. For some reason, she found it more stressful to focus on this single case than it was juggling multiple assignments. As a rookie assistant DA, she’d been overloaded with so many cases she wondered every day why the whole system just didn’t collapse. But somehow she woke up every morning and the cases were still there, the wheels of justice grinding slowly but still grinding.

  It felt odd to look back on those days as relatively carefree. Now she felt like the eyes of the entire justice system were upon her. The mayor. The governor. Not for the first time, Amy suspected she wasn’t really cut out for the limelight.

  Amy knew that Bert was trying to kill multiple birds with one stone when he’d boosted her to deputy district attorney. There’d always been some vague pressure to promote more women, but it was more than that. Bert knew she could handle the job, was, in fact, counting on her. Amy would never have accepted the position just to serve as Bert’s token female. She knew what she was doing. She was the right choice.

  So why do I feel more stressed out than I ever have in my whole life?

  She calmed herself. So. One case. For all the marbles. Hey, it’s just a career, right?

  Maybe it was all that pressure that had put a strain on things at home. David had always been stoic, but stoic had become distant these last few months. Normally, she’d give her husband space, let him work it out, but maybe she’d been too patient. The Army had put him on some kind of indefinite leave so he could rest. But rest from what? Maybe it was time she forced David to be more forthcoming about whatever it was that was eating him.

  Still, they’d really connected the other night. Like old times. She’d felt a surge of optimism, which had sadly been undermined by the break-in. The incident with the burglar seemed to crank up David’s stress level again. Which is understandable. For God’s sake, our children were right upstairs. Anything could have happened.

  Amy was about to cobble together some reassuring phrases for Bert when the phone rang. She answered. “Jenny? Yeah. Right. Tell them we’ll be down in a few minutes.”

  She hung up and looked at Bert. “They’re bringing him in now.”

  * * *

  Amy and Bert stood between a brace of bailiffs as a squad of NYPD cleared the hall, motioning for the usual herd of lawyers and clerks who haunted the place to stand out of the way. At the far end of the hall, she saw them coming.

  If Amy understood the procedure correctly, a team of police with bomb-sniffing dogs had arrived an hour ahead of time to sweep the level of the parking garage in which Preston had arrived. He then came up the elevator, surrounded by policemen in Kevlar vests. Preston wore one, too. The witness was now being escorted to a room where a stenographer waited to take his statement in front of Amy, Bert, and the witness’s personal attorney. There was a lot riding on Preston’s testimony, and they were making it all as official as possible. All of the stiff formalities and dire precautions rubbed Amy’s nerves raw. She realized she was biting the inside of her lower lip—an old habit—and made herself stop.

  Amy’s eyes shifted to Bert standing next to her. He didn’t seem worried, chin up and eyes bright as he watched the witness and his police escort approach. Not Bert’s first rodeo, Amy realized. He’d been doing this a long time.

  Her guess was that he was still nervous. Just better at hiding it.

  She glanced the other direction at the bailiff standing on the other side of her. The man had his hand on his holster. She supposed everyone was tense, and maybe the bailiff was simply bracing himself for whatever might—

  The bailiff unsnapped the holster. Amy blinked. Was that necessary?

  The witness and his police escort had almost reached them now. Bert was already stepping forward, welcoming. He had a way of putting people at ease. Preston was looking straight at Bert, but the cops with him were looking off left and right as if expecting terrorists to come storming from a side hall at any minute. Bert was raising his hand to shake it. That’s it, Bert. Do your thing. Let’s get this guy into the room, get his statement, and then we can all go to a champagne lunch to celebrate a job well—

  The bailiff had his hand on the butt of his revolver. He was drawing it. Amy opened her mouth, objections stuck in her throat. She wasn’t sure what she was seeing. Her eyes blazed across the scene, taking it all in at once. The cops still scanned each nook and cranny, looking in every direction but hers.

  The bailiff raised the pistol.

  No!

  Amy grabbed the man’s arm, tried to pull his aim away from the approaching group of men.

  He jerked his arm free and smashed Amy in the corner of her mouth with the pistol.

  Pain exploded across her face, a white light flashing in her eyes. She stumbled back over her own high heels, skidded on the tile floor, and went down. She tasted blood in her mouth, spit, dizzy and nauseous.

  A gunshot shook the hallway. Shouting.

  Amy’s ears rang. It seemed to take forever to blink the stars from her eyes and look up, but it was only a split-second. Bert lay on the ground.

  The bailiff fired again, and almost simultaneously another smattering of gunfire smacked into the bailiff, three red blooms sprouting wet across his chest. He spun back, bounced off the wall and went down.

  The hallway became a confused tumult, everyone shouting, police radios squawking. Somebody bumped into Amy and when she turned to see who it was, someone bumped her from behind.

  She was still on the floor.

  Amy crawled to Bert. He looked u
p at her, face ashen. His mouth worked to talk, but nothing came out. His jacket had fallen open, and Amy saw that his shirt stuck red to him low on his side. He reached for her with a trembling hand, blood dripping from the fingertips. His eyes pleaded.

  “Take it easy, Bert.” She scooted behind him, pulled his head into her lap. “I’ve got you. You’re going to be fine. A little mess, that’s all. Just keep still.”

  His eyes again. Afraid. She took his hand, squeezed.

  She looked up. “Hey! Somebody call 9-1-1. We need a doctor. Over here.”

  A voice from the confusion acknowledged her.

  Amy’s gaze shifted to the other body sprawled a dozen feet away. Del Preston lay awkwardly on his side, eyes wide open and vacant. His life leaked red from the gaping wound in his head. A pool of blood spread under him in a slowly widening circle.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The first David heard of the shooting was when he’d tried to get into the building.

  They’d turned him back as a matter of course, very edgy cops who were in no mood to hear excuses, and they didn’t care whose wife was doing what where because the building was on lockdown and as far as they were concerned David could fuck straight off.

  David wasn’t one to give up easily, but it was obvious the direct approach wasn’t going to work.

  He alternated between calling Amy’s office phone and her cell. He finally caught her in her office, and she sent down a bailiff—one she knew personally, she later explained—to escort him inside and up to Amy’s floor.

  He stood in Amy’s office doorway, took her in at a glance. She held a hand towel full of crushed ice to the side of her mouth but otherwise looked fine.

  He asked anyway. “You okay?”

  She scowled at him around the towel. “I think he knocked a tooth loose.”

  “I’m sorry.”