He reached the tiny little hamlet. Just a main street, really. After he’d exited the pickup, he pulled his hat over his head and hustled towards a blue mailbox sitting placidly outside the post office. He pushed the package he’d brought from the city—addressed to the New York Times—into the mailbox. It landed in the empty box with a thud. Jake pivoted and rubbed his hands together in the cold. For once in his life, just for a moment, he was actually happy about the prospect of returning to the warm hearth of his family home.
He was there in Berne—and then he wasn’t. No one saw him. No one heard him. No one even passed him on the road. When he arrived back home, his father was still asleep and unaware of his truck’s role in Jake’s mission. Not a soul except for Jake Rivett actually knew that in this moment, at this time, Jake Rivett was happy.
THIRTY-FOUR
ARTHUR METROPOLIS STOOD ON THE sixtieth floor of his unfinished skyscraper, consulting with his new head engineer. The last firm he’d hired had quit a week prior, citing the recent New York Times exposé.
The article had blown a ragged hole through Arthur’s heart. Talk about a midlife crisis. For the first time in his life, Arthur Metropolis didn’t exactly know what to say. His cell phone had thousands of missed calls from unknown numbers—but they weren’t really unknown. They were members of the press, literally the world round, all attempting to get their claws into him on the record. It wasn’t the well-researched, eloquent, and logical writing in the article that had damaged Arthur so much. It wasn’t the fact that weasel-ass hack had hidden behind an “anonymous” source and only jammed a warning down Arthur’s throat at the last minute before he could defend himself at all. No. The worst part was the photos. The still frames. Right there—plastered across the front page of the newspaper—a huge bag of cash sitting between him and the mayor. It went without saying that Ronald Berg wasn’t returning Arthur’s calls either. Berg had his own personal cavalcade of horrors to weather at this moment. But New York was a tornado, and Arthur was twisting aimlessly in the center of it. At this point he was in survival mode. He was just trying to keep his head above water. But now he had lenders, subcontractors, and suppliers questioning his reputation and worse, his credit.
The Greeks were right. Reality has moments of comedy but in the end is always a tragedy. The last twenty years had taught Arthur that cash was king. Especially in New York, and specifically in real estate, there was nothing like a crisp dollar bill to get what you wanted. But all of the money in the world wasn’t helping Arthur now. Because while cash could buy a reputation, that reputation could be sunk by an infinite supply of other issues—like an article in the New York Times that positioned Arthur as a slumlord and corruptive influence on regional politics with employees running numerous criminal enterprises throughout the five boroughs. That’s ultimately why Arthur was dealing with a second-rate engineer, gazing at a new budget 30 percent higher than the last one, and had heard from his counsel that all of the Whale Square permits had been retroactively yanked in favor of a community center. What a disgrace.
Arthur still had a lot of money in his bank accounts, but he felt like he did when he was a janitor. He felt poor. He felt helpless—he was very, very unhappy about his station in life. Actually, it was worse than when he was young and had nothing. Building something from nothing feels a hell of a lot better than watching one’s empire tumble down to zilch. A person on the way up can climb incrementally—feeling their new muscles form. A soul on the way down is simply deflating, wildly, with no idea what they’re going to look like when it’s all finished.
Arthur stared out over the beast of Manhattan. “It’s beautiful,” he said.
“Excuse me, sir?” asked Anton, his new engineer.
“The view.”
“I agree with you. Wholeheartedly. I just got word on the radio . . .”
“Yes?”
“Guess the city’s here.”
“Did you forget something?” Arthur asked, his face growing red and indignant.
“Don’t think so. Truly. We’ll just talk it out . . .”
“They want to ruin me,” Arthur said.
“I’m sure it’s just the inspectors. Let me talk to them.”
Ahead of the two men, the yellow elevator rose and clanked as it locked into place. Arthur stared at the cage. Yes, it was filled with men from the “city.” But they sure weren’t inspectors. That was clear from the badge hanging from Dennis Fong’s dress shirt—and the five cops standing behind him.
Fong stepped out of the elevator. “Hi there, Mr. Metropolis. I’d like to chat.”
“Surely,” Arthur said.
“At the station, sir . . .”
Arthur didn’t step towards Fonger. Instead, he coyly stepped back across the construction site. He tripped on a cage of rebar emerging from the cement pad of the floor and fell. His hands landed roughly on the surface. He pushed himself up. He saw the cops jogging towards him. He knew they weren’t there to help. One of them was holding handcuffs, hard metal reflecting off the beautiful sunlight. He could hear something. It entered his eardrums, but his brain did not process it. He could not comprehend it.
“You’re under arrest,” they were saying.
But Arthur wasn’t listening. He dusted off his Zegna suit. He kept retreating as the cops raced towards him. They were only a few feet away when he reached the end. A revelation washed over Arthur. No one was going to care about what happened next. Stian Ziros had been his best friend, and he was dead. The ladies—hey, at least Isabelle would come to the funeral. But she didn’t really care. She didn’t actually know him. He had made sure of that. They’d all found him at the top of the heap and they’d used him to keep themselves there too. Now they’d have to fight for their own food, shelter, and reputation. He didn’t even have a will. The girls, the city, the banks, the tenants, the contractors—they’d probably rip themselves to shreds figuring out how to take all of his money.
When Arthur Metropolis stepped off the back of his tower, the last thing he thought about was how much effort he’d put into the suit he was wearing. It had taken approximately five fittings to master. He’d made sure to test out the fabric by hand before it was cut. The suit was fully canvassed, of course. It was an excellent and bespoke garment. It made him feel different than he really was. All of it had, and that was what this came down to. He’d used his money to hide reality, instead of building a new one. A man can hide, but one can never truly avoid their true self. Now, after all that work, his suit was going to be ruined. And so was he.
Arthur Metropolis floated through the air on the way down, a loud scream erupting from the inside of his lungs as he fell. It was supposed to be a fast descent, like a rollercoaster, but it felt like forever to him. And then it was over.
▪
At One Police Plaza, Jake sat at his new desk and kicked his feet up. Sick beats rolled through his headphones as he zoned out. There had been a few major benefits to reporting back to the main office for the first time in a year. The first was the view. The second was the fact that no one seemed to bother him. He wasn’t sure if they’d forgotten what he could do—or were just afraid of him? He didn’t know. But it didn’t particularly bother Jake that they were treating him with kid gloves. Tony wouldn’t be able to resist consulting with him soon. Maybe in a couple weeks, Susan might even return his phone calls. In the meantime, he would enjoy his sabbatical.
Jake didn’t hear the knock on the door, but he caught the motion from the corner of his eye. Tony Villalon stood in the middle of Jake’s office. His mouth was moving, which meant he was talking. But Jake still couldn’t comprehend a word coming out because the music blaring into his eardrums was so loud. He slowly reduced the volume while continuing to nod at Tony.
“Crazy, isn’t it,” Tony was saying. “Case starts with a selfie. Got everyone else involved, but we never did find that selfie . . .”
“Sometimes where you think you’re going? It’s way different from where you end
up,” Jake replied.
“Yeah. Like in the New York Times.”
Classic Tony. Both his best friend on the force, even though neither of them would ever say that out loud, and the guy that most exasperated him. They each had a little of what the other one wanted. And right now, Jake realized, Tony wasn’t there to talk about selfies. What Tony wanted was a confession.
“You know who I hate?” Tony continued. “Reporters. Been swattin’ them away for three weeks now . . .”
“Agreed,” Jake replied.
“That’s what I thought. I mean, I figured if there was anyone in the world who’d agree with me, it’d be you. And that’s not just because you hate on everyone. It’s because they don’t help. They just get in the way. Of course, they don’t think so.”
“Couldn’t agree more,” Jake grinned back.
“Fong’s taking Arthur to the pen right now.
“Great,” Jake replied.
“’Cause of the article . . .”
Jake nodded.
“It’s . . .” Tony struggled to choose his words. “It’s a real nice coincidence those letters came from a mailbox in Albany. Isn’t that where your pops is?”
“I thought you hated reporters. Not sources.”
“You’re neither. You’re a cop.”
“And so are you, Tony. So why are you spending your time worrying about fuckin’ over some little guy . . . who exposed a big bad who was screwing everyone?”
“Pretty eloquent.”
“Answer the question.”
“You first,” Tony replied.
“You didn’t ask me anything . . .”
“Did you leak the Metropolis video?” Tony asked Jake.
He really, really didn’t want to lie to Tony. But another certitude of Rivett’s existence was that his worldview was his constitution. Everyone who knew him knew that. Even Villalon. That’s why Tony probably knew that Jake was about to lie to him, and he’d forgive Jake for it eventually. Jake did not always obey the law, and he didn’t always uphold the law. What Jake Rivett did—which was the bravest stance of all—was do the right thing.
“I didn’t leak it, Tony. That all?”
Tony stewed. “Just remember what I do for a paycheck,” he finally said.
“Bust perps,” Jake said. “Same as moi. What’s up with Berg, by the way?”
“Susan’s over there right now.”
“Arresting him?”
“She wasn’t exactly clear about that . . .”
“Why does she always need to be right in the center of everything?”
“Now that question, my dear Jake, is way above my pay grade . . .” Tony replied as he reached into his pocket. His cell phone was vibrating. He pulled it out, and his face immediately contracted into a pained expression.
“What?” Jake asked.
“Metropolis. He . . . he’s dead.” Tony read through his text. “He jumped, man. The bastard jumped off his own building.”
THIRTY-FIVE
SUSAN HERLIHY SAT ACROSS FROM the mayor. Ronald Berg’s personal lawyer, Mr. Rosen, was next to him.
“We were under the impression this was just a conversation,” Berg said.
“That’s why you’ve got Rosen?” Susan replied.
“If you’re planning on arresting the mayor, we’d like to do it in private. He can turn himself in during the middle of the night. I hope you’ll consider that, for the sake of the stability . . . of the city,” Rosen said.
“So you’re the grim reaper? Where’s Marks?” Berg asked her.
“Tom’s in Washington. He’s got an important meeting on a golf course with some conglomerate and its squids. Harris—or Northrop—or Carlyle. I forget. Listen, Ronald. I don’t think you’re a bad guy. But you can’t be the mayor anymore,” Susan said.
“I’m not going to the pen?” Berg asked.
“First, I’m going to ask your lapdog to leave.”
“Excuse me, Mrs. Herlihy? That’s entirely inappropriate,” Rosen said.
“Okay,” Susan proclaimed. She stood up and tapped her heels together. She yanked a pair of handcuffs out of her pocketbook and dangled them in front of Berg. “Then you can turn around, sir.”
Berg glanced at his lawyer. “Leave,” he commanded Rosen.
Rosen acquiesced.
“Tell me what I can do,” Berg said. He peered up at Susan. He’d found her quite attractive when he first met her, but he was staring at a wraith now. None of her curves mattered. But the part he could not see—what was in her brain—was critical to his survival. Susan had that effect on most people. No one knew what they were dealing with. By the time they did, they were sprawled out on a couch, gazing up at her in submission and begging for mercy.
“If you resign today, I won’t arrest you.”
“How can you guarantee that?”
“I’ve run it past the DA . . . Now those photos are bullshit. Unbelievable. But besides that, we’re not so solid. Can’t connect all the dots. Can’t prove the whole spider’s web. You know the old phrase: ‘If you’re going to shoot the king, make sure you kill him.’ So we’re not ready to shoot yet. But if you don’t resign? You can bet your ass we’ll keep digging your grave.”
“And you’ll do this . . . just out of civic duty?”
“You’re not the only one retiring. Marks is too. That’s why he’s in Washington. He’s pitching his golden parachute. Here’s what happens. You leave and make everyone happy. That means that your boy Green, the public advocate, gets to become mayor. And a few weeks later, the chief of police will be up for nomination.”
“You want to be the commissioner. What if Green doesn’t listen to me?”
“That’s your problem. Let me put it this way. If I don’t become chief? Every little last piece of evidence that I can possibly scrounge up is going directly to the DA’s office with my strongest recommendation for prosecution . . .”
Berg grinned all silly at Susan. “It’s not just police, is it, with you?”
“Excuse me?”
“You think this could be your office one day,” Berg pronounced.
“Don’t shortchange me,” Susan Herlihy remarked. “Mayor’s just the beginning. So, do we have a deal?”
THIRTY-SIX
SUNLIGHT BLASTED ACROSS THE NEON-blue sky—perfection. A large crowd was milling at Whale Square, complete with the requisite media presence. All the flacks were out in grand display, probably a bit resentful that their colleagues were racing across the city in rabid pursuit of the facts regarding Arthur Metropolis' untimely death. But here, now, was the community center’s first shovel. That’s what was happening at Whale Square this morning—why all of the custom suits were encircling a group of community organizers, local politicians and their aides, nonprofit regulars, well-meaning Manhattanites, and yes, even actual residents.
Jake drove a dark sedan to the ceremony. He still had the Ducati. The machine was a part of him. But he was in transition. In some ways, he was mourning his past life. He had been forced by the coffin of his work assignment and the love of one woman to say goodbye to a particular lifestyle, but that didn’t mean it was all done. It just meant that he now showed up in a black Ford with a V8 under the hood. He parked in front of a set of police barriers and nodded at the two cops assigned to the event. They knew exactly who he was. For a guy with very few friends, Jake Rivett was more than household name. He was a legend.
Jake walked through the crowd in search of a particular group. Eventually he found Adriana, Mona’s sister—and her little nieces, Mari and Vicki. They locked eyes, and they hugged.
“I like your suit,” Adriana said.
“Thanks. Still getting used to it. She’s not here yet?” Jake asked.
“She’s coming. She texted me.”
A few moments later, Mona appeared in front of them, stepping through the crowd. She let loose a huge, ebullient smile when she saw Jake, and pulled him in for a hug and kiss.
“You’re here!” she said.
“C’mon. You think I was going to miss it? Most exciting thing I’m going to do today . . .”
“Oh yeah?” Mona was scrambling through her purse for something, reaching into the crevices. “Take some pictures for me, babe? My camera’s in there,” she said as she handed her bag to Jake.
“You got it.”
“I gotta go!” Mona ran towards the stage.
Jake reached into her bag and pulled out Mona’s small digital camera.
“Can’t believe my sister’s gonna be up there with all the bigwigs,” Adriana said.
“She’s a special one,” Jake said.
Jake’s view was blocked by the football field of heads in front of him. He gazed around, searching for an acceptable vantage point. He quickly spotted a makeshift TV tower that had been erected in the back. Jake headed towards the tower. A lone cameraman sat atop, doing his duty. Jake climbed a ladder and pulled himself onto the platform.
“Ain’t for spectators, buddy.”
Jake flashed the badge attached his belt. “We can share.”
The cameraman shut up.
Ahead of them, the ceremony was just beginning. A state representative presented at the microphone while two nonprofit executives and Mona stood with their hands sharing a giant shovel.
“Today is about the future. It is about the people of this neighborhood taking control of the place they call home—and helping everyone rise together.”
Just a few seconds to go. Jake looked down at Mona’s camera. He turned on the device but encountered an error: “No Memory Card.” Uh-oh. He could hear the congresswoman wrapping her speech up. The groundbreaking was about to occur. Still holding Mona’s purse, he scrambled through the pockets looking for a card.
“In just about two years, you will be looking at a climbing gym and basketball court on the east side of this property, multiple conference rooms and classrooms to the west—and a library in the middle. I must add one thing. Holding this shovel are three exceptional women. None of this would have been possible without the cooperation of our community leaders . . . ”
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