“Don’t do this,” I told him.
Then he pulled the trigger.
The air exploded around me, the blistering sound of the shot piercing my ears.
But no pain right away.
I looked down at myself. There was no blood visible. No wound that I could see.
Did Tagaletto just miss me from six feet away?
That’s when I finally looked at Tagaletto. Except he was no longer standing there. He was lying on the ground in a pool of his own blood.
“Lucky for you I always carry a spare,” said Zambratta. He returned the second pistol to a holster inside his jacket.
I couldn’t move and I felt paralyzed. The question I wanted to ask was, why was Tagaletto dead and not me? But I couldn’t speak.
Zambratta answered anyway. “Sam was a careless mother-fucker, always has been,” he sneered. “Today, it’s a reporter like you. Tomorrow, it’s a Fed.”
He slid my driver’s license into his pocket and tossed my wallet to the ground. Then he really fucked with me.
“I’m not supposed to kill you yet,” he said.
Chapter 62
ALL THE WAY back to my apartment, Zambratta’s last line echoed in my head like the sound of the gunshot that had killed Sam Tagaletto. What’s more, he knew who I was even before he saw my driver’s license.
Because he worked for Joseph D’zorio.
Everything was coming together in a way I could never have imagined. And that wasn’t a good thing. People whom I didn’t know, whom I’d never even met before, knew exactly who I was and wanted me dead. Just not quite yet.
It was all the more reason for me to run — don’t walk! — straight to the police. But I didn’t. I decided not to.
Just not quite yet. I was too consumed with the chase for the truth by this point. The same kid who had stared up in awe at the screen at Woodward and Bernstein in All the President’s Men was now too preoccupied with piecing together what had really brought me and Dwayne Robinson together that bloody day at Lombardo’s. Or, rather, who had brought us together.
If I had it right so far, it had all begun when Dwayne Robinson made some bad bets and lost money he didn’t have. He owed Sam Tagaletto, but Tagaletto was just a middleman. The person Dwayne really owed was Joseph D’zorio. After Dwayne bounced two checks, D’zorio could’ve broken his arms or sunk him to the bottom of the Hudson River.
But D’zorio didn’t become a mob boss by using muscle alone. He was smart and he was cunning. Played chess, not checkers. So he came up with a better way for Dwayne to pay off his debt. All the former ace southpaw had to do was break his long-standing silence with the media and consent to an interview in a seemingly random steakhouse with a credible journalist who would eat up the potential story.
Let the tape recorder roll.
“I have a message from Eddie.”
Just like that, D’zorio had set up Eddie Pinero. He had used Dwayne and me. But most of all, he had used the fact that Pinero would have a motive to want his longtime attorney dead.
It was a pretty damn perfect plan. Right down to my coming across the Pinero reference on my recorder. Of course I would have done that. In fact, had I not left my jacket at Lombardo’s and talked to the hostess, Tiffany, I never would’ve become the least bit suspicious.
That’s when D’zorio’s plan became a little too perfect. At least for me.
The question now was whether I could prove my theory to anyone, or at least anyone who mattered in police circles. And whether I would live long enough to do it.
The second I walked into my apartment I grabbed Derrick Phalen’s business card. It was only a little past two o’clock. Odds were he was in his office. Still, he had asked that I call him only on his cell.
Phalen picked up quick, only one ring, but then said he’d have to call me back in a couple of minutes. When he did call back, I could hear street sounds in the background. He’d obviously gone outside to speak to me. Was he being extremely paranoid or just smart as hell?
“We’ve got a lot to talk about,” I told him. “This is going to blow your mind.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” he came back. “What I found out last night will blow your mind.”
Chapter 63
PHALEN SAID HE couldn’t get into his news right now and he didn’t want to discuss it over the phone. “Nick, can you come by my apartment tonight?” he asked.
Are you kidding me? Yeah, like anything could stop me.
I called Courtney on the way over to Derrick’s that night. She was quiet and reserved, so I didn’t bring up Thomas Ferramore, and I also didn’t get into what had happened in the Bronx today. I did tell her I was seeing Phalen, and she told me, “Be careful, Nick. I don’t want to lose you.”
At a few minutes past eight, I exited the Henry Hudson Parkway in the heart of the Riverdale section of the Bronx. Phalen’s street was a few blocks east and was lined with prewar brownstones. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear I was on the Upper East Side of Manhattan.
Save for one difference: available parking. I found a spot probably less than fifty feet from Phalen’s address.
As I grabbed my shoulder bag and hit the sidewalk, I was reminded of a joke my uncle Leo had once told me. I had been nine or ten years old.
“How do you keep a turkey in suspense?” he asked.
“I don’t know. How?”
Uncle Leo smiled. “I’ll tell you later. Turkey.”
I could barely wait to hear what Phalen had for me. I was actually speed-walking toward his brownstone and my heart was going pretty good. With one foot on the front stoop, however, I stopped.
Did I lock my car?
I couldn’t remember.
I reached into my pocket, my thumb searching for the lock button on my electronic key fob. I gave it a click and watched for the taillights on my Saab to blink — only they didn’t.
I clicked again.
No luck.
I cursed under my breath and started walking back, thinking I was out of range. The entire key chain was out of my pocket and aimed squarely at the dash. I was definitely close enough now.
But the taillights still weren’t blinking.
C’mon, already!
I shook the key fob, pressing the lock button hard a few more times. Was the little battery inside the thing dead?
No, it wasn’t. But I sure as hell was supposed to be.
BOOM! went my Saab.
Chapter 64
MY CAR ROSE in the air a good three feet as an orange fire-ball raced toward me, then knocked me down, my body slamming so hard against the sidewalk that I actually blacked out for a few seconds.
When I came to, the sound of the explosion was still pummeling my ears. All at once I could hear the shattering of glass, the twisting of metal, my car being blown to smithereens!
Slowly I got up, but the heat from the flames was so intense I had to step back. Am I okay? Am I hurt more than I think I am? Am I still among the living?
I looked down at my charred clothing and got part of the answer. Smoke literally was rising from my sweater. I was dizzy and scared to death, but most of all I was relieved to be alive.
Okay, Nick. You’re okay.
Then came another awful scene — and the kind of screaming that raised every little hair on the back of my neck.
My head whipped left and right until I spotted a chocolate Lab dragging a leash on the opposite sidewalk. The dog was spinning in circles, barking like it had gone crazy.
Then I saw why.
Dashing across the street, I practically ripped the sweater off my own body. By the time I reached the curb, I was already flying through the air.
The dog’s owner, a college-aged kid, was on the ground in flames and screaming in agony. I landed on him sweater first, trying to smother the fire. “Help me!” he was pleading now. “PLEASE HELP ME!”
I was smothering the kid with my body and sweater. But the flames were stubborn and I needed help.
Thank God, it came. Whoosh! I felt the freezing cold spray of white powder against my skin. It was like an avalanche, and just in time.
I coughed and sputtered, barely able to catch my breath. Someone had rushed forward with a fire extinguisher, emptying what seemed to be the entire canister. That was fine by me. Really fine by the guy who was no longer on fire underneath me.
“You okay?” I asked as I finally rolled off him.
“I don’t know,” was all he could manage.
By now the entire street was filling with people from the brownstones. Anyone within earshot of the explosion had come out to see what had happened. They didn’t understand, but I did, and it chilled me like the spray of dozens of fire extinguishers.
Someone had just tried to kill me.
The next thing I knew, I was being helped to my feet by some good people in the crowd. “Are you hurt?” one man asked. “You okay, mister?”
I heard the question but didn’t respond. All I could do was look around at all the concerned, frightened faces. With each face I didn’t recognize, I became more afraid. “Oh, no!” I suddenly cried out. “Oh God, no.”
Then I was running away from the crowd. Fast, as fast as I could go on rubbery legs.
Like someone’s life depended on it.
Chapter 65
I WAS NOW the designated madman on the street, the guy covered in white powder, with smoldering clothes and charred skin, with singed hair and desperate eyes.
With each frantic step I kept looking around me, hoping that I’d spot Phalen.
Was that Derrick over there by the fire hydrant?
No.
Was that him on the stoop?
Dammit! No again.
I kept banging into people, forcing my way across the street. It was a block party of lookie-loos, my burning car at the center of it, me as the other story of interest.
I reached the front of Phalen’s brownstone and bounded up the steps, my arms pumping. The front door was locked — shit! — so I turned to the column of buzzers off to the side. I dug into my pocket for his apartment number. I remembered I’d written it on the back of his business card.
3C!
I pounded my fist against the buzzer. The seconds took forever as I waited for a response. Plausible scenarios zoomed through my head. Derrick was in the shower. Taking a nap. Not home yet. Anything but what I feared.
I kept stabbing the buzzer, when the front door suddenly opened. A man in a bathrobe was coming to see about the commotion on the street.
“Hey, what’s your problem?” he said as I nearly knocked him over to get inside.
The stairwell was straight ahead. Two by two I took the steps, turning the corner to the second floor, then the third. The man in the bathrobe was still yelling at me, threatening to call the cops.
I scanned the doors. 3C was down the hall, at the front of the building.
It was locked. Of course it was.
I hammered on the door, calling out Derrick’s name. Please be there!
The more I pounded, the less hope I had, though.
I turned around, searching for something to help break down the damn door. Then I figured out what I needed. Hell, I was practically wearing the answer.
But there was no fire extinguisher in the hallway on Derrick’s floor.
I dashed up to the fourth floor. Yes! Near the top of the stairs was a large canister, polished red and silver. I ripped it from the wall. Then I raced back downstairs to Phalen’s door, smashing it as hard as I could over and over, definitely looking like a madman now.
Finally the door splintered. I was able to get at the locks. Then the door flew open. I was just about to call out Derrick’s name.
Instead I fell to my knees. I was staring into what had once been Derrick Phalen’s eyes.
Part Four
BURDEN OF PROOF
Chapter 66
I FOUND MYSELF back down on the street again, talking to detectives from the local precinct, when I spotted somebody arriving on the scene, somebody who I really didn’t want to talk to right now, or even see.
Officially, the Manhattan DA was out of his jurisdiction up here in the Riverdale section of the Bronx. Unofficially, he didn’t seem to care.
Nor did the two detectives who were interviewing me. Receiving nothing more than a nod from Sorren, they both backed away.
Sorren lit a cigarette and gave me a quick head to toe. First things first: “You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “I think so.”
In that case…
Sorren took a step forward, getting in my face. “Then what were you thinking?”
I rose from the bumper of the ambulance to stand closer to him, toe to toe. I’d never felt more drained and upset, but I wasn’t about to be pushed around by him, or anybody else at the crime scene. I was one of the victims here, wasn’t I? Sure I was.
“I told you what I was thinking in your office. Remember? You told me I had no evidence. You insinuated I should try and find some.”
Sorren swatted his hand in the air incredulously. “So you go to the OCTF and bullshit a prosecutor about your writing an article?”
“How’d you hear that?” I asked.
“I spoke to Phalen’s boss, a man named Ian LaGrange, on the way over here. He said you lied to both of them.”
“He’s right, I did lie. That’s why Phalen wanted nothing to do with me,” I said. “I was here to try and change his mind. That’s all.”
Sorren smirked. I’m sure he knew that probably wasn’t true — not with Phalen murdered and me narrowly escaping the same fate. “Listen to me, Nick,” he said, his tone sharpening to an edge. “The time to protect Phalen was when he was still alive.”
Whoa. That stung. I was already beating myself up over getting Derrick involved in this mess. The self-inflicted guilt was bad enough. The Sorren-inflicted guilt just made it that much worse.
But he was right. Suddenly I was reminded that Sorren was a very bright guy and that I needed him, possibly just to stay alive.
“Derrick Phalen was helping me,” I admitted. “He told me he’d discovered something big and that it would blow my mind.”
“All right. That’s good. So what was it?”
“He was supposed to share it with me tonight. That’s why I came here. I’m telling the truth, David. I’m totally leveling with you.”
“You have no idea what it might be?” asked Sorren. “Don’t try and have it both ways, Nick.”
“I’m not,” I said. “I have no idea. None.”
“Fuck.”
“You’ve got that right.”
Sorren took a last desperate drag off his cigarette, throwing it at the ground. I watched as he gave it an angry twist with his heel.
Of course, if I’d been looking up instead of down, I would’ve seen the man who was charging straight for me, his fist cocked, his nose just about blowing steam.
But it was like everything else that had happened that terrible night.
I never saw it coming.
Chapter 67
MY RIGHT CHEEK imploded, the pain so quick and fierce I thought I’d been hit by a crosstown bus.
In a way I had. Ian LaGrange, all six feet four inches and nearly three hundred pounds of him, had stormed right past Sorren to sucker punch me square in the face, and as I fell helplessly back against the ambulance behind me, I could hear him screaming at the top of his fire-breathing lungs.
“LOOK WHAT YOU’VE DONE, YOU SON OF A BITCH! LOOK WHAT YOU’VE DONE!”
And he was far from done himself.
He lunged for me again, his long and powerful arms flailing in the air. Were it not for Sorren stepping in to block him, he would’ve probably knocked me out cold, then smashed my face into pieces. As it was, I was seeing stars and a variety of bright colors that weren’t in my usual palette.
“Stop it! Calm down!” barked Sorren, pushing him back — or at least trying to. LaGrange outweighed Sorren by a hund
red pounds easy, and he wasn’t about to be denied another crack at me.
That is, until Sorren tried a different tact. While LaGrange continued shouting about me being the reason Derrick Phalen had been murdered, Sorren reminded the guy that we weren’t alone.
Uh, hello? Did you not see the news vans?
“Look around you, LaGrange!” said Sorren through clenched teeth. “This isn’t the place.”
That did the trick for some reason or another. LaGrange’s rage was trumped only by his desire not to be fodder for every news outlet in the city, not to mention his becoming the latest sensation on YouTube. With reporters and their cameramen literally sprinting toward us, LaGrange immediately backed off.
“Nothing to see here, folks!” announced Sorren to the reporters. “We’ll have a statement for you in a few minutes. Just be a little patient.”
Reluctantly, they took his word for it.
Sorren waited impatiently until it was just the three of us again. He turned to LaGrange.
“Do me a favor, Ian,” he said calmly. “I need you to give the detectives whatever personal information you can on Phalen — next of kin, exact title with the Task Force, et cetera…. Nothing that they can run with.”
LaGrange nodded. He knew Sorren merely wanted him separated from me. That’s probably why he couldn’t help himself as he turned to walk away.
“I don’t care what anybody says,” said LaGrange, jabbing his thick forefinger at me. “You got Derrick killed.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. It was all I could think of.
No, worse than that, actually.
It was all I had.
Chapter 68
“HE’S AN ASSHOLE. Don’t let him get to you,” said Sorren as LaGrange headed over to talk to the detectives.
“Too late. He already did,” I said, rubbing my jaw, which was already swollen from the guy’s roundhouse punch. “I think he loosened a tooth.”
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