"Where?"
"He's gone, but he was there a second ago, I swear it, just beside that lamppost. I thought I saw him before, when you were getting our lunch."
"Dammit," Conor growled, spinning towards her, "why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I was sure I'd imagined it. Because I didn't want to bring back all the awful stuff that happened in Paris. God, what does he want?"
The million dollar question, Conor thought grimly, and he still had no answer.
"I don't know but I'm sure as hell going to find out. Listen to me, Miranda. I want you to sit right where you are while I—"
"No!" She reached out and grabbed his hand. "Don't leave me here!"
There was terror in her eyes and in her voice. Hell, he couldn't leave her, not when she was so frightened, and anyway, that might be just what Moratelli wanted, to lure him off and leave Miranda unprotected.
He held out his hand and drew her to her feet.
"It's okay, baby," he said softly, "it's okay."
She shuddered and burrowed into his enfolding arms.
"Conor," she whispered, "please, let's go home."
* * *
He phoned Thurston on his cell phone from the taxi that took them back to her apartment.
"Moratelli's in town, Harry."
"How do you know that?"
"Miranda saw him, that's how." He could hear the barely controlled rage in his own voice, feel it in the tightness of his muscles. "I want to know when he arrived. I want everything you can dig up on this guy, and never mind telling me that he's just a small-time hood."
"I can't help it if that's what he is."
"Don't hand me that crap, dammit! Go deeper. I want to know everything he's ever done, starting in the sandbox. You understand me?"
"Are you all right, Conor? You don't sound well."
"Just get me the information, and fast."
"Conor? Where are you calling from?"
Conor looked at Miranda. Her face was still pale; she was huddled in the corner of the taxi, her eyes glued to his face.
"I'm in a taxi," he said coldly, "just turning onto Fifth Avenue. Miranda Beckman is with me."
"Are you insane?" Harry's voice turned sharp. "You're going to blow the whole thing, O'Neil. Have you forgotten who you are?"
"I'm only just starting to remember," Conor said, and flipped the phone shut.
"Who was that?" Miranda asked. "Somebody who works for you?"
Conor reached for her. Trembling, she went into his arms.
"A business acquaintance." He drew her closer still, until his face was buried in her hair. "But I don't think we're going to be working together, not for much longer."
* * *
Thurston rang at six.
"Call me back on a landline," he said, and hung up.
Conor flipped his phone shut. He was sitting on the sofa in the living room, with Miranda's head in his lap. She was sleeping after he'd finally convinced her to let him pour her a double brandy. He'd been watching the news on TV, but with the sound turned off.
Gently, he eased her head onto a throw pillow. He pressed his lips to her forehead, drew the light afghan further over her shoulder, and made his way to the bedroom.
Harry picked up on the first ring.
"Okay," Conor said, "what have you got?"
"Not much more than I had the first time."
"And for that, we're playing spy games?"
"We're exercising appropriate caution, something you seem to have decided to ignore."
"Skip the lectures, Harry. Just tell me what we know now that we didn't know before."
Thurston sighed with impatience. "Nothing vital, I assure you. I can tell you where Moratelli was born."
"Don't you mean where he was hatched?"
"At Bellevue Hospital," Harry said, in the tones of a man whose feelings have been deeply wounded.
"Great. At least now we know that he had a mother. What else?"
"He was raised on Anton Street. That's down around—"
"I know where it is," Conor said. He sure as hell did. Anton Street was in the middle of his father's old precinct. "What else?"
"Nothing else. I kicked over every rock I could find. There's nothing on the man. Nothing official, anyway. You need more, you'll have to turn it up yourself."
"Okay, I'll see what I can do. Meanwhile, do the digging I asked for on the Winthrops."
"Are we back to that? I'll remind you again, they've been checked out. You told them so."
Conor smiled coldly into the telephone.
"You have a conveniently short memory, Harry. I also told them I'd check out the note Eva had received." He turned his back to the door and let his voice drop to a whisper. "That's what you want me to keep on doing, isn't it?"
There was a short silence and then Harry Thurston sighed.
"You know, O'Neil, you're one of the few people I know who can say the words, 'or else,' without speaking them."
"There's something that one or the both of them isn't telling us, and I need to know what it is."
"What about you? Have you come up with anything new?"
"Nothing."
"I see you've insinuated yourself appropriately into the Beckman girl's life."
Conor's jaw tightened. "Meaning what?"
"Meaning, you've managed to get into her bed—not that I'm chiding you for it, mind. Living with her, sleeping with her, may be the only way to keep her alive until we find out what's spooking the Winthrops."
"I don't give a flying fuck about the Winthrops," Conor said furiously. "You got that, Thurston? If they get through this, it'll only be because Miranda makes it. And what I'm doing or not doing with her isn't any of your goddamn business."
"Temper, temper, my boy."
"I told you not to call me that."
"You told me a lot of things, Conor. Perhaps you've forgotten who's in charge here."
"You want your pal's nose kept clean or not?"
"You've made your point," Thurston said coldly. "Anything else?"
"I assume you've put a tap on this line?"
"I'm not a fool. Certainly, it's tapped."
"What about the Winthrop phone? Are you on that?"
"Well, no. I suggested it but Hoyt didn't feel—"
"To hell with Hoyt's feelings. Tap their lines. All of them."
"Are we finished?"
Conor reached for Miranda's appointment calendar and leafed through it. She was going to be at the Papillon offices the next day for a business luncheon.
"Miranda has a meeting at Papillon tomorrow. She'll be tied up from one o'clock until three."
"How interesting for you," Harry said dryly. "Perhaps they'll be good enough to offer you suggestions on how to spruce up your wardrobe."
"I'm going to be elsewhere while the meeting's going on," Conor said, ignoring the remark. "Have somebody cover for me. Make certain they understand that things may be heating up. They need to be prepared for any eventuality. And for crissakes, don't send that ass, Breverman. Get Sorenson to do it, or Hank Levy."
"Certainly, Mr. O'Neil, sir. May I be of any further help?"
"Conor?"
Conor turned around. Miranda was standing in the doorway, barefoot and looking sleepy and rumpled in her pale yellow robe. He smiled and held out his hand, and she smiled back and came towards him.
"No," he said into the telephone, "but when I think of something, I'll let you know."
He hung up the phone while Harry was still sputtering. Miranda stepped into his arms.
"Hi," he said softly. "How do you feel?"
"Much, much better."
It was true, she did. Perhaps she'd imagined seeing Moratelli and even if she hadn't, this was a free country. The man had a right to walk the streets of New York. Whatever that had been about, the notes, the picture, the break-in, she'd left it all in France. She was here now, with Conor, and it was as if her life had begun all over again.
She smiled and looped he
r arms around his neck.
"Honestly, I feel fine."
"Good." He stroked a skein of silken hair back from her cheek. "How about some supper?"
Her stomach gave a ladylike growl and they both laughed.
"I'll make us something," Conor said.
"I'll do it."
"No, you won't. You'll sit down, take it easy, and watch me scramble some eggs."
"I told you, I'm fine." She kissed his chin. "There's a couple of steaks in the freezer. I'll broil them and make a salad."
"What's the matter, Beckman? Don't you trust my cooking? I'll do the steaks. I'll even whip up my very own version of sauce bearnaise. How's that sound?"
"Too good to be true. What's your version of sauce bearnaise?"
"Well," he said, straight-faced, "you start with a couple of tablespoons of Hellman's mayo..."
Miranda laughed. She leaned back in his arms and spread her hands over his chest. He felt so warm and solid; the steady thump-thump of his heart seemed to seep through her palms and into her own blood. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, she came awake trembling from dreams she couldn't quite remember. Putting her head on Conor's chest, listening to the beat of his heart, always comforted her.
"Okay," he said, his smile tilting in the way she loved, "so it's not recommended by Martha Stewart, but it's good."
God, how she loved him! Her body sang with it, and her soul.
"What're you smiling at, Beckman. You think just because I'm male and you're female—"
"Good grief, O'Neil, is that right? By golly, I knew there was some kind of difference between us but I just wasn't sure what it was."
His smile tilted even more. "Really."
"Uh-huh."
"And just when did this occur to you?"
"Well, the other morning, I was watching you shave."
"Were you, now."
"Mmm." She lifted one hand lazily, brought it to his face and rubbed her fingertips lightly over the late-day stubble that had begun to shadow his jaw. The faint abrasiveness sent a shudder of delight along her skin. "It's very sexy, watching a guy shave."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Especially a guy who shaves in his shorts. Where on earth did you get all those muscles, O'Neil?"
"Clean living, Beckman."
Miranda laughed throatily. She undid the first few buttons on his shirt and slid her hands inside the parted cotton. His skin felt hot under her fingers.
"We're very conscious of things like that in my profession, you know."
"Things like what?" Conor said, biting back a groan as her hands stroked over his shoulders and across his chest.
"Oh, you know. Musculature. Body development." Her tone was serious, almost earnest. How long could she keep it that way, she wondered, as heat spread through her blood? "These muscles here, for instance." Her fingers danced. "What do you call these?"
Conor swallowed convulsively. "Pectorals."
"That's it. Pectorals." Gently, she tugged his shirt off his shoulders and eased it back until it dropped to the floor. "And these." He caught his breath as her hands moved downward. "The ones that feel like the ridges on a washboard."
"Miranda..."
"Abdominals? Is that what you call them?"
"Miranda, if you don't stop..."
She undid his belt and the button at the top of his fly.
"And then there's this," she said, her voice soft as darkness. His zipper hissed as she drew down the tab. "This wonderful, uniquely masculine part of you."
"Miranda." His voice was choked. "Miranda, I'm warning you..."
She dropped to her knees before him and took him in her hands.
"I love you," she said, "do you know that, Conor?"
"Baby," he whispered, "Miranda..."
She brought him to her lips.
The warmth and heat of her mouth enclosed him. He moaned softly and his head fell back.
"Miranda," he said, "sweetheart..."
When he could take no more, he drew her to her feet, undid her robe and fell back with her onto the bed.
"I love you," he said, as he parted her thighs. His voice shook with emotion, then turned fierce. "Will you remember that? Promise me, Miranda. Say you'll never forget that I love you."
"Never," she whispered.
She arched and took him deep inside her, where he exploded and burned with the shattering force of a thousand shooting stars.
* * *
He awoke hours later, with Miranda cradled in his arms. Her hair was spread over his shoulder; her hand lay curled on his chest.
Christ, how he loved her!
He wasn't a sentimental man and he didn't think of himself as an especially romantic one but he'd read his fair share of poets and poetry. He knew all about love and the power it was supposed to have to transform lives, but knowing and believing were not the same thing.
He had never counted himself among the believers.
Until now.
Miranda sighed in her sleep. She shifted in his arms and her hand rose and flattened against his heart.
Despite all the odds stacked against him in this random, unfeeling universe, he had found this woman. Her innocence and her love had healed him.
Conor put his hand over hers.
He had done a lot of things in his life and he'd truly believed some of them to be important for his country. Now, he knew that nothing he'd ever done in the name of survival or even of patriotism, had been worth a damn compared to what lay ahead.
Miranda was a pawn in someone's game. He had to keep her safe from the horror snapping at her heels, and he had to tell her the truth about himself without losing her.
If he failed at either, his life would be meaningless.
Chapter 18
John O'Neil, Detective-Sergeant, NYPD, Retired, sat in his high-backed chair and watched the flickering shadows on the screen of his television set.
The set was a Sony, a new one, and he'd paid a lot of money for it, but the reception was piss-poor. He'd called Crazy Howie's, down on 34th and 6th where he'd bought it, and after a lot of back-and-forth they'd finally sent over somebody to take a look. The guy had poked, and prodded, and taken a shit-load of readings with an Ohm meter as if he was a doctor taking its temperature, and then he'd shrugged and said there wasn't a thing wrong with it that moving it away from the window wouldn't cure.
"Too much light on the screen," the guy had said, and put his ropy arms around the Sony, and John had said, what do you think you're doing? "Movin' it over there, back against that wall," the guy said, as if he was doing him a favor, and John told him to leave the damn thing alone, that he was perfectly capable of moving the TV himself if he wanted to, which he didn't.
"Yahoos," Detective-Sergeant John O'Neil, NYPD, Retired, muttered as he changed channels.
Every TV he'd ever owned in this apartment, forty years worth of them, had stood over there, against the wall. What was wrong with a little change every now and then?
"Not a thing," he said, answering his own question, "not a damn thing."
This way, with the set and his chair beside the window, he could catch a breeze as the weather grew warmer. He could see down to the street, too, if he wanted, watch the kids playing stickball or whatever it was kids played today, see the young mothers sitting on the stoops, warming their round bellies and their babies under the spring sun.
Not that he watched what was going on for pleasure. No way. The street had changed, most of the Kellys and O'Briens and Guardinos gone now, giving way to names like Cruz and Rodriguez. Well, he was staying. He'd lived here the better part of his life and he'd be damned if he'd leave.
It was still okay here. Safe enough, even clean enough. Al Brady, who lived in 2G, said it was because people on the block were working to keep it that way but that was just because he was pushing what he called the Block Association. Truth was, John O'Neil was the reason things were all right on this street. Everybody knew he'd been a cop, knew he still gave a damn about doing
things right. It was one of the reasons he'd moved his chair here, by the window.
"Nice to look out and see folks," Brady had said, when he'd come knocking on the door, looking for a contribution to the Block Association.
John grimaced. Did Brady take him for a fool? He hadn't been dumb enough to give the man money but he'd set him straight, made sure he understood that he didn't give a crap what "folks" were doing and never had. He wasn't sitting at the window for the scenery. It was so he could keep an eye on things. He was a man who believed in law and order. People knew that, and respected it.
He leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. Was that the boy from 4D? What was the kid's name? Juan, probably, hell, they were all named Juan. Kid was lounging against the doorway across the street, eyeing the girls, looking for trouble. Well, why not? Kid didn't have any rules to live by, none of 'em did anymore. No wonder everything was coming apart.
You had to raise your kids to know right from wrong, paddle them on the tail when they needed it, tell 'em what to do and how to do it if you wanted 'em to grow up right. Even then, there were no guarantees. Just look at what had happened with his very own flesh and blood.
Not that it was his fault. Conor had been born late in their lives and his wife, God rest her soul, had spoiled him rotten.
"Can't you be gentle, John?" she'd say when the kid would fuck up and need a lick or two with the belt. "Show the boy you care for him."
"I know what I'm doing, Kathleen," he'd tell her.
But it hadn't mattered. The boy was defiant, even more so after Kathleen, God rest her soul, had passed. He'd done what he could, tried to teach the kid to be obedient and God-fearing, but the more he'd tried, the worse things had gotten. Conor had run wild, got himself into one scrape after another, done his own thing and ignored his father's good advice. Finally, he'd announced he wanted to go on the job.
On the job, hell, John had said. He hadn't raised the boy to walk a beat. He'd put his foot down and said that would happen only over his dead body so the kid ran off and joined the fuckin' army, for crissakes, instead of going to college and becoming a lawyer, the way he was supposed to.
John O'Neil rose to his feet and went into the kitchen. The water in the kettle was still hot enough, and there was another dunk or two left in the tea bag from breakfast. He refilled his cup and went back to his chair, slurping down the lukewarm tea, watching as the kid—Carlos, that was his name—leaned away from the building and swaggered towards some pretty little thing with tits just starting to fill out her blouse.
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