by Stephen Frey
He cursed under his breath. She’d gotten to him.
“Hello, Conner.”
He glanced up, startled.
“Long time no talk.”
Conner recognized the woman as she stepped into the glow of a streetlight. Amy Richards. A waitress at an Italian place down in Greenwich Village. A pretty, thirty-one-year-old blond who lived in a blue-collar section of Queens with her mother and five-year-old son, full of hatred for her ex-husband who’d run off with another woman. Conner had been seeing Amy off and on before meeting Liz. He’d never misled her about their relationship. Never told her it was serious for him when she’d told him it was for her. But he hadn’t ended it very well.
“Why did you stop calling me?” Amy demanded.
“I got busy.”
“Busy, right. With anew girlfriend, I’m sure.”
Based on her tone, it wouldn’t be wise to point out that she’d never been hisold girlfriend. “What are you doing here?” Greenwich Village was toward the south end of Manhattan. Nowhere near here.
“I didn’t know the Upper East Side was off-limits to me. I guess you don’t think people from Queens should be let into the swanky part of town.”
Bad question. Of course, any question he asked would probably trigger the same reaction. “It’s nice to see you again, Amy,” he said politely, trying to step past her.
“I got a new job last week,” she volunteered, her tone turning friendly as she caught his arm. “Another waitressing gig. The place is only a couple of blocks away. I just got off.”
“Oh?”
“You should come by. I’ll comp you a few drinks.”
“That’d be nice.”
“But you never will,” she said, bitterness creeping back into her voice. Her fingers curled tightly around his arm. “Will you?”
“Amy, I’ve got to be at work early.” He pried her hand from his arm as gently as possible. “Are you still living with your mom?”
“Yeah.”
“So I can reach you at the same telephone number? The one I have in my address book.”
“Uh huh.”
“Then I’ll call you.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“What doessoon mean?”
“In a few days. Maybe this weekend, okay?” He tried stepping past her again.
Once more she caught his arm. “What’s your hurry?”
Conner bit his lip. “I told you. I gotta be at work early.”
“Didn’t you like what you were getting?”
“Of course,” he admitted, his voice dropping.
“You sure wanted it as much as you could get it.” She sneered. “Until somebody better came along, right?”
“Look, I—”
“I thought you cared.”
“I did.I do. ” he added quickly. “Please, Amy.”
She gazed up into his eyes for several moments, then let her fingers slide slowly from his arm. “Fine. Fuck off.”
“Thanks a lot,” he muttered, finally able to get past her. “See you later.”
“Oh, you’ll see me, all right,” she called.
He glanced back, wondering if that had been a chance encounter—or if he needed a new address. She’d turned to walk away, but her figure was still outlined by the streetlight. And he was struck by how much she resembled Liz from behind.
“Hi, Eddie.” Conner nodded at the young doorman. Eddie hadn’t been at the front desk on Conner’s way out twenty minutes ago. “How you doing?”
“Fine, Mista Ashby. What’s the good word?”
“You’ll like this one,” Conner said, grinning. “When the door doesn’t open right away, do you pull harder, or push?”
Eddie broke into a wide smile. “That’s a good one, Mista Ashby. A real good one. Hey, how do you come up with this stuff?”
“Talent, my man. Raw talent.”
As he stepped into the elevator, Conner thought about the errant e-mail from whoever Rusty was. Should he alert Rusty with a “reply” e-mail or do nothing? Sooner or later, Rusty would realize that the message had gone to the wrong person. When he asked, Victor would respond that the e-mail had never arrived, or Rusty would notice the mistake going through his “Sent Items” file. Then both he and Victor would panic.
Conner pressed the button for the seventh floor. If the e-mail was accurate, a large publicly held company was defrauding its shareholders, and now someone outside the tent knew about it. An investment banker, Conner knew that manipulating earnings per share was one of the cardinal sins a company could commit. EPS was the all-important number on Wall Street. The financial Holy Grail. A number that all investors, from multibillion-dollar fund managers to small town investment clubs, relied on to analyze a company’s shares. When they heard that the outside accountants had blessed a company’s fat EPS, they flocked to purchase its stock, driving up the price. In this case unaware that the actual figure should have been much lower. Unaware that the accountants were asleep at the switch—or on the take.
The elevator doors opened onto the seventh floor, and Conner stepped into the dimly lit hallway. He had no idea what company Rusty was referring to in the e-mail. If shareholders could lose a ton of money, the company must be large, maybe evenFortune 500. But he wasn’t aware of any company in theFortune 500 named Delphi. It had to be a code name.
The apartment door was ajar when he reached it. Conner hesitated, certain he’d shut it when he left.
He pushed it open, and his pulse spiked. The apartment had been destroyed. Notebooks from work had been ripped apart and papers lay strewn about the parquet floor. The couch and chair cushions had been sliced open, and the bookcase had been overturned, smashing the television. He stepped over the papers and moved quickly to the bedroom. Desk and bureau drawers were scattered on the floor and clothes lay everywhere. His computer was on the floor, too, hard drive removed.
“Liz!”
He was about to sprint for the kitchen when he noticed something on the far side of the bed. He scrambled onto the mattress, then froze. Liz lay sprawled on her back in the corner of the room near the desk, her neck and chest a spattered mess.
“Oh, God.” He reached for her. “Liz.”
As his fingers touched her still-warm skin, he heard something over his shoulder and spun around. A man stood in the middle of the living room, staring at him. The man was huge, with dark, curly hair, a beard, and a zipper scar running down his temple.
Conner held his breath, his heart pounding so hard, his vision blurred with each beat. Their eyes locked and, for a moment, there seemed to be nothing but the intruder’s cold, hard stare.
Then the man reached inside his jacket.
Conner lunged toward the open window by his desk and tumbled out onto the fire escape. Just as the sound of gunshots crackled in his ears.
2
Conner was five years old the first time he beat his brothers at chicken. Diving the last few yards across the railroad tracks behind their run-down ranch house just in front of a blue-and-white Conrail GP-9 thundering down the main line. The smell of diesel smoke and creosote filling his nostrils as he picked himself up off the gravel ballast with skinned knees and a busted lip. Smiling triumphantly back through the open doors of empty boxcars flashing past at his brothers, who were still on the house side of the tracks. Furious that they lacked the speed and courage of their pint-size sibling wearing thirdhand Nikes.
Conner’s extraordinary athletic ability had stayed with him as he grew up. Now twenty-seven, he was six feet three and weighed a muscular 220 pounds. He was strongand quick, and possessed an uncanny sense of balance. Which was why he’d taken to a surfboard like Jordan to a basketball the first time his oldest brother had allowed him out where the big breakers rolled. The varsity football and baseball coaches at his public high school had pleaded with him to play for their teams, but by ninth grade all he wanted to do was surf the turquoise waters off the South Florida beaches. Before and after school. Benea
th the hot sun and the full moon. On cloudless days and even as hurricanes roared in. By sixteen, he was the best on the beach—no question.
After two years at a local Florida community college, Conner had maneuvered his way into the University of Southern California on a full scholarship by teaching the young son of an alumnus the finer points of catching a perfect wave. The alumnus, a prominent West Palm Beach surgeon who gave generously and often to Southern Cal, placed a few strategic calls to the admissions office, and the stark community college took its place in the rearview mirror of Conner’s life. He’d gotten his first lesson in the importance of knowing the right people. It wouldn’t be the last time he traded favors with the elite.
From Los Angeles, where he’d honed his skills on larger West Coast waves, he’d made it to Hawaii a few times to surf the Banzai Pipeline, home to some of the biggest breakers in the world. It was on those breakers that he’d learned to control physical fear. Leaping across railroad tracks ahead of oncoming freight trains was one thing, but hurtling down the face of a twenty-foot wall of water standing on a slippery piece of fiberglass was quite another.
As he tore down the fire escape from his apartment, Conner used the lessons he’d learned on the Pipeline.Always maintain control. Never panic. Quickly understand your physical limitations, given the parameters of the situation, and stay within them. Don’t try to take seven steps at a time when you know the safe limit is six. Understand that, sooner or later, you will trip and fall if you try to take seven, and they will catch you. Be confident that your athletic ability is superior to theirs. Be confident that their safe limit is four steps at a time, so they can’t catch you if you just stay on your feet.
A bullet screamed past, pinging wickedly off the wrought-iron railing inches from his fingers.
Unless they have guns.
Just three more floors to the alley leading out to Ninety-fifth. As he rushed down the steps, he scanned the dimly lit area below. Looking for anyone lurking in the shadows.
Another gunshot.
“Dammit!” Conner grabbed his left arm as he reached the second-floor landing. There was a burning sensation, as if someone had flashed a white-hot blowtorch across his skin. But the arm still worked.
The ladder from the second-floor landing to the alley was cranked off the pavement, and there was no time to lower it. He knelt, grabbed the bottom rung, swung himself out, and dropped nine feet to the ground. Spotting streams of blood coursing down his sweat-streaked forearm as he let go of the rusting metal.
He hit the pavement and rolled, then scrambled to his feet and sprinted away. When he reached Ninety-fifth, he glanced back. The guy was just picking himself up off the glass-strewn pavement, pistol clutched in his hand. Conner bolted toward Second Avenue, his lead a hundred feet.
A bullet slammed into a parked sedan beside him, shattering the rear window. So he zigzagged as he ran, trying to make himself a tougher target. Why had this man killed Liz, and want to kill him? Because he’d inadvertently intercepted the e-mail. That had to be the answer. Still, how could they have identified the e-mail’s physical destination so fast?
Conner reached Second, hesitating as he rounded the corner of a building. Protected for a few fleeting seconds. Two cabs waited at a traffic light. He could go for the closer one, but the guy might get a clean shot at him before he could tumble inside and get away. The guy had already committed one murder tonight. Why not another? Or anotherseveral . Conner lowered his head and sprinted south toward Ninety-fourth.
It was after midnight, but the temperature still hovered around ninety and the humidity was 100 percent. Even at this late hour, there were usually pedestrians wandering the Upper East Side. But tonight the streets were deserted. People were inside trying to beat the heat.
He tore down Second until he reached Eighty-eighth, then turned right and headed up a rise to Third, continued across Third, then veered left onto Lexington at the next block. Searching for a cop. But they seemed to have beaten a retreat from the summer swelter, too.
Two blocks farther south, Conner raced down into the 86th Street subway station, descending the grimy steps three at a time and jumping the turnstile. The woman inside the token booth had her nose in a magazine and didn’t look up. Conner ran toward the south end of the desolate platform, checking the turnstiles several times, but there was no one. Maybe he’d lost the guy.
Now what? The answer was simple. Get back to the apartment. But he had to find a cop first.
He leaned over, hands on his shaking knees, sucking in air as perspiration poured down his face. He closed his eyes. Liz was dead. He’d only caught a quick glimpse of her sprawled on the floor, but there had been so much blood.
The headlight of an oncoming Number 6 local glimmered at the far end of the tunnel. At the same moment he heard footsteps rushing down the steps from the street. He leaped four feet from the platform and onto the tracks, not about to wait around and see who showed up at the turnstiles.
The headlight of the Number 6 loomed larger, and he ducked into the narrow space beneath the overhang of the station platform. The space was no more than two feet wide, and he flattened himself against the concrete wall. The lead car of the train roared into the station, shiny steel wheels hurtling past only inches from where he knelt. Decelerating rapidly as the train screeched to a halt. The smell of burning brake pads rising from the wheels as the train’s warning signal echoed through the station, indicating that the doors were about to open.
Seconds later the signal sounded again, the doors closed, and the train accelerated out of the station toward Harlem.
Heels clicked on the platform above him as the roar of the train faded into the uptown tunnel. He’d been about to come out from beneath the overhang when he’d heard the footsteps. If the person on the platform had just gotten off the train, why stay down here where it was fifteen degrees hotter than on the street? And if this was the person who’d been rushing down the steps a few moments ago, why hadn’t he or she boarded the train that had just pulled out? There’d been plenty of time to buy a token and make it through the turnstile.
Conner held his breath as the footsteps stopped directly above him. Beads of salty sweat dripped down his face to his top lip, then seeped into his mouth. He glanced at the streaks of blood on his arm, then up as the footsteps moved away. He exhaled silently and winced as his arm grazed the rough concrete wall. The bullet wound was starting to throb.
Several minutes later another train rumbled into the station past where Conner knelt. When it was gone, he listened for any sound, but there was nothing. Nothing except the far-off wail of a siren and the hum of the station’s fluorescent lightbulbs. He rose cautiously, to a point where he could see above the overhang and onto the platform, when he spotted the man who’d broken into his apartment moving furtively down the platform on the other side of the station. Conner melted back into his hiding place.
Then his cell phone rang, the incoming call announced by the first few bars of “Hound Dog.” The notes echoed throughout the quiet station like they were blaring through a megaphone. He yanked the phone from the cargo pocket of his shorts and quickly shut it off. Hoping the man on the platform hadn’t heard it.
No such providence. The man whipped his pistol from his jacket, dropped down onto the tracks, and headed directly toward Conner. Conner bolted from his hiding place and sprinted into the tunnel, heading for the 77th Street station. Again he heard the ping of bullets ricocheting off metal as he tore through the darkness, the rancid smell of mildew heavy in the air.
A hundred yards into the tunnel, there was a commotion behind him. A yelp of surprise, then a loud groan of pain as his pursuer tumbled onto the tracks. Conner kept going, racing what remained of the nine blocks between stations until he reached the north end of the 77th Street station. There, he grabbed the yellow overhang, hauled himself up onto the platform, hurried through the turnstile, and raced up the steps to the street.
Two police cruisers were par
ked at the corner of Seventy-seventh and Lexington as he emerged from the stairway, one directly behind the other. Two officers stood between the vehicles, talking, and Conner rushed toward them. Instinctively, they straightened up when they noticed him. One dropped his hand to his holster.
“Officers!” It was all Conner could do to speak. “I need your help!”
The larger of the two policemen put his hands out, motioning for Conner to stop. “What’s your problem?” he demanded, stepping up onto the curb. He had a wide face and huge, hairy forearms.
“A guy just broke into my apartment,” Conner gasped. “I went out to pick something up a few minutes ago, and when I got back, the place was destroyed. The guy had torn up everything. Smashed the television and sliced the furniture, and he—” Conner interrupted himself. His relationship with Liz would be difficult to explain as the policeman stared at her bloody body in the corner of the bedroom. There would have to be a story, and he hadn’t come up with one yet.
“Why would he do that?” the cop asked suspiciously.
“Do what?”
“Why would he tear up everything.”
Conner realized where the cop was headed with this. “I don’t know.”
“Sounds like he wasn’t there to rob the place. Sounds like he was looking for something.”
“Well—”
“What would he be looking for?”
Conner shrugged. “I don’t know.”
The other cop stepped up onto the curb. He was shorter and slimmer. His hand still rested on his holstered pistol, fingers nervously tapping the wooden handle. “This guy chase you?” he wanted to know, glancing at the bloody streaks on Conner’s arm. “Is that why you’re sweating so bad?”
“Yeah.”
“What happened to your arm?” the big one asked.
