“I don’t get you,” he said finally, shaking his head. “You come forward with that terrifically useful recording, what amounts to a smoking gun, and here you are now trying to make me forget about it. What gives, Nick?”
“I’m not trying to make you forget about anything, David. I simply want you to rethink it, that’s all.”
“Rethink it? What’s there to rethink?” he asked, his voice booming. “There’s a reason the only currency we trade in around here is cold, hard evidence. Because evidence speaks for itself, clear and simple – just like the killer’s voice on your recording. Remember? I have a message from Eddie.”
Before I could even respond, the intercom on Sorren’s phone beeped. It was his secretary, Ms. Stink Eye. “Excuse me, Mr. Sorren, but they’re waiting for you downstairs.”
“Thank you, Molly. I’m done here.” He shot me a look that said, We’re done, Nick. For now.
Then Sorren jumped up, grabbing his suit jacket from behind his chair. He swirled it through the air like a matador’s cape as he put it on.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a press conference to give,” he said. “Big one, too. You might want to stick around for it. This morning, Eddie ‘The Prince’ Pinero was arrested for ordering the murder of Vincent Marcozza.”
I WOULD HAVE sooner volunteered for a double root canal than stuck around for Sorren’s press conference that morning.
Still, there was no escaping it later that night on the news. It was everywhere on the dial – not that I was too surprised by that. Americans have always loved a good mob story.
But was David Sorren telling the public the right story? Was it the truth?
With practically every flip of the channel there was a clip of Pinero in handcuffs followed by another clip of Sorren facing the hordes of media on the steps of his building. And to watch and listen to Sorren was to make no mistake: the New York Country DA’s Office was his building.
For now, anyway.
As I continued to watch him address the cameras without a single hair out of place, it was easy to picture him making the move to a new building. Like City Hall. If timing is everything, then Pinero’s arrest would be the perfect lead-in for Sorren to announce his candidacy for mayor.
So don’t screw it up, I was about to be told in no uncertain terms.
Out of the blue, or at least out of my blue, the doorbell rang. Whoever it was had made it past the night doorman unannounced. Then again, what else was new? Newborn babies dozed off less than the guy manning our front door.
Looking through the peephole, I blinked with disbelief. It was really her, though.
Brenda.
Bumping into her at the New York Library benefit was one thing, but now here she was at my apartment.
“Wow, twice in one week,” I said as I opened the door. “Just like old times.”
“Twice too many,” Brenda shot back, zipping right by me into my narrow foyer. She turned to face me, her hands planted sternly on her hips. “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Excuse me? Can I have a little hint here?”
“Don’t play dumb, Nick,” she said. “I really hate it when you play dumb. That was another of our problems.”
Fair enough. “Did Sorren put you up to this?” I asked. “He’s worried about me, isn’t he?”
“David doesn’t even know I’m here. He would never ask me to intervene on his behalf. Never happen.”
Again, it was so hard to tell when Brenda was lying, telling the truth, whatever.
“He obviously told you I went to see him today, though, right?” I asked.
“Yes,” she answered. “David and I are a couple, Nick. Couples tell each other things.”
“Don’t remind me,” I said.
She knew exactly what I meant by that. It was ostensibly the reason we broke up.
Long, painful story made short, I had done an important interview with Bill Gates in which he went on record for the first time about his planned retirement from Microsoft. That night I told Brenda. I mean, everyone knows that pillow talk never leaves the bedroom, right? Especially when both of you have made promises to that effect.
Apparently Brenda had had her fingers crossed. The very next day, she reported it on air. “According to a reliable source,” she began the story. It was a real coup for her at the network, a feather in her cap.
And a dagger right through my heart.
I knew right then and there that I could never trust Brenda Evans again. Not that she would ever give me the satisfaction of telling her that. No chance. Ten minutes after her broadcast I received a Dear John e-mail from her. That’s right, she was breaking up with me. With an e-mail. Her reason why? I wasn’t as driven as her and she needed someone who was. And that was that.
“Are you doing this because of what happened between us?” she was asking me now. “Because if you’re trying to get even, it’s not fair to David.”
“What is it exactly you think I’m doing?” I felt compelled to ask.
“I know you, Nick. I know how you play your hunches. You’re relentless even when you’re dead wrong, not even warm.”
“I think what I discussed with your new boyfriend was a little more than a hunch. I may very well be right. There’s evidence, and it’s mounting.”
“But what if you’re wrong? Have you considered for one second how making waves about Pinero’s guilt would reflect on David and his political future?”
I shook my head and smirked. “Wow, you’ve already got your dress picked out for the inauguration, don’t you?”
If looks could kill, this story would end right here. Fortunately, they can’t.
“This isn’t about me, Nick.”
“That’s where you’re a hundred percent wrong. It’s always about you, Brenda, and it always will be.”
That touched a nerve, to put it mildly. Her face immediately flushed bright red, her hands balling into fists. Apparently it was time for her to wake the neighbors.
“Fuck you!” she yelled. “Do you hear me? FUCK YOU! You’re such a loser, Nick.”
She then marched out of my apartment, making a beeline for the elevator. She hit the down button so hard, I was sure she broke a nail.
“Does this mean I’m not getting a Christmas card?” I asked from my doorway.
It was a glib comment, but I couldn’t help it. She was bringing out the worst in me, as she always did.
The elevator opened and Brenda stepped inside – but not before having the last word, a proverbial kick to the groin. She really did know how to hurt a guy, especially me.
“By the way,” she said. “My new boyfriend? He’s way better than you in bed!”
Ouch.
I WALKED INTO the cavernous Main Concourse of Grand Central Station the next morning, weaving my way through the buzzing crowd of tourists and visiting weekend suburbanites. I must say that I love this building and can’t thank Jacqueline Onassis enough for saving it once upon a time.
Out of nowhere I bumped shoulders with a young man who had a knapsack strung over one shoulder. As we traded polite, if not clipped, apologies and went our separate ways, I couldn’t help noticing his T-shirt. In big block lettering it read, “SAVE DARFUR.”
Naturally, I couldn’t help thinking of Dr. Alan Cole and wondering how he was doing – and where he might be doing it. Hopefully, he’d soon be back home safely.
Of course, that would make only one of us. With everything that’s happened since I returned home from Darfur, I almost longed for the relative peace and quiet of being chased and shot at by the Janjaweed militia…
Maybe that’s why I was so looking forward to this day and what I would be doing soon.
Pure and simple, there’d be no talk of murder, no mention of the mob, no discussion of the mysterious stranger who’d told me to mind my own business and do nothing.