Crisscross

  But often it was the bonus material he collected that paid the best. While checking out a husband or wife suspected of getting it on with somebody else, he frequently came across unrelated or semi-related dirt that he put to work for himself.

  Like this nun, for instance. Helene Metcalf had traveled all the way from her Chelsea high-rise to hire Richie. Her hubby Michael was a capital campaign consultant—that meant professional fund-raiser—and had been out on the job an unusual number of nights. She was starting to suspect he might be sneaking a little something on the side and wanted Richie to find out.

  Mikey’s latest account was raising money for the renovation of St. Joseph’s Church on the Lower East Side. Camera in hand, Richie started tailing him and found he was indeed going to St. Joe’s—but not just for fund-raising. Seemed he was also doing a little habit-raising with one of the nuns.

  Richie took a few shots of the pair in flagrante delicto, as they say, and was about to show them to the wife when he realized he might be sitting on a gold mine. Normally putting the squeeze on a nun would be like trying to buy a whale steak from Greenpeace, but this nun was one of the honchos in the fund-raising project. That was how she’d got so tight with Mikey boy in the first place. Lots of cash flowing through that lady’s hands, and those photos was a way to tap into that stream.

  So Richie told wifey that her hubby was going exactly where he said he was—showed her photos of him entering and leaving the St. Joe’s basement on the nights in question—and said he’d found no impropriety.

  He put the squeeze on Mikey as well. Usually he had a rule: Never use nothing against the client. That was a no-no. Had to keep up the reputation, keep up the referrals from satisfied clients.

  But Mikey wouldn’t know that the guy who was milking him had been hired by his wife.

  Because another rule was keep it anonymous. Never let the cow see your face or, worse, learn your name.

  So Mikey Metcalf became the second cow in this particular pasture.

  Up until a couple of months ago, Richie had maintained a perfect score on the anonymity meter. Then one September night he’d come home from Hurley’s and smelled something funny. He raced up to his third floor and found out some guy’d poured acid over everything in his filing cabinet. The guy got away by running over a neighbor’s roof.

  Only explanation was that one of the cows had found out who he was. Richie had burned his gallery of photos—hated to do it but it was evidence if anyone hit him with a search warrant—and moved his sideline to his office. He’d been looking over his shoulder ever since.

  He was puffing a little by the time he reached the wall of the zoo. A hot dog pushcart tempted him but he forced himself to keep moving. Later.

  Call the nun first.

  Kind of fun to have a nun on the hook. Back in grammar school the penguins—nuns dressed head to toe in black in those days—had always been after him, whacking him on the back of the head or rapping his knuckles whenever he acted up. Not that he’d been damaged for life or nothing. That was a crock. Truth was, he couldn’t think of a single time he hadn’t deserved what he got. That didn’t make them any less of a pain in the ass though.

  The nun thing had got to be a game after a while. A badge of honor. If you hadn’t got hit you was some kind of fag.

  He guessed this was sort of like payback.

  He chose a public phone at random and licked his lips as he dialed the convent. He knew Sister Margaret Mary would be over at the school until three or three-thirty, but wanted to shake her up a little.

  And he knew just how to do that.

  8

  “Got him!” Margiotta said.

  Jensen had insisted he do the search for Jason Amurri in Jensen’s own office. He didn’t want anything they found becoming water-cooler talk around the admin floor. So Margiotta had pulled up a chair beside Jensen’s desk, swiveled the monitor, moved the keyboard, and gotten to work.

  “About time.”

  “This guy’s one reclusive SOB.” Margiotta shook his head. He had close-clipped black hair and dark brown eyes. “Only someone with my enormous talents could have dug him up. A lesser sort would’ve come up with jack shit.”

  Jensen decided to humor him. “That’s why I called on you. Show me.”

  Margiotta rose and swiveled the monitor back toward Jensen. He pointed to the screen.

  “You want to know about his father, I came across tons. Tons. But as for Jason himself, this is the best of what I found. It ain’t much—like I said, he’s pretty much a recluse—but I think it’s enough to give you an idea who he is.”

  On the screen was a paragraph from a news article about one Aldo Amurri. Jensen had never heard of him. It mentioned he had two sons, Michel and Jason. Michel, the older one, lived in Newport Beach on the shore. Jason lived in Switzerland.

  “That’s it?”

  “Did you read about the father? Check him out. That’ll tell you something about this Jason guy.”

  Jensen scrolled back to the beginning of the article and began reading. He felt his mouth go dry as he learned about Aldo Amurri, father of the young man Jensen had booted out on his ass.

  He knew he couldn’t keep this from Luther Brady. Eventually he’d find out. Brady always found out. So it was better if Jensen broke the news himself.

  But Brady was going to be pissed. Royally pissed.

  9

  The phone was ringing as Jack stepped into Gia’s place. He’d just picked up Vicky at the bus stop. When he saw Mount Sinai on the caller ID he snatched up the receiver. God, he hoped it wasn’t bad news. He’d talked to Gia just a couple of hours ago and—

  “Is Vicky home?” Gia’s voice.

  “She’s right here. Is anything—?”

  “Then come and get me. Please get me out of here.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Really. Dr. Eagleton released me but the hospital doesn’t want me going home alone. I know it’s only been one night but I’m so sick of this place. I want my home.”

  Jack knew it was more than that. Gia skeeved out—her verb—in hospitals.

  “We’re on our way.”

  They grabbed a cab on Sutton Place, zipped up Madison into the low One Hundreds, then west over to Fifth Avenue. Mount Sinai Medical Center had a view of Central Park that the Donald Trumps of the city would kill for. Jack and Vicky found a very pale Gia perched on a wheelchair inside the front door. Jack guided her into the cab, and off they went.

  Ten minutes later they were stepping through the front door on Sutton Square.

  “Oh, God, it’s so good to be home!”

  Jack followed her down the hall. “Now you’re going to be a good girl and take it easy like the doctor said, right?”

  “I feel fine, Jack. Really, I do. Whatever was going on has stopped. I slept straight through the night and haven’t had a hint of a cramp since.”

  “But you lost a lot of blood and didn’t you say you’re supposed to take it easy?”

  “Yes, but that doesn’t mean putting myself to bed.”

  “It means staying off your feet and that’s exactly what you’re going to do.” He led her to the big leather chair in the oak-paneled library and seated her in it. “Now stay there till bedtime.”

  He knew Gia would never do anything to jeopardize the baby, but he also knew that her high energy level made it difficult for her to sit still.

  “Don’t be silly. What about dinner?”

  “I can make it!” Vicky cried. “Let me! Let me!”

  Jack knew a Vicky dinner would mean more work for Gia than if she were doing it all herself. But he had to play it carefully here. Didn’t want to step on little-girl feelings.

  “I was thinking of takeout.”

  Vicky wouldn’t let it go. “Let me make it! Please, please please!”

  “Gee, Vicks, I already ordered Chinese for tonight.” Jack knew it ran a close second to Italian on her favorite foods list. “You know, egg rolls, wanton sou
p, General Tso’s chicken, and even a doo-doo platter.”

  Her eyes widened. “You mean a pu pu platter?”

  “Oh, yeah. Right. You know, with ribs and shrimp toast and even a fire.” She loved to singe her spareribs in the flame. “But if you’d rather cook, then I’ll call and cancel. No problem.”

  “No, I want a pu pu platter. I can cook tomorrow night.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Vicky nodded. “A pu pu platter, right?”

  “Right. I’ve got an errand to run and after that I’ll bring home the doo-doo.”

  Vicky giggled and ran off cheering.

  Jack turned and winked at Gia. “The usual broccoli and walnuts in garlic sauce, I presume?”

  She nodded. “You presume correctly. But where can you get a takeout pu pu platter?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ll find one, even if I have to get a can of sterno and jury-rig one myself.” He leaned over and kissed her. “You’re sure you’re all right?”

  “The baby and I are fine. We just had a little scare is all.”

  “And you’re going to follow doctor’s orders, right?”

  “I’m going to take a shower in my own bathroom to wash off the hospital and then I’m going to sit right here and read a book.”

  “Okay. But make it a quick shower. I’ve got some errands to run.”

  “Fix-it errands?”

  He nodded. “Got a couple of them going.”

  “Nothing dangerous, I hope. You promised—”

  “No danger. Really. One is just finding a missing guy for his mom. And I’m arranging the other so that the guy I’m fixing won’t even know he’s been fixed. No danger, no chance of bodily harm. It will be no-contact poetry.”

  “I’ve heard that before. You say ‘piece of cake’ and next you show up with a purple face and choke marks all over your throat.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “And you couldn’t even go visit your father without starting some sort of war.”

  Jack held up his hands. “Sometimes these things take unpredictable turns, but the two fix-its running now are as straightforward as they come. No surprises. I swear.”

  “Oh, I know you believe that, but lately every time you start one of these jobs it seems to turn nasty.”

  “Not this time. See you in a couple of hours. I’m keeping my cell phone off for the rest of the day.” When he saw her questioning look, he said. “Long story. But I’ll be checking in lots.” He waved. “Love ya.”

  She smiled that smile for him. “Love you too.”

  10

  “You’re looking better today,” Jensen said as he seated himself on the visitor side of Luther Brady’s helipad-sized desk.

  Jensen wished he had an office like this—high ceilings, rich wood paneling, a rosette of skylights above, and a bank of floor-to-ceiling windows facing uptown with a magnificent view of the Chrysler Building. The paneling was all walnut except for a pair of chromed steel doors embedded in the south wall. That was where Brady kept a monument to his biggest secret, the one known only to him, Jensen, and the High Council: Opus Omega.

  The Acting Prime Dormentalist and Supreme Overseer was a handsome man of average height with broad shoulders and a head of long wavy brown hair that he let trail over his collar. A few years ago Jensen had noticed gray creeping into that brown, but it hadn’t lasted long. Today he wore one of his Hickey-Freeman or Dolce & Gabbana suits—he never wore a uniform—that he donned for public appearances. He was Dormentalism’s public face and as such needed to cut an impressive figure. Luther Brady wasn’t simply the Church’s leader, he was its peerless PR man too.

  Jensen had to admit he did a great job in both roles, but especially the latter. When he appeared on TV he was the soul of rationality, generosity, and selflessness. The MVP of the Altruism Bowl.

  “Better?” Brady frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “You looked tired yesterday.”

  Brady paused a beat, then said, “Not surprising, considering the effort it took to keep that low pressure area to the north during Sunday’s rally.”

  Jensen remembered watching the weather reports all week, preparing for the almost certain probability that it would rain on the rally. And then, during Saturday night and early Sunday morning, the front had slid north. Jensen had written it off to good luck, but now Brady was telling him…

  “You did that?”

  “Well, not alone. I had a couple of HC members helping me. I probably could have done it on my own, but I had to give my address at the rally some attention. As you know, we Fully Fused may be superior beings, but we’re not gods.”

  No, we’re not, Jensen thought with a spasm of guilt. Some of us aren’t even superior beings.

  Brady looked apologetic and added, “I would have asked your help but I didn’t want to distract you from your security duties.”

  Thank Noomri you didn’t, Jensen thought. His sham fusion would have been revealed.

  Brady leaned back in his chair. “As I’m sure you know, I spent Sunday night in the mountains, to be alone with my xelton and recharge my spirit. I needed the rest.”

  Jensen nodded. Brady spent a lot of Sunday nights at his place upstate in the woods.

  “You must come with me sometime.” Brady’s eyes unfocused as he smiled. “I’ve moved The Compendium up there and was reading it again. It thrills me every time.”

  The Compendium… the most wonderful, amazing, magical book Jensen had ever seen or read or imagined. He longed to see it again, touch it, flip through its pages. In his darkest moment of faltering faith in the goals and beliefs of the Church, Luther Brady had shown him The Compendium and all doubts had vanished like smoke.

  Jensen wanted to say, Yes, yes, invite me to see The Compendium again, but Brady’s next words stopped him.

  “After reading The Compendium we can float together above the forest. It’s so peaceful to watch the wildlife from above.”

  Jensen’s tongue felt suddenly thick and dry. Levitate? His heart fell. No…that would never do. But he had to look upbeat.

  “I look forward to it.”

  “But let’s put that aside.” Brady straightened in his chair. “What did you want to see me about?”

  Here goes, Jensen thought.

  He recited the facts: Someone had tried to join under a false name. He turned out to be Jason Amurri, son of Aldo Amurri.

  “Unbelievable! Aldo Amurri’s son!”

  “You’ve heard of him?”

  “Of course. He’s a very wealthy and important man. We could suffer a lot of bad press because of this. And we may have lost a well-heeled contributor to boot. Does the son have any money?”

  Jensen licked his lips. “Some.”

  “How much?” The words sounded more like a threat than a question.

  Jensen showed him the printout of the financial breakdown Margiotta had found on the Internet.

  Brady went livid, right up to his dyed hairline and no doubt beyond. Jensen had known the boss would be mad, but not this mad.

  “I didn’t know any of this at the time,” he said. “How could I?”

  “You took a man worth two-hundred-million dollars and kicked him out the door!”

  In addition to being the Church’s APR and SO, Brady was also its CFO, and as such he was always on the prowl for cash to fund Church projects—one Church project in particular.

  Were Jensen not Grand Paladin, were he not in a position to know about Opus Omega, he might have been disillusioned. But knowing about the Opus changed everything, and explained the Church’s need of a constant stream of cash.

  “All I knew was that he’d given us a false name and address and was causing a violent scene in his first Reveille Session. That fits the criteria for instant UP. Criteria you laid down yourself, I might add.”

  Brady gave him a brief, hostile look, then swiveled his chair toward the windows. Jensen let out a breath. He’d done everything by the book; that, at least, was in his favor. r />
  Brady stayed turned for a good minute, giving Jensen time to reflect on how far he’d come from Nigeria to be sitting here with such a powerful man.

  He’d been born Ajayi Dokubo and spent his earliest years in a poor village in southwest Nigeria near the Benin border; his people spoke Yoruba and sacrificed rams to Olorun. When he was five his father moved the family to Lagos where Jensen learned English, the official language of Nigeria. At age nine his father uprooted them again, this time to the U.S. To Chicago.

  His old man survived long enough to see to it that his son became a U.S. citizen, then wound up the victim of a fatal mugging. Jensen survived a turbulent, fatherless, rough-and-tumble adolescence that landed him in trouble with the law. A Southside cop, an ex-marine named Hollis, had given him a choice: Join the army or go to court.

  He joined up just in time to be sent to Iraq for the first Gulf War where he killed an Iraqi in a firefight and liked it. Liked it too much, maybe. Killed two more and that would have been okay except that the last one was trying to surrender at the time. That didn’t set too well with his lieutenant and he was given another choice—honorable discharge or face charges.

  So he returned to the streets again, this time in New York City. Being black, with no education, his options were few. So it had to happen: He got in with a rough crew that was dealing drugs, boosting and fencing electronics, smuggling cigarettes, the usual. Because of his size, Jensen became their go-to guy when strong-arm stuff was called for. Mostly it was punch-ups, maybe breaking a leg or two. But then came the day they decided someone needed killing.

  Jensen had been game. So he’d found the target in a bar and cracked his skull with a pool cue. His mistake had been being so public about it. He was picked up for the murder but the cops had to release him when the witnesses developed amnesia.