“You better not be raiding my fridge!” I called to O’Shea from the hallway.
I’d been eating takeout for three days straight. With all the containers of Chinese, Japanese, Mexican, and Italian, I was just about housing the United Nations of leftovers.
“Hey, did you hear me?” I said.
O’Shea had been checking my apartment for about a minute, roughly a half minute longer than it usually took him or Brison to comb my twelve-hundred-square-foot one-bedroom apartment.
An uneasy feeling suddenly came over me, my mind starting to race.
Instinctively, I took a step forward to peek in around the doorway, only to catch myself. That was the last thing I should be doing, right?
Instead, I looked down at my striped tie, pushing it to the side. Behind it I could feel the outline of the alarm around my neck. Even underneath my dress shirt there was no mistaking the large panic button.
Shit, what do I do? Do I press it?
No. Not yet.
“Kevin?” I called out again, this time louder. No more joking around about my fridge. “Everything all right in there? Hey, Kevin?”
I heard nothing back. I heard nothing, period. My apartment, the hallway — everywhere was quiet.
Then, finally — thank God! — I heard him.
“Yeah, everything’s fine,” came O’Shea’s voice.
I couldn’t see him yet but I could tell he was walking toward me. He drew a deep sigh before explaining, “For a moment there, I thought I heard —”
Pffft! Pffft!
Before another sound came, I saw the blood, a bright red spray splattering across the hallway in front of the door. Then Officer Kevin O’Shea’s body came crashing down at my feet, the back of his head blown wide open.
Oh no! No! No! No!
I took a clumsy step backwards, nearly tripping over my own heel. My knees were beginning to buckle and I couldn’t think straight. My thought process felt completely fractured.
Run, Nick! Run now!
I turned, sprinting down the hallway as those crazy beige and white stripes of the carpet blurred before my eyes. I was ten feet from the stairwell. Could I make it?
Barely!
I pushed through the door to the stairs. For a split second I allowed myself to look back. Just one glance.
It was all I needed. Make that much more than I needed.
Storming out of my apartment, a gun fitted with a suppressor snug in his hand, was the man who should’ve killed me when he’d had the chance in that alley next to the pizza place in the South Bronx.
At least I’m sure that’s what Carmine Zambratta, the Zamboni, was thinking as his eyes met mine.
He raised his gun and my heart nearly stopped.
Keep running, Nick!
Chapter 80
I PRACTICALLY FLUNG myself down the stairs, my feet barely keeping up with the rest of me. Could I outrun him? Would he get a clear shot at me? I didn’t see why not.
I was about to press the hell out of my panic button to alert Brison in the lobby, when a voice kicked in from the one brain cell remaining that wasn’t drowning in adrenaline. No, wait! Don’t come to me, Brison — I’m coming to you!
And I’m bringing company.
I kept flying down the stairs — the ninth floor … the eighth — my shoes pounding away on the concrete steps, my heart pounding away at my chest.
How far back was he? Was he gaining on me?
That’s when I heard it.
Nothing.
There were no footsteps from above, no sound of the Zamboni gaining on me. I was alone in the stairwell and that one working brain cell of mine immediately figured out why.
He was taking the elevator.
Shit!
On the landing of the sixth floor I skidded to a stop, gasping for air, trying to think in straight lines.
Up?
Down?
Stay put?
What do I do?
In a flash, I thought I had the answer. I’d go hide in someone’s apartment — just keep banging on doors until somebody let me in. Then I’d call the police.
Oh no! The police.
The image of Brison on that couch in the lobby suddenly came crashing into my head. He was a sitting duck down there. I had to warn him.
You know that company l’m bringing, Brison? He might get there first!
I jammed my thumb against the panic button as I took off again down the stairs.
The fifth floor …
The fourth floor …
My lungs were on fire, my legs aching — but what hurt the most was not knowing what was going to happen.
How would Brison respond to my hitting the panic button? Would he head straight for the elevator and Zambratta?
“Will you walk into my parlor?” said the Spider to the Fly.
The third floor …
The second floor …
I had to get to the lobby first!
Nobody else could die on my watch.
Chapter 81
THE LITTLE THINGS we take for granted.
Like the glass window cut into the door between the stairs and the lobby. Seven years living in the building and I’d never once noticed it. Not one time.
But there it was, no bigger than a loaf of bread — hell, even smaller; make that a slice of bread — but still big enough to catch a glimpse of Brison as I raced down the last set of stairs.
He had his gun drawn, his mouth twisted into a scowl so tight I thought his face would crack.
He was aiming the gun dead square at the elevator. Watching. Waiting.
I did neither.
I bolted straight through the door like … well, like the crazy, panicked guy I was. Only when Brison turned on a dime and nearly blew my head off did I realize that maybe that hadn’t been such a good idea.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” he said, his trigger finger still twitching. “I could’ve killed you!”
“Sorry.” What the hell else could I say?
Brison swung his gun back at the closed door of the elevator, and I followed his eyes to the line of floor numbers above it. The five was lit up. Then the four.
“It’s Carmine Zambratta,” I said quickly, still out of breath.
“I know.”
“He shot O’Shea.”
I could tell from Brison’s face he knew that, too. Or at least was assuming it. “Is he still alive?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head. “I don’t think so.”
Brison swallowed hard, digesting the news like the bitter pill it was. But that’s all he had time for. Otherwise both of us would end up just like O’Shea.
“Get the hell behind the counter!” he yelled at me. “Hurry! Stay down!”
I dashed behind the doorman’s desk — which looked more like a counter you’d see at an airline gate — while wondering how Brison had known Zambratta was in the elevator or that it was Zambratta at all.
That’s when I saw the closed-circuit monitor with a split screen on the wall right above me. Brison had obviously checked it when I had hit the panic button. He also must have told the doorman to skedaddle out of there. And call for help?
I stared at the monitor, my eyes bouncing back and forth like a game of Pong. On one side was the revolving door of the front entrance. On the other was the inside shot of the elevator.
And there he was in black and white. Grainy and fuzzy, too. Not to mention scary as shit.
The Zamboni.
For sure Brison had recognized him right away. How could he not? The guy was the poster boy for mob enforcers. A celebrity, practically. He killed people and got away with it. Probably have his own show on cable soon.
I could see the gun with the suppressor in his meaty hand, his huge shoulders pressed tight against the side of the elevator wall. Carmine Zambratta was coming for me, and he wanted me dead. Very badly.
Yet he couldn’t have looked more relaxed and in control. How freakin’ screwed up was that?
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“What’s he doing? Is he still on the side of the elevator?” asked Brison, his voice clipped. His throat must have been dry as dirt. If he was trying to sound calm, it wasn’t working — and I was the last person on earth who could blame him for some nerves and high anxiety.
Crouched low and out of sight, I could still see the monitor perfectly. From where Brison was positioned, he couldn’t. Not at all.
I would have to be his eyes.
Don’t blink, Nick.
Chapter 82
“YES,” I TOLD BRISON, quickly wiping away the sweat dripping from my forehead. Zambratta was still hugging the side of the elevator. He hadn’t moved. What was he up to?
And where the hell was the elevator?
The damn thing should’ve reached the lobby by now, right? And then —
DING!
Right on cue. The elevator landed, the sound of the high-pitched bell cutting through the silence of the lobby. Here we go …
I braced myself, my eyes glued to the closed-circuit monitor. No need to look at Brison now.
“He’s raising his gun!” I called out.
I listened to the squeak of Brison’s shoes against the white marble floor of the lobby as he shifted his stance. I was waiting for the next sound — the elevator door opening.
It didn’t come!
Brison called again, “What’s he doing?”
I squinted at the monitor. I couldn’t tell at first — the image was flickering all over. When it finally steadied I could see Zambratta’s hand against the panel of buttons inside the elevator.
“He must be holding the door closed,” I said. “He’s got his — oh, shit!”
“What? What’s the matter now?”
It happened so fast.
Zambratta shot the lens of the security camera, the muffled sound of the smashing glass and metal followed by the monitor in front of me — half of it, at least — going black as night.
I poked my head up above the counter to tell Brison I was no longer his eyes.
“STAY DOWN!” he yelled at me as he dashed for the couch on the opposite wall. He ducked low behind the armrest, his gun and eyes never leaving the door of the elevator.
I dropped below the counter, holding my breath. The showdown had turned into a stalemate. Something — or someone — had to give. So what did it come down to? Who was the better shot?
Then I heard it. Off in the distance, the sound of the cavalry. Police sirens. Beautiful sirens. Brison must have called for backup. Or maybe it was the doorman, who’d dialed 911 out on the street. Either way …
What are you going to do now, Zamboni?
Little did I know, he’d already done it.
Chapter 83
WOULD ZAMBRATTA TRY to shoot his way out of here?
Would he take the elevator back up to another floor, maybe even grab a hostage from one of the apartments? That wouldn’t be very hard to do.
I wondered if he could hear the approaching sirens. Even if he couldn’t, he had to know that staying put in the elevator wasn’t an option. It was his move, but he had to do something.
Clearly, Brison was on the same page.
He shouted at the closed door of the elevator, “You can’t stay in there, Zambratta! Come out, hands high.”
It was wishful thinking, I guess, but I couldn’t blame Brison for trying.
“You gave us too much time,” Brison continued, his voice growing more confident. “We’ve got men on every floor now. There’s nowhere for you to go.”
“Will you walk into my parlor?” said the Spider to the Fly.
I’d been so wrapped up in the moment that I almost didn’t see it. Out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of something on the monitor above me. It was the half screen that still had a picture — the revolving door at the entrance to the building.
The door was moving.
At first I thought it was Brison’s backup pushing their way in. The cavalry had arrived!
But, no — I could see only one person and he wasn’t in uniform. He was in a business suit.
Oh, shit! It’s someone who lives in the building, someone coming home. This is bad!
“Go back outside!” I was about to yell.
Then I changed my mind.
The man spinning through the revolving door didn’t live in the building, but I recognized him.
“Brison!” I shouted instead, jumping up from the counter. “Behind you!”
It was too late, though.
It was Brison who had given Zambratta too much time. The killer had called in his own cavalry — his own backup.
How could I ever forget this man? It was the cold-blooded killer from Lombardo’s Steakhouse.
I watched in horror as he calmly pumped two bullets into Brison. Jesus, he was good with that gun of his.
To my left I could hear the elevator door finally opening. Zambratta strolled out.
“About time,” he muttered to his cohort.
The sirens in the background were getting closer, but they weren’t close enough as Zambratta walked right up to me.
“Police protection. Highly overrated, if you ask me,” he said, raising his gun to my face.
Chapter 84
I SLOWLY OPENED my eyes, kind of glad that I still had eyes to open. My lashes flickered like a silent movie. Everything was blurry. Even the voices around me seemed blurry, if that made any sense.
Where was I? Well, at least I was somewhere.
My head was killing me, and as I slowly reached up and felt along my hairline, I found a lump the size of a tennis ball. I guess I’d been walloped by the butt of Zambratta’s gun.
“Look who’s up,” someone said. “It’s Sleepin’ Beauty.”
All at once everything came into focus. I saw exactly where I was. I saw whom I was with. And I wished that I hadn’t seen any of it.
I was riding in the back of a stretch limousine, somewhere outside the city, judging from the speed of the vehicle. To make things a little worse, the car reeked of cigar smoke and gaudy aftershave.
To my right was Zambratta, and across from both of us, legs crossed and arms folded in satisfaction, was his boss. The boss.
Joseph D’zorio.
“Do you know who I am, Nick?” asked D’zorio. I was noticing that his ruddy complexion went well with his combed-back silver hair. The guy literally had a glow about him.
I nodded. “Yes, I know who you are.”
“Of course you do,” he said before cracking a smile. “But I bet you wish you didn’t right now. In fact, that’s your problem, isn’t it? You know me all too well.”
My shirt had been ripped open and there was no longer a panic button for me to press. Believe it or not, I was more concerned about something else.
Ever so casually I slid my hand over the pocket of my pants, feeling for the outline of the flash drive Monica Phalen had given me.
“Looking for this?” asked D’zorio.
He opened his clenched fist and I saw the flash drive nestled in the palm of his hand.
“I’m guessing, Nick, that you haven’t had the chance to see what’s on here.”
“No,” I said, “I haven’t seen it.”
“Neither have I. I imagine if we were to watch it together, we’d see things that we both already know.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Of course, what I don’t know is who else has seen what’s on here,” said D’zorio, tapping the flash drive with a knuckle.
I realized that this explained why I was still alive. It’s hard to get information out of a dead man.
“The only person who knows what’s on that drive was murdered,” I said. “On your orders, I’m sure. He was a good man, by the way.”
D’zorio rocked his head back and forth as if mulling things over. “You might be right,” he said. “Then again, you might be wrong. Maybe Derrick Phalen made more copies. What do you think, Carmine?”
Slouched back in the leather of the seat
next to me, Zambratta shrugged. “It’s tough to say. But you can never be too sure with these things, no?”
“Is that why?” I asked D’zorio.
“Is that why what?” he asked back.
There was no point in playing dumb anymore. Regardless of what was on that flash drive and who else might have seen it, I knew more than enough on my own. “Is that why you framed Eddie Pinero instead of killing him outright? Less chance of retaliation? Because you can never be too sure?”
“No, that’s not it,” D’zorio said with a wave of his hand.
“Then what?” I asked.
“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”
“Don’t be so sure. Try me.”
D’zorio let go with a laugh as the limo suddenly came to a stop, the tires skidding on top of what sounded like gravel. Wherever we had been heading, we were there.
“Sorry, Nick,” is all he said.
But it was the way he said it, with a sense of finality. Joseph D’zorio wasn’t saying that he wouldn’t tell me his secret.
He was saying good-bye.
Chapter 85
THE DOOR NEXT to me swung open with such force that I thought it might have been ripped from its hinges. D’zorio’s driver, who looked like he could bench-press New Jersey, said nothing as he waited for me to step out. Behind him I caught a glimpse of an abandoned warehouse, half burned to the ground. It had that look to it, anyway. Desolate and isolated. The kind of place where no one can hear you scream.
“Do you need some help getting out?” asked Zambratta. “Maybe a kick in the ass?”
“You don’t have to do this,” I said.
He pulled out his gun, jamming it hard against my head, just like he had in the alley by the pizza place.
“Actually, I do,” he said. “Your time has come.”
I swung one foot out of the limo, and then I stopped because of the sound I heard. An unexpected but quite wonderful sound.
Sirens.
D’zorio’s driver immediately slammed the door shut, nearly taking my leg off. Before I’d even landed in my seat he was back behind the wheel.
These sirens. They were real.