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Amanda called Henry’s cell. It went right to voice mail.
“Hey, babe, hope you’re having a good day and Jack
hasn’t led you off a cliff or something. Give me a call
when you get a chance.”
When she hung up, Amanda turned on her laptop and
put Aimee Mann on high. She was a massive fan, but
found she couldn’t listen to her favorite song, “Wise Up,”
as often as she used to. The lyrics were about finding what
you thought you wanted most, only to realize that once
you had it, it wasn’t what you thought it would be. Every
time she heard it, she thought about their relationship.
She’d never been a goopy girl, the kind who read her
horoscopes or gossiped over cosmos while wearing
outfits that cost more than the GDP of the Congo. She
wasn’t superstitious either, but she didn’t want to think
about losing what she wanted. What she had.
She figured if Aimee knew what she and Henry had
been through in their few years knowing each other, she
wouldn’t take offense.
Kicking her shoes off, Amanda lay back on the hard
bed, wanting to think about nothing until it was time to
get up for work the next morning. The one thing she did
like about Darcy’s place was that the girl didn’t spare the
pillows. The guest room had no less than a dozen pillows
of various shapes and sizes covering the bed. Amanda had
spent her first week deciding which ones were right, and
picked the right half-dozen to fall asleep to. When she and
Henry lived together it always drove him crazy. Mainly
because he would wake up on one side of the full-size bed
with one nostril covered and a feather sticking out of the
corner of his mouth.
Amanda groaned as she rolled off the bed, blowing a
hair strand from her eye. Darcy and Devin had a fifty-six-46
Jason Pinter
inch flat screen in their bedroom, one of those cool wallmounted units that seemed to hover without wires or a
bracket. It probably cost more than her education, so
Amanda figured she’d make use of it.
The remote control was some digital monstrosity that
took Amanda ten minutes just to turn on. She was
always amused by Darcy’s taste in television, so she decided to see what her friend had recorded. The DVR
listed thirty-two episodes of Sex in the City, ten of
Gossip Girl, three of Desperate Housewives… and this
morning’s newscast. Amanda laughed. One of those
things didn’t quite fit.
She pressed Resume Playback on the news program,
and saw swarms of cops roaming around what appeared
to be a crime scene. A reporter’s voice-over spoke of
some horrendous murder, some young man’s body found
pulverized in the East River. The reporter was using her
“ultra serious” tone of voice reserved for crimes that were
not just bad, but truly terrifying. Amanda felt her heart
beat faster. Why the hell had Darcy taped this?
“Kenneth Tsang was survived by his mother and father
and young sister. According to the police there are no
suspects at this time, but sources confirm that the brutality
with which the killer or killers ravaged Mr. Tsang’s body
was done with some sort of message in mind. And since
the city medical examiner Leon Binks has confirmed that
over one hundred of Mr. Tsang’s bones were broken
before the body was found in the river, that message will
be heard loud and clear.”
Amanda shook her head. It was still hard to fathom just
how much evil there was in the world. How normal
people seemed to be at risk leading normal lives.
And then she realized why Darcy had taped the segment.
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47
Standing by a yellow line of police tape, talking to a
uniformed officer, was Henry.
Amanda watched. Henry was just doing his job, but
something about him being so close to death always
unnerved her.
When the clip ended, Amanda walked back into the
guest room and grabbed the cell phone. She dialed Henry’s
number at work. It rang through and went to voice mail.
Then she tried his cell again. Right to voice mail.
“Henry…it’s me. I know I just called, but I just wanted
to say I love you and please be safe.”
Amanda hung up the phone and put on her pajamas.
Then she tucked herself under the warm covers and
turned off the light. Not for sleep. That wouldn’t come.
Not until the phone rang. Not until she knew for sure
Henry was on his way home.
When I got home it was close to midnight. I sloughed
off all the detritus from the day: wallet, keys, loose change,
cell phone. The phone was off. I’d forgotten to turn it back
on after Jack and I had left the crime scene. I turned it back
on, saw there were two messages waiting for me.
My heart sank when I heard Amanda’s voice on both
of them. In the first she seemed relaxed. The time stamp
meant she’d likely sent it just after getting home from
work. The second was sent less than half an hour later,
but she sounded worried, hesitant. I had no idea what
could have happened in that short time frame, but the
moment I erased the messages I was calling her back.
She picked up before the first ring was finished.
“Henry?” her sweet voice said.
“Hey, baby, it’s me.”
“Are you home?”
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“Sure am. Pretty exhausted, but it’s been a hell of a
day. I’ll fill you in tomorrow.”
“Are you home for good?”
“You mean tonight?”
“Yeah.”
“Yes…just getting ready for bed.”
“Do me a favor. Make sure your door is locked.”
“Is everything okay?” I didn’t know where all of this
was coming from. “Do you want me to come over?”
“No. Just promise me you’ll stay safe.”
“I promise,” I said.
“Good. Thanks, Henry. Now get a good night’s sleep.
I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
She hung up, but something gnawed at my gut. Like
Amanda knew something I didn’t.
6
Tuesday
I was on the corner of Fifty-seventh and Sixth. It was
seven-thirty in the morning. Jack had told me to meet him
at eight-thirty. So unless he showed up an hour early just
to prove a point, I’d be the first one there. Of course you
could make the argument that I showed up an hour early
just to make my own point, but that was semantics. I
wanted and needed Jack to respect my work ethic. If my
professional accomplishments hadn’t yet convinced him,
he’d just have to witness it firsthand.
I was still a little on edge from my conversation with
Amanda. We’d spoken briefly this morning before she left
for work, and something was definitely wrong. Again
she’d told me to promise that I’d stay safe. She’d never
done anything like that, at least not without cause or some
psycho killer breathing down our backs. I’d see her tonight.
We’d talk, and hopefully everything would be all right.
They needed to be. I needed that much stability in my life
right now, and I needed her to know that I was reliable.
At eight-fifteen the familiar tweed jacket rounded the
corner. Jack was clutching a large coffee and munching on
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a bagel. Cream cheese was stuck in his beard. He nodded
as he drew close, said, “Henry. Way to be on time.”
“I could say the same thing to you. Hey, got a little
cream cheese there.” I motioned to his beard. He ran his
hand through it, but all that did was spread it around. I
laughed, which Jack didn’t take kindly to. He took a napkin and wiped himself down thoroughly, finally getting
it out.
“Better, Dad?” Jack said.
“Better, sport.”
“Good. Now that the silliness is over, let’s go talk to
some of these 718 guys.”
“I don’t know all of them,” I said, “but the ones I did
meet got pretty vicious. Two of them, Scott Callahan and
Kyle Evans, are dead. Two others I didn’t know, Guardado
and Tsang, are dead, too.”
“They must have a hell of a life insurance policy,”
Jack said.
“I don’t get it,” I said. “Stephen Gaines worked for
these people. He ends up dead. Tsang has his bones
ground to powder, and there are still people dealing for
these clowns. I mean, if your colleagues are dropping like
flies, why do you stay on? Why not go to the cops, spill
on whoever’s paying you? Seems like you have a better
chance of staying alive at least.”
“That’s a good question, Henry, and it’s one that we’re
going to have to answer because obviously these people
disagree with your assessment.”
“Survival,” I said.
“Come again?” replied Jack.
“Human instinct. The number-one priority is survival. If
someone isn’t opening up, it’s because they want to survive.
Ken Tsang, that wasn’t just a murder. It was a message.”
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“I think I’ve seen that kind of message before.”
“Yeah? Where?”
“Wrote a story once where I had to interview the foreman after an accident at a quarry. The foreman told me the
victim’s body looked like the bad guy after Indiana Jones
smushed him in that rock crusher. Said he looked like
something that was squeezed out of a tube of toothpaste.”
“You know, sometimes I feel I’d be better off not
knowing about all your previous stories.”
“Thought it might be pertinent,” Jack sniffed.
“Come on, the building where 718 operates out of is
over there.”
We entered the building, and I wasn’t shocked to find
a different security guard on duty than I remember. He was
an older man, mid-sixties, with a tuft of gray hair parked
on the top of his head like a wind ornament. He had on
thick reading glasses and was reading a newspaper. We approached, and I said, “We’re here for 718 Enterprises.”
The man looked up. I could see a crossword puzzle on
the table in front of him. Only three of the words had been
filled in. And let’s just say he wasn’t aware the word
nuclear had an a.
“Sorry, come again?”
“718 Enterprises,” Jack said. “Can you ring them up?”
“Just a second.” He pushed the newspaper away and
brought out a large binder. Opening it, he began to flip
through pages, studying the telephone numbers with his
index finger. I watched as he scanned, unable to see the
numbers for myself.
“I’m sorry, there’s no company here by that name.
718 Enterprises, you said?”
“That’s right. They definitely work here,” I added.
“I’ve been here before,” I lied.
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The guard curled his lip up, flipped through the binder
again. He looked confused, frustrated. “Sorry, nothing
here by that name.”
“Hold on a second,” I said. I took the logbook from
the counter, began to look at all the people who’d signed
in. Last time I was here, Scott Callahan and Kyle Evans
had signed in when they visited 718 Enterprises. But to
my surprise, nobody was here to visit the company. Not
a single name I recognized.
“Sir, please give that back,” he said, his voice growing
impatient. “If you don’t I’ll have security down here right
quick.” Figured they’d have security. Old Man River here
didn’t look like he was hired to do much strong-arming.
“What’s your name, friend?” Jack said.
“Edgar,” the guard replied.
“Edgar, I’m Jack. My friend Henry here is a little impatient, for that I apologize. We were under the impression this company was located at this address…. How
long have you been working here?”
“It’s my fourth day,” Edgar replied.
“Really,” Jack said. His voice was modulated to feign
interest, but I could tell that bothered him. “Who else
works this shift?”
“Nobody anymore. Building manager called the agency
that was looking to place me, said they needed a new
They didn’t tell me about the last guy, but this is a full-time
job. Thank God, because in this economy heaven knows
my savings and 401k aren’t worth squat anymore.”
“Thanks, Edgar,” Jack said. “Come on, Henry.” He
didn’t say my name like we were partners, but like I was
his subordinate.
As we left the building, I said to Jack, “Next time
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53
you’re going to do the good cop, bad cop shtick, how
about letting me know ahead of time that I’m going to be
the bad cop?”
Jack shook his head. “This is about the story, Henry.
Not your pride or your feelings. If I need you to be my
patsy to get someone to open up, that’s just what I’ll do.
And I’d expect you to do the same with me if the situation called for it. In fact, if you didn’t, I’d wonder why I
was letting you tag along in the first place.”
“Tag along? This is my sto…” I stopped talking. This
wouldn’t get us anywhere. “I can tell what you’re thinking.”
Jack nodded. “Whoever did work here packed up and
left faster than my second wife left with my collection of
antique pens.”
“You think it’s because of Tsang?” I asked.
“No way. At least not entirely. Tsang was killed
yesterday. Edgar started a few days ago. If Tsang was
connected to 718 Enterprises—and ipso facto your
brother—they were long gone before they crushed his
bones into oatmeal.”
I don’t know what we should have expected to find,
but I guarantee it wasn’t nothing. Not the nothing as in
“well, we got there but didn’t qui
te find what we were
looking for.” There was no trace of 718 Enterprises whatsoever. It was simply gone.
And as Jack and I stood there in the morning sunlight,
I couldn’t help but think about the hundreds of people
who went about their day oblivious to this. Who’d walked
by this building for perhaps years, unaware that it was a
drug refueling station. And that all of a sudden whatever
had been there had suddenly been packed up and shipped
off as quickly and as easily as a parcel.
“Back to the office,” Jack said. “We’re not going to
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learn anything standing on the corner waiting for melanoma to sink in.”
His hands were on his hips, a look on his face that
showed he was pissed off but wouldn’t stop here. I’d
never seen Jack work, unless you counted watching him
hunched over a keyboard sipping coffee that smelled suspiciously like something you’d find on tap at an Irish pub.
I had the same gene. The “hell if I’ll stop now” gene.
I smiled inwardly as Jack ran into the street to hail a cab,
moving like a man half his age. Not only did he have a
story to chase, but after months spent away from the game,
this was the closest he’d been to fresh meat in a long time.
“There has to be a building manager,” I said. “A corporation who cashes the lease payments.”
“Great minds, Henry. Great minds.” He told the driver
to take us back to Rockefeller Plaza. I felt my cell phone
vibrate, picked it up, saw Amanda had left me a text
message. I opened the mail. It read, Luv u. I smiled. Sent
her one back that read, u 2 babe.
Then just before I closed the phone, I saw that I had
another unopened text. This one was from Curt Sheffield.
It read: News out about Ken Tsang’s murder. Undercover cops say dealers are scared shitless, holing up.
Informants running like roaches.
And the text ended with one line that gave me chills.
Message delivered.
7
Morgan Isaacs didn’t want to wake up. He was lying in
bed, forcing his eyelids closed, even though a few quick
peeks told him it was after ten o’clock and the day had
started without him. Again.
It had been just a week since Morgan had met with the
real estate broker as well as his dad’s accountant (who
didn’t charge him, thankfully, chalking it up to years of
family service). Both advised him, without a moment of
hesitation, to sell his two-bedroom apartment on Park