“Joe? You all right?” Frank asked. “Hell, man, you’re as white as if you’d seen a ghost.”
Joe forced a laugh. “Like you said, Frank. Old Hank can’t get any deader. I take it the cops have whoever did this to him?”
“Dead to rights. A low-life drug dealer. Not that Hank was your model citizen. He bought it during a barroom fight with a guy named Vincent Cenzo.”
He’d just had to ask, Joe thought.
“So, Joe. I’m sorry, where were we?” Frank asked.
“Finished,” Joe said, offering his hand.
“Beers are on me,” Frank said as they shook.
“Sounds good. See you soon.”
“You bet. You need anything else, don’t hesitate to call.”
Call. Yup. Next time, he would just call.
“See you, Frank. Thanks.”
He felt like a swimmer who had seen a shark and needed to stay calm. He tried like hell not to go running out of the autopsy room.
He managed to push his way through the doors like a normal person, then walked quickly down the hall. He even managed a goodbye and thanks for Judy at the desk.
Then he burst out into the light of day and joined the throng of people rushing around in the Saturday afternoon sunshine.
He was almost running…
And then he stopped.
Because there was no way for a man to run away from his own mind.
What a beautiful day.
He walked and walked, wishing he had a hat to tip to passersby. It was nearly summer, but the usual heat and humidity weren’t plaguing the city today. No rain clouds marred the heavens. No unhealthy miasma hung around the buildings, and a pleasant breeze swept through the giant forests of concrete and steel. It was simply a perfect day.
He visited St. Mark’s Square, where he paused, thinking that politicians, stars, geniuses, men of letters, heroes, patriots and enemies of the state had once walked this way. He closed his eyes and imagined a long-ago city.
What a beautiful, beautiful day. It was just good to be out. To love New York. To love the world.
To bask in pleasure.
Someone walked by him with a boom box blaring, gold chains making a strange clanking sound against the plastic casing. The man’s arm sported a tattoo.
Ah, yes. The gangs of New York. Ever present. Then and now.
A little Yorkie passed him, yapping shrilly. He was tempted to kick the tiny beast into the traffic. Instead, he paused and said something complimentary to the dog’s pudgy owner, who blushed and chatted. He moved on quickly then, afraid she was going to try to give him her phone number.
He passed a police officer strolling his beat, and nodded a greeting. The officer nodded and smiled in return.
As he walked at a leisurely pace, he passed an electronics store. A giant plasma screen took up most of the display window. The news was on, so he paused to watch.
His heart was filled with glee. He longed to laugh aloud. Instead, he watched gravely as other people grouped around him on the sidewalk.
The entire city was still pondering the death of Thorne Bigelow.
Philanthropist.
Icon.
Brilliant man of letters.
Like hell!
Bastard. Braggart. Glutton. Idiot.
“What a horrible way to die,” someone said.
“It’s that book he wrote. He was killed because someone didn’t like his book on Poe,” a young woman said solemnly.
Her boyfriend slipped an arm around her shoulders. She was hugging something that looked like a mop. Maltese, Pekinese, some kind of “ese.” What was it with people and their obnoxious little dogs ruining his Saturday morning?
“It could have been anything,” the boyfriend said. “I mean, the man was a billionaire.”
The man was a bag of hot air. Gas. He was one big fart.
“Tragic,” he said aloud.
The boyfriend was shaking his head. “Did you know that one of the guys who got hurt in that pileup on the FDR was some friend of Bigelow’s?”
The girl shivered. “And that psychic said somebody else is going to die.”
“Think psychics really know the future?” he asked, turning to the couple.
“Oh, yes,” the girl said, and turned to look at him. Maybe a little too closely. “There are real psychics out there. People who see things. Who knows if that woman, that Lori Star, is really one of them, though. I mean, I never heard of her. She hasn’t written a book or anything. Anyway, it’s all so tragic, don’t you think?”
“Tragic,” he repeated, shaking his head.
And he moved on somberly, his head lowered.
His grin wide.
Yes, it was a beautiful day.
His grin suddenly faded.
It was bull. There weren’t really people out there who could see the future, who had second sight, who could share experiences as if they were in another person’s body and just…know things.
Were there?
He kept walking, pensive.
Maybe it wasn’t such a beautiful day after all.
CHAPTER 4
“Thanks, guys, for taking the time to meet me,” Joe said.
They were at Gino’s Salads and Sandwiches, near One Police Plaza.