Deadfall

The second bicyclist had no light either. He was wearing a dark hoodie and bearing down on us like he had a train to catch.

Mike stepped from behind me and slammed me against the side of his car. That’s when I saw the biker slow down just as he passed us. He pulled something out of his pocket, lit it, and tossed it on the hood of the old Crown Vic.

The windshield exploded as a fireball ignited the car’s interior, showering glass fragments all over us. A searing blast of hot air raced up my back, as though a torch had been held against it. We fell to the ground together, Mike scrambling to roll me away from the car, then dropping his body on top of mine as a taxi came to a screeching halt just inches from our heads.





TWENTY-NINE


“You knew something was going to happen, didn’t you?” I asked Mike.

He was sitting on a gurney in a hallway outside the ER at New York–Presbyterian Hospital.

“Not then. Not tonight,” he said. “You think I would have told you to stay there with me?”

I had no injuries. Two of the nurses had used tweezers to pick tiny pieces of glass out of my hair. They had looked me over for cuts and bruises—head to toe—but I had nothing more than a scraped knee and shattered nerves, once again.

“But you knew.”

Mike had several small shards of glass that had stuck into his scalp and neck, and scraped-off skin on the palms of his hands. One of the nurses—the fiancée of a cop Mike knew—had extracted them and cleansed the open wounds. We were waiting for her to give him a tetanus shot before being discharged.

“Here’s what I knew,” he said, brushing my hand away from his hair. “You were at the Metropolitan Museum of Art Monday night, solving a murder case, when you had no business being there.”

“Fact.”

“Paul Battaglia spotted you on the evening news.”

“Fact.”

“Which means that a boatload of other people saw you there too.”

“But they don’t know me,” I said. “The thousands of viewers in the tristate area had no idea who I was.”

“Lucky for that,” Mike said. “Battaglia makes a beeline for the Met, late at night, and someone actually followed him there, thinking it was a fine place to make a statement and end his life.”

“Fact.”

“Which means that the killer or killers had been tailing him—who knows for how long—in order to take their shots on such short notice.”

“Good point.”

“Battaglia ran up the steps—facing you,” Mike said. “He called out your name, said a few words. And you responded.”

“Yes, but all I said was that I would not talk to him.”

“But the killers—and whoever was running them—couldn’t hear the back-and-forth. They don’t know what either of you said.”

“Oh. You’re right.”

“You’re quick, Coop. I like that about you.”

“I’m not operating on all cylinders. Get that?”

“Loud and clear,” Mike said. “And Battaglia called you several times throughout the evening on Monday, because he was agitated about something.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t pick up. I didn’t have my phone.”

“I didn’t even know that,” Mike said, “so for sure no one else did. The killers might have figured you summoned him to come meet you.”

“Deadfall,” I said, climbing up to sit on the gurney opposite Mike’s in the wide hallway at the ER entrance. “I had no idea I was so irresistible till this happened.”

“They kill the district attorney, and then they’re in the wind. Came out of nowhere and disappeared—so it seems—without a trace.”

“Fact.”

“You can bank on the point they had no idea who Battaglia was going to meet when he trotted up the museum steps.”

“Probably so,” I said, wagging my head from side to side. “Fair enough.”

“That’s what saved your life Monday night.”

I looked over at Mike. “What do you mean?”

“Battaglia was silenced for a reason, kid. We’re not sure what reason, yet—and I don’t know what kind of progress Prescott has made,” Mike said, rubbing his forehead, “but whoever killed the district attorney now wants you dead, too.”

“I don’t believe that,” I said, ignoring the chills that flashed up and down my spine.

“Fact, as you would say.”

“If someone wanted to kill me, that was the perfect moment.”

“Not if they didn’t realize who you were,” Mike said. “The shooters were just the operatives acting for whoever wanted Battaglia dead. Then the smoke cleared and whoever ordered the hit realized the DA was on his way to see you—to talk to you.”

“But I don’t know what he wanted to talk about,” I said. “I still haven’t been able to figure out who Diana is and why that was on Paul’s agenda.”

“Not even the good guys believe that, Coop. Not even the task force.”

“That doesn’t prove anything. Nobody seemed particularly worried about me after I left the morgue, did they?” I asked. “They all left me to my own devices.”

Mike was feeling the top of his head, as though he still had glass splinters.

I slid off the gurney and started pacing. “Prescott didn’t make an issue of relocating me. He didn’t think I was in danger or he would have told me,” I said. “The commissioner would have insisted on a detail to bodyguard me.”

Mike didn’t pick up his head.

Suddenly, it dawned on me. “Something you want to tell me, Detective?” I asked.

“What?”

“You haven’t taken days off at all,” I said. “You’ve been assigned to me 24/7, haven’t you? No wonder you’re still driving around in a department car.”

“Somebody had to do it. You think I want anyone else keeping watch on your bedroom?” Mike said, pulling on the arm of my sweater, trying to loosen me up.

“Why didn’t you let me know, at least?”

“It didn’t make any difference, Coop. You had Mercer and me with you all the time.”

“Really, Mike,” I said. “Now you’re getting paid to sleep with me?”

“Sometimes that’s a thankless job, kid,” he said, flashing his best grin.

“Is that why you didn’t make love to me?”

“You must be fucking nuts,” Mike said, lifting both arms in the air. “A few days ago, I was three feet away from a man who had his brains blown out. I know how that impacted you, but may I remind you it was not high on my list of sexual stimulants either. I’ve been no more interested in thinking of making love than I expect you are.”

“It just would have been nice if you’d tried,” I said, forcing a smile. “I always like it when you try.”

“Is that your way of apologizing to me?”

“I think it helps me to know when my life is in danger,” I said. “I dodged two bullets Monday night. I thought the worst was over.”

I heard Keith Scully’s footsteps before he turned the corner and came into sight—the sharp-paced, firm march of a marine who never relaxed his bearing. Three men were in formation close behind him.

“Are you okay, Alex?” the commissioner said, placing a strong hand on my elbow. “You’ve had a helluva week.”

“I’m fine, thanks. It was shocking and frightening, but a more pleasant result than Monday’s experience,” I said. “It’s Mike who took the hit.”

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