HARD FREEZE
 A JOE KURTZ NOVEL




DAN SIMMONS




         2
                Contents
    ONE
•

    TWO
•

    THREE
•

    FOUR
•

    FIVE
•

    SIX
•

    SEVEN
•

    EIGHT
•

    NINE
•

    TEN
•

    ELEVEN
•

    TWELVE
•

    THIRTEEN
•

    FOURTEEN
•

    FIFTEEN
•

    SIXTEEN
•

    SEVENTEEN
•

    EIGHTEEN
•

    NINETEEN
•

    TWENTY
•

    TWENTY-ONE
•

    TWENTY-TWO
•

    TWENTY-THREE
•


                   3
    TWENTY-FOUR
•

    TWENTY-FIVE
•

    TWENTY-SIX
•

    TWENTY-SEVEN
•

    TWENTY-EIGHT
•

    TWENTY-NINE
•

    THIRTY
•

    THIRTY-ONE
•

    THIRTY-TWO
•

    THIRTY-THREE
•

    THIRTY-FOUR
•

    THIRTY-FIVE
•

    THIRTY-SIX
•

    THIRTY-SEVEN
•

    THIRTY-EIGHT
•

    THIRTY-NINE
•




                   4
       ALSO BY DAN SIMMONS
              Hardcase
             Hard as Nails
         AVAILABLE FROM
ST. MARTIN'S/MINOTAUR PAPERBACKS




               5
St. Martin's Paperbacks
HARD FREEZE
Copyright © 2002 by Dan Simmons.
Excerpt from Hard as Nails © 2003 by Dan Simmons.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in
any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case
of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For
information address St Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York,
NY 10010.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2002023706
ISBN: 0-312-98948-2
EAN: 80312-98948-4
Printed in the United States of America
St Martin's Press hardcover edition / August 2002
St Martin's Paperbacks edition / September 2003
St Martin's Paperbacks are published by St Martin's Press, 175 Fifth
Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2




                                  6
               CHAPTER ONE


                                                     ^»
Joe Kurtz knew that someday he would lose focus, that
his attention would wander at a crucial minute, that
instincts honed in almost twelve years of cell-block
survival would fail him, and on that day he would die a
violent death.
   Not today.
   He noticed the old Pontiac Firebird turning behind
him and parking at the far side of the lot when he
pulled into Ted's Hot Dogs on Sheridan, and when he
stepped out, he noticed three men staying in their car
as the Pontiac's engine idled. The Firebird's windshield
wipers moved the falling snow aside in two black arcs,
but Kurtz could see the three men's heads outlined by
the lights behind them. It was not yet 6:00 p.m., but
full night had fallen in that dark, cold, claustrophobic
way that only Buffalo, New York, in February could
offer.
   Kurtz scooped three rolls of quarters out of the
console of his old Volvo, slipped them into the pocket of
his peacoat and went into Ted's Hot Dogs. He ordered
two dogs with everything except hot sauce, an order of
onion rings, and a black coffee, all the while standing
where he could watch the Firebird from the corner of
his eye. Three men got out, talked for a minute in the



                            7
falling snow and then dispersed, none of them coming
into the brightly lighted restaurant.
   Kurtz carried his tray of food to the seating area
around behind the long counter of charcoal burners and
drink machines and found a booth away from the
windows where he could still see out and was in line of
sight of all the doors.
   It was the Three Stooges.
   Kurtz had glimpsed them long enough to make a
positive identification. He knew the Stooges' real names
but it didn't matter—during the years he had been in
Attica with them, everyone had known them only as
the Three Stooges. White men, in their thirties, not
related except via some sexual ménage à trois that
Kurtz didn't want to think about, the Stooges were dirt
stupid but crafty in their mean and lethal way. The
Stooges had made a career of exercise-yard shank jobs,
taking orders from those who couldn't get at their
targets for whatever reason and contracting their hits
out for pay as low as a few dozen cartons of cigarettes.
They were equal-opportunity killers: shanking a black
for the Aryan Brotherhood one week, killing a white
boy for a black gang the next.
   So now Kurtz was out of stir and the Stooges were
out of stir and it was his turn to die.
   Kurtz ate his hot dogs and considered the problem.
First, he had to find out who had ordered the contract
on him.
   No, scratch that. First he had to deal with the Three
Stooges, but in a way that allowed him to find out who
had put the contract out. He ate slowly and looked at
the logistics of the matter. They weren't promising.

                           8
Either through blind luck or good intelligence—and
Kurtz did not believe in luck—the Stooges had made
their move at the only time when Kurtz was not armed.
He was on his way home from a visit to his parole
officer, and he'd decided that even the Volvo wasn't a
good place to hide a weapon. His PO was a tough-assed
lady.
   So the Stooges had him without a firearm and their
specialty was execution in a public place. Kurtz looked
around. There were only half a dozen other people
sitting in the booths—two old-timers sitting silent and
apart, and an exhausted-looking mother with three
loud, preschool-age boys. One of the boys looked over at
Kurtz and gave him the finger. The mother ate her
french fries and pretended not to notice.
   Kurtz looked around again. The two front doors
opened onto the Sheridan Drive side of the restaurant
to the south. Doors on the east and west sides of the
brightly lighted dining area opened onto the parking
lots. The north wall was empty except for the entrance
to the two rest rooms.
   If the Stooges came in and started blazing away,
Kurtz did not have much recourse except to grab one or
more of the civilians to use as a shield and try to get
out one of the doors. The drifts were deep out there and
it was dark away from the restaurant lights.
   Not much of a plan, Joe. Kurtz ate his second hot dog
and sipped his Coke. The odds were that the Stooges
would wait outside for him to emerge—not sure if he
had seen them—and gun him down in the parking lot.
The Stooges weren't afraid of spectators, but this
wasn't the exercise yard at Attica; if they came inside to

                            9
kill him, they'd have to shoot all the witnesses—diners
and workers behind the counter included. It seemed
excessive even for the Attica Three Stooges.
   The oldest of the three boys two booths over tossed a
ketchup-covered french fry at Kurtz. Kurtz smiled and
looked at the happy family, wondering whether two of
those kids, held high, would offer enough bone and body
mass to stop whatever caliber slugs the Stooges would
be firing. Probably not.
   Too bad. Kurtz lifted one foot at a time onto the seat
of the booth, removed his shoes and slid off his socks,
balling one inside the other. One of the boys in the
nearby boom pointed at Kurtz and started babbling
excitedly to his mother, but by the time the sallow-
faced woman looked his way, he'd tied the second shoe
and was finishing his onion rings. The air felt chilly
without socks on.
   Keeping his eye on the pale Stooge faces just visible
through the falling snow outside, Kurtz brought out
each roll of quarters and emptied them into the double-
thick sock. When he was finished, he set the ad hoc sap
into the pocket of his peacoat. Assuming that the
Stooges were carrying handguns and/or automatic
weapons, it wasn't quite a fair fight yet.
   A Buffalo police officer came into the dining area
carrying his tray of hot dogs. The cop was uniformed,
overweight, armed and alone, probably on his way
home from a day shift He looked tired and depressed.
   Saved, thought Kurtz with only a little irony.
   The cop set his food on a table and went into the rest
room. Kurtz waited thirty seconds and then pulled on
his gloves and followed.

                           10
   The officer was at the only urinal and did not turn
around as Kurtz entered. Kurtz passed him as if
heading for the stall, pulled the homemade blackjack
out of his pocket and sapped the cop hard over the
head. The officer groaned but went down on both knees.
Kurtz sapped him again.
   Bending over the cop, he took the long-barreled .38
service revolver, the handcuffs, and the heavy baton
from his belt He removed the cop's hand radio and
smashed it underfoot. Then he tugged off the cop's
jacket.
   The rear window was high up on the wall in the
stall, was reinforced with metal mesh and was not
designed to be opened. Holding the cop's jacket up to
deflect the glass and muffle the sound, Kurtz smashed
the glass and pulled the metal grid out of its rusted
hinges. Stepping up on the toilet, he squeezed through
the small window and dropped into the snow outside,
getting to his feet behind the Dumpster.
   East side first. Sliding the cop's revolver in his belt,
Kurtz went around the back of the restaurant and
peered out into the east parking lot. The Stooge called
Curly was pacing back and forth behind the few parked
cars, flapping his arms to stay warm. He was carrying a
Colt .45 semiauto in one hand. Kurtz waited for Curly
to make his turn and men walked silently out behind
the short man and clubbed him over the head with the
lead-weighted baton. He cuffed Curly with his hands
behind his back, left him lying in the snow and walked
around the front of the restaurant.
   Moe looked up, recognized Kurtz, and started
fumbling a weapon out from under his thick goosedown

                            11
jacket even as he began to run. Kurtz caught up to him
and clubbed him down into the snow. He kicked the
pistol out of Moe's hand and looked through the glass
doors of Ted's Hot Dogs. None of the workers at the
empty service counter had noticed anything and the
avenue was free of traffic at the moment.
   Throwing Moe over his shoulder and pulling the .38
from his belt the baton dangling from his wrist by its
leather strap, Kurtz walked around to the west side of
the building.
   Larry must have sensed something. He was standing
by Kurtz's Volvo and peering anxiously through the
windows. He had a Mac-10 in his hands. According to
other people Kurtz had known inside, Larry had always
sung the praises of serious firepower.
   With Moe still on his shoulder, Kurtz raised the .38
and shot Larry three times—body mass, head, and body
mass again. The third Stooge went down quickly, the
Mac-10 skittering away on ice and ending up under a
parked SUV. The shots had been somewhat muffled by
the falling snow. No one came to the door or window to
check.
   Still carrying Moe and dragging Larry's body, Kurtz
tossed both men into the back seat of his Volvo, started
the car, and drove around to the east side of the
parking lot. Curly was moaning and beginning to come
to, flopping around listlessly with his hands cuffed
behind his back. No one had seen him.
   Kurtz stopped the car, got out, lifted Curly, and
tossed the moaning Stooge into the back seat with his
dead and unconscious pals. He closed Curly's door,
went around and unlatched the door behind the driver's

                           12
position, got in, and drove away down Sheridan to the
Youngman Expressway.
   The Expressway was slick and icy, but Kurtz got the
Volvo up to sixty-five miles per hour before glancing
around. Larry's body was slumped up against the
cracked-open door, Moe was still unconscious and
leaning against Curly, and Curly was playing possum.
   Kurtz cocked the service revolver with an audible
click. "Open your eyes or I'll shoot you now," he said
softly.
   Curly's eyes flew open. He opened his mouth to say
something.
   "Shut up." Kurtz nodded toward Larry. "Kick him
out."
   The pale ex-con's face paled even further.
"JesusfuckingChrist. I can't just—"
   "Kick him out," said Kurtz, glancing back at the road
and then turning around to aim the .38 at Curly's face.
   His wrists handcuffed behind him, Curly shoved Moe
aside with his shoulder, lifted his legs, and kicked
Larry out the door. He had to kick twice to get him out.
Cold air whirled inside the car. Possibly because of the
storm, traffic on the Youngman was light.
   "Who hired you to kill me?" asked Kurtz. "Be
careful… you don't get many chances at the right
answer."
   "Jesus Christ," moaned Curly. "No one hired us. I
don't even fucking know who you are. I don't even—"
   "Wrong answer," said Kurtz. He nodded at Moe and
then at the open door. Icy pavement was roaring by.



                           13
   "Jesus Christ, I can't… he's still alive… listen to me,
please…"
   The Volvo tried to slide a bit as they came around a
curve on the ice. Keeping one eye on the rearview
mirror, Kurtz corrected the slide, turned back,
and aimed the pistol at Curly's crotch. "Now," he said.
   Moe started to gain consciousness as Curly kicked
him across the seat to the open door. The icy air revived
Moe enough that the bigger man reached up and
grabbed the seat back and held on for dear life. Curly
glanced at Kurtz's pistol and kicked Moe in the belly
and face with both feet. Moe flew out into the night,
striking the pavement with an audible wet noise.
   Curly was panting, almost hyperventilating, as he
looked up at Kurtz's weapon. His legs were up on the
back seat, but he was obviously concocting a way to
kick at Kurtz.
   "Move those feet without permission and I put two
into your belly," Kurtz said softly. "Let's try again. Who
hired you? Remember, you don't have any wrong
answers left."
   "You're going to shoot me anyway," said Curly. His
teeth were chattering in the blast of cold air from the
open door.
   "No," said Kurtz. "I won't. Not if you tell me the
truth. Last chance."
   Curly said, "A woman."
   Kurtz glanced at the road and then back. That made
no sense. The D-Block Mosque still had a $10,000 fatwa
out on Kurtz as far as he knew. Little Skag Farino, still
in the pen, had several reasons to see Kurtz dead, and
Little Skag had always been a cheap son of a bitch,

                            14
likely to hire skanks like the Stooges. An inner-city
Crips gang called the Seneca Social Club had put out
the word that Joe Kurtz should die. He had a few other
enemies who might hire someone. But a woman?
   "Not good enough," said Kurtz. He raised the aim
toward Curly's belly.
   "No, Jesus Christ, I'm telling the truth! Brunette.
Drives a Lexus. Paid five thousand in cash up front—
we get another five when she reads about you in the
paper. She was the one who told us about you probably
not carrying today because of your PO visit. Jesus
Christ, Kurtz, you can't just—"
   "What's her name?"
   Curly shook his head wildly. Curly was bald.
"Farino. She didn't say… but I'm sure of it… she's
Little Skag's sister."
   "Maria Farino is dead," said Kurtz. He had reason to
know.
   Curly began shouting, talking so fast that spittle
flew. "Not Maria Farino. The other one. The older
sister. I seen a family picture once that Skag had in
stir. Whatshername, the fucking nun, Agelica, Angela,
some fucking wop name—"
   "Angelina," said Kurtz.
   Curly's mouth twisted. "You're going to shoot me
now. I told you the fucking truth, but you're going to—"
   "Not necessarily," said Kurtz. It was snowing harder
and this part of the Youngman was notorious for black
ice, but he got the car up to seventy-five. Kurtz nodded
toward the open car door.



                           15
   Curly's eyes grew wide. "You're fucking joking… I
can't—"
   "You can take one in the head," said Kurtz. "Then I
dump you. You can make your move, take a couple in
the belly, maybe we crash. Or you can take a chance
and tuck and roll. Plus, there's some snow out there.
Probably as soft as a goosedown pillow."
   Curly's wild eyes went to the door.
   "It's your call," said Kurtz. "But you only have five
seconds to decide. One. Two—"
   Curly screamed something indecipherable, scooched
over on the seat, and threw himself out the door.
   Kurtz glanced at the mirror. Headlights swerved and
spun as cars tried to take evasive action, tangled,
bounced over the bundle in the road, and piled up
behind Kurtz's Volvo.
   He lowered his speed to a more sane forty-five miles
per hour and exited at the Kensington Expressway,
heading back west toward Buffalo's downtown. Passing
Mt. Calvary Cemetery in the dark, Kurtz tossed the
cop's pistol and baton out the window.
   The snow was getting thicker and falling faster.
Kurtz liked Buffalo in the winter. He always had. But
this was shaping up to be an especially tough winter.




                           16
               CHAPTER TWO


                                                     «^»
The offices of High School Sweetheart Search, Inc. were
in the basement of a former X-rated video and
magazine store close to the Buffalo bus station. The
XXX store had never looked too classy and looked even
less so now after it had been closed for three months
and the entire block condemned by the city for
demolition. A little before 7:30 A.M., Arlene parked in
the alley behind the store, used her key to let herself in
the back door, and was surprised to find Joe working at
his computer. The long room was unfurnished except
for the two desks, a coatrack, a clutter of servers and
cables, and a sagging couch set against one wall.
   Arlene hung up her coat, set her purse on her desk,
removed a pack of Marlboros from the purse and lit
one, then turned on her computer and the video
monitor connected to the two cameras upstairs. The
abandoned interior of the adult bookstore on the
monitors looked as littered and empty as always. No
one had ever bothered to clean the bloodstains off the
linoleum floor up there. "You sleep here again last
night, Joe?"
   Kurtz shook his head. He called up the court file on
Donald Lee Rafferty, age 42, 1016 Locus Lane,
Lockport, NY. The file showed another DWI on
Rafferty's record—the third this year. Rafferty's
driver's license was one point away from being pulled.
                            17
   "Goddamn it to hell," said Kurtz.
   Arlene looked up. Joe rarely cursed. "What?"
   "Nothing."
   Kurtz's e-mail announcer chirped. It was a note from
Pruno, replying to Kurtz's e-mail query sent at 4:00
that morning. Pruno was a homeless wino and heroin
addict who just happened to have a laptop computer in
the cardboard shack he sometimes shared with another
homeless man named Soul Dad. Kurtz had wondered
from time to time how it was that Pruno was able to
keep his laptop when the very clothes the old man wore
were constantly being stolen off his back. Kurtz opened
the e-mail.
Joseph: Received your e-mail and I do indeed
have some information on the surviving Ms.
Farino and the three gentlemen in question. I
would prefer to discuss this in private since I
have a request to make of you in return. Could
you stop by my winter residence at your earliest
convenience? Cordially—P.
"Goddamn it," Kurtz said again.
   Arlene squinted at him through a haze of smoke. Her
own computer monitor was filled with the day's
requests for searches for former high-school boyfriends
and girlfriends. She batted ashes into her ashtray but
said nothing.
   Kurtz sighed. It was inconvenient to go see the old
man for this information, but Pruno rarely asked Kurtz
for anything. Come to think of it, Pruno had never
asked for anything.
   The Rafferty thing, though…
   "Goddamn it," whispered Kurtz.
                          18
   "Anything I can help with?" asked Arlene.
   "No."
   "All right, Joe. But since you're here today, there are
a few things you can help me with."
   Kurtz turned off his computer.
   "We need to find new office space," said Arlene. "This
place gets demolished in a month and we get thrown
out in two weeks, no matter what."
   Kurtz nodded.
   Arlene batted cigarette ashes again. "So are you
going to have time to help me look for a new office
today or tomorrow?"
   "Probably not," said Kurtz.
   "Then are you going to let me choose a place on my
own?"
   "No."
   Arlene nodded. "Shall I scout some places? Let you
look at them later?"
   "Okay," said Kurtz.
   "And you don't mind me looking during office hours?"
   Kurtz just stared at his once and present secretary.
She had come back to work for him the day be had
gotten out of prison the previous autumn. After twelve
years of hiatus. "Have I ever said anything to you about
office hours or how you should spend your day?" he said
at last. "You can come in and handle the on-line
Sweetheart Search stuff in ten minutes for all I care.
Take the rest of the day off."
   "Uh-huh," said Arlene. Her look finished the
sentence. Recently, the Sweetheart Search business
had run to ten- and twelve-hour weekdays, most

                            19
Saturdays, and the occasional Sunday. She stubbed out
the cigarette and pulled out another but did not light it.
    "What else do we need?" asked Kurtz.
    "Thirty-five thousand dollars," said Arlene.
    Kurtz reacted as he always did to surprise—with a
poker face.
    "It's for another server and some data-mining
service," added Arlene.
    "I thought this server and the data-mining we've
already done would handle Sweetheart Search for the
next couple of years," said Kurtz.
    "They will," said Arlene. "This is for Wedding Bells."
    "Wedding Bells?"
    Arlene lit the next cigarette and took a long, slow
drag. After exhaling, she said, "This high-school-
sweetheart search was a great idea of yours, Joe, and
it's making money, but we're reaching the point of
diminishing returns with it."
    "After four months?" said Kurtz.
    Arlene moved her lacquered fingernails in a complex
gesture. "What separates it from the other on-line
school-sweetheart services is you tracking some of these
people down on foot, delivering some of the love letters
in person."
    "Yeah?" said Kurtz. "So?" But he understood then.
"You mean that there's only so much market share in
this part of Western New York and Northern
Pennsylvania and Ohio within range of my
driving. Only so many old high-school yearbooks we
can look through in the region. After that, we're just
another on-line search agency. Yeah, I thought of that

                            20
when I came up with this idea in prison, but I thought
it would last longer than four months."
    Arlene smiled. "Don't worry, Joe. I didn't mean that
we're going to run out of yearbook sources or clients for
the next couple of years. I just mean we're reaching the
point of diminishing returns—or at least for your door-
to-door part of it."
    "So… Wedding Bells," said Kurtz.
    "Wedding Bells," agreed Arlene.
    "I assume that's some sort of on-line wedding-
planning service. Unless you're just going to offer it as
a bonus package for our successful Sweetheart Search
clients."
    "Oh, we can do that," said Arlene, "but I see it as a
full-service on-line wedding-planning dot com.
Nationwide. Beyond nationwide."
    "So I won't be delivering corsages to Erie,
Pennsylvania, the way I'm doing now with the love
letters?"
    Arlene flicked ashes. "You don't have to be involved
at all if you don't want to be, Joe. Besides putting up
the seed money and owning the company… and finding
us an office."
    Kurtz ignored this last part. "Why thirty-five
thousand? That's a lot of data-mining."
    Arlene carried over a folder of spreadsheet pages and
notes. She stood by Kurtz's desk as he looked through
it. "See, Joe, I was just grabbing bits and pieces of data
from the Internet and tossing it all into an Excel
spreadsheet—more or less what the present on-line
wedding services do—but then I used some of our
income to build a new data warehouse on Oracle81 and
                            21
paid Ergos Business Intelligence to begin mining the
database of all these weddings that other individuals or
services had planned."
    She pointed to some columns on the spreadsheet
"And voila!"
    Kurtz looked for patterns in the charts and columns.
Finally he saw one. "Planning a fancy wedding takes
two hundred and seventy to three hundred days," said
Kurtz. "Almost all of them fall in that range. So does
everyone know this?"
    Arlene shook her head. "Some individual wedding
planners do, but not the few on-line wedding-service
companies. The pattern really shows up when you look
at a huge mass of data."
    "So how does your… our… Wedding Bells dot com
cash in on this?" asked Kurtz.
    Arlene pulled out other pages. "We continue using
the Ergos tool to analyze this two-hundred-seventy- to
three-hundred-day period and nail down exactly when
each step of the operation takes place."
    "What operation?" asked Kurtz. Arlene was
beginning to talk like some bank robbers he'd known.
"Isn't a wedding just a wedding? Rent a place, dress up,
get it over with?"
    Arlene rolled her eyes. Exhaling smoke, she brought
her ashtray over to Kurtz's desk and flicked ashes into
it. "See, here, at this point early on? Here's the bride's
search for a dress. Every bride has to search for a dress.
We offer links to designers, seamstresses, even knock-
off designer dress suppliers."
    "But Wedding Bells wouldn't be just a bunch of
hyperlinks, would it?" asked Kurtz, frowning slightly.

                            22
   Arlene shook her head and stubbed out her cigarette.
"Not at all. The clients give us a profile at the
beginning and we offer everything from full service
down.     We    can    handle    everything—absolutely
everything. From sending out invitations to tipping the
minister. Or the clients can have us plan some of it and
just have us connect them to the right people for other
decision points along the way—either way, we make
money."
   Arlene lit another cigarette and ruffled through the
stack of papers. She pointed to a highlighted line on a
285-day chart. "See this point, Joe? Within the first
month, they have to decide on locations for the wedding
and the reception. We have the biggest database
anywhere and provide links to restaurants, inns,
picturesque parks, Hawaiian resorts, even churches.
They give us their profile and we make suggestions,
then connect them to the appropriate sites."
   Kurtz had to grin. "And get a kickback from every
one of those places… except maybe the churches."
   "Hah!" said Arlene. "Weddings are important
revenue sources for churches and synagogues. They
want in Wedding Bells dot com, they give us a piece of
the action. No negotiation there."
   Kurtz nodded and looked at the rest of the
spreadsheets.     "Wedding      consultants     referred.
Honeymoon locations recommended and discounts
offered. Limos lined up. Even airline tickets reserved
for relatives and the wedding couple. Flowers.
Catering. You provide local sources and Web links to
everything, and everyone pays Wedding Bells dot com.



                           23
Nice." He closed the folder and handed it back to her.
"When do you need the seed money?"
   "This is Thursday," said Arlene. "Monday would be
nice."
   "All right Thirty-five thousand on Monday." He
grabbed his peacoat from the coatrack and slipped a
semiauto pistol in his belt The weapon was the
relatively small and light .40 SW99—a licensed Smith
& Wesson version of the Walther P99 double-action
service pistol. Kurtz had ten rounds in the magazine
and a second magazine in his coat pocket Considering
the fact that the SW99 fired formidable .40 S&W loads
rather than the more common 9mms, Kurtz trusted
that twenty cartridges would do the trick.
   "Will you be back in the office before the weekend?"
asked Arlene as Kurtz opened the rear door.
   "Probably not."
   "Anywhere I can reach you?"
   "You can try Pruno's e-mail in the next hour or so,"
said Kurtz. "After that, probably not. I'll give you a call
here at the office before the weekend."
   "Oh, you can call here Saturday or Sunday, too," said
Arlene. "I'll be here."
   But Kurtz was out the door and gone and the
sarcasm was wasted.




                            24
             CHAPTER THREE


                                                     «^»
Kurtz liked Buffalo winters because the Buffalonians
knew how to deal with winter. A few inches of snow—
snow that would paralyze some wussy city such as
Washington or Nashville—went all but unnoticed by
Buffalo residents. Plows plowed, sidewalks got shoveled
early, and people went on about their business. A foot
of snow got people's attention in Buffalo, but only for as
long as it took to push and plow it into the ten-foot-high
heap of earlier-plowed snow.
   But this winter had been a bitch. By January first,
more snow had fallen than in the previous two winters
combined, and by February, even stoic Buffalo had to
shut down some schools and businesses when snow and
consistently low temperatures kept blowing in off Lake
Erie almost daily.
   Kurtz had no idea how Pruno and some of the other
winos who refused to stay in shelters more than a few
of the worst nights managed to survive such winters.
   But surviving the winter was Pruno's problem.
Surviving the next few days and weeks was Kurtz's
problem.
   Pruno's "winter residence" was the packing-crate
hovel he and Soul Dad had cobbled together under the
highway overpass near the rail yards. In the summer,
Kurtz knew, fifty or sixty of the homeless congregated

                            25
here in a sort of Bonus Army Village that was not
totally without appeal. But most of the fair-weather
bums had long since headed for shelters or Southern
cities—Soul Dad favored Denver, for reasons known
only to himself. Now only Pruno's shack remained, and
snow had almost covered it.
   Kurtz slid down the steep hill from the road above
and postholed his way through the drifts to the shack.
There was no real door—a section of corrugated, rusted
tin slid into place across the opening of the nailed-
together crates—so Kurtz knocked on the metal panel
and waited. The freezing wind from Lake Erie cut right
through the wool of his peacoat. After two or three more
knocks, Kurtz heard a racking cough from the interior
and took it as his permission to enter.
   Pruno—Soul Dad had once mentioned that the old
man's name was Frederick—sat against the concrete
abutment that made up the far wall. Snow had drifted
in through cracks and fissures. The long extension cord
to the laptop still ran in from God knows where and a
stack of Sterno cans provided both heat and cooking
facilities. Pruno himself was almost lost in a cocoon of
rags and filthy newspapers.
   "Jesus," Kurtz said softly. "Why don't you go to a
shelter, old man?"
   Pruno coughed what might have been a laugh. "I
refuse to render unto Caesar what is Caesar's."
   "Money?" said Kurtz. "The shelters don't ask for
money. Not even for work in trade for a bed at this time
of year. So what would you be rendering unto Caesar—
except maybe some frostbite?"


                           26
   "Obeisance," said Pruno. He coughed and cleared his
throat. "Shall we get on with business, Joseph? What is
it you would like to know about the redoubtable Ms.
Farino?"
   "First of all," said Kurtz, "what do you want in
exchange      for   the   information?     Your    e-mail
mentioned getting something in return."
   "Not really, Joseph. I said that I had a request to
make of you in return. I assure you that I will be happy
to give you the Farino information with no strings
attached."
   "Whatever," said Kurtz. "What's your request?"
   Pruno coughed for a minute and pulled the
newspapers and rags closer around him. The cold air
coming in through the chinks and cracks in the
packing-crate hovel was making Kurtz shiver and he
was wearing a thick peacoat. "I wondered if you would
be so kind as to meet with a friend of mine," said
Pruno. "In your professional capacity."
   "What professional capacity?"
   "Investigator."
   Kurtz shook his head. "You know I'm not a P.I.
anymore."
   "You investigated for the Farino family last year,"
said Pruno. The old man's wheezy, drug-addict's voice
still carried more than a hint of a Bostonian accent.
   "That was a scam I was part of," said Kurtz, "not an
investigation."
   "Nonetheless, Joseph, it would please me greatly if
you would just meet with my friend. You can tell him



                           27
yourself that you are no longer in the private
investigation business."
   Kurtz hesitated. "What's his name?"
   "John Wellington Frears."
   "And what's his problem?"
   "I don't know precisely, Joseph. It is a private issue."
   "All right," said Kurtz, imagining himself consulting
with another wino. "Where should I find this John
Wellington Frears?"
   "Perhaps he could come to your office today? It would
probably be better for my friend to come see you."
   Kurtz thought of Arlene and the last time they'd had
visitors at the office. "No," he said. "I'll be at Blues
Franklin tonight until midnight. Tell him to meet me
there. How will I know him?"
   "He likes to wear vests," said Pruno. "Now, about
this Angelina Farino query. What would you like to
know?"
   "Everything," said Kurtz.

Donald Rafferty worked at the main post office down on
William Street and liked to eat lunch at a little bar
near Broadway Market. As a supervisor, Rafferty
managed to take ninety-minute lunch hours.
Sometimes he would forget to eat lunch.
   This afternoon he came out of the bar and found a
man leaning against his 1998 Honda Accord. The man
was white—that's the first thing Rafferty checked—and
was wearing a peacoat and a wool cap. He looked
vaguely familiar, but Rafferty couldn't quite place the
face. Actually, this had been an extra-long lunch hour

                            28
and Donald Rafferty was having a little trouble finding
his car keys in his pocket. He stopped twenty feet from
the man and considered going back in the bar until the
stranger left.
   "Hey, Donnie," said the man. Rafferty had always
hated the name Donnie.
   "Kurtz," Rafferty said at last. "Kurtz."
   Kurtz nodded.
   "I thought you were in jail, asshole," said Rafferty.
   "Not right now," said Kurtz.
   Rafferty blinked to clear his vision. "Another state,
you would have got the chair… or lethal injection," he
said. "For murder."
   Kurtz smiled. "Manslaughter." He had been leaning
against the Accord's hood, but now he straightened and
took a step closer.
   Donald Rafferty took a step back on the slippery
parking lot. It was snowing again. "What the fuck do
you want, Kurtz?"
   "I want you to stop drinking on days that you drive
Rachel anywhere," Kurtz said. His voice was very soft
but very firm.
   Rafferty actually laughed, despite his nervousness.
"Rachel? Don't tell me that you give a flying fuck about
Rachel. Fourteen years and you never so much as sent
the kid a fucking card."
   "Twelve years," said Kurtz.
   "She's mine," slurred Rafferty. "Courts said so. It's
legal. I was Samantha's husband, ex-husband, and
Samantha meant for me to have her."


                           29
   "Sam didn't mean for anyone except Sam to take
care of Rachel," said Kurtz, taking another step toward
Ran Rafferty took three steps back toward the bar.
   "Sam didn't plan on dying," said Kurtz.
   Rafferty had to sneer at that. "She died because of
you, Kurtz. You and that fucking job." He found his
keys and threaded them through his fingers, making a
fist. Anger was mixing with fear now. He could take
this sonofabitch. "You here to cause trouble, Kurtz?"
   Kurtz's gaze never left Rafferty's.
   "Because if you are," continued Rafferty, his voice
getting stronger and louder now, "I'll tell your parole
officer that you're harassing me, threatening me,
threatening Rachel… twelve years in Attica, who
knows what filthy tastes you've acquired."
   Something flickered in Joe Kurtz's eyes then, and
Rafferty took four quick steps backward until he could
almost touch the door to the bar. "You give me any shit,
Kurtz, and I'll have you back in jail so fast that—"
   "If you drive Rachel again when you're drunk," Kurtz
interrupted softly, "I'll hurt you, Donnie." He took
another step and Rafferty opened the bar's door in a
hurry, ready to rush inside where the bartender—Carl
—could pull the sawed-off shotgun out from under the
counter.
   Kurtz did not look at Donald Rafferty again. He
brushed past him and walked down Broadway,
disappearing in the heavily falling snow.




                           30
              CHAPTER FOUR


                                                     «^»
Kurtz sat in the smoky gloom of Blues Franklin and
thought about Pruno's information on Angelina Farino
and what it might mean. And he thought about the fact
that he had been followed to the Blues Franklin by two
homicide detectives in an unmarked car. It wasn't the
first time they'd tailed him in recent weeks.
   Blues Franklin, on Franklin Street just down from
the Rue Franklin Coffeehouse, was the second-oldest
blues/jazz dive in Buffalo. Promising talent tended to
appear there on their way up and then reappear
without much fanfare when they were serious
headliners. This evening, a local jazz pianist named
Coe Pierce and his quartet were playing, the place was
half-filled and sleepy, and Kurtz had his usual small
table, in the corner as far from the door as possible, his
back to the wall. The nearby tables were empty.
Occasionally the proprietor and chief bartender, Daddy
Bruce Woles, or his granddaughter Ruby would come
over to chat and see if Kurtz wanted another beer. He
didn't. Kurtz came for the music, not for the booze.
   Kurtz did not really expect Pruno's friend, Mr. John
Wellington Frears, to show. Pruno seemed to know
everyone in Buffalo—of the dozen or so street
informants Kurtz had used back when he was a P.I.,
Pruno had been the gem of the lot—but Kurtz doubted


                            31
if any friend of Pruno's would be sober enough and
presentable enough to make it to Blues Franklin.
   Angelina Farino. Other than Little Skag—Stephen
or Stevie to family members—she was the only
surviving child of the late Don Farino. Her older sister,
the late Maria Farino, had been a casualty of her own
ambition. Everyone Kurtz knew believed that older
sister Angelina had been so disgusted by the Family
business that she had removed herself to Italy more
than five years earlier, presumably to enter a convent.
According to Pruno, this was not quite accurate. It
seems that the surviving Ms. Farino was more
ambitious than her brothers or sister and had gone
back to study crime with the family in Sicily even while
getting a master's degree in business administration
from a university in Rome. She also got married twice
while there, according to Pruno—first to a young
Sicilian from a prominent La Cosa Nostra family who
managed to get himself killed, then to an elderly Italian
nobleman, Count Pietro Adolfo Ferrara. The
information about Count Ferrara was sketchy—he may
have died, he may have retired, he may still be in
seclusion. He and Angelina may have divorced before
she returned here, but perhaps they had not.
   "So our local mobster's kid is really Countess
Angelina Farino Ferrara?" Kurtz had asked.
   Pruno shook his head. "It appears that whatever her
marital status might be, she did not acquire that title."
   "Too bad," said Kurtz. "It sounds funny."
   Upon returning to the United States a few months
earlier, Angelina had worked as a liaison for Little
Skag in Attica, paying off politicians to ensure his

                           32
parole in the coming summer, selling the white
elephant of the family house in Orchard Park and
buying new digs near the river, and—this was the part
that floored Kurtz—opening negotiations with Emilio
Gonzaga.
   The Gonzagas were the other second-tier, has-been,
wise-guy family in Western New York, and the
relationship between the Gonzagas and the Farinos
made Shakespeare's Capulets and Montagues look like
kissing cousins.
   Pruno had already known about the Three Stooges'
contract on Kurtz. "I would have warned you, Joseph,
but word hit the street late yesterday and it seems she
met with the unlucky trio only the day before."
   "Do you think she was acting on Little Skag's
instructions?" asked Kurtz.
   "That is the speculation I hear," said Pruno. "Rumor
is that she was reluctant to pay for the contract… or at
least reluctant to hire such inept workmen."
   "Lucky for me she did," said Kurtz. "Skag was
always cheap." Kurtz had sat in the windy packing
crate, observing the ice crystals in the air for a silent
minute. "Any word on who they'll send next?" he asked.
   Pruno had shaken his oversized head on that grimy
chicken neck of his. The old man's hands were shaking
in a way that was obviously due more to need for an
overdue injection of heroin than to the cold air. For the
thousandth time, Kurtz wondered where Pruno found
the money to support his habit.
   "I suspect that the next time, they will invest more
money," Pruno said glumly. "Angelina Farino is
rebuilding the Farino Family's muscle base, bringing in

                           33
talent from New Jersey and Brooklyn, but evidently
they don't want to have the reemerging Family tied to
this particular hit."
   Kurtz said nothing. He was thinking about a
European hit man known only as the Dane.
   "Sooner or later, however, they will remember the
old axiom," said Pruno.
   "Which one's that?" Kurtz expected a torrent of Latin
or Greek. On more than one occasion, he'd left the old
man and his friend Soul Dad alone to hash out their
arguments in classical languages.
   "'If you want a thing done right, do it yourself,'" said
Pruno. He was glancing at the door of the shack,
obviously eager for Kurtz to leave.
   "One last question," said Kurtz. "I'm being followed
off and on by two homicide cops—Brubaker and Myers.
Know anything about them?"
   "Detective Fred Brubaker has—in the argot of our
time—a major hard-on for you, Joseph. He remains
convinced that you were responsible for the demise of
his friend and fellow shakedown artist, the late and
totally unlamented Sergeant James Hathaway from
Homicide."
   "I know that," said Kurtz. "What I meant was, have
you heard anything about Brubaker tying up with one
of the families?"
   "No, Joseph, but it should be just a matter of time.
Such an association was a major source of income for
Detective Hathaway, and Brubaker was always sort of
a dull-witted understudy to Hathaway. I wish that I
had more optimistic news for you."


                            34
  Kurtz had said nothing to this. He'd patted the old
man's quaking arm and left the shack.

Sitting in the Blues Franklin, waiting for the
mysterious Mr. Frears, Kurtz wondered if it was
coincidence that the two homicide cops were tailing him
again this evening.
   Coe Pierce's quartet was just wrapping up a fifteen-
minute version of Miles Davis's "All Blues," filled with
Oscar Peterson-like solo riffs for Pierce to fool around
with on the piano, when Kurtz saw the well-dressed,
middle-aged black man coming toward him from across
the room. Kurtz was still wearing his peacoat and now
he slipped his hand into the right-side pocket and slid
the safety off the .40-caliber S&W semiauto there.
   The dignified-looking man came up to the opposite
side of Kurtz's table. "Mr. Kurtz?"
   Kurtz nodded. If the man made a move for a weapon,
Kurtz would have to fire through his own coat, and he
was not crazy about putting a hole in his only jacket.
   "I am John Wellington Frears," said the man. "I
believe that our mutual acquaintance, Dr. Frederick,
told you that I would be meeting you tonight."
   Dr. Frederick? thought Kurtz. He had once heard
Soul Dad refer to Pruno as Frederick, but he'd thought
it was the old wino's first name. "Sit down," said Kurtz.
He kept his hand on the S&W and the pistol aimed
under the table as the man took a chair across the
table, his back to the quartet that had just taken a
break. "What do you want Mr. Frears?"
   Frears sighed and rubbed his eyes as if weary. Kurtz
noticed that the man was wearing a vest—as Pruno

                           35
had said—but that it was part of a three-piece gray suit
that must have cost several thousand dollars. Frears
was a short man, with short curly hair and a perfectly
trimmed short curly beard, all going gracefully to gray.
His nails were manicured and his horn-rimmed glasses
were classic Armani. His watch was subtle, classic and
understated, but expensive. He wore no jewelry. He had
the kind of intelligent gaze Kurtz had seen in
photographs of Frederick Douglass and W.E.B. DuBois,
and in person only with Pruno's friend Soul Dad.
   "I want you to find the man who murdered my little
girl," said John Wellington Frears.
   "Why talk to me?" asked Kurtz.
   "You're an investigator."
   "I'm not. I'm a convicted felon, on parole. I have no
private investigator's license, nor will I ever have one
again."
   "But you're a trained investigator, Mr. Kurtz."
   "Not anymore."
   "Dr. Frederick says—"
   "Pruno has a hard time telling what day it is," said
Kurtz.
   "He assures me that you and your partner, Ms.
Fielding, were the finest—"
   "That was more than twelve years ago," Kurtz said.
"I can't help you."
   Frears rubbed his eyes again and reached into his
inside jacket pocket. Kurtz's right hand had never left
his pistol. His finger remained on the trigger.
   Frears pulled out a small color photograph and slid
it across the table toward Kurtz: a black girl, thirteen

                           36
or fourteen, wearing a black sweater and silver
necklace. The girl was attractive and sweet looking, her
eyes alive with a more vital version of John Welhngton
Frears's intelligence. "My daughter Crystal," said
Frears. "She was murdered twenty years ago next
month. May I tell you the story?"
   Kurtz said nothing.
   "She was our darling," said Frears. "Marcia's and
mine. Crystal was smart and talented. She played the
viola… I'm a concert violinist, Mr. Kurtz, and I know
that Crystal was gifted enough to become a professional
musician, but that was not even her primary interest.
She was a poet—not an adolescent poet, Mr. Kurtz, but
a true poet. Dr. Frederick confirmed that, and as you
know, Dr. Frederick was not only a philosopher, but a
gifted literary critic…"
   Kurtz remained silent.
   "Twenty years ago next month, Crystal was killed by
a man we all knew and trusted, a fellow faculty
member—I was teaching at the University of Chicago
then, we lived in Evanston. The man was a professor of
psychology. His name was James B. Hansen, and he
had a family—a wife, and a daughter Rachel's age. The
two girls rode horses together. We had bought Crystal a
gelding—Dusty was its name—and we boarded it at a
stable outside of town where Crystal and Denise, that
was Hansen's daughter's name, would ride every
Saturday during clement weather. Hansen and I took
turns driving Crystal and Denise to the stable and we
would wait while they took lessons and rode, Hansen
one weekend, me the next."



                           37
    Frears stopped and took a bream. There was a noise
behind him and he glanced over his shoulder. Coe and
the quartet were returning to the stage. They began a
slow, Patricia Barberish rendition of "Inchworm."
    Frears looked back at Kurtz, who had clicked on the
safety of the .40 Smith & Wesson, left it in his pocket
and brought both hands up onto the table. He did not
lift the photograph of the girl or look at it.
    "One weekend," continued Frears, "James B. Hansen
picked up Crystal saying that Denise was sick with a
cold but that it was his turn to drive and he wanted to
do so. But instead of driving her to the stable, he took
her to a forest preserve on the outskirts of Chicago,
raped our daughter, tortured her, killed her, and left
her naked body to be found by hikers."
    Frears's tone had remained cool and level, as if
reciting a story that meant nothing to him, but now he
paused for a minute. When he resumed, there was an
undercurrent if not a quaver, in his voice. "You may
wonder, Mr. Kurtz, how we know for sure that James
B. Hansen was the perpetrator of this crime. Well, he
called me, Mr. Kurtz. After killing Crystal, he called me
from a pay phone—this was before cell phones were
common—and told me what he had done. And he told
me that he was going home to kill his wife and
daughter."
    The Coe Pierce Quartet shifted from the wandering
"Inchworm" to a stylized "Flamenco Sketches" that
would feature the young black trumpeter, Billy Eversol.
    "I called the police, of course," said Frears. "They
rushed to Hansen's home in Oak Park. He had arrived
there first. His Range Rover was parked outside. The

                           38
house was on fire. When the flames were extinguished,
they found the bodies of Mrs. Hansen and Denise—they
had each been shot in the back of the head by a large-
caliber pistol—and the charred body of James. B.
Hansen. They identified his body via dental records.
The police determined that he had used the same pistol
on himself."
   Kurtz sipped his beer, set the glass down and said,
"Twenty years ago."
   "Next month."
   "But your James B. Hansen isn't really dead."
   John Wellington Frears blinked behind his round
Armanis. "How did you know that?"
   "Why would you need an investigator if he was?"
   "Ah, precisely," said Frears. He licked his lips and
took another bream. Kurtz realized that the man was
in pain—not just existential or emotional pain, but
serious physical pain, as if from a disease that made it
hard for him to breathe. "He is not dead. I saw him ten
days ago."
   "Where?"
   "Here in Buffalo."
   "Where?"
   "At the airport, Concourse Two to be precise. I was
leaving Buffalo—I had performed twice at Kleinhan's
Music Hall—and was catching a flight to LaGuardia. I
live in Manhattan. I had just passed through that
metal-detector device when I saw him on the other side
of the security area. He was carrying an expensive tan-
leather satchel and heading for the doors. I cried out—I
called his name—I tried to give chase, but the security

                           39
people stopped me. I could not go through the metal
detectors in the direction I had to in order to catch him.
By the time the security people allowed me to go on, he
was long gone."
   "And you're sure it was Hansen?" said Kurtz. "He
looked the same?"
   "Not at all the same," said Frears. "He was twenty
years older and thirty pounds heavier. Hansen was
always a big man, he had played football back in
Nebraska when he was in college, but now he seemed
even larger, stronger. His hair had been long and he
had worn a beard in Chicago—it was the early eighties,
after all—and now he had short gray hair, a military
sort of crew cut, and was clean-shaven. No, he looked
nothing like the James B. Hansen of Chicago twenty
years ago."
   "But you're sure it was him?"
   "Absolutely," said Frears.
   "You contacted the Buffalo police?"
   "Of course. I spent days talking with different people
here. I think that one of the detectives actually believed
me. But there is no James Hansen in any Buffalo-area
directory. No Hansen or anyone fitting his description
on the faculty of any of the local universities. No
psychologists with that name in Buffalo. And my
daughter's case file is officially closed. There was
nothing they could do."
   "And what did you want me to do?" said Kurtz, his
voice low.
   "Well, I want you to…"
   "Kill him," said Kurtz.


                            40
   John Wellington Frears blinked and his head
snapped back as if he had been slapped. "Kill him?
Good God, no. Why would you say that, Mr. Kurtz?"
   "He raped and killed your daughter. You're a
professional violinist, obviously well off. You could
afford to hire any legitimate private investigator—hire
an entire agency if you want. Why else would you come
to me unless you wanted the man killed?"
   Frears's mouth opened and then closed again. "No,
Mr. Kurtz, you misunderstand. Dr. Frederick is the one
person I know well in Buffalo—obviously he has fallen
on hard times, but his sagacity abides beneath the sad
circumstances—and he recommended you highly as an
investigator who could find Hansen for me. And you are
correct about my financial status. I will reward you
very generously, Mr. Kurtz. Very generously indeed."
   "And if I found him? What would you do, Mr.
Frears?"
   "Inform the police, of course. I'm staying at the
Airport Sheraton until this nightmare is over."
   Kurtz drank the last of his beer. Coe was playing a
bluesy version of "Summertime."
   "Mr. Frears," Kurtz said, "you're a very civilized
man."
   Frears adjusted his glasses. "So you'll take the case,
Mr. Kurtz?"
   "No."
   Frears blinked again. "No?"
   "No."




                           41
   Frears sat in silence a moment and then stood.
"Thank you for your time, Mr. Kurtz. I'm sorry to have
bothered you."
   Frears turned to go and had taken several steps
when Kurtz called his name. The man stopped and
turned, his handsome, pained face showing something
like hope. "Yes, Mr. Kurtz?"
   "You forgot your photograph," Kurtz said. He held up
the photo of the dead girl.
   "You keep it, Mr. Kurtz. I no longer have Crystal and
my wife left me three years after Crystal's death, but I
have many photographs. You keep it, Mr. Kurtz."
Frears crossed the room and went out the door of the
Blues Franklin.
   Big Daddy Brace's granddaughter Ruby came over.
"Daddy told me to tell you that those two cops parked
down the street left."
   "Thanks, Ruby."
   "You want another beer, Joe?"
   "Scotch."
   "Any particular kind?"
   "The cheapest kind," said Kurtz. When Ruby went
back to the bar, Kurtz lifted the photograph, tore it into
small pieces, and dropped the pieces into the ashtray.




                            42
               CHAPTER FIVE


                                                    «^»
Angelina Farino Ferrara jogged every morning at 6:00
A.M., even though 6:00 a.m. at this time of the winter
in Buffalo meant she jogged in the dark. Most of her
jogging route was lighted with streetlights or
pedestrian-walkway streetlamps, but for the dark
patches near the river she wore a backpacking
headlamp held in place by elastic straps. It did not look
all that elegant, Angelina supposed, but she didn't give
a flying fuck how she looked when she ran.
   Upon her return from Sicily in December, Angelina
had sold the old Farino estate in Orchard Park and
moved what was left of the Family operation to a
penthouse condo overlooking the Buffalo Marina.
Ribbons of expressways and an expanse of park
separated the marina area from the city, but at night
she could look east and north to what little skyline
Buffalo offered, while the river and lake guarded her
eastern flank. Since she had bought the place, the view
westward was mostly of the ice and gray clouds above
the river, although there was a glimpse of Canada, that
Promised Land to her grandfather during Prohibition
days and the earliest source of the family revenue.
Staring at the ice and the dreary Buffalo skyline day
after day, Angelina Farino Ferrara looked forward to
spring, although she knew that summer would bring


                           43
her brother Stephen's parole and the end of her days of
being acting don.
   Her jogging route took her a mile and a half north
along the pathway following the marina parkway, down
through a pedestrian tunnel to the frozen riverside—
one could not call it a beach—for another half mile
before looping around and returning along the
Riverside Drive walkway. Even from behind bars in
Attica, her brother Stevie—Angelina knew that
everyone else thought of him as little Skag—refused to
allow her to go out alone, but although she was
importing good talent from New Jersey and Brooklyn to
replace the idiots her father had kept on retainer, none
of these lasagna-fed mama's boys were in good enough
shape to keep up with her when she ran. Angelina
envied the new President of the United States; even
though he didn't jog much, when he did, he had Secret
Service men who could run with him.
   For a few days, she had suffered the indignities of
having Marco and Leo—the Boys, as she thought of
them—follow along behind her on bicycles. Marco and
Leo weren't very happy with that situation either, since
neither had ridden a bike even when he was a kid and
their fat asses hung over the saddles like so much
unleavened dough. But in recent weeks, they had
compromised: Angelina jogging along the plowed
walking path while Leo and Marco trolled alongside on
the usually empty Riverside Drive in their Lincoln
Town Car. Of course, after jogging through the
pedestrian underpass, there were three or four minutes
when she was technically out of sight of the Boys—who
waited at a turnout eating their doughnuts until she
reappeared through the trees, now heading south—but

                           44
Angelina figured she had those few minutes of privacy
covered with the little Italian-made .45-caliber
Compact Witness semiauto she carried in a quick-
release holster clipped to the waist of her jogging suit,
under her loose sweatshirt. She also carried a tiny cell
phone with the Boys' mobile number on speed-dial, but
she knew she would reach for the Compact Witness
before the phone.
   This morning she was thinking about the ongoing
discussions with the Gonzagas and did not even flick a
see-you-later wave at the Boys when she followed the
footpath west, away from the street, and jogged down
through the underpass, careful as always not to slip on
any ice there.
   A man with a pistol was waiting for her at the far
end of the underpass. It was a serious-caliber semiauto
and he had it aimed right at her chest. He held the gun
in one hand, the way her father and uncles used to do
before an entire generation was trained to carry
handguns two-handed, as if they weighed thirty
pounds.
   Angelina slid to a stop and raised her hands. She
could always hope that it was just a robbery. If it was,
she'd blow the motherfucker's head off as soon as he
turned to go.
   "Good morning, Signorita Farino," said the man in
the peacoat. "Or is it Signora Ferrara?"
   All right, she thought So much for the robbery hope.
But if it was a hit, it was the slowest goddamned hit in
Mafia memory. This guy could have popped her and
been gone by now. He must know about the Boys


                           45
waiting just a few hundred meters away. Angelina
caught her breath and looked at the man's face.
   "Kurtz," she said. They'd never met, but she had
studied the photograph Stevie had sent her to give to
the Stooges.
   The man neither smiled nor nodded. Nor did he
lower s aim. "I know you're carrying," he said. "Keep
your hands there and nothing dramatic's going to
happen. Yet."
   "You cannot imagine what a mistake you're making,"
Angelina Farino Ferrara said slowly and carefully.
   "What are you going to do?" said Kurtz. "Put a
contract out on me?"
   Angelina had never met this man, but she knew
enough about his history not to be coy with him. "That
was Stevie's call," she said. "I was just the messenger."
   "Why the Stooges?" asked Kurtz.
   Angelina was surprised by the question, but only for
a second. "Consider them an entrance exam," she said.
She debated lowering her hands, looked at Kurtz's eyes,
and kept them where they were.
   "An exam for what?" asked Kurtz.
   Keep talking, thought Angelina. Another two or
three minutes and the Boys would come looking for her
when she didn't appear on the return leg of the jog. Or
will they? It's cold this morning. The Lincoln is warm.
Perhaps four minutes. She kept herself from checking
her big digital watch. "I thought you might be useful to
us," she said. "Useful to me. Stevie ordered the
contract, but I chose the idiots to see if you were any
good."


                           46
   "Why does Little Skag want me dead?" asked Kurtz.
Angelina realized that the man must be very strong,
since the .40-caliber pistol he was aiming was not light
but his extended arm never wavered for a second.
   "Stevie thinks you had something to do with my
father and sister's deaths," she said.
   "No he doesn't." Kurtz's voice was absolutely flat.
   Knowing that if she argued witch him, she might
gain more time—or might just get shot in the heart
more quickly—she decided to tell the truth. "He thinks
you're dangerous, Kurtz. You know too much." Such as
the fact that he hired you to hire the Dane to kill Maria
and Pop, she thought, but did not say aloud.
   "What's your angle?"
   "My arms are getting tired. Can I just—"
   "No," said Kurtz. The pistol's muzzle still did not
waver.
   "I want some leverage when Stevie gets out," she
said, amazed to hear herself telling this ex-con what
she would tell no one else in the world. "I thought you
would be useful to me."
   "How?"
   "By killing Emilio Gonzaga and his top people."
   "Why the hell would I do that?" asked Kurtz. His
voice did not even sound curious to Angelina, just
mildly bemused.
   She took a breath. Now it was all or nothing. She
hadn't planned it this way. Actually, she'd planned to
have Kurtz on his knees in a few weeks, his hands
restraint-taped behind his back, and perhaps missing a
few teeth when she got to this part. Now all she could

                           47
do was go ahead and watch his face, his eyes, the
muscles around his mouth, and his swallowing reflex—
those parts of a person that could not not react.
    "Emilio Gonzaga ordered your little pal Samantha
killed twelve years ago," she said.
    For a second, Angelina felt exactly like a duelist
whose only pistol shot has misfired. Nothing about Joe
Kurtz's hard face changed one iota—nothing. Looking
into his eyes was like looking at some Hieronymus
Bosch painting of a medieval executioner—if such a
painting existed, which she knew it did not. For a wild
instant, she considered throwing herself to the ground,
rolling, and pulling the .45 Compact Witness from her
belt, but the unwavering black muzzle aborted that
thought.
    Another minute and the Boys will—She knew she did
not have another minute. Angelina Farino Ferrara did
not go in for self-delusion.
    "No," Kurtz said at last.
    "Yes," said Angelina. "I know you took care of Eddie
Falco and Manny Levine twelve years ago, but they
were on Gonzaga's leash at the time. He gave the
word."
    "I would have known that."
    "No one knew that."
    "Falco and Levine were small-time drug pushers,"
said Kurtz. "They were too stupid to…" He stopped, as
if thinking of something.
    "Yeah," said Angelina. "The little girl. The missing
teenage girl—Elizabeth Connors—that your partner
Samantha was hunting for. The high-school girl who
later turned up dead. The trail led through Falco and
                           48
Levine because the kidnapping was a Gonzaga gig;
Connors owed him almost a quarter of a million dollars
and the girl was leverage—just leverage—and those
two idiots had been Elizabeth's friendly schoolyard
pushers. After your partner stumbled across the
connection, Emilio gave the word to Eddie and Manny
to get rid of her and then he got rid of the kid. And then
you got rid of Falco and Levine for him."
   Kurtz shook his head slightly, but his gaze never left
Angelina. The gun was still aimed at her chest.
Angelina knew that the .40-caliber slug would smash
her heart to a pulp before blasting it out through her
spine.
   "You were stupid, Kurtz," she said. "You even did
time to help throw investigators off Gonzaga's track. It
must amuse the shit out of him."
   "I would have heard," said Kurtz.
   "You didn't," said Angelina, knowing that time was
up now—his and hers. It had to go one way or the
other. "No one heard. But I can prove it. Give me a
chance. Call me and we'll set up a meeting. I'll show
you the proof and tell you how I can buy you indemnity
from Stevie. And more important, how you can get to
the Gonzagas."
   There was a long pause of silence, broken only by the
wind blowing in from the lake. It was very cold.
Angelina felt her legs threatening to quiver—from the
cold, she hoped—and forced them not to. Finally, Joe
Kurtz said, "Take that top off."
   She had to raise her eyebrows at that. "Not getting
enough, Joe? Been hard to score since you screwed my
sister?"

                            49
    Kurtz said nothing, but gestured with the muzzle of
the pistol.
    Keeping her hands in sight, she tugged off the straps
of the tiny headlamp and pulled the loose sweatshirt
over her head, dropping it on the black pavement. She
stood there only in her jogging bra, knowing that her
nipples were more than visible as they pressed through
the thin cotton. She hoped it distracted the hell out of
Kurtz.
    It didn't. With his free hand, Kurtz pointed to the
wall of the underpass. "Assume the position." When she
spreadeagled against the wall with her hands on the
cold concrete, he approached warily and kicked her feet
farmer apart. He tugged her Compact Witness .45 out
of its holster and ran his hands quickly, professionally,
down her front and thighs, pulling the cell phone from
her pocket. He smashed the phone and put the
Compact Witness in his peacoat pocket.
    "I want that forty-five back," she said, speaking to
the cold breath of the wall. "It has sentimental value. I
shot my first husband in Sicily with it."
    For the first time, there came something that might
have been a human sound—a dry chuckle?—from
Kurtz. Or maybe he was just clearing his throat. He
handed her a cell phone over her shoulder. "Keep this.
If I want to talk to you, I'll call you."
    "Can I turn around?" said Angelina.
    "No."
    She heard him backing away and then there came
the sound of a car starting. Angelina rushed to the
opening of the tunnel in time to see an old Volvo


                           50
disappearing along the footpath into the trees to the
north.
    She had time to put on her sweatshirt, tug on her
headlamp, and slip the cell phone under her shirt
before Marco and Leo came panting down the path,
pistols drawn.
    "What? What? Why'd you stop?" wheezed Leo while
Marco swept the area with his pistol.
    I should fire these shitheads, thought Angelina. She
said, "Charley horse."
    "We heard a car," panted Leo.
    "Yeah, me too," said Angelina. "Big help you two
would've been if it had been an assassin."
    Leo blanched. Marco shot her a pissed look. Maybe
I'll just fire Leo, she thought.
    "You want a ride back?" asked Leo. "Or you gonna
keep running?"
    "With a charley horse?" said Angelina. "I'll be lucky
to hobble to the car."




                           51
                CHAPTER SIX


                                                     «^»
It was just getting light—predawn Buffalo grayness
bleeding into even dimmer Buffalo morning gray—
when Kurtz got back to his flophouse hotel, only to find
that Detectives Brubaker and Myers had come to roust
him.
   Kurtz had various telltales in his hotel to tell him if
visitors were waiting, but these weren't called for this
morning. The hotel was in a rough neighborhood and
the local kids had already spray-painted Brubaker's
unmarked Plymouth with the tag UNMRACKED CAR
on the driver's side—spelling was not the local
hoodlums' strong suit—and PIGMOBILE—they had not
planned their spacing well—on the passenger side.
Something about the sound of "pigmobi" amused Kurtz.
   The rest of the situation did not amuse him all that
much. Brubaker and Myers rousted him about once
every three weeks and, so far, they'd not caught him
with a weapon, but when they did—and the law of
averages suggested they would have to—he'd be back in
prison within twenty-four hours. Paroled felons in New
York State were exempt from the God-given,
Constitution-guaranteed, and redneck-worshiped right
of every American to carry as much firepower as he
wanted.



                            52
   With his .40 S&W in one pocket and Angelina Farino
Ferrara's cute but heavy little Compact Witness in the
other, Kurtz went into the alley in back of his hotel and
stashed both weapons behind some masonry he'd
loosened himself two weeks earlier. The alley's resident
winos and druggies were at the shelter or protecting
their benches at this time of day, so Kurtz guessed that
he might have a few hours before some scavenger
would find his stash. If this roust took more than a few
hours, he was screwed anyway and probably would not
need the weapons.
   Kurtz's residence hotel, the Royal Delaware Arms,
had been a fancy place about the time President
McKinley had been shot in Buffalo two turns of the
century ago. McKinley may have stayed here the night
before he was shot as far as Kurtz knew. The hotel had
been going downhill for the past ninety years and
seemed to have reached a balance point somewhere
between total decay and imminent collapse. The Royal
Delaware Arms was ten stories tall and boasted a sixty-
foot radio-transmission tower on its roof, pouring out
microwave radiation day and night, lethal doses
according to many of the hotel's more paranoid
inhabitants. The tower was about the only thing on the
premises that worked. Over the preceding decades, the
hotel part of the building, the lower five floors, had
gone from a workingman's hotel to flophouse to low-
income housing center, and then back to residential
flophouse. Most of the residents were on welfare,
lithium, and/or Thorazine. Kurtz had convinced the
manager to let him live on the eighth floor, even though
the top three floors had been effectively abandoned
since the 1970s. A loophole in the fire and building

                           53
codes had not specifically prohibited the rooms from
being rented or some idiot from renting one—living up
there amidst the peeling wallpaper, exposed lathing,
and dripping pipes—and that is exactly what Kurtz
was doing. The room still had a door and a refrigerator
and running water, and that was all Kurtz really
needed. His room—two large, connected rooms, actually
—was on the alley-side corner and served not by one
but by two rusting fire escapes. The elevator doors
above the fifth floor had been sealed off, so Kurtz had to
walk the last three floors every time he came or went.
That was a small trade-off for the security of knowing
when anyone had visited him and for the warning he
would get when someone tried to visit him. Both Petie,
the manager and day man on the counter, and Gloria,
the night man on the counter, were paid enough each
month to be trustworthy about ringing Kurtz on his cell
phone if anyone unknown to them headed toward the
elevator or stairs.
   Now Kurtz let himself in the alley entrance in case
Brubaker had left his sidekick Myers in the lobby—
unlikely, since plainclothes cops were like snakes or
nuns and always traveled in pairs. He took the back
stairs up to the third floor from the abandoned kitchen
in back and then walked up the smelly main staircase
to the eighth floor. At the sixth-floor level, Kurtz could
see the two sets of footprints in the plaster dust he'd
left covering the center of the stairs. Brubaker, who
had the larger feet—Kurtz had noticed before—had a
hole in his sole. That sounded about right to Kurtz. The
footprints led down the center of the dusty and dark
corridor—Kurtz kept to the walls when he came and
went—and ended at the open door to his room. The two

                            54
detectives had kicked his door in, splintering the lock
and knocking the door off the hinges. Kurtz braced
himself, made his stomach muscles rigid, and walked
into his home.
   Myers came out from behind the door and hit him in
the belly with what felt like brass knuckles. Kurtz went
down and tried to roll against the wall, but Brubaker
had time to step in from the opposite side of the door
and give Kurtz a kick to the head that landed on his
shoulder as he tucked and rolled again.
   Myers kicked him in the back of his left leg,
paralyzing the calf muscle, while Brubaker—the taller,
uglier, smarter one of the pair—pulled his Glock-9mm
and pressed it to the soft spot behind Kurtz's left ear.
"Give us a reason," hissed Detective Brubaker. Kurtz
did not move. He could not breathe yet, but he knew
from experience that his stunned belly muscles and
diaphragm would relax from the blow before he passed
out from lack of oxygen.
   "Give me a fucking reason" shouted Brubaker,
cocking the piece. It didn't need cocking of course, since
it was a single-action, but it looked and sounded
dramatic.
   "Hey, hey, Fred," said Myers, sounding sincerely
alarmed.
   "Fuck hey, hey, Tommy," said Brubaker, spraying
Kurtz's cheek with saliva. "This miserable fuck—" He
slapped Kurtz hard on the neck with the cocked pistol
and then kicked him in the small of the back.
   Kurtz grunted and did not move.
   "Pat him down," snapped Brubaker.


                            55
   With Brubaker's Glock against his temple now,
Kurtz lay still while Myers frisked him roughly, ripping
buttons off his peacoat as he pulled it open, turning his
pockets inside out.
   "He's clean, Fred."
   "Fuck!" The muzzle quit pressing into the flesh next
to Kurtz's left eye. "Sit up, asshole, hands behind your
back, back against the wall."
   Kurtz did as he was told. Myers was lounging on the
arm of the sprung sofa Kurtz had dragged up to serve
as both furniture and bed. Brubaker was standing five
feet away with the 9mm still aimed at Kurtz's head.
   "I ought to kill you right now, you miserable cock-
sucker," Brubaker said conversationally. He patted the
pocket of his cheap suit. "I've got a throwdown right
here. Leave you here. The rats would have you three-
fourths eaten before anyone fucking found you."
   They'd have all of me eaten before anyone found me
up here, thought Kurtz. He did not share the opinion
aloud.
   "Jimmy Hathaway's ghost would rest easy," said
Brubaker, voice tense again, finger also tense on the
trigger.
   "Fred, Fred," said Myers, playing the good cop. Or at
least the semi-sane cop. The non-rogue killer cop.
   "Fuck it," said Brubaker, lowering the weapon.
"You're not worth it, you piece of ratshit. Not when
we'll get to do you legally soon enough. You're not
worth the fucking paperwork this way." He stepped
forward and kicked Kurtz in the belly.
   Kurtz sagged against the wall and began the
countdown to a point where he could breathe again.
                           56
   Brubaker walked out. Myers paused for a moment
looking down at the gasping Kurtz. "You shouldn't have
killed Hathaway," the fat man said softly. "Fred knows
you did it and someday he's going to prove it.
Then there won't be any warnings."
   Myers walked out too, and Kurtz listened to their
footfalls and cursing about the elevator as they
descended the echoing staircase. He made a mental
note to sprinkle more plaster dust on the steps. He
hoped they wouldn't tear his Volvo apart when they
searched it.
   It could have been much worse. Brubaker and
Hathaway had been friends, of sorts, and both were
crooked cops, but Hathaway had been on the Farino
pad and on the personal payroll of Maria Farino during
her shortlived bid to take over her father's business.
Hathaway had seen a chance to take out Kurtz and
curry favor with Maria Farino, and it had almost
worked for him. Almost. If Brubaker and Myers had
been working directly for the Farinos or Gonzagas now,
it could have been a short, bad morning for Joe Kurtz.
At least now he knew for sure that the cops weren't
totally in Ms. Angelina Farino Ferrara's pocket.
   When Kurtz could finally stand, he staggered a few
steps, opened the window, and vomited out into the
alley. No reason to get his bathroom all messy. He'd
cleaned it just a week or two before.
   When he could breathe a little better and his
stomach muscles had quit their spasms, Kurtz went to
the refrigerator to get breakfast carrying the Miller
Lite with him as he sprawled on the couch. He knew he



                          57
had to get down to the alley to retrieve the two pistols,
but he thought he'd rest a bit before doing that.
   Ten minutes later, he flipped open his phone and
called Arlene at the office.
   "What's new, Joe? You're up early."
   "I want you to do a deep data search for me," said
Kurtz. "James B. Hansen." He spelled the last name.
"He was a psychologist in Chicago in the early eighties.
You'll find some newspaper articles and police reports
from that period. I want everything you can get—
everything—and a search of all James Hansens since
then."
   "All?"
   "All," said Kurtz. "Cross-referenced to psychology
journals, university faculties, crime database, marriage
licenses, drivers' licenses, property transactions, the
whole smash. And there's a triple murder and suicide
involved in Chicago. Cross-check against all similar
murder-suicides since then, using the crime database.
Have the software search for common names,
anagrams, factors, whatever."
   "Do you know how much time and money this is
going to cost us, Joe?"
   "No."
   "Do you care?"
   "No."
   "Should I use all of our computer resources?"
Arlene's son and husband had been expert computer
hackers and she had most of their tools at her disposal,
including unauthorized e-mail drops and authority
from her previous jobs as legal secretary—including

                           58
one stint working for the Erie County district attorney.
She was asking Kurtz whether she should break the
law in requesting hies.
   "Yes," said Kurtz.
   He could hear Arlene sigh and then exhale cigarette
smoke. "All right. Is this urgent? Should I push it
ahead of today's Sweetheart Search?"
   "No," said Kurtz. "It'll keep. Get to it when you can."
   "I presume this isn't a Sweetheart Search client
we're talking about, is it, Joe?"
   Kurtz sipped the last of his beer.
   "Is this James B. Hansen in Buffalo now?" asked
Arlene.
   "I don't know," he said. "Also, I need another check."
   "Listening," said Arlene. He could imagine her with
her pen and pad poised.
   "John Wellington Frears," said Kurtz. "Concert
violinist. He lives in New York, probably Manhattan,
probably the Upper East Side. He probably doesn't
have a criminal record, but I want everything you can
get on his medical records."
   "Shall I use all possible—"
   "Yes," said Kurtz. Medical records were among the
most closely guarded secrets in America, but Arlene's
last job while Kurtz was in prison had been with a nest
of ambulance chasers. She could ferret out medical
records that the patient's doctor did not know existed.
   "Okay. Are you coming in today? We could look at
some office space I marked in the paper."
   "I don't know if I'll be in," said Kurtz. "How's
Wedding Bells coming?"

                            59
  "Data-mining services are all lined up," said Arlene.
"Kevin's waiting to get us incorporated. I've got the
Website designed and ready to go. All I need is the
money in the bank so I can write the check."
  "Yeah," said Kurtz and clicked off. He lay on the
couch for a while and gazed at the twelve-foot-wide
waterstain on the ceiling. Sometimes it looked like
some fractal imagery or a medieval tapestry design to
Kurtz. Other times it just looked like a fucking
waterstain. Today it was a stain.




                          60
              CHAPTER SEVEN


                                                       «^»
Angelina Farino Ferrara hated eating shit for the
Gonzagas. The "negotiations" all took place at the
creepy old Gonzaga compound on Grand Island in the
center of the Niagara River. This meant that Angelina
and the Boys were picked up in one of Emilio Gonzaga's
tacky white stretch limousines—the Gonzagas
controlled most of the limousine services in Western
New York—and driven across the bridge and through
various checkpoints into the Grand Island fortress
under the careful watch of Mickey Kee, Gonzaga's
toughest killer. Once at the compound, more of Emilio's
goons would pat them down and check them for wires
before sitting the Boys down in a windowless vestibule
and marching Angelina into one of the manse's many
rooms as if she were a prisoner of war, which, in a real
sense, she was.
   The war hadn't been her doing, of course—nothing in
the family business had been her doing for the past six
years—but was a result of her brother Stephen's
bizarre machinations to seize control of his own family
business from behind bars in Attica. The housecleaning
that Stevie had instigated—involving, Angelina knew,
the murder of her conniving sister and useless father,
although Stevie did not know that she knew—had also
brought the Gonzagas into the Farino family business
to the tune of a half-million dollars, most of it going to a

                             61
hit man known only as the Dane, who had carried out
the Hamlet-like last act for the don, Maria, and their
double-dealing family consigliere at the time. The
Gonzaga money had bought a sort of peace between the
families—or at least a cease-fire with Stevie and the
surviving members of the Farino family—but it also
meant that tacit control of the Farino family was
currently in the hands of their traditional enemies.
When Angelina thought of the fat, fish-faced, blubbery-
lipped, sweating pig-hemorrhoid that was Emilio
Gonzaga determining the Farinos' destiny, she wanted
to rip both his and her brother's heads off and piss
down their necks.
   "A pleasure to see you again, Angelina," said Emilio
Gonzaga, showing his cigar-stained pig's teeth in what
he undoubtedly thought was a seductive, debonair
smile.
   "So nice to see you, Emilio," said Angelina with a
shy, self-effacing half-smile she had borrowed. from a
Carmelite nun she used to drink with in Rome. If she
and Emilio had been alone at that moment, with none
of Gonzaga's bodyguards around, especially the
dangerous Mickey Kee, she would have happily shot
the fat don in the testicles. One at a time.
   "I hope it is not too early for lunch," said
Emilio, leading her into a dark-beamed, dark-paneled,
window-less dining room. The interior furnishings
looked as if they had been designed by Lucretia Borgia
on a down day. "Something light," said Emilio,
gesturing grandly to a table and a dark-wood sideboard
groaning under the weight of large bowls of pasta,
haunches of beef, fish whose eyes stared up plaintively,
a stack of lobster glowing pink, three types of potatoes,
                           62
entire loaves of Italian bread, and half a dozen bottles
of heavy wine.
    "Wonderful," said Angelina. Emilio Gonzaga held the
black, high-backed chair for her while she took her
place. As always, the fat man smelled of sweat, cigars,
halitosis, and something faintly Cloroxy, like stale
semen. She gave him her coyest smile again while one
of his pigboy bodyguards pulled out his chair as he took
his place at the head of the table, to her left.
    They talked business while they ate. Emilio was one
of those men—like former President Clinton—who
liked to grin and talk and laugh with his mouth full.
Another reason Angelina had fled to Europe for six
years. But now she ignored the display, nodded
attentively, and tried to sound smart but not too smart,
agreeable but not a total pushover, and—when Emilio
flirted—appropriately slutty but not a complete
roundheels.
    "So," he said, segueing smoothly from the business
side of the new merger and acquisition he was
arranging, in which the Farino family would merge into
oblivion and the Gonzagas would acquire everything,
"this power-sharing thing, this idea of the three of us
running things—" Emilio's veneer of education slipped
as he pronounced the word tings "—it's what the old
guys, the Romans, our ancestors, used to call a troika."
    "Triumvirate," said Angelina. She immediately
wished she'd kept her mouth shut. Suffer fools. Count
Ferrara had taught her. Then make them suffer.
    "What's that?" Emilio Gonzaga was picking at
something in his side teeth.


                           63
   "Triumvirate," repeated Angelina. "That's what the
Romans used to call it when they had three leaders at
one time. A troika is the Russian phrase for three
leaders… or three anything. It was what they called
three horses hitched to a sleigh."
   Emilio grunted and glanced over his shoulder. The
two white-jacketed goons he had left in the room to act
as waiters stood with their hands over their crotches
and their stares focused on nothing. Mickey Kee and
the other bodyguard stared at the ceiling. No one
wanted to be paying attention when the don was
corrected.
   "Whatever," said Emilio. "The point is that you
benefit, I benefit, and Little Ska… Stephen… he
benefits the most. Like old times, only without the
rancor." Gonzaga pronounced the last word rain-core.
   It's like old times, only this time with you elected
God, me elected your whore, and Stevie elected to die
within a few months after he gets out, thought Angelina.
She lifted the glass of bilious cabernet. "To new
beginnings," she said brightly.
   The cell phone Kurtz had given her rang. Emilio
stopped his chewing and frowned at her breach of
etiquette.
   "I'm sorry, Emilio," she said. "Only Stevie, his
lawyer, and a few other people use this private line. I
should take it." She rose from the table and turned her
back to the pig on his throne. "Yes?"
   "The Sabres are playing tonight," came Joe Kurtz's
voice. "Go to the game."
   "All right."


                           64
   "After the first serious injury, go to the women's rest
room near the main doors." He disconnected.
   Angelina put the phone back in her tiny purse and
sat down again. Emilio was sloshing after-dinner
liqueur around in his cheeks as if it were mouthwash.
   "That was short," he said.
   "But sweet," said Angelina.
   The goons brought coffee in a silver urn and five
types of pastry.

It was late afternoon, snowing harder and almost dark
when Kurtz drove thirty minutes north to the suburban
village of Lockport. The house on Locust Street looked
comfortable, middle-class, and safe—lights burning on
both floors—when Kurtz drove past, turned left, and
parked halfway down the next street in front of a ranch
house for sale. Donald Rafferty didn't know Kurtz's
Volvo, but this wasn't the kind of neighborhood that
wouldn't notice if a car with someone in it kept parking
along a residential street for long periods of time.
   Kurtz had an electronic device the size of a compact
boom box on the passenger seat, and now he plugged in
earphones. To anyone passing by, he would look like
someone waiting for a realtor late on a Friday
afternoon, someone enjoying his Discman.
   The boom box was a short-range radio receiver tuned
to the five bugs he had planted in Rafferty and Rachel's
home three months earlier. The electronic gear had cost
him what savings he'd had at the time, and Kurtz had
not chosen to get a stronger transmitter or tape
equipment—he didn't have the time or personnel to
pour through tapes anyway—but this way, he could

                            65
eavesdrop when he was in the neighborhood, which was
often. The evening sampling told him quite a bit.
   Rachel, Sam's fourteen-year-old daughter, was an
intelligent, quiet, sensitive and lonely child. She made
daughterly overtures to Rafferty, her adoptive father,
but the man was either too busy, too distracted by his
gambling, or too drunk to pay any attention. He wasn't
abusive to Rachel, unless one counted absolute
indifference as abuse. Sam had been married to
Rafferty for only ten months—and that four years
previous to Rachel's birth, which owed nothing to
Donnie Rafferty—but Sam had left no other family
behind when she was murdered twelve years ago, so his
appointment as the girl's guardian had seemed to make
sense at the time. Her insurance and family
inheritance must have been attractive to Rafferty when
he petitioned to adopt Rachel; the money had paid for
his house and car and settled more than a few of his
gambling debts. But now Rafferty had started losing
heavily again, which meant that he was drinking
heavily again as well. Rafferty had three regular
girlfriends, two of whom spent nights with him in
Lockport on a well-scheduled basis, so that each of the
two would not find evidence of the other. The third
girlfriend was a coke-pushing whore on Seneca Street
who didn't know or care where Rafferty lived.
   Kurtz tuned in the bugs. Donald Rafferty had just
hung up after promising his bookie, a sleazo that Kurtz
had known professionally, that he would have the next
payment to him by Monday. Now Rafferty called
DeeDee, his Number Two girlfriend, and started
making plans for the weekend. This time, they were


                           66
going away together, up to Toronto, which meant that
Rachel was being left home alone again.
   Kurtz had not bugged Rachel's bedroom, but he
quickly checked the family room and kitchen taps.
There came the soft sounds of plates being rinsed and
set in the dishwasher.
   Rafferty finished his phone conversation after telling
DeeDee to "bring the little leather thing along this
weekend" and walked into the kitchen—Kurtz could
hear the footsteps. A cupboard was opened and closed;
Kurtz knew that Rafferty kept his booze in the kitchen
and his cocaine in the top drawer of his dresser.
Another cupboard. The sensitive microphone picked up
the sound of the drink—Rafferty stocked more bourbon
than anything else—being poured.
   "Goddamn snow. Walk'll need shoveling again in the
morning." His voice was slurred.
   "Okay, Dad."
   "I've got a business trip again this weekend. I'll be
back Sunday or Monday."
   During the interval of silence, Kurtz tried to imagine
what kind of weekend business trip a U.S. Postal
Service clerk would have to take.
   Rachel's voice. "Could Melissa come over tomorrow
night to watch a video with me?"
   "No."
   "Could I go over to their house to watch one if I was
back by nine?"
   "No." The cupboard was opened and closed again.
   The dishwasher began running.


                           67
   "Rache?" Kurtz knew from his sampling of her phone
conversations with Melissa—her only real friend—that
Rachel hated that nickname.
   "Yes, Daddy?"
   "That's really a pretty thing you're wearing."
   For a time, the only noise was the dishwasher.
   "This sweatshirt?"
   "Yeah. It looks… different."
   "It's not. It's the one I got at the Falls last summer."
   "Yeah, well… you look pretty is all."
   The dishwasher kicked into the rinse cycle.
   "I'm going to take the garbage out," said Rachel.
   It was full dark now. Kurtz left his earphones on as
he drove around the block, slowing as he passed the
house. He saw the girl at the side of the house. Her hair
was longer now, and even in the dim glow from the
porch light, he could see that it looked more the color of
Sam's red hair than it had when it was shorter in the
fall. Rachel pressed the garbage bag down in the trash
can and stood for a minute in the side yard, turned
mostly away from Kurtz and the street, holding her
face up to the falling snow.




                            68
             CHAPTER EIGHT


                                                    «^»
At the same time, in the suburb of Tonawanda, a
thirty-minute drive from Lockport, James B. Hansen—
aka Robert Millworth aka Howard G. Lane aka Stanley
Steiner aka half a dozen other names, none of which
shared the same initials—was celebrating his fiftieth
birthday.
   Hansen—his current name was Robert Gaines
Millworth—was surrounded by friends and loving
family, including his wife of three years, Donna, his
stepson Jason, and his eight-year-old Irish setter,
Dickson. The long driveway to his modernist home
facing Elicott Creek was filled with moderately
expensive sedans and SUVs belonging to his friends
and colleagues, who had braved yet another snowstorm
to join him at his well-planned surprise party.
   Hansen was relaxed and jovial. He'd returned from
an extended business trip to Miami only a week and a
half earlier and his tan was the envy of everyone.
Hansen had indeed put on almost thirty pounds since
his University of Chicago psychologist days, but he was
six-feet-four, much of the extra weight was muscle, and
even the fat was toned up and useful when push came
to shove.
   Now Hansen moved among his guests, stopping to
chat with clusters of friends, grinning at the inevitable

                           69
fiftieth-birthday-over-the-hill jokes, and generally
patting everyone on the shoulder or shaking their
hands. Occasionally Hansen would think about that
hand of his, where it had been, about what he'd buried
in an Everglades hummock twelve days earlier, and
what that hand had touched, and he had to smile.
Stepping out onto the modern concrete-and-industrial-
wire terrace above the front door, James Hansen
breathed in the cold night air, blinked snowflakes off
his eyelashes, and sniffed his hand. After two weeks, he
knew the smell of lime and blood could not still be
there, but the memory of it made something hard stir
in him.
    When James B. Hansen had been twelve years old—
living under his real name, which he had all but
forgotten by now—and growing up in Kearney,
Nebraska, he had seen the Tony Curtis movie The
Great Imposter. Based on a true story, the film was
about a man who went from job to job and identity to
identity—at one point impersonating a doctor and
actually carrying out lifesaving surgery. Since then,
almost forty years ago, the idea had been used
countless times in films and television and so-called
"reality programming," but to young James B. Hansen,
the movie was an epiphany comparable to Saul's being-
knocked-off-his-ass revelation on the road to Damascus.
    Hansen had immediately begun re-creating himself,
first by lying to friends, teachers, and his mother—his
father had died in a car accident when Hansen was six.
Hansen's mother then died when he was a freshman at
the University of Nebraska; within days he dropped out
of the university, moved to Indianapolis, and changed
his name and history. It was so easy. Identity in the

                           70
United States was essentially a matter of choice and
acquiring the proper birth certificates, driver's licenses,
credit cards, college and graduate-school transcripts,
and so forth was child's play.
   Child's play for James B. Hansen as a child had been
pulling the wings off flies and vivisecting kittens.
Hansen knew that this was a sure early sign of a
sociopathic and dangerous psychotic personality—he
had earned his living for two years as a professor of
psychology and taught these things in his abnormal-
psych courses—but this did not bother him. What the
conformity-strait-jacketed mediocrities labeled as
sociopathology, he knew to be liberation—liberation
from social constraints that the weak millions never
thought to challenge. And Hansen had unsentimentally
known of his own superiority for decades: the only good
thing his Nebraska high school had ever done for him
was to administer a full battery of intelligence tests to
him—he was being staffed for possible emotional and
learning problems at the time—and the amazed school
psychologist had told his mother that Jimmy (not his
name at the time) had an IQ of 168, effectively in the
genius category and as high as that battery of tests
could measure intelligence. This was no news to
Jimmy, who had always known that he was far more
intelligent than his classmates and teachers (he had no
real friends or playmates). This was not arrogance,
merely astute observation. The school psychologist had
said that a gifted/talented program or special school for
the gifted would have been appropriate for young
Hansen, but of course no such thing existed in 1960s
Kearney, Nebraska. Besides, by that time, Hansen's
teacher had become aware—through Jimmy's creative-

                            71
writing essays—of the sixteen-year-old student's
penchant for torturing dogs and cats, and Jimmy came
close to being expelled. Only his ailing mother's
intervention and his own stonewalling had kept him in
school.
   Those creative-writing papers had been the last time
Hansen had told the truth about anything important.
   At an early age, James B. Hansen had learned a
profound truth: namely, that almost all experts and
specialists and professionals are absolutely full of shit.
The great bulk of each of their so-called professions is
language, jargon, specialized babble. Given that, and
some deep reading in the field, and the proper attire,
anyone smart enough could do damned near anything.
In his last thirty-two years of liberation from truth and
imposed identity, Hansen had never impersonated an
airline pilot or a neurosurgeon, but he suspected that
he could if he put his mind to it. During those years,
however, he had made his living as an English
professor, a senior editor at a major publishing house, a
handler of heavy construction equipment, a NASCAR
driver, a Park Avenue psychiatrist, a professor of
psychology, a herpetologist specializing in extracting
venom, an MRI specialist, a computer designer, an
award-winning realtor, a political consultant, an air
traffic controller, a firefighter, and half a dozen other
specialties. He had never studied for any of these fields
beyond visits to the library.
   Money did not run the world, James B. Hansen
knew. Bullshit and gullibility did.
   Hansen had lived in more than two dozen major
American cities and spent two years in France. He did

                            72
not like Europe. The adults were arrogant and the little
girls there were too worldly. Handguns were too hard to
find. But the fliks were as stupid there as cops were in
America, and God knows, the food was better.
   His career as serial killer did not begin until he was
twenty-three years old, although he had murdered
before that. Hansen's father had left no insurance, no
savings, nothing but debts and his illegally obtained,
Korean-era M1 carbine and three clips of ammunition.
The day after his ninth-grade English teacher, Mrs.
Berkstrom, ran to the principal with Hansen's animal-
torturing essays, Hansen had loaded the carbine, put it
in his father's old golf bag with the clubs, and dragged
the whole thing to school. There were no metal
detectors in those days. Hansen's plan had been elegant
—to kill Mrs. Berkstrom, the principal, the school
psychologist who had turned traitor—going from
recommending him for a gifted school to recommending
intensive counseling—and then every classmate he
could track down until he ran out of ammunition.
James B. Hansen could have started the Columbine
mass-murder fad thirty-five years before it finally
caught on. But Hansen would never have committed
suicide during or after the act. His plan had been to kill
as many people as possible—including his coughing,
wheezing, useless mother—and then, like Huck Finn,
light out for the territory.
   But a combination of his genius-level IQ and the fact
that first period had been gym—Hansen did not want
to go on his killing rampage wearing silly gym trunks—
made him think twice. He hauled the stowed golf bag
home during his lunch break and put the M1 back in its
basement storage spot. He would have time to settle

                            73
scores later, he knew, when it would not require going
on the run for the rest of his life, with the cops chasing
what he already thought of as his "larval identity."
   So two months after his mother's funeral and the
sale of their Kearney house, and one month after he
had dropped out of the university with no forwarding
address, Hansen had returned to his hometown in the
middle of the night, waited for Mrs. Berkstrom to come
out to her station wagon in the dim light of the
Nebraska winter morning, and shot her twice in the
head with the M1, dumping the carbine in the Platte
River on his way east.
   He had discovered his taste for raping and killing
young girls when he was twenty-three, after the failure
—through no fault of his own—of his first marriage.
Since then, James B. Hansen had been married seven
times, although he saved real sexual satisfaction for his
episodes with the young, teenage girls. Wives were good
cover and part of whatever identity he was inhabiting
at any given time, but their middle-aged flab and used,
tired bodies held no excitement for Hansen. He
considered himself a connoisseur of virgins. And
terrorized virginity was precisely the bouquet and
aroma of the fine wine he most enjoyed. James B.
Hansen knew that the cultural revulsion from
pedophilia was just another example of people pulling
away furthest from what they wanted most. From time
immemorial, men had wanted the youngest and
freshest girls in which to plant their seed—although
Hansen never planted his seed anywhere, being careful
to wear condoms and latex gloves since DNA typing
had become so prevalent. But where other men


                            74
fantasized and masturbated, James B. Hansen acted
and enjoyed.
   More than once, Hansen could have found it
convenient to add "gay" to his repertoire of chameleon
identities, but he drew the line at that. He was no
pervert.
   Knowing the psychopathology of his own
preferences,    Hansen    avoided stereotypical—and
criminal "typable"—behaviors. He was now out of the
age range of the average serial killer. He resisted the
urge to harvest more than one kill a year. He could
afford to fly whenever he wanted and took great care in
spreading the victims around the country, with no
geographical connection to his home location at any
given time. He took no souvenirs except for
photographs, and these were sealed away in his locked
titanium case inside an expensive safe in his locked gun
room in the basement of this house. Only he was
allowed to go there. If the police found his souvenir
case, then his current identity was long since blown. If
his current wife or son somehow got into the room and
got into the safe and found the case and somehow
opened it… well, they were always expendable.
   But that would not happen.
   Hansen knew now that John Wellington Frears, the
African-American violinist from his Chicago days two
decades ago and father of Number Nine, was in Buffalo.
He knew now that Frears had thought he'd seen him at
the airport—which at first amazed and disturbed
Hansen since he had undergone five plastic-surgery
operations since Chicago and would not have
recognized himself from those days—but he also knew

                           75
that no one at police headquarters had given any
credence at all to Frears's flutterings and sputterings.
James B. Hansen was officially as dead as little Crystal
Frears, and the Chicago P.D. had the dental records
and photos of the charred corpse—complete with a
partially identifiable Marine Corps tattoo James B.
Hansen had sported—to prove it. And there was no
question in his mind that others could not see any
physical resemblance between the current iteration of
James B. Hansen and that of his old Chicago-era
persona.
   Hansen had not heard the hullabaloo behind him at
the airport—his hearing had been damaged slightly by
too many years of practice shooting without ear
protection—and did not learn about it right away at
work because he had taken two days of vacation after
his Florida business trip. It was always Hansen's
practice to spend a day or two away from work and
family after his annual Special Visit.
   When Hansen did hear about Frears, his first
impulse was to drive to the Airport Sheraton and blow
the overrated fiddler away. He had driven to the
Sheraton, but once again the cool, analytical part of his
genius-level intellect prevailed. Any murder of Frears
in Buffalo would lead to a homicide investigation,
which would bring up the man's crank report of his
airport spotting, which might involve the Chicago P.D.
and some reopening of the Crystal Frears case.
   Hansen considered waiting for the old black man to
go back to his lonely life in New York and to his
upcoming concert tour. Hansen had already
downloaded the full itinerary of that tour and he
thought that Denver would be a good place for a
                           76
botched mugging to occur. A fatal shooting. A modest
obituary in The New York Times. But that plan had
problems: Hansen would have to travel to follow Frears
on tour, and travel always left records; a murder in
another town would mean that Hansen could have no
connection with the homicide investigation. Finally,
Hansen simply did not want to wait. He wanted Frears
dead. Soon. But he needed someone else to be the
obvious suspect—someone else not only to take the fall,
but to take a bullet while resisting arrest.
    Now Hansen went back into the house and moved
from guest to guest laughing, telling easy stories,
chuckling at his own mortality looming at the age of
fifty—in truth, he had never felt stronger or smarter or
more alive—all the while moving toward the kitchen
and Donna.
    His pager vibrated.
    Hansen looked at the number. "Shit." He didn't need
these clowns screwing up his birthday. He went up to
his bedroom to retrieve his cell phone—his son was on
the computer and tying up the house line—and
punched in the number.
    "Where are you?" he asked. "What's up?"
    "We're right outside your house, sir. We were in the
area and have some news but didn't want to interrupt
your birthday party."
    "Good thinking," said Hansen. "Stay where you are."
He pulled on a cashmere blazer and went down and out
through a gauntlet of backslappings and well wishes.
The two were waiting by their car at the end of the
drive, hunkered against the falling snow and stamping
their feet to stay warm.

                           77
   "What happened to your vehicle?" asked Hansen.
Even with only the glow from his distant porch lights,
Hansen could make out the vandalism.
   "Fucking homeboys tagged us when we—" began
Detective Brubaker.
   "Hey," said Hansen. "Watch the language." He
detested obscenity and vulgarity.
   "Sorry, Captain," said Brubaker. "Myers and me
were following down a lead this morning when the
locals spray-painted the car. We—"
   "What is this important news that couldn't wait until
Monday?" interrupted Hansen. Brubaker and Myers
were dishonest, venial cops, associates of that
murdered, crooked cop Hathaway, whom the entire
department shed crocodile tears for the previous fall.
Hansen detested crooked cops even more than he
detested obscene language.
   "Curly died," said Myers.
   Hansen had to think for a second. "Henry Pruitt," he
said. One of the three Attica ex-cons found on the I-90.
"Did he ever regain consciousness?"
   "No, sir," said Brubaker.
   "Then what are you bothering me for?" There had
been no real evidence on the triple killing, and none of
the witnesses' descriptions from the restaurant had
matched any of the other's. The uniformed cop who had
been sapped remembered nothing and had become the
laughingstock of his division.
   "We had a thought," said Detective Myers.
   Hansen restrained himself from making the obvious
comment. He waited.

                           78
   "A guy we had a run-in with today is an Attica ex-
con," said Brubaker.
   "A fourth of the population of our fair city has either
been in Attica or is related to someone in Attica," said
Hansen.
   "Yeah, but this perp probably knew the Stooges,"
said Myers. "And he had a motive for offing them."
   Hansen stood in the snow and waited. Some of his
guests were beginning to drive off. The cocktail party
had been a casual buffet affair, and only a few of his
closest friends were staying for dinner.
   "The Cell Block-D Mosque gang had put a fatwa out
on our guy," said Brubaker. "Ten thousand dollars. A
fatwa is—"
   "I know what a fatwa is," said Hansen. "I'm probably
the only officer in the division who's read Salman
Rushdie."
   "Yes, sir," said Myers, apologizing for his partner.
Click and Clack.
   "What's your point?" said Hansen. "That Pruitt,
Tyler and Banes—" he never used nicknames or
disrespectful terms for the dead "—were trying to cash
in on the D-Block Mosque's bounty and your perp got
them first?"
   "Yes, sir," said Detective Brubaker.
   "What's his name?"
   "Kurtz," said Myers. "Joe Kurtz. He's an ex-con
himself. Served eleven years on an eighteen-year
sentence for—"
   "Yes, yes," Hansen said impatiently. "I've seen his
sheet. He was on the list of suspects for the Farino

                            79
massacre last November. But there was no evidence to
tie him to the scene."
   "There never is with this Kurtz," Brubaker said
bitterly. Hansen knew Brubaker was talking about the
death of his pal Jimmy Hathaway. Hansen had not
been in Buffalo long when Hathaway was killed, but
Hansen had met the man and thought he was possibly
the dumbest cop he'd ever encountered, which was
saying a lot. It had been Hansen's professional opinion
—shared by most of the senior officers, including those
who had been in the division for years—that
Hathaway's ties to the Farino mob had gotten him
killed.
   "Word on the street has it that Kurtz tossed that
drug dealer, Malcolm Kibunte, over Niagara Falls right
after he got out of Attica," offered Myers. "Just threw
him right over the fucking… sorry, Captain."
   "I'm getting cold," said Hansen. "What do you want?"
   "We been following this Kurtz some on our own
time," said Brubaker. "We'd like to make the
surveillance official. Three teams can do it. Woltz and
Farrell aren't assigned to anything right now and—"
   Hansen shook his head. "You're it. You want
surveillance on this guy, do it on department time for a
few days. But don't put in for overtime."
   "Aw, Chri… cripes, Captain," said Myers. "We've put
in twelve hours today already and—"
   Hansen cut him off with a glance. "Anything else?"
   "No, sir," said Brubaker.
   "Then please move this piece of junk out of my
driveway," said Hansen, turning back toward his
lighted house.
                           80
              CHAPTER NINE


                                                  «^»
Angelina Farino Ferrara sat in her expensive rink-side
seat at the Sabres game and waited impatiently for
someone to get hurt. She did not have to wait long.
Eleven minutes and nine seconds into the first period,
Sabres defenseman Rhett Warrener got Vancouver
Canucks captain Markus Naslund against the boards
in the corner, threw him down and fractured his tibia.
The crowd went wild.
   Angelina hated ice hockey. Of course, she hated all
organized sports, but hockey bored her the most. The
potential of watching these toothless apes skate for an
hour with the possibility of no score—no score at all!—
made her want to scream. But then again, she had been
dragged to Sabres games for almost fourteen years by
her late hockey-loving father. The new arena was called
HSBC, which stood for some banking thing, but
everyone in Buffalo knew that it meant either "Hot
Sauce, Blue Cheese" or "Holy Shit, Buffalo's Cold!"
   Angelina did remember one game she had enjoyed
immensely, many years ago when she was young. It
was a Stanley Cup play-off game in the old Coliseum,
and the season had run later than usual, deep into
May. The temperature was in the low nineties when
the game began, the ice was melting and setting off a
thick fog, and the fog awakened scores of bats that had
been hanging amidst the wooden rafters of the ancient
                          81
Coliseum for years. Angelina remembered her father
cursing as the fog grew so thick that even the
expensive-seat holders could see almost nothing of the
action, merely hear the grunts and shouts and curses
from the rink as the players collided and battled in the
fog, all the while the bats darted in and out of the mist,
swooping among the stands, making women shriek and
men curse all the louder.
   Angelina had enjoyed that particular game.
   Now, as trainers and medics and hulking teammates
on skates huddled around the fallen Naslund, Angelina
headed for the ladies' rest room.
   The Boys, Marco and Leo, knuckled along beside her,
squinting suspiciously at the crowd. Angelina knew
that these two were decent bodyguards and button men
—at least Marco seemed to be—but she also knew that
they had been chosen by Stevie and that their first job
was to report her actions and behavior to her brother-
behind-bars. Angelina Farino Ferrara was all too
familiar with public figures—Prime Minister Indira
Gandhi, for one—who had been gunned down by their
own turncoat security detail. She did not plan to check
out that way.
   At the entrance to the women's rest room, Marco and
Leo continued to hulk. "Oh, for God's sake," said
Angelina. "No one's lurking in the John. Go get us some
beer and Cracker Jack and a hot dog. Three hot dogs."
Marco nodded at Leo to go but seemed intent on staying
around the women's rest room. "Go help Leo carry," she
ordered.
   Marco frowned but followed the other huge man
around the corner toward the refreshment stand.

                            82
Angelina stepped into the crowded rest room, did not
see Joe Kurtz standing around in drag, and quickly
stepped back out into the corridor.
   Kurtz was leaning against the wall at the opening to
a side hallway across the way. Angelina walked over to
join him.
   Kurtz kept his right hand in his peacoat pocket and
nodded for her to walk down the narrow service
corridor.
   "Is that a pistol in your pocket," said Angelina, "or
are you just happy to—"
   "It's a pistol." Kurtz nodded for her to open the door
marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY at the
end of the hall.
   Angelina took a breath and went through the door,
noticing that the latch had been taped Watergate-style.
A metal stairway led down to a wildly cluttered
underground filled with boilers and countless pipes and
valves running to the rink above. Kurtz pointed down
one of the narrow walkways through the machinery,
and Angelina led the way. Halfway across the space, a
black man looked through the window of his office,
nodded at Kurtz, and went back to his business.
   "A friend of yours?" asked Angelina.
   "A friend of Ben Franklin's," said Kurtz. "Up that
way." Another long, metal staircase led to a side door.
   They emerged at the dark end of the parking lot
behind the huge heating and air-conditioning blowers.
   "Spread against the wall," said Kurtz. He had
removed his .40-caliber semiauto and held it steady.
   "Oh, for God's sake—" began Angelina.

                           83
   Kurtz moved very, very quickly, spinning her around
and shoving her toward the wall so fast that she had to
raise her hands or plant her face in the brick. He
kicked her legs farther apart, and she thanked the gods
that she had changed out of her dress into wool slacks
after visiting Gonzaga earlier in the day.
   Once again, Kurtz's frisk was fast and effective and
impersonal, if you can call having someone's hands
moving across your breasts, buttocks, thighs, and
crotch impersonal. He pulled the little .45 from its
holster in the small of her back and slid it into his
pocket while he pawed through her purse.
   "I want that pistol back as well," she said.
   "Why? Did you shoot your second husband with it?"
   Angelina let out a breath. Comedians. They all
thought they were comedians. "I know its maker," she
said. "Fratelli Tanfoglio of the Gardone Tanfoglios." He
ignored her and tossed her purse back to her as she
turned toward him. "In Italy," she added uselessly.
   "Let's go," said Kurtz.
   "Go where?" asked Angelina, feeling a surge of alarm
for the first time. "I was just supposed to tell you how to
find the evidence that Emilio Gonzaga whacked your
old partner. I don't have to go anywhere to—" She
looked at Joe Kurtz's face and fell silent.
   "Let's go," repeated Kurtz.
   They walked through the dark and icy parking lot.
"My Jaguar's parked on the other side," said Angelina.
"In the VIP lot near—"
   "We're not taking your car," said Kurtz.



                            84
   "When Marco and Leo find me gone—with my car
still there—they're going to go so totally apeshit that—"
   "Shut up," said Kurtz.

Kurtz had the woman drive his Volvo. He sat with his
back to the passenger door and the pistol propped on
his left forearm. They were taking back streets through
the snowy night, driving slowly because he had told her
that if she drove over forty miles per hour, he would kill
her. Kurtz had been in the driver's seat when someone
was holding a gun on him, and he'd discovered that
getting the car up to eighty-five or ninety miles per
hour was a serious disincentive to the shooter.
   "Tell me about Gonzaga and this guy," he said.
   Angelina glanced at him. The yellow light from the
sodium-vapor anticrime lamps was painting both their
faces dead yellow. "You were in love with her, weren't
you, Kurtz? Your partner. The woman Emilio ordered
murdered. I'd thought it was just a Maltese Falcon sort
of thing… you know, you can't let your partner get
killed. That sort of macho shit."
   "Tell me about Gonzaga and the guy we're going to
see," said Kurtz.
   "Gonzaga's man who brought the order down to the
two punks you wasted—Falco and Levine—is named
Johnny Norse. I was going to give you his name and
address tonight. But there's no reason for me to go
along. It's just going to cause a world of trouble when
Marco and Leo—"
   "Tell me about Johnny Norse," said Kurtz.
   Angelina Farino Ferrara took a breath. She did not
look nervous to Kurtz. He had considered settling this
                            85
whole thing back in the darkened parking lot. But he
needed information and right now she was the only
conduit.
   "Norse was Emilio Gonzaga's favorite button man
back in the late eighties and early nineties," Angelina
said. "A real Dapper Dan type. Always wore Armani.
Thought he was Richard Gere. Ladies' man. Man's
man. Swung both ways. Now he's dying of AIDS. He's
dead, really, he just doesn't know it yet—"
   "For your sake," said Kurtz, "he'd better not be
dead."
   Angelina shook her head. "He's in this hospice in
Williamsville." She glanced at Kurtz in the yellow light.
"Look, we can avoid the shitstorm that'll blow in if I'm
out of the Boys' sight any longer. Let me go back to the
game. I'll make up some bullshit story about where I
was. Check out Norse on your own. He'll confirm what I
told you about Gonzaga ordering the hit."
   Kurtz smiled ever so slightly. "It sounds like a good
plan," he said. "Except for the part where I go off to
some address you give me and find ten of your boys—or
Gonzaga's—waiting there. No, I think we'll do this
together. Tonight Now."
   "What's to insure that you don't kill me anyway?"
asked Angelina. "After I bring you to Norse. Even if he
tells the truth?"
   Kurtz's silence answered that question.

The hospice was in a tasteful, Georgian-style building
at the end of a cul-de-sac in the expensive part of
Williamsville. It might have been a private home had it
not been for the "Exit" signs at the doors, the white-

                           86
clothed aides pushing wheelchairs in the halls, and the
receptionist behind the tiger-maple desk in the foyer.
Kurtz wondered for a bemused second or so whether
this was a home for aged and dying button men,
whether the mob ran a chain of these places across the
country—Wiseguy Manors. He suspected not The
receptionist told them quietly that visiting hours were
over, but when Angelina said that they had come to see
Mr. Norse, the receptionist was obviously surprised.
   "No one has come to see Mr. Norse while he has been
under our care," she said. "Are you family?"
   "Gonzaga family," Kurtz said, but the woman
showed no reaction. So much for the mob-franchise
theory.
   "Well…" The woman hesitated. "You are aware that
Mr. Norse is very near the end?"
   "That's why we've come," said Angelina Farino
Ferrara.
   The receptionist nodded and summoned a woman in
white to take them to Mr. Norse.

The dying thing in the bed was no Dapper Dan. The
remnants of Johnny Norse now weighed ninety pounds
at the most, showed emaciated arms that reminded
Kurtz of a baby bird's bended wings tipped with
yellowed nails, and had flesh mottled with sores and
the lesions of Kaposi's sarcoma. Most of the mobster's
hair had fallen out. Oxygen tubes ran up under the
man's gaping nostrils. Norse's lips were cracked and
already pulled back over his teeth like a corpse's and
his eyes had sunken, the corners radiating small white
webs as if spiders had already laid claim there.

                          87
   Pruno had given Kurtz a reading list before he left
for prison, and the first book Kurtz had read was
Madame Bovary. He was reminded now of how Emma
Bovary's corpse had looked after the arsenic had killed
her.
   Norse stirred in his bed and turned unblinking eyes
in their direction. Kurtz stepped closer to the bed.
   "Who are you?" whispered Norse. There was a
pathetic eagerness in that whisper. "Did Emilio send
you?"
   "Sort of," said Kurtz. "Do you remember Emilio
Gonzaga having you pass down an order twelve years
ago to kill a woman named Samantha Fielding?"
   Norse frowned up at Kurtz and reached for the call
button on a beige wire. Kurtz moved the button out of
the man's trembling grasp. "Samantha Fielding,"
repeated Kurtz. "A private investigator. It was during
the Elizabeth Connors kidnapping. You were the go-
between with Eddie Falco and Manny Levine."
   "Who the fuck are you?" whispered Johnny Norse.
The lusterless eyes flicked toward Angelina and then
came back to Kurtz. "Fuck you."
   "Wrong answer," said Kurtz. He leaned over with
both arms extended as if to hug Norse, but instead, he
closed his thumbs over the two oxygen lines and
squeezed them shut.
   Norse began gasping and rasping. Angelina closed
the door and set her back against it.
   Kurtz released the hoses. "Samantha Fielding?"
   Johnny Norse's eyes were flicking back and forth like
cornered rodents. He shook his head and Kurtz kinked
the oxygen lines again, holding them kinked this time
                           88
until Norse's gasps were as loud as Cheyne-Stokes
death rattles.
   "Samantha Fielding?" repeated Kurtz. "About twelve
years ago."
   The corpse in the bed nodded wildly. "The Connors
kid… Emilio was… squeezing Connors… just wanted…
the money."
   Kurtz waited.
   "Some… cunt… of a P.I… found the connection…
between Falco and Levine… and us snatching the kid.
Emilio—" He stopped and looked up at Kurtz, his
corpse mouth twitching in what might have been an
attempt at an ingratiating Johnny Norse smile. "I
didn't have… nothing to do with it. I didn't even know
who they were talking about. I didn't—"
   Kurtz reached for the oxygen hose.
   "Jesus… fuck… all right Emilio put the word out I…
delivered it… to the drug dealers… Falco and… Levine.
You got what you want asshole?"
   "Yes," said Kurtz. He took the .40 S&W
semiautomatic from his belt, thumbed back the
hammer, and set the muzzle in Johnny Norse's mouth.
The man's teeth chattered against the cold steel.
Something like wild relief flickered behind the clouded
eyes.
   Kurtz removed the muzzle and lowered the hammer.
There was a bottle of medical disinfectant on the
expensive nightstand, and Kurtz sprayed the barrel of
the S&W with it before wiping it with the hem of
Norse's hospital gown and sliding it back in his belt. He
nodded at the woman and they left.


                           89
               CHAPTER TEN


                                                    «^»
Kurtz had her drive farther east to an industrial park
along the Thruway behind Erie Community College.
They followed empty lanes and crossed empty parking
lots to a silent loading-dock area. "Here," said Kurtz.
The .40 S&W was steady, propped on his forearm.
   Angelina Farino Ferrara set the emergency brake,
left the engine running, and put her hands on top of the
steering wheel. "Is this the end of the line?"
   "Could be."
   "What are my options?"
   "Truth."
   She nodded. Her lips were white but her eyes were
defiant and Kurtz could see that her pulse, visible at
the base of her throat, was slow and regular.
   "Word on the street today," said Kurtz, "is that you
put out another contract on me."
   "Same contract Different contractor."
   "Who?"
   "Big Bore Redhawk. He's—"
   "An Indian," said Kurtz. "What is this? Hire the
Attica Handicapped Month?"
   Angelina shrugged slightly. "Stevie likes to deal with
people he knows."


                           90
   "Little Skag is a cheap fuck," said Kurtz. "When is
Big Bore supposed to do this?"
   "Any time in the next week."
   "And if he fails?"
   "Stevie has the look for real talent. And raises the
price from ten thousand to twenty-five."
   Kurtz sat in silence for a minute. The headlights
were off. Snow fell steadily past the yellow lamps
beyond the loading dock. The only sounds were the
rough idle of the old Volvo engine and the distant hiss
of traffic on the I-90 Thruway behind them.
   "You don't want to kill me tonight," said Angelina.
   "No?"
   "No. We need each other."
   Kurtz sat in silence for another short spell. Finally,
he said, "Turn off the engine. Get out."
   She did. Kurtz gestured toward the far end of the
loading dock, near the Dumpsters. He had her walk
ahead of him to the end of the asphalt there. Her Bally
shoes made small tracks in the snow.
   "Stop here."
   Angelina turned to face him. "I said the wrong thing.
You know it's bullshit. We don't need each other. I just
need you—need to use you. And Joe Kurtz isn't a man
who likes to be used."
   Kurtz bent his arm, keeping it close to his body,
aiming the pistol from his waist.
   "Not in the face, please," said Angelina Farino
Farrera.
   Traffic passed on the Thruway, out of sight to their
right.

                           91
   "Why?" said Kurtz. "Why goad me and set me up this
way and then meet me without backup? What did you
expect?"
   "I expected you to be more stupid."
   "Sorry to disappoint you."
   "You haven't so far, Kurtz. It's all been very amusing
up to this point. Perhaps Big Bore Redhawk will avenge
me."
   "I doubt it."
   "You're probably right. But my brother will."
   "Maybe."
   Two semis roared by on the Thruway, throwing
slush into the cones of yellow light there. Kurtz did not
glance that way. "I have most of it figured," he said.
"How you were going to use me against both Little Skag
and Gonzaga. But why me? You're planning to become
don in reality if not in name—you've had all this time
to plan—why not bring people you trust to do your
work?"
   "I'm getting cold," said Angelina. "Can we go back to
your car now?"
   "No."
   "I'm going to raise my hands just to rub my arms, all
right?"
   Kurtz said nothing.
   Angelina briskly massaged her arms through the
thin jacket she was wearing. "I had more than six years
to plan what I had to do, but the little bloodbath you
were part of last November ruined those plans. If I was
going to act, I had to act now, but all of a sudden my
father's dead, my whore-sister Maria is dead, even

                           92
Leonard Miles, the crooked consigliere, is dead. Stevie
explains how you set it all up, hired the Dane. Revenge
for something my father had done to you."
   Kurtz said nothing.
   "I know that's not true," said Angelina, speaking
slowly and clearly. "Stevie set up the hit, borrowing
money from the Gonzagas to do it. But you helped get
Stevie's deal to the Dane, Kurtz. You were part of it."
   "I just passed it along," said Kurtz.
   "Just like Johnny Norse," said Angelina with an
audible sneer. "Innocent. Just a messenger. I hope you
end up in the ninth circle of hell, just like Norse."
   Kurtz waited.
   "Six years, Kurtz. You know what that sort of time is
like—waiting, planning? I married two men to get in
the right position, acquire the right sort of power and
knowledge. All for nothing. I come back to chaos and
the whole plan is shot to shit."
   Red and blue police flashers reflected from the
Thruway, but the cop car was out of sight, rushing
somewhere else. Neither of them turned to look.
   "Stevie sold what was left of the Family to Emilio
Gonzaga," said Angelina. "He had to."
   "Gonzaga controls the judges and the swing vote on
the parole board," said Kurtz. "But why don't you just
wait for Skag to get out? Rewrite the script. Run your
game later, when he trusts you?"
   "Stevie will be dead before autumn," Angelina said
with a sharp little laugh. "Do you think that Emilio
Gonzaga is going to keep the Farino heir apparent



                           93
around? Emilio will be running both families then. He
doesn't need Stephen Farino."
    "Or you?"
    "He needs me as his whore."
    "Not a bad position to plot from," said Kurtz.
    Angelina Farino Ferrara took half a step forward, as
if she was going to slap Kurtz's face. She caught herself
and stopped. "Want to know why I went to Sicily and
the Boot?"
    "A sudden interest in Renaissance art?" said Kurtz.
    "Emilio Gonzaga raped me seven years ago," she
said, voice flat and hard. "My father knew about it
Stevie knew about it. Instead of castrating that
Gonzaga fuck with bolt cutters, they decided to send me
away. I was pregnant. Twenty-five years old and
pregnant with Emilio Gonzaga's love child. Daddy
wanted me to have the baby. He wanted leverage for a
merger. So I went to Sicily. Married an idiot don-in-
waiting our family knew there."
    "But you didn't have the baby," said Kurtz.
    "Oh, but I did," said Angelina and laughed that hard,
short laugh again. "I did. A boy. A beautiful baby boy
with Emilio's fat, rubbery lips, lovely brown eyes, and
the Gonzaga chin and forehead. I drowned him in the
Belice River in Sicily."
    Kurtz said nothing.
    "You'll have a hard time killing Emilio Gonzaga,
Kurtz. His compound on Grand Island isn't like a
fortress, it is a fortress. The older Emilio gets, the more
paranoid he becomes. And he was born paranoid. He
rarely goes out anymore. Lets no one near him. Keeps

                            94
twenty-five of the best killers in New York State on his
payroll, rotting away out there on the island."
   "How did you plan to kill him?" asked Kurtz.
   Angelina smiled. "Well, I sort of hoped you'd take
care of that detail for me, now that you know what you
know."
   "How did you find out about that? About Gonzaga
authorizing the hit on Sam?"
   "Stevie told me when he told me about you."
   Kurtz nodded. His hair was wet with the falling
snow. Three years in the same cell block with Little
Skag, saving his ass—literally—from a black rapist
named Ali. And all the while, Little Skag knew who
had really been behind Sam's death. It must have
amused Skag. Kurtz almost had to smile at the irony.
Almost.
   "Can we get out of this fucking snow now?" asked
Angelina.
   They walked back to the car. Kurtz nodded her to
the driver's seat She was shaking from the cold when
she turned the ignition and lights on.
   "Are you in this with me, Kurtz?"
   "No."
   She let out a breath. "Are we going back to the
HSBC arena?"
   "No," said Kurtz. "But we'll stop somewhere you can
find a cab."
   "My absence is going to be hard to explain to the
Boys and Stevie," said Angelina, driving across the
parking lot and back onto the empty industrial service
road.

                           95
   "Tell them you were fucking Emilio," said Kurtz.
   She looked at him then and it was good for Kurtz
that he had the gun at that moment. "Yes," she said at
last. "I might say just that."
   They drove in silence for a few minutes. Finally
Angelina Farino Ferrara said, "You really loved her,
didn't you? Your ex-partner Sam, I mean."
   Kurtz gestured with the pistol, explaining that she
should shut up and drive.




                          96
            CHAPTER ELEVEN


                                                     «^»
Kurtz let himself into the office about ten the next
morning, only to find Arlene taking a coffee-and-
cigarette break at her desk while reading a detective
novel. Kurtz tossed his peacoat onto the coatrack and
settled into the old chair behind his desk. Three new
files on his desktop were labeled "Frears," "Hansen,"
and "Other Murder-Suicides/Common Factors."
    "How's the book?" asked Kurtz. He squinted at the
title. "Isn't that the same guy you were reading twelve
years ago, before I got sent away?"
    "Yeah. His detective fought in the Korean War,
which makes the old fart in his late sixties at least, but
he still kicks ass. A new book comes out every year, if
not sooner."
    "Good, huh?"
    "Not anymore," said Arlene. "The P.I.'s got a
girlfriend who's a real bitch. An arrogant piece of work.
And she's got a dog."
    "So?"
    "A dog who eats on the table and sleeps in their bed.
And the P.I. loves them both to bits."
    "Then why do you keep reading him?"
    "I keep hoping the P.I. will wake up and cap both the
girlfriend and that ratty dog," said Arlene. She put the


                            97
book down. "To what do I owe this Saturday-morning
pleasure, Joe?"
   He patted the three files on the desk. He started
thumbing through the Frears folder. It was quite a
biography—born to upper-class parents in 1945, John
Wellington Frears was one of those rarest of anomalies
—an African-American in mid-twentieth-century
America who had been a child of privilege. Something
of a musical prodigy, Frears had gone to Princeton as
an undergraduate but had transferred to Juilliard for
his junior year. Then something truly strange: after
graduation from Juilliard, with offers from several
prestigious city symphonic groups, John Wellington
Frears had volunteered for the U.S. Army and had gone
to Vietnam in 1967. The note said that he had been
with the Army Engineers, a sergeant in charge of
demolition and disarming booby traps. He'd served two
tours in Vietnam and one year in the States before
returning to civilian life and beginning his professional
music career.
   "Now that is truly weird," Kurtz said aloud. "Him
joining the army. And demolitions, no less."
   "I thought that violinists wouldn't even play catch,
they were so protective of their hands," said Arlene.
   "What's this thick stack of medical stuff?"
   "Mr. Frears is dying of cancer," said Arlene, stubbing
out her cigarette and lighting another. "Colon cancer."
   Kurtz was looking at the information from Sloan-
Kettering Hospital.
   "He's undergone every form of treatment,
chemotherapy literally up the wazoo," continued


                           98
Arlene, "but it's terminal. But look at the concert
schedule he's been keeping during all of this."
   Kurtz flipped to a separate printout. "Two hundred
and ten days a year on the road," he said. "And except
for the last couple of weeks, he's honored almost all of
them."
   "Tough guy," said Arlene.
   Kurtz nodded and opened the James B. Hansen file.
   "Dead guy there," said Arlene.
   "So they say."
   "A long time ago," said Arlene.
   Kurtz nodded, reading the police report of young
Crystal Frears's murder and the subsequent murder-
suicide of Hansen and his family. The details matched
what John Wellington Frears had told him.
   "I couldn't help but notice the connection there," said
Arlene. "Does Mr. Frears think that this Hansen is still
alive?"
   Kurtz looked up. Even when he was a practicing P.I.,
he'd shared only the necessary details of cases with
Arlene, not seeing a need to dump such facts on her.
But her husband and son had been alive then, and
she'd probably had more important things on her mind.
"Yeah," said Kurtz, "that's exactly what Frears thinks.
He was leaving Buffalo a couple of weeks ago…"
   "I saw the concert booking on his itinerary," said
Arlene, motioning with her coffee cup for Kurtz to go
on.
   "He thought he saw Hansen at the airport."
   "Our airport?"
   "Yeah."

                            99
   "Do you think he did, Joe? See Hansen, I mean."
   Kurtz shrugged.
   "Where is Mr. Frears now?"
   "Still out at the Airport Sheraton. Waiting."
   "For what?"
   "I'm not sure," said Kurtz. "It sounds like Buffalo
Homicide isn't looking into anything for him. Maybe
Frears can't leave town while there's a chance he could
find Hansen here, but he's too sick to look."
   "So he's waiting here to die at the Airport Sheraton."
   "I think it's more than that," said Kurtz. "Mr. Frears
has made a big stink with the police, got a little sidebar
in the Buffalo News about seeing his daughter's
murderer at the airport, even got an interview on a
local talk-radio station. And he always mentions that
he's staying at the Sheraton."
   "He wants Hansen—if Hansen exists—to find him,"
Arlene said softly. "He wants Hansen to come out of
hiding to kill him. Make the police take it all seriously."
   Kurtz closed the Hansen file and picked up the
"Other Murder-Suicides/Common Factors" folder. In
the last twenty years there had been 5,638 murders of
children and wives followed by the suicide of the male
killer. There had been 1,220 male suicides before the
police could arrest the suspect after child molestation
and/or murder of a female child or teenager.
   "Oy," said Kurtz.
   "Yeah," agreed Arlene. She had finished her coffee
break, lit another cigarette, and was working at her
computer again. Now she lifted another, thinner, folder
and carried it over to Kurtz's desk. "So I narrowed the

                            100
parameters to include just perps who raped and
murdered a teenage girl about Crystal Frears's age and
who then went home and killed either themselves or
their own family, after burning the house down around
themselves."
   "There can't be too many of those," said Kurtz. There
were 235 cases resembling that scenario, but only
thirty-one of them involved men about the age of James
B. Hansen at that time. It took only a minute for Kurtz
to go through the photographs and compare them to the
photo in the Hansen file from the Chicago P.D.
   "Bingo," said Kurtz. Atlanta, Georgia, five years
after the murder of Crystal Frears. A white man who
looked very little like psychologist James B. Hansen—
bald rather than long-haired, clean-shaven rather than
bearded, brown eyes rather than blue, thick glasses
where Hansen had worn none—but who was the same
man. Lawrence Greenberg, age thirty-five, a certified
public accountant, married three years, three children
by his wife's former marriage, had kidnapped a
neighbor girl, white, age thirteen, named Charlotte
Hays, raped her repeatedly in a deserted farmhouse
outside of Atlanta, and had then driven home, had
dinner with his family, shot all four of them, and
reportedly shot himself in the head after setting fire to
his home. Police had identified him according to dental
records and a charred Rolex that Mr. Greenberg had
always worn.
   "Dental records," said Kurtz.
   "Yeah, but to look at those details, we'll need the
printouts of the full reports," said Arlene. "The Chicago
P.D. file hadn't been fully digitized—just the overview

                           101
you have there—so we'd have to make an official
request."
   "Erie County District Attorney's Office at our third
P.O. box," said Kurtz.
   "Mail fraud as well as everything else," said Arlene.
"At least three federal laws broken if we do it."
   "Do it," said Kurtz.
   "I called yesterday," said Arlene. "Requested the files
from both Chicago and Atlanta. I had them Express
Mailed since FedEx won't deliver to P.O. boxes. We'll
get the reports on Monday."
   "How did you pay?"
   "Charged it to the D.A.'s office," said Arlene. "I still
have their billing code."
   "Won't they notice it?"
   Arlene laughed and went back to her computer. "We
could charge a fleet of Lexuses to that office, Joe. No
one would notice. Do you have time to look at some
possible office space with me today?"
   "No, I've got things to do. But I do need your help on
something."

Kurtz drove alone to the bar near Broadway Market,
where he'd braced Donnie Rafferty. Detectives
Brubaker and Myers had been driving a different
unmarked car that morning when they had followed
him from the Royal Delaware Arms to his office, and
they had stayed several cars back and attempted a
serious tail rather than just harassing him, but Kurtz
had made them immediately. If they stopped him now
with the two guns he was carrying, it would be bad

                            102
news, but he suspected that they were actually on
surveillance. He pulled into the parking lot, grabbed
the camera bag he'd brought from the office, and went
into the bar. He noticed that Brubaker and Myers
parked across the street to watch the parking lot and
the bar's only entrance. When he'd been waiting for
Donald Rafferty here, Kurtz had noticed the alley
running behind the row of buildings and the high board
fence concealing the alley from the parking lot.
   "Back door?" Kurtz said to the bartender in the dark,
hops-smelling space within. Only three or four
committed regulars were celebrating Saturday morning
there.
   "It's for emergency use only," said the bartender.
"Hey!"
   Kurtz stepped into the alley, Arlene guided her blue
Buick to a stop, and he got in. They drove a block,
turned north, then turned west on a street parallel to
where the detectives were parked.
   "Where to?" asked Arlene.
   "Back to the office for you," said Kurtz. "I have to
borrow your car for a few hours."
   Arlene sighed. "We're not that far from Chippewa
Street. We could check out an office space there."
   "I bet it's over a Starbucks," said Kurtz.
   "How did you know?"
   "Every third store on Chippewa is a Starbucks these
days," said Kurtz. "I don't have time today. And we
don't want to pay yuppie leases. Let's find an office
somewhere less gentrified."



                          103
  Arlene sighed again. "It would be nice to have
windows."
  Kurtz said nothing on the ride back to the office.

The Tuscarora Indian Reservation was northeast of the
city of Niagara Falls, curled around half of the big
Power Reservoir that stored water to run through the
Power Project's giant turbines. Big Bore Redhawk was
not a Tuscarora, and quite possibly wasn't an Indian—
word was that Big Bore had discovered his Native
American ancestry when he was trying to fence stolen
jewelry and learned that he would be tax-exempt as an
Indian jewelry salesperson—but his trailer was on the
reservation property. Kurtz knew so much about
Redhawk's personal life because the big man had been
one of the most talkative morons in C-Block.
   Kurtz took Walmore Road into the reservation and
turned left onto the third gravel road. Big Bore's
rusted-out trailer squatted in the deep snow just short
of where Garlow Road ran along the reservoir. A
clapped-out Dodge Powerwagon with a blade sat in the
Indian's driveway and snow was heaped eight feet high
on either side. Big Bore earned his drinking money
from plowing the reservation's private roads during the
winter. Kurtz pulled the Buick back behind one of these
snowpiles so he could see the door to Redhawk's trailer.
Snow was falling, stopping, then falling harder.
   Twenty-five minutes later, all six-feet-five-inches of
Big Bore came stumbling out the door wearing only
jeans and a loose plaid shirt—he did not seem aware of
Kurtz's car—climbed one of the higher drifts, and
urinated toward the line of trees.

                           104
   Kurtz drove the Buick up, slid to a stop, and got out
quickly with the .40 Smith & Wesson in his hand.
"Good morning, B.B."
   Redhawk turned with mouth and fly agape. His
bloodshot eyes flickered toward the trailer, and Kurtz
guessed that the half-breed's gun was still inside. Big
Bore had always been a shank man.
   "Kurtz? Hey, man, fucking good to see you, man. You
out on parole too?"
   Kurtz smiled. "You drinking the advance on my hit,
B.B.?"
   Big Bore worked his face into a puzzled frown,
glanced down, and zipped up his fly. "Huh?" he said.
"What's the piece for? We were friends, man."
   "Yeah," said Kurtz.
   "Fuck, man," said Big Bore. "I don't know what you
heard, but we can talk it out, man. Come on inside." He
took a half step toward his trailer.
   Kurtz raised the semiauto's aim slightly and shook
his head.
   Big Bore raised his hands and squinted. "You're a
big man with that gun, aren't you, Kurtz?"
   Kurtz said nothing.
   "You put that fucking piece down and fight me like a
fucking man, we'll see who's hot shit," slurred Big Bore.
   "I beat you in a fair fight, you tell me who hired
you?" said Kurtz.
   The Indian jumped down from the drift, landing
lightly for three hundred pounds of muscled fat, and
raised his huge arms, flexing his fingers. "Whatever,"
he said, showing prison dentistry.

                           105
    Kurtz thought about it, nodded, and tossed his pistol
onto the hood of the Buick, out of reach. He turned back
to Redhawk.
    "Fucking moron," said Big Bore, pulling an eight-
inch hunting knife from a scabbard under his shirt.
"Easiest fucking ten grand I ever earned." He grinned
more broadly and took two crouched steps forward,
flicking the fingers of his huge left hand in an
invitation. "Let's see what you got, Kurtz."
    "I've got a forty-five," said Kurtz. He pulled
Angelina's Compact Witness from his coat pocket and
shot Big Bore in the left knee.
    The hunting knife went flying over the drift, blood
and cartilage doing a Jackson Pollock on the snow, and
Big Bore went down heavily.
    Kurtz retrieved his S&W and walked over to the
moaning, cursing Indian.
    "I'm going to fucking kill your fucking ass, Kurtz,
you fucking…" began Big Bore, then trailed away into a
groan.
    Kurtz waited for the monologue to continue.
    "And fucking call the cops and fucking send you
away until I'm motherfucking ready to kill your fucking
ass," gasped the big man, wanting to hold his shattered
knee together but unwilling to touch the mess.
    "No," said Kurtz. "Remember telling everyone in the
exercise yard how you killed your first two wives and
where they're buried?"
    "Aww, fuck, man," moaned Big Bore.
    "Yeah," said Kurtz. He went into the trailer and
rummaged through the mess there a bit, finding $1,410

                           106
in small bills hidden under a hardcase holding a shiny
new .45 Colt. Kurtz was no thief, but this was a down
payment on his own death, so he took the money and
went back to the Buick. Big Bore had begun the crawl
to the trailer and was leaving an unpleasant trail in the
snow.




                           107
            CHAPTER TWELVE


                                                    «^»
Chief of Detectives Captain Robert Gaines Millworth,
aka James B. Hansen, went into his office on Saturday
morning at the main precinct station on Elmwood, just
across from the courthouse. It was snowing.
    The sergeant at the desk and a few duty officers
were surprised to see Captain Millworth, since he had
the rest of his weekend off for the last of his vacation.
"Paperwork," said the captain, and went into his office.
    Hansen called up the file on the ex-con that
Brubaker and Myers were tailing. He'd run across Joe
Kurtz's name before, but had never paid much
attention to it. Rereading the previous arrest file and
the man's thin dossier, Hansen realized that this
lowlife Kurtz represented everything Hansen despised
—a thug who had parlayed a short stint as a military
policeman into a private detective's license in civilian
life, had been tried for aggravated assault fifteen years
earlier—dismissed on a technicality—and then plea-
bargained out of a Murder Two charge into a Man One
twelve years ago because of the laziness and sloppiness
of the district attorney's office. The penultimate entry
in the file was an interrogation by the late Detective
James Hathaway the previous autumn, relating to an
illegal weapons charge that was dropped when Kurtz's
parole officer, Margaret O'Toole, had intervened to
report to the watch commander that despite
                           108
Hathaway's report, the perp had not been armed when
arrested by the detective in her office. Hansen made a
mental note to make life miserable for Miss O'Toole
when he got the chance… and he would make sure that
he got the chance.
   There were several pages in the file speculating on
Mr. Joe Kurtz's connections with the Farino crime
family, specifically with his prison connections with
Stephen "Little Skag" Farino in Attica, and the brief
report of an interview with Kurtz the previous
November after the gangland killings of Don Farino,
Maria Farino, their lawyer, and several bodyguards.
Kurtz had an alibi for the evening of the murders, and
no forensic evidence had connected him to what the
New York City TV stations and papers had called "The
Buffalo Massacre."
   Kurtz was perfect for a role that Hansen had in
mind: a loner, no family or friends, an ex-con, a
suspected cop-killer, probable mob connections, a
history of violence. There would be no problem
convincing a jury that Kurtz was also a thief, someone
who would murder a visiting violinist just for his
wallet. Of course it should never come before a jury.
Send the right detectives to arrest this Kurtz—say,
those clowns Brubaker and Myers—and the state
would be saved the cost of an execution.
   But there would have to be evidence—preferably
DNA evidence at the scene of the crime.
   Hansen shut off the computer, swiveled his chair,
and looked out through the blinds at the gray heap that
was the courthouse. As he often did when events
seemed confusing, Hansen closed his eyes and gave a

                          109
brief prayer to his Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.
James B. Hansen had been saved and born again in
Christ at the age of eight—the one thing his miserable
excuse for a mother had ever done for him was to
connect him to the Evangelical Church of Repentance
in Kearney. He never took that for granted. And
although he knew that his special needs might be
looked upon by others as an abomination in the eyes of
the Lord, Hansen's own special relationship with Jesus
reassured him that the Lord God Christ used James
Hansen as His instrument, Culling only those souls
whom Jesus Christ Almighty wished Culled. It was
why Hansen prayed almost ceaselessly in the weeks
leading up to his Special Visits. So far, he had been a
true and faithful servant to the will of Jesus.
   Finished with his prayer, the captain turned back to
his desk and dialed a private number, choosing not to
make a radio call.
   "Brubaker here."
   "This is Captain Millworth. Are you on the Kurtz
surveillance now?"
   "Yes, sir."
   "Where is he?"
   "The Red Door Tavern on Broadway, Captain. He's
been in there about an hour."
   "Good. There may be something to your idea that
Kurtz murdered those three Attica ex-cons, and
something may turn up that might connect him to the
death of Detective Hathaway. I'm authorizing your
continued surveillance until further notice."
   "Yes, sir," came Brubaker's voice. "Do we get at least
one more team?"

                           110
   "Negative on that," said Hansen. "We're short on
people right now. But I can okay overtime pay for you
and Myers."
   "Yes, sir."
   "And Brubaker," said James B. Hansen, "you report
directly to me on this matter, understand? If this Kurtz
is really the cop-killer you think he is, we're not going
to leave a paper trail for Internal Affairs, or for the
bleeding-heart Public Defenders' Office, or for anyone
else to follow, even if we have to bend the rules with
this punk."
   There was a silence on the line. Neither Brubaker
nor Myers nor anyone else in the division had ever
heard Captain Robert Gaines Millworth talk about
bending rules. "Yes, sir," Brubaker said at last.
   Hansen broke the connection. As long as John
Wellington Frears was sitting out at the Airport
Sheraton, James B. Hansen did not feel comfortable or
in total control of events. And James B. Hansen did not
like feeling uncomfortable or out of control. This
unimportant loose end called Joe Kurtz might prove to
be very, very useful.

It was snowing harder when Kurtz took the toll bridge
from the city of Niagara Falls onto Grand Island. The
Niagara Section of the New York Thruway was a
shortcut that ran north and south across the island
from Buffalo to Niagara Falls. Grand Island itself was
larger in size than metro Buffalo, but was mostly
empty. Buckhorn Island State Park sat at its northern
tip and Beaver Island State Park filled its southern
end. Kurtz exited to West River Parkway and followed

                           111
it along the Niagara River West, turning east again
along Ferry Road, near the southern end of the island.
   Kurtz pulled Arlene's Buick to the side of the road
and lifted the Nikon with the 300-mm lens attached.
The Gonzaga compound was set back a quarter of a
mile from the road, recognizable only by distant tile
roofs just visible above a high wall that ran completely
around the complex. The long access road was private
and monitored by video cameras. Kurtz could see razor
wire along Ferry Road and more lines of fence between
the outer perimeter and the actual wall. The entrance
to the compound was gated; there was a
Mediterranean-style guardhouse at the gate, and with
the long lens, Kurtz could see the silhouettes of three
men inside. One of the men was lifting a pair of
binoculars.
   Kurtz put the Buick in gear and drove east, getting
back on the highway and turning north toward Niagara
Falls

The helicopter tour usually cost $125 and included a
swoop over Niagara Falls and the Whirlpool downriver.
   "I've seen the Falls and the Whirlpool," Kurtz told
the pilot. "Today I want to see this property I'm
considering on Grand Island."
   The pilot—an older, redheaded man who reminded
Kurtz of the actor Ken Toby—said, "That would be
charter. This is just tourist. Different rates. Plus the
weather's pretty shitty with these snow squalls. FAA
doesn't want us flying tourists if the visibility isn't
great or if there's a real chance of icing."


                          112
   Kurtz handed him the two hundred dollars he had
borrowed from Arlene.
   "Ready to go?" asked the pilot.
   Kurtz grabbed his camera bag and nodded.
   From a thousand feet up, the layout of the Gonzaga
compound was pretty obvious. Kurtz shot two rolls of
black-and-white film.
   Driving back to Buffalo, he called Angelina Farino
Ferrara on the private line.
   "We need to talk privately," he said. "At length. In
person."
   "How do we do that?" said the woman. "I've got two
extra assholes these days."
   "Me too," said Kurtz without elaborating. "What do
you do when you want to meet some guy to screw him?"
   There was a silence on the line. Eventually she said,
"I presume this is relevant."
   Kurtz waited.
   "I bring them here," she said at last. "To the marina
penthouse."
   "Where do you pick them up?"
   "A bar I go to or the health club," she said.
   "Which health club?"
   She named it.
   "Expensive," said Kurtz. "Use the phone I gave you
to call and leave a guest pass for me tomorrow at one.
Your goons haven't seen photos of me, have they?"
   "No one has except me," said Angelina.
   "You and the guys you hire to kill me."
   "Yes," she said.

                          113
    "When do your bodyguards report to Little Skag?"
asked Kurtz.
    "I'm pretty sure it's Wednesday and Saturday if
nothing really unusual happens," she said.
    "We have a few days then," said Kurtz. "Unless
screwing a stranger would be considered unusual for
you."
    Angelina Farino Ferrara said nothing.
    "Do Tweedledee and Tweedledum actually work out
with you?" asked Kurtz.
    "They stay in the weight room where they can see
me through the glass," said Angelina. "But I don't allow
them to get close." She was silent for a minute. "I take
it that you and I are going to discover an instant
attraction, Kurtz."
    "We'll see. At least we'll be able to talk at the health
club."
    "I want my two pieces of property back."
    "Well, one of them you might not want to keep," said
Kurtz. "I donated part of it to a Native American
today."
    "Shit," said Angelina. "But I still want it back."
    "Sentimental value," said Kurtz.
    "Yes. So are we going to discover an immediate
attraction when we meet at the health club?"
    "Who knows?" said Kurtz, although he had no plans
to return to the Farino headquarters at the marina
tomorrow. But if she didn't have him killed at the
health club, he might need to spend more time with her
if his Gonzaga plan was going to work.


                            114
  "Assuming we do hit it off in this alternate universe,
when the time comes are you going to ride to the
penthouse with the Boys and me or will you be driving
yourself?"
  "Driving," said Kurtz.
  "You're going to need a better car and a much nicer
wardrobe."
  "Tell them you're slumming," said Kurtz, and broke
the connection.

Late that evening, Arlene drove Kurtz back to the Red
Door Tavern—he had to pound on the alley door of the
place to get the bartender to let him in so he could walk
through—only to find Brubaker and Myers gone from
their surveillance and his Volvo scratched down the
length of its driver's side. Evidently one or the other of
the detectives had looked inside the bar, found Kurtz
gone, and then vented his frustration in true
professional form.
   "To protect and serve," muttered Kurtz.
   He drove out to Lockport carefully, checking for tails.
No one was following him. These cops have the stick-to-
it quality of an old Post-it Note was Kurtz's
uncharitable thought.
   Down the street and around the corner from Rachel's
home, he used the electronic gear he'd brought and
checked on the various bugs. Donnie was out of town,
as promised. Rachel was home alone, and except for the
sound of the TV—she was watching Parent Trap, the
Hayley Mills version—and some humming to herself,
and one call from her friend Melissa in which Rachel
confirmed Rafferty's absence, there was nothing to

                           115
hear. Kurtz took the humming as a good sign, shut
down his equipment, dropped the electronic gear by the
office, and drove back to the Royal Delaware Arms.
   The plaster dust was undisturbed since that
morning. The repairs to his door allowed him to get the
police bar in place. Kurtz cooked a dinner of stir-fry on
the hot plate and ate it with some cheap wine he'd
bought on the way home. The apartment had no TV,
but he owned an old grille-front FM radio that he tuned
to Buffalo's best jazz/blues station and listened to that
while he read a novel called Ada. The wind was cold
and seemed to blow in through the plaster cracks and
seep up through the floor. By 10:00 p.m., Kurtz was
cold enough to check his locks and police bar, flip the
big couch into a fold-out bed, brush his teeth, make
sure his .40 S&W and Farino Ferrara's two .45s were in
reach, and turn in for the night.




                           116
          CHAPTER THIRTEEN


                                                     «^»
"Come here often?" asked Kurtz.
   "Fuck you."
   He and Angelina Farino Ferrara were pacing on
parallel treadmills in the mirrored and teak-floored
sixth-story main room of the Buffalo Athletic Club. Her
bodyguards were in the adjoining weight room, clearly
visible through the glass wall as they pressed heavy
weights and admired each other's sweat-oiled muscles,
but out of earshot. No one was exercising near Kurtz
and Angelina.
   "Did you bring my property?" she asked. Kurtz was
wearing a bulky sweat suit, seriously out of fashion
based on what the few other patrons were wearing, but
Angelina's fashionable skintight leotard showed that
she was not armed.
   Kurtz shrugged and set the treadmill for a faster
pace. Angelina set hers to match. "I want those two
items back." She was breathing and speaking easily,
but she had broken a sweat.
   "Noted." Kurtz glanced over at the bodyguards. "Are
they any good?"
   "The Boys? Marco's all right. Leo's a waste of Stevie's
money."
   "Is Leo the one with the cupid lips and con torso?"
   "Right."
                           117
   "Are these your main men?"
   "The Boys? They're the only ones with me full time,
but Stevie's brought in eight other new guys. They're
all competent at what they do, but they don't hang out
at the marina. Shouldn't you be asking about Gonzaga's
protection rather than mine?"
   "All right. What about Gonzaga's people? How
many? Any good? And who else is usually in his
compound? And how often does he come out of that
compound?"
   "These day's, he almost never comes out. And it's
never predictable when he does." Angelina cranked up
the speed and angle of her machine. Kurtz matched it.
They had to speak a bit more loudly to hear one
another over the whir. "Emilio keeps twenty-eight
people on his payroll at that fortress," she said.
"Nineteen of them are muscle. Pretty good, although
they must be getting rusty just sitting there guarding
his fat ass. The rest are cooks, maids, butlers,
sometimes his business manager, technicians…"
   "How many with guns in the main house when you
visit?"
   "I usually see eight. Two baby-sit the Boys in the
outer foyer. Emilio usually has four bodyguards playing
servant during the lunch. A couple of others roam the
house."
   "And the rest of the guards?"
   "Two in the guardhouse at the gate. About four in
the outbuilding security center, where they keep the
video monitors. Three more always roaming the
grounds with guard dogs. And two with radios driving
the perimeter in Jeeps."

                          118
   "Other people there?"
   "Just the servants I mentioned and occasional visits
from his lawyer and other people. They've never been
there when I go for lunch. No other family there. His
wife died nine years ago. Emilio has a thirty-year-old
son, Toma, who lives in Florida. The kid was supposed
to take over the business, but got disinherited six years
ago and knows that he'll be whacked if he ever shows
up in New York State again. He's a fag. Emilio doesn't
like fags."
   "How do you know all this? I mean about the
security setup."
   "Emilio took me on a tour the first time I visited."
   "Not very smart."
   "I think he wanted to impress me with his
impregnability." Angelina set the treadmill to its
fastest pace. She began running in earnest.
   Kurtz clicked in matching settings. For a few
minutes they ran in silence.
   "What's your plan?" she asked at last.
   "Am I supposed to have a plan?"
   She gave him a look that seemed Sicilian in its
intensity. "Yes, you're supposed to have a fucking plan."
   "I'm not an assassin," said Kurtz. "I hire out for
other things."
   "But you are planning to kill Gonzaga."
   "Probably."
   "But you're not seriously planning to try to get to
him in his compound."
   Kurtz concentrated on breathing and ran in silence.


                           119
   "How could you get to him there?" Angelina flicked
sweat out of her left eye.
   "Hypothetically?" said Kurtz.
   "Whatever."
   "Have you noticed that roadwork being done about
half a mile south of the compound?"
   "Yeah."
   "Those bulldozers and huge graders and haulers that
are parked there half the time?"
   "Yeah."
   "If someone stole one of the biggest of those
machines, he could drive over the guardhouse, smash
his way into the main house, shoot all the guards there,
and whack Gonzaga in the process."
   Angelina hit the stop button and trotted to a halt as
the treadmill slowed. "Are you really that stupid?"
   Kurtz kept running.
   She raised the towel from her shoulders and mopped
her face. "Do you know how to drive one of those big
Caterpillar things?"
   "No."
   "Do you know how to start one?"
   "No."
   "Do you know anyone who does?"
   "Probably not."
   "You got this from a fucking Jackie Chan movie,"
Angelina said, and stepped off her treadmill.
   "I didn't know they had Jackie Chan movies in Sicily
and Italy," said Kurtz, killing his machine.


                          120
   "They have Jackie Chan movies everywhere." She
was toweling the bare skin where the leotard cut across
her cleavage. "You're not going to tell me your plan, are
you?"
   "No," said Kurtz. He looked over at the Boys, who
had finished bench-pressing and were admiring each
other as they curled dumbbells with each hand. "This
has been real fun. And I can feel this attraction
building to the point where you're going to invite me
home soon. Shall we meet again tomorrow, same time,
same place?"
   "Fuck you."

On Sunday mornings, James B. Hansen attended early
morning worship service with his wife Donna and
stepson Jason, went out with them for a late breakfast
at a favorite pancake house on Sheridan Drive, and
stayed home in the afternoon while his wife took their
son to her parents' place in Cheektowaga. It was his
weekly time for private reflection and he rarely missed
it.
    No one was allowed in the basement except Hansen.
He was the only one who had the key to his private gun
room. Donna had never seen the inside of the room, not
even when it was being renovated when they had first
moved in almost a year earlier, and Jason knew that
any attempt to trespass in his stepfather's private gun
room would incur serious physical punishment. "Spare
the rod and spoil the child" was a Biblical injunction
that was taken seriously in the home of Homicide
Captain Robert G. Millworth.


                           121
    The gun room was guarded by a keypad working on
a separate code from the rest of the house security
system, a steel door, and a physical combination lock.
The room itself was spartan, with a metal desk, a wall
of bookshelves holding a law-enforcement officer's
assortment of reference books, and a case behind
locked, shatterproof Plexiglas doors in which Hansen's
expensive gun collection hung under halogen lights. A
large safe was built into the north wall.
    Hansen disarmed the third security system, entered
the proper combination, and took his titanium case out
from where it was nestled with stocks, bonds, and his
collection of silver Krugerrands. Returning to his desk,
he opened the case and reviewed the contents in the
soft glow of the gun-case lights.
    The thirteen-year-old girl in Miami two weeks
earlier—a Cuban whose name he'd never learned,
picking her up at random in the neighborhood where
little Elian Gonzalez had stayed a few years earlier—
had been Number Twenty-eight. Hansen looked at the
Polaroid photos he had taken of her while she was still
alive—and later. He paused only briefly at the single
photograph he had taken with himself in the frame
with her—he always took only one such photo—and
then went on to study the rest of his collection. In
recent years, he noticed, the twelve- to fourteen-year-
olds had developed earlier than the girls of his own
childhood. Nutrition, the experts said, although James
B. Hansen knew it to be the Devil's work, turning these
children into sexual objects sooner than in previous
decades and centuries in order to entice men.
    But there were no children in his collection of the
twenty-eight Culled, Hansen knew, only demonettes
                          122
who were not the Children of God, but the Spawn of the
Enemy. This realization when Hansen was in his
twenties—that God had given him this special ability,
this second sight to differentiate the human girls from
the young demons in human form—was what allowed
him to carry out his ordained task.
   This last girl's eyes stared up toward the camera
after strangulation with that same look of total
surprise and terror—surprise at being found out and
terror at knowing she had been chosen to be Culled,
Hansen knew—as had the other twenty-seven.
   He always allowed himself precisely one hour to
review     the   photographs.     Showing    the     self-
discipline that separated him from the mindless
psychopaths that stalked the world, Hansen never took
any souvenirs other than the Polaroid photos. Nor did
he masturbate or otherwise attempt to relive the
excitement of the actual Culling. This hour of reflection
and review every Sunday was to remind him of the
seriousness of his mission on earth, nothing more.
   At the end of the hour, Hansen locked away the
titanium case, looked lovingly at his collection of
firearms reflecting the halogen spotlights, and left his
gun room, scrambling the combination and activating
the special alarm system as he did so. It would be
another two or three hours before Donna and Jason
returned from her parents' place; Hansen planned to
use the time reading his Bible.

Donald Rafferty returned to his Lockport home on
Sunday evening, obviously tired from his weekend trip
with DeeDee, his Number Two girlfriend. Kurtz was

                           123
parked down the street and monitoring the bugs in the
Rafferty house.
   "Did that kid—whatshername, Melissa?—come over
this weekend while I was gone?" Rafferty's voice
sounded slurred and tired.
   "No, Dad."
   "You lying to me?"
   "No." Kurtz could hear the alarm in Rachel's voice.
   "What about boys?"
   "Boys?"
   "Which boys were here while I was gone,
goddammit?"
   Kurtz knew from his phone taps that Rachel really
didn't talk to any boys, other than Clarence Kleigman,
who was in orchestra with her. She would never invite
a boy to the house.
   "Which boys did you have over here? Tell me the
goddamn truth or I'll get the yardstick out."
   "No boys, Dad." Rachel's voice was quavering
slightly. "Did you have a good business trip?"
   "Don't change the fucking subject." Rafferty was still
quite drunk.
   A minute of ambient noise and hiss. From the
crashing around in the kitchen, it sounded like Rafferty
was hunting for one of his bottles.
   "I have homework to finish," Rachel said. Kurtz
knew that she had finished all of her homework by
Saturday night. "I'll be upstairs." From the bug in the
hall, Kurtz could hear the sound of Rachel slipping the
lock shut on her door as Rafferty stamped upstairs and
began throwing his clothes around the bathroom.

                           124
   It was snowing hard. Kurtz let the snow blanket the
windshield as he sat listening to random noises
through his earphones.
   It had not been a promising week. Kurtz followed
few rules in life, but not leaving enemies behind him
came close to a rule for him, and this week he had left
two people around who wished to do him harm—Big
Bore Redhawk and the dying man, Johnny Norse. In
each case it had simply been more trouble to deal with
them than to let them live; Big Bore had more reasons
to stay silent in the hospital than to rat Kurtz out, and
Johnny Norse had no idea who Kurtz and Angelina
were or what Kurtz's relationship to Emilio Gonzaga
might be. Kurtz remembered Norse's almost obscene
eagerness to hang onto the last dregs of life and felt
secure that the dying man would not be contacting
Gonzaga about the visit. But Kurtz's motto had always
been "Why play the odds when you can fix the race?" In
these cases, though, it would be riskier to deal with
bodies than with odds.
   Still, it was a bad habit to leave loose ends behind
him and Kurtz could not afford bad habits at the
moment.
   Joe Kurtz knew that his one strength over the past
dozen years—besides patience—was his ability to
survive. Beyond the minimal survival skills necessary
for spending more than a decade in a maximum
security prison without getting raped or shanked or
both, Kurtz had avoided the fatwa of the D-Block
Mosque gangs when they had come to believe that he
had killed a black enforcer named Ali a year before
Kurtz's parole. Once back in Buffalo last autumn,
Kurtz had gained the enmity of another black gang—
                           125
the Seneca Street Social Club—who actually believed
that he had thrown their leader, a drug-dealing
psychopath named Malcolm Kibunte, over Niagara
Falls.
   The cops who were tailing him—Brubaker and
Myers—believed that Joe Kurtz had shot a crooked
homicide detective named Hathaway, even though
there was absolutely no evidence for that Kurtz knew
that Brubaker's suspicion had been fueled from Attica
by Little Skag Farino, whose gratitude for Kurtz
having literally saved his ass from Ali was now being
shown by the third-rate hit men that Skag was hiring
to kill him.
   Kurtz doubted that Brubaker and Myers would try
to kill him, but sooner or later they would roust him
while he was carrying, which meant jail again, which
meant all the current death sentences on Kurtz
converging.
   Then there were the Farino and Gonzaga families.
You don't strike—much less kill—a made guy without
paying for it; it was one of the last enforceable tenets of
the weakening Mafia structure. And while Kurtz had
not been involved—directly—in the shootings of Don
Farino, his daughter, his lawyer, or his bodyguards the
previous autumn, that fact would do him little good.
Little Skag knew that Kurtz had not killed his family
members, since Little Skag had ordered the hits on
them himself, but he was also aware that Kurtz had
been there during the denouement at the Farino
compound. Joe Kurtz knew too much to stay alive.
   Now Angelina Farino Ferrara was trying to use
Kurtz to kill Gonzaga. Kurtz hated being used more

                            126
than almost anything in the world, but in this
situation, the woman had leverage over him. He had
done his eleven and a half years in Attica for the killing
of Sam's murderers with some patience because it had
been worth it—Samantha Fielding had been his
partner in every way—but now those years were shown
to be worthless. If it had been Emilio Gonzaga who put
the hit on Sam, then Gonzaga had to die. And die soon,
since Gonzaga would be taking over the Farino Family
by the end of summer, which would make him all but
invulnerable.
   If Angelina really wanted Kurtz dead now, all she
had to do was tell Gonzaga. There would be fifty button
men on the street in an hour.
   But she had her own agenda and timeline. That's
why Kurtz was allowing himself to be used by her.
Gonzaga's death would suit both their purposes—but
then what? A woman could not become don. Little Skag
would still be the heir apparent of what was left of the
once-formidable Farino family, although without the
Gonzaga judge and parole-board connections, Little
Skag might be cooling his heels in maximum security
for more years to come.
   Was that Angelina's plan? Just to keep Little Skag
in prison while she eliminated her rapist, Emilio
Gonzaga, and tried to consolidate some power? If so, it
was a dangerous plan, not just because Gonzaga's
wrath would be terrible if an assassination failed, but
because the other families would intervene eventually
—almost certainly at Angelina's expense—and Little
Skag had already shown a willingness, actually an
eagerness, to whack a sister.


                           127
   But if she could blame Gonzaga's murder on this
loose cannon, this non-made-guy, this madman Joe
Kurtz—This scenario seemed especially workable if Joe
Kurtz was dead before Little Skag's killers or the
Gonzaga Family or the New York families' people
caught up to him.
   Joe Kurtz's strength might be survival, but he was
having increasing difficulty in seeing how he could do
everything he had to do and still survive this mess.
   And then there was this Frears and James B.
Hansen thing. And Donald Rafferty. And Arlene's need
for another $35,000 to expand their on-line business.
   Suddenly, Kurtz had a headache.




                         128
         CHAPTER FOURTEEN


                                                  «^»
"Did you bring the thirty-five thousand for Wedding
Bells dot com?" asked Arlene when Kurtz came in the
door.
   It was late morning. Brubaker and Myers had
followed him from the Royal Delaware Arms and were
out there now—Brubaker in the unmarked car at the
end of the alley, watching the back door, Myers on the
street in front, watching the entrance to the abandoned
video store upstairs.
   "Not yet," Kurtz said. "Did you have Greg bring
Alan's old Harley down this morning?"
   Arlene nodded and gestured with her right hand.
Cigarette smoke spiraled. "I'm more interested in
finding a new office anyway. Do you have time today?"
   "We'll see." Kurtz looked at the stack of files and
empty Express Mail packages on his desk.
   "I got them about an hour ago," said Arlene. "The
Hansen file from the Frears murder in Chicago, the
Atlanta thing that had exactly the same M.O., and the
ones from Houston, Jacksonville, Albany, and
Columbus, Ohio. The other four haven't arrived yet."
   "You read them?"
   "Looked through."
   "Find anything?"


                          129
   "Yes," said Arlene. She batted ashes. "I bet we're the
only ones ever to look at all these family murders
together. Or any two of them together, for that matter."
   Kurtz shrugged. "Sure. The local cops all saw it as a
local nut-case family murder—and they had the killer's
corpse in the burned house. Each case open and shut.
Why compare it to other cases they don't even know
about?"
   Arlene smiled. Kurtz hung up his coat, shifted the
holstered .40 S&W on his waistband, and settled in to
read.
   Five minutes later he had it.
   "The dentist," he said. Arlene nodded.
   In each of the murder-suicides, identification of the
killer's burned body was made through tattoos, jewelry,
an old scar in the Atlanta case—but primarily through
dental records. In three of the cases—the Chicago
Frears/Hansen case, the Atlanta Murchison/Cable
murders, and the Albany Whittaker/Sessions killings—
the killer's dentist was from Cleveland.
   "Howard K. Conway," said Kurtz.
   Arlene's eyes were bright. "Did you see the dentists'
signatures in the other cases?"
   It was Kurtz's turn to nod. Different names. But all
from Cleveland. And the handwriting was the same.
"Maybe our Dr. Conway is just the dentist to
psychopaths around the country. Probably was Ted
Bundy's dentist."
   "Uh-huh." Arlene stubbed her cigarette out and came
over to Kurtz's desk. "What about the other I.D.
factors? The tattoo in the Hansen killings? The scar in
the Whittaker case?"
                           130
   "My guess is that Hansen finds his replacement for
the fire first—some street person or male hooker or
something—kills him, stores the body, and then
decorates himself accordingly. If they have a tattoo, he
sports a fake one. Whatever. It's just a few months."
   "Jesus."
   "I'll need his current—" began Kurtz.
   She handed him a three-by-five card with Dr.
Howard K. Conway's business address on it. "I called
this morning and tried to make an appointment, but
Dr. Conway is semiretired and isn't accepting new
patients. A younger man answered the phone and
shooed me away. I found listings for Dr. Conway going
back to the early fifties, so the guy must be ancient."
   Kurtz was looking at the photographs of the
murdered girls. "Why would Hansen leave Conway
alive all these years?"
   "I guess it's easier than getting a new dentist all the
time. Plus, the dental records are probably all older
than whatever identity Hansen—whatever his name is
—is using at the time. It'd be weird, something even
local cops would notice, if their killer only had dental
records a few months old."
   "And it's not weird that someone living in Houston or
Albany or Atlanta goes to a Cleveland dentist?"
   Arlene shrugged. "The nut cases all moved from
Cleveland in the past year or two. No reason for local
homicide cops to red-flag that."
   "No."
   "What are you going to do, Joe?" There was an edge
to Arlene's voice that he had rarely heard when he had
been a P.I.
                           131
  He looked at her.

"Come here often?" said Kurtz.
    Angelina Farino Ferrara just sighed. They were
working in the weight room today, and the Boys were
outside on the treadmills.
    Kurtz and Arlene had chosen the video-store
basement for their office because it was cheap and
because it had several exits: back door to the alley,
stairway door to the now-defunct video store upstairs,
and side door to the condemned parking garage next
door. The drug dealers who had owned the place when
it was a real bookstore had liked all those exits. So did
Kurtz. It had come in handy when he'd left half an hour
ago.
    Arlene's late husband's Harley had been parked on
the dark lower level, just beyond the metal door. Greg
had left a helmet on the handlebars and the keys in the
ignition. Kurtz had straddled the machine, fired it up,
and weaved his way up ramps and out of the basement
of the empty parking garage, snaking by the permanent
barricade on Market Street that kept cars out.
Detective Brubaker presumably still had been on watch
on the alley side, and Detective Myers on the street
side, but no one was watching the Market Street garage
exit. Taking care on the snowy and icy streets,
reminding himself that he'd not been on a bike for
fifteen years or more, Kurtz had ridden to the health
club.
    Now he was doing repetitions on the chest-press
machine with two hundred pounds. He had done


                           132
twenty-three reps when Angelina said, "You're showing
off."
   "Absolutely."
   "You can stop now."
   "Thank you." He lowered the bar and left it lowered.
Angelina was doing curls with fifteen-pound weights.
Her biceps were feminine but well-defined. No one was
within earshot. "When do you have lunch with Gonzaga
this week?"
   "Tomorrow, Tuesday. Then again on Thursday. Did
you bring my property?"
   "No. Tell me the drill when you and the Boys go for
lunch." There was a heavy bag and a speed bag in the
room, and he put on gloves and began working on the
heavy bag.
   Angelina set down the dumbbells and went to a
bench to do some pull-ups. "The car takes us to Grand
Island—"
   "Your car or Gonzaga's?"
   "His."
   "How many people other than the driver?"
   "One. The Asian stone-killer called Mickey Kee. But
the driver's carrying as well."
   "What can, you tell me about Kee?"
   "He's from South Korea. He was trained in their
Special Forces—sort of Green Berets by way of
SMERSH. I think he got a lot of on-the-job experience
assassinating North Korean infiltrators, people the
regime didn't like, that sort of thing. He's probably the
most efficient killer in New York State right now."


                           133
   "When you go to lunch, they pick you up at the
Marina Tower?"
   "Yeah."
   "Frisk you there?"
   "No. They take the Boys' guns at the guardhouse.
Then they drive us the rest of the way. There's a metal-
detector at the entrance to the main house—it's subtle,
but it's there—and then I get frisked again by a woman
in a private room off the foyer before being allowed into
Emilio's presence. I guess they're afraid I'll go at him
with a hat pin or something."
   "A hat pin," repeated Kurtz. "You're older than you
look."
   Angelina ignored him. "The Boys sit on a couch in
the foyer while the Gonzaga goons watch them. The
Boys get their guns back when we drive out."
   "Okay," said Kurtz. He concentrated on hitting the
big bag for a few minutes. When he looked up, Angelina
handed him a towel and a water bottle.
   "You looked like you meant it with the bag," she
said.
   Kurtz drank and wiped the sweat from his eyes. "I'm
going with you to Gonzaga's place tomorrow."
   Angelina Farino Ferrara's lips went pale.
"Tomorrow? You're going to try to kill Emilio tomorrow?
With me along? You're fucking crazy."
   Kurtz shook his head. "I just want to go along as one
of your bodyguards."
   "Uh-uh." She was shaking her head hard enough to
cause sweat to fly. "They only allow two guys to come
with me. Marco and Leo, that's been the drill."

                           134
   "I know. I'll take the place of one of them."
   Angelina looked over her shoulder to where the Boys
were sitting watching television. "Which one?"
   "I don't know. We'll decide later."
   "They'll be suspicious, new guard."
   "That's why I want to go tomorrow. So they'll know
me on Thursday."
   "I—" She stopped. "Do you have a plan?"
   "Maybe."
   "Does it involve bulldozers and earthmovers?"
   "Probably not."
   She rubbed her lower lip with her fist. "We need to
talk about this. You should come out to the penthouse
this evening."
   "Tomorrow morning," Kurtz said. "I'll be out of town
this evening."

"Where the hell is he going?" asked Detective Myers.
He and Brubaker had spent a cold and boring and
useless afternoon watching Joe Kurtz's car and office,
and when the son of a bitch finally emerged and started
driving his scratched-up Volvo, the bastard had taken
the 190 out to 90-South and seemed headed for the toll
booths and the Thruway to Erie, Pennsylvania.
   "How the fuck should I know where he's going?" said
Brubaker. "But if he leaves the fucking state, he's in
violation of his parole and we've got him." Five minutes
later, Brubaker said, "Shit."
   Kurtz had exited onto Highway 219, the last turnoff
before the I-90 West Thruway toll booths. It was
snowing and getting dark.

                          135
   "What's out here?" whined Myers as they followed
Kurtz toward the town of Orchard Park. "The Farino
Family used to have their headquarters out here, but
they moved it to town after that nun sister showed up,
didn't they?"
   Brubaker shrugged, although, he knew exactly
where the new Farino Family digs were at Marina
Towers since he took his weekly payoff from Little Skag
via Skag's lawyer, Albert Bell, near there every
Tuesday. Brubaker knew that Myers suspected him of
being on the Farino payroll but wasn't sure. If Myers
was certain, he'd want in himself, and Brubaker didn't
like sharing.
   "Why don't we just roust Kurtz tonight?" said Myers.
"I got the throwdown if he's not armed."
   Brubaker shook his head. Kurtz had turned right
near Chestnut Ridge Park, and it was hard to follow
the Volvo in the gloom and snow along these two-lane
roads amidst all the construction cones and commuter
traffic. "We're out of our jurisdiction here," he said. "His
lawyer could call it harassment if we get him out here."
   "Fuck that. We got probable cause."
   Brubaker shook his head again.
   "Then let's just forget this shit," Myers said. "It's a
fucking waste of time."
   "Tell that to Jimmy Hathaway," Brubaker said,
invoking the name of the cop killed under mysterious
circumstances four months earlier. The only link to
Kurtz, Brubaker knew, was Little Skag Farino's
comment to him that Hathaway—who had been the
Farinos' bitch for years—had tapped a phone call and
followed Kurtz somewhere on the night of the

                            136
detective's murder. Hathaway had been eager to earn a
bounty on Joe Kurtz's head at the time.
   "Fuck Jimmy Hathaway," said Myers. "I never liked
the asshole."
   Brubaker shot a glance at his partner. "Look, if
Kurtz leaves the state, we've got him on parole
violation."
   Myers pointed two cars ahead of him. "Leave the
state? The fucker's not even leaving the county. Look—
he just turned back toward Hamburg."
   Brubaker lit a cigarette. It was hard to follow Kurtz
now that it was really dark.
   "You want him," said Myers, "let's roust him
tomorrow in the city. Use the throwdown. Beat the shit
out of him and turn him over to County."
   "Yeah," said Brubaker. "Yeah." He turned back to
Highway 219 and the Thruway to Buffalo.




                          137
           CHAPTER FIFTEEN


                                                   «^»
When Kurtz was sure that the unmarked car had
turned back, he took the back road from Hamburg to
the Thruway, accepted a ticket at the toll booth, and
drove the two hundred miles to Cleveland.
   Dr. Howard K. Conway's office and home were in an
old section not far from the downtown. It was a
neighborhood of big old Victorian homes broken into
apartments and large Catholic churches, either closed
or locked tight against the night. As the Italian and
Polish residents had been replaced by blacks in the old
neighborhoods, the parishes had died or moved to the
suburbs. Despite its new stadium and rock-and-roll
museum, Cleveland was still, like Buffalo, an old
industrial city with rot at its heart.
   If Emilio Gonzaga's compound was a fortress,
Conway's home was fortress-lite, circled by a black iron
fence, its first-floor windows caged, the old house dark
except for a single lighted window on the second floor.
The sign outside read Dr. H.K. Conway, DDS. Kurtz
unlatched the iron gate—assuming that an alarm was
being tripped in the house—and walked to the front
door. There was a buzzer and an intercom, and he
leaned on the former and moaned in the direction of the
latter.



                          138
   "What is it?" The voice was young—too young for
Conway—and harsh.
   "I 'ave a 'oothache," moaned Kurtz. "I 'eed a 'entis'."
   "What?"
   "I 'ave a 'errible 'oothache."
   "Fuck off." The intercom went dead.
   Kurtz leaned on the buzzer.
   "What?"
   "I 'ave a 'errible 'oothache," moaned Kurtz, louder
now, audibly whining.
   "Dr. Conway doesn't see patients." The intercom
clicked off.
   Kurtz hit the buzzer button eight times and then
leaned his weight on it.
   There came a thudding on bare stairs and the door
jerked open to the length of a chain. The man standing
there was so large that he blocked the light coming
down the stairway—three hundred pounds at least,
young, perhaps in his twenties, with cupid lips and
curly hair. "Are you fucking deaf? I said Dr. Conway
doesn't see patients. He's retired. Fuck off."
   Kurtz held his jaw, keeping his head lowered so that
his face was in shadow. "I 'eed to see a dentist. It 'urts."
   The big man started to close the door. Kurtz got his
boot in the opening. "P'ease."
   "You fucking asked for this, pal," said the big man,
jerking the chain off, flinging the door open, and
reaching for Kurtz's collar.
   Kurtz kicked him in the balls, took the big man's
offered right hand, swung it around behind him, and
broke his little finger. When the man screamed, Kurtz

                            139
transferred his grip to his index finger and bent it far
back, keeping the hand and arm pinned somewhere
around where the big man's shoulder blades were
buried under fat. "Let's go upstairs," Kurtz whispered,
stepping into a foyer that smelled of cabbage. He kicked
the door shut behind them and wheeled the man
around, helping him up the first stairs by applying
leverage to his finger.
   "Timmy?" called a quavery voice from the second
floor. "Is everything all right? Timmy?"
   Kurtz looked at the blubbering, weeping mass of
stumbling flesh ascending the stairs ahead of him.
Timmy?
   The second-floor landing opened onto a lighted
parlor where an old man sat in a wheelchair. The man
was bald and liver-spotted, his wasted legs were
covered by a lap robe, and he was holding some sort of
blue steel .32-caliber revolver.
   "Timmy?" quavered the old man. He squinted at
them through pop-bottle-thick lenses set in old-
fashioned black frames.
   Kurtz kept Timmy's mass between him and the
muzzle of the .32.
   "I'm sorry, Howard," Timmy gasped. "He surprised
me. He… ahhhhh!" The last syllable erupted as Kurtz
bent Timmy's finger back beyond design tolerances.
   "Dr. Conway," said Kurtz, "we need to talk."
   The old man thumbed the hammer back. "You're
police?"
   Kurtz thought that question was too stupid to
dignify with an answer. Timmy was trying to lean far
forward to reduce the pain in his arm and finger, so
                          140
Kurtz had to knee him in his fat buttocks to get him
upright in shield position again.
   "You're from him?" said the old man, voice shaking
almost as much as the gun's muzzle.
   "Yes," said Kurtz. "James B. Hansen."
   As if these were the magic words, Dr. Howard K.
Conway squeezed the trigger of the .32 once, twice,
three, four times. The reports sounded loud and flat in
the wood-floored room. Suddenly the air smelled of
cordite. The dentist stared at the pistol as if it had fired
of its own volition.
   "Aww, shit," Timmy said in a disappointed voice and
pitched forward, his forehead hitting the hardwood
floor with a hollow sound.
   Kurtz moved fast, diving around Timmy, rolling
once, and coming up fast to knock the pistol from
Conway's hand before the crippled dentist could empty
chambers five and six. He grabbed the old man by his
flannel shirt-front and lifted him out of the chair,
shaking him twice to make sure there were no more
weapons hidden under the slipping lap robe.
   French doors opened onto a narrow balcony at the
far end of the room. Booting the wheelchair aside,
Kurtz carried the struggling scarecrow across the room,
kicked those doors open, and dangled the old man over
the icy iron railing. Dr. Conway's glasses went flying
into the night.
   "Don't… don't… don't… don't." The dentist's mantra
had lost its quaver.
   "Tell me about Hansen."
   "What… I don't know any… good Christ, don't.
Please don't!"
                            141
    With one hand, Kurtz had literally tossed the old
man backward and caught him by the shirtfront.
Flannel ripped.
    Dr. Howard K. Conway's dentures had come loose
and were clacking around in his mouth. If the old piece
of shit hadn't been a silent accomplice to a dozen or
more children's murders, Joe Kurtz might have felt a
little bit sorry for him. Maybe.
    "My hands are cold," whispered Kurtz. "I might miss
my grip next time." He shoved the dentist back over the
railing.
    "Anything… anything! I have money. I have lots of
money!"
    "James B. Hansen."
    Conway nodded wildly.
    "Other names," hissed Kurtz. "Records. Files."
    "In my study. In the safe."
    "Combination."
    "Left thirty-two, right nineteen, left eleven, right
forty-six. Please let me go. No! Not over the drop!"
    Kurtz slammed the old man's bony and presumably
unfeeling ass down hard on the railing. "Why didn't you
tell someone, Conway? All these years. All those dead
women and kids. Why didn't you tell someone?"
    "He would have killed me." The old man's breath
smelled of ether.
    "Yeah," said Kurtz and had to stifle the immediate
urge to throw the old man down onto the concrete
terrace fifteen feet below. First the files.
    "What will I do now?" Dr. Conway was sobbing,
hiccuping. "Where will I go?"

                          142
   "You can go to—" began Kurtz and saw the old man's
rheumy eyes focus wildly, hopefully, on something low
behind Kurtz.
   He grabbed the dentist by his shirtfront and swung
him around just as Timmy, who had left a bloody trail
across the parquet floor, fired the last two bullets from
the pistol he'd retrieved.
   Conway's body was too thin and hollow to stop a .32
slug, but the first bullet missed and the second hit
Conway in the center of his forehead. Kurtz ducked, but
the spray of blood and brain matter was all from the
entry wound; the bullet had not exited.
   Kurtz dropped the dentist's body on the icy balcony
and walked over to Timmy, who was clicking away on
empty chambers. Not wanting to touch the weapon
even with his gloves on, he stepped on the man's hand
until he dropped it and then rolled Timmy over with his
boot. Two of the original .32 slugs had hit the big man
in the chest, but one had caught him in the throat and
another had entered below the left cheekbone. Timmy
would bleed out in another minute or two unless he
received immediate medical assistance.
   Kurtz walked into what had to be Dr. Conway's
study, ignored the row of locked filing cabinets, found
the big wall safe behind a painting of a naked man, and
tried the combination. He thought that Conway had rat
tied it off too quickly, under too much stress, to be
lying. and he was right. The safe opened on the first
try.
   Lying in the safe were metal boxes holding $63,000
in cash, stacks of bonds, gold coins, a sheaf of stock
certificates, and a thick file folder filled with dental X-

                            143
rays, insurance forms, and newspaper clippings. Kurtz
ignored the money and took the folder out into the light
slamming the safe door and scrambling the lock as he
did so.
   Timmy was no longer twitching and the viscous flow
of blood ran out onto the cement balcony where it had
pooled around Dr. Conway's ruined skull and was
coagulating in the process of freezing. Kurtz set the
folder on the round table next to the empty wheelchair
and flipped through it. He didn't think that this was a
neighborhood where people would dial 911 at the first
sound of what could be a gunshot.
   Twenty-three news clippings. Fifteen photocopies of
letters to various urban police headquarters, dental X-
rays attached. Fifteen different identities.
   "Come on, come on," whispered Kurtz. If Hansen's
current Buffalo identity wasn't here, this whole mess
had been for nothing. But why would it be here? Why
would Conway know Hansen's current alias before it
was necessary to identify him to the next round of
homicide detectives?
   Because Hansen has to have the cover story ready in
case the old dentist dies. Timmy would do the honors
then. But there has to be a dentist of record.
   The next-to-last paper in the folder had the record of
an office visit the previous November—a cleaning and
partial crown. No X-rays. There was no bill, but a
handwritten note in the margin read "$50,000." No
wonder Dr. Howard K. Conroy accepted no new
patients. Beneath it was an address in the Buffalo
suburb of Tonawanda, and a name.
   "Holy shit," whispered Kurtz.

                           144
           CHAPTER SIXTEEN


                                                    «^»
"Where the hell is he?" Detective Myers asked
Detective Brubaker. The two had requisitioned a much
better surveillance vehicle—a gray floral-delivery van—
and were parked on station near the Royal Delaware
Arms at 7:30 a.m., just in case Kurtz took it in his head
to go to his office early. They'd discussed where and
how to interdict him—an observed traffic violation on
Elicott Street would be the pretext—and then the fast
roust, the discovery of a weapon—the throwdown, if
Kurtz wasn't armed in violation of parole, which they
guessed he would be—the attempted resisting arrest,
the subduing, and the arrest.
   Brubaker and Myers were ready. Besides wearing
body armor, each man was carrying a telescoping,
weighted baton in addition to his 9mm dock, and Myers
had a 10,000-volt Taser stun gun in his pocket.
   "Where the fuck is he?" repeated Myers. Kurtz's
Volvo was nowhere in sight.
   "Maybe he left early for that shithole office of his,"
said Brubaker.
   "Maybe he never came back from Orchard Park last
night."
   "Maybe he was kidnapped by fucking UFOs," snarled
Brubaker. "Maybe we should quit speculating and go
find him and get this over with."

                           145
   "Maybe we should just skip it." Myers was not eager
to do this thing. But then, Myers was not being paid
$5,000 by Little Skag Farino to bust Kurtz and get him
back into prison so he could be shanked. Brubaker had
considered telling his partner about the payment and
sharing the money. Considered it for about two
milliseconds.
   "Maybe you should shut up," said Brubaker, shifting
the van into gear and driving away from the Royal
Delaware Arms.

James B. Hansen had to wait for the two other
homicide detectives to drive off before he could park his
Cadillac SUV where their van had been, and then go in
the back entrance of the fleabag hotel. He took the back
stairs up all seven flights to the room number Brubaker
and Myers had listed in their report. Hansen could
have used his badge to get the passkey for Joe Kurtz's
room, but that would have been terminally stupid.
However legitimate his excuse for checking on Kurtz
might sound later, Hansen wanted no connection
between the ex-con and himself until the investigation
of the murder of one John Wellington Frears.
   Hansen noticed the plaster dust in the center of the
stairs and hall leading to the eighth-floor room.
Knowing that Kurtz had come and gone over the past
few days, it had to be some sort of paranoid alarm
system. Hansen kept to the walls, leaving no trace. The
door to Kurtz's room was locked, but it was a cheap
lock, and bringing out the small leather-bound kit of
burglary tools he'd used for fifteen years, Hansen had
the door open in ten seconds.

                           146
   The suite of rooms was cold and drafty but strangely
neat for such a loser. Wearing gloves but still touching
nothing, Hansen peered into the adjoining room—
weights, a heavy bag, no furniture—and looked around
the big room where Kurtz appeared to spend his time.
Books—a surprise. Serious titles, a bigger surprise.
Hansen made a mental note not to underestimate the
intelligence of this shabby ex-con. The rest of the room
was predictable—a half-sized refrigerator, a hot plate
for cooking, a toaster, no TV, no computer, no luxuries.
Also no notes or diaries or loose papers. Hansen
checked in the closet—a few well-worn dress shirts,
some ties, a decent suit, one pair of well-polished black
shoes. There was no dresser, but a box in the corner
held folded jeans, clean underwear, more shirts, and
some sweaters. Hansen looked in all the obvious hiding
places but could find no guns or illegal knives. He went
back to the box of sweaters and raveled a long thread
from the top sweater on the pile, dropping it into a
clean evidence bag.
   In the sink was a rinsed coffee cup, a small plate,
and a sharp kitchen knife. It looked as if Kurtz had
used the knife to cut a slice of French bread and spread
butter on it, then rinsed the blade. Lifting the knife
gingerly, Hansen dropped it into a second evidence bag.
   The bathroom was as neat as the main room, with
nothing beyond basics in the medicine cabinet—not
even prescription pills. Kurtz's hairbrush and shaving
kit were lined up neatly on the old pedestal sink.
Hansen had to stop himself from grinning. Lifting the
brush, he found five hairs and transferred them to a
third evidence bag.


                           147
  Checking to make sure that he had left no trace,
Hansen let himself out of the hotel room, locked the
door behind him, and kept to the walls while
descending the stairs.

Kurtz had returned late from Cleveland, driven to the
office, used his computer to double-check Captain
Robert Millworth's address in Tonawanda, and then,
around 6:00 a.m., had driven to Arlene's small home in
Cheektowaga. She was awake and dressed, drinking
coffee in the kitchen and watching a network early
morning show on a small TV on her counter.
   "Don't come into the office today," Kurtz told her as
he stepped past her into the kitchen.
   "Why, Joe? I have more than fifty Sweetheart
Searches to process today—"
   He quickly explained about Dr. Conway's demise and
the information he'd found in the dentist's safe. This
was information Arlene had to know if she was going to
be a help over the next few days. Kurtz glanced at the
manila folder on the table. "Are those the photos I
asked you to process?" Their old office on Chippewa
Street years ago had been big enough to hold a
darkroom in which Arlene had developed all the photos
he and Sam had shot on the job. After her husband's
death, Arlene had converted an extra bathroom into a
darkroom at home.
   She slid the folder across the table. "Shopping for
property?"
   Kurtz glanced through the blowups of the Gonzaga
compound he'd taken from the helicopter. They'd all
turned out.

                          148
   "So what do I do from home today, Joe?"
   "I'll be back in a while and someone may be with me.
You have any problem entertaining a visitor?"
   "Who?" said Arlene. "And for how long? And why?"
   Kurtz let that go. "I'll be back in a while."
   "Since we aren't going into the office, is there any
chance we can look at new office space today after your
visitor leaves?"
   "Not today." He paused by the door, tapping the
folder of photos against his free hand. "Keep your doors
locked."
   "The Hansen thing, you mean."
   Kurtz shrugged. "I don't think it will be a problem.
But if the cops get in touch, call me right away on the
cell phone."
   "The cops?" Arlene lit a cigarette. "I love it when you
talk like that, Joe."
   "Like what?"
   "Like a private eye."

"So he's not at his fucking flophouse and he's not at his
fucking office. Where the fuck is he?" said Detective
Myers.
   "Did anyone ever tell you that you use the F word too
much, Tommy?"
   Brubaker had given up smoking seven months
earlier, but now he took a last drag on his cigarette and
flipped the butt out the window of their surveillance
van. It was almost 9:00 a.m., and not only was Kurtz's
Volvo not parked in the alley behind his office, but the
secretary's Buick wasn't there either.

                           149
  "So now what?"
  "How the fuck do I know?" said Brubaker.
  "So we just sit on our asses and wait?"
  "I sit on my ass," said Brubaker. "You sit on your fat
ass."




                          150
        CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


                                                    «^»
It was just 8:00 a.m. when Kurtz knocked on the hotel-
room door, but when it opened, John Wellington Frears
was dressed in a three-piece suit, tie knotted perfectly.
Although Frears's expression did not change when he
saw Kurtz, he took a surprised half step back into the
room. "Mr. Kurtz."
   Kurtz stepped into the room and closed the door
behind him. "You were expecting someone else." It was
not a question.
   "No. Please sit down." Frears gestured to a chair by
the window, but Kurtz remained standing.
   "You were expecting James B. Hansen," continued
Kurtz. "With a gun."
   Frears said nothing. His brown eyes, so expressive in
the publicity photos Kurtz had seen, now suppressed
even more pain than Kurtz had seen the previous week
at Blues Franklin. The man was dying.
   "That's one way to flush him out," said Kurtz. "But
you'll never know if he's brought to justice for his
crimes. You'll be dead."
   Frears sat on the hard chair by the desk. "What do
you want, Mr. Kurtz?"
   "I'm here to tell you that your plan won't work, Mr.
Frears. Hansen's in Buffalo, all right. He's lived here
for about eight months, moving here from Miami with

                           151
his new family. But he can kill you today and he'll
never be accused of the crime."
   Frears's eyes literally came alive. "You know where
he is? What his name is here?"
   Kurtz handed the man the dental bill.
   "Captain Robert G. Millworth," read the violinist. "A
police officer?"
   "Homicide. I checked."
   Frears's hands were shaking as he set the bill on the
desktop. "How do you know this man is James Hansen?
What does the bill—however high—from a Cleveland
dentist prove?"
   "It proves nothing," said Kurtz. "But this is the
dentist who's provided dental records to police around
the country after a dozen murder-suicides identical to
the one in your daughter's case. Always different
names. Always different records. But always involved
in murders that Hansen committed." He handed across
the folder.
   Frears went through the pages, slowly, tears
forming. "So many children." Looking up at Kurtz, he
said, "And you can tie this Captain Millworth to these
other names? You have dental records for him?"
   "No. I don't think Conway kept any other records or
X-rays on file for this office visit. I think he was going
to use the standard X-rays when Millworth's corpse—
whatever corpse Millworth provided—would need
identification."
   Frears blinked. "But we can make the dentist
testify?"
   "The dentist is dead. As of yesterday."

                           152
   Frears started to speak, stopped. Perhaps he
wondered if Kurtz had killed Conway, but perhaps it
was not important to him to know right now. "I can
present this folder to the FBI. The bill ties Millworth to
the dentist. The payment is obviously extortion.
Conway was blackmailing James Hansen."
   "Sure. You can try to make that case. But there's no
official record of Millworth's payment, just of an office
visit."
   "But I don't understand how the dental X-rays
matched the teeth of the bodies Mr. Hansen left behind
in these various murder-suicides."
   "It looks as if Dr. Conway, DDS, had a clientele
mostly of corpses."
   Frears looked at the forms again. "Conway's office
was in Cleveland. Many of these murder-suicides
occurred in cities far away from there. Even if Hansen
somehow harvested these other men to be future
burned bodies for him, how did he get them to go to
Cleveland to have dental X-rays taken?"
   Kurtz shrugged. "Hansen is one smart son of a bitch.
Maybe he offered these poor bastards dental care as
part of an employment package. My guess is that he
had Conway fly to whatever city he was living in at the
time, X-ray the fall guys' teeth—maybe when they were
already dead—and then have the dentist send the X-
rays from Cleveland. It doesn't really matter, does it?
What matters right now is getting you out of here."
   Frears blinked again and a stubborn look appeared
on his pain-ravaged face. "Out of Buffalo? I won't go. I
have to—"


                           153
  "Not out of Buffalo, just out of this hotel. I have a
better way for you to nail our Captain Millworth than
becoming just another unsolved homicide in the good
captain's case file."
  "I don't have anyplace to—"
  "I've got somewhere for you to stay for a couple of
days," said Kurtz. "It's not one-hundred-percent safe,
but then, nowhere in Buffalo is really safe for you right
now." Or for me either, he could have added. "Get
packed," said Kurtz. "You're checking out."

Brubaker and Myers trolled the downtown streets,
watching for a glimpse of Kurtz's blue Volvo, checking
the sidewalks for a glimpse of him, and driving by the
Royal Delaware Arms every orbit.
   "Hey," said Myers, "what about his secretary's
house? Whatshername? Arlene DeMarco."
   "What about it?" said Brubaker. He was on his fifth
cigarette.
   Myers flipped through his grubby little notebook.
"She lives out in Cheektowaga. We've got the address
here. Her car's not there today. If she didn't come in,
maybe Kurtz went out to her."
   Brubaker shrugged, but then turned the car and
headed for the Expressway. "What the fuck," he said.
"Worth a try."

"Mr. Frears," said Kurtz, "this is my secretary, Mrs.
DeMarco. She won't mind if you stay here for a day or
two."



                           154
    Arlene glanced at Kurtz but extended her hand. "A
pleasure, Mr. Frears. I'm Arlene."
    "John," said Frears, taking her hand in his, putting
his feet together and bowing slightly in a way that
made him look as if he was going to kiss her hand. He
did not, but Arlene blushed with pleasure as if he had.
    They were in Arlene's kitchen. When Frears's back
was turned, Kurtz said, "Arlene, you still have your…"
He opened his peacoat slightly to expose the pistol on
his belt.
    She shook her head. "It's at work, Joe. I don't keep
one here."
    Kurtz said to Frears, "Excuse us a moment," and led
Arlene into her living room. He handed her Angelina
Farino's gun—not the Compact Witness she had a
sentimental thing for, but the little .45 he'd taken away
from her at the hockey arena. Arlene slid the magazine
out of the grip, made sure it was loaded, slapped the
magazine back in, checked to make sure the safety was
on, and slipped the small but heavy pistol into the
pocket of her cardigan sweater. She nodded, and the
two of them went back to the kitchen.
    "I'm afraid this is going to be a terrible imposition,"
began Frears. "I'm perfectly capable of finding—"
    "We may find you another place after a day or two,"
said Kurtz. "But you saw the situation with
Hansen/Millworth. Right now I think you'd be safer
here."
    Frears looked at Arlene. "Mrs. DeMarco… Arlene…
this will bring danger into your home."
    Arlene lit a cigarette. "Actually, John, it will bring a
little much-needed excitement into my life."

                            155
  "Call me if anything comes up," said Kurtz. He went
out to his Volvo.

"Got him!" said Detective Myers. They had been headed
down Union Road in Cheektowaga when they saw
Kurtz's Volvo pull out of a side street and head north
toward the Kensington Expressway.
   Brubaker made a U-turn through a Dunkin' Donuts'
parking lot and pulled the floral-delivery van into
northbound traffic.
   "Keep way back," said Myers.
   "Don't fucking tell me how to tail someone, Tommy."
   "Well, just don't fucking get made," whined Myers.
   "Kurtz doesn't know this van. We stay back, we got
him."
   Brubaker stayed back. Kurtz got onto the
Kensington headed into town and the van followed six
vehicles back.
   "We should wait until he's into the city to take him,"
said Myers.
   Brubaker nodded.
   "Maybe near that flophouse hotel of his, if he's
headed there. It would make sense that we'd have
probable cause to roust him near there."
   "Yeah," said Brubaker. "If he's headed to the hotel."
   Kurtz was headed to the hotel. He parked in the
crappy neighborhood nearby, and Brubaker drove the
van a block farther and doubled back along side streets
in time to see Kurtz locking his car and walking toward
the Royal Delaware Arms. Brubaker parked the van in
front of a hydrant. They could intercept Kurtz on foot

                           156
before he got to the hotel. "We've fucking got him. You
got your club and the throwdown?"
   "Yeah, yeah," said Myers, anxiously patting his
pockets. "Let's do this."
   Kurtz had just turned the corner a block from the
hotel. The two detectives jumped out of the van and
began quick-walking to catch up. Brubaker pulled his
Glock from its holster and carried it in his right hand.
He clicked the safety off.
   Myers's phone rang.
   "Ignore it," said Brubaker.
   "It might be important."
   "Ignore it."
   Myers ignored Brubaker instead. Answering the
phone even as he ran, he said, "Yeah. Yeah? Yes, sir.
Yes, but we're just going to… no… yeah… no… right."
He folded the phone and stopped.
   Brubaker whirled at him. "What?"
   "It was Captain Mill worth. We're to drop the
surveillance on Kurtz."
   "Too fucking late!"
   Myers shook his head. "Uh-uh. The captain says that
we're to drop the surveillance and get the hell over to
Elmwood Avenue to help Prdzywsky with a fresh street
killing. We're finished with Kurtz… his words."
   "Fuck!" shouted Brubaker. An old woman in a black
coat stopped to stare. Brubaker took three strides,
rounded the corner, and looked at Kurtz approaching
the hotel across the street. "We have the fucker."



                          157
    "We go after him now, Millworth will have our balls
for breakfast. He said not to mess with Kurtz. What's
your hard-on for, Fred?"
    Tell him about the money from Little Skag Farino?
thought Brubaker. No. "That perp killed Jimmy
Hathaway. And those Three Stooges from Attica, too."
    "Bullshit," said Myers. He turned toward the van.
"There's no proof for that and you know it."
    Brubaker looked back toward the hotel and actually
lifted his Glock as if he was going to shoot at Kurtz's
retreating back a block away. "Fuck!" he said again.

Someone had been in Kurtz's room. Two of the tiny
telltales on the door had been knocked free. Kurtz
pulled his gun, unlocked the door, kicked it open, and
went in fast Nothing. He kept the S&W in his hand as
he checked both rooms and the fire escape. He didn't
see anything out of place at first inspection, but
someone had been in here.
   A knife was gone. Just a sharp kitchen knife. Kurtz
went over everything else, but except for the fact that
his shaving kit and brush had been moved slightly in
the bathroom and some books set back on the shelf not
quite as he had left them, nothing else was missing or
out of place.
   Kurtz showered, shaved, combed his hair, and
dressed in his best white shirt, conservative tie and
dark suit. The black Bally dress shoes in the back of his
closet needed only a buffing to be brought up to full
shine. His trench coat hanging in the closet was old but
well-made and clean. Slipping the .40 S&W into his belt
and dropping Angelina's Compact Witness .45 into his

                           158
coat pocket, he went out to the Volvo and drove to the
Buffalo Athletic Club. On the way, he stopped at a Sees
Candy, bought a medium-sized box of chocolates in a
heart-shaped box, and tossed away most of the
chocolates.
   "You're late," said Angelina Farino Ferrara as he
came into the exercise area. "And out of uniform." He
was still wearing his suit and trench coat.
   "No exercise for me today." He handed her the box of
chocolates. The Boys looked over curiously from where
they had just finished their work in the weight room.
   Angelina untied the ribbon, opened the heart-shaped
box, and looked at the Compact Witness nestled under
the few loose chocolates. "My favorite," she said, eating
a pecan cluster and closing the lid. "Did you still want
to do lunch?"
   "Yes."
   "You're sure that today's the right day?"
   "Yes."
   "But nothing dramatic is going to happen there,
right?"
   Kurtz remained silent.
   "We'll talk about this out at my penthouse," said
Angelina. "I have to change before lunch. You can ride
out with me. I'll have to introduce you to the Boys and
anyone else who's interested. So far, you've just been
the Man Hitting on Me at the Athletic Club. What did
you say your name was?"
   "Dr. Howard Conway."
   Angelina raised an eyebrow and mopped her sweaty
face. "Dr. Conway. How nice for you. Surgeon?"

                           159
   "Dentist."
   "Oh, too bad. I understand that dentists suffer from
depression and suicide at an alarming rate. Are you
armed today, Dr. Conway?"
   "Yes."
   "You know the Boys are going to relieve you of it as
soon as we get in the car?"
   "Yes."
   Angelina Farino Ferrara's smile was predatory.




                          160
          CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


                                                    «^»
They rode out to the marina in silence. Marco and Leo
had shaken his hand in the parking garage and then
searched him well.
   "Why does a dentist need a gun?" asked Leo, slipping
the S&W into his cashmere coat.
   "I'm paranoid," said Kurtz.
   "Aren't we all?" said Angelina.
   Marina Towers rose twelve stories above an expanse
of snowy lawn that overlooked the Buffalo Marina and
the frozen Niagara River. From the parking garage
beneath the complex, the four of them rode a private
elevator to the eleventh floor, where the Boys lived—
Kurtz caught a glimpse of desks, computers, teletypes,
a few accountant types, and knew that this was where
the Farino offices had been moved—and then Angelina
took him up the final flight on a separate elevator. They
stepped out into a marble-lined foyer, where she
produced a key and let them into her penthouse.
   The series of open rooms ran the full length of the
building and filled the entire floor so that Kurtz could
look northeast to downtown Buffalo and southwest
toward the marina and the river. Even with low clouds
on a gray day, the view was impressive.
   "Very nice—" began Kurtz and stopped as he turned.
Angelina was aiming the Compact Witness .45 at him

                           161
and had pulled a second, larger automatic from a
drawer.
   "Can you think of any reason I shouldn't gut-shoot
you right now, Joe Kurtz?"
   Kurtz did not move his hands. "It might ruin your
plan to surprise Mr. Gonzaga."
   The woman's lips looked very thin and bloodless. "I
can make other plans."
   Kurtz had no argument for that.
   "You humiliated me twice," said Angelina.
"Threatened to kill me."
   Kurtz could have mentioned the four men she had
hired to kill him, but he didn't think that would be the
best argument to make in these circumstances. If she
shot him now, she'd earn points with her brother.
   "Tell me why I shouldn't get rid of you and get
someone else to go after Gonzaga," said Angelina
Farino Ferrara. "Give me one good reason."
   "I'm thinking… I'm thinking," said Kurtz in his best
Jack Benny voice.
   Maybe Angelina was too young to get the joke. Her
finger curled on the trigger. "Time's up."
   "Can I reach slowly into my suit pocket?"
   Angelina nodded. She was holding the larger .45
aimed steadily at his midsection and had set the
Compact Witness on the maple table under a painting.
   Kurtz took the cassette tape out of his pocket and
tossed it to her.
   "What is it?"
   "Play it."


                          162
   "I hate games," said Angelina, but she walked five
paces to a stack of stereo components built into a
bookcase, slipped the cassette in, and punched "Play."
   Her voice came from the speakers. "Oh, but I did. I
did. A boy. A beautiful baby boy with Emilio's fat,
rubbery lips, lovely brown eyes, and the Gonzaga chin
and forehead. I drowned him in the Belice River in
Sicily." Her voice went on for a minute, explaining how
hard it would be to get to Emilio Gonzaga in his
compound, and men came Kurtz's voice: "How did you
plan to kill him?"
   "Well, I sort of hoped you'd take care of that detail
for me now that you know what you know," came
Angelina's voice.
   Angelina shut off the player and pocketed the
cassette. She was actually smiling. "You miserable son
of a bitch. You were wired that night out in
Williamsville."
   Kurtz said nothing.
   "So," said Angelina, "in the event of your
disappearance here, who gets copies of me tape? Emilio,
of course."
   "And your brother," said Kurtz.
   "Not the cops?"
   Kurtz shrugged.
   "I should shoot you just on general principles," said
Angelina. But she put the .45 back in its drawer. Then
she hefted the smaller Compact Witness. "You gave it
back to me loaded?"
   "Yeah."



                          163
   "You take chances, Joe Kurtz. Stay here. There's
fruit juice in the refrigerator over there, liquor at the
bar. I'm going to shower again and get dressed. Emilio's
car will be here to pick me up in thirty minutes. I hope
to God you have a plan."
   Kurtz looked at his watch.

Fifteen minutes later, Angelina phoned down for the
Boys to come up. She met them in the foyer and led
them into the penthouse, where Kurtz was waiting
with his S&W, now sporting a silencer she had loaned
him. Angelina closed the door behind the Boys.
   "What the fuck…" began Leo. Marco, the bigger man,
simply raised his hands and watched both Kurtz and
Angelina.
   "Quiet," said Kurtz. "Unload the hardware.
Carefully. Tips of fingers only. Good. Now kick the guns
this way. Gently. Good." He sat on the edge of a couch,
the pistol covering both of them.
   "Ms. Farino?" said Leo. "You part of this bullshit?"
   Kurtz shook his head and tapped one finger against
his lips. "Gentlemen, we have a proposition for you. Do
the smart thing and you live and make quite a bit of
money. Do the stupid thing and… well, you don't want
to do the stupid thing."
   Marco and Leo stood with their hands half-raised,
Marco vigilant, Leo twitchy, his eyes flicking back and
forth as if gauging his chances for leaping at his
revolver on the floor before Kurtz could fire.
   "Are you listening, fellows?" said Kurtz.



                           164
   "We're listening," said Marco. The big man sounded
calm.
   "I want to visit the Gonzagas today with Miss
Ferrara," said Kurtz. "Since they only allow two
bodyguards with her, one of you will have to stay
behind. We thought the big bathroom up here would be
a good place for the volunteer to stay until we get back.
Miss Ferrara had a pair of handcuffs in her bedroom, I
didn't ask why, and one of you will wear those, probably
connected to the washbasin pedestal in there with your
arms behind you, until we return. Then we'll find a
more comfortable arrangement for the next couple of
days."
   "Next couple of days!" shouted Leo. "Are you fucking
out of your fucking mind? You know what Little Skag
Farino is going to do with your sorry ass, cock-sucker?"
   Kurtz said nothing.
   Marco said, "Where does the money come in?"
   Angelina answered. "When our negotiations with
Emilio Gonzaga are completed, there's going to be more
money coming in than the Farino Family has seen for
decades. Anyone who helps me with this will get a lion's
share."
   "Helps you?" sneered Leo. "Who the fuck do you
think you are, cunt? When Little Skag gets out, you're
going to be—"
   "My brother Stephen is not a part of this," said
Angelina. Kurtz thought that she had spoken very
politely for someone who had just been called the C
word.



                           165
   Marco nodded. Leo looked at him with a
dumbfounded expression. He glanced at the weapons on
the floor again.
   "So which one of you volunteers is going to stay
behind?" said Kurtz.
   Neither man spoke for a minute. Kurtz could see
Marco mulling it over. Leo's fingers were twitching.
   "No volunteers?" said Kurtz. "I guess I'll just have to
pick." He shot Leo through his left eye.
   Marco did not move as Leo's body fell back onto the
parquet floor, blood streaming from the back of his
skull. Leo's legs twitched once and were still. Angelina
gave Kurtz a startled look.
   "You understand the drill?" Kurtz asked Marco.
   "Yeah."
   "My name's Howard Conway and I'm filling in for
Leo, who has the flu."
   "Yeah."
   "You'll have your gun back, minus the bullets. Of
course, when we're at the Gonzagas', you can blow the
whistle on us any time."
   "What would that get me?"
   Kurtz shrugged. "Probably the eternal appreciation
of Emilio Gonzaga."
   "I'd rather have the clap," said Marco. Angelina had
picked up the bodyguards' guns and was thumbing the
slugs out of the magazine in Marco's semiauto. "Can I
ask a question of Ms. Farino?" said the bodyguard.
   It was Angelina who nodded.
   "Ma'am, is this your show or this… dentist's?"
   "It's my show."
                           166
   Marco nodded, accepted the now-empty pistol, and
slid it back in his shoulder holster. "Can I move?"
   Kurtz nodded.
   Marco glanced at his watch. "The Gonzaga limo's
going to be here in about three minutes. You want me
to do something with this?" He inclined his head toward
Leo.
   "There are a couple of blankets in that first closet,"
said Angelina. "Store him in the back of the big walk-in
freezer for now. I'll get the mop."




                           167
          CHAPTER NINETEEN


                                                   «^»
James B. Hansen left his office at police headquarters
in late morning and drove to the Airport Sheraton. He
had an absolutely untraceable .38-caliber pistol in his
briefcase, right next to the clear evidence bags
containing the knife, thread, and hairs he had picked
up in Joe Kurtz's hotel room.
   It might have been a slight problem finding John
Frears's room number—Hansen was certainly not going
to show his badge and ask at the desk—but the old
violinist had left his phone number, complete with room
extension, when he had spoken to a bored lieutenant in
Homicide the week before about the unlikely sighting
at the airport. Frears was making it almost too easy.
   Hansen knew what the old man was up to, speaking
to the Buffalo News, going on a radio talk show and all
the rest. He was offering himself up like a staked-out
goat, trying to flush the man he'd known as James B.
Hansen out of hiding so the police would put two and
two together and track down the killer. Hansen had to
smile at that. Homicide detectives, under Hansen's
supervision—after all, John Wellington Frears was an
important man in his own little musical circles, and his
murder would demand the A-team's presence—would
put two and two together all right. And then the
fingerprints on the knife and the DNA in the hair


                          168
would lead them straight to an ex-con killer named Joe
Kurtz.
    Hansen entered by a side door, went up an empty
staircase to the fifth floor, paused outside Frears's
room, and readied the card key—programmed by
Hansen himself to open any door in the Sheraton—in
his left hand and the .38 in his right. The pistol, of
course, would later be found in Kurtz's flophouse room.
The knife—which would not be the murder weapon, but
which would draw blood as if the two men were fighting
over it—would be found in the hotel room. Hansen had
taken care to wait until the maids would be done with
their housekeeping and the long hallway was empty as
he keyed the door open. The chain lock was not on.
Hansen had planned to hold his badge up to the
peephole if it had been.
    As soon as Hansen saw the sterile, empty room and
neatly made bed, he knew that Frears had fled.
    Damn it. Hansen immediately asked forgiveness
from the Lord for his curse.
    He closed the door, went out to his SUV, and used a
disposable cell phone to call the Sheraton's front desk.
"This is Detective Hathaway of the Buffalo Police
Department, badge number…" He rattled off the
retired number he'd looked up in the dead detective's
file. "We're returning a call from one of your guests,
ah…" He paused a few seconds as if looking up the
name. "Mr. John Frears. Could you ring him for me,
please?"
    "I'm sorry, Detective Hathaway, Mr. Frears checked
out this morning. About three hours ago."


                          169
   "Really? He wanted to talk to us. Did he leave a
forwarding address or number?"
   "No, sir. I was the one who checked Mr. Frears out
and he just paid his bill and left."
   Hansen took a breath. "I'm sorry to bother you with
all this, Mr.—"
   "Paul Sirsika, Detective. I'm the day manager here."
   "Sorry to bother you with all this detail, Mr. Sirsika,
but it might be important. Was there someone with him
when he checked out? Mr. Frears had some concerns for
his safety, and I need to ascertain that he didn't leave
under duress."
   "Under duress? Good heavens," said the clerk. "No, I
don't remember anyone at the counter with him or
seeing him speak with anyone else, but there were
other people in the lobby at the time."
   "Did he leave alone?"
   "I don't recall anyone going out with Mr. Frears, but
I was busy with other guests checking out."
   "Sure. Do you know if he called a cab or caught one
outside? Or perhaps he mentioned something about the
airport or catching a flight?"
   "He didn't mention a flight to me or ask me to call a
cab, Detective Hathaway. He might have hailed one
outside. I could ask our bell captain."
   "Would you do that, please? I'd appreciate it."
   The clerk was back in a minute. "Detective
Hathaway? Clark, our bell captain, remembers Mr.
Frears leaving but noticed that he did not take a cab.
Clark said that he was walking to the parking lot,


                           170
carrying his suitcase in one hand and his violin case in
the other when Clark last saw him."
   "So Mr. Frears had a rental car?" asked Hansen.
"The license number would be on your registration card
and in the computer."
   "Just a second, please, Detective." The clerk was
sounding a bit peevish now. "Yes, sir. It says that the
vehicle was a white Ford Contour. Mr. Frears did give
us a tag number when he checked in. I have it here if
you'd like it."
   "Go ahead," said Hansen. He memorized the number
rather than write it down.
   "I wish I could help you more, Detective."
   "You've been a big help, Mr. Sirsika. One last
question. Did you or any of the other clerks or bellhops
—or perhaps someone working in the restaurant or gift
shop—notice anyone visiting Mr. Frears, dining with
him, calling for him?"
   "I would have to ask everyone," said Clerk Sirsika,
sounding very put-upon now.
   "Would you do that, please? And call and leave a
message at this number?" said Hansen. He gave them
his private line at work.
   Hansen used his phone to have "Detective
Hathaway" call all of the rental-car agencies at the
airport. The white Contour was a Hertz vehicle, rented
by Mr. Frears eight days ago upon his arrival in
Buffalo, rental extended six days ago. It had not been
returned. It was an open-ended rental. Hansen thanked
the clerk and drove around the hotel parking lot,
checking to make sure that the car was not there. His
next step would be to check airlines to see if Frears had

                           171
flown out without returning the car, but Hansen did
not want Detective Hathaway to do more phoning than
he had to.
   The white Contour was parked near the far end of
the lot. Hansen made sure no one was watching, slim-
jimmed the driver's door open, checked the interior—
nothing—and popped the trunk. No luggage. Frears
had left with someone.
   Driving his Cadillac SUV back toward police
headquarters on the Kensington, Hansen mentally
reviewed everything Frears had told Detective
Pierceson when the violinist had made out his airport-
sighting report. Frears had said that he knew no one in
Buffalo other than some of the booking people at
Kleinhan's Music Hall, where he had played his two
concerts. Them and someone he had known years ago
at Princeton.
   Hansen couldn't close his eyes while driving, but he
mentally did so in a trick he had used since he was a
kid to recall entire pages of text with perfect recall.
Even as he drove on the Kensington, he could see
Pierceson's report on the interview with Frears the
week before.
   Dr. Paul Frederick. A former philosophy and ethics
professor at Princeton. Frears thought he lived in
Buffalo and was searching for him.
   Well, that's an obvious place to start this
investigation, thought Hansen. Find this old Professor
Frederick. Perhaps your old pal came to pick you up at
the Sheraton and told you to leave your car.
   Hansen would join in the search for one Professor
Paul Frederick. It shouldn't be hard to find him.

                          172
Academics tended to hang around academia until they
died.
   But if Frears wasn't with his old friend?
   Then where are you, Johnny boy? Whom did you
leave with this morning?
   Hansen was not happy with this development, but it
was just a puzzle. He was very, very good at solving
puzzles.

Angelina Farino Ferrara realized halfway through her
meal with Emilio that Joe Kurtz was going to get
himself killed, her killed, and everyone else in the
house killed. The drive over from Marina Towers had
been uneventful enough. Mickey Kee, the killer who
always rode shotgun with Gonzaga's driver, had stared
at Kurtz standing next to Marco and asked where Leo
was.
   "Leo's doing other things," Angelina said. "Howard
here is with Marco and me today."
   "Howard?" Mickey Kee said dubiously. Gonzaga's
button man had tiny eyes that missed nothing, short,
black hair cropped to a widow's peak, and skin so
smooth that he could be any age between twenty-five
and sixty. "Where are you from, Howard?"
   Kurtz, the perfect lackey, had glanced at Angelica for
permission before answering. She nodded.
   "Florida," said Kurtz.
   "Which part of Florida?"
   "Raiford, mostly," said Kurtz.




                           173
   The driver had snorted at this, but Mickey Kee
showed no amusement. "I know some guys serving time
in Raiford. You know Tommy Lee Peters?"
   "Nope."
   "Sig Bender?"
   "Nope."
   "Alan Wu?"
   "Nope."
   "You don't know many people, do you, Howard?"
   "When I was there," said Kurtz, "Raiford had five
thousand-some guys doing time. Maybe your friends
weren't in the general population. I seem to remember
that Raiford had a special ward for kept bitches."
   Mickey Kee squinted at that. The driver, Al, had
tugged at the gunman's arm and held the limo door
open for Angelina, Marco, and Kurtz to get in the back.
The window was up between the front section and the
passenger area, but Angelina assumed that the
intercom was kept on, so the drive to Grand Island was
made in silence.
   Angelina's choice of Joe Kurtz to carry out the
elimination of Emilio Gonzaga had been one of the most
dangerous decisions she had ever made, but up to now
she had not considered it totally reckless. She could
have Kurtz eliminated at any time, she thought, and
erase the record of her contacts with him at the same
time. But now there was the problem of those tapes
he'd made. For the first time since her return to the
States, Angelina felt the way she had in her first chess
games with the bedridden Count Ferrara, when she
would be trading a few pawns, working on her attack,
only to realize that the dying old man had set her up—
                          174
that his apparently defensive and random movements
had been part of an attack so subtle that she had no
place to flee, no pieces to move in defense, the only
response to tip over her king and smile graciously.
   Well, thought Angelina, fuck that.
   She'd known that Joe Kurtz was a stone-killer. Her
brother Stevie… fuck it, Little Skag… had told her
about Kurtz's past: the former detective's love for his
dead partner, Samantha Fielding, that resulted in one
of the probable killers disappearing and the other being
thrown out of a six-story window onto the roof of an
arriving squad car. Kurtz had done more than eleven
years of hard time for that vengeance, and according to
Little Skag, had never whined once about it. The day
after Kurtz got out of Attica, he'd made a business
proposition to Don Farino. That had been a bloody
business and before it was over, Angelina's father and
sister were dead. Kurtz hadn't killed them—Little
Skag, Angelina's darling little brother, had arranged
that—but Kurtz had left his own wake of bodies.
   Angelina had been sure that she could control Kurtz
or, if not control him exactly, aim him. Johnny Norse,
the breathing corpse in the Williamsville hospice, had
supplied Angelina and her sister with drugs from junior
high on—Don Farino would have disowned his girls if
he'd found them buying drugs from his own people—
and it had been from Norse that she had heard about
Emilio's order to kill Samantha Fielding twelve years
earlier. It had meant nothing to Angelica when she
heard it, but using that information to aim Joe Kurtz at
Emilio seemed like a good idea when her other plans
had failed.


                          175
   But Angelina was constantly being surprised by Joe
Kurtz. Like other sociopaths she had known, Kurtz
seemed contained, quiet, almost sleepy at times, but
unlike the other stone-killers she'd been around,
including her first husband in Sicily, Kurtz sometimes
revealed a sense of humor bordering on real wit. And
then, just as she began thinking that he would be too
weak for this job… well, she remembered the way
Kurtz had put a bullet through Leo's left eye without
changing expression.
   Kurtz seemed sleepy as they stopped at the gate to
the Gonzaga compound. He gave up his pistol and
submitted to a careful frisk without expression. He still
seemed half-asleep as they drove up the long drive, but
Angelina knew that Kurtz was looking at everything in
the compound, making mental notes. Marco was his
usual silent self and Angelina had no clue to what he
was thinking.
   Inside, they were frisked again. When Angelina was
led in for lunch with Emilio, Mickey Kee took the
unusual step of staying out in the foyer with the two
guards watching Marco and "Howard." Kee seemed to
see or sense something in Kurtz that focused his
attention.
   It was after the soup course with Emilio and after
listening to the fat bastard sweet-talk her and explain
the new split on drugs and prostitution after the two
families "merged," and after the fish had been served,
that Angelina suddenly realized what Joe Kurtz was
going to do.
   Kurtz wasn't here today to case the place or to let
Emilio's guards get used to him so he could return with

                           176
her later, when the plans were made. Today was the
day. She knew that Kurtz didn't have so much as a
penknife with him but that he planned somehow to get
a weapon out in the foyer—take a gun away from
Mickey Kee?—kill Kee and the other two guards, shoot
Marco, and come into the dining room with guns
blazing.
   Kurtz didn't care that there was no way out for him
or Angelina. Kurtz's plan was simple—kill Emilio and
everyone else in the room before he got gunned down
himself. Maybe he'd grab Angelina and use her as a
human shield while he was killing Emilio. Elegant.
   "Whatsamatta?" said Emilio. "Fish bad or
something?"
   Angelina realized that she had quit eating with her
fork still raised. "No. No, it's fine. I just remembered
something I have to do." Run. Get the hell out of here.
Survive.
   But how? Tell Emilio Gonzaga that the new
bodyguard she'd brought into the paranoid don's
compound was here to shoot him? And that she knew
about it because she'd set it up? Not a good plan.
   Fake menstrual cramps? These Sicilian macho shits
were so squeamish about a woman's period that they
wouldn't ask questions if she requested a police escort
in her retreat. Did she have time for this playacting?
   Suddenly there was a commotion in the hallway and
Joe Kurtz came into the dining room, his eyes looking
wild.




                          177
           CHAPTER TWENTY


                                                   «^»
James B. Hansen parked his Cadillac Escalade beyond
the overpass and followed a trodden path through the
snow down toward the railroad yards. It was Captain
Millworth's lunch hour.
   Calls to the university showed no Dr. Paul Frederick
on the staff. The Buffalo area phone directories did not
list a Paul Frederick. The precinct showed only one
record of a Paul Frederick being detained—no
photographs, no fingerprints, no rap sheet, just a
detention 326-B form mentioning a vagrant named
Pruno, aka the Prof, aka P. Frederick, being picked up
during a sweep to interrogate homeless people after a
murder of a vagrant some two summers ago. Hansen
had talked to the uniformed officer who handled the
downtown homeless beat and was told that this Pruno
wandered the streets, almost never went to shelters,
but had favorite niches under the overpass and a shack
near the tracks.
   Hansen had no trouble finding the shack. The path
through the snow led to it, and there were no other
structures here in what must be a hobo jungle in the
summer. Why would this vagrant stay out here in
weather like this? wondered Hansen. It had stopped
snowing but the temperature had dropped to the single
digits and a cold wind came in off the river and Lake
Erie.
                          178
   "Hello?" Hansen did not expect a response from the
shack, and he didn't get one. Actually, he thought,
"shack" was too fancy a title for this miserable heap of
corrugated steel and plywood and cardboard. He took
out the .38 that was going to become the property of
Mr. Joe Kurtz after the murder of John Wellington
Frears, stooped low, and went into the shack, expecting
to find it empty.
   It was not empty. An old wino in an overcoat
stinking of urine sat close to a small burner. The floor
was plastic-tarp material, the walls whistled cold wind
through, and the wino was so high on crack or heroin
that he hardly noticed Hansen's entrance. Keeping the
gun aimed at the man's chest, Hansen worked to make
out the wino's features in the dim light. Gray stubble,
grime-rimmed wrinkles, reddened eyes, wisps of gray
hair left on his mottled skull, a chapped-looking
chicken neck disappearing into the oversized raincoat—
he matched the description of Pruno aka the Prof aka
one P. Frederick that the uniformed officer had given
Hansen. But then, what wino didn't?
   "Hey!" shouted Hansen to get the nodding addict's
attention. "Hey, old man!"
   The homeless man's red, watery eyes turned in the
police captain's direction. The grubby fingers were in
plain sight, red and white from the cold, and shaking.
Hansen watched the internal struggle as the old addict
reluctantly tried to focus his attention.
   "You Paul Frederick?" shouted Hansen. "Pruno?
Paul Frederick?"




                          179
    The wino blinked repeatedly and then nodded
dubiously. Hansen felt physically sick. Nothing
repulsed him more than one of these useless derelicts.
    "Mr. Frederick," said Hansen, "have you seen John
Wellington Frears? Has Frears been in touch with
you?" The thought of this old heroin addict being a
friend of the urbane Frears, much less the idea of
Frears visiting him in this shack, was absurd. But
Hansen waited for an answer.
    The wino licked his cracked lips and tried to
concentrate. He was looking at the .38. Hansen lowered
the muzzle slightly.
    As if seeing his chance, the old man's right hand shot
into his raincoat, reaching for something.
    Without thinking, Hansen lifted his aim and fired
twice, hitting the wino once in the chest and once in the
neck. The old man flopped backward like an empty
bundle of rags. For a minute he continued to breathe,
the laborious rasp sounding high and cracked and
obscene in the cold dark of the shack, but then the
breathing stopped and Hansen lowered the hammer on
the .38. Then he stuck his head out the door of the
shack and took a quick look around—there was no one
to hear the shot, and trains were crashing and roaring
in the yards just out of sight—and Hansen crouched by
the body. He needed to search the corpse, but he wasn't
going to touch those filthy, lice-ridden rags.
    Hansen found a stick the old man had used for
lifting his cooking pot and stirring soup, and pushing
open the filthy raincoat, Hansen saw that the wino's
hands had been reaching not for a weapon, but for a
stobby pencil. The dead fingers were just touching it. A

                           180
small yellow pad—empty of writing—had also tumbled
out of the wino's vest pocket.
   "Damn," whispered Hansen, saying a fast prayer
asking forgiveness for his use of the obscenity. He'd not
planned on killing the old man, and the fact that he'd
asked the patrolman about him might raise suspicions.
   Not at all, thought Hansen. When Frears ends up
dead, this will be just another killing connected to Joe
Kurtz. We won't know why Kurtz killed both of them,
but the .38 found in Kurtz's apartment will provide the
connection. Hansen slid the revolver into his coat
pocket. He had never kept a murder weapon with him
after the act—it was amateurish—but in this case, he
would have to, at least until he found and killed Frears.
Then he could plant the weapon in Kurtz's hotel room…
or on Kurtz's body if the perp tried to resist arrest,
which James B. Hansen fully anticipated.

Sitting in the little room thirty feet from Emilio
Gonzaga's dining room, feeling the stares from Mickey
Kee, Marco, and the two Gonzaga bodyguards, Joe
Kurtz felt himself beginning to prepare for what was to
come.
   He would be leaving a lot of loose ends behind—the
thing with Frears and Hansen, for instance, but that
wasn't Kurtz's business. Arlene would take care of
Frears, perhaps try to get the Conway-connection
information to the police. It wasn't Kurtz's problem.
Then there was Donald Rafferty and Rachel—that was
Kurtz's business—but there was nothing for Kurtz to
do there. Right now, Kurtz's business was Emilio
Gonzaga, Samantha's real killer, and Emilio Gonzaga

                           181
was only thirty feet away, down a short hallway and
through an unlocked door.
   When it happened, it would have to happen fast. And
soon. Kurtz guessed that Gonzaga and the Farino
woman were on their main course now, the three
bodyguard-servants in there, standing by the wall.
   Mickey Kee was very vigilant, but—like all
bodyguards—he was also bored. Familiarity bred
laxness. Even the past twenty minutes, when Marco
did nothing but read a racing form and Kurtz did
nothing but sit with his eyes half-closed, had lowered
Mickey Kee's guard. The other two bodyguards were
chimps—sloppy—their attention had already wandered
to the small TV set on a buffet near the wall. Some soap
opera rattled away and both of the guards were
fascinated with it. They probably watched every day.
   Mickey Kee was obviously troubled by Kurtz's
presence. Like all good bodyguards, he was suspicious
of anything out of the ordinary. But Kee was also
thirsty and kept crossing to the inlaid-mahogany bar
near Kurtz—walking within three feet of Kurtz—to
refill his glass of club soda. And while he held the glass
in his left hand—Kurtz had noticed that he was right-
handed—it still occupied too much of his attention. It
was almost time for Kee to refill his glass.
   When it happens, it will have to happen fast. Kurtz
had also noticed that Kee carried his primary weapon,
a 9mm Beretta, in a quick-draw shoulder holster. All
the better for Kurtz, who would use his left forearm to
slam into Kee's windpipe, his right hand pulling the
Beretta and firing into the two armed bodyguards at a
distance of only six feet.

                           182
   It would have to happen fast, but there was no way
to do this without warning Gonzaga and his goons
inside. Kurtz would need more weapons, more bullets,
so he'd have to take another ten seconds to retrieve the
bodyguards' guns after he shot them. Marco would have
to be neutralized, although if he fled, Kurtz was
prepared to let him go. He would not be a factor.
   Then another twenty seconds to get down the hall
and go through the dining-room door, low, firing both
weapons, the third one in his belt. Kurtz had only one
target in that dining room, although he was prepared to
kill everyone else there to get to that one target.
   He thought he had a decent chance of getting into
the dining room and getting to that target before it fled
or called for reinforcements, but Kurtz didn't think he
had much chance of surviving that exchange. The
guards there would have gone for their guns at the first
sound of gunfire. Still, they would be confused. Unlike
expertly trained Secret Service operatives, they were
cheap hoods, killers, and their first instinct would be
self-preservation, not throwing themselves between
Emilio Gonzaga and a fusillade of bullets.
   Still, Kurtz would have to move fast, shoot fast. If he
somehow survived the dining-room exchange, he would
make sure that Gonzaga was dead—an extra bullet
through the head should do that—and only then would
Kurtz worry about getting out of the compound. His
best bet would be the limo they'd arrived in, although
even it couldn't crash that metal security gate out front.
But Kurtz had studied the aerial photos, knew the
service roads and back exits to the compound. There
would be more than a dozen guards still loose on the
grounds, TV monitors, the Jeep that patrolled the
                           183
place, but they would be confused, reluctant to shoot at
Gonzaga's personal limo, not ready for someone trying
to break out of the compound. Kurtz might have a slim
chance of survival, even if wounded.
   No, I don't, he told himself. Emilio Gonzaga was one
of the few made men in Western New York, head of his
own sub-family. However unimportant Buffalo mob
business might be, the real New York families weren't
going to sit by and let a nobody kill one of their
franchise boys without stepping in to reset the balance
of pain in the universe. Even if Joe Kurtz killed
everyone in the Gonzaga compound today and got away
unscathed, the Mafia would find out who had done it
and track him down if it took twenty years. Joe Kurtz
was dead as soon as he raised a hand against Emilio
Gonzaga.
   C'est la vie, thought Kurtz and had to fight the
impulse to smile. He didn't want to do anything right
now that would make Mickey Kee pay more attention
to him. Kurtz felt all other thought fade as he became
an organ of watchfulness and preparation, an
adrenaline engine with one purpose.
   Mickey Kee sipped the last of his club soda. For a
second, Kurtz was afraid that the man had drunk
enough, but Kee was still thirsty. Vigilant, carrying the
glass in his left hand—but not vigilant enough, Kurtz
knew—Kee began crossing the room toward the bar
again.
   Kurtz had mentally rehearsed his next moves until
they would require no further thought or preparation.
Kee would be dead in five seconds, but it was necessary
that Kurtz come away with the Beretta as the killer

                           184
fell, Kurtz clicking the safety off even as he swung the
pistol toward the startled bodyguards in front of their
soap opera…
   Mickey Kee came within range.
   Joe Kurtz's cell phone rang.
   Kee paused and stepped back, his hand moving
toward his shoulder holster. Kurtz let out the breath
he'd been holding, held up one finger to remind Kee
that he was unarmed, and answered his phone. There
was nothing else to do at the moment.
   "Joe?" Arlene's voice was more alarmed than he had
ever heard it.
   "What is it?"
   "It's Rachel."
   "What?" Kurtz had to come back from wherever he
had gone in his preparation—most of his mind and
body were still involved in shooting the bodyguards,
breaking into the dining room, bringing the bead of the
Beretta's gunsight in line with Emilio Gonzaga's fat,
fish face. "What?" he said again.
   "It's Rachel. She's in the hospital. She's hurt bad."
   "What are you talking about? How do you know—"
   "Alan's sister, remember? Gail. She's a nurse at Erie
County. She knows about Rachel. She knew Sam,
remember? She called me just now. Gail just came on-
shift. Rachel was admitted this morning, about nine
a.m."
   "Rafferty hit her?" said Kurtz. Mickey Kee and the
others were watching him with interest. Marco licked
his lips, obviously wondering if this new wrinkle would
affect his chances for surviving the next hour.

                          185
   "No. They were in a car crash on the Kensington.
Donald Rafferty was drunk. Gail says that he's got a
broken arm and a possible concussion, but he'll be okay.
Rachel's in really bad shape."
   "How bad?" Kurtz heard his own voice as if it were
miles away.
   "They don't know yet. Rachel's been in surgery all
morning. Gail said they've removed her spleen and one
kidney. They'll know more in the next hour or so."
   Kurtz said nothing. A red film descended over his
vision, and he heard a noise that sounded like an
elevated train rushing by.
   "Joe?"
   "Yeah," he said. He realized that if he did not relax
his hand, he was going to snap the little phone in half.
   "There's more," said Arlene. "Something worse."
   Kurtz waited.
   "Rachel was conscious when they cut her out of the
car. The paramedics were talking to her to keep her
conscious. She told them that she'd run away the night
before and that her stepfather had come after her and
found her near the bus station, made her get in the car,
and that she'd run away because he'd been drinking
and tried to rape her."
   Kurtz clicked off the connection, folded the phone,
and set it carefully in his suit's chest pocket.
   "Whatsamatter?" said Mickey Kee. "Lose a big bet or
something, Mr. Howard from Raiford? Somebody
named Rafferty slapping around one of your bitches?"
   Ignoring Kee and the other bodyguards, shaking off
their restraining hands, Kurtz stood and walked down

                          186
the hall and went into the dining room to get Angelina
Farino Ferrara so they could get the hell out of there.




                          187
       CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE


                                                  «^»
"You wanted to see us, Captain?"
   "Sit down," said Hansen.
   Detectives Brubaker and Myers glanced at each
other before taking their seats. Captain Millworth had
called them into his office on occasion, but he'd never
asked them to sit before.
   Hansen came around his desk, sat on the edge of it,
and handed Brubaker a photograph of John Wellington
Frears. "You know this man?"
   Brubaker took the photo and shook his head. Hansen
hadn't expected them to have heard about Frears's
appearance at the station when he made his report. He
was going to tell them that Frears was missing and put
them on special assignment—undercover—to track him
down. Hansen planned on dealing later with the
complications this would cause.
   "Hey, I saw this guy," said Myers.
   Hansen was surprised. "At the station?"
   "At the station? No, uh-uh. Fred, we saw this guy go
into Blues Franklin last week when we were tailing
Kurtz, remember?"
   Brubaker took the photo back. "Yeah, could be the
same guy."



                          188
   "Could be? Shit, it is. Remember, he drove up in a
white… Ford, I think, maybe a Contour… and parked
right near us when we were staking out the Franklin
when Kurtz was in there."
   "Yeah."
   If Hansen had not been sitting on the edge of his
desk, he might have collapsed onto the floor. This was
too perfect. "You're saying that this man was in the
Blues Franklin at the same time as Joe Kurtz?"
   "Absolutely, Captain," said Myers. Brubaker nodded.
   Hansen felt his universe click back into focus. What
had seemed chaos a moment before became a perfectly
clear mosaic how. This coincidence was a gift from God,
pure and simple. "I want you to find this man," he said.
"His name is Mr. John Wellington Frears and we're
concerned about his safety." He went through the whole
report-to-me-only routine with the two idiots.
   "Jesus," said Myers. "Sorry, Captain. But you think
this guy's disappearance this morning has anything to
do with Joe Kurtz?"
   "You were on surveillance then," said Hansen.
"Where was Kurtz?"
   "He slipped out of sight last night and this morning,"
said Brubaker. "We picked up his tail out in
Cheektowaga this morning. We were going to check out
Kurtz's secretary's house there, but we saw Kurtz
driving down Union…" He paused.
   "Near the Airport Sheraton," said Hansen.
   Myers nodded. "Not that far away."
   "It looks like we're back on Kurtz surveillance," said
Brubaker.

                           189
   Hansen shook his head. "This is more important
than that This concert violinist, Frears, is a very
important man. This could be a potential kidnapping
situation."
   Myers frowned. "You mean SWAT, FBI, all that shit?
Sorry, Captain, but you know what I mean."
   Hansen went around his desk and sat in his leather
executive chair. "Right now it's just you two, me, and a
hunch. Just because you saw Frears go into the Blues
Franklin at the same time Joe Kurtz was there doesn't
mean there was a connection. Did either of you ever see
Kurtz and Frears together during your surveillance?"
   The two detectives shook their heads.
   "So I want some careful surveillance done. Starting
this afternoon. Round the clock."
   "How can we do that?" said Brubaker, adding a "sir."
   "Solo work," said Hansen.
   "Twelve-hour shifts?" whined Myers. "Alone? This
Kurtz bastard is dangerous."
   "I'll pitch in," said Hansen. "We'll work out a
schedule. And we're not talking weeks here, just a day
or two. If Kurtz has something to do with Frears's
disappearance, we'll know soon enough. Fred, you take
the first shift. Check out that secretary's house in
Cheektowaga. Tommy, you'll spend the next few hours
looking for Kurtz at his home, office, and so forth. Fred,
you stay here a minute. I want to talk to you."
   Myers and Brubaker glanced at each other before
Myers went out, closing the door behind him. Captain
Millworth had never called either of them by his first
name before.


                           190
   Brubaker stood by the desk and waited.
   "Internal Affairs was checking in with me about you
last week," said Hansen.
   Brubaker lifted a toothpick to his mouth, but said
nothing.
   "Granger and his boys think you have some
connections with the Farinos," said Hansen, staring the
other man in the eye. "They think you're on Little
Skag's payroll, picking up where your pal Hathaway
left off last November."
   Brubaker's eyes showed nothing. He shifted the
toothpick back and forth with his tongue.
   Hansen moved some paperwork on his desk. "I'm
mentioning this because I think you'll need someone to
cover your back, Fred. Someone to let you know who's
sniffing around and when. I could do that."
   Brubaker removed the toothpick, looked at it, and
set it in his pocket. "Why would you do that, Captain?"
   "Because I need your best work and discretion for
this project, Brubaker. You scratch my back and I'll
protect yours."
   Brubaker stood there, staring, obviously trying to
understand this deal.
   "That's all," said Hansen. "Go hunt for Kurtz.
Relieve Tommy on stakeout in eight hours. Call me on
my cell if anything comes up. But tell Myers… you two
do nothing but observe without my permission.
Understand? Nothing. You see Kurtz buggering the
Mayor's son on Main Street at high noon, call me before
you do anything. Capische?"
   "Yeah."

                          191
   Hansen nodded toward the door and Brubaker went
out.
   The homicide captain swiveled his chair and spent
several minutes looking out at the gray pile of the old
courthouse across the street. This was all going too far,
too fast. It had to be resolved, but even if something
happened to Detectives Brubaker and Myers—and
anything could happen to a plainclothes officer when
dealing with someone like Kurtz—there would still be
too many loose ends around afterward.
   Hansen sighed. He had enjoyed being a homicide
detective. Heck, he was good at it. And he liked his wife
Donna and stepson Jason. This persona had only lasted
fourteen months and James B. Hansen had thought it
might go another year or two, perhaps longer.
   He closed his eyes for a moment. Thy will be done.
Lord. Thy will be done. Hansen opened his eyes and
used his private line to dial the number of a certain
dentist in Cleveland. It was time for Robert Gaines
Millworth's dental records to be made ready.




                           192
       CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO


                                                    «^»
"Are you a member of the immediate family?" asked the
nurse.
   "I'm Donald Rafferty's brother," said Kurtz. He'd met
Arlene's sister-in-law Gail and knew that she was a
surgical nurse on the ninth floor, but he didn't want her
to see him here.
   The reception nurse grunted and glanced at one of
the computer screens at her station. "Mr. Rafferty's in
six-twenty-three. He was treated for a mild concussion
and a broken wrist and is sleeping right now. The
doctor who treated him, Dr. Singh, will be available in
about twenty minutes if you want to talk to him."
   "What about the girl?" said Kurtz.
   "Girl?"
   "Rachel… Rafferty. She was in the car with Donald.
I understand she suffered more serious injuries."
   The nurse frowned and tapped the keys again. "Yes.
She's out of surgery."
   "Can I see her?"
   "Oh, no… the surgery went on for almost five hours.
The girl will be in the ICU recovery for several hours."
   "But the surgery went all right? She'll be all right?"
   "You'd have to speak to the doctor."
   "Dr. Singh?"

                           193
   "No, no." The nurse frowned more deeply, her
important time at the desk obviously being eaten up
here on inconsequentials, and tapped more keys. "Dr.
Fremont and Dr. Wiley were the primary surgeons."
   "Two surgeons?"
   "I just said that."
   "Can I talk to them?"
   The nurse rolled her eyes and played with the
keyboard again. "Dr. Fremont has left the hospital and
Dr. Wiley will be in surgery until after five o'clock."
   "Where's the ICU?"
   "You won't be allowed in there, Mr… ah… Rafferty."
   Kurtz leaned over close enough that the nurse had to
turn away from the computer screen and look into his
eyes. "Where is it?"
   She told him.

Kurtz, Angelina, and Marco had left the Gonzaga
compound in a hurry, Angelina explaining to an
obviously irritated Emilio that something important
had come up for her and that they would reschedule the
luncheon. Arnie and Mickey Kee had driven the silent
trio back to Marina Towers in the armored limo. They
had taken the elevator straight to the penthouse before
talking.
   "What the hell is going on, Kurtz?" Angelina was
pale with anger and fighting a backwash of adrenaline.
   "I need a car."
   "I'll take you back to the health club where you
parked your—"
   Kurtz shook his head. "I need a car now."

                          194
    Angelina hesitated for a second. Acquiescing to
Kurtz now would change their relationship—whatever
that was at the moment—forever. She looked at his
face and then reached into her purse and tossed him a
set of keys. "My silver Porsche Boxster, parked closest
to the elevator in the garage."
    Kurtz nodded and turned toward the elevator.
    "What about him?" Angelina had brought out her .45
Compact Witness and was aiming it at Marco.
    "He's not stupid," said Kurtz. "You can still use him.
Offer him handcuffs in the John the way you offered
Leo."
    Angelina looked at Marco. "Sure. Why not?" said the
big bodyguard. "Beats the alternative."
    "All right," said Angelina. "What about…" She
flicked her head toward the big walk-in freezer in the
utility room off the kitchen.
    "Tonight," said Kurtz. "I'll be back."
    "This is not good," said Angelina, but Kurtz had
already stepped into the elevator and closed the door.

Kurtz stepped out of the elevator and saw immediately
how the Intensive Care Unit was set up with a nurses'
station at the locus of a circle of single rooms with clear
glass walls. The three nurses at the central station
watched their own readouts but could look into any of
the rooms and see the patients and their computer
screens. An older nurse with a kind face looked up as
Kurtz approached. "Can I help you, sir?"
   "I'm Bob Rafferty, Rachel Rafferty's uncle. The nurse
downstairs said she was in recovery here."

                            195
    The nurse nodded and pointed toward one of the
glass-walled rooms. Kurtz could see only Rachel's
auburn hair, so much like Sam's. The rest was
blankets, tubes, monitors, and a ventilating unit.
    "I'm afraid you won't be able to visit her for a few
days," said the nurse. "After such extensive surgery,
the doctors are very concerned about infection and—"
    "But she came out of surgery all right? She's going to
live?"
    The kind-faced nurse took a breath. "You really
should talk to Dr. Fremont or Dr. Wiley."
    "I was told they'd be unavailable all day."
    "Yes. Well…" She looked at Kurtz. "Rachel had a
very close thing this morning, Mr. Rafferty. Very close.
But Dr. Wiley told me that the prognosis is good. We've
given her eight units of blood—"
    "Is that a lot?"
    The woman nodded. "Essentially, we've replaced all
the blood in her system, Mr. Rafferty. The Flight for
Life helicopter saved her life."
    "And they removed her spleen and a kidney?"
    "Yes. Her left kidney. The damage was too
extensive."
    "That means that even if she recovers from this,
she'll always be at risk, right?"
    "It makes future illnesses or accidents more
problematic, yes. And there will be a long recovery
period. But your niece should be able to lead a normal
life." She looked at where Kurtz was gripping the edge
of the counter and lifted one hand as if she was going to
touch him. She pulled back her hand. "Dr. Singh should

                           196
be free very soon if you want to talk to him about your
brother's injuries—"
   "No," said Kurtz.
   He took the elevator to the sixth floor and started
down the corridor to Room 623. Kurtz had removed
the .40 S&W in the elevator and now carried it in his
right palm, letting the long sleeve of his open raincoat
hang down over that hand. He paused three doors away
from Rafferty's room.
   A woman cop in plainclothes, probably a rape-
contact officer, and a bored uniformed cop were sitting
on folding chairs just outside the room. Kurtz stood
there a minute, but when the woman plainclothes cop
looked up at him, he stepped into the closest room. An
ancient man lay asleep or in a coma on the only
occupied bed. The old guy's eyes had sunken into his
head in the way that Kurtz had seen in week-old
corpses. Kurtz put his Smith & Wesson back in his belt
holster and stood by the old man's bed for a minute.
The geezer's gnarled hand was liver-spotted and
bruised from IV punctures. The fingers were curled and
the nails were long and yellow. Kurtz touched the hand
once before going out the door and taking the elevator
down to the parking garage.

The Boxster was a beautiful sports car, but it handled
like shit on snow and ice. He had just headed south on
the Kensington toward the downtown and Marina
Towers when his cell phone rang again.
   "Have you seen Rachel, Joe? How is she?"
   Kurtz told Arlene what the nurse had said.
   "And what about Donald Rafferty?"

                          197
    "He's not going to survive the accident," said Kurtz.
    Arlene was silent a minute. "I was heading down to
the hospital, Mr. Frears said that he'd be all right here,
but Mrs. Campbell, one of my older neighbors, called
me and said that a suspicious-looking man in a gray
Ford was parked in front of her house, half a block
down the street."
    "Shit," said Kurtz.
    "Mrs. Campbell called the police."
    "And?"
    "And I was watching through the blinds. The squad
car stopped, one of the uniformed officers got out, the
man in the parked car showed him something, and the
squad car left in a hurry."
    "It's probably either Brubaker or Myers, one of the
two homicide detectives who've been tailing me," said
Kurtz. "But it could be Hansen… Captain Millworth. I
don't know how he could've made the connection with
Frears, but…"
    "I used Alan's binoculars. It's a fat man, almost bald.
Not very tall. Brown suit."
    "That's Myers," said Kurtz. He pulled the Boxster off
at the East Ferry exit and did a fast loop, getting back
on the Expressway headed out toward Cheektowaga.
"Arlene, we don't know that Brubaker and Myers aren't
working directly for Hansen. Stay put. I'll be there in
fifteen minutes."
    "And do what, Joe? Why don't I take Mr. Frears and
leave here for Gail's house?"
    "Can you get out without being seen?"



                            198
   "Sure. Through the carport and across the alley to
the Dzwrjskys'. Mona will loan me her ex-husband's
station wagon. Gail's at work, but I know where the
extra key is. We'll leave Detective Myers sitting down
the street all day."
   Kurtz slowed the Boxster to below seventy. "I don't
know…"
   "Joe, there's something else. I checked our business
e-mail from here and there's a message to you that was
copied to my e-mail address. It was dated at one p.m.,
and it's signed just 'P.'"
   Pruno, thought Kurtz. Likely checking up on
whether he'd met with Frears. "It's probably not
important," said Kurtz.
   "The message says that it's urgent, Joe. Let me read
it to you—'Joseph, absolutely imperative that you meet
me as soon as possible at that place where the thing
occurred on midsummer night's eve. This is urgent. P.'"
   "Oh, man," said Kurtz. "All right. Call me as soon as
you get to Gail's place." He folded the phone away, took
a high-speed exit onto Delavan Avenue, drove east a
block, and accelerated south on Fillmore.

The main Buffalo train station was a dignified and
imposing structure in its time; now, after being
abandoned for a decade, it was a sad mess. The
sprawling structure was dominated by a twenty-story
tower built along the lines of one of the brooding,
stepped-back skyscrapers in Fritz Lang's movie
Metropolis. On the twelfth-story level of each corner of
the tower, oversized clocks had stopped at different
times. Some shards of glass remained in the hundreds

                          199
of broken windows, which made the battered facade
look all the more dismal. Besides the two main
entrances on the tower building, four large, awninged
and arched doorways that looked like entrances to
blimp hangars had been situated along the five-story
main structure to allow the thousands of passengers to
enter and leave the huge complex without undue
jostling.
   There were no crowds jostling today. Even the hilly
driveway to the expanse of the abandoned parking lot
was drifted over with snow. Kurtz parked the Porsche
Boxster on a side street and walked past the boulders
placed in the drive to keep cars out of the lot.
Trespassers and winos and kids intent on breaking the
last of the windows had left a myriad of old and new
footprints in the snow on the lot, so there was no way
for Kurtz to tell who had passed here when. He
followed some tracks across to the hurricane fence
around the station itself and found a three-foot height
of wire cut just under one of the yellow Keep out. No
Trespassing signs. He passed under the massive
overhang with its NEW YORK & BUFFALO
RAILROAD legend just visible in the rusting metal and
dimming light. The huge doors were firmly sealed with
sheet metal and plywood, but the corner of one of the
window coverings had been jimmied loose, and Kurtz
squeezed his way in there.
   It was much colder inside than out. And darker. The
tall, high windows that had once sent down shafts of
sunlight onto soldiers traveling off to World War II and
onto the weeping families left behind were all dark and
boarded up now. A few frightened pigeons took flight in


                          200
the great, dim space as Kurtz crunched his way across
the littered tile.
   The old waiting areas and the ramps to the train
platforms were empty. Kurtz climbed a short staircase
to the tower building that had once housed the railroad
offices, pried open a plywood barrier, and walked slowly
through narrow corridors into the main hall. Rats
scurried. Pigeons fluttered.
   Kurtz slid his pistol out, racked a round into the
chamber, and carried the gun by his side as he moved
into the wide, dark space.
   "Joseph." The whisper seemed to come from the far
corner, forty feet from Kurtz, but there were only
shadows and a tumble of old benches there.
   He half-raised the gun.
   "Up here, Joseph."
   Kurtz stepped farther out into the hall and peered
up at the mezzanines in the darkness. A shadow
beckoned.
   Kurtz found the staircase and climbed, leaving a
trail through fallen plaster. The old man was waiting
for him by the railing on the second mezzanine. He was
carrying what looked to be a lumpy garment bag.
   "Rather interesting acoustics," said Pruno. The old
man's stubbled face seemed even more pale than usual
in the dim light. "They accidentally constructed a
whispering gallery when they built this hall. All sounds
uttered up here seem to converge in that corner down
there."
   "Yeah," said Kurtz. "What's up, Pruno? You
interested in Frears?"


                          201
    "John?" said the old heroin addict. "Well, of course
I'm interested in that, since I put you two in contact,
but I assumed that you did not decide to help him. It's
been almost a week. To be truthful, Joseph, I'd almost
forgotten."
    "What is it, then?" said Kurtz. "And why here?" He
gestured at the dark hall and the darker mezzanines.
"This is a long way from your usual haunts."
    Pruno nodded. "It seems that there is a literal dead
man in my usual haunt."
    "A dead man. Who?"
    "You wouldn't know him, Joseph. A homeless
contemporary of mine. I believe his name was Clark
Povitch, a former accountant, but the other addicts and
street persons have known him as Typee for the last
fifteen years or so."
    "What did he die of?"
    "A bullet," said Pruno. "Or two bullets, I believe,
although I am no forensic expert."
    "Someone shot your friend in your shack?"
    "Not my friend, precisely, but in this inclement
weather, Typee sometimes availed himself of my
hospitality—specifically of my Sterno heater—when I
was elsewhere."
    "Do you know who killed him?"
    "I do have a clue. But it does not seem to make any
sense, Joseph."
    "Tell me."
    "An acquaintance of mine, a lady named Mrs. Tuella
Dean—I believe you would refer to her as a bag lady—
was on a grate today, under some newspapers and

                          202
inadvertently concealed, on the corner of Elmwood and
Market when she heard a patrolman outside his parked
squad car speaking on either his radio telephone or a
cell phone. The patrolman was giving directions to my
domicile and mentioned my name… names, actually…
and actually gave a description of me to his
interlocutor. According to Mrs. Dean, the patrolman's
tone was almost obsequious, as if speaking to a
superior. She happened to mention this to me when I
saw her near the HSBC arena just before I returned
home and discovered Typee's body."
   Kurtz took in a long, cold breath of air. "Did this
Mrs. Dean catch the other guy's name?"
   "She did, actually. A Captain Millworth. I would
presume that this would mean a captain of police."
   Kurtz let out the breath.
   "There would seem to be no connection," said Pruno,
"as police captains are not known for murdering the
homeless, but it would be too much of a coincidence to
think the events are unrelated. Also, there is another
mild coincidence here that worries me."
   "What's that?"
   "To a stranger," said Pruno, "to someone who knew
me only from another person's description, Typee might
look a little bit like me. Quite a lot like me, actually."
   Kurtz reached out and took his old friend's sharp
elbow through the overcoat and other rags. "Come on,"
he said softly, hearing his whisper repeated in the
darkness below. "We're getting out of here."




                           203
     CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE


                                                  «^»
Hansen could not get in touch with Dr. Howard
Conway by phone and this bothered him. It bothered
him a lot. He considered driving to Cleveland to check
on Conway—make sure that the old fart hadn't died or
finally run out on him—but there simply wasn't time.
Too much was happening too fast, and too much had to
happen even faster in the next twenty-four hours.
   He canceled his meetings for the rest of the
afternoon, called Donna to say that he'd be home soon,
called Brubaker to make sure that he hadn't found
Kurtz at his office or home, called Myers to make sure
he was on surveillance at the secretary's house, and
then he drove to a rotting industrial cold-storage
facility near the Buffalo River. Behind an abandoned
mill, a line of walk-in freezers—each with its own
backup generator—had been rented to restaurateurs,
meat wholesalers, and others needing overflow freezer
storage. Hansen had kept a locker there since he'd
driven a freezer truck up from Miami nine months ago.
   Hansen unlocked the two expensive padlocks he kept
on the unit and stepped into the frigid interior. Five
halves of beef hung on hooks. Hansen had planned to
use one of these during the July cookout he was going
to throw at his Tonawanda home for his detectives and
their wives, but it looked as if he would not be around
Buffalo in July. Against the back wall were tall wire
                          204
racks, and on these were four long, opaque plastic bags
holding more frozen meat.
    He unzipped the bag on the middle shelf. Mr. Gabriel
Kendall, fifty years old, the same height, weight, and
general build as James B. Hansen, stared up through a
rim of frost covering his open eyes. The cadaver's lips
were blue and pulled back, frozen into the position
where Dr. Conway had X-rayed the teeth in Cleveland
the previous summer. All four of the men's bodies
stored here had a similar rictus. Kendall was the one
Hansen had chosen for Captain Robert Gaines
Millworth's suicide and the dental records should be on
file, ready for the blanks to be filled in.
    If he could get in touch with that miserable wretch
Conway.
    Satisfied that no one had been in the freezer or
tampered with its contents, Hansen zipped the body
bag shut, locked the freezer behind him, and drove back
home in his Cadillac SUV. The sight of the hanging
sides of beef had made him hungry. He used his cell
phone to call Donna and tell her to set aside whatever
else she had planned for dinner; they would grill steaks
on the GrillAire Range tonight.

Arlene's sister-in-law Gail's home was the second floor
of an old duplex on Colvin Avenue north of the park.
Gail was divorced and was working a double shift at
the Medical Center; Arlene had explained that Gail was
sleeping at the hospital and wouldn't be home until late
the following afternoon. Good thing, thought Kurtz as
Arlene unlocked the door and led Pruno and him up the
side stairway. Upstairs, Kurtz looked at the herd of

                          205
refugees he was collecting—Frears hugging Pruno
affectionately as if the old addict didn't smell like a
urinal—Arlene with the .45 still in her sweater pocket.
For all the years that he had used Pruno as a street
source when he was a P.I., Arlene had never met the
old wino, and now the two were busy with their
introductions and conversation. Kurtz, a loner all his
life, was beginning to feel like Noah, and he suspected
that he might need a bigger ark if this refugee crap
kept up.
    The four of them sat in the tiny living room. Cooking
smells came from the adjoining kitchen, and
occasionally she would stand and go in to check on
something and the conversation would pause until she
returned.
    "What is going on, Mr. Kurtz?" asked John
Wellington Frears when they were all gathered around
like a happy chipmunk family again.
    Kurtz slipped his peacoat off—it was hot in the little
apartment—and explained what he could about James
B. Hansen being the esteemed Homicide Captain
Robert Millworth.
    "This dentist… Conway… admitted this to you?"
asked Pruno.
    "Not in so many words," said Kurtz. "But let's say
that I confirmed it with him."
    "I would guess that this Dr. Conway's life wouldn't
be worth much right now," said Frears.
    Kurtz had to agree with that.
    "So how do you think this Millworth… Hansen…
made the connection between Mr. Frears and you, Joe?"
asked Arlene.

                           206
   "We're not certain that he has."
   "But it would be dangerous to assume anything
else," said Frears.
   "It is folly," said Pruno, "to form policy based on
assumptions of the enemy's intentions… judge his
capabilities and prepare accordingly."
   "Well," said Arlene, "a captain in Homicide is capable
of using the entire police department to track down Mr.
Frears and the rest of us."
   Kurtz shook his head. "Not without blowing his
cover. We have to remember that this Hansen isn't a
real cop."
   "No," Frears said evenly, "he is a serial rapist and
child killer."
   That stopped conversation for a while. Finally
Arlene said, "Can he trace us here, Joe?"
   "I doubt it. Not if Myers didn't follow you."
   "No," said Arlene. "I made sure that we weren't
followed. But they'll get suspicious when Mr. Frears
and I don't leave my house tomorrow."
   "Or when the lights don't come on tonight," said
Pruno. It was getting dark outside.
   "I left the lamps in the front room on a timer I use
when on vacation," said Arlene. "They're on now and
will go off at eleven."
   Kurtz, who was suddenly feeling exhausted, looked
up at that. "When have you ever taken a vacation?"
   Arlene gave him a look. Kurtz took it as his cue to
leave. "I have to return a car," he said, standing and
tugging on his peacoat.
   "Not until you eat," said Arlene.

                           207
   "I'm not hungry."
   "No? When was the last time you ate, Joe? Did you
have lunch?"
   Kurtz paused to think. His last meal had been a
sweet roll he'd grabbed with coffee at a Thruway stop
during his midnight drive back from Cleveland. He
hadn't eaten all this Wednesday and hadn't slept since
Tuesday night.
   "We're all going to have a good meal," Arlene said in
a tone that brooked no argument. "I've made lots of
spaghetti, fresh bread, some roast beef. You all have
about twenty minutes to wash up."
   "I may need all of that time," said Pruno. Kurtz
laughed but the old man shot him a glance, lifted the
bundle of his garment bag, and disappeared into the
bathroom with dignity.

The family of Robert Gaines Millworth—his wife Donna
and fourteen-year-old stepson Jason—ate as a family
every night because James Hansen knew it was
important that a family eat together. This night they
had steak and salad and rice. Donna had wine. Hansen
did not drink alcohol, but he allowed his wives to, in
moderation.
   While they ate. Donna talked about her work at the
library. Jason talked about basketball and about ice
hockey. Hansen listened and thought about his next
move in this rather interesting chess game he had
become involved in. At one point, Hansen found himself
looking around the dining room—the art, the glimpse of
bookcases from the family room beyond, the expensive
furniture and Delft china. It would be a shame, all this

                          208
lost to the fire. But James B. Hansen had never been
one to confuse material possessions with the more
important things of the soul.
   After dinner, he would go down to his office, keeping
his cell phone with him in case Brubaker or Myers
called, and contemplate what he had to do tomorrow
and in the days to come.

It was a strange dinner for Kurtz—a good dinner, lots
of spaghetti and roast beef and gravy and real bread
and a good salad and coffee—but strange. It had been a
while since his last home-cooked dinner eaten with
other people. How long? Twelve years. Twelve years
and a month. A dinner with Sam at her place, also
spaghetti that night, with the baby, the toddler, in a
tall chair—not a high chair, it didn't have a tray—what
had Sam called it? A youth chair. With little Rachel in
the youth chair at the table, chattering away, reaching
over to tug at Kurtz's napkin, the child babbling even
as Sam told him about this interesting case she was
pursuing—a teenage runaway missing, drugs involved.
   Kurtz stopped eating. Only Arlene noticed and she
looked away after a second.
   Pruno had come out of the bathroom showered,
shaven, skin pink and scalded-looking, his fingernails
still yellowed and cracked but no longer grimy, his
thinning gray hair—which Kurtz had never seen except
as a sort of nimbus floating around the old wino's head
—slicked back. He was wearing a suit that might have
been two decades out of style and no longer fit. Pruno's
frail form was lost in it, but it also looked clean. How?
wondered Kurtz. How could this old heroin addict keep

                           209
a suit clean when he lived in a packing crate and in
cubbies under the Thruway?
   Pruno—or "Dr. Frederick," as Frears kept
addressing him—looked older and frailer and more
fragile without his protective crusts of grime and rags.
But the old man sat very upright as he ate and drank
and nodded his head to accept more food and addressed
John Wellington Frears in measured tones. Frears had
been his student at Princeton. One old man dying of
cancer and his ancient teacher sitting there in his
double-breasted, pinstripe suit—making conversation
about Mozart as a prodigy and about the Palestinian
situation and about global warming.
   Kurtz shook his head. He'd not had any wine
because he was so damned tired already and because
he might have to keep his head clear for several hours
more on this endless day, but enough was enough. This
scene was not just unreal, it was surreal. He needed a
drink.
   Arlene followed him out to the kitchen.
   "Doesn't your sister-in-law keep any booze in the
house?" asked Kurtz.
   "That top cupboard. Johnnie Walker Red."
   "That'll do," said Kurtz. He poured himself three
fingers' worth.
   "What's the matter, Joe?"
   "Nothing's the matter. Other than this serial-killer
police captain after all of us, I mean. Everything's
great."
   "You're thinking about Rachel."



                          210
   Kurtz shook his head and took a drink. The two old
men in the dining room laughed at something.
   "What are you going to do about that, Joe?"
   "What do you mean?"
   "You know what I mean. You can't let her go back to
Donald Rafferty."
   Kurtz shrugged. He remembered tearing up the
photograph of Frears's dead daughter—Crystal. He
remembered leaving the torn bits of the photograph on
the scarred table at Blues Franklin.
   Arlene lit a cigarette and pulled down a small bowl
for an ashtray. "Gail won't let me smoke in her house.
She'll be furious when she gets home tomorrow."
   Kurtz studied the amber liquid in his glass.
   "What if the police don't arrest Rafferty, Joe?"
   He shrugged again.
   "Or if they do?" said Arlene. "Either way, Rachel is
going to be at risk. A foster home? Samantha had no
other family. Just her ex-husband. Unless he has
family who can take care of her."
   Kurtz poured another finger of scotch. Rafferty's only
living family was an alcoholic bitch of a mother who
lived in Las Vegas and a younger brother who was
doing time in an Indiana state prison for armed
robbery. He'd listened to the phone conversations.
   "But if she goes into some sort of temporary foster
home…" began Arlene.
   "Look," said Kurtz, slamming the empty glass down
on the counter, "what the hell do you want me to do
about it?"


                           211
   Arlene blinked. Joe Kurtz had never yelled at her in
all their years of working together. She exhaled smoke
and batted ashes into the dainty little ceramic bowl.
"DNA," she said.
   "What?"
   "DNA testing would show paternity, Joe. You could
—"
   "Are you fucking nuts? An ex-con who served time
for manslaughter? A former P.I. who will never get his
license back? Somebody with at least three death
sentences out on him?" Kurtz laughed. "Yeah, I don't
see why the courts wouldn't place the kid with someone
like that. Besides, I don't know for sure that I'm the—"
   "Don't," said Arlene, her finger raised and pointed.
"Don't say that. Don't even pretend to me that you
think it."
   Kurtz went out into the tiny living room, retrieved
his peacoat and the S&W .40 from where he'd left them
and went down the stairs and out of the house. It was
dark out and it had begun to snow again.




                          212
      CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR


                                                   «^»
"I was just about to call and report a stolen Porsche,"
said Angelina Farino Ferrara.
   "That little electronic-card thing is handy," said
Kurtz. "It lets you into both the parking garage and the
elevator. Useful."
   "I hope you put the Boxster back in the same slot.
And there had better not be any scratches."
   Kurtz ignored her and walked over to the center of
the penthouse's living room. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling
window on the east side, the lights of downtown Buffalo
glowed through the falling snow. To the west was the
darkness of the river and lake, with only a few distant
ship lights blinking against blackness.
   "We have to get rid of Leo," said Angelina.
   "I know. Any problems with Marco?"
   "Not a peep. He's handcuffed in the bathroom. Seems
to be mildly amused by all this. Marco may be smarter
than I thought."
   "Maybe so. You have anyone on the floor below us?"
   "Five people work there—no muscle, just bookkeeper
types—but they went home at six. Marco and Leo were
the only ones using the living quarters there."
   "I thought Little Skag brought in new muscle from
the east."

                          213
    "He did. Eight other new guys besides Marco and
Leo. But they're all out doing what they do—running
what's left of Stevie's crews, handling the whores and
gambling. Day-to-day stuff. They don't come by here
that much."
    "Who does?"
    "Albert Bell is the lawyer who acts as liaison
between Little Stevie and me. I usually see Mr. Bell on
Saturdays."
    "But Marco and Leo check in with Little Skag by
phone every Wednesday?"
    "Right. Stevie calls his lawyer. The call is forwarded.
I don't know where the Boys take the call."
    "Marco will tell us," said Kurtz. He felt very tired.
"You ready to transport the frozen goods?"
    "I'll go down and back the Town Car right up to the
elevator."
    "I'll need a big garment bag, sheet, something."
    "Shower curtain," said Angelina. "Little blue fish on
it. I took care of it."

Angelina drove. They took the Buffalo Skyway south
along the lake. It was snowing very hard now, visibility
was limited to the two cones of headlights filled with
flurries, and the elevated highway was treacherous
with black ice. Only the Lincoln Town Car's massive
weight kept them moving as the rear-wheel drive
slipped and then gripped for pavement. Kurtz had the
clear image of them getting stuck and a friendly
patrolman stopping to help them out, a need to look in
the trunk for the chains or somesuch…

                            214
   "We going far?" he asked.
   "Not far. Near Hamburg."
   "What's near Hamburg?"
   "My father and older brother used to keep an ice-
fishing shack just offshore in February. Sometimes
they'd drag Little Stevie along, whining and pouting. I
went a few times. If there's anything more stupid than
sitting in a freezing shack staring at a hole in the ice, I
don't what it might be. But some of the old capos still
set up the shack even though there are no Farinos
around to use it."
   "I didn't know that people ice-fished on Lake Erie. Is
the ice thick enough to walk on?"
   "We're going to drive this car out onto it."
   "But aren't there big ships still moving out there?"
   "Yeah."
   That was all Kurtz wanted to know about that
subject. He concentrated on staying awake while the
big car crept along through blowing snow. Once off the
Skyway and moving along Highway 5 through little
shoreline communities like Locksley Park and Mount
Vernon, the black ice was less frequent but the snow
was worse.
   "Are you still with me on this, Kurtz?"
   The woman's voice made him blink awake. "With you
on what?"
   "You know. Gonzaga."
   "I don't know."
   Angelina drove in silence for a few minutes.
   "Why don't you tell me what your real plan is," Kurtz
said. "What your objectives are, long term goals. So far

                            215
you've just tried to use me like some damned Hamas
suicide bomber."
   "And you used me," she said. "You were ready to get
me killed today just so you could get to Emilio."
   Kurtz shrugged at that. He waited.
   "If Little Skag gets out of Attica this spring, it's too
late," Angelina said at last. "I'm screwed. The Farino
Family is finished. Stevie thinks he can ride this tiger,
but Emilio will gobble him up in six weeks. Less."
   "So? You can always go back to Italy or something.
Can't you?"
   "No," said Angelina, throwing the word like a javelin.
"Fuck that. The Gonzagas have been planning this…
this extermination… of the Farinos for a long, long
time. It was Emilio's father who had my father
ambushed and crippled sixteen years ago. Emilio raped
me seven years ago as much out of Gonzaga contempt
as anything else. There's no way on earth that I'm
going to let them destroy the family without a fight."
She slowed, hunted for a street sign in the blizzard, and
turned right toward the lake.
   "So say I'd killed Gonzaga for you," said Kurtz.
"Either you or one of the New York families would have
had me killed, but then where are you? Little Skag is
still running things from Attica."
   "But he can't get out without the judges and parole-
board people on the Gonzaga payroll," said Angelina.
"It buys me time to try to consolidate things. If the
rebuilt Farino Family is earning money for them, the
New York bosses won't care who's actually running the
action here in Buffalo."


                            216
   "But Little Skag still has the leverage and control of
the money," said Kurtz. "In a vacuum, he'll just find a
way to buy the Gonzaga judges and parole-board
people."
   "Yes." The asphalt road ended at a snowy boat ramp
dropping down onto the lake. Two rows of red flares
were dimly visible stretching across the snowy ice,
marking a makeshift road onto Lake Erie. A few truck
and snowmobile tracks were gradually being erased by
the wind. "The goddamned Gonzagas," muttered
Angelina as she slowly descended the boat ramp. She
was talking without thinking about it, just to relieve
the tension of the driving. "While Papa and my family
were consolidating gambling and prostitution and
paying off just a few tame judges, the Gonzagas spent
their money to buy top officials. Hell, most of the top
cops in the Buffalo P.D. are on their pad."
   "Stop!" said Kurtz.
   The big Lincoln slewed to a stop with only its front
wheels on the ice. "What?" snapped Angelina.
"Goddammit, Kurtz. I told you, the ice is thick enough
now to hold ten, Town Cars. Quit being so fucking
nervous."
   "No," said Kurtz. The windshield wipers pounded
wildly, trying to knock away the blowing snow. "Say
that again… about the cops."
   "Say what? The Gonzagas have been paying the top
cops for years. It's how Emilio's family gets away with
moving the huge volume of drugs it does."
   "Do you have a list of those cops?"
   "Sure. So what?"
   Kurtz was too busy thinking to answer.

                           217
The Farino ice-fishing shack was only a few hundred
yards out on the ice, but in the dark and the snow and
the howling wind, it seemed like miles from shore. A
few other shacks were visible in the headlights, but
there were no vehicles. Even idiots who thought ice
fishing was a sport weren't out tonight.
   Kurtz and Angelina Farino Ferrara wrestled the
stiffened bundle out of the trunk and carried it into the
shack. There was a large hole centered where men
could sit on plywood seats on either side and watch
their lines—the whole building reminded Kurtz of an
oversized outhouse—but a film of new ice had grown
over the hole.
   Angelina took a long-handled shovel from the corner
and bashed away the scrim of ice. The wind literally
howled, and icy pellets pounded the north wall of the
shack.
   Angelina had added some chains to the package so
there was no need to hunt for additional weights. They
lowered Leo through the hole, his shoulders barely
squeezing through and bunching up the plastic shower
curtain, and watched the last bubbles rise in the middle
of the black circle.
   "Let's get out of here," said Kurtz.
   Back on Highway 5, Angelina said, "It's a good thing
you chose Leo."
   "Why?"
   "Marco wouldn't have fit through that hole. We
would've had to chop a new one."
   Kurtz let that go.


                           218
   Angelina glanced at him in the light of the
instrument console. There was almost no traffic going
through Lackawanna and back into town. "Did it occur
to you that Leo might have had a family, Kurtz? A
loving wife? Couple of kids?"
   "No. Did he?"
   "Of course not. As far as I could find out, he left New
Jersey because he'd beaten his stripper girlfriend to
death. He'd killed his brother the year before over some
gambling debt. But my point was, he might've had a
family. You didn't know."
   Kurtz wasn't listening. He was trying to fight away
fatigue long enough to work through this thing.
   "Okay," Angelina said. "Tell me. What was this
about the cops?"
   "I don't know."
   She waited. As they drove into the Marina Towers
basement garage, Kurtz said, "I may have a way. For
us to get to Gonzaga and survive. Maybe even put you
in the position you want to be in and take Little Skag
out of the equation."
   "Kill Stevie?" She did not sound shocked at the idea.
   "Not necessarily. Just get rid of his leverage."
   "Tell me."
   Kurtz shook his head. He looked around the garage
and realized that his Volvo was still parked at the
Buffalo Athletic Club. That cute little Boxster would
never get through this snow. And where am I going?
Hansen probably had his room at the Royal Delaware
Arms and the office staked out. Kurtz thought of how
crowded Gail's tiny apartment was tonight—violinist

                           219
on the sofa, wino on the floor, whatever—and it made
him more tired than ever.
   "You have to drive me back to the Athletic Club," he
said dully. Maybe he could sleep in the car there.
   "Fuck that," Angelina said in conversational tones.
"You're staying in the penthouse tonight."
   Kurtz looked at her.
   "Relax. I'm not after your body, Kurtz. And you look
too wasted to make a pass. I just need to hear about
this plan. You're not leaving until you tell me."
   "I need a B-and-E expert tomorrow," said Kurtz.
"Your family has to know someone really good at
defeating security systems. Maybe cracking safes as
well."
   Angelina laughed.
   "What's so funny?" said Kurtz.
   "I'll tell you upstairs. You can sleep on the sectional
in the living room. We'll build a fire, you can pour us a
couple of brandies, and I'll tell you what's so funny. It'll
be your bedtime story."




                            220
       CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE


                                                   «^»
James B. Hansen awoke on Wednesday morning
refreshed, renewed, and determined to go on the
offensive. He made love to his very surprised wife—only
Hansen knew that it would almost certainly be for the
last time, since he planned to move on before the
approaching weekend was past—and even while he
made her moan, he was thinking that he had been
passive in this Frears/Kurtz thing far too long, that it
was time for him to reassert his dominance. James B.
Hansen was a Master chess player, but he much
preferred offense to defense. He had been reacting to
events rather than being proactive. It was time for him
to take charge. People were going to die today.
   His wife moaned her weak little orgasm, Hansen
dutifully had his—offering a prayer to his Lord and
Savior as he did so—and then it was time to shower,
strap on his Glock-9, and get to work.

Hansen went to the office long enough to have "Captain
Millworth" clear his schedule except for a mandatory
meeting with Boy Scout Troop 23 at 11:30 and a lunch
with the Chief and the Mayor an hour after that. He
called the two detectives: Myers was on the stakeout at
Kurtz's secretary's house in Cheektowaga after a few
hours' sleep; Brubaker had checked the Royal Delaware

                          221
Arms and Kurtz's office downtown—no joy there.
Hansen told Brubaker to join Myers in Cheektowaga,
he would meet them there.
   He went down to the precinct basement to
requisition tactical gear.
   "Wow, Captain," said the sergeant behind the cage
wire, "you starting a war?"
   "Just running a tactical exercise for a few of my
boys," said Hansen. "Can't let the detectives get fat and
lazy while ESU and SWAT are having all the fun, can
we?"
   "No, sir," said the sergeant.
   "I'm going to back my Cadillac sport ute around,"
said Hansen. "Would you pack all this stuff in two
ballistic-cloth bags and get it up to the rear door?"
   "Yes, sir," said the sergeant in an unhappy tone. It
wasn't his job to hump gear bags up the back stairs.
But Captain Robert Gaines Millworth had a reputation
as a humorless, unforgiving officer.
   Hansen drove out through heavy snow to
Cheektowaga, thinking about how easy this
apprehension would be if he could just call a dozen of
his detectives into the ready room and send them
searching for Frears and Kurtz: checking every hotel
and motel in the Buffalo area, running credit-card
searches, going door to door. He had to smile at this.
After years of being the ultimate loner, James B.
Hansen was being contaminated by the group-effort
persona of Captain Millworth. Well. I'll just have to get
by with Brubaker and Myers. It was too bad that he had
to rely on a venial, corrupt cop and a fat slacker, but


                           222
he'd use them and then discard them within the next
couple of days.
   The venial, corrupt cop and the fat slacker were
eating doughnuts in Myers's Pontiac, across the street
from Arlene DeMarco's house.
   "Nothing, Captain," reported Brubaker. "She hasn't
even come out for her paper."
   "Her car's still in the garage," said Myers, belaboring
the obvious. The driveway showed six inches of fresh
snow and no tire tracks.
   Hansen glanced at his watch; it was not quite 8:30
a.m. "Why don't we go in and say hello?"
   The two detectives stared at him over their gnawed
doughnuts and steaming coffee. "We got a warrant,
Captain?" asked Myers.
   "I've got something better," said Hansen. The three
men got out in the falling snow. Hansen opened his
trunk and handed the pneumatic battering ram to
Myers. "Brubaker, you ready your weapon," said
Hansen. He took his own Glock-9 out, chambered a
round, and crossed the street to the DeMarco house.
   He knocked three times, waited a second, stood to
one side, and nodded to Myers. The fat man looked at
Brubaker as if questioning the order, but then swung
the ram. The door burst inward, ripping its bolt chain
off as it fell.
   Hansen and Brubaker went in with pistols held high
in both hands, swinging their weapons as they moved
their heads. Living room—clear. Dining room—clear.
Kitchen—clear. Bedrooms and bathrooms—clear.
Basement and utility room—clear. They returned to the
kitchen and holstered their weapons.

                           223
   "That bugger packs a wallop," said Myers, setting
the battering ram on the table and shaking his fingers.
   Hansen ignored him. "You're sure someone was
home when you started the stakeout?"
   "Yeah," said Myers. "I could see a woman moving
around in the living room yesterday afternoon before
she pulled the drapes. Then the lights went off about
eleven."
   "The lights could have been on a timer," said
Hansen. "When was the last time you saw someone
move?"
   Myers shrugged. "I dunno. It wasn't dark yet.
Maybe, I dunno, four. Four-thirty."
   Hansen opened the back door. Even with the new
snow, faint tracks were visible crossing the backyard.
"Stay a few paces back," he said. Not bothering to pull
his glock from its holster, he followed the faint
depressions in the snow across the backyard, through a
gate, across the alley, and through another backyard.
   "We got another warrant for this house?" asked
Brubaker from the yard as Hansen went to the back
door.
   "Shut up." Hansen knocked.
   A woman in her seventies peered fearfully through
the kitchen curtains. Hansen held his gold badge to the
window. "Police. Please open the door." The three
detectives waited while a seemingly endless number of
bolts and locks and chains were released.
   Hansen led the other two into the woman's kitchen.
He nodded at Brubaker, who beckoned to Myers, and
the two began searching the other rooms of the house
while the old lady wrung her hands.
                          224
   "Ma'am, I'm Captain Millworth of the Buffalo Police
Department. Sorry to bother you this morning, but
we're looking for one of your neighbors."
   "Arlene?" said the woman.
   "Mrs. DeMarco, yes. Have you seen her? It's very
important."
   "Is she in some kind of trouble, Officer? I mean, she
asked me not to mention to anyone…"
   "Yes, ma'am. I mean no, Mrs. DeMarco's not in any
trouble with us, but we have reason to believe that she
may be in danger. We're trying to find her. What is
your name, ma'am?"
   "Mrs. Dzwrjsky."
   "When did you see her last night, Mrs. Dzwrjsky?"
   "Yesterday afternoon. Right after Wheel of Fortune."
   "About four-thirty?"
   "Yes."
   "And was she alone?"
   "No. She had a Negro man with her. I thought that
was very strange. Was she his hostage, Officer? I mean,
I thought it very strange. Arlene didn't act frightened,
but the man… I mean, he seemed very nice… but I
thought it was very strange. Was he kidnapping her?"
   "That's what we're trying to find out, Mrs. Dzwrjsky.
Is this the man?" Hansen showed her the photo of John
Wellington Frears.
   "Oh, my, yes. Is he dangerous?"
   "Do you know where they went?"
   "No. Not really. I loaned Arlene Mr. Dzwrjsky's car. I
mean, I almost never drive it anymore. Little Charles
from down the street drives me when I have to—"
                           225
   "What kind of car is it, Mrs. Dzwrjsky?"
   "Oh… a station wagon. A Ford. Curtis always bought
Fords at the dealership out on Union, even when—"
   "Do you remember the make and year of the station
wagon, ma'am?"
   "Make? You mean the name? Other than Ford, you
mean? My heavens, no. It's big, old, you know, and has
that fake wood trim on the side."
   "A Country Squire?" said Hansen. Brubaker and
Myers came back into the kitchen, their weapons out of
sight. Brubaker shook his head. No one else in the
house.
   "Yes, perhaps. That sounds right."
   "Old?" said Hansen. "From the seventies perhaps?"
   "Oh, no, Officer. Not that old. Curtis bought it the
year Janice's first daughter was born. Nineteen eighty-
three."
   "And do you know the license number on the Ford
Country Squire, ma'am?"
   "No, no… but it would be in that drawer there, with
the registration forms and the car-insurance stuff. I
always…" She paused and watched as Brubaker rifled
through the drawer, coming up with a current license-
registration form. He said the tag number aloud and
put the form in his coat pocket.
   "You're being very helpful, Mrs. Dzwrjsky. Very
helpful." Hansen patted the old woman's mottled
hands. "Now, can you tell us where Arlene and this
man were going?"
   Mona Dzwrjsky shook her head. "She did not say.
I'm sure she did not say. Arlene just said that

                          226
something very important had come up and asked if
she could borrow the station wagon. They seemed in a
hurry."
   "Do you have any idea where they might have been
going, Mrs. Dzwrjsky? Anyone that Arlene might try to
contact if there were trouble?"
   The old woman pursed her lips as she thought.
"Well, her late husband's sister, of course. But I
imagine you've spoken with Gail already."
   "Gail," repeated Hansen. "What's her last name,
ma'am?"
   "The same as Alan's and Arlene's. I mean, Gail was
married, twice, but never had children, and she took
back her maiden name after the second divorce. I used
to tell Arlene, you can never trust an Irish boy, but Gail
was always…"
   "Gail DeMarco," said Hansen.
   "Yes."
   "Do you know where she lives? Where she works?"
   Mrs. Dzwrjsky looked as if she might cry. "Gail lives
near where Colvin Avenue becomes Colvin Boulevard, I
think. Arlene took me to visit her once. Yes, right near
Hertel Plaza, north of the park."
   "And where does she work?" asked Hansen, his voice
more impatient than he meant it to be.
   The old woman looked afraid. "Oh, Gail has always
worked at the Erie County Medical Center. She's a
surgical nurse there."
   Hansen patted her hands again. "Thank you, Mrs.
Dzwrjsky. You've been a huge help." He nodded for


                           227
Brubaker and Myers to head back to the DeMarco
house.
   "I hope that Arlene is all right," said the old woman
from the back door. She was weeping now. "I just hope
Arlene is all right."
   Back in Arlene DeMarco's kitchen, Brubaker used
his cell phone to call Dispatch. They got Ms. Gail
DeMarco's address on Colvin and the phone number,
and Hansen called. There was no answer. He called the
Erie County Medical Center, identified himself as a
police officer, and was informed that Nurse DeMarco
was assisting in surgery right now but would be
available in about thirty minutes.
   "Okay," said Hansen. "You two get over to the house
on Colvin Avenue."
   "You want us to go in?" asked Myers, lifting the
battering ram off the table.
   "No. Just stake it out. Check the driveway and call
me if the Ford wagon is there. You can ask neighbors if
they've seen the car or Arlene DeMarco or Frears or
Kurtz, but don't go in until I get there."
   "Where will you be, Captain?" Brubaker seemed half-
amused by all this urgency.
   "I'm going to stop at the Medical Center on the way.
Get going."
   Hansen watched from the front window as the two
drove off in their unmarked cars. Then he walked back
across the yard, through the carport, across the alley,
and knocked on Mrs. Dzwrjsky's back door again.
   When the old woman opened the door, she was
holding the phone but it appeared that she hadn't
dialed a number yet. She set the phone back in its
                          228
cradle as Hansen stepped into the kitchen. "Yes,
Officer?"
   Hansen pulled the Glock-9 and shot her three times
in the upper chest. Any other time, he would take the
chance that the woman would call someone rather than
take the chance of leaving a body behind, much less
leave two detectives as witnesses, but this was an
unusual situation. All he needed was a day or two and
none of this would matter for Captain Robert Gaines
Millworth. Probably just one day.
   Hansen stepped over the body, making sure not to
step in the widening pool of blood, picked up his ejected
brass, and took time to reload the three cartridges in
the dock's magazine before walking back through the
yards to his waiting Cadillac Escalade.




                           229
        CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX


                                                   «^»
Earlier that morning, Kurtz and Angelina Farino
Ferrara sat in the front seat of her Lincoln and watched
Captain Robert Millworth drive away from his home. It
was 7:15 a.m.
   "There was another car in the garage," said
Angelina. "A BMW wagon."
   Kurtz nodded and they waited. At 7:45, a woman, a
teenage boy, and an Irish setter backed out in the
station wagon. The woman beeped the garage door shut
and drove off. "Wife, kid, and dog," said Angelina. "Any
more in there?"
   Kurtz shrugged.
   "We'll find out," said Angelina. She drove the Town
Car right up the long Millworth driveway and they both
got out, Angelina carrying a heavy nylon bag. Kurtz
stood back while she knocked several times. No answer.
   "Around back," she said. He followed her through the
side yard and across a snowy patio. The nearest
neighbor was about a hundred yards away behind a
privacy fence.
   They paused by the sliding doors to the patio as
Angelina crouched and studied something through the
glass. "It's a SecureMax system," she said. "Expensive
but not the best. Would you give me that glass cutter
and the suction cup? Thanks."

                          230
Yesterday evening, in front of the fire over brandies,
with Kurtz almost too tired to concentrate, she had told
him her story… or at least the part of it that had made
her laugh when he'd told her that he would need a B&E
man.
   Angelina Farino had always wanted to be a thief.
Her father, Don Byron Farino, had worked to keep her
sheltered from the facts of his life and would never
have considered allowing her to take part in the family
business. But Angelina did not want to be involved in
every aspect of the business—not then. She just wanted
to be the best thief in New York State.
   Her brother David introduced her to some of the
legendary old second-story men and in high school
Angelina would visit them, bringing wine, just to hear
their stories. David also introduced her to some of the
rising young thugs in their father's organization, but
she didn't care much for them; they bragged about
using guns, violence, and frontal assaults. Angelina
wanted to know about the smart men, the subtle men,
the quiet men, the patient men. Angelina did not want
to be another mobster; she wanted to be a cat burglar;
she wanted to be The Cat; she wanted to be Cary Grant
in To Catch a Thief.
   She had put herself in harm's way with Emilio
Gonzaga when she was in her early twenties because
she thought that Gonzaga was going to introduce her to
a safecracker she'd always wanted to meet. Instead, as
she put it, Emilio introduced her to his dick.
   Exiled to Sicily to have the baby, she had married a
local mini-don, an idiot exactly her age but with half

                          231
her IQ, "to keep up appearances." After appearances
were kept up and after the baby died and after the
young don had his unfortunate hunting accident—or
accident cleaning his pistol, Angelina let them choose
the story they wanted—she flew to Rome to meet the
famous Count Pietro Adolfo Ferrara. Eighty-two years
old and suffering the effects of two strokes, the count
was still the most famous thief in Europe. Trained by
his legendary thief of a father between the wars, active
in the Italian resistance, and credited with stealing the
communiques from Gestapo headquarters that led to
the interdiction and assassination of Mussolini and his
mistress, it was often said that the handsome, daring
Count Ferrara had been the model for that Cary Grant
character in To Catch a Thief.
   Angelina had married the bedridden old man four
days after they met. The next four years were, in her
words, a training camp for becoming a world-class thief.

"What are you doing?" said Kurtz. He was moving from
foot to foot on Hansen's patio. It was damned cold and
his hair was wet with snow.
   Angelina had cut a circular hole from the lower part
of the patio door, had removed the glass carefully, and
was reaching inside with a long instrument. She
ignored Kurtz.
   "Isn't that security system set for motion or messing
with the glass?" asked Kurtz. "Haven't you tripped it
already?"
   "Would you shut up, please?" She reached in to clip
on red and black wires and connected them to a module
that connected with a Visor digital organizer. She

                           232
studied the readout for a second, shut off the Visor, and
unclipped the wires. "Okay," she said, standing and
throwing her heavy black bag over her shoulder.
   "Okay what?"
   "Okay we open the door the usual way and have
eight seconds to tap in the six-digit code on the
keypad."
   "And you know the code now?"
   "Let's see." She studied the back door a minute,
removed a short crowbar from her bag, broke the glass,
and reached in to slip the chain lock and undo the main
lock. It seemed to Kurtz that she had used the full eight
seconds just to do that.
   Angelina walked into the rear hallway, found the
keypad on the wall, and tapped in the six-character
alphanumeric code. An indicator on the security keypad
went from red to green to amber. "Clear," she said.
   Kurtz let out his breath. He pulled his pistol out
from under his coat.
   "You expecting someone else to be home?" said
Angelina.
   Kurtz shrugged.
   "You going to tell me now whose house this is and
how it relates to Gonzaga?"
   "Not yet," said Kurtz. They went from room to room
together, first the large downstairs, then all the
bedrooms and guest rooms upstairs.
   "Jesus," said Angelina as they came back downstairs.
"This place is the definition of retro anal retentive. It's
like we broke into Mike and Carol Brady's house."
   "Who the hell are Mike and Carol Brady?"

                            233
   Angelina paused at the top of the basement stairs.
"You don't know the Brady Bunch?"
   Kurtz gave her a blank look.
   "Christ, Kurtz, you've been locked away longer than
twelve years."
   The basement had a laundry room, a bare rec room
with a dusty Ping-Pong table, and a room locked away
behind a steel door with a complicated security keypad.
   "Wowzuh," said Angelina and whistled.
   "Same code as upstairs?"
   "No way. This is a serious piece of circuitry." She
started pulling instruments and wires from her bag.
   Kurtz glanced at his watch. "We don't have all day."
   "Why not?" said Angelina. "You have things to see
and people to do today?"
   "Yeah."
   "Well, don't get your jockey briefs in a bunch. In two
minutes, we'll either be in or we'll have armed private-
security people all over our ass here."
   "Private security," said Kurtz. "This guy's alarms
don't go to the cop house?"
   "Get serious." She focused her attention on removing
the keypad from the wall and connecting her wires to
its wires without setting off the silent alarm.
   Kurtz wandered back upstairs and looked out the
front window. Their black Town Car was parked in
plain sight, although the increasing snowfall made
visibility more problematic. Kurtz was thankful that
Hansen had bought a relatively isolated house with
such a long driveway.
   "Holy shit!" Angelina's voice sounded far away.

                           234
   Kurtz trotted down the stairs and went through the
open door. It was quite a private office—mahogany-
paneled walls, a lighted gun case running from floor to
ceiling, a heavy, expensive-looking wooden desk. On the
wall above and behind that desk were photographs of
James B. Hansen posing with various Buffalo worthies,
plus a scad of certificates—Florida Police Academy
diplomas, shooting awards, and commendations for
Lieutenant and Captain Robert G. Millworth, Homicide
Detective.
   Angelina's eyes were narrow when she wheeled on
Kurtz. "You had me break into a fucking cop's home?"
   "No." He walked over to the large wall safe. "Can you
get into this?"
   She quit staring daggers at Kurtz and looked at the
safe. "Maybe."
   He looked at his watch again.
   "If this were a small, round safe, we'd have to pry the
fucker out of the wall and take it with us," said
Angelina. "You just can't get any blast leverage on a
round safe. But our boy went in for the heavier, more
expensive type."
   "So?"
   "So anything with corners, I can get into." She set
her bag down near the safe door and began removing
timers, primers, thermite sticks, and wads of plastique.
   "You're going to blow it?" Kurtz was wishing that
he'd gone to check on Arlene, Frears, and Pruno before
doing this errand.
   "I'm going to burn our way into the lock mechanism
and get at the tumblers that way," said Angelina. "Why
don't you make yourself useful and go make us some
                           235
coffee?" She worked for a few seconds and then looked
up at Kurtz standing there. "I'm serious. I didn't get my
full three cups this morning."
   Kurtz went up to the kitchen, found the coffeemaker,
and made the coffee. He found some cannoli in the
refrigerator. By the time he started down the stairs
with two mugs and a dish with the cannoli, there came
a loud hiss, a muffled whump, and an acrid odor filled
the air. The safe looked intact to Kurtz's eye, but then
he saw a fissure around the combination lock. Angelina
Farino Ferrara had attached a slim fiberoptic cable to
the Visor organizer and was watching a monochrome
display as she clicked the combination.
   The heavy safe door swung open. She accepted the
cup of coffee and drank deeply. "Blue Mountain roast.
Good stuff. Cannoli's just okay."
   Kurtz began removing things from the safe. A heavy
nylon bag contained more than a dozen carefully
wrapped cubes of what looked to be gray clay nestled in
with foam-wrapped detonators, delicate-looking timers,
and coils of primer cord.
   "Military C-Four," said Angelina. "What the hell
does your homicide captain want with C-Four in his
home?"
   "He likes to burn down and blow up his homes," said
Kurtz. Shelves in the safe held more than $200,000 in
cash and bearer's bonds, a bunch of certificates and
policies, and a titanium case. Kurtz ignored the money
and carried the case to the desk.
   "Excuse me," Angelina said. "You forgetting
something?"
   "I'm not a thief."

                           236
    "I am," she said and began transferring the money
and bonds to her bag.
    "Shit," said Kurtz. The locks on the case were also
titanium and did not give when he went at them with
the small crowbar.
    "That little case may take longer to crack than the
safe," said Angelina.
    "Uh-uh," said Kurtz. He took out his .40-caliber
Smith & Wesson and blew the locks off. The gap
allowed the crowbar to get a grip and he popped the
briefcase open.
    Angelina finished loading the contents of the safe,
lifted her heavy bag, and came over to the desk where
Kurtz had laid out some of the photographs. "So what
exactly are you… Holy Mother of God!"
    Kurtz nodded.
    "Who is this motherfucking pervert?" whispered
Angelina.
    Kurtz shrugged. "We'll never know his real name.
But I was sure that he'd keep trophies. And he did."
    It was Angelina's turn to look at her watch. "This is
taking too long."
    Kurtz nodded and hefted the bag of C-4 over his
shoulder.
    Angelina was sipping her coffee and heading for the
door. She gestured. "Bring the other bag with the
money and my burglar's stuff. Leave the cannoli."




                           237
     CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN


                                                      «^»
Hansen showed his badge to three nurses and two
interns before being told where Nurse Gail DeMarco
was.
   "She's out of the O.R. and is… ah… right now, she's
in the Intensive Care Unit on nine." The fat, black
nurse was checking her computer monitor. Evidently
all the hospital personnel were tracked by electronic
sensors.
   Hansen went up to the ICU and found the nurse
speaking on a cell phone while looking down at a
sleeping or comatose teenage girl. The girl had bruises
and bandages and at least three tubes running in and
out of her.
   "Mrs. DeMarco?" Hansen showed his badge.
   "I have to go," the nurse said into the phone and
punched the disconnect button, but kept the phone in
her hand. "What is it, Captain?"
   Hansen showed his most engaging smile. "You know
that I'm a captain of detectives?"
   "It said so right on the ID you just showed me,
Captain. Let's step out of this room."
   "No, we're all right here," said Hansen. "I'll just be a
minute." He liked the glass doors and walls separating
them from the nurses' station. He went closer to the
bed and leaned over the sleeping girl. "Car accident?"

                            238
   "Yes."
   "What's the kid's name?"
   "Rachel."
   "How old?"
   "Fourteen."
   Hansen gave his winning smile again. "I have a
fourteen-year-old son. Jason. He wants to be a
professional hockey player."
   The nurse did not respond. She checked one of the
monitors and adjusted the IV drip. She was still
carrying the stupid cell phone in her left hand.
   "She going to make it?" asked Hansen, not giving the
slightest damn if the kid survived or went into cardiac
arrest right then and there, but still wanting to get on
Gail DeMarco's good side. Most women were blown
away by his smile and affable persona.
   "We hope so," said the nurse. "Can I help you,
Captain?"
   "Have you heard from your sister-in-law Arlene,
Mrs. DeMarco?"
   "Not for the last week or so. Is she in some sort of
trouble?"
   "We don't know." He showed the Frears photo. "Have
you ever seen this man?"
   "No."
   No hesitation. No questions. No sign of alarm. Gail
DeMarco wasn't responding according to the script. "We
think perhaps this man abducted your sister-in-law."
   The nurse didn't even blink. "Why would he do
that?"


                          239
    Hansen rubbed his chin. In other circumstances, he
would take great pleasure in using a knife on this
uncooperative woman. To calm himself, he looked down
at the sleeping girl. She was just at the high end of the
age group he liked. He raised her wrist and looked at
the sea-green hospital bracelet there.
    "Please don't touch her, Captain. We're worried
about infection. Thank you. We shouldn't be in here."
    "Just one more minute, Mrs. DeMarco. Your sister-
in-law works for a man named Joe Kurtz. What can you
tell me about Mr. Kurtz?"
    The nurse had moved between Hansen and the
sleeping girl. "Joe Kurtz? Nothing, really. I've never
met him."
    "So you haven't heard from Arlene in the last few
days?"
    "No."
    Hansen graced the woman with a last glimpse of his
most charming smile. "You've been very helpful, Mrs.
DeMarco. We are concerned about your sister-in-law's
whereabouts and well-being. If she gets in touch, please
call me immediately. Here's my card."
    Gail DeMarco took the card but immediately slipped
it into her smock pocket as if it was contaminated.
    Hansen took the elevator down to the reception level,
spoke briefly with the nurse there, and took the
elevator the rest of the way to the parking garage. He
had learned several things. First, Kurtz's secretary had
been in touch with her sister-in-law, but Arlene
probably had not told her any details concerning Frears
or what was going on. The nurse had known just
enough not to be concerned about her sister's safety.

                           240
Second, Gail almost certainly knew where Arlene was
hiding. And probably Kurtz as well. Third, odds were
good that Arlene and her boss, probably with Frears,
were hiding at Nurse DeMarco's borne on Colvin
Avenue. Finally, and perhaps most important, Hansen
had recognized the girl's name on the ID bracelet—
Rachel Rafferty. Most people would not have made the
connection, but James B. Hansen's memory was near
photographically perfect. He recalled the notes in Joe
Kurtz's file: former partner in their private
investigation firm, Samantha Fielding, one daughter—
Rachel—two years old when Ms. Fielding had been
murdered; Rachel later adopted by Fielding's ex-
husband, Donald Rafferty. And the nurse at reception,
after being prodded by his badge, gave the details of the
Raffertys' auto accident—black ice on the Kensington
Expressway, Donald Rafferty recovering well but under
suspicion of sexually abusing his daughter, the
investigation currently on hold until the girl either
recovered consciousness or died.
   Hansen smiled. He loved subtle connections. Even
more, he loved leverage over other people, and this
injured child might make wonderful leverage.

Kurtz and Angelina had just driven away from the
Hansen house in Tonawanda when Kurtz's cell phone
rang. It was Arlene. "Gail just called from the hospital."
   "You told her that you were all staying at her place?"
said Kurtz.
   "I called her earlier this morning," Arlene said. "She
called a minute ago because she was in Rachel's ICU
room and her friend at reception called up from

                           241
downstairs to tell her that a plainclothes detective was
there at the hospital looking for her. Gail was on the
phone with me when the cop came in and she left the
line open while they talked… it was Millworth. Hansen.
He even sounded crazy, Joe. And scary."
   "What did Gail tell him?"
   "Nothing. Not a thing."
   Kurtz doubted that. Even with the titanium
briefcase full of incriminating evidence in the car with
him, it was no time to start underestimating the
creature Kurtz thought of as James B. Hansen.
   "You and Pruno and Frears have to get out of there,"
he said.
   "We'll go now," said Arlene. "I'll take the station
wagon."
   "No," said Kurtz. He checked where they were.
Angelina had chosen the Youngman Highway to get
them back to the city, and the Lincoln was approaching
the Colvin Boulevard exit. "Get off here," he snapped at
Angelina.
   She gave him an angry look but glanced at the
titanium case and roared down the off-ramp onto
Colvin Boulevard South.
   "We'll be there in ten minutes," Kurtz said to Arlene.
"Less."

Hansen had just left the Medical Center when his
private cell phone rang.
   "We just got to the DeMarco place on Colvin," came
Brubaker's voice. "A black Lincoln Town Car just pulled
into the driveway—either the DeMarco drive or the one

                           242
belonging to the duplex next door, we can't tell from
down the block. Wait a minute, it's pulling out again…
the Lincoln's coming by us… I see a woman driving, not
Kurtz's secretary. There was someone in the passenger
seat, but Myers and me couldn't see because of the
reflection and I can't see in the back because of the
goddamned tinted windows… sorry for the language,
Captain. You want us to stake out the duplex or follow
the Lincoln?"
   "Did you see anyone get into the car from the
DeMarco house?"
   "No, sir. But we can't see that side door from where
we're parked. Someone might have had time to jump in.
But the Lincoln wasn't in the driveway for more than
ten seconds. It was more like a car turning around than
anything else."
   "Is the Country Squire station wagon in the
driveway?"
   "Yeah. I can see it."
   "Did you get the tag numbers on the Lincoln?"
   There was a short silence that sounded to Hansen
like Brubaker sulking at being asked if they'd carried
out such an elementary bit of detective work. Hansen
wouldn't have been surprised if they'd neglected to get
the tag numbers.
   "Yeah," Brubaker said at last. He read the numbers.
"There's no parking on the street here, Captain. We
pulled into a driveway a couple of houses down. You
want us to go after the Lincoln? We can catch up to it if
we hurry."
   "Brubaker," said Hansen, "tell Myers to follow the
Lincoln. Tell him to run a DMV check while he's tailing

                           243
it. You stay there and keep watch on the house. Try to
be inconspicuous."
    "How do I look inconspicuous while I'm standing out
on the sidewalk in the snow?" said Brubaker.
    "Shut up and tell Myers to catch that Lincoln," said
Hansen. "I'll be at the duplex in five minutes." He broke
the connection.

"Where's Pruno?" said Kurtz, turned in the passenger
seat to look at the two in the rear. When they had
swept into the driveway, only Arlene and John
Wellington Frears had run to the Lincoln and jumped
in.
    "He left early this morning," said Arlene. "About
dawn. All dressed up in his pinstripe suit. He said
something about hiding in plain sight. I think he's
going to check into a hotel or something until all this
blows over."
    "Pruno in a hotel?" said Kurtz. It was hard to
picture. "Did he have any money?"
    "Yes," said Frears.
    "There's a Pontiac following us," said Angelina.
    Kurtz swiveled back and looked in the rearview
mirror. "Where'd it come from?"
    "It was parked a couple of houses down from the
place we picked these two up. It's been moving fast in
traffic to catch up."
    "It could be coincidence," said the violinist in back,
looking out the rear window of the Lincoln.
    Kurtz and Angelina exchanged glances. Obviously
neither of them believed in coincidences.

                           244
   "The car across the street from my house yesterday
was a Pontiac," Arlene said.
   Kurtz nodded and looked at Angelina. "Can we lose
them?"
   "Tell me who we're losing. I'm beginning to feel like
the hired help today."
   Kurtz thought of her black bag with the $200,000
next to Hansen's bag of C-4 in the trunk. "You have to
admit, the pay's pretty good," he said.
   Angelina shrugged. "Who's behind us? Mr.—?" She
tapped the titanium briefcase Kurtz was holding on his
lap.
   "One or more of the detectives who are working for
him," said Kurtz.
   "You mean working for him or working for him?"
   "For him personally," said Kurtz. "Can we lose them?
I don't think you want this guy visiting you." He tapped
the case.
   Angelina Farino Ferrara checked the mirror again.
   "He's only one car behind. They probably made the
license plate."
   "Still…" said Kurtz.
   "Everyone buckle up," said Angelina.




                          245
     CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT


                                                  «^»
The light was red by Nichols School at the intersection
of Colvin and Amherst where the street ended at the
park. The Lincoln was second in line. Kurtz glanced
back and could see the silhouette of only one head in
the Pontiac two cars back.
   Without warning, Angelina swung the Lincoln
around the old car ahead of them, almost hit a Honda
turning left from Amherst, and accelerated through the
red light—cutting off two other cars that had to brake
wildly. She headed east on Amherst for a hundred
yards and then swung south again on Nottingham
Terrace along the edge of the park.
   "The car's following," called Arlene from the back
seat.
   Angelina nodded. They were doing seventy miles per
hour on the residential street. She braked hard and
swung the big vehicle up a ramp onto the Scajaquada
Expressway. A hundred yards back, almost lost in the
snowfall, the Pontiac bounced and roared its way up
the same ramp.
   Cutting more cars off as she made the exchange from
the Scajaquada to 190, she accelerated to one hundred
miles per hour as they roared south over snow and
black ice along the elevated sections paralleling the
river.

                          246
   For a minute, the Pontiac was lost in traffic, and
Angelina braked hard enough to send the Lincoln into a
slide. Going lock to lock with the steering wheel,
tapping the brake and hitting the gas again to bring the
rear end around, Angelina cut off a rusty Jetta and
zoomed down another ramp, drove through a red light
in front of an eighteen-wheeler to drive east on Porter
and then swung around behind the old pumping-station
building in La Salle Park.
   The street here—old AmVets Drive—had not been
plowed for hours, and Angelina slowed as the black
Lincoln kicked up rooster tails of snow. To their right,
the Niagara River widened toward Lake Erie, but it
was all ice, all snow, as featureless gray-white as the
frozen fields in the empty park to their left. The back
street connected to the maze of local loops and streets
around the Erie Basin Marina and the Marina Towers.
The Pontiac did not reappear.

Hansen did not use the battering ram. He and
Brubaker kicked in the side door of Gail DeMarco's
duplex and went up the stairs width their guns drawn.
   The tiny little apartment up there was empty.
Photographs on the bedroom dresser showed the nurse
Hansen had interviewed, Gail DeMarco, Kurtz's
secretary Arlene, and a man who was probably Arlene
DeMarco's dead husband. Hansen and Brubaker
searched the rooms, but there was no sign that the
secretary or Frears or Kurtz had been there.
   "Shit," said Brubaker, holstering his weapon and
ignoring the frown at the use of such language.


                          247
Brubaker gave Hansen a shrewd, ferret look. "Captain,
what the hell is going on?"
   Hansen stared at the detective.
   "You know what I mean, Captain. You couldn't care
less about this Kurtz, and now you've got Myers and me
running all over town and back trying to find him and
his secretary and this violinist. We've violated about
three dozen department procedures. What's going on?"
   "What do you mean, Fred?"
   "Don't Fred me, Millworth." Brubaker was showing
his smoker's teeth in a leer. "You say you're going to
cover my back in an Internal-Affairs investigation, but
why? You're the original straight-arrow, aren't you?
What the fuck is going on here?"
   Hansen lifted the Glock-9 and laid the muzzle
against Detective Brubaker's temple. Thumbing the
hammer back for effect, Hansen said, "Are you
listening?"
   Brubaker nodded very slightly.
   "How much did Little Skag Farino pay you to get
Kurtz, Detective Brubaker?"
   "Five thousand in advance to arrest him and get him
into the system. Another five when someone whacked
him at County."
   "And?" said Hansen.
   "Fifteen K promised if I killed him myself."
   "How long have you been on the Farino payroll,
Detective Brubaker?"
   "December. Just after Jimmy died."
   Hansen leaned closer. "You sold your gold badge for
five thousand dollars, Detective. This situation—with

                          248
Frears, with Kurtz—is worth a hundred times that. To
you, Myers, me."
   Brubaker rolled his eyes toward Hansen. "Half a
million dollars? Total?"
   "Apiece," said Hansen.
   Brubaker licked his lips. "Drugs then? The
Gonzagas?"
   Hansen denied nothing. "Are you going to help me,
Detective? Or are you going to continue asking insulting
questions?"
   "I'm going to help you, Captain."
   Hansen lowered the Glock-9. "What about Tommy
Myers?"
   "What about him… sir?"
   "Can he be trusted to do as he's told?"
   Brubaker looked calculating. "Tommy's not on
anybody's payroll except the department's, Captain.
But he does what I tell him to. He'll keep his mouth
shut."
   Hansen saw the shrewd glint in Brubaker's eyes and
realized that the detective was already planning on
how to eliminate Tommy Myers from the payoff once
the work was done. Half of a million and a half dollars
was seven hundred and fifty thousand for Detective
Frederick Brubaker. Hansen didn't care—there was no
drug money, no money of any sort involved—as long as
Brubaker did what he was told.
   Hansen's phone rang.
   "I lost them on the downtown section of the
Thruway," said Myers. He sounded a little breathless.


                          249
"But I got a make on the license plates. Byron Farino of
Orchard Park."
   Hansen had to smile. The old don was dead and the
Orchard Park estate closed up, but evidently someone
in the family business was still using the vehicle. A
woman had been driving, Myers had said. The
daughter back from Italy? Angelina?
   "Good," said Hansen. "Where are you?"
   "Downtown, near the HSBC arena."
   "Go over to the Marina Tower building and find a
place to watch the garage exit."
   "The Farino bitch's penthouse?" said Myers. "Sorry,
Captain. You think this Frears and the others are
there?"
   "I think so. Just keep a good watch, Detective. I'll be
down to talk to you in a bit." He disconnected and told
the other detective what Myers had said.
   Brubaker was standing at the front window of the
duplex, watching the snow pile up on the small rooftop
terrace there. He seemed to have no hard feelings after
having a 9mm pistol pressed against his head. "What
next, Captain?"
   "I'm going to drop you at the main precinct garage to
get another car. Take the battering ram with you. I
want you to knock in the door at Joe Kurtz's office.
Make sure that no one's there and then join Myers at
the stakeout at Marina Towers."
   "Where will you be, sir?"
   Hansen holstered his Glock and adjusted his suit
jacket. "I've got a meeting with the Boy Scouts."



                           250
       CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE


                                                    «^»
"According to the radio," said Angelina, "the real
storm's going to hit this evening."
   "Lake Effect," said Arlene.
   John Wellington Frears looked up from the book he
was perusing. "Lake Effect? What is that?"
   Like true Buffalonians, both Arlene and Angelina
were eager to explain the meteorological wonder that
was a cold arctic air mass sweeping across Lake Erie,
depositing incredible amounts of snow on the Buffalo
area, especially in the "snow belt" south of the city
along the lake.
   Frears looked out the twelfth-story window at the
blowing snow and blue-black clouds moving toward
them across the frozen river and lake. "This isn't the
snow belt?"
   The penthouse was a pleasant enough place of refuge
during the long winter day. Kurtz knew that it was
literally the lull before the storm.
   A little before noon, Angelina brought the bodyguard
Marco into the corner kitchen, where Kurtz stood with
binoculars, looking down at the Pontiac and the old
Chevy parked back-to-back along Marina Drive. Seeing
Marco, Kurtz touched the pistol on his belt.
   "It's all right," said Angelina. "Marco and I have had
several long talks and he's in this with us."

                           251
   Kurtz studied the big man. Marco had a good poker
face, but there was no denying the intelligence behind
those gray eyes. Obviously Angelina had appealed to
the bodyguard's loyalty and good nature—and then
promised him shitloads of money when this dustup
with the Gonzagas was over. With the $200,000 she'd
taken from James B. Hansen's safe that morning, she
could afford a few payoffs.
   Kurtz nodded and went back to watching the
watchers.

James B. Hansen's audience with the Boy Scouts and
their troop leaders went well. Captain Millworth gave a
short speech in the briefing room and then the scouts
and their leaders came up to have their photographs
taken with the homicide detective. There was a
photographer there from the Buffalo News, but no
reporter.
   Later, Hansen walked across the street to the
courthouse for a private lunch with the Mayor and the
Chief. The topic was the bad press the city and
Department were getting because of the increased drug
trade flowing through Buffalo to and from Canada and
the resulting increase in murders, especially in the
African-American community. The Mayor also had
concerns about Buffalo being the first stop for Islamic
terrorists carrying explosives in from Canada, although
one glance exchanged between the Chief and Hansen
communicated their skepticism about someone wanting
to bomb Buffalo.
   All during these activities, Hansen was considering
the complicated mess that had blotched out like an ink

                          252
stain on felt over the past few days. If possible, he
would like to continue in his Captain Millworth
persona for another year or so, although the events of
the past twenty-four hours made that very problematic.
A lot of people would have to be buried, and soon, in
order for him to maintain this identity.
   Well, thought Hansen, I've already buried a lot of
people. A few more won't matter.
   Hansen had always been excellent at multitasking,
so he easily made comments and handled the occasional
question from the Chief or Mayor while pondering
strategies for the resolution of this Kurtz-Frears
problem. It bothered him that he still could not get in
touch with Dr. Howard Conway in Cleveland. Perhaps
the old fairy had taken his muscled pretty-boy and gone
on vacation.
   When Hansen's cell phone first rang, he ignored it.
But it rang again. And then again.
   "Excuse me, Chief, Mr. Mayor," he said, "I have to
take this." He stepped into the small sitting room next
to the courthouse dining room and answered the phone.
   "Honey, Robert, you've got to come home. Someone's
broken in and—"
   "Whoa, whoa, slow down, sugar. Where are you?"
Donna should have been at the library until three.
   "They closed the library because of the storm,
Robert. The schools are shutting down early as well. I
picked Jason up during his usual lunch hour and we
came home and… someone's broken in, Robert! Shall I
call the police? I mean, I did, you are, but you know
what I mean—"
   "Calm down," said Millworth. "What did they steal?"

                          253
   "Nothing, I think. I mean, Jason and I can't find
anything missing from the house. But they left the door
to your basement office open, Robert. I peeked in… I'm
sorry, but I thought they might still be in there… but
the door was open and the door to a big safe is open in
there, Robert. I didn't go in, but they obviously did, the
thieves, I mean. I didn't know you had a safe down
there, Robert. Robert? Robert?"
   Hansen had gone cold all over. Spots danced in front
of his eyes for a minute. He sat down on the small
couch in the sitting room. "Donna? Don't call the police.
I'm coming home. Stay upstairs. Don't go in the office.
You and Jason stay where you are."
   "Robert, why do you think—"
   Hansen broke the connection and went in to tell the
Chief and the Mayor that something important had
come up.

Marco showed them the marina pay phone where Little
Skag would be calling for his weekly information
update. Marco said that Leo usually did the talking.
Kurtz, Angelina, and the bodyguard had left the
apartment tower by its south door, out of sight of
Brubaker and Myers, parked on the street to the north.
Angelina told Marco to return to the penthouse, and
Kurtz rigged the small cassette recorder and
microphone wire the don's daughter had supplied.
    The call came precisely at noon. Angelina answered
it. With the additional earphone, Kurtz could eavesdrop
on the conversation.
    "Angie… what the fuck are you doing there?"


                           254
   Angelina winced. She had always hated the
nickname.
   "Stevie, I wanted to talk to you… privately."
   "Where the fuck are Leo and Marco?"
   "Busy."
   "Miserable incompetent motherfuckers. I'm going to
fire their asses."
   "Stevie, we need to talk about something."
   "What?" To Kurtz's ear, his former fellow convict
sounded not only irritated but alarmed.
   "You've been hiring cops to whack people. Detective
Brubaker, for instance. I know you've put him on the
payroll that used to go to Hathaway."
   Silence. Little Skag obviously didn't know what his
sister was up to, but he wasn't about to encourage his
own entrapment. Finally, "What the fuck are you
talking about, Angie?"
   "I don't care about Brubaker," said Angelina, her
breath fogging in the cold air, "but I've gone over the
family notes and I see that Gonzaga's got a captain of
detectives on the arm. A guy named Millworth."
   Silence.
   "Millworth's not really Millworth," said Angelina.
"He's a serial killer named James B. Hansen… and a
bunch of other aliases. He's a child-killer, Stevie. A
rapist and a killer."
   Kurtz heard Little Skag let out a breath. If this dealt
with Gonzaga, it was not his sister trying to entrap
him. "So?" said Little Skag.
   "So do you really want me doing this deal with
Emilio when he has a child-killer on his payroll?"

                           255
   Little Skag laughed. It was an unpleasant laugh and
every time Kurtz had heard it in Attica, it had been at
someone else's expense.
   "Do I give a flying fuck who Emilio hires?" said Little
Skag. "If this cop is a killer like you say, it just means
that the Gonzagas own him. They got him by the balls.
Now put Leo on."
   "I wouldn't expect you to do anything about someone
who rapes kids," said Angelina.
   "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"
   "You know what it means, Stevie. You and that high-
school Connors girl who disappeared twelve years ago.
Emilio kidnapped her, but you were in on it—you raped
her, didn't you?"
   "What the fuck are you talking about? Have you
gone out of your mind? Who gives a shit about
something that happened twelve years ago?"
   "I do, Stevie. I don't want to do business with a man
who pays a serial child-killer."
   "Fuck what you want!" screamed Little Skag. "Who
the fuck asked you what you want, you stupid cunt?
Your job is to finish these dealings with Gonzaga so his
people can get me the fuck out of here. Do you
understand? If I want to fuck kindergarten kids up the
ass, you're going to shut the fuck up about it. You're my
sister, Angie, but that won't stop me from—"
   The line hissed and crackled.
   "Stop you from what, Stevie?" Angelina said after a
minute. "From having me whacked the way you did
Maria?"



                           256
   The cold wind blew in off the lake during the next
silence. Then Little Skag said, "You're my sister,
Angelina, but you're a stupid bitch. You meddle in my
business again… in Family business… and I'll do worse
than have you whacked. Understand me? I'm gonna get
my lawyer to set up another call at noon tomorrow and
you'd goddamn better have Leo and Marco there."
   The line went dead.
   Kurtz disconnected the small microphone, rewound,
and hit "Play" on the micro-cassette recorder long
enough to hear the voices loud and clear. He clicked off
the machine.
   "How the hell is that going to help with anything?"
said Angelina.
   "We'll see."
   "Are you going to tell me your plan about how to get
to Gonzaga now, Kurtz? It's time, unless you want me
to toss you and your friends out in the snow."
   "All right," said Kurtz. He told her the plan as they
walked back to Marina Towers.
   "Jesus fuck," whispered Angelina when he was
finished. They were silent riding up in the elevator.
   Arlene was standing in the foyer. "Gail just called
me," she said to Kurtz. "They're going to discharge
Donald Rafferty from the hospital in about thirty
minutes."




                          257
            CHAPTER THIRTY


                                                  «^»
Donna and Jason were waiting when James B. Hansen
arrived home. He calmed them, spoke soothingly, told
them to put the dog outside and that nothing important
could have been stolen from his basement gun room,
inspected the point of breaking and entering, and went
downstairs to look in his room.
   They had stolen everything important. Hansen saw
black dots dancing in his vision and had to sit down at
his desk or faint. His photographs. The $200,000 in
cash. They had even stolen his C-4 explosive. Why
would thieves take that?
   He had more money hidden away, of course—
$150,000 tucked away with the cadavers in the rental
freezer unit. Another $300,000 in various banks under
different names in various cities. But this was not a
small setback. Hansen would love to believe that this
robbery was just a coincidence, but there was no chance
of that. He would have to find out if Joe Kurtz was a
skilled thief—whoever had bypassed those two
expensive alarm systems and blown the safe knew his
business—but it had to be someone working for or with
John Wellington Frears. All of the recent events
suggested a conspiracy afoot to destroy James B.
Hansen. The theft of the souvenir photos left Hansen
no choice as to his next actions. And Hansen despised
being left without choices.
                          258
   He looked up to find Donna and Jason peering into
his basement sanctum sanctorum.
   "Wow, I didn't know you had so many guns," said
Jason, staring at the display case. "Why didn't they
steal your guns?"
   "Let's go upstairs," said Hansen.
   He led them up to the second floor.
   "Nothing was stolen or disturbed very much up here
as far as I can tell," said Donna. "I'm glad Dickson was
at the vet's…"
   Hansen nodded and led them into the guest bedroom
with its two twin beds. He gestured for his wife and
stepson to sit on one of the beds. Hansen was still
wearing his topcoat and now he reached into the
pocket. "I'm sorry this happened," he said, his voice
smooth, reassuring, controlled. "But it's nothing to be
alarmed about. I know who did it."
   "You do?" said Jason, who never seemed to quite
trust his stepfather's pronouncements. "Who? Why?"
   "A felon named Joe Kurtz," said Hansen with a
smile. "We're arresting him today. In fact, we've
already found the weapon he's used in similar
robberies." Hansen brought out the .38 that he had
reloaded.
   "How did you get his gun?" asked Jason. The boy did
not sound convinced.
   "Robert," said Donna in her bovine way, "is there
anything wrong?"
   "Not a thing, dear," said Hansen and fired from the
hip, hitting Donna between the eyes. She flopped



                          259
backward on the bed and lay still. Hansen swiveled the
muzzle toward Jason.
   The boy did not wait to be shot. He was off the bed in
a single leap, reacting faster than Hansen would have
ever guessed the boy could move. He hit his stepfather
in a full body check—an against-the-boards hockey
crash—before Hansen could aim or pull the trigger
again. They both went backward off the bed, Jason
struggling to get his hands on the weapon, Hansen
fighting to keep it away from the tall boy. Jason's reach
was actually longer than Hansen's, but he was sixty
pounds lighter. Hansen used his body mass to shove the
boy off him and against the dresser. Then both of them
were on their feet, still struggling for the weapon,
Jason sobbing and cursing at the same time, Hansen
fighting hard but smiling now, smiling without
knowing it, amused by this sudden and unexpected
opposition. Who would have expected this surly teenage
slacker to put up such a fight?
   Jason still had Hansen's right wrist in a death grip,
but the boy freed his right arm, made a fist, and tried
to slug his stepfather in the best Hollywood tradition. A
mistake. Hansen kneed the teenager in the balls and
backhanded him in the face with his left hand.
   Jason cried out and folded over but kept his grip on
Hansen's wrist, trying to foil his stepfather's aim.
   Hansen kicked the boy's feet out from under him and
Jason flew backward onto the empty bed, pulling
Hansen with him. But Hansen was succeeding in
swiveling the muzzle lower, even as Jason clung to his
right arm with both hands, panting and swearing. Now



                           260
the boy was sobbing entreaties. "Please, no, no. Mom,
help. No, no, no. God damn you—"
   Hansen got the angle and shot the kid in the chest.
   Jason gasped, his mouth flopping open like a landed
fish's, but still clung to Hansen's wrist, trying to deflect
a second shot. Hansen put his knee on the boy's bloody
chest, forcing the last of the air out of his lungs, and
wrenched his right arm free of the boy's weakening
grip.
   "Dad…" gasped the wounded teenager.
   Hansen shook his head… no… set the muzzle
against the boy's forehead, and pulled the trigger.
   Gasping, out of breath and almost shaking from the
exertion, Hansen went into the guest bathroom.
Somehow he had avoided getting blood or brain matter
on his topcoat and trousers. His black shoes were
spattered, however. He used one of the pink guest
towels to clean his shoes and then he splashed water on
his face and hands, drying them with the other towel.
   The guest room was a mess—dresser knocked askew,
mirror broken, the green coverlet on one of the beds
crumpled under Jason's sprawled body. The boy's
mouth was still open wide as if in a silent scream.
Hansen went to the window and looked out for a
minute, but he had no real concern that the neighbors
had heard the shots. The houses were too far away and
sealed for winter.
   The snow was falling more heavily and the sky was
very dark to the west. Dickson, their Irish setter, ran
back and forth in the dog run.
   Hansen felt light, his mind clear, energy flowing
much as it did after a good workout at the gym. The

                            261
worst had happened—someone taking his souvenir
briefcase—but he still had options. James B. Hansen
was too intelligent not to have backup plans beneath
his backup plans. This was a setback, one of the most
bizarre he'd ever encountered, but he had long
anticipated someone discovering not only the falsehood
of one of his identities, but the full chain of his lives
and crimes. There was a plastic surgeon waiting in
Toronto, a new life in Vancouver.
   But first, details. It was too bad that the thief—
Kurtz or whoever it was—had taken his C-4 explosive.
That would have reduced this part of the house to such
shambles that it would take an explosives forensic team
weeks or months to figure out what had happened here.
But even a basic fire would give him time. Especially if
there was the usual third body in the house.
   Sighing, aggrieved that he had to spend the time,
Hansen went out, locked the door behind him, and
drove the big Cadillac SUV to the rental freezer. There
he retrieved all of the cash from the body bags, chose
Cadaver Number 4 from the shelves, tossed the frozen
corpse into the back of the Escalade, and drove home,
taking care not to speed in the heavy snow. He passed
several snowplows working but almost no traffic.
Donna must have been correct about schools closing
early.
   The house was just as he'd left it Hansen put the
Cadillac Escalade in the garage, brought his dog,
Dickson, inside, and closed the garage door before
hauling the cadaver up the stairs, removing it from its
plastic wrapping and laying it on the bed next to
Donna. The corpse was in street clothes from two years
ago when he had killed the man, but Hansen went into
                           262
his own closet and pulled out a tweed jacket he had
never liked very much. The body's arms were frozen at
its sides, but Hansen draped the jacket over its
shoulders. He also removed his Rolex from his wrist
and set it on the cadaver's wrist. Thinking he would
need a watch of his own, he undid Jason's and slid it in
his trouser pocket.
   He carried in the five jerricans of gasoline stored in
the garage. Burn the place now and leave forever?
Caution said that he should, but there were still
elements left to be resolved. Hansen might need
something from the house—some of the guns, perhaps
—and he had no time to pack now.
   Leaving the cans of gas with Dickson in the living
room. Hansen carefully locked the house, pulled the
Cadillac SUV out of the garage, beeped the garage door
shut, and drove back downtown to plant the .38 in
Kurtz's room.

Donald Rafferty was glad to get out of the hospital.
   He had a broken wrist, bruises on his ribs and
abdomen, and bandages on his head. The mild
concussion still hurt like a sonofabitch, but Rafferty
knew that he'd hurt a lot worse than that if he didn't
get the hell out of the hospital and the hell out of town.
   He'd been lucky with the child-abuse/molestation
rap. Rafferty had indignantly denied everything to the
cops when they interviewed him, pointed out that his
adopted daughter Rachel was a typical teenager—hard
to handle, given to lying and blaming others for her
problems—and that he'd done nothing but go down to
the bus station late that night to retrieve her after

                           263
she'd run away. He was afraid, he told the cops, that
she was doing drugs. They'd had a fight—Rachel hated
the idea of Rafferty remarrying, even though her real
mother had been dead for more than twelve years—and
she was still angry at him in the car when he'd hit the
black ice and the car had spun off the Kensington.
   Yes, Rafferty admitted to the cops, since they had
the blood-alcohol test results anyway, he'd been
drinking that evening at home—hell, he was worried
sick about Rachel, why wouldn't he have a few drinks
at home—but what was he supposed to do when she
called from the bus station at 2:30 a.m., leave her
there? No, the drinking didn't cause the accident—the
goddamned snowstorm and black ice had.
   Luckily, when Rachel regained consciousness in the
ICU, the cops had interviewed her and she'd retracted
the story about Rafferty trying to rape her. She seemed
confused to the police, probably because of the
anesthesia and pain from the surgery. But she'd taken
back the accusations she'd made to the paramedics as
the firemen were cutting her out of the wreckage of the
Honda.
   Rafferty felt vindicated. Shit, he'd not come
anywhere close to raping her. It was just that the girl
was wearing pajamas two sizes too small when she
came down to the kitchen to get some cake, Rafferty
had been drinking all evening and was frustrated that
DeeDee couldn't see him for the next couple of
weekends, and he'd made the slight mistake of coming
up behind Rachel as she stood at the counter and
running his hands over her budding breasts, down her
stomach and thighs.


                          264
   Waiting in the hospital lounge for his taxi to arrive,
Rafferty felt himself stir at that memory, even through
the pain and the painkillers. He was sorry the brat had
screamed and rushed to her room, locking the door and
then going out the window and down the garage trellis
while he stood like a dork in the hallway, threatening
to kick the door down if she didn't come to her senses.
She'd taken the last bus from Lockport into the city
station, but then realized she didn't have the money to
get out of Buffalo. Sobbing, cold—she'd only had time to
grab a sweatshirt—she'd finally called Rafferty. This
also made him smile. The girl had no one else to go to,
which was probably why she'd recanted on her
accusations. If she was going to go home at all, she'd
have to go home to Donald Rafferty.
   Normally, Rafferty would face the driving-under-the-
influence charges and take his lumps, but when one of
the nurses—not that bitch Gail Whatever, who kept
looking in on Rachel and staring at Rafferty like he was
some sort of amphibian, but that pretty nurse—had
said that Rafferty's brother had stopped in to see him
the morning after the accident, his blood had literally
run cold. Donald Rafferty's brother was serving time in
an Indiana prison. From the nurse's description, this
man sounded like Joe Kurtz.
   It was time to leave town for a while.
   He'd called DeeDee in Hamilton, Ontario, telling her
to get her cellulite ass down here to pick him up, but
she couldn't get off work until after five and she griped
about the storm coming in off the lake, so there was no
way that Rafferty was going to wait for her. He'd had
the nurse call him a cab and he was going to get to
Lockport, pack the things he needed—including the .
                           265
357 Magnum he'd bought after that asshole Kurtz
threatened him—and then he was going to take a little
vacation. Rafferty was sorry that Rachel had gotten
hurt—he didn't mean the kid harm—but if she did have
a setback and failed to pull through, well, hell, that was
one way to be sure that she wouldn't change her mind
and rat him out to the authorities again. All he'd
wanted was a little feel, a touch, maybe a blow job from
the kid; it wasn't like he was going to take her virginity
from her or anything. She had to grow up sooner or
later. Or maybe not.
   An orderly came into the lounge and said, "Your cab
is here, Mr. Rafferty."
   He tried to stand but the nurse he didn't like shook
her head and he settled back into the wheelchair.
"Hospital policy," she said, wheeling him out under the
overhang. Big deal, hospital policy, thought Rafferty.
They make sure you stay in the wheelchair until you're
out of the building and then you're on your own. You
can go home and die that day as far as they're
concerned. Tough titty.
   The cabdriver didn't even get out to open the door or
to help Rafferty into the back seat. Typical. The ugly
nurse steadied him with one hand while Rafferty
struggled out of the wheelchair, his injured wrist
hurting like hell and his head spinning. The concussion
was worse than he'd thought. He collapsed into the seat
and took some deep breaths. When he turned around to
tell the nurse that he was okay, she'd already turned
away and pushed the chair back into the hospital.
Bitch.



                           266
   For a second, Rafferty considered telling the driver
to drop him off at one of his favorite bars, maybe the
one on Broadway. A few drinks would probably help
more than these wimpy Tylenol Threes they'd
grudgingly given him. But then Rafferty thought better
of it. First, it was snowing like a bastard, and if he
waited too long, the goddamn roads would be closed.
Second, he wanted to get his stuff and be ready when
DeeDee got there. No time to waste.
   "Lockport," he told the driver. "Locust Street. I'll tell
you which house to stop at."
   The driver nodded, hit the meter, and pulled away
into the falling snow.
   Rafferty rubbed his temples and closed his eyes for a
minute. When he opened them, the taxi had pulled onto
the Kensington but was going in the wrong damned
direction, toward the downtown instead of east and
then north. Fucking idiot, Rafferty thought through his
headache. He rapped on the bulletproof glass and slid
the open partition wider.
   The driver turned. "Hello, Donnie," said Kurtz.




                            267
        CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE


                                                     «^»
Hansen was driving to the Royal Delaware Arms to
plant the .38 in Kurtz's room when his cell phone rang.
He considered not answering it—the life of Captain
Robert Millworth was effectively at an end—but
decided that he'd better respond; he didn't want people
at the precinct to notice his absence for at least twenty-
four hours.
   "Hansen?" said a man's voice. "James B. Hansen?"
   Hansen was silent but he had to pull the Escalade to
the side of the road. It was Joe Kurtz's voice. It had to
be.
   "Millworth then?" said the voice. The man went on to
name a half dozen of Hansen's other former personae.
   "Kurtz?" Hansen said at last. "What do you want?"
   "It's not what I want, it's what you might want."
   The shakedown, thought Hansen. All this has been
leading up to the shakedown. "I'm listening."
   "I thought you might. I have your briefcase.
Interesting stuff. I thought you might like it back."
   "How much?"
   "Half a million dollars," said Kurtz. "Cash, of
course."
   "Why do you think I have that much cash around?"


                           268
   "I think the two hundred K I liberated from your safe
today was just the tip of the iceberg, Mr. Hansen," said
Kurtz. "A lot of the people you've been posing as earned
a lot of money—a stockbroker, a Miami realtor, a
plastic surgeon, for Christ's sake. You have it."
   Hansen had to smile. He'd hated the thought of
leaving Kurtz and Frears behind him, alive. "Let's
meet. I have a hundred thousand in cash with me right
now."
   "So long, Mr. Hansen."
   "Wait!" said Hansen. The silence on the line showed
that Kurtz was still there. "I want Frears," said
Hansen.
   The silence stretched. "That would cost another two
hundred thousand," Kurtz said at last.
   "All I can get in cash is three hundred thousand."
   Kurtz chuckled. It was not a pleasant sound. "What
the hell. Why not? All right, Hansen. Meet me at the
abandoned Buffalo train station at midnight."
   "Midnight's too late—" started Hansen, but Kurtz
had disconnected.
   Hansen sat for a minute by the curb, watching the
Escalade's wipers bat away the falling snow, trying to
think of nothing, allowing the neutral Zen state to fill
his mind. It was impossible to clear this noise, these
events—they kept falling on him like the snow. Hansen
had not played tournament chess for years, but that
part of his mind was fully engaged. Frears and Kurtz—
he had to think of them as a unit, partners, a single
opponent with two faces—had made this chess game
interesting, and now Hansen had the option of walking
away and always remembering the pieces frozen in

                          269
mid-play, or the option of clearing the chessboard with
his forearm, or of beating them at their own game.
   So far, the Frears-Kurtz team had been on the attack
even when Hansen had thought he was playing offense.
Somehow, they had stumbled upon his current identity
—probably John Wellington Frears's contribution to the
game—and their moves after that had been predictable
enough. The robbery of his home to obtain the evidence
had been shocking, though obvious enough in
retrospect. But they had not yet gone to the police. This
meant one of three endgames had to be in play—A)
Frears-Kurtz wanted to kill him; B) Kurtz was actually
double-crossing his partner to carry out the blackmail
and might actually tell Hansen of Frears's whereabouts
if he was paid; or C) Frears-Kurtz wanted him dead
and wanted the blackmail money.
   From what Hansen remembered of John Wellington
Frears, the black man was too civilized for his own
good. Even twenty years of stewing about his
daughter's death probably had not prepared Frears for
murder; he would always opt for turning Hansen in to
the proper authorities. Hansen also remembered that
the violinist had used the phrase "proper authorities"
frequently back during their political discussions at the
University of Chicago.
   So that left Kurtz. The ex-convict must be running
the show now, overriding Frears's protests. Perhaps
Kurtz had made contact with the Farinos for help. But
James B. Hansen knew how limited the Farino Family
clout was in this new century—almost nonexistent with
the old don dead, the core of the Family scattered, and
the drug addict Little Skag locked up in Attica. There
were intelligence reports of a few new people being
                           270
recruited for the Farinos, but they were middle-
management people: numbers runners, a few
bodyguards, accountants—no real muscle to speak of.
Which left only the Gonzagas as a power in Buffalo.
   Kurtz had demanded half a million dollars, with a
bonus for Frears, which was certainly enough to get the
Farinos involved on spec, but Hansen suspected that
Kurtz was too greedy to spread the money out. Perhaps
this Farino daughter, Angelina, was giving Kurtz some
logistical support without knowing the whole situation.
That seemed probable.
   I could leave now, thought Hansen, his thoughts
tuned to the metronomic pulse of the windshield
wipers. Plant this .38, make an anonymous 911 call
fingering the murderer of the old lady in Cheektowaga,
and leave now. This would be the forearm-clearing-the-
chess-pieces answer to the dilemma and it had a
certain elegance to it. But who does this Kurtz think he
is? was the immediate follow-on thought. By
attempting blackmail, Kurtz had raised the game to a
new and more personal level. If Hansen did not play
out the rest of the game, he would be tipping his own
king in defeat. That weakling Frears and this sociopath
of an ex-convict would have beaten James B. Hansen at
his own game.
   Not fucking likely, thought Hansen, immediately
offering a prayer of apology to his Savior.
   Hansen turned the Cadillac SUV west and got on the
expressway, heading north along the river.

Kurtz had driven to the empty alley near Allen Street,
parked the taxi next to the Lincoln, transferred

                          271
Rafferty to the trunk of the Town Car and the bound,
gagged and blindfolded cabdriver from the Lincoln to
the taxi, then called Hansen while driving back to the
Farino penthouse. Something about actually hearing
James B. Hansen's smooth, oily voice had made Kurtz's
head pulse with migraine pain.
   Back at Marina Towers, he left Rafferty in the trunk
and took the elevator up. Everyone was chowing down
on lunch and Kurtz joined them. Angelina Farino
Ferrara had told her cook, servants, and the eleventh-
floor accountants to take the day off—don't try to get in
through the storm, she'd said—so the motley crew in
the penthouse had thrown together a big meal of chili,
John Frears's recipe, and various types of cheese, good
French bread and taco chips and hot coffee. Angelina
offered wine, but no one was in the mood for it. Kurtz
was in the mood for several glasses of scotch, but he
decided to forgo it until the day's errands were all run.
   After the lunch, he stepped onto the icy and
windblown west balcony to clear his head. A few
minutes later, Arlene joined him, lighting one of her
Marlboros.
   "Can you believe it, Joe? She's a Mafia don's
daughter but she doesn't allow smoking in her
apartment. What's La Cosa Nostra coming to?"
   Kurtz didn't answer. The sky to the northwest was
as black as a curtain of night sliding toward the city.
The lights along the marina and the walkways below
had already come on.
   "Rafferty?" said Arlene.
   Kurtz nodded.
   "Can we talk about Rachel for a minute, Joe?"

                           272
   Kurtz neither answered nor looked at her.
   "Gail says that she's showing some improvement
today. They're keeping her sedated much of the time
and watching for infection in her remaining kidney.
Even if there is drastic improvement, it will be several
weeks—maybe a month and a half—before she can
leave the hospital. And she'll need special care at
home."
   Kurtz looked at her now. "Yeah? And?"
   "I know you won't let Rachel become a ward of the
state, Joe."
   He didn't have to say anything to show his
agreement with that.
   "And I know how you go straight at things. Like this
Hansen situation. You've always gone straight at
things. But maybe in this case you should consider
taking the long way."
   "How?" Tiny pellets of ice were pelting his face.
   "I shouldn't be Rachel's guardian… I've had my
child, raised him as best I could, mourned his death.
But Gail has always wanted a child. It's one of the main
reasons she and Charlie broke up… that and the fact
that Charlie was a total asshole."
   "Gail… adopt Rachel?" Kurtz's voice was edged.
   "It wouldn't have to be a full-scale adoption," said
Arlene. "Rachel is fourteen. She'll just need a court-
appointed guardian until she turns eighteen. That
would be perfect for Gail."
   "Gail is single."
   "That's not so important for a guardian. Plus, Gail
has friends in social services and Niagara Frontier

                          273
Adoption Option, and she knows several of the child-
care legal people. She's been an excellent nurse—
remember, her specialty is pediatric surgery—and she
has tons of time off coming to her."
   Kurtz looked back at the approaching storm.
   "You could spend time with her, Joe. With Rachel.
Get to know her. Let her get to know you. Someday you
could tell her—"
   Kurtz looked at her. Arlene stopped, took a drag on
her cigarette, and looked up to meet his gaze. "Tell me
you'll think about it, Joe."
   He went back through the sliding doors into the
penthouse.

Hansen crossed the bridge to Grand Island and drove to
Emilio Gonzaga's compound. The guards at the
gatehouse looked astonished when he showed his badge
and said that he was there to see Mr. Gonzaga, but
they conferred with the main house via portable radios,
searched him carefully to make sure he was not
wearing a wire, appropriated his service Glock-9—
Hansen had stowed the .38 under the passenger seat—
transferred him to a black Chevy Suburban, and drove
him up to the main house, where he was searched
again and left to wait in a huge library in which the
hundreds of leather-bound books looked as if they had
never been opened. Two bodyguards, one an Asian man
with absolutely no expression on his smooth face, stood
against the far wall with their hands at their sides.
   When Gonzaga came in, smoking a Cuban cigar,
Hansen was struck by how truly ugly the middle-aged
don was. The man looked like a toad that had been

                          274
molded into human form, with an Edward G. Robinson
mouth minus the touch of humor.
   "Captain Millworth."
   "Mr. Gonzaga."
   Neither man offered to shake hands. Gonzaga
remained standing; Hansen remained sitting. They
looked at one another.
   "You want something, Detective?"
   "I need to talk to you, Don Gonzaga."
   The tall, ugly man made a gesture with his cigar.
   "You paid my predecessor," said Hansen. "You sent
me a check last December. I sent it to charity. I don't
need your money."
   Gonzaga lifted one heavy black eyebrow. "You come
out here in a fucking blizzard to tell me that?"
   "I came out here in a blizzard to tell you that I need
something more important and that I can give you
something very important."
   Gonzaga waited. Hansen glanced at the bodyguards.
Gonzaga shrugged and did not tell them to leave.
   James B. Hansen removed a photograph of Joe
Kurtz that he'd pulled from the felon's file. "I need to
have this man killed. Or to be more specific, I need help
in killing him."
   Gonzaga smiled. "Millworth, if you are wearing a
wire which somehow my boys did not discover, I shall
kill you myself."
   Hansen shrugged. "They searched me twice. I'm not
wearing a wire. And if I were, what I said is a felony by
itself—suborning you to be an accomplice to murder."


                           275
   "And entrapment also in addition," said Gonzaga.
The way the man spoke made Hansen think that
human language was not the don's native tongue.
   "Yes," said Hansen.
   "And what is it that I would receive in exchange for
this hypothetical quid-pro-quo service, Detective
Millworth?"
   "It's Captain Millworth," said Hansen. "Of Homicide.
And what you will receive is years of a service that you
could not otherwise buy."
   "Which would be?" said Gonzaga, implying that he'd
already bought every service the Buffalo Police
Department had to offer.
   "Impunity," said Hansen.
   "Im—what?" Emilio Gonzaga removing a long cigar
from his mouth made Hansen think of a frog wrestling
with a turd.
   "Impunity, Don Gonzaga. Freedom not only of
prosecution when murders are required of you, but
freedom even from serious investigation. A get-out-of-
jail card with no jail attached. Not only as far as
Homicide is concerned, but Vice, Narcotics… all of the
departments."
   Gonzaga relit the cigar and furrowed his brow. He
was an ostentatious thinker, Hansen could see. Finally
Hansen saw the lightbulb over the toad's head as
Gonzaga realized what he was being offered.
   "One-stop shopping," said the don.
   "I will be a veritable Wal-Mart," agreed Hansen.
   "So you're so fucking sure that you're going to be
chief of police?"

                          276
   "Indubitably," said Hansen and then, as the toad-
man's brow furrowed again, "Without doubt, sir. In the
meantime, I can make sure that no homicide
investigation even turns in your direction."
   "In exchange for whacking one guy?"
   "In exchange for simply helping me whack one guy."
   "When?"
   "I'm supposed to meet him at the old train station at
midnight That means he'll probably be there by ten
o'clock."
   "This guy," said Gonzaga, looking at the photograph
again. "He looks fucking familiar but I can't place him.
Mickey."
   The Asian glided over from the wall.
   "You know this guy, Mickey?"
   "That's Howard Conway." The man's voice was
smooth as his gait, very quiet, but the words made
Hansen's head spin, and for the second time that day
he saw black spots dancing in his vision.
   Kurtz has been playing with me. If he knows
Howard's name, then Howard is dead. But why tell
Gonzaga? Have they foreseen this move as well?
   "Yeah," said Gonzaga, "Angie Farino's new fucking
bodyguard." He flapped the photo at Hansen. "What's
going on here? Why are you after this Raiford jailbird?"
   "He's not a Raiford ex-con," Hansen said smoothly,
blinking away the dancing spots while trying not to
look distressed. "He's an Attica ex-con named Kurtz."
   The don looked at the Asian. "Kurtz. Kurtz.
Where've we heard that name, Mickey?"


                          277
   "Before Leo, our guy in their camp, disappeared, he
said that Little Skag was putting out some nickels and
dimes to whack an ex-P.I. named Kurtz," said Mickey
Kee, showing no special deference to Gonzaga.
   Gonzaga's brow furrowed more deeply. "Why would
Angie hire some guy that her brother's trying to
whack?"
   "She has her own agenda," said Hansen. "And my bet
is that it doesn't include you in the picture, Mr.
Gonzaga."
   "How many men you want?" grunted Gonzaga.
   "I don't care how many," said Hansen. "The fewer
the better. I just want them to be the best. I need a
guarantee that Kurtz—and anyone he brings with him
—won't leave that train station alive. Are any of your
men so good that you can give me that guarantee?"
   Emilio Gonzaga smiled broadly, showing great
horses' teeth like yellowed ivory. "Mickey?" he said.
   Mickey Kee did not smile. But he nodded.
   "Kurtz said midnight but he'll get there early,"
Hansen said to Mickey Kee. "I'm going to be there at
eight with two men. It'll be dark in that old station.
Make sure you don't mistake us for Kurtz. Can you get
there through this storm?"
   Emilio Gonzaga removed his cigar and gave a
phlegmy laugh. "Mickey owns a fucking Hummer."




                         278
        CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO


                                                   «^»
The afternoon and early evening in Marina Towers had
a strangely sweet, almost elegiac calm to it.
   Pruno had taught Joe Kurtz the word "elegiac"
during their long correspondence while Kurtz was in
Attica. Before Kurtz had gone behind bars, Pruno had
given him a list of two hundred books he should read to
begin his education. Kurtz had read them all, beginning
with The Iliad and ending with Das Kapital. He had to
admit that he'd enjoyed Shakespeare the most,
spending weeks on each play. Kurtz had a hunch that
before the night was over, the Buffalo train station
might look like the last act of Titus Andronicus.
   After the chili lunch, Frears had gone to one end of
the big penthouse living room to tune his violin and it
was Arlene who asked him to play. Frears had only
smiled and shaken his head, but Angelina had joined in
the request. Then—surprisingly—so had Marco, and
even Kurtz had looked up from his brooding by the
window.
   While everyone sat around on sectionals and bar
stools, John Wellington Frears had walked to the
center of the room, removed a linen handkerchief from
his suit pocket and draped it on the chin rest of the
impossibly expensive violin, stood almost on his tiptoes
with bow poised, and had begun playing.

                          279
   To Kurtz's surprise, it was not classical. Frears
played the main theme from Schindler's List, the long,
plaintive passages holding notes that seemed to die
with a sigh, the dying-away parts echoing against the
cold glass windows like the half-heard cries of children
in the trains being pulled to Auschwitz. When he was
done, no one applauded, no one moved. The only sound
was the snow pelting against the glass and Arlene's soft
snuffling.
   Frears took Hansen's titanium briefcase with its
photographs and went into the library. Angelina poured
herself a tall scotch. Kurtz went back to the window to
watch the storm and the growing darkness.

He met with Angelina in her private office at the
northwest corner of the penthouse.
    "What's happening tonight, Kurtz?"
    He held up one hand. "I've given Hansen blackmail
demands. We're supposed to meet at midnight. I
suspect he'll be there early."
    "You going to take the money if he brings it?"
    "He won't bring it."
    "So you're going to kill him."
    "I don't know yet."
    Angelina raised a dark eyebrow at that. Kurtz came
over and sat on the edge of her modern rosewood desk.
"I'll ask you again, what are your goals? What have you
been trying to get out of all this bullshit?"
    She studied him for a minute. "You know what I
wanted."


                          280
   "Gonzaga dead," said Kurtz. "Your brother…
neutralized. But what else?"
   "I'd like to rebuild the family someday, but along
different lines. In the meantime, I'd like to be the best
thief in the state of New York."
   "And you have to be left alone to do both those
things."
   "Yes."
   "And if I help you get those things, are you going to
leave me the fuck alone?"
   Angelina Farino Ferrara hesitated only a second.
"Yes."
   "Did you print out that list I asked for?" said Kurtz.
   Angelina opened a drawer and produced three sheets
of paper stapled together. Each page held columns of
names and dollar amounts. "We can't use this for
anything," she said. "If I were to release it, the Five
Families would have me killed within the week. If you
release it, you'll be dead within a day."
   "You're not going to release it and neither am I," said
Kurtz. He told her the last version of his plans.
   "Jesus," whispered Angelina. "What do you need
tonight?"
   "Transportation. And do you have two walkie-talkie-
type radios? The kind with earphones? They're not
necessary, but could be useful."
   "Sure," said Angelina. "But they're only good within
a range of a mile or so."
   "That'll work."
   "Anything else?"
   "That pair of handcuffs you used on Marco."

                           281
    "Anything else?"
    "Marco. I have some heavy lifting to do."
    "Are you going to arm him?"
    Kurtz shook his head. "He can bring a knife if he
wants to. I'm not asking him to get mixed up in a gun-
fight, so he doesn't need to come heavy. There'll
probably be enough guns there in the dark anyway."
    "What else?"
    "Long underwear," said Kurtz. "Thermal long Johns
if you've got them."
    "You're kidding."
    Kurtz shook his head. "It may be a long wait and it's
going to be cold as a witch's teat in there."

He went into the library, where John Wellington Frears
was sitting in an Eames chair, the briefcase open on the
ottoman, photographs of dead children reflecting light
from the soft halogen spotlight above. Kurtz assumed
that Frears's daughter Crystal was one of the corpses
on display, but he did not look and he did not ask.
   "Can I talk to you a minute?" said Kurtz.
   Frears nodded. Kurtz took a seat in a second leather
Eames chair across from the violinist.
   "I need to talk to you about what's going to happen
next with Hansen," said Kurtz, "but first I have a
personal question."
   "Go ahead, Mr. Kurtz."
   "I've seen your files. All of your files. Arlene pulled
information off the Net that's usually kept
confidential."


                           282
   "Ah," said Frears, "the cancer. You want to know
about the cancer."
   "No. I'm curious about the two tours in Vietnam back
in nineteen sixty-eight."
   Frears blinked at this and then smiled. "Why on
earth are you curious about that, Mr. Kurtz? There was
a war on. I was a young man. Hundreds of thousands of
young men served."
   "Hundreds of thousands of guys were drafted. You
volunteered for the army, were trained as an engineer,
specialized in disarming booby traps over there. Why
for Christ's sake?"
   Frears was still smiling slightly. "Why did I
specialize in that area?"
   "No. Why volunteer at all? You'd already gone to
Princeton for a couple of years, graduated from
Juilliard. You had a high draft number, I checked. You
didn't have to go at all. And you volunteered. You
risked your life."
   "And my hands," said Frears, holding those hands in
the beam of light from the halogen spot. "Which were
much more important to me than my life in those days."
   "Why did you go?"
   Frears scratched his short, curly beard. "If I try to
explain, Mr. Kurtz, I do so at the real risk of boring
you."
   "I've got some time."
   "All right I entered Princeton with the idea of
studying philosophy and ethics. One of my teachers
there was Dr. Frederick."
   "Pruno."

                          283
   Frears made a pained face. "Yes. During my junior
year at Princeton, Dr. Frederick shared some early
research he was doing with a Harvard professor named
Lawrence Kohlberg. Have you heard of him?"
   "No."
   "Most people haven't Professors Kohlberg and
Frederick were just beginning their research to test
Kohlberg's theory that human beings pass through
stages of moral development just as they have to pass
through the Piagetian stages of development. Have you
heard of Jean Piaget?"
   "No."
   "It doesn't matter. Piaget had proved that all
children pass through various stages of development—
being able to cooperate with others, say, which happens
for most children around the age of kindergarten—and
Lawrence Kohlberg reasoned that people—not just
children, but all people—pass through discrete stages of
moral development as well. Since Professor Frederick
taught both philosophy and ethics, he was very
interested in Kohlberg's early research, and that was
what our class was about."
   "All right."
   Frears took a breath, glanced at the obscene
photographs lying on the ottoman, scooped them into
the briefcase, and closed the briefcase. "Kohlberg had
classified six stages of moral development. Level One
was simple avoidance of punishment Moral boundaries
are set only to avoid pain. Essentially the moral
development of an earthworm. We've all known adults
who stop at Level One."
   "Yes," said Kurtz.

                          284
   "Level Two was a crude form of moral judgment
motivated by the need to satisfy one's own desires," said
Frears. "Level Three was sometimes called the 'Good
Boy/Good Girl' orientation—a need to avoid rejection or
the disapproval of others."
   Kurtz nodded and shifted his weight slightly. The .40
Smith & Wesson was cutting into his hip.
   "Stage Four was the Law and Order level," said
Frears. "People had evolved to the moral degree that
they had an absolute imperative not to be criticized by
a duly recognized authority figure. Sometimes entire
national populations appear to be made up of Stage
Four and lower citizens."
   "Nazi Germany," said Kurtz.
   "Exactly. Stage Five individuals seem motivated by
an overwhelming need to respect the social order and to
uphold legally determined laws. The law becomes a
touchstone, a moral imperative unto itself."
   "ACLU types who allow the Nazis to march in
Skokie," said Kurtz.
   John Wellington Frears rubbed his chin through his
beard and looked at Kurtz for a long minute, as if
reappraising him. "Yes."
   "Is Stage Five the top floor?" asked Kurtz.
   Frears shook his head. "Not according to the
research that Professors Kohlberg and Frederick were
carrying out. A Level Six individual makes his moral
decisions based on his own conscience in attempts to
resonate with certain universal ethical considerations…
even when those decisions fly in the face of existing
laws. Say, Henry David Thoreau's opposition to the war


                           285
with Mexico, or the civil-rights marchers in the South
in the nineteen sixties."
   Kurtz nodded.
   "Professor Frederick used to say that the United
States was founded by Level Six minds," said Frears,
"protected and preserved by Level Fives, and populated
by Level Fours and below. Does this make any sense,
Mr. Kurtz?"
   "Sure. But it hasn't done a damned thing toward
telling me why you left Juilliard and went to the
Vietnam War."
   Frears smiled. "At the time, this idea of moral
development was very important to me, Mr. Kurtz.
Lawrence Kohlberg's dream was to find a Level Seven
personality."
   "Who would that be?" said Kurtz. "Jesus Christ?"
   "Precisely," Frears said with no hint of irony. "Or
Gandhi. Or Socrates. Or Buddha. Someone who can
only respond to universal ethical imperatives. They
have no choice in the matter. Usually the rest of us
respond by putting them to death."
   "Hemlock," said Kurtz. Pruno had made Plato's
dialogues required reading for him in Attica.
   "Yes." Frears set his long, elegant fingers on the
metal briefcase. "Lawrence Kohlberg never found a
Stage Seven personality."
   Surprise, thought Kurtz.
   "But he did find something else, Mr. Kurtz. His
testing showed that there were many people walking
the street who can only be classified as Level Zeroes.
Their moral development has not even evolved to the

                         286
point where they will avoid pain and punishment if
their whim dictates otherwise. Other human beings'
suffering means absolutely nothing to them. The
clinical term is 'sociopath,' but the real word is
'monster.'"
   Kurtz looked at Frears's fingers tensed against the
lid of the briefcase as if trying to keep it closed. "This
Kohlberg and Pruno had to do university research to
find this out? I could have told them that when I was
five years old."
   Frears nodded. "Kohlberg committed suicide in
nineteen eighty-seven—walked into a marsh and
drowned. Some of his disciples say that he couldn't
reconcile himself to the knowledge that such creatures
walk among us."
   "So you went to Vietnam to find out what rung of
Kohlberg's ladder you were on," said Kurtz.
   John Wellington Frears looked him in the eye. "Yes."
   "And what did you find out?"
   Frears smiled. "I discovered that a young violinist's
fingers were very good at disarming bombs and booby
traps." He leaned forward. "What else did you want to
talk to me about, Mr. Kurtz?"
   "Hansen."
   "Yes?" The violinist was completely attentive.
   "I don't think Hansen has cut and run yet, but he's
close to doing that. Very close. Right now I think he's
waiting a few hours just because I've been a factor he
doesn't understand. The miserable son of a bitch is so
smart that he's stupid… he thinks he understands
everything. As long as we appear to be one step ahead


                           287
of him, he hangs around to see what the fuck is going to
happen—but not much longer. A few hours maybe."
   "Yes."
   "So, Mr. Frears, the way I see it, we can play this
endgame one of three ways. I think you should decide."
   Frears nodded silently at this.
   "First," said Kurtz, "we hand over this briefcase to
the authorities and let them chase down Mr. James B.
Hansen. His modus operandi is shot to hell, so he won't
be repeating his imposter kill-the-kids routine in the
same way. He'll be on the run, pure and simple."
   "Yes," said Frears.
   "But he might stay on the run and ahead of the cops
for months, even years," said Kurtz. "And after he's
arrested, the trial will take months, or years. And after
the trial, the appeals can take more years. And you
don't have those months and years. It doesn't sound
like the cancer's going to give you very many weeks."
   "No," agreed Frears. "What is your second
suggestion, Mr. Kurtz?"
   "I kill Hansen. Tonight."
   Frears nodded. "And your third suggestion, Mr.
Kurtz?"
   Kurtz told him. When Kurtz finished talking, John
Wellington Frears sat back in the Eames chair and
closed his eyes as if he was very, very tired.
   Frears opened his eyes. Kurtz knew immediately
what the man's decision was going to be.

Kurtz wanted to leave by six-thirty so he could get to
the train station no later than seven. The storm had

                           288
come in with nightfall, and there was a foot of new
snow on the balcony when he stepped out for a final
look at the night Arlene was smoking a cigarette there.
   "Today was Wednesday, Joe."
   "So?"
   "You forgot your weekly visit to your parole officer."
   "Yeah."
   "I called her," said Arlene. "Told her you were sick."
She flicked ashes. "Joe, if you manage to kill this
Hansen and they still think he's a detective, every cop
in the United States is going to be after you. You're
going to have to hide so far up in Canada that your
neighbors'll be polar bears. And you hate the out-of-
doors."
   Kurtz had nothing to say to that.
   "We get kicked out of our basement in a week," said
Arlene. "And we never got around to looking for new
office space."




                           289
      CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE


                                                   «^»
The meeting with Kurtz was set for midnight Hansen
arrived at ten minutes after eight. Both Brubaker's and
Myers's cars had trouble getting through the snow near
the courthouse, so they'd had dinner downtown and
waited for their captain to pick them up in his
expensive sport utility vehicle. Brubaker was half-
drunk and decided to confront Millworth on the ride to
wherever the hell they were going.
   "Whatever's going on," Brubaker said from the front
passenger seat, "it sure and hell isn't department
procedure. You said there was going to be something in
this for us, Captain. It's time we saw what it was."
   "You're right," said Hansen. He was driving carefully
—he always drove carefully—following a snowplow east
on Broadway. The plow's flashing orange lights
reflected off the silent buildings and low clouds.
   Hansen took two thick envelopes out of the Cadillac
Escalade's center console and tossed one to Brubaker
and the other back to Myers.
   "Holy shit," said Detective Myers. Each envelope
contained $20,000.
   "That's just a down payment," said Hansen.
   "For what?" asked Brubaker.
   Hansen ignored him and concentrated on driving the
last two miles along Broadway and side streets. Except

                          290
for snowplows and the occasional emergency vehicle,
there was almost no traffic. Broadway had six inches of
new snow but was being plowed regularly; the side
streets were wastelands of drifting snow and snow-
covered vehicles. The Escalade powered its way along
on permanent all-wheel drive, but Hansen had to
switch into four-wheel drive and then into four-wheel-
low to make the final mile to the abandoned train
station.
   The driveway rising up the hill to the station was
empty. There was no sign that another vehicle bad been
there. It was the first time Hansen had seen the station
in real life, but he had studied floor plans of the
complex all afternoon. He knew it by heart now. He
parked by the boulders that sealed off the huge parking
lot and nodded to the detectives. "I have tactical gear in
the back."
   He issued each man a bulletproof vest—not the thin
Kevlar type that cops could wear under a shirt, but
bulky SWAT flak vests with porcelain panels. Hansen
pulled out three AR-15 assault rifles, rigged for rapid-
fire, and handed one to Brubaker and one to Myers.
Each man got five magazines, the extra going into the
Velcroed pockets on the flak vests.
   "We going into combat, Captain?" asked Myers. "I'm
not trained for this shit."
   "My guess is that there'll be one man in there," said
Hansen.
   Brubaker locked and loaded his AR-15. "That man
named Kurtz?"
   "Yes."


                           291
   Myers was having trouble Velcroing shut the flak
vest. He was too fat. He tugged at a nylon cord, found
the fit, and patted the vest into place. "We supposed to
arrest him?"
   "No," said Hansen. "You're supposed to kill him." He
handed each man a black SWAT helmet with bulky
goggles on a swing-down visor.
   "Night-vision goggles?" said Brubaker, swinging his
down and peering around like a bug-eyed alien. "Wild.
Everything's greenish and as bright as day."
   "That's the idea, Detective." Hansen pulled on his
helmet and powered up the goggles. "It's going to be
dark as a coal mine in there for a civilian, but there's
enough ambient light for us to see fine."
   "What about civilians?" asked Myers. He was
swinging his assault rifle around while peering through
his goggles.
   "No civilians in there. If it moves, shoot it," said
Hansen. If this Mickey Kee gets in the way, too bad.
   "No tactical radios?" said Brubaker.
   "We won't need them," said Hansen. He pulled a pair
of long-handled wire cutters from his bag. "We're going
to stay together. Brubaker, when we're inside, you and
I will be at SWAT-ready, covering forward fields of fire,
you on the left, me on the right. Myers, when we're
moving together inside, you face rear, keeping your
back against Brubaker's back. Questions?"
   There weren't any.
   Hansen used his key remote to lock the Cadillac, and
the three men crossed the parking lot toward the
looming station. The blowing snow covered their tracks
in minutes.
                           292
Kurtz had arrived only half an hour earlier.
   He'd planned to get to the station by seven, but the
blizzard slowed them down. The drive that normally
would have taken ten minutes, even in traffic, took
almost an hour; they almost got stuck once and Marco
had to get out and push to get them moving again. It
was seven-thirty before the Lincoln came to a stop at
the base of the drive leading up to the station. Kurtz
and Marco got out. Kurtz leaned into the open
passenger door.
   "You know where to park this down the side street so
you can see this whole driveway area?"
   John Wellington Frears nodded from his place
behind the wheel.
   "I know it's cold, but don't leave the engine on.
Someone could see the exhaust from the street here.
Just hunker down and wait."
   Frears nodded again and touched a button to pop the
trunk.
   Kurtz went around back, tossed a heavy black bag to
Marco, who set it on the passenger seat and closed the
door. Kurtz lifted the other bundle from the trunk. It
was wiggling slightly, but the duct tape held.
   "I thought you wanted me to do the heavy lifting,"
said Marco.
   "It's a hundred yards to the train station," said
Kurtz. "By the time we get there, you can have it."
   They walked up the hill and kept near the high
cement railing as they approached the tower. Kurtz
heard the Lincoln shoosh away but he did not look

                          293
back. Marco used the wire cutters on the fence and they
slipped through, keeping close to the station as they
went around to the north side, where Kurtz knew how
to get in through a boarded-up window. It was dark up
here near the hilltop complex of the abandoned station,
and the tower loomed over them like a skyscraper from
hell, but the light from the sodium-vapor streetlights in
the ghetto nearby reflected off the low clouds and lit
everything in a sick, yellow glow.
   The blowing snow stung Kurtz eyes and soaked his
hair. Before going through the window, he shifted the
taped and gagged man from his shoulder to Marco's
and took a flashlight out of his peacoat pocket.
   Holding the flashlight in his left hand and the S&W
semiautomatic in his right, Kurtz led the way into the
echoing space.
   It was too cold for pigeons to be stirring. Marco came
in, and their two flashlight beams stabbed back and
forth across the huge waiting room.
   If Hansen got here first, we're dead, thought Kurtz.
We're perfect targets.
   Their shoes crunched on the cold stone floor. Wind
howled beyond the tall, boarded-up windows. At the far
end of the waiting room, Kurtz pocketed his pistol and
pointed upward with the flashlight.
   "That balcony should be a good vantage point for
you," whispered Kurtz. "The stairway's mostly closed
off and you could hear anyone climbing up it toward
you. There's no reason for them to go up there—it's a
dead end. If they come in the tower way, I'll see them.
If they come in the way we did, they'll have to pass you
here."

                           294
   Kurtz fumbled in his left coat pocket, felt the
Compact Witness .45 that Angelina had insisted he
take—"It's served me well," she'd said as they stood in
the penthouse foyer—and then found the extra two-way
radio. They'd tested it in the penthouse but he wanted
to make sure it worked here.
   Marco dumped the groaning man and set his own
earphones and radio in place.
   "You don't have to actually speak into it," whispered
Kurtz. "Just leave it on and thumb the transmit button
if anyone passes you here. I'll hear it when you break
squelch. Once if he's alone, twice if there are two guys,
and so on. Give it a try."
   Marco thumbed the button twice. Kurtz clearly
heard the two interruptions of static. "Good."
   "What if nobody shows?" whispered Marco. They'd
shut off the flashlights while they huddled under the
balcony, and Kurtz could barely see the big man three
feet away.
   "We wait until one and go home," whispered Kurtz.
The cold in the waiting room was worse than outside. It
made Kurtz's forehead ache.
   "If I see anybody, I'm going to beep you and that's it.
Soon as they're past me, I'm out of here. No one's
paying me enough for this shit."
   Kurtz nodded. Switching on his flashlight, he bent
down, inspected the duct tape and cords, and lifted the
heavy bundle. Marco climbed the littered and
barricaded staircase carefully, but still made noise.
Kurtz waited until the bodyguard was in place, out of
sight but able to peer through the railings, and then he


                           295
continued the next hundred feet or so up the main
walkway into the tower rotunda.




                       296
       CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR


                                                     «^»
"Jesus God, it's cold," whispered Myers.
    "Shut up," hissed Brubaker.
    James B. Hansen said nothing, but he made a fist
and pounded both men on the chest plates of their flak
vests, demanding silence.
    They'd come in from the south side, through the
acres of empty service buildings, across the rusted and
snow-buried tracks, across the windswept boarding
platforms, through the fenced-over south portal, up the
boarding ramps, and now were crossing the vast main
waiting room. The view was uncanny through the
night-vision goggles: brilliant, glowing green-white
outside, a dimmer, static-speckled greenish gloom here
in the deeper darkness. But enough reflected light
filtered through the boarded-up skylights and windows
to allow them to see a hundred feet across the waiting
room. Abandoned benches glowed like tombstones;
smashed kiosks were a tumble of shadows; stopped
clocks looked like skulls on the wall.
    Hansen felt a strange exhilaration. Whatever
happened, he knew there would have to be a sea change
in his behavior. The shifting personae and the self-
indulgent Special Visits would have to stop—at least
for a few years. If a dullard like this ex-con Kurtz could
find the pattern there, then it was no longer safe.

                           297
Hansen would have to settle into the deep-cover
identity he'd prepared in Vancouver and practice self-
restraint for years as far as the teenage girls were
concerned. In the meantime, this unaccustomed public
action was exciting.
   The three detectives crossed the wide space in
respectable SWAT search-and-clear form: Brubaker
and Hansen holding their weapons cocked and ready,
swinging the muzzles as they turned their heads;
Tommy Myers, his shoulder touching Brubaker,
walking backward with his weapon and goggles in
constant motion, covering their backs.
   The loading platforms had been clear. The ramps
had been clear. This waiting room and the rooms on
either side—clear. That left the main rotunda and the
tower.
   If Kurtz had not arrived four hours early—and
Hansen would be amazed if the man showed that much
discipline and foresight—then the plan was for the
three detectives to take up a shooting position in a front
room of the tower, preferably on one of the mezzanine
levels surrounding the entry rotunda. If Kurtz
approached across the parking lot on the north side, or
from the driveway to the west, they could ambush him
from the front windows. If he came in from the east or
south, they would hear him approaching up the
staircase now in front of them and have a free field of
fire down into the rotunda.
   That was the plan.
   Right now, Hansen was busy using his goggles to
sweep the small balcony on the south wall to the left of
the main staircase. There was enough ambient light to

                           298
show no one standing there, but the darkness between
the rungs of the old railings was a jumble of green
static. He checked the narrow staircase to the balcony
—barricaded and Uttered. Still, it was probably worth
clearing before going on to the rotunda, so—
   "Listen!" whispered Brubaker.
   A sound from the rotunda beyond the main staircase.
A rattling. The scrape of shoes on marble or wood.
   Hansen held the AR-15 steady with his left hand and
used his right hand to shake the collar of each man's
flak vest, enforcing silence and continued discipline.
But he was thinking—Got you, Kurtz! Got you!

Marco stayed flat against the floor of the small balcony,
raising his head just high enough to peer through the
thick marble slats of the railing. He couldn't see who
was down there—it was too fucking dark—but he could
hear footsteps and once he heard urgent whispers.
Whoever it was, they were moving through the
blackness without flashlights. Maybe they were using
those night-vision lenses or something, like the ones
he'd seen in the movies.
   As the soft shuffling came closer and paused ten
yards below his balcony, Marco pressed his face against
the floor. No use exposing himself when he couldn't see
the fuckers anyway.
   Marco clearly heard a man hiss "Listen!" and then
the shuffling became footsteps hurrying up the main
staircase toward the rotunda and tower where Kurtz
had gone. Marco was alone in the huge waiting room.
He took a breath and got to his feet, straining to see in


                           299
the blackness. Even after twenty minutes here, his eyes
had not completely adapted to such darkness.
    He lifted the two-way radio, but paused before
thumbing the transmit button. How many men had
there been? Marco didn't know. But just beeping Kurtz
twice wouldn't warn him that the opposition was
moving around easily in the dark, using some high-tech
shit or something. He could whisper into the radio,
warn Kurtz.
    Fuck him. Marco had decided that his best bet after
the scary cocksucker had wasted Leo was to stick with
Ms. Farino, at least until the shit quit flying, but he
didn't owe anything to Kurtz. Still, if Kurtz got out of
this alive, Marco didn't want him pissed at him. But
that didn't warrant Marco risking even a whisper with
hostiles in the building.
    Marco silently thumbed the transmit button twice,
heard the clicks on his earphone and then turned off
the radio, pulled the earphone free, and crammed it all
into his pocket. Time to get the fuck out of here.
    When the long blade swept across Marco's throat
from behind, slicing his jugular and windpipe and
almost severing his spinal cord, he didn't even know
what it was, it happened so fast and cut so deep. Then
there was the sound sort of like a fountain, but Marco's
brain did not associate it with the geyser of his own
blood flowing out onto the cold marble floor.
    Then his knees buckled and the big man fell, hitting
his face on the stone railing but feeling nothing, seeing
nothing. The midnight blackness of the train station
filled his brain like black fog and that was that.


                           300
   Mickey Kee wiped his eight-inch blade on the dead
man's shirt, folded it back with his gloved hand, and
glided back down the dark staircase as silently as he
had ascended.




                         301
        CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE


                                                    «^»
The dim green glow of the corridor above the main
staircase     brightened    considerably    as   Hansen,
Brubaker, and Myers stepped out under the rotunda
ceiling. Ambient light from the windowed tower rooms
above filled the junk-cluttered space with green-white
static and ghostly, glowing shapes.
   Suddenly Joe Kurtz's voice—completely identifiable
as Kurtz's voice—called from across the rotunda.
"Hansen. Is that you? I can't see you."
   "There!" Brubaker said aloud.
   Directly across the rotunda floor, perhaps sixty-five
feet away, against the west wall—a human form,
standing, moving behind a bench, turning as if
searching out the source of the shout Hansen could see
the bright glow of a titanium briefcase in the man's left
hand.
   "Don't fire!" Hansen called, but too late. Brubaker
had opened up on full auto with his assault rifle. Myers
swiveled and fired a second later.
   God's will be done, thought Hansen. He thumbed the
AR-15 to full auto and squeezed the trigger. The muzzle
flare blinded him through the night-vision goggles.
Hansen closed his eyes to shake away the retinal
afterimages and listened while the rotunda echoed from
the rifle blasts and the last ricochets whined away.

                           302
   "We got him," yelled Brubaker. The detective ran
across the open rotunda floor toward the man slumped
over the bench. Myers followed.
   Hansen went to one knee, waiting for the inevitable
gunfire from one or more of the mezzanines above.
Kurtz was too smart to be cut down like this. Wasn't
he? This had to be an ambush.
   No gunfire.
   Hansen used his goggles to check out the darkest
shadows under the mezzanine overhang as he moved
carefully around the rotunda, staying back against the
wall, keeping his rifle trained on any bench or tumbled
kiosk that might give a man cover for an ambush.
   Nothing.
   "He's dead!" called Myers, the fat man's voice
echoing.
   "Yeah, but who the fuck is it?" said Brubaker. "I
can't see his face through these fucking things."
   Hansen was fifteen feet from the two detectives and
the corpse when Brubaker's flashlight beam bloomed
like a phosphorous bomb in his goggles.
   Hansen sought cover behind a fallen bench and
waited for the gunfire from above.
   Nothing.
   He flipped up his own goggles and looked over to
where Brubaker's flashlight was swinging back and
forth.
   The man in the dark jacket was dead—at least three
shots to the chest and one in the throat. It wasn't
Kurtz. The man had been handcuffed to a wall pipe and
still half hung from it, his upper torso draped across a

                          303
bench. Hansen could see the face; the corpse's eyes
were wide and staring in terror. Tape covered the
mouth and ran all the way around the head. James B.
Hansen's titanium briefcase had been taped to the
man's left hand with twist after twist of the same silver
duct tape.
   Myers was tugging a billfold out of the corpse's
pocket. Hansen ducked low, expecting an explosion.
   "Donald Lee Rafferty," read Myers. "Ten-sixteen
Locus Lane, Lockport. He's an organ donor."
   Brubaker laughed.
   "Who the fuck is Donald Lee Rafferty?" whispered
Myers. The two detectives were beginning to realize
how exposed they were.
   Brubaker shut off the flashlight. Hansen could hear
their goggles being swung down on the helmets' visor
hinges.
   In the green glow, Hansen duck-walked over to the
trio, pulled the dead man's left hand back over the
bench, and pried the taped briefcase open. It was
empty.
   What kind of stupid joke is this? Hansen
remembered exactly who Donald Rafferty was,
remembered the man's adopted daughter lying in the
hospital, remembered the connection to Joe Kurtz and
Kurtz's dead partner from twelve years ago. But none
of this added up. If Kurtz really wanted the blackmail
money, why this idiocy? If Kurtz's goal was to kill him,
again why this complication? Even if Kurtz had his own
night-vision goggles, there could have been no way he
could distinguish one of the detectives from the other


                           304
here in the rotunda. Kurtz should have fired when he
had a clear field of fire.
   If he was still here.
   Hansen suddenly felt the deep cold of the place creep
into him. It took him a few seconds to recognize the
phenomenon—fear.
   Fear of the inexplicable. Fear of the absolutely
unreasonable action. Fear that came from not
understanding what in hell your opponent was up to or
what he might do next.
   Quit trying to turn him into Moriarty, thought
Hansen. He's just an ex-con screw-up. He probably
doesn't know why he's doing what he's doing. Maybe it
just amused him to have us kill Rafferty for him. He'll
probably call me tomorrow with another time and place
for the handover of the money and photographs.
   Well, thought Hansen, fornicate that. No more
games. Let Frears and Kurtz have the photographs. Let
them do their worst. Time to leave. Time to leave the
train station. Time to leave Buffalo. Time to leave all of
this behind.
   Myers and Brubaker were crouched behind the
bench with him.
   "Time to leave," Hansen whispered to them.
   "We get to keep the money?" Myers whispered back,
his breath hot and fetid on Hansen's face. "Even though
it wasn't Kurtz?"
   "Yes, yes," whispered Hansen. "Brubaker. Five yards
to your left is the stairway to the front door. Wide
stairs. Just twelve of them. The doors and windows
down there are boarded over. Clear the staircase while
we give you cover. Kick the boards off the door or
                           305
window. Shoot an opening if you have to. We're getting
out of here."
   Brubaker hesitated a second but then nodded and
scuffed to his right and down the staircase.
   Hansen and Myers stayed behind the bench, muzzles
swinging to cover the mezzanine levels across the
rotunda, then the opposite main-staircase doorway.
Nothing moved. No shots from the front staircase.
Hansen heard Brubaker kicking the hell out of the
boarded door and then the shout "Clear!"
   Hansen had Myers cover him while he shuffled to
the staircase and then covered the fat man while he
wheezed and panted past him and down the stairs.
   Outside, the night-vision goggles were almost too
bright. It was still snowing hard, but the drifted
expanse of the parking lot glowed like a green desert in
bright sunlight. The three detectives abandoned all
pretext of proper SWAT procedure and just loped away
from the station, running flat-out across the parking
lot. Each man ran hunched, obviously half-expecting a
bullet between the shoulder blades. But as they
reached a hundred feet from the tower, then two
hundred, then a hundred yards and better, they began
to relax slightly under their heavy flak vests. It would
take a master marksman with a high-velocity rifle,
night-scope, and much luck to get off a good shot at this
distance, in this snow.
   No shot came.
   Panting and wheezing loudly now, they passed the
low boulders blocking access to the lot and came down
the slippery driveway. The goggles gave them a view of
everything for sixty yards in each direction. Nothing

                           306
moved. No other cars were visible. The only tire tracks
in the driveway, mostly drifted over now, were those of
the Cadillac Escalade, which had accumulated two
inches of new snow in the forty-five minutes or so they
had been in the station.
   "Wait," panted Hansen. He used the remote to beep
the Cadillac unlocked and they checked the lighted
interior before approaching. Empty.
   "Myers," said Hansen between gasps. "Keep your
goggles and vest on and keep watch while Brubaker
and I get out of this gear."
   Myers grumbled but did as he was told as the other
two detectives tossed their heavy vests, rifles, and
helmets into the back of the SUV.
   "All right," said Hansen, pulling the .38 from his coat
pocket and standing guard while Myers divested
himself of his tactical gear. There was enough light out
here to allow Hansen to see the fat man's grin when he
was free of the heavy equipment. Despite the cold and
snow, Myers wiped sweat from his face.
   "That was fucking weird," said the heavyset
detective.
   "How many times have I asked you not to use
profanity?" Hansen said, and shot Myers in the
forehead.
   Brubaker began groping in his jacket for his gun, but
Hansen had plenty of time to fire twice—hitting the
man first in the throat and then in the bridge of the
nose.
   He dragged the bodies out of the way so he could
back the Escalade down to the street and then went


                           307
through their jackets, pulling out the two envelopes of
cash.
   Breathing more easily now, Hansen looked back at
the distant tower and train station. Nothing moved
across the wide expanse of snow. If Mickey Kee had
ever shown up, he was on his own in there now.
Settling into the big SUV, Hansen felt a twinge of
regret—he'd probably never know what game Joe Kurtz
and John Wellington Frears had been playing. But he
no longer cared. It was time to leave it all behind.




                          308
         CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX


                                                      «^»
Suddenly Kurtz knew that he was not alone on the
mezzanine.
   It had been a long, cold wait for Hansen and his pals,
first waiting at the broken window of the front
mezzanine office. The parking lot had been dark, but
Kurtz was sure he could see any moving figure against
the snow, even though his view from the third-floor
window was partially obscured by the large steel-and-
plaster ornamental awning directly beneath his perch.
   When Marco had broken squelch twice on the radio,
Kurtz had slipped the earpiece into his pocket and
moved as quietly as he could—the floor was littered
with broken plaster and glass—to the rotunda
mezzanine outside the office. From there he didn't have
long to wait until Hansen and the other two detectives
showed up and blasted Rafferty to bits.
   Kurtz never had a clear shot with his pistol. The
rotunda got more light than most of the rest of the train
station's interior, but it was still too dark for Kurtz to
see anything clearly, even with his eyes adapted to the
dark. One of the men had turned a flashlight on briefly
when they were inspecting their kill, but Kurtz had
only a brief glimpse of SWAT-garbed men more than
eighty feet across the circle of the rotunda. Too far for a
shot from the .40-caliber SW99 semiauto in his hand or

                            309
the .45 Compact Witness in his coat pocket Besides,
even that brief glimpse of the men—he couldn't tell
them apart in their black helmets and SWAT vests—
showed that their body armor would stop a pistol shot.
   Then the three had gone down the front stairway
and battered their way out the front door and Kurtz
had scuttled back to his place by the shattered window.
   The entrance canopy below blocked his view until
the three running men were again out of range, then
lost to the darkness and falling snow of the parking lot.
   Kurtz didn't even try following their retreat He sat
with his back against the wall and slowed his
breathing.
   There was the slightest hint of noise from either the
mezzanine outside the office or the rotunda below. The
whispering-gallery effect worked both ways.
   Marco? He didn't think the unarmed bodyguard
would be stupid enough to come toward the sound of
automatic weapons fire. Could Rafferty still be alive
and stirring? No. Kurtz had seen the wounds in the few
seconds of the flashlight's inspection.
   Getting silently to his feet Kurtz raised the pistol
and crossed the littered floor as quietly as he could.
Glass still crunched underfoot.
   Pausing at the doorway, he stepped out onto the
mezzanine, pistol ready.
   A shadow against the wall to his right moved with
impossible speed. The .40 S&W went flying out across
the railing and Kurtz felt his right wrist and hand go
numb from the kick.
   He leaped back, pawing with his left hand for the .45
in his peacoat pocket but the shadow leaped and a two-
                           310
footed Jack caught him in the chest, breaking ribs and
throwing Kurtz backward into the office.
   Rolling, Kurtz got to his feet and lifted both arms in
defense even as the shadow hurtled at him and three
more fast kicks numbed his right forearm, smashed
another rib, and kicked Kurtz's feet out from under
him. He landed hard and felt broken glass rip at his
back even as the wind rushed out of him.
   Hansen? No. Who?
   Kurtz staggered to his knees and grabbed for the
extra gun again but his peacoat had been torn open and
twisted around by the fall and he couldn't find the
pocket. Maybe the gun had been knocked free but
Kurtz couldn't see it in the dim light through the
broken window.
   His assailant came up behind him silently, grabbed
Kurtz by the hair and pulled him to his feet.
   Instinctively, Kurtz threw his left hand up tight to
his chin—the right hand was useless—and felt a long
blade cutting his forearm to the bone rather than
severing his neck. Kurtz gasped and kicked backward
as hard as he could.
   The man danced away.
   Kurtz was reeling, barely able to stand, feeling the
shattered rib where it had cut into his right lung. He
was bleeding badly, right hand dangling useless, legs
shaky. He had only a few seconds he could stay
standing, maybe thirty seconds before he lost
consciousness.
   His attacker moved to his left, a shadow in shadows.



                           311
   Kurtz backed toward the window. A tall shard of
sharp glass stuck upward from the windowsill. If he
could maneuver the man toward the…
   The man-shaped darkness leaped from the shadows.
Kurtz abandoned the window-glass strategy, tugged his
coat around with his bloody left hand, and reached for
his pocket just as there came a blinding flash of fight.
   The figure, who had kicked him in the chest again,
was not distracted by the light. The man body-blocked
Kurtz with a sharp shoulder, lifted him, and threw him
backward through the window even as Kurtz's left
hand became entangled in his own coat pocket.
   Kurtz was dimly aware that he was somersaulting
through the cold air, looking up at the dark rectangle of
window fifteen feet above, his assailant's face white
against the blackness there. Then Kurtz hit the solid
canopy with his back, smashed through the rotten
plaster and lathing and rebar, and fell another fifteen
feet to the snowy pavement below.

A hundred yards away through blowing snow, snug in
the driver's seat of the Cadillac SUV, Hansen heard
none of this. He turned the ignition, heard the V-8 roar
to life, set the heater to maximum, and flipped on the
halogen headlights.
   He had just raised his hand to the gearshift when
there came a soft tik-tik and thirty-two pounds of C-4
explosive rigged under the floorboards, in the engine
compartment, behind the dash, and especially carefully
around the 40-gallon fuel tank, exploded in tight
sequence.


                           312
   The first wad of explosive blew off Hansen's feet just
above the ankles. The second batch of C-4 blew the
hood a hundred feet into the air and sent the
windshield flying. The main packet ignited the fuel
tank and lifted the two-and-a-half-ton vehicle five feet
into the air before the SUV dropped back onto burning
tires. The interior of the Cadillac immediately filled
with a fuel-air mixture of burning gasoline.
   Hansen was alive. Even as he breathed flames, he
thought, I'm alive!
   He tried the door but it was buckled and jammed.
The passenger seat was twisted forward and on fire.
Hansen himself was on fire. The wood-and-polymer
steering wheel was melting in his hands.
   Not knowing yet that his feet were gone, Hansen
lurched forward and clawed at the dashboard, pulling
himself through the jagged hole where the windshield
had been.
   The hood was gone; the engine compartment was a
well of flames.
   Hansen did not stop. Reaching up and over with
hands of molten flesh, he grabbed the optional roof rack
of the Cadillac and pulled his charred and burning legs
out of the wreck, twisting free of the interior, dropping
himself away from the flaming mass of metal.
   His hair was on fire. His face was on fire. Hansen
rolled in the deep snow, smothering the flames,
screaming in agony.
   He crawled on his smoking elbows farther from the
wreck, rolling on his back, trying to breathe through
the pain in his lungs. He could see everything clearly,
not knowing that his eyelids had fused with his brow

                           313
and could not be closed. Hansen held his hands in front
of his face. They hurt. He saw in a surge of disbelief
bordering on a weird joy that his fingers had bloated
like hot dogs left too long on the charcoal grill and then
burst and melted. He saw white bone against the black
sky. The flames illuminated everything in a sixty-yard
radius.
   Hansen tried to scream for help but his lungs were
two sacks of carbon.
   A silhouette walked between him and the burning
vehicle. A man. The dark shape knelt, leaned closer,
showed a face to the flames.
   "Hansen," said John Wellington Frears. "Do you hear
me? Do you know who I am?"
   I am not James B. Hansen, Hansen thought and
tried to say, but neither his jaws nor tongue would
work.
   Frears looked down at the burned man. Hansen's
clothes had peeled off and his skin hung in greasy folds,
smoking like charred rags. The man's face showed
exposed and burned muscles like cords of slick red-and-
yellow rope. Hansen's scorched lips had peeled back
from his teeth, so he seemed to be caught in the middle
of a wild grin. The staring gray eyes could not blink.
Only the thin column of Hansen's breath rising into the
frigid air from the open mouth showed that he still
lived.
   "Can you hear me, Hansen?" said Frears. "Can you
see who I am? I did this. You killed my daughter,
Hansen. And I did this. Stay alive and suffer, you son of
a bitch."


                           314
   Frears knelt next to the charred man for several
minutes. Long enough to see the pupils in the monster's
eyes widen in recognition and then become fixed and
dilated. Long enough to see that the only vapor rising
into the cold air from Hansen now was no longer
breath, but steam and smoke from the cooked flesh.
   Distant sirens rose from the direction of the lighted
city—the habitat, John Wellington Frears thought, of
the other men, the civilized men. He rose and was
ready to walk back to the Lincoln parked a block away
when he saw something that looked like an animal
crawling toward him through the snow of the parking
lot.




                          315
      CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN


                                                   «^»
Mickey Kee stood at the open window for a minute,
staring down at Kurtz's body through the hole in the
metal canopy and then glancing up at the vehicle
burning in the distance. He was curious about the
explosion, but he hadn't let it deter him from his work.
   His charge from Mr. Gonzaga had been—kill Kurtz,
then kill Millworth. In Mr. Gonzaga's words, "Any
fucking cop crazy enough to hire me to kill somebody is
too fucking crazy to be left alive." Mickey Kee had not
disagreed. Mr. Gonzaga had added that he wanted
Kurtz's head—literally—and Kee had brought a gunny
sack on his belt to transport the trophy. Mr. G planned
to give Ms. Angelina Farino a surprise present.
   Kee had been mildly disappointed twenty minutes
earlier when Millworth and his two sidekicks had come
into the station like the Keystone Kops shuffling along
in body armor. He'd followed them to Kurtz, knowing
that the time was not right to take care of Millworth,
that it was too risky with all of that firepower in the
hands of clowns. Now this explosion. With any luck,
Millworth was no longer a factor. If it hadn't been the
homicide detective's pyre, then Mickey Kee would drive
to Millworth's house and take care of things there. The
evening was young.



                          316
   Moving silently even over broken glass, Kee circled
the mezzanine and went down the stairs, across the
rotunda, and out the front door. Kurtz's body had not
moved.
   Kee slipped his Beretta out of its holster and
approached carefully. Kurtz had made a mess coming
through the overhang. Rebar hung down like spaghetti.
Plaster and rotted wood were scattered around the
body. Kurtz's right arm was visibly broken, the bone
visible, and his left leg looked all twisted out of
position. His left arm was pinned under his body just as
he had fallen on it. There was blood soaking the snow
around Kurtz's head and his eyes were wide and
staring fixedly at the sky through the hole he'd made in
the overhang. Snow-flakes settled on the open eyes.
   Mickey Kee straddled the body and counted to
twenty. No breath rising in the cold air. Kee spat down
onto Kurtz's open mouth. No movement. The eyes
stared past Kee into intergalactic space.
   Kee grunted, slipped away the Beretta, pulled the
gunny sack from his belt, and clicked open the eight-
inch blade on his combat knife.
   Kurtz blinked and brought his left hand up and
around, squeezing the trigger of the Compact Witness .
45 he'd pulled out during his fall. The bullet hit Mickey
Kee under the chin, passed through his soft palate and
brain, and blew the top of his skull off.
   The .45 suddenly grew too heavy to hold so Kurtz
dropped it. He would have liked to have closed his eyes
to go away from the pain, but Kee's body was too heavy
on his damaged chest to let him breathe, so he pulled
the body off him with his left hand, rolled over

                           317
painfully, and began crawling on his belly toward the
distant flames.




                         318
      CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT


                                                    «^»
John Wellington Frears drove Kurtz to the Erie County
Medical Center that night. It wasn't the hospital closest
to the train station, but it was the only one he knew
about since he'd driven past it several times on the way
to and from the Airport Sheraton. Despite the storm, or
perhaps because of it, the emergency room was almost
empty, so Kurtz had no fewer than eight people
working on him when he was brought in. The two real
doctors in the group didn't understand the injuries—
severe cuts, lacerations, concussion, broken ribs, broken
wrist, damage to both legs—but the well-dressed
African-American gentleman who'd brought the patient
in said that it had been an accident at a construction
site, that his friend had fallen three stories through a
skylight, and the shards of glass in Kurtz seemed to
bear that story out.
   Frears waited around long enough to hear that
Kurtz would live, and then he and the black Lincoln
disappeared back into the storm.
   Arlene made it through the weather to the hospital
that night, stayed until the next afternoon, and came
back every day. When Kurtz regained consciousness
late the next morning, she was reading the Buffalo
News, and she insisted on reading parts of it aloud to
him every day after that.


                           319
   On that first day after the murders, Thursday, the
carnage at the train station almost crowded out the
news about the blizzard. "The Train Station Massacre,"
the papers and TV news immediately christened it.
Three homicide detectives were dead, a civilian named
Donald Rafferty, a petty criminal from Newark named
Marco Dirazzio, and an Asian-American not yet
identified. It was obvious to the press that some sort of
straight-from-the-movies shoot-out between the crooks
and the cops had taken place that night, probably while
Captain Robert Gaines Millworth and his men were
working undercover.
   By that afternoon, the chief of police and the mayor
of Buffalo had both vowed that this cold-blooded
murder of Buffalo's finest would not go unavenged—
that every resource, including the FBI, would be used
to track down the killers and bring them to justice. It
would, they said, be the largest manhunt in the history
of Western New York. The vows were made in time to
be picked up by the prime-time local and network news.
Tom Brokaw said during the lead-in to the report, "A
real—and deadly—game of cops-and-robbers took place
in Buffalo, New York, last night, and the body count
may not be finished yet." That odd prediction came true
when the authorities announced late Thursday that the
dead bodies of Captain Millworth's wife and son, as
well as another unidentified body, had been discovered
that morning at the captain's home in Tonawanda. One
city alderman was quoted during the late news saying
that it was inappropriate for a captain of Homicide on
the Buffalo Police Department to live in Tonawanda,
that city law and department policy required residence


                           320
within the city limits of Buffalo for all city employees.
The alderman was largely ignored.
   On Friday, the second day after the murders, the
dead Asian-American was identified as Mickey Kee, one
of alleged Mafia Don Emilio Gonzaga's enforcers, and
rumors were circulating that Detective Brubaker, one
of the fallen hero cops, had been on the payroll of the
Farino crime family. Chief Podeski's sound bite that
night was: "Whatever the complicated circumstances of
this heinous crime, we must not let it blind us to the
incredible bravery of one man—Captain Robert Gaines
Millworth—who gave his life and the lives of his
beloved family for the people of Erie County and the
Niagara Frontier." A hero's funeral was being planned
for Captain Millworth. It was rumored that the
President of the United States might attend.
   Kurtz had surgery for his left leg, right lung, and
both arms that day. He slept all that evening.
   On Saturday, the third day, Arlene attended the
funeral of her neighbor, Mrs. Dzwrjsky, and brought a
tuna casserole to the family afterward. That same day,
the Buffalo News ran a copyrighted story that canceled
the President's visit: a world-famous violinist named
John Wellington Frears had come forward with
documents, photographs, and audio tapes showing that
Captain Robert Gaines Millworth was an imposter, that
the city had hired a serial child-killer with no history of
law enforcement in his background, and that this
imposter had once been James B. Hansen, the man who
had murdered Frears's daughter twenty years earlier.
Furthermore,     Frears     had    evidence     to    show
that Millworth/Hansen had been in the pay of crime
boss Emilio Gonzaga and that the Train Station
                            321
Massacre had not been a cops-versus-robbers fight at
all, but a complicated gangland killing gone terribly
wrong.
   The Mayor and the chief of police announced on
Saturday afternoon that there would be an immediate
grand jury investigation into both the Gonzaga and
Farino alleged crime families.
   On that third evening, the CBS, NBC, ABC, Fox, and
CNN news all led with the story.
   On the fourth morning, Sunday, it was revealed by
the Buffalo News and two local TV stations that Mr.
John Wellington Frears had produced an audio tape of
a telephone conversation between Angelina Farino
Ferrara—a young woman recently returned from
Europe, a widow, and someone never connected to the
Farino family's business of crime—and Stephen "Little
Skag" Farino, calling from Attica over his lawyer's
secure phone. The transcript ran in that morning's
edition of the Buffalo News, but copies of the tape were
played on radio and TV stations everywhere.

Ms.        You've been hiring cops to whack
Farino:    people.   Detective Brubaker,   for
           instance. I know you've put him on
           the payroll that used to go to
           Hathaway.

Stephen    Stephen Farino: What the [expletive
Farino:    deleted] are you talking about, Angie?

Ms.        I don't care about Brubaker, but I've
Farino:    gone over the family notes and I see

                          322
           that Gonzaga's got a captain of
           detectives on the arm. A guy named
           Millworth.

           [no response]
Stephen
Farino:

Ms.        Millworth's not really Millworth. He's
Farino:    a serial killer named James B.
           Hansen… and a bunch of other
           aliases. He's a childkiller, Stevie. A
           rapist and a killer.

Stephen    So?
Farino:

And so on. Along with the transcript, the Buffalo News
released a list of forty-five names that included cops,
judges, politicians, parole-board members, and other
Buffalo-area officials shown to be on the Gonzaga
family payroll, along with the amount they were paid
each year by Gonzaga. There was a shorter list—eight
names—of lesser cops and minor politicians who were
in the pay of the Farino Family. Detective Fred
Brubaker's name was on the second list.
   On the fifth day, Monday, three of the most
expensive lawyers in the United States, including one
famous lawyer who had been successful in the O.J.
Simpson defense years ago, all now in the hire of Emilio
Gonzaga, held a press conference to announce that
John Wellington Frears was a liar and a scoundrel, as
well as someone intent upon slandering Italian-

                           323
Americans everywhere, and they were prepared to
prove it in a court of law. Their client, Emilio Gonzaga,
was suing John Wellington Frears for slander to the
tune of one hundred million dollars.
   That evening, Frears appeared on Larry King Live.
The violinist was sad, dignified, but unwavering. He
showed photographs of his murdered daughter. He
produced documents showing that Gonzaga had hired
Millworth/Hansen. He showed carefully edited
photographs of Millworth/Hansen posing with other
murdered children—and with Frears's own daughter.
When Larry King pressed Frears to tell how he had
come by all this material, Frears said only, "I hired a
skilled private investigator." When confronted with the
news of the hundred-million-dollar lawsuit, Frears
talked about his battle with colon cancer and said
simply that he would not live long enough to defend his
name in such a lawsuit. Emilio Gonzaga and Stephen
Farino, said Frears, were murderers and child
molesters. They would have to live with that
knowledge, Frears said. He would not.
   "Shut that damned thing off," Kurtz said from his
hospital bed. He hated Larry King.
   Arlene shut it off but lit a cigarette in defiance of all
hospital rules.

On the sixth day after the massacre, Arlene came into
the hospital to find Kurtz out of his bed and room.
When he returned, pale, shaking, trailing his IV stand,
he would not say where he had been, but Arlene knew
that he had gone one floor up to look in on Rachel, who
was in a private room now. The doctors had saved the

                            324
girl's remaining kidney and she was on the road to
recovery. Gail had put in the necessary papers to
become Rachel's legal guardian, and the two spent
hours together in Rachel's room each evening when
Gail got off work.
   On the seventh day, Wednesday, Arlene came in
with a copy of USA Today: Emilio Gonzaga had been
found in New York City that morning, stuffed in the
trunk of a Chevrolet Monte Carlo parked near the fish
market, two .22 bullets in the back of his head. "A
double tap, obviously a professional hit," said the
experts in such things. The same experts speculated
that the Five Families had acted to end the bad
publicity. "They're sentimentalists when it comes to
kids," said one source.
   But Kurtz was gone on that seventh morning. He'd
checked himself out during the night. The previous
evening, an inquiring mind from one of the newspapers
had come by the hospital to ask Kurtz if he was the
"skilled private investigator" mentioned by John
Wellington Frears.
   Arlene checked the office and the Royal Delaware
Arms, but Kurtz had taken some essentials from both
places and disappeared.




                         325
        CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE


                                                       «^
The week Joe disappeared, she'd had to move
everything out of their basement office so the city could
tear down the building. Gail and some friends helped
her with the move. Arlene stored the computers and
files and miscellaneous stuff in her garage out in
Cheektowaga.
    The week after that, Angelina Farino Ferrara
phoned her. "Did you hear the news?" asked Ms.
Ferrara.
    "I'm sort of avoiding the news," admitted Arlene.
    "They got Little Skag. Shanked him eleven times in
the Attica exercise yard last night. I guess it's true that
cons don't like Short Eyes any more than the Five
Family bosses do."
    "Is he dead?" asked Arlene.
    "Not quite. He's in some sort of high-security secret
infirmary somewhere. They won't even let me—his only
surviving family member—visit him. If he lives, they'll
move him out of Attica to some undisclosed location."
    "Why are you telling me?"
    "I just thought Joe would like to know if you happen
to talk to him. Do you talk to him?"
    "No. I have no idea where he is."



                            326
   "Well, if he gets in touch, tell him that I'd like to talk
to him sometime. We don't exactly have any unfinished
business between us, but I might have some business
opportunities for him."
   "I'll tell Mr. Kurtz that you called."
   That same afternoon, Arlene received a check for
$35,000 from John Wellington Frears. The note on the
check said only: "Wedding Bells.com." Arlene vaguely
remembered discussing her idea with him the day they
were together at her house. The news that evening
reported that the violinist had checked himself into a
hospital—not Erie County, but an expensive private
hospital in the suburbs. A few days later, the
newspaper said that Frears was on a respirator and in
a coma.

Three and a half weeks after the Train Station
Massacre, there was hardly anything about it in the
papers except for the continuing string of city
resignations     and    ongoing    investigations    and
commissions. On that Wednesday in early March,
Rachel came home to Gail's duplex on Colvin Avenue.
Arlene visited them the next day and brought some
homemade cake.
   The next morning, early, Arlene's doorbell rang.
She'd been sitting at the kitchen table, smoking her
first cigarette of the day and sipping coffee, staring at
the unopened paper, and the sound of the doorbell
made her jump. She left her coffee but took her
cigarette and the .357 Magnum she kept in the
cupboard and peered out the side window before
opening the door.

                             327
   It was Kurtz. He looked like shit. His hair was
rumpled, he hadn't shaved for days, his left arm was
still in a sling, his right wrist was in a bulky cast, and
he stood stiffly as if his taped ribs were still hurting
him.
   Arlene set the big pistol on her curio cabinet and
opened the door. "How're they hanging, Joe?"
   "Still low, wrinkled, and to the left."
   She batted ashes out onto the stoop. "You came all
the way over from whatever Dumpster you've been
sleeping in to tell me that?"
   "No." Kurtz peered up at the strange, glowing orb
that had appeared in the sky over Buffalo that
morning. "What the hell is that?"
   "The sun," said Arlene.
   "I just wondered," said Kurtz, "if you'd like to go out
today to look for some office space."




                           328
Since his first published short story won the Rod
Serling Memorial Award in the 1982 Twilight Zone
Magazine Short Fiction contest, DAN SIMMONS has
won some of the top awards for the science fiction,
horror, fantasy, and thriller genres, as well as honors
for his mainstream fiction. He lives along the Front
Range of Colorado, where he is currently at work on a
new Joe Kurtz novel.




                          329