Crisscross

He'd tried for the NYPD but didn't make it. Had to settle for the NCPD—Nassau County—where the pay didn't turn out to be all that decent. Didn't take him too long, though, to find ways to supplement it.

As a patrolman first and later a detective, Richie spent twenty-six years with the NCPD, twenty-four and a half of them on the pad. That got him into a little trouble toward the end, but he'd traded keeping mum about a certain IAD guy's sexual tastes for a Get Out of Jail Free pass, and walked away with his pension intact.

That had been his introduction to the power of knowing things he wasn't supposed to. Instead of putting himself out to pasture, he applied for his private investigator license and opened Cordova Security Consultants. No big expectations, just someplace to go every day. Startup had been slow, but stuff sent his way by his old buddies in NCPD had helped keep him afloat. He found he liked the work, especially the spouse snooping. He'd got pretty good with a camera over the years and had taken some pretty steamy pictures. He'd kept a private gallery back at the house until this past September.

But often it was the bonus material he collected that paid the best. While checking out a husband or wife suspected of getting it on with somebody else, he frequently came across unrelated or semi-related dirt that he put to work for himself.

Like this nun, for instance. Helene Metcalf had traveled all the way from her Chelsea high-rise to hire Richie. Her hubby Michael was a capital campaign consultant—that meant professional fund-raiser—and had been out on the job an unusual number of nights. She was starting to suspect he might be sneaking a little something on the side and wanted Richie to find out.

Mikey's latest account was raising money for the renovation of St. Joseph's Church on the Lower East Side. Camera in hand, Richie started tailing him and found he was indeed going to St. Joe's—but not just for fund-raising. Seemed he was also doing a little habit-raising with one of the nuns.

Richie took a few shots of the pair in flagrante delicto, as they say, and was about to show them to the wife when he realized he might be sitting on a gold mine. Normally putting the squeeze on a nun would be like trying to buy a whale steak from Greenpeace, but this nun was one of the honchos in the fund-raising project. That was how she'd got so tight with Mikey boy in the first place. Lots of cash flowing through that lady's hands, and those photos was a way to tap into that stream.

So Richie told wifey that her hubby was going exactly where he said he was—showed her photos of him entering and leaving the St. Joe's basement on the nights in question—and said he'd found no impropriety.

He put the squeeze on Mikey as well. Usually he had a rule: Never use nothing against the client. That was a no-no. Had to keep up the reputation, keep up the referrals from satisfied clients.

But Mikey wouldn't know that the guy who was milking him had been hired by his wife.

Because another rule was keep it anonymous. Never let the cow see your face or, worse, learn your name.

So Mikey Metcalf became the second cow in this particular pasture.

Up until a couple of months ago, Richie had maintained a perfect score on the anonymity meter. Then one September night he'd come home from Hurley's and smelled something fu

Only explanation was that one of the cows had found out who he was. Richie had burned his gallery of photos—hated to do it but it was evidence if anyone hit him with a search warrant—and moved his sideline to his office. He'd been looking over his shoulder ever since.

He was puffing a little by the time he reached the wall of the zoo. A hot dog pushcart tempted him but he forced himself to keep moving. Later.

Call the nun first.

Kind of fun to have a nun on the hook. Back in grammar school the penguins—nuns dressed head to toe in black in those days—had always been after him, whacking him on the back of the head or rapping his knuckles whenever he acted up. Not that he'd been damaged for life or nothing. That was a crock. Truth was, he couldn't think of a single time he hadn't deserved what he got. That didn't make them any less of a pain in the ass though.

The nun thing had got to be a game after a while. A badge of honor. If you hadn't got hit you was some kind of fag.

He guessed this was sort of like payback.

He chose a public phone at random and licked his lips as he dialed the convent. He knew Sister Margaret Mary would be over at the school until three or three-thirty, but wanted to shake her up a little.

And he knew just how to do that.

8

"Got him!" Margiotta said.

Jensen had insisted he do the search for Jason Amurri in Jensen's own office. He didn't want anything they found becoming water-cooler talk around the admin floor. So Margiotta had pulled up a chair beside Jensen's desk, swiveled the monitor, moved the keyboard, and gotten to work.

"About time."

"This guy's one reclusive SOB." Margiotta shook his head. He had close-clipped black hair and dark brown eyes. "Only someone with my enormous talents could have dug him up. A lesser sort would've come up with jack shit."

Jensen decided to humor him. "That's why I called on you. Show me."

Margiotta rose and swiveled the monitor back toward Jensen. He pointed to the screen.

"You want to know about his father, I came across tons. Tons. But as for Jason himself, this is the best of what I found. It ain't much—like I said, he's pretty much a recluse—but I think it's enough to give you an idea who he is."

On the screen was a paragraph from a news article about one Aldo Amurri. Jensen had never heard of him. It mentioned he had two sons, Michel and Jason. Michel, the older one, lived in Newport Beach on the shore. Jason lived in Switzerland.

"That's it?"

"Did you read about the father? Check him out. That'll tell you something about this Jason guy."

Jensen scrolled back to the begi

He knew he couldn't keep this from Luther Brady. Eventually he'd find out. Brady always found out. So it was better if Jensen broke the news himself.

But Brady was going to be pissed. Royally pissed.

9

The phone was ringing as Jack stepped into Gia's place. He'd just picked up Vicky at the bus stop. When he saw Mount Sinai on the caller ID he snatched up the receiver. God, he hoped it wasn't bad news. He'd talked to Gia just a couple of hours ago and—

"Is Vicky home?" Gia's voice.

"She's right here. Is anything—?"

"Then come and get me. Please get me out of here."

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Really. Dr. Eagleton released me but the hospital doesn't want me going home alone. I know it's only been one night but I'm so sick of this place. I want my home."

Jack knew it was more than that. Gia skeeved out—her verb—in hospitals.

"We're on our way."

They grabbed a cab on Sutton Place, zipped up Madison into the low One Hundreds, then west over to Fifth Avenue. Mount Sinai Medical Center had a view of Central Park that the Donald Trumps of the city would kill for. Jack and Vicky found a very pale Gia perched on a wheelchair inside the front door. Jack guided her into the cab, and off they went.

Ten minutes later they were stepping through the front door on Sutton Square.

"Oh, God, it's so good to be home!"

Jack followed her down the hall. "Now you're going to be a good girl and take it easy like the doctor said, right?"