Authors: James Patterson,Andrew Gross
“How’s that, luv?” he said. “Is it good for you? Does it feel okay?”
“Oh, yes,” Monica said, panting. Did she even have to answer? She felt herself about to come. This was the third time.
For far too long Monica had come home from work, made dinner for her sick mother, and slumped into the den with her to watch TV. She was thirty-eight years old. She knew she had put on weight and that no one really looked at her anymore. Until this chance meeting, she had pretty much given up on the idea of ever finding somebody.
And then—
Karl.
She still found it hard to believe someone so good-looking and well-traveled had come on to her. That in the crowd of attractive female lawyers and legal aides, this tall, blond European with the sexy accent had picked her out. He said he was Dutch, but she didn’t really care where he came from. The only thing that mattered was where he was now, about eight inches inside her.
Karl finally rolled onto his back, breathing hard, his body slick with sweat. He reached for her hand. He pulled her close and lifted the hair away from her face. “How was that? Good for you, I hope?”
“Perfect.” Monica sighed. “I’d say I’d like to volunteer you for a few friends at the office, but I don’t want to share you with anyone.”
“Don’t want to share me?” He grinned. “You selfish little siren. You know what I say to that?”
“What?” Monica smiled. “You don’t want to share me either?”
“I say
this!
”
All of a sudden, he dug his thumb deep into her throat. The spasm of shock and pain straightened her spine. The pain was unbearable.
Karl pulled her right off the bed. Monica’s eyes were jumping out of their sockets.
Stop,
please, you’re hurting me,
she tried to say, but all that came out was an awful garbled sound. She tried to pull away from him. His grip was immovable.
Why are you doing this?
“You know what I say to you, Monica?” He brushed back his long blond hair. “I say, I’m glad you liked it, Monica. All our fun and games so far. But now it’s your turn to do something for me. Something a little more serious. Something . . . more pleasurable.”
“YOU WORK AT the federal courthouse?”
He still had his strong fingers dug into her throat. Monica could barely suck enough air into her lungs to breathe. “Yes.” She managed a single word.
“Good answer.” Karl nodded. He relaxed his grip a little. “You’ve been there awhile now, yes? I bet you know everybody. All the other fat cows? All the security personnel?” His fingers squeezed, and Monica’s eyes widened, tears streaming down her cheeks. “You
do
know them, don’t you, Monica?”
She nodded, her lungs about to explode.
Yes, she knew them.
She saw them every morning and afternoon. One of them, Pablo, always kidded her because she liked Mike Piazza and the Mets, and so did he.
“Good girl,” Karl said again, allowing her to take a needed gulp of air. “People trust you, don’t they, Monica? You never miss a day at work. You take care of your mother in your little house in Queens. It must be lonely coming home every day, making her din-din, checking her oxygen. Taking the poor woman to the doctor.”
Why was he saying this? How did he know everything about her?
With his free hand, Karl reached into the drawer of the bed table and removed something.
What?
A photograph! He flipped it in front of Monica’s eyes. An alarm bell went off in her. It was her mother! Outside their home in Queens. Monica was helping her down the stairs in her walker. What was going on?
“Emphysema?” Karl nodded sympathetically. “Poor lady, barely able to breathe. What a shame, if she had no one to take care of her.” His thumb dug into her throat again. Shock waves ran down her spine.
“What do you want from me?” Monica gagged, feeling as if her chest was about to explode.
“You work in the courthouse.” His blue eyes gleamed. “I need to get something inside. This will be easy for you. As you Americans say—a piece of cake!”
Suddenly Monica saw what this was about. What a ridiculous fool she’d been to even think he was interested in her. “I can’t. There’s security.”
“Of course there’s security.” Karl smiled. He clamped his fingers on her throat again. “That’s why we have you, Monica.”
ANDIE LOOKED NOTHING short of terrific as she opened her apartment door for me. She had on a zippered red sweater and a pair of faded jeans. Her hair was tied back in a brooch, with a few loose curls dangling down her cheeks. Her eyes were dazzling—and looked pleased to see me. I felt the same way about her.
“Smells like I remember,” I said, inhaling a whiff of shellfish with tomatoes and saffron. The paella that was going to take me to heaven.
“At least I won’t have to catch you sneaking around outside,” Andie said with a smile.
“How about
stakeout?
That sounds a little better,” I said, holding out a Spanish Rioja.
“You’re staking
me
out? Why?”
“Well, maybe that’s what I’m here to talk about.”
“Do tell,” said Andie, batting her eyelashes and grinning.
I’m sure I just stood there for a second, recalling how she had looked to me in the jury box during the trial, with that crazy T-shirt on, before any of this happened. Our eyes had met a few times back then. I thought we were both aware of it. There had definitely been one or two averted stares.
“I have some appetizers under the broiler. Make yourself at home.”
I stepped into the small, nicely decorated living room as Andie ducked back into the kitchen. She had a yellow paisley fabric couch and a coffee table with
Architectural Digest
and
InStyle
on it. A creased paperback,
The Other Boleyn Girl.
I recognized the jazz she had on. Coltrane. I went over to the bookshelf and picked up the CD.
A Love Supreme.
“Nice,” I said. “I used to play a little sax.
Long
time ago.”
“What?” she called from the kitchen. “Like in the fifties?”
I came over and took a seat at the counter. “Very funny.”
She slid a platter of cheese puffs and empanadas across the counter. “Here, I went all out.”
I grabbed a cheese puff with a toothpick. “Tasty.” She poured me a glass of Pinot Grigio from an open bottle and sat across from me.
She had a fresh, blossomy scent—lavender or apricot or something. Whatever this was—dinner, a date, just bringing her up to speed on Cavello—I was already enjoying it more than I thought I should.
She smiled. “So, uh, this
is
just a little bit awkward, isn’t it?”
“I left the car running downstairs, just in case.”
“In case it got weird?”
“In case I didn’t like your paella.”
Andie laughed. “Bring it on,” she said, and tilted her glass. “So I guess this is good news, right?”
“That’s right.” We clinked glasses. “Cavello is going down this time.” Suddenly, talking about my meeting with the gangster didn’t exactly seem like the thing to do. All we ever had between us was that awful trial. There was a lull. We both took another sip of wine. Andie smiled and let me off the hook.
“We don’t have to talk about it. We can talk about your class. Or what’s going on in Iraq. Or, God forbid, the Yankees.”
Over dinner, I finally told her more about my meeting with Cavello. I think it made her feel good, knowing the bastard would have to account for something. And the paella was a ten, just the way I liked it.
Afterward, I helped her clean up, stacking dishes in the sink until she made me stop, insisting she’d finish the rest later. She put on a pot of coffee.
Andie’s back was to me. We were talking about her acting, when I noticed a photo on the counter. Her and her son. She had her arm wrapped around his neck, smiles everywhere. Love. They looked like the happiest mother and son.
When I looked up, Andie was facing me. “Don’t take offense, Nick. But why do you keep coming around here? What is it you want to say?”
I was at a loss. “I don’t know.”
“You want to say it hurts? I know it hurts.” Her eyes were glistening now. “You want to say you wish you could’ve done something?”
“I don’t know what I want to say, Andie. But I know I wanted to come and see you.”
And I wanted to just reach out and hold her, too. I don’t think I ever wanted to take someone in my arms as much as I wanted her. And I think, maybe, she wanted it, too. She was just leaning there, palms against the counter.
Finally, Andie smiled. “Car’s still running, huh?”
I nodded. In the past minute or so, the temperature had risen about a hundred degrees in the kitchen. “Don’t take this wrong, but I think I’m gonna pass on that coffee.”
“Hey.” Andie sighed. “Whatever.”
I found my jacket on the chair where I’d left it, and Andie walked me to the door. “Everything was great,” I said, “as advertised.” I took her hand and held it for a second.
“It’s because I feel good around you. That’s why I came. You make me laugh. No one’s made me laugh in months.”
“You know, you’ve got a nice smile, Nick, when you let it out. Anyone ever tell you that?”
I turned to leave. “Not in a while.”
She closed the door behind me. There was a part of me that wanted to say,
screw
it, Nick,
and turn around. And I knew if I did, she would still be there. I could almost feel her standing on the other side of the door.
Then I heard Andie’s voice. “What’s done is done, Nick. You can’t make the world come out right just because you want it that way.”
I turned and pressed my palm against the door. “I can try.”
RICHARD NORDESHENKO KEPT his face still as he squeezed his hole cards up from the table. A pair of threes. The player across from him, in a black shirt and cashmere jacket, and with an attractive male companion looking over his shoulder, tossed $2,000 into the pot. Another player after him raised.
Nordeshenko decided to play. He was ahead tonight. Decidedly. Tomorrow his work began. He would make this his last hand, win or lose.
The dealer flipped over three cards: a two, a nine of clubs, and a four. No improvement, it would seem—for anyone. Cashmere Blazer winked to his boyfriend. He’d been pushing pots all night. “Four thousand.” Nordeshenko read him for four clubs, trying to make his flush.
To his surprise, the other player behind him raised, too. He was heavyset and quiet, wore dark shades, hard to read. Despite his large hands he nimbly shuffled his chips. “Four thousand more,” he said, leveling off two stacks of black chips into the pot.
The right bet, Nordeshenko thought. Drive the third player out—in this case, him. But Nordeshenko wasn’t going to be driven out. He had a feeling. Things had been going his way all night. “I’m in.” He stacked a tower of eight black chips and pushed them in.
The dealer flipped over another four. Now there was a pair on the board. The guy chasing the flush checked. The heavyset player was betting now. Another four thousand. Nordeshenko raised him. To his surprise, Cashmere Blazer stayed along.
Now there was more than $40,000 in the pot.
The dealer flipped over the last card. The six of spades. Nordeshenko couldn’t see how it helped anyone, but he recalled when he’d been in this exact spot before. His adrenaline was racing.
The man with the boyfriend puffed out his cheeks. “Eight thousand!” The few spectators murmured. What the hell was he doing? He’d been pumping the pot all night. Now he was throwing good money after bad.
The heavyset player shuffled his chips. Nordeshenko thought maybe he did have a pair in the hole. A
higher
pair. Clearly, he read his hand for the best at the table. “Eight thousand.” He nodded, making two even stacks of eight black chips. “And eight more.”
Now the murmurs became gasps. Nordeshenko made a steeple with his fingers in front of his mouth, then let out a deep breath. Clearly, the heavyset man expected him to fold. And 90 percent of the time, he would’ve done just that. He was up enough. Why give everything back?
But tonight, he felt this power. Soon he’d put his life on the line. All the money in the world might be meaningless then. That gave him freedom. Besides, he was almost certain he had read the table perfectly.
“Shall we make it interesting?” he asked. “Here is your eight thousand.” He looked at Cashmere Blazer. “And yours,” he said, nodding to the man in shades, evening out a second column of black chips. Then he made a show of doubling the entire stack. “And sixteen thousand more.”
This time there wasn’t a gasp—only a hush. A hundred thousand dollars sat in the center of the table!
Nerves were what separated you under fire. Nerves, and the ability to read one thing. Smell it. That’s what made him the best at what he did. Nordeshenko stared at the man in shades.
Indecision? Fear?
Cashmere Blazer sagged back, clearly feeling like an idiot. Better to toss in his cards now without showing them and not be thought a total fool. “Adios,” he said.
‘You’re bluffing,” the heavyset guy said, swallowing, his eyes X-raying Nordeshenko through his shades.
Nordeshenko shrugged. “Play and see.” He was sure all the man had to do was push in the balance of his chips and he would take the hand.
“Yours.” He grunted, flipping his cards upright. A pair of sixes.
Nordeshenko flipped over his lower pair. “You were right.”
Shouts went up. The dealer pushed the mountain of chips his way. He had won more than $70,000!
Moreover, he had read every indication, every mannerism, correctly. That was a good sign. For tomorrow.
Tomorrow was when the real game began.
AT 10:00 A.M., Dominic Cavello was brought handcuffed into Judge Robert Barnett’s courtroom.
Four U.S. marshals surrounded him. Several others were spread out at intervals along the perimeter of the room. This was a pretrial hearing, back at Foley Square. Cavello’s lawyers had made a motion to suppress all evidence related to the murders of Manny Oliva and Ed Sinclair. They wanted a hearing to determine whether the evidence should be allowed, but I knew the judge would see their request for what it was—a stalling tactic.