Dan Simmons: Hard Freeze

"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.

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."

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.

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 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 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 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?"