James Patterson - Don’t Blink

Frankly, I didn’t know where to start. The threatening guy I’d just “met” at the Sunrise Diner? My bout with the manager of Lombardo’s? Or perhaps what I had learned from the hostess there?

Turns out, Sorren decided for me. As I began to apologize for barging in on him, he interrupted my train of thought with one of his own.

“So, how was your visit with Eddie Pinero?” he asked. “That’s quite a spread he’s got out there in Sheepshead Bay, huh? Crime does pay after all. Boy, does it ever.”

My jaw dropped. How did he know I’d been there? Quickly, it occurred to me. “You’ve got his place staked out? There’s surveillance on Pinero?”

Sorren leaned back in his chair with an easy chuckle. “Hell, no. That would require way too many man-hours, too much overtime pay,” he said. He pointed his finger in the air. “There’s a much cheaper way.”

“Satellites?”

Sorren brought his finger down, tapping his nose. Bingo.

“It’s kind of ironic, actually,” he said. “These capos love to talk outside to make sure we’re not listening. Little do they know we can practically read their lips now. That’s how well we can see ’em.”

He did a double take, squinting at the bruises on my face. “Though I don’t recall seeing any punches thrown during your visit.”

“There weren’t any punches. At least not there,” I explained. Then I told Sorren everything else – the whole shebang, what I’d learned since I’d first called him about my recording from Lombardo’s.

As clear as those satellites were, he’d see why I was concerned. Right?

“So let me get this straight,” he said with a befuddled look. “You think we’ve got the wrong man? You think Eddie Pinero had nothing to do with Marcozza’s murder? Or the two cops? Is that your conclusion, Nick?”

“I don’t know anything for certain. All I’m saying is that I have my doubts.”

Sorren swung his black wingtips up onto his desk, the perfect heels landing against the wood with a jarring thud. He’d been cool and easy-breezy up until this point. Now that same intensity I’d first encountered was bubbling up to the surface.

“I don’t get you,” he said finally, shaking his head. “You come forward with that terrifically useful recording, what amounts to a smoking gun, and here you are now trying to make me forget about it. What gives, Nick?”

“I’m not trying to make you forget about anything, David. I simply want you to rethink it, that’s all.”

“Rethink it? What’s there to rethink?” he asked, his voice booming. “There’s a reason the only currency we trade in around here is cold, hard evidence. Because evidence speaks for itself, clear and simple – just like the killer’s voice on your recording. Remember? I have a message from Eddie.”

Before I could even respond, the intercom on Sorren’s phone beeped. It was his secretary, Ms. Stink Eye. “Excuse me, Mr. Sorren, but they’re waiting for you downstairs.”

“Thank you, Molly. I’m done here.” He shot me a look that said, We’re done, Nick. For now.

Then Sorren jumped up, grabbing his suit jacket from behind his chair. He swirled it through the air like a matador’s cape as he put it on.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a press conference to give,” he said. “Big one, too. You might want to stick around for it. This morning, Eddie ‘The Prince’ Pinero was arrested for ordering the murder of Vincent Marcozza.”

I WOULD HAVE sooner volunteered for a double root canal than stuck around for Sorren’s press conference that morning.

Still, there was no escaping it later that night on the news. It was everywhere on the dial – not that I was too surprised by that. Americans have always loved a good mob story.

But was David Sorren telling the public the right story? Was it the truth?

With practically every flip of the channel there was a clip of Pinero in handcuffs followed by another clip of Sorren facing the hordes of media on the steps of his building. And to watch and listen to Sorren was to make no mistake: the New York Country DA’s Office was his building.

For now, anyway.

As I continued to watch him address the cameras without a single hair out of place, it was easy to picture him making the move to a new building. Like City Hall. If timing is everything, then Pinero’s arrest would be the perfect lead-in for Sorren to announce his candidacy for mayor.

So don’t screw it up, I was about to be told in no uncertain terms.

Out of the blue, or at least out of my blue, the doorbell rang. Whoever it was had made it past the night doorman unannounced. Then again, what else was new? Newborn babies dozed off less than the guy manning our front door.

Looking through the peephole, I blinked with disbelief. It was really her, though.

Brenda.

Bumping into her at the New York Library benefit was one thing, but now here she was at my apartment.

“Wow, twice in one week,” I said as I opened the door. “Just like old times.”

“Twice too many,” Brenda shot back, zipping right by me into my narrow foyer. She turned to face me, her hands planted sternly on her hips. “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Excuse me? Can I have a little hint here?”

“Don’t play dumb, Nick,” she said. “I really hate it when you play dumb. That was another of our problems.”

Fair enough. “Did Sorren put you up to this?” I asked. “He’s worried about me, isn’t he?”

“David doesn’t even know I’m here. He would never ask me to intervene on his behalf. Never happen.”

Again, it was so hard to tell when Brenda was lying, telling the truth, whatever.

“He obviously told you I went to see him today, though, right?” I asked.

“Yes,” she answered. “David and I are a couple, Nick. Couples tell each other things.”

“Don’t remind me,” I said.

She knew exactly what I meant by that. It was ostensibly the reason we broke up.

Long, painful story made short, I had done an important interview with Bill Gates in which he went on record for the first time about his planned retirement from Microsoft. That night I told Brenda. I mean, everyone knows that pillow talk never leaves the bedroom, right? Especially when both of you have made promises to that effect.

Apparently Brenda had had her fingers crossed. The very next day, she reported it on air. “According to a reliable source,” she began the story. It was a real coup for her at the network, a feather in her cap.

And a dagger right through my heart.

I knew right then and there that I could never trust Brenda Evans again. Not that she would ever give me the satisfaction of telling her that. No chance. Ten minutes after her broadcast I received a Dear John e-mail from her. That’s right, she was breaking up with me. With an e-mail. Her reason why? I wasn’t as driven as her and she needed someone who was. And that was that.

“Are you doing this because of what happened between us?” she was asking me now. “Because if you’re trying to get even, it’s not fair to David.”

“What is it exactly you think I’m doing?” I felt compelled to ask.

“I know you, Nick. I know how you play your hunches. You’re relentless even when you’re dead wrong, not even warm.”

“I think what I discussed with your new boyfriend was a little more than a hunch. I may very well be right. There’s evidence, and it’s mounting.”

“But what if you’re wrong? Have you considered for one second how making waves about Pinero’s guilt would reflect on David and his political future?”

I shook my head and smirked. “Wow, you’ve already got your dress picked out for the inauguration, don’t you?”