James Patterson - Don’t Blink

COURTNEY HAD APPARENTLY been holed up in her large Upper West Side apartment through the weekend. When she finally returned one of my many phone calls that Sunday evening, I convinced her to let me come over.

When she opened the door, she was dressed in baggy sweats, she wasn’t wearing a touch of makeup, and her eyes were so red from all the crying that she could have been the “before” picture in an allergy medication ad.

But to me, she never looked more beautiful. I just wanted to hold her. But I didn’t. I wouldn’t even try under the circumstances.

We hung out in her kitchen and opened up a bottle of Bordeaux. It was a 2003 Branaire-Ducru, her favorite. I couldn’t help wondering if Thomas Ferramore knew that. Did he know any of her favorite things? Maybe he did. Maybe he loved her like I did. Screw Ferramore. Of course he doesn’t.

After a few sips in complete silence, she took the deepest of deep breaths and exhaled. “Go ahead,” she said, “ask the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.”

Given Ferramore’s bank account it was more like the sixty-four-million-dollar question, but that was a bad joke I wasn’t about to crack. I was also going to do my best to avoid the word supermodel.

Still, I asked the question she wanted – make that needed – me to ask. “Is it true?”

“Tom swears that it isn’t. He even said he’d be able to prove it to me.”

“Do you believe him?” Don’t, Courtney. He’s a super-rich super-scumbag.

Courtney stared down at the wineglass cradled in her hands, the plum red of the Bordeaux reflecting off her ten-carat diamond ring. She was still wearing it.

“I don’t know,” she answered finally.

That was that.

She didn’t ask my opinion. She didn’t want to know what I thought she should do. Perhaps that’s because she already knew. She is that smart.

“Let’s focus on work,” she said. “I’ve got a magazine to run and you might have the biggest story in your life to write. Correct so far?”

I had to smile. She was proving it once again. If Arnold Schwarzenegger was the Terminator, Courtney Sheppard was the Compartmentalizer.

“The police have arrested the wrong man for the murder of Vincent Marcozza,” she continued. “And you’re the only one who can prove it.”

“They maybe arrested the wrong man,” I corrected her. “As for my proving it, I’m nowhere near doing that.”

“Not yet, you’re not. But tomorrow’s another day,” she said. “Tomorrow’s always another day.”

I shot her a look. “What are you up to?” I asked.

There was something about the way she’d said tomorrow, like she had something tricky up her sleeve.

And sure enough, Courtney definitely did.

“C’MON IN,” said Derrick Phalen of the Organized Crime Task Force, greeting me with an easy smile and a firm handshake at the door of his office in White Plains, New York. As he walked back to his desk, he motioned to an old, beat-up gray chair in front of it that looked to be one fat guy away from total collapse. “Have a seat, if you dare,” he joked, though given the chair’s condition, it wasn’t all that funny.

“Thanks,” I said, gingerly settling in. Then I reported, “Made it okay.”

Quickly glancing around the young prosecutor’s modest office, I came to an equally quick conclusion. This guy worked for a living. His desk was absolutely covered in paperwork while files as thick as phone books surrounded him like a moat.

But it was the little yellow stickies of notes and phone numbers that really caught my eye. They were stuck to every conceivable surface – his computer, desk lamp, stapler, coffee mug, even the framed diploma from the Fordham School of Law hanging on the wall.

“So how do you know Courtney?” I asked. “She didn’t tell me all the details.”

“I was roommates with her brother, Mike, at Middlebury College,” he said.

I immediately felt as if I’d put my foot in my mouth, even though I knew I really hadn’t. “Oh” was all I could manage.

“Yeah,” he said. “I know. We’re coming up on ten years since Mike died, and I still can’t believe he’s gone.” He rubbed his chin, reflecting. “He was a helluva guy. In fact, I was actually in Manhattan that morning and we were supposed to have lunch together. He even left a message on my cell phone to confirm twenty minutes before the first plane hit.” Phalen paused for a moment. “I still listen to it from time to time.”

“Jesus, I’m sorry,” I said.

“Hey, no, I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to be a downer on our first date.” He sat up in his chair, snapping his shoulders straight. “So tell me, what can I do for you? And for Courtney.”

To tell you the truth, Derrick Phalen, I’m not sure. That’s what I’m here to find out.

“Did Courtney give you any of the background?” I asked. “Anything at all?”

“Only that you wanted to talk to me about Eddie Pinero,” he said. “I assume it’s for an article you’re writing for Citizen. Right so far?”

“Yes, hopefully,” I said. Instinctively, I reached into my leather bag to retrieve my tape recorder. I placed it on his desk.

Immediately, Phalen looked at it like Superman does kryptonite.

“I’m sorry, Nick,” he said. “As I told Courtney, I’m happy to talk to you, but I can’t go on record – or for that matter be recorded – when it comes to anyone this office has investigated. Them’s the rules.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize,” I said. It was the first and only time I wasn’t a hundred percent on the level with the guy. He’d soon know why.

“No worries,” he said. “It’s just that when you work for the Organized Crime Task Force, you try to limit how much your name appears in print.”

“I can certainly appreciate that,” I said. I then held up my tape recorder, giving it the same kryptonite look Phalen had. “Actually, this thing has been nothing but trouble for me lately.”

“What do you mean?” asked Phalen.

Bingo, there it is. My opening.

A week ago I was worried that word about my recording of Vincent Marcozza’s killer would leak. Now here I was about to leak it myself.

“You might say I’m the reason Eddie Pinero is in jail for murder right now,” I said. “How’s that for an opening line?”

Phalen leaned back in his chair, a knowing smile filling his lean face. “Holy shit, it was you. All I’d heard was that someone had accidentally recorded Vincent Marcozza’s killer at Lombardo’s.”

“Yeah, well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” I said. “Because I don’t think it was an accident.”

I expected Phalen to immediately ask me what I meant by that. He didn’t.

Instead he stood up and asked me a question I never would’ve guessed in a million years.

“DO YOU LIKE pasta fagioli?” asked Phalen.

Huh? Come again? Bizarre soup segues for a thousand, Alex?

Phalen didn’t wait for my answer. “I know this place right across the street that serves the best pasta fagioli you’ll ever have. Best in White Plains, anyway. C’mon, we’ll get a bowl, have some lunch.”

The next thing I knew, I was following the guy out of his office and to the elevator bank on his floor. What’s going on? I was thinking as we walked – kind of fast, actually.

I was no psychic, but this much I could figure out: Derrick Phalen didn’t want to be in his office when we discussed Eddie Pinero’s involvement – or rather, noninvolvement – in Vincent Marcozza’s murder.

He had his reasons, I’m sure. Hopefully he’d explain them to me over lunch. Bring on the pasta fagioli!