James Patterson - Don’t Blink

And for good reason.

This.

Sucks.

After a few hours, my cramped shoe box of an apartment was beginning to feel more like a matchbox. I swear the walls were creeping in on me.

I’d been staring at my MacBook screen straight into the afternoon. Courtney was right: I was literally living the story of a lifetime. Now I had to start writing it.

So why couldn’t I?

Maybe because I didn’t know if I’d live long enough to finish it.

Ten years ago, I’d done a long piece on Salman Rushdie when he’d still been the target of a fatwa against his life. I had asked him what it had felt like to know there were people hell-bent on killing him, that there were substantial rewards out for him, dead or deader. His answer? There are some feelings for which words are utterly useless. And remember, Salman Rushdie is a damn fine writer who had obviously done his research on the subject of death threats.

As I continued to stare at my blank computer screen, I now fully understood what he’d meant. Of course, it didn’t help matters that even if I could write the article, I no longer had Citizen magazine waiting to publish it. In case I’d somehow forgotten that, all I had to do was turn on the television.

So much for TV as a diversion.

“… For that story we turn now to Brenda Evans, who’s outside the Citizen magazine building.”

There she was, the “Bull and Bear Babe,” my ex-girlfriend reporting for the World Financial Network on Thomas Ferramore’s “stunning announcement” that he was folding Citizen magazine.

“Stunning, of course,” said Brenda, holding her microphone as if it were one of her News Emmy Awards, “because Citizen has been a profitable holding for Mr. Ferramore. Selling it would be one thing, but folding it?”

I’d known Brenda long enough to know what was coming next. The gleam in her eye. The tilt of her head. It was gossip time.

“Speculation is rampant,” she continued into the camera, “that the move is merely one of spite in the wake of Ferramore’s broken engagement to Citizen’s editor in chief and driving force, Courtney Sheppard. There’s been no official statement from either side, but my sources tell me that it all ended very, very badly.”

Click!

I’d seen enough, heard enough. Not just of Brenda but of any more television. If the news wasn’t about Ferramore and Citizen magazine, it was about the “Murder in Riverdale” of a state prosecutor. It hurt too much. I couldn’t bear to look at one more picture of Derrick Phalen.

Clearly neither could Courtney. As usual she’d decided not to take my advice about staying away. We’d spoken on the phone just before I’d turned on the television.

About twenty minutes later, she showed up at my door. She was two hours early. I had had to ask the doorman in the lobby, “Are you sure?” when he’d buzzed me that Courtney had arrived. All she and I had discussed on the phone was that she wanted to bring me dinner, the subtext being that we had a lot to talk about, too much to get into over the phone.

But as I opened the door, Courtney didn’t say a word. She looked, I don’t know – the word humbled came to mind. She stepped into the apartment, closed the door behind her, and stared deep into my eyes while biting her lower lip. Then she kissed me like I have never been kissed before in my life.

Finally she said, “Hey, Nick, what’s new?”

I shrugged. “Same old, same old.”

The small talk out of the way, we moved into the bedroom. We stripped away each other’s clothes. Then we couldn’t hold each other tightly enough. I didn’t have to tell her how much I wanted and needed her, and she didn’t have to tell me. Thankfully, Mr. Rushdie, the door swings both ways. Extreme fear, yes, but also intense passion.

There are some feelings, and actions, for which words are utterly useless.

But words do have their place, especially when Courtney said, “You were right, Nick.”

I grinned as I said, “First time for everything.”

SO MUCH FOR joy and happiness and all that.

I closed my eyes and drew a deep breath down close to the bottom of my lungs. I was hoping that when I opened my eyes I’d no longer be standing at Derrick Phalen’s grave site under a sea of gray clouds at Trinity Church Cemetery. I was hoping that this was all just a dream.

But no, it was as real as real gets, and it was also heart-wrenchingly sad. Dwayne Robinson may have had a host of Yankees at his funeral, but Derrick’s service overlooking the Hudson River was no less shy of New York ’s heavy hitters. In attendance were the mayor, the Bronx borough president, the Bronx DA, and two congressmen, both of whom had campaigned heavily on fighting organized crime. Derrick’s victories in the courtroom had helped bring them victories at the polls, and they knew it.

Of course, David Sorren – the mayor in waiting – was on hand, as was Ian LaGrange. I avoided any eye contact with LaGrange while noticing that Sorren seemed to be keeping close tabs on him. Was he worried that LaGrange would take another swing at me?

If so, he should’ve also been checking out the other prosecutors from the OCTF. I was getting some serious dirty looks from more than a few of them.

Ironically, it was Derrick’s family – his parents and sister – who proved to be the most forgiving. Or maybe they were just too numb to be angry. I couldn’t tell when Courtney and I approached them to offer our condolences.

Given the incessant media coverage, along with the usual gossip mill churning out whatever tidbits the press didn’t, my connection to Derrick Phalen was pretty well established. What wasn’t known was exactly why I was connected to him.

That’s the question I thought I was about to be asked when Derrick’s sister, Monica, caught up to Courtney and me a few minutes later. She wanted to know if she could speak to me alone for a moment.

Never was I so relieved to be wrong. It was an answer, not a question, that Monica had for me.

Scratch that. It wasn’t just an answer. Hopefully it was the answer.

“I’LL BE OVER here when you’re done,” said Courtney, who had never been more understanding, and kind of selfless, in all the time we’d known each other. I had never felt closer to her either, or more in love. Bad timing, I know, but there it was.

I watched as she walked over to the shade of one of the immense oak trees that were scattered across the cemetery’s lawn. She always looked great in black, and today was definitely no exception. How could anybody ever cheat on her?

Nearby, David Sorren was chatting with the Bronx DA. He gave me a quick nod of recognition as our eyes met briefly. Yes, David, I’m still on the right side of the grass.

I turned back to face Monica. She was tall and slender, with auburn hair cut straight around her shoulders. A few dozen freckles dotted the bridge of her nose.

The only thing I knew about her was what Derrick had mentioned that one time we’d had lunch. We’d been discussing his reputation as a tough prosecutor. “If you think I’m tough, you should talk to my sister,” he’d said with a laugh.

Now here I was, doing just that. What I wouldn’t give for our meeting to be under different circumstances.

“I wanted to let you know how sorry I am about Derrick,” I told her.

“You feel partly responsible, don’t you?” I nodded. “Yes.”

“You shouldn’t,” she said matter-of-factly. “It’s not like Derrick was an accountant or a plumber. His job was trying to put mob guys behind bars. Serious, big-time hoods, the worst of the worst. Did you know he had to wear a bullet-proof vest?”

Again I nodded. “Yes. I knew that.”