James Patterson - Don’t Blink

It wasn’t just talk with Courtney, either. Her younger brother had worked in the South Tower of the World Trade Center. Ninety-seventh floor. And she had really loved him, too.

So at eight o’clock I walked into the white marble splendor that was Astor Hall in the New York Public Library. The party was a benefit for New York Smarts, a citywide tutoring program for grade-school students. Courtney was one of its board members and had purchased a table for ten on behalf of Citizen magazine. Good for her. Even better for the kids. A thousand dollars a plate can buy a lot of tutoring.

“There you are!” I heard over my shoulder. Courtney had found me where you can always find me at these types of events: the bar. “And I see you’ve discovered the house Scotch,” she said.

Indeed I had. It was a Laphroaig 15 Year Old, which happened to be my personal favorite. Courtney obviously had some pull with the event’s liquor committee.

“Thank you,” I said, tipping my glass. “I definitely needed this.”

“You’re welcome. Just try to leave a little for the other guests, if you can,” she said, deadpanning.

“Okay, but just a little.”

Courtney helped herself to one of the flutes of champagne that were being passed around. “Well, so much for being able to take your mind off today,” she said.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because Lombardo’s is the talk of the party, Nick. Hell, it’s the talk of the city.”

I was hardly surprised.

The front page of the New York Post’s late edition had screamed, “DEATH DU JOUR!” Meanwhile, the local and cable news networks were having a field day. By the time they hit the airwaves with live feeds outside of Lombardo’s, they were able to report the identity of the first victim – the guy sitting next to Dwayne and me.

I could’ve sworn I knew him, and I was right.

His name was Vincent Marcozza, and he was the longtime lawyer – excuse me, consigliere – for reputed Brooklyn mob boss Eddie “The Prince” Pinero.

“Everyone’s convinced today was payback,” said Courtney. I nodded. “I guess.”

Eddie “The Prince” Pinero had been convicted the week before on criminal usury charges, otherwise known as loansharking at an interest rate that would make even your credit card company blush.

The case was the first time Vincent Marcozza – a legal heavyweight, in every sense of the word – had failed to spring his biggest client. But hey, even Bruce Cutler didn’t win every time on behalf of John Gotti.

But Marcozza’s performance in the trial had been heavily criticized by legal pundits. They said he’d been uncharacteristically sloppy and at times seemed ill prepared. As Jeffrey Toobin told Anderson Cooper on CNN, “Marcozza really took his eyes off the ball this time.”

His eyes, huh?

Courtney raised her champagne glass. Then she gave me that big blue-eyed wink of hers. “So here’s to you, Nick.”

“Me? For what?” I asked.

“For starters, being alive,” she said. “I had no idea you were such a magnet for danger these days. A girl could really get in trouble hanging around you.”

We clinked glasses, but what followed could only be described as an awkward silence between us. It was all due to the subtext of what she’d just said.

Which brings me back to the second thing you need to know about Courtney Sheppard.

I owe you that one, remember?

THE PROBLEM BETWEEN us was as clear as the ten-carat diamond on her finger.

Courtney was engaged.

And not just to anybody, but to Thomas Ferramore, one of the wealthiest guys in New York. We’re talking loaded here. Super megabucks. A one-man stimulus package, if you will.

Ferramore owned commercial real estate, lots of it. He owned an airline. He owned over a dozen radio stations. Two soccer teams.

Oh yeah, and he owned Citizen magazine.

After their yearlong “whirlwind courtship” that rivaled the likes of Lindsay Lohan, Britney Spears, and Brangelina for boldfaced mentions in the gossip pages, the two of them were scheduled to be married this fall at the ultraposh San Sebastian Hotel here in the city. You guessed it. Ferramore owned that, too.

The whole thing promised to be the don’t-miss social event of the season. A real storybook wedding. Problem was, there’d been an unexpected chapter written. Only two people knew about it, and Thomas Ferramore wasn’t one of them.

The night before I left for Darfur, Courtney and I had slept together.

We immediately agreed that it was a one-time thing, a complete lapse in judgment due to our close working relationship over the years. And our friendship, platonic up until then. Sometimes histrionic, often hilarious.

“We can’t pretend it didn’t happen, nor do I want to,” she said the morning after. “But we have to act like it didn’t happen, Nick, okay? And that’s that.”

Compartmentalizing again.

But I suspected it wouldn’t be as easy as “that’s that.”

Sure enough, after her little toast to me, “it” was suddenly the big white elephant in the big white marble room of Astor Hall. We couldn’t ignore it, not until we at least had discussed it some more. As much as we might have tried, there was no way to stuff that elephant into a box.

More important, I didn’t want to. For better or worse, Courtney needed to know how I felt about her, and maybe it had taken getting shot at in Africa for me to fully understand that.

So I took a swig of my Laphroaig 15 Year Old Scotch, followed by a deep breath. Here goes, well, everything, I was thinking.

I turned to her. She was wearing a long black dress with a jewel neckline, her auburn hair elegantly pulled back behind her ears. Beautiful – and so, so sweet.

“Courtney, there’s something I need to -” “Uh-oh,” she interrupted.

Uh-oh?

But she wasn’t reading tea leaves. This had nothing to do with what I was about to say to her. Instead, Courtney was peering over my right shoulder. She’d seen someone, hadn’t she?

“We’ve got big trouble at twelve o’clock,” she announced.

“HELLO, NICK,” I heard coming up behind me.

I turned to see Brenda Evans, the very blond, very attractive on-air stock market analyst for WFN – the World Financial – based here in New York. Her nickname, mainly among men, was the “Bull and Bear Babe.” I, however, knew Brenda by a different moniker.

My ex-girifriend.

“Hello, Brenda,” I said. Those two words were the first I’d spoken to her since she’d broken up with me a little less than a year ago. My next five words were a complete lie. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too, Nick,” she said. She was probably lying through those brilliantly white teeth of hers, but I couldn’t be sure. That’s how good she was.

As Brenda and Courtney quickly exchanged air kisses and pretended they liked each other, I realized Brenda wasn’t alone. With her was David Sorren, the all-powerful Manhattan district attorney, not to mention one of People magazine’s “25 Most Eligible Bachelors.”

“Hi,” he said to me, not waiting for Brenda to introduce us. “I’m David Sorren.”

“Of course you are,” I said jokingly. Jeez, he had shiny white teeth, too.

Beyond the cover of People, I’d seen him on the news at least a hundred times, usually standing on the steps of the Manhattan Criminal Courthouse touting the latest conviction of some bad guy. Now, with any luck, Sorren would be a complete prick in person so I could immediately hate him.

“And you’re Nick Daniels,” he said as we shook hands firmly. “I’m a big fan of your writing. In fact, I think you got robbed last year on the Pulitzer.”