James Patterson - Don’t Blink

So much for hating the guy.

“Well, as we runners-up say, it was an honor just to be nominated. But thanks,” I said.

“Don’t let him fool you – he cried for three days straight,” said Courtney, chiming in with one of her patented wisecracks. She began to introduce herself, but it was another case of someone who needed no introduction.

“Yes, hello, Courtney,” said Sorren, giving her the extrafriendly two-handed grasp direct from the Bill Clinton play-book. “I’ve been wanting to meet you for quite some time. I’m glad our paths have finally crossed.”

Courtney wasn’t born yesterday.

“You’re not just saying that so Citizen magazine will run a big puff piece on you after you announce your candidacy for mayor next week, right?” she said.

Sorren wasn’t born yesterday, either.

“Of course I am. Let me know if it works,” he answered with a wink. “In the meantime, congratulations on your recent engagement. Is Mr. Ferramore here?”

“No, he’s actually traveling on business,” said Courtney. “He’s in Europe. Home next week.”

Brenda promptly took back the reins of the conversation, another thing she was always good at.

“So, Nick, I understand you had quite the eventful afternoon,” she said. “That must have been terrible. I’m sorry you had to see it.”

I was about to ask how she knew I had been at Lombardo’s when I remembered that this was Brenda Evans, the dogged reporter. Her sources extended well beyond her Wall Street turf.

“Yes. It was terrible,” I said. “I’m sorry I was there, too.” I didn’t really have anything more I wanted to add. Thankfully, Courtney saved me. She turned to Sorren and instantly made like the investigative reporter she used to be.

“David, I’m sure you’ve heard all the speculation about Eddie Pinero being responsible for Marcozza’s murder, right?” she asked. “What’s your take on it?”

As leading questions went, this one was a major gimme. Sorren, like a young Rudy Giuliani – albeit better looking and with a full head of thick hair straight out of a men’s shampoo commercial – had made cleaning up organized crime one of his highest priorities as Manhattan DA.

“At this point,” said Sorren, “most of my thoughts are with the families of those two officers who were gunned down.” He paused and drew a deep breath. “That said, I can assure you of this: We’ll nail whoever committed those murders. And if it turns out that Pinero was connected, I’ll be swinging the hammer on him myself, and I’ll be swinging it hard.”

Whoa. Easy there, Popeye…

I could see the veins in Sorren’s neck pop through his skin as he finished that last sentence. It was more than mere conviction. It bordered on vengeance.

It also brought the conversation to a screeching halt. All that remained were the obligatory parting pleasantries. So good to see you again… Yes, we really should try to get together sometime… Blah, blah, blah…

And that was that.

I was done talking to Brenda and her new boyfriend for the evening. At least, that’s what I thought.

“SO, WHAT WERE you and I saying before we were interrupted by Blond Ambition?” asked Courtney when we were alone again. “You were about to tell me something, no? So tell me, Nick.”

Yes. Yes, I was. But timing is… um… uh… everything, and the moment for that heartfelt declaration had come and gone. Along with my having the guts to say the actual words to her.

All the more reason why I suddenly didn’t feel like sticking around at the benefit.

“I guess it’s jet lag,” I explained to Courtney. “I need to catch up on some sleep. You okay with that… boss?”

She probably knew I was making an excuse to leave, but she also knew the only reason I had come in the first place was because she’d asked. Plus, I’d had a rough couple of days, right?

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” she said, giving me a sweet kiss on the cheek. “As soon as possible we’ve got to get you back together with Dwayne Robinson. We need that interview, Nick.”

I couldn’t have agreed more. I definitely wanted this story as much as she did.

A minute or so later I was on the steps outside the New York Public Library – smack between its two landmark lion sculptures, Patience and Fortitude – when I heard someone call out my name.

I turned to see David Sorren catching up to me. He was jogging, actually.

“You got a second?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said.

Sorren reached into his jacket, removing a pack of Marlboro Lights. I was surprised to see that he smoked, if only because of his widely known political ambition. Gallup poll: candidate + cigarettes = less trustworthy. Obama didn’t go on the patch just for health reasons.

“You want one?” he offered. “No, thanks.”

“Yeah, I know, bad habit. Don’t tell the press,” he said, lighting up. “Wait a minute, you are the press.”

I smiled. “I’ll consider this off the record. Besides, I’m not much for petty crap.”

“Good, because I actually have a favor to ask you.” Sorren slid the pack of Marlboro Lights back into his jacket. When I saw his hand again, he was holding something else.

“Here,” he said. “Go ahead, take it.”

It was his business card. I looked at it as if to ask, What’s this for?

“Now’s not the time, but I was hoping the two of us could maybe talk on Monday about what you witnessed at Lombardo’s,” he said. “I shouldn’t be saying this to you, but I’m convinced Eddie Pinero was behind it. Now I have to figure out some way to prove it. Believe it or not, I am torn up about those two detectives.”

“I understand,” I said, taking the card. “I’ll give you a call. Monday.”

“Great – I appreciate it. Because if it’s the last thing I do, I’m going to bring that cocksucker Pinero down for good.”

I nodded. I mean, I think I nodded. Tell you the truth, I was still pretty taken aback by the district attorney’s intensity. He wanted Pinero bad. Really bad.

Sorren firmly shook my hand again and was halfway back up the steps when he turned around.

“Hey, one other thing,” he said. “Brenda told me that the two of you used to be a couple.” He let go with a slight chuckle and shake of the head. “Small world, huh?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Small world.”

Maybe a little too small.

CUE THE NIGHTMARES.

I knew I’d have trouble sleeping that night. There wasn’t enough warm milk and Ambien in the world. As soon as I closed my eyes, it was as if I were back in Lombardo’s, living it all over again in a continuous loop. I could hear the screams, the chorus of terror that ripped through the restaurant. I could see the shine of the scalpel in the killer’s hand, the dark plum color of the blood that was suddenly spurting everywhere.

At one point it was even my eyes being carved out.

Finally, I raised the white flag.

I got out of bed and into the chair behind my desk. If I couldn’t sleep, maybe I could at least get some writing done.

Perhaps that was the only silver lining in my missing the interview with Dwayne Robinson – I could put all my focus into the piece on Dr. Alan Cole and his work in Darfur with the Humanitarian Relief Corps. First things first, I needed to sort through the hours’ worth of recordings I had made with him, taking careful notes to string together an outline. Note to any kids reading this: outline – always!

The reality is, the longer I do this, the more I understand that there are no shortcuts in journalism. At least not any worth taking.

So I flipped on my laptop and grabbed my tape recorder. I was about to hit the rewind button when my hand suddenly froze. I realized something.