Brad Meltzer - Dead Even

“Want to tell me about it?” Pop asked.

“I do,” Jared said. “It’s just… I can’t.”

“Then you better tell her. Keeping it bottled up is only going to make it explode in your face.”

As Pop’s words sank in, Jared put down the emergency call device. “You may be right.”

“Are you sure he wasn’t at Pop’s?” Tiffany asked, leaning on the edge of the plaza fountain at Lincoln Center.

“I went over there twice last night. As far as I can tell, he’s gone,” Sara said curtly as she stood next to her little sister. “Now can we please drop it?”

“You’re the one who brought it up.” Tiffany pointed at a man in a navy beret. “There’s one.”

Sara looked at the man with the beret. “He doesn’t count. First, he doesn’t look tortured. Second, that’s not a black beret.”

“On the Upper West Side, that’s as good as you’re gonna get.”

“Are you nuts?” Sara asked. “You think all the good tortured artists are living in the Village? You just have to look harder in this neighborhood.”

Staring at the crowds of people passing through Lincoln Center’s vast esplanade, Tiffany stuffed her hands in the pockets of her pink winter coat. “I’m getting cold and the game’s no fun.”

“What do you want me to do? Set up a shuttle to the Guggenheim?”

“No, I just want you to be nice,” Tiffany shot back. “It’s bad enough that our visits are now every other week – the least you can do is enjoy being with me.”

Surprised by the outburst, Sara put her hand on Tiffany’s shoulder and pulled her in. “I’m really sorry, kiddo. I haven’t been my best lately.”

Tiffany looked up at her big sister. “Is it because you miss him?”

“Yeah, that’s part of it.”

“Then maybe you should do something about it. Maybe you can get off the case.”

“You don’t understand. It’s not that easy.”

“I don’t care if it’s easy,” Tiffany said, still pressed against Sara. “I just want things back to normal. And the longer you two are mad at each other, the worse it is for the rest of us.”

Later that evening, Sara and Tiffany ate dinner at Sylvia’s soul-food restaurant in Harlem, home of Lenox Avenue’s most famous smothered fried chicken. When they walked out of the restaurant, Sara looked up into the flat black sky. “I’ll bet you a basket of corn bread that the first snow of the year hits in the next two days.”

“If I didn’t feel like I was going to vomit, I’d take that bet,” Tiffany said as she held her stomach.

Smiling, Sara stepped into the street and hailed a cab. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a dark-blue sedan waiting across the street. She and Tiffany got into the cab, and Sara gave the driver Tiffany’s address. As the cab took Sara and Tiffany deeper into Harlem, Sara turned around and noticed that the sedan was now behind them.

“Do me a favor,” Sara said to the cabdriver. “Head down a few of these smaller streets. I want to know if the car behind us is following us.”

Following Sara’s instructions, the driver turned off Lenox Avenue and onto 131st Street. The sedan didn’t follow.

“Who do you think it was?” Tiffany asked, staring out the back window.

“No one. Just my imagination,” Sara said, relieved. “You can go back now,” she told the driver.

For the next few minutes, as Sara and Tiffany sat in the back of the cab, Sara kept an eye out for the sedan. Without question, it was gone. The cab pulled up to Tiffany’s apartment building on 147th Street. “If you don’t mind waiting,” Sara said to the driver, “I’ll only be a minute.” Sara got out of the cab and walked Tiffany inside – she always liked to check in with Tiffany’s aunt at the end of each visit. After a brief conversation, Sara left the building and looked for her cab. It was gone. The only car in sight was the dark-blue sedan. The driver of the sedan, a pale man with a blond mustache, was leaning on the hood.

Sara reached into her pocket and pulled out her badge. “DA’s office!” she yelled. “Who the hell are you?”

Unfazed, the driver of the sedan looked up and handed a folded sheet of paper to Sara.

“What’s that?” Sara asked suspiciously.

“It’s a new invention. We call it paper.”

“Very funny,” Sara said, grabbing it out of his hands. When she unfolded the piece of paper, she read the words GET IN THE CAR, POOH. Sara looked up at the driver. “Who wrote this?”

“No idea. All I know is where I’m supposed to take you. As long as I get paid in advance, I don’t care.”

She took a step away from the car.

“Don’t be afraid,” the driver said. “You’ll be safe.” Sara still wasn’t convinced.

“No offense, but if I wanted to hurt you, I would’ve done it by now. Especially in this neighborhood – no one would suspect a thing. Now why don’t you get in the car?”

As she considered the man’s logic, Sara noticed that Tiffany was watching the events from her apartment window.

“See, now if anything bad happens, you even have your own witness,” the driver added.

To make sure Tiffany didn’t worry, Sara shot her a strained smile and moved toward the car. “Where are we going?” she asked the driver.

“Not allowed to say,” the driver said, looking over his shoulder. “But it’ll be worth it.”

Putting her faith in the message and taking one last look at Tiffany, Sara hesitantly got in the backseat of the car. For a half hour, the car headed downtown. The entire time, the driver kept his eyes on the rearview mirror. All through the Upper West Side, Sara thought they were going to Times Square. When they drove through Times Square, she thought they were going to the Village. When they drove through the Village, she thought they were going to her office building on Centre Street. And when they passed her office building, she said, “Where the hell is this place?”

“Ten more minutes,” the driver said.

The car turned toward the entrance to the Brooklyn Bridge.

“We’re going to Brooklyn?” Sara asked nervously.

“You’ll see,” the driver said with a smile.

Taking a sharp right onto the first exit off the bridge, the driver headed through the quiet historic neighborhood of Brooklyn Heights. Passing rows of classic town houses, traditional clapboards, and one of George Washington’s houses, they headed straight for the riverfront Promenade, famous for its arresting view of lower Manhattan. The paved walkway was usually crowded with both locals and tourists, but the cold weather had a chilling effect on both the night and its population. “Last stop,” the driver said.

Frantically looking around, Sara didn’t see anyone.

“Get out of the car,” the driver said.

“Here? You expect me to get out here? Are you nuts?”

“Get out of the car. You’ll be thankful you did.”

Following the driver’s instructions, Sara got out and approached the window on the passenger side of the car. Leaning into the window, she asked, “Now what?”

“Wait here.” With that said, the driver rolled up the window and sped off.

“Wait! Where are you going?” Sara asked, banging on the window as the sedan pulled away. Surrounded by nothing but some scattered benches and a concrete walkway, Sara felt the cold wind of the East River whip across her face. Looking around, she still didn’t see anyone. She headed down the path toward the water. “ Is anybody here? ” she shouted. “ Hello! ”

“Sara,” a voice said from behind her.

“Who the-” she yelled, turning around. It was Jared. She reacted instantaneously. “I’ve been worried sick about you,” she said, embracing her husband. “Where the hell have you been?”