James Patterson - Judge & Jury

"Good." Cavello lifted himself out of the compartment."In the meantime, there's been a change of plans. There's something I have to take care of first. A debt I have to pay."

THEY DROVE WEST to Paterson, New Jersey, on Cavello's instructions-a tree-lined neighborhood of middle-class homes. Nordeshenko pulled up in front of a modest, pleasant, gray-and-white Victorian. It was April, but a Nativity scene was still there from Christmas, center stage in the small front yard.

"Wait in the car," Cavello said, tucking the handgun he had taken from Nordeshenko into his belt.

"This isn't what you're paying me for," the Israeli said."This is the kind of thing that can get us killed."

"In that case," said Cavello, opening the door and turning up his collar,"think of it as on the house."

He went around the side and pushed open a metal chain-link fence leading to the backyard. He was excited now.

He kept his promises. That's what made him who he was. People knew, when the Electrician promised to do something, it always got done. Especially this promise.

He walked up close to the house until he came to a porch in back, screened in by wire mesh. Then he stopped. He heard the sound of a TV inside. A children's channel. He listened to the singsong voices and some happy clapping. He saw the back of a woman's head. She was sitting in a chair.

Cavello climbed the porch steps and opened the screen door. He had to laugh. Nobody needed alarms in this neighborhood, right? It was protected. It was protected by him! You pull something in this neck of the woods, you might as well keep on running for the rest of your life.

"Rosie, how do you like your tea?" a woman's voice called from inside.

"A little lemon," the woman in the chair said back."There should be some in the fridge." Then,"Hey, look at the little lamby, little Stephie. What does a little lamby say? Baaah… Baaah. "

Cavello stepped in from the porch. When the woman in the chair saw who it was, her face turned chalk white."Dom!"

She was bouncing a baby girl, no more than a year old, on her lap.

"Hi, Rosie," Dominic Cavello said, and smiled.

Panic crept over the woman's face. She was in her early fifties, in a floral shift, with her hair up in a bun, a St. Christopher medal around her neck. She wrapped her arms around the child."They said you'd escaped. What are you doing here, Dom?"

"I promised Ralphie something, Rosie. I always keep my promises. You know that."

There was a noise from behind them, and a woman walked in carrying a tray with tea on it. Cavello reached out his hand and shot her with the silenced gun, the wound opening where her right eye had been.

The woman fell over, and the tray hit the floor with a loud crash and clatter.

"Mary, Mother of God." Ralph Denunziatta's sister gasped. She hugged the child close to her breast.

"That's one cute kid there, Rosie. I think I see a little of Ralphie, with those fat little cheeks."

"It's my granddaughter, Dom." Rosie Scalpia's eyes were flushed with panic. She glanced at her friend lying on the carpet, a red ooze trickling out of her eye."She's only one year old. Do what you came here to do, just don't hurt her, Dom. She's Simone's daughter, not Ralphie's. Please, do what you have to do. Just leave my granddaughter alone."

"Why would I want to hurt your little nipotina, Rosie?" Cavello stepped closer."It's just that I owe your little prick-faced brother a favor. And there's nothing we can do about that."

"Dom, please." The woman looked terrified."Please!"

"The problem is, Rosie, even though I wish your little granddaughter here a long and healthy life, after I square things a little." He leveled the gun in the woman's face."Truth is, hon, you just never know."

He pulled the trigger, and the top of Rosie's forehead blew out, sending a spatter of tapioca-like bone and brain over the drapes.

Ralph Denunziatta's little grandniece started to cry.

Cavello knelt down and stuck his finger into the baby's belly."Don't cry. You're a cute one, aren't you, honey?" He heard the teakettle whistling on the stove."Water's ready, huh? C'mere. " He lifted the child up out of her dead grandmother's arms. She stopped crying."Thatta girl." He stroked her back."Come, let's take a little stroll with your Uncle Dom."

THEY RELEASED ME from the hospital at my own request later that day, with a large bandage over my ribs, a vial of Vicodin, and the doctor's order to go right home and rest.

Truth is, I was lucky as hell. The bullet had barely grazed me. But I still had one hell of a rug burn on my side.

Two agents from Internal Affairs debriefed me after I was treated. They drilled me over and over about the events at the courthouse, from the moment I had seen what was taking place on the security screens to my run out to the lobby. I had discharged my gun. One of Cavello's men was dead. And what was making it particularly ugly was that I wasn't on active duty.

But what was hurting me a lot more than my side was that it had been more than five hours now and there was no sign of Cavello or the black Bronco. We had the escape routes blocked as well as we could. We had Cavello's known contacts blanketed. But somehow, even with the tightest security ever for a trial, the sonovabitch had gotten away.

Against my protests, a nurse had wheeled me down to the lobby at Bellevue, and I stiffly climbed into a waiting cab.

"West Forty-ninth and Ninth," I said, exhaling, resting my head against the seat and shutting my eyes. Over and over I saw the black Bronco speeding away, disappearing into traffic. And me, unable to do a thing. How the hell had they pulled this off? Who was the gunman in the elevator? How, under all that security, had they been able to get a gun inside?

I slammed the heel of my hand into the driver's barrier so hard I thought I broke my wrist.

The driver turned-a Sikh in a turban."Please, sir, this is not my cab."

"Sorry…"

But I wasn't completely sorry. I felt packed in a pressure cooker. My blood surged with this restless, clawing energy, about to explode. We had turned on Forty-fifth, heading crosstown. I realized what was really scaring me. Going back to my apartment, shutting the door, facing the empty rooms-the useless stacks of evidence, just worthless paper now. Alone.

I was about to blow. I honestly felt like I could.

We turned onto Ninth. From the corner I could already see my brownstone. This nervous, tightening rush swelled in my chest.

I rapped on the glass."I changed my mind," I said."Keep driving."

"Okay." The driver shrugged."Where to now?"

"West One eighty-third, the Bronx."

I RANG THE BUZZER repeatedly-three, four times, and I knocked on the door.

Finally I heard a woman's voice."Just a minute. Coming… just a second."

Andie opened the door. She was wearing a robe with a pink ribbed cotton tank underneath, her hair still loose and damp, presumably from the shower. She stared at me, surprised.

My left arm hung limply at my side. My clothes were rumpled. I probably had a wild, crazed look in my eyes.

"Jesus, Nick, are you okay?"

I never answered because I really couldn't at that moment. Instead, I backed Andie inside and pressed her against the wall. Then I kissed her as hard as I could. Whatever came of it, well-

Suddenly, she was kissing me back just as feverishly. I tugged the robe off her shoulders, ran a hand underneath the ribbed tank, hearing her soft moans. She had a sweet, citrusy, just-out-of-the-shower scent that I inhaled deeply.

"Jesus, Pellisante." She sucked in a breath. Her eyes were as wide and flaming as torches."You don't even give a girl time to breathe. I kind of like that."