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 sonovab.i.t.c.h 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 h.e.l.l 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. 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 gla.s.s. "I changed my mind," I said. "Keep driving."

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

"West One eighty-third, the Bronx."

Chapter 75.

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."

She started to pull my shirt out of my trousers. Then she went to unbuckle my belt.

That's when I winced-in pain. It felt like sandpaper raking across my side.

"Jesus, Nick, what's wrong?"

I swung away from her, propping myself against the wall. "Something ran into me today . . . at the courtroom."

Andie gently raised my shirt and came upon the large bandage. Her eyes went wide. "What happened happened to you?" to you?"

"A bullet happened." I sniffed, letting out a frustrated groan.

"A bullet!" Andie didn't seem to find that amusing. "Nick, you were shot? you were shot?"

"I was. I guess I still am."

She helped me over to the couch, where I slowly eased myself down-crumpled, actually. She gently unb.u.t.toned the rest of my shirt. "Oh, G.o.d, Nick."

"Truth is, it just grazed me. It actually looks worse than it feels."

"Oh, right, I can see that," she said, nodding. She propped up my feet on the coffee table. "You were on the way to the hospital. That's where you were when I called. Nick, Nick, what are you doing here? What'd the doctor say?" what are you doing here? What'd the doctor say?"

"He said go straight home and take it easy." I curled a contrite smile.

"So what were you thinking that brought you here? here?"

"I guess I was thinking you might find it s.e.xy. Or take pity on me?"

Andie's incredulous stare burned a hole through me. I guess she didn't find that funny either. She unb.u.t.toned my shirt all the way and ran her hands across the edge of the bandage and shrugged. "I don't know . . . maybe it is a little little s.e.xy." s.e.xy."

"See!"

"You're crazy." She took off my shoes and placed a pillow behind my head. "Can I get you anything?"

"No. I'm loaded with painkillers." I pulled her into me. "You. I need you." I need you."

"Oh, now I see. You catch a little drug buzz, you knock on the one door where you figure you can get something?"

I shrugged. "So? Was I right?"

She leaned forward and placed a kiss softly on my face; another kiss brushed my lips. "Maybe. A bottle of wine would've worked, though. You didn't have to go and get yourself shot."

"d.a.m.n." I groaned, disappointed. "Why didn't I think of that before?"

I pressed my thumb softly into the nape of her neck. "I couldn't go home, Andie. I didn't want to be there right now."

She nodded, brushing the hair out of her eyes. "Just stay here. We don't have to do anything." She rested her head against my shoulder.

I closed my eyes, shutting out the horror of what had happened today, and my anger at watching Cavello escape. My side was was aching like h.e.l.l. And honestly, I didn't know aching like h.e.l.l. And honestly, I didn't know what what I'd been thinking, coming here now. "Thank G.o.d," she whispered against me, "thank G.o.d you're okay." I'd been thinking, coming here now. "Thank G.o.d," she whispered against me, "thank G.o.d you're okay."

"One thing about these Mafia douche bags-they're mean as s.h.i.t, but generally, they're poor shots."

"Please don't joke with me, Nick. This is very unnerving. Somebody tried to kill you."

I shut up, and I felt a tear, her tear, land on my chest.

"Cavello's gone," I said. "I can't believe it, but we don't know where he is."

"I know," she whispered.

For a while we just sat there. I was starting to get woozy. Maybe from the Vicodin. Maybe from the stress of the day. "I won't let you down, Andie. You know that, don't you? We'll find a way to get him. I promise, whatever it takes."

"I know," she said again.

This time I felt she did believe me.

Chapter 76.

THE NEXT MORNING, I found myself on Andie's couch when I woke, a quilt pulled around me, pillows under my head. I had to leave. I had to leave.

Andie was asleep in the bedroom. I peeked in. I was about to leave a note, but I sat down on the edge of the bed and stroked her hair. She opened her eyes.

"I've got to go."

"Where?" she said, reaching for my hand from under the covers.

"I made you a promise last night. Gotta go deliver."

Andie nodded, eyes glistening. "C'mere."

She had a s.e.xy, early morning voice that was proving tempting, and my side suddenly felt 100 percent better. For a second I thought about taking off my clothes and climbing into bed with her.

"I owe you one," I said, and squeezed her back.

"One, two, three three . . . whatever you want. How's your side?" . . . whatever you want. How's your side?"

"Better. All I needed was a little TLC." I raised my arm. But not too far.

"What are you going to do, Nick?" She looked at me, a little more seriously.

I knew what I was going to do first. It was no longer possible to stay on the sidelines. "Cut my cla.s.s." I smiled. I squeezed her shoulder, got up, and went to the door.

"Pellisante," she called.

"Yeah?"

"Do me a big favor. Try not to get yourself shot. Or even shot at."

"I'll talk to you later." I smiled.

I went back to my place to shower and change. Sabbatical was over now. I was heading down to the Javits Building. On the cab ride I checked in with my buddies at the Bureau.

No sign of Cavello. That didn't shock me. I knew, with the kind of planning they'd had, they'd have a perfect out.

We had located the getaway vehicle, though. The black Bronco was found in a vacant lot on Henry Street, not four blocks from the courthouse. Turned out it had been heisted two days before from a shopping mall on Staten Island. And the Jersey plates were pilfered too. We had the entire Eastern Seaboard virtually closed down. Every airport and bridge. Every port from Boston to Baltimore.

But Cavello could be just about anywhere now.

"There's something else, Nick." Ray Hughes exhaled. "Ralph Denunziatta's sister was found late yesterday. She was shot in her home-right between the eyes. A neighbor who was apparently visiting with her was shot dead, too."

"Christ!"

"Nine millimeter, same caliber that was used at the courthouse. We're checking the ballistics now. But listen, it gets worse."

"Worse? How can it get worse?"

"There was a kid there. The police found Denunziatta's one-year-old grandniece in the kitchen."

"Oh, come on, Ray."

"She's alive. But listen to this. She's got severe burns over her face and hands. Hot-water burns, Nick. What kind of creeped-out monster is this, anyway? There was a note scribbled on the kid's bib. on the kid's bib. The handwriting people are looking it over now." The handwriting people are looking it over now."

An explosive, tightening rage balled up in my gut. "What did it say?"

"It said, 'I keep my promises.'"

Chapter 77.

I WAS BURNING NOW, on fire.

I went home and took that shower. The whole time I kept thinking of Ralphie's sister and that poor little one-year-old kid. On top of all the other things I was close to exploding about, now this horror. I sat there in my towel, staring at the photos of that animal Cavello I had stuck on the kitchen wall. The piles of useless acc.u.mulated evidence.

Until I couldn't stand it anymore.

I dressed and went and got my Saab out of the lot on Eleventh Avenue. But I wasn't headed to the office.

It didn't matter anymore about what was right or "appropriate" behavior.

I crossed the river through the Lincoln Tunnel and turned onto Route 3, to Secaucus, New Jersey. Secaucus was what came to my mind when they called New Jersey the "armpit of the universe." Miles and miles of drive-in, big-box malls and fast-food franchises, stuck in between a toxic swamp and the Jersey Turnpike.

About a mile down 3, I pulled into the lot of a drab, two-story cinder-block building I knew well. United Workers of Electrical Contractors of New Jersey.