"Tell me about this man," I said. "What did he look like? Please be specific."

"Tall, about six-one or two," she said. "Weighed, I'd guess, between one-ninety and two-ten. In good shape, too. Good-looking guy."

"Black? White?"

"White," she said. "He had blond hair. Kind of wavy."

"Any tattoos or identifiable features?"

"Not that I could see. He was wearing a suit. I think his eyes were green, but I'm not sure."

"Did he walk with a limp? Anything else that could identify him in that way?"

135.

"I don't think so," she said. "He made some sort of reference to fighting in a war. I don't know if he was telling the truth or not. He's not an old guy, so he would have had to fight in the last twenty, twenty-five years. And he talked like he'd lost someone. Someone close to him.

Maybe a family member. Again I don't know if that was a lie or not."

"Is there anything else?"

Paulina thought for a moment. "Chester," she said.

"He said his name was Chester."

An alarm went off in my head. Chester. Blond hair. It couldn't be...could it?

"What are you thinking?" Paulina said. "You look like something just made sense."

"No, nothing," I lied. "Just thinking how I'm going to approach this."

She nodded. "You have my cell phone. Don't call me at work."

"No problem." We both stood up. Paulina extended her hand. I looked at it for a moment before shaking it.

"Henry?" she said.

"Yeah?"

"One more thing."

"What's that?"

"Drugs," she said. "This guy...he has something to do with drugs. A lot of them."

"What do you mean?"

Paulina looked down at her cup, then back up. There was a look in her eyes I hadn't seen, and I could tell that something was eating at her beyond what she was telling me.

"Just trust me," she said. "Drugs."

"I'll look into it."

"Henry?"

136.

"What?"

"Thank you."

I shook my head, laughed. "I bet that was hard as h.e.l.l for you to say."

"You'll never know. And don't expect for it to ever happen again."

I shook my head. "You don't have to thank me for anything. We haven't found him yet. And to be honest, I don't know if I could turn down this request from anyone."

Paulina smiled, but I noticed a slight smirk in there, like she found that statement funny. "That's why I love you, Henry Parker. Everyone's knight in shining armor."

"Goodbye, Paulina. I'll call you when I have something."

I turned around and walked out of the diner, hoping she wouldn't notice that my palms were practically bleeding sweat. She couldn't know. Not yet.

Because I was pretty certain that the same man who threatened to kill Paulina Cole's daughter was the same man who just blew Brett Kaiser halfway to h.e.l.l.

19.

It sure didn't look like a financial company. In fact, if Chester had told Morgan that they made rivets and girders, or maybe the occasional swamp creature there, he would have been more likely to bite.

They were somewhere in Queens, a borough just off the island of Manhattan but a world that couldn't have looked or felt any more different. It wasn't that Morgan hadn't traveled to the outer boroughs, but as soon as he landed his first job the rest of New York City became a foreign territory. He used to have friends in Queens, Brooklyn, Staten Island. But when you work fourteen hours a day, you hardly have the energy to get out there.

So he kissed that life goodbye, and hadn't thought much about it since.

For a brief moment, as they were driving up to the front gate of what looked like an abandoned factory, Morgan had second thoughts. They only lasted a moment, but they were pure, pungent. A shot of hesitation mixed with an ounce of fright, stirred with a straw of what the h.e.l.l am I doing here?

Did he really know this guy, Chester? Sure he came with a recommendation from Ken Tsang, but Ken was dead so obviously his hunches didn't always pan out.

138.

But then Morgan remembered his debts. His mortgage.

That bank account that had swollen so large and was now deflating like a punctured balloon. Even if this turned out to be nothing, even if Chester was full of c.r.a.p and offered him nothing more than being a three-card monte dealer in Times Square, it was worth the trip. Not like he had any plans today, and even if there was a one percent chance of paying off his mounting debts, it was worth the trip.

As the Town Car approached the gate, Morgan saw a man approach from the other side of the chain link fence.

He was big, about three hundred pounds big, and Morgan couldn't be sure but what looked like a rifle or machine gun of some sort dangled from his left shoulder.

Morgan's eyes went wide, and he turned to Chester.

Chester seemed to notice this, and he smiled.

"Not to worry," he said. "That's Darryl. He's part of our private security force, and he's the best there is. We run a relatively small business, and have had to relocate our operations over the last few days, so security is at a premium. This might not exactly be what you're used to, but I'm sure you won't mind."

Morgan shook his head as though agreeing with Chester's a.s.sessment, but he couldn't help but stare at the black muzzle pointing at the ground, wondering how often, if ever, it had been fired. And if so, what it had been fired at.

When the gate opened, the car drove through. Gravel crunched under the tires, and Morgan caught this armed man, Darryl, eyeing the backseat window intently as the car came to a stop. The driver got out, and Morgan went to open his door.

"Not yet," Chester said. Morgan looked at him, confused, but then the driver came around to Morgan's door and opened it for him. The driver bowed down, and 139.

Morgan slid out. Though this odd gesture in front of some sort of run-down warehouse confused him even more, Morgan did not let it show.

Chester came around to him and said, "Follow me."

The blond man led him up the driveway to a door. It wasn't quite a front door, since this building didn't seem to have been built with traditional comings and goings in mind, but Chester punched a security code into a small black keypad and an LED light turned from red to green. Chester turned the latch, opened the door and ushered Morgan in.

They were in a gray stairway, steps leading up and down. Chester took the path upward, and beckoned Morgan to follow. They went up two flights of stairs.

Morgan could see numerous cameras lining the stairwell, each with red lights. At the top of the third-floor landing, Morgan noticed that the camera was in fact moving, panning over the entire stairwell.

"Security measures," Chester said. Morgan nodded.

Again Chester punched numbers into a keypad, and Morgan heard a latch unlock. Chester smiled at him, and opened the door.

"Go on in," he said. "Take any open seat."

"Thanks," Morgan said, and stepped into the room.

And if he'd been confused before, this just took it to a whole new level.

The room inside was wood paneled, as though it had been transported from some high-end hotel. In the middle of the room was a long, dark mahogany conference table, polished and gleaming. Track lights illuminated the entire room. But what struck Morgan more than anything was not the room's decor, but rather the dozen young men, dressed to the nines just like him, surrounding the table.

20.

Morgan didn't know what to say. The other men turned to see him when he walked in, but then turned away. They all had looks on their faces that looked startlingly like his own: confidence on the outside, but eyes that showed confusion, discomfort, and above all desperation.

Every face was cleanly shaved, every suit neatly pressed. The ties were knotted perfectly, and the room reeked of designer cologne. There were young men of every race and ethnicity. Black, white, Asian, Indian, Arab. Tall, short, fat, skinny. Some had full heads of hair, some looked to be going prematurely bald. None of the men looked to be older than their early thirties, and some looked barely old enough to have graduated college. Yet every one of them looked like a hungry dog waiting for a meaty bone.

Morgan felt Chester's hand on his back, and a soft voice said, "Sit down, Morgan." The voice had become much firmer than Morgan was used to.

There was an empty seat in between a lanky Indian man and a chubby white guy with a red face and thick shoulders who was fiddling with his cuff links. Morgan walked over and sat down. The chairs were red leather, 141.

plush and comfortable. Morgan debated leaning back, but noticed that all the other guys were sitting straight, waiting for something, not wanting to be viewed as too aloof. Morgan guessed that they were all there for the same reason he was: money.

There was something oddly familiar about the grouping, and it didn't take Morgan long to realize what it was.

Everyone at the table, their clothes, their mannerisms, their style and smell, all reminded him of men he used to work with.

Morgan looked back at the doorway, wanted to see Chester's reaction to all of this, but the blond man had closed the door. Morgan noticed there was another small keypad on this side of the door he'd entered from. The LED light on it was red. They were all in here until someone let them out.

There were few noises. Chubby played with his cuff links. A black guy at the opposite end seemed to have the sniffles. A young guy with red hair and a pocket square was rubbing what looked like a razor burn on his neck.

And then the door at the other end of the conference room opened. Every eye in the room turned to face it, pupils wide, breath being held.

In strode a man who stood about five foot ten. Brown hair, neatly trimmed and parted to the left. He wore a suit that Morgan guessed to be Brooks Brothers, maybe Vestimenta. There was a gold watch on his left wrist, and a thick silver wedding band as well. He had wide eyes, narrowed ever so slightly. He wore a pair of smart, stylish gla.s.ses and gave off an air of both confidence and wealth.

He stood at the doorway for a moment, his eyes traveling around the room, gazing over every single person seated.

142.

And then he walked over to the head of the table, put his palms on the wood, hunched over and stared at them.

"I know why you're here," he said. "I know why you all went to bed early last night, got up this morning, took hot showers, broke out those shave brushes and dolled yourself up like you were going to the f.u.c.king prom. I know why you did that."

He looked at the chubby kid, fingers squeezing one cuff link like a pig trying to get the hot dog out of the blanket. "Son?" the man said.

"Sorry?" Chubby replied.

"Those things aren't going to fly away. You don't need to keep touching them."

"Sorry," Chubby said. He stopped fidgeting, and placed his hands on his lap.

"Anyway," the man continued, "my name is Leonard Reeves. But you're not here to be my best buds, so let's cut to the chase. Two years ago, I was making one point two million. I had a sweet corner office at one of the most prestigious firms on Wall Street. I had it all. When people say they had it all, they're usually bulls.h.i.tting you, but man, I had it all. Beautiful wife who could've put those Swedish bikini models to shame. A penthouse spread overlooking Central Park with a terrace bigger than most people's homes in the Hamptons, and a secretary that I could tell wanted to blow me every time I stepped into the office. Everyone in my life acted like I walked on water, and that's how I felt as well."

Chubby smiled. He must have liked that mental image.

"But then, just like that, I lost it all. Every cent. My company got bought by another, larger corporation. Overnight my millions in stock options were worth less than the Pope's c.o.c.k. I owed three million dollars on my 143.

mortgage. When I hadn't found a new job in a month, my wife left me. For one of my best friends, who was lucky enough to be working at the same company only in a sector that didn't overlap. She divorced me on the grounds that I was emotionally distant, which, to be honest, I probably was."

Morgan heard a few muted laughs, but they were respectful rather than dismissive. They'd all been there. Or knew those who had.

"So I got thrown out of my apartment," Leonard said.

"My parents offer me a place to stay, but I refuse. Stupid decision, I gotta say, because you know where I end up?

On the street. Borrowing money to buy drugs that I can't pay for. One day I wake up in an alleyway on a Hundred and Thirty-eighth Street with three broken fingers and a dislocated kneecap."