This neighborhood was familiar. I'd met a guy up here named Clarence Willingham, the son of a small-time dealer who'd been killed by the Fury twenty years ago.

Clarence was still trying to come to grips with his father's murder and his family's history of drug abuse and dealing. It was only then that I learned the truth about how close Clarence was to my own family. Secrets. Sometimes I wondered if more secrets were kept from us in the light of day as opposed to the dark of night.

I idled on the corner of 110th, right where Columbus Avenue turned into Morningside Drive. I'd just put the car in Park when I was jolted by a rapping on the pa.s.senger side window. Whipping around, I saw Curt Sheffield's face peering in at me, his eyes squinting as rain began to fall harder around him.

He mouthed the words open up open up and I unlocked the door. and I unlocked the door.

As he slid inside, Curt ran his hands through his hair, spraying a layer of rain onto the seats. He was wearing jeans and a brown coat, sneakers and a T-shirt. He looked like a normal guy.

"If that's your undercover look, I gotta say it works."

Curt ignored me. "His name is Theodore Goggins."

"How'd you get that info?"

"He stopped into a Starbucks. I waited outside, but saw him pay with a credit card. After he left, I waited a minute and went inside and told them I found his ATM card. And I needed his name in case I couldn't catch up with him. He lives just down the block. Definitely not his building, because he had to buzz up. But 328.

the guy who lived there said 'come on up, Theo' as he buzzed him in."

"He worked in finance," I said.

"How do you know?"

"All these guys do. Tens of thousands of young professionals out of work in this city, most of whom lived a few miles beyond their means. Then they get laid off when the economy goes in the c.r.a.pper, and they're left with huge mortgages and bills on toys and apartments.

That's where 718 comes in. They offer to pay these outof-work go-getters to go house to house. They make good money. It's a win-win. They can still afford the lifestyle they're accustomed to."

Curt sat back, put his hand on his forehead. He looked troubled.

"That's why," he said.

"Why what?"

"The narcotics division. They haven't been able to find out where this drug, Darkness, where it's coming from or who's selling it. But they're looking in the wrong place. They're so busy turning over logs and monitoring alleys that they're not noticing the business a.s.sholes."

"n.o.body looks at a guy in a suit and thinks he's guilty of anything more than white-collar stuff. Fraud and laundering, but these guys are much dirtier."

"Ken Tsang," Curt said. "That's where we got a lead on Morgan Isaacs. They worked at the same bank, both got laid off on the same day and Ken's coworkers said they were friendly. We cross-checked his phone records and found half a dozen calls a day to the same 718 number I found on a dead man's cell phone. Ken was working for these creeps. I'm willing to bet on it."

"And you found him with less bone density than the 329.

Pillsbury Doughboy," I said. "That probably doesn't bode well when it comes to finding Morgan Isaacs in one piece."

Curt just sat there, rain dripping from his hair into his lap as we watched cars zip down the street, the errant noises of a night unaware of its own shadow. We could see Theodore Goggin's awning from the car, and we kept the windshield on fast enough where we wouldn't miss any activity.

And so we waited. Sat in the car until the morning. When Theodore Goggins would leave his apartment and head toward wherever it was that the refills were being kept.

All we could do was keep each other awake through our silences and the knowledge that something foul was lurking just beneath the streets of our city. But it wasn't until the next day that we realized just how deep those sewers ran.

46.Sat.u.r.day

It was six-thirty in the morning, and we were both awake.

My brain was fogged over with that thick haze that comes from a night spent ingesting too much coffee while thinking too much about terrible things that would keep you up under normal circ.u.mstances.

Curt's eyes were open, too, but they were more aware, less troubled. He seemed less like someone running on fumes, like I was, and more like a hawk poised to strike.

Waiting for that moment when his prey poked its head from the shadows. And at six-thirty, that's when our prey, Theodore Goggins, poked his head out from his uptown apartment.

"Right there," I said.

"I see him." Curt quickly combed his hair, opened the mirror above the windshield to get rid of the whole "I stayed up all night in a car" look. Whether that kind of makeover could be done without trained professionals and Heidi Klum, I wasn't sure.

"Same drill," Curt said. "I follow our man to his destination, then I call you. We're not going to have a ton of 331.

time because I have no idea where this guy is headed. Just be on alert."

"I'm going to head over to the West Side Highway," I said. "Better to have access to a faster road. Just in case."

"Good thinking, Parker. I'll call you when Goggins takes me...wherever," Curt said. "And Henry?"

"Yeah, Curt?"

"Be careful. I don't know how this day is going to unwind."

I nodded, didn't need to say anything. Curt knew I was game.

"Okay, let's get this party started."

"Some party. Six in the morning."

"Can it, buddy. Stay focused."

"Good luck, Curt."

He exited the car, walked over to a sidewalk newspaper salesman and bought a copy of the Gazette. Gazette. At least At least he was supporting my paper.

Theodore Goggins left his apartment wearing a different suit, this one straight black, with shiny shoes and another sparkling blue tie. He headed south on Columbus, right toward where Curt was standing reading the paper.

When Goggins pa.s.sed him, Curt waited thirty seconds before starting his tail. After they'd both disappeared, I started the car and headed west on 110th Street. The morning sun was rising above the trees as I drove on the south side of Morningside Park. The lush green foliage was such a stark contrast to the brick and stone just south across the street.

Suddenly I realized that the West Side Highway had just two entrances near my location: one on 125th Street and the other on Ninety-sixth. They were a mile and a half apart from each other, and given Manhattan traffic it could be 332.

fifteen minutes easily from one exit to the other. If I chose the wrong one, I could miss Curt and Goggins entirely.

I slowed down briefly approaching Riverside Drive, then made a decision and turned south toward Ninetysixth. I figured Goggins went south; best guess was that his pick-up point was south of our location.

I pulled the car over on Ninety-sixth and waited for Curt to call.

Thankfully, I didn't have to wait long.

My phone rang less than fifteen minutes later. It was Curt. He was breathless, panting.

"I almost lost him," Curt said. "Stupid MetroCard was out of cash. Anyway, get your a.s.s downtown to the meatpacking district."

"On the way," I said, putting the car into Drive and easing onto the Henry Hudson Parkway. "Where to?"

"You know the Kitten Club?"

"Um...yeah. Unfortunately. Why?"

"Our friend Theodore Goggins just walked inside."

"You're kidding me," I said. "I knew Shawn Kensbrook was dirty, but he's got his hands full in the mud."

"You think this is the new depot where the lackeys get their refills?"

"It would make sense," I said. "I've been to the Kitten Club and that place has more unexplored territory than the Jonas Brothers. Plus it doesn't fill up until late at night, so n.o.body's there during the day to watch it."

"Given the history of this place," Curt said, "it wouldn't surprise me in the least."

"What do you mean?"

"I'll explain when you get down here. Meet me on the southeast corner of Washington and Little West Twelfth Street."

333.

"Will do. I'll be down there right away."

I exited my spot and pulled Curt's car onto the Hudson River Drive south. The traffic wasn't bad, rush hour still an hour or so from reaching its apex. The sun cast a brilliant glow on the water, the sh.o.r.es of New Jersey visible, the highway directly across from Port Imperial Marina.

I took the Fourteenth Street exit and made my way south on Tenth Avenue toward the Kitten Club. There were plenty of spots available, so I pulled up on the corner of Washington and Twelfth and rang Curt's cell phone.

He didn't answer, but then I saw him walking toward me.

Hanging up the phone, I unlocked the pa.s.senger side door. Curt slipped in and stretched out.

There were ma.s.sive bags under his eyes, and his clothes were rumpled. Plus he smelled kind of funky.

Not the Curt Sheffield I was used to hanging out with.

"How was your night?" I said. "I feel like we bonded a bit." I jokingly punched Curt in the arm.

"Let's not go there. You know for a chunky guy, Goggins has a motor that would make Jeff Gordon p.i.s.s his pants."

Across the street, we could both see the entrance to the Kitten Club. I'd been there twice. Once to cover a murder, the second to rescue Amanda when I felt she might be in danger. I was getting a little tired of this place.

"You said something about the club not surprising you," I said. "What did you mean by that?"

"You're not a native New Yorker," Curt said, "so you wouldn't remember. For about ten years during the midseventies and eighties, the s.p.a.ce the Kitten Club currently occupies was a different club called Mineshaft."

"Sounds hot."

"You have no idea. While it was open, Mineshaft was 334.

one of the most popular gay bars in the city. They had dungeons, cages, S and M, bondage, you name it. Then the city shut the club down in eighty-five, claiming that all the rampant s.e.xual activity was helping to spread the AIDS virus."

"Holy c.r.a.p, are you serious?"

"Yessir. Apparently Mineshaft--and a number of other clubs--had back rooms and bas.e.m.e.nts where club-goers could partake in, let's just say, activities that did not require clothing. Rumors had it that the club was actually Mafia owned and operated. The mob started losing money hand over fist, and the lunkheads figured people just weren't spending money, but the sad truth is they were losing a lot of their clientele to the virus. After it was shut down, the club was a ghost lot for almost twenty years and was basically nothing more than an abandoned warehouse. It was supposed to be torn down until somebody--guess who--bought the lot."

"Shawn Kensbrook."

"Bingo. This place is all sorts of bad news. It wouldn't surprise me in the least if an entrepreneur like Kensbrook was padding his wallet by giving some of those hidden rooms to 718 Enterprises."

As we watched the club, a young man wearing a suit turned the corner and entered the front door.

"You saw that?" I said.

"Sure did."

"So what do we do now?" I said. "You want to call for backup?"

"Not yet. Right now we have no probable cause. I didn't see Goggins enter with any drugs and we haven't seen anybody leave with them. We go charging in now without a warrant, the whole thing gets thrown out."

335.

"Come on, Curt, we have to do someth--"

And then I stopped talking.

"There," I said, pointing out the object of my curiosity to Sheffield. "We follow that."

Curt focused his eyes on what I was staring at. It was a shipping truck, and it was parked around the back entrance of the Kitten Club. On the side were written the words Sam's Fresh Fish! The slogan was accompanied by a cute ill.u.s.tration of a live fish standing on a plate smiling while holding a sign that read, I'm Fresh!

And standing behind the truck were two men, unloading boxes and carrying them inside the club.

"This place serves dinner," Curt said. "And those little hors d'oeuvres with salmon on toast points. It's a fine attempt, Parker, but you're reaching."

I turned to Curt. "Fish isn't delivered on Sundays."

He c.o.c.ked his head. "What are you talking about?"