And this morning he wouldn't call me a cab. Just shook his head and walked away. I don't think he speaks English. At least, he pretends he doesn't."
What do you expect for twenty-five hundred a month? D'Agosta thought to himself. But it was her apartment, so he kept his mouth shut. And it was her money that paid the rent-at least for now. He was determined to change that as soon as possible.
When he'd moved in, he hadn't brought any expectations with him. He'd just gone through one of the worst times in his life, and he refused to let himself think more than a day ahead. Also, he was still in the early stages of what promised to be an unpleasant divorce: a new romantic entanglement probably wasn't the smartest thing for him right now. But this had turned out far better than he could ever have hoped. Laura Hayward was more than a girlfriend or lover-she'd become a soulmate. He'd thought that their both being on the job, her ranking him, would be a problem. It was just the opposite: it gave them common ground, a chance to help each other, to talk about their cases without worrying about confidentiality or second-guessers.
"Any new leads on the Dangler?" he heard Laura ask from the living room.
The Dangler was the NYPD's pet name for a perp who'd recently been stealing money from ATMs with a hacked bank card, then exposing his johnson to the security camera. Most of the incidents had been in D'Agosta's precinct.
"Got a possible eyewitness to yesterday's job."
"Eyewitness to what?" Laura asked suggestively.
"To the face, of course." D'Agosta gave the pasta a stir, regulated the boil. He glanced at the oven, made sure it was up to temperature. Then he turned back to the messy counter, mentally going over everything. Sausage: check. Meatballs: check. Ricotta, Parmesan, and mozzarella fiordilatte: all check. Looks like I might pull this one out of a hat, after all...
Hell. He still had to grate the Parmesan.
He threw open a drawer, began rummaging frantically. As he did so, he thought he heard the doorbell ring.
Maybe it was his imagination: Laura didn't get all that many callers, and he sure as hell didn't get any. Especially this time of night. It was probably a delivery from the Vietnamese restaurant downstairs, knocking at the wrong door.
His hand closed over the box grater. He yanked it out, set it on the counter, grabbed the brick of Parmesan. He chose the face with the finest grate, raised the Parmesan to the steel.
"Vinnie?" Laura said. "You'd better come out here."
D'Agosta hesitated only a moment. Something in her tone made him drop everything on the counter and walk out of the kitchen.
She was standing in the front doorway of the apartment, speaking to a stranger. The man's face was in shadow, and he was dressed in an expensive trench coat. Something about him seemed familiar.
Then the man took a step forward, into the light. D'Agosta caught his breath.
"You!" he said.
The man bowed. "And you are Vincent D'Agosta."
Laura glanced back at him. Who's he? her expression read.
Slowly, D'Agosta released the breath. "Laura," he said, "I'd like you to meet Proctor. Agent Pendergast's chauffeur."
Her eyes widened in surprise.
Proctor bowed. "Delighted to make your acquaintance, ma'am."
She simply nodded in reply.
Proctor turned back to D'Agosta. "Now, sir, if you'd kindly come with me?"
"Where?" But already D'Agosta knew the answer.
"Eight ninety-one Riverside Drive."
D'Agosta licked his lips. "Why?"
"Because someone is waiting for you there. Someone who has requested your presence."
"Now?"
Proctor simply bowed again in reply.
THREE
D'Agosta sat in the backseat of the vintage '59 Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith, looking out the window but not really seeing anything. Proctor had taken him west through the park, and the big car was now rocketing up Broadway.
D'Agosta shifted in the white leather interior, barely able to contain his curiosity and impatience. He was tempted to pepper Proctor with questions,
What do you expect for twenty-five hundred a month? D'Agosta thought to himself. But it was her apartment, so he kept his mouth shut. And it was her money that paid the rent-at least for now. He was determined to change that as soon as possible.
When he'd moved in, he hadn't brought any expectations with him. He'd just gone through one of the worst times in his life, and he refused to let himself think more than a day ahead. Also, he was still in the early stages of what promised to be an unpleasant divorce: a new romantic entanglement probably wasn't the smartest thing for him right now. But this had turned out far better than he could ever have hoped. Laura Hayward was more than a girlfriend or lover-she'd become a soulmate. He'd thought that their both being on the job, her ranking him, would be a problem. It was just the opposite: it gave them common ground, a chance to help each other, to talk about their cases without worrying about confidentiality or second-guessers.
"Any new leads on the Dangler?" he heard Laura ask from the living room.
The Dangler was the NYPD's pet name for a perp who'd recently been stealing money from ATMs with a hacked bank card, then exposing his johnson to the security camera. Most of the incidents had been in D'Agosta's precinct.
"Got a possible eyewitness to yesterday's job."
"Eyewitness to what?" Laura asked suggestively.
"To the face, of course." D'Agosta gave the pasta a stir, regulated the boil. He glanced at the oven, made sure it was up to temperature. Then he turned back to the messy counter, mentally going over everything. Sausage: check. Meatballs: check. Ricotta, Parmesan, and mozzarella fiordilatte: all check. Looks like I might pull this one out of a hat, after all...
Hell. He still had to grate the Parmesan.
He threw open a drawer, began rummaging frantically. As he did so, he thought he heard the doorbell ring.
Maybe it was his imagination: Laura didn't get all that many callers, and he sure as hell didn't get any. Especially this time of night. It was probably a delivery from the Vietnamese restaurant downstairs, knocking at the wrong door.
His hand closed over the box grater. He yanked it out, set it on the counter, grabbed the brick of Parmesan. He chose the face with the finest grate, raised the Parmesan to the steel.
"Vinnie?" Laura said. "You'd better come out here."
D'Agosta hesitated only a moment. Something in her tone made him drop everything on the counter and walk out of the kitchen.
She was standing in the front doorway of the apartment, speaking to a stranger. The man's face was in shadow, and he was dressed in an expensive trench coat. Something about him seemed familiar.
Then the man took a step forward, into the light. D'Agosta caught his breath.
"You!" he said.
The man bowed. "And you are Vincent D'Agosta."
Laura glanced back at him. Who's he? her expression read.
Slowly, D'Agosta released the breath. "Laura," he said, "I'd like you to meet Proctor. Agent Pendergast's chauffeur."
Her eyes widened in surprise.
Proctor bowed. "Delighted to make your acquaintance, ma'am."
She simply nodded in reply.
Proctor turned back to D'Agosta. "Now, sir, if you'd kindly come with me?"
"Where?" But already D'Agosta knew the answer.
"Eight ninety-one Riverside Drive."
D'Agosta licked his lips. "Why?"
"Because someone is waiting for you there. Someone who has requested your presence."
"Now?"
Proctor simply bowed again in reply.
THREE
D'Agosta sat in the backseat of the vintage '59 Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith, looking out the window but not really seeing anything. Proctor had taken him west through the park, and the big car was now rocketing up Broadway.
D'Agosta shifted in the white leather interior, barely able to contain his curiosity and impatience. He was tempted to pepper Proctor with questions,
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