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More important, I didn’t want to. For better or worse, Courtney needed to know how I felt about her, and maybe it had taken getting shot at in Africa for me to fully understand that.

So I took a swig of my Laphroaig 15 Year Old Scotch, followed by a deep breath.
Here goes, well, everything
, I was thinking.

I turned to her. She was wearing a long black dress with a jewel neckline, her auburn hair elegantly pulled back behind her ears. Beautiful — and so, so sweet.

“Courtney, there’s something I need to —” “Uh-oh,” she interrupted.

Uh-oh?

But she wasn’t reading tea leaves. This had nothing to do with what I was about to say to her. Instead, Courtney was peering over my right shoulder. She’d seen someone, hadn’t she?

“We’ve got big trouble at twelve o’clock,” she announced.

“HELLO, NICK,” I heard coming up behind me.

I turned to see Brenda Evans, the very blond, very attractive on-air stock market analyst for WFN — the World Financial — based here in New York. Her nickname, mainly among men, was the “Bull and Bear Babe.” I, however, knew Brenda by a different moniker.

My ex-girifriend
.

“Hello, Brenda,” I said. Those two words were the first I’d spoken to her since she’d broken up with me a little less than a year ago. My next five words were a complete lie. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too, Nick,” she said. She was probably lying through those brilliantly white teeth of hers, but I couldn’t be sure. That’s how good she was.

As Brenda and Courtney quickly exchanged air kisses and pretended they liked each other, I realized Brenda wasn’t
alone. With her was David Sorren, the all-powerful Manhattan district attorney, not to mention one of
People
magazine’s “25 Most Eligible Bachelors.”

“Hi,” he said to me, not waiting for Brenda to introduce us. “I’m David Sorren.”

“Of course you are,” I said jokingly. Jeez, he had shiny white teeth, too.

Beyond the cover of
People
, I’d seen him on the news at least a hundred times, usually standing on the steps of the Manhattan Criminal Courthouse touting the latest conviction of some bad guy. Now, with any luck, Sorren would be a complete prick in person so I could immediately hate him.

“And you’re Nick Daniels,” he said as we shook hands firmly. “I’m a big fan of your writing. In fact, I think you got robbed last year on the Pulitzer.”

So much for hating the guy.

“Well, as we runners-up say, it was an honor just to be nominated. But thanks,” I said.

“Don’t let him fool you — he cried for three days straight,” said Courtney, chiming in with one of her patented wisecracks. She began to introduce herself, but it was another case of someone who needed no introduction.

“Yes, hello, Courtney,” said Sorren, giving her the extrafriendly two-handed grasp direct from the Bill Clinton play-book. “I’ve been wanting to meet you for quite some time. I’m glad our paths have finally crossed.”

Courtney wasn’t born yesterday.

“You’re not just saying that so
Citizen
magazine will run a big puff piece on you after you announce your candidacy for mayor next week, right?” she said.

Sorren wasn’t born yesterday, either.

“Of course I am. Let me know if it works,” he answered with a wink. “In the meantime, congratulations on your recent engagement. Is Mr. Ferramore here?”

“No, he’s actually traveling on business,” said Courtney. “He’s in Europe. Home next week.”

Brenda promptly took back the reins of the conversation, another thing she was always good at.

“So, Nick, I understand you had quite the eventful afternoon,” she said. “That must have been terrible. I’m sorry you had to see it.”

I was about to ask how she knew I had been at Lombardo’s when I remembered that this was Brenda Evans, the dogged reporter. Her sources extended well beyond her Wall Street turf.

“Yes. It was terrible,” I said. “I’m sorry I was there, too.” I didn’t really have anything more I wanted to add. Thankfully, Courtney saved me. She turned to Sorren and instantly made like the investigative reporter she used to be.

“David, I’m sure you’ve heard all the speculation about Eddie Pinero being responsible for Marcozza’s murder, right?” she asked. “What’s your take on it?”

As leading questions went, this one was a major gimme. Sorren, like a young Rudy Giuliani — albeit better looking and with a full head of thick hair straight out of a men’s shampoo commercial — had made cleaning up organized crime one of his highest priorities as Manhattan DA.

“At this point,” said Sorren, “most of my thoughts are with the families of those two officers who were gunned down.” He paused and drew a deep breath. “That said, I can assure
you of this: We’ll nail whoever committed those murders. And if it turns out that Pinero was connected, I’ll be swinging the hammer on him myself, and I’ll be swinging it hard.”

Whoa. Easy there, Popeye …

I could see the veins in Sorren’s neck pop through his skin as he finished that last sentence. It was more than mere conviction. It bordered on vengeance.

It also brought the conversation to a screeching halt. All that remained were the obligatory parting pleasantries.
So good to see you again … Yes, we really should try to get together sometime … Blah, blah, blah …

And that was that.

I was done talking to Brenda and her new boyfriend for the evening. At least, that’s what I thought.

“SO, WHAT WERE you and I saying before we were interrupted by Blond Ambition?” asked Courtney when we were alone again. “You were about to tell me something, no? So tell me, Nick.”

Yes. Yes, I was. But timing is … um … uh … everything, and the moment for that heartfelt declaration had come and gone. Along with my having the guts to say the actual words to her.

All the more reason why I suddenly didn’t feel like sticking around at the benefit.

“I guess it’s jet lag,” I explained to Courtney. “I need to catch up on some sleep. You okay with that … boss?”

She probably knew I was making an excuse to leave, but she also knew the only reason I had come in the first place was because she’d asked. Plus, I’d had a rough couple of days, right?

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” she said, giving me a sweet kiss on
the cheek. “As soon as possible we’ve got to get you back together with Dwayne Robinson. We need that interview, Nick.”

I couldn’t have agreed more. I definitely wanted this story as much as she did.

A minute or so later I was on the steps outside the New York Public Library — smack between its two landmark lion sculptures, Patience and Fortitude — when I heard someone call out my name.

I turned to see David Sorren catching up to me. He was jogging, actually.

“You got a second?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said.

Sorren reached into his jacket, removing a pack of Marlboro Lights. I was surprised to see that he smoked, if only because of his widely known political ambition. Gallup poll: candidate + cigarettes = less trustworthy. Obama didn’t go on the patch just for health reasons.

“You want one?” he offered. “No, thanks.”

“Yeah, I know, bad habit. Don’t tell the press,” he said, lighting up. “Wait a minute, you
are
the press.”

I smiled. “I’ll consider this off the record. Besides, I’m not much for petty crap.”

“Good, because I actually have a favor to ask you.” Sorren slid the pack of Marlboro Lights back into his jacket. When I saw his hand again, he was holding something else.

“Here,” he said. “Go ahead, take it.”

It was his business card. I looked at it as if to ask,
What’s this for?

“Now’s not the time, but I was hoping the two of us could maybe talk on Monday about what you witnessed at Lombardo’s,” he said. “I shouldn’t be saying this to you, but I’m convinced Eddie Pinero was behind it. Now I have to figure out some way to prove it. Believe it or not, I am torn up about those two detectives.”

“I understand,” I said, taking the card. “I’ll give you a call. Monday.”

“Great — I appreciate it. Because if it’s the last thing I do, I’m going to bring that cocksucker Pinero down for good.”

I nodded. I mean, I think I nodded. Tell you the truth, I was still pretty taken aback by the district attorney’s intensity. He wanted Pinero bad. Really bad.

Sorren firmly shook my hand again and was halfway back up the steps when he turned around.

“Hey, one other thing,” he said. “Brenda told me that the two of you used to be a couple.” He let go with a slight chuckle and shake of the head. “Small world, huh?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Small world.”

Maybe a little too small.

CUE THE NIGHTMARES.

I knew I’d have trouble sleeping that night. There wasn’t enough warm milk and Ambien in the world. As soon as I closed my eyes, it was as if I were back in Lombardo’s, living it all over again in a continuous loop. I could hear the screams, the chorus of terror that ripped through the restaurant. I could see the shine of the scalpel in the killer’s hand, the dark plum color of the blood that was suddenly spurting everywhere.

At one point it was even
my
eyes being carved out.

Finally, I raised the white flag.

I got out of bed and into the chair behind my desk. If I couldn’t sleep, maybe I could at least get some writing done.

Perhaps that was the only silver lining in my missing the interview with Dwayne Robinson — I could put all my focus into the piece on Dr. Alan Cole and his work in Darfur with the Humanitarian Relief Corps. First things first, I needed to
sort through the hours’ worth of recordings I had made with him, taking careful notes to string together an outline.
Note to any kids reading this: outline — always!

The reality is, the longer I do this, the more I understand that there are no shortcuts in journalism. At least not any worth taking.

So I flipped on my laptop and grabbed my tape recorder. I was about to hit the rewind button when my hand suddenly froze. I realized something.

In the horror of those moments at Lombardo’s, as well as in the haze and commotion of the aftermath on the killing floor, I’d forgotten that I had already been recording when Vincent Marcozza and those cops were murdered.

I didn’t get my interview with Dwayne Robinson.

But what
did
I get?

Part of me almost didn’t want to know. After tossing and turning half the night, I didn’t particularly want to relive the murders yet again.

But how could I not?

Taking a deep breath first, I braced myself for what I knew was coming. Once more, I’d hear Marcozza crying out in agony. I’d hear the shots that had brought down the two detectives.

But before all of that, there had been something else, something I couldn’t believe as I listened to the tape recording now.

Holy shit.

This changes everything
.

MY HEART WAS pounding as I played the tape back three times just to make sure.
Am I really hearing this? Did he really say that?

Yes. Yes, he did.

It was the voice of the killer before he committed three murders in cold blood. He was speaking to Marcozza, telling him something, something I wasn’t supposed to hear, something I shouldn’t have been listening to now.

“I have a message from Eddie.”

My recorder had barely picked it up and the Italian accent wasn’t helping, but there it was — creepy, ominous, and beyond a reasonable doubt.

Evidence
.

There was no other Eddie it could be, not since Vincent Marcozza had worked for Eddie Pinero. The speculation around town was nearly unanimous — Pinero had ordered
the hit. Now, word for word, it was more than just speculation.

“I have a message from Eddie.”

The killer delivered it, all right. I listened to his words once, twice, three times.

Then I pushed back from my desk, the wheels of my chair carrying me nearly all the way to my bed. On the bench by the footboard were the trousers to the suit I’d worn to the benefit at the public library. I dug through the pockets looking for the business card David Sorren had handed me. I hadn’t lost it, had I?

No. There it was, along with my money clip, a half-eaten roll of Cryst-O-Mint Life Savers, and two pieces of Trident bubble gum.

Right below Sorren’s office number was another number for his cell. I looked up, checking the clock on my bedside table. It was almost three a.m.

Don’t be crazy, Nick. You can’t call Sorren now. Wait until morning
.

On the fourth ring he answered.

“HELLO?”

“David, it’s Nick Daniels,” I said. “Sorry to call so late.”

It took him a few seconds to respond. “Oh … hey, Nick,” he said in a whisper. “What’s up? Is everything okay?”

I knew why he was whispering. He wasn’t alone. Sure enough, I heard another whisper in the background.

“Nick Daniels? At this hour?”

It was Brenda.

Don’t sweat it
, I felt like telling him.
You’re in bed with my ex-girlfriend. I get it. You weren’t playing Boggle
.

Instead, I pretended I hadn’t heard her and quickly explained why I was calling him in the middle of the night. I’m pretty sure the sound I heard next was his shooting up in bed like a nuclear missile.

“Are you serious?”
he asked.

“Dead serious,” I answered. “I just listened to the tape several times.”

I expected his next question to be a breathless
Can you play it for me over the phone?
Or maybe even
How fast can you meet me?

Who cared what time it was? This was the guy who only hours before had looked me straight in the face and declared, “If it’s the last thing I do, I’m going to bring that cocksucker Pinero down.”

Thanks to my tape recorder, I was all but doing it for him. I had what he desperately wanted and needed to drop the hammer on the biggest mobster in New York.

That’s why I was so surprised by what David Sorren said next.