He followed her gaze, assuming she was looking at Gwen, next to the media table. To his surprise, he realized that Allie was looking at Eve.
Eve—trying to leave, but stuck answering questions from the mayor and Henry Ma and Deputy Commissioner Kepler.
“I saw you with her earlier,” she said—as accusing as only a thirteen-year-old can be.
“Just making conversation, nothing more.” He gave her a crooked smile. “I think the three of us should go home. You, me, and—what’s this fella’s name here?”
“Sam,” she said proudly.
“Sam?” He swallowed.
Apparently Allie didn’t know—not yet. How was he going to tell her that Sam wasn’t a name they were going to want to be reminded of?
“After Samwise Gamgee,” she insisted. “He was Frodo’s best friend, you know. And at the end of The Fellowship of the Ring, when Frodo is ready to pack it in? Sam refuses to let him quit.”
“Sam it is, then.” Some arguments could wait.
“Really?” Her eyes were bright with excitement—in a way he hadn’t seen since she was a very little girl.
“You’ve been wanting a dog. How do we make this one yours?”
“A donation to No Bull Pit,” Mace answered, coming up behind them. “A generous one. ’Cause you owe us big-time.”
“You got it.” The commissioner flashed his signature smile. The one that put everyone around him immediately at ease.
After all, Sam’s note accompanying the money—Can’t buy me love—had been wrong. Everything was for sale, assuming you were willing to pay the price. The man who had died trying to figure out exactly how far Logan Donovan would go ought to have known that.
This city needed someone to protect it. To keep it safe, day after day. Luckily, Commissioner Logan Donovan was strong enough to do what it took.
—
Hours later, when he was home in his office, and Allie collapsed into bed, he took out the letter he’d stolen from Sam’s pocket. He scanned its contents.
She’d had great penmanship, he thought. Those arching T’s and looping L’s. He supposed others might consider it beautiful.
Then he focused on the final page.
It’s not just me who’s sick, Sam. The cancer is everywhere.
You saw that when your son was sick, didn’t you? The NYPD didn’t care. Wholesome Minds didn’t care. The company that rakes in billions selling “family values” could have overridden the insurance decision and funded the experimental treatment your son needed to survive. And Logan? In spite of every line he’s crossed, he couldn’t look the other way when you were the one breaking the law.
And no one notices, because we’re all too distracted by our smartphones and busy lives.
Someone needs to step up, to make people pay attention.
It’s got to be you, Sam. I know you can do it, based on the time we had together—which has been the happiest time of my life.
You asked me before why I didn’t leave him, after I learned what he was capable of. How he treated people. How his ambition had no restraint.
The answer is the usual one: because of Allie. He threatened to lawyer up, take her away, and make sure I never saw her again.
You have your own issues with Logan.
You said you would quit working for him the day I was gone.
Don’t.
The cancer is back and I can’t fight it again. I intend to finish this on my own terms—which means that you won’t hear from me again. If you love me, you won’t try to stop me.
My last request is this: Will you look out for my daughter? My precious Allie? Maybe he’ll grow into the father she deserves after I’m gone.
But if he doesn’t? Figure out a way to fix things. Use whatever means necessary.
Just like you did for your son.
Love,
Jill
After he finished reading, he closed his eyes. Let the anger and rage wash over him. Allowed his emotions, smothering and dark, to crowd his chest until he could barely breathe.
When he came back to himself, he thought: Get over it. Emotion will only make you useless.
This was typical Jill: trying to screw him over, even from the grave.
By God, he would never allow that. Besides, she’d made one major mistake. She’d written the note before they left for Hawaii. Before her “accidental” fall.
And those last nine lines? Starting with the cancer is back? She’d actually exculpated him completely.
He took a pair of scissors from his desk. He clipped the final lines. He could now make a truth of his lie: He’d get her handwriting authenticated, file the note with his lawyer.
Meanwhile, he’d share the important part with Eve.
And the rest of the letter?
He pulled over his metal waste can. Found a box of matches. Set the pages on fire.
Chapter 89
Soup Kitchen—Saint Agnes
It had turned into a perfect Thanksgiving Day. The air was crisp and cold, and the wind whipped the few remaining leaves until they fell off the trees in front of Saint Agnes. They danced in the wind—in a frenzy of gold, orange, and yellow.
It wouldn’t last—but in the moment, it was beautiful. Inside the church, pews had been replaced by festive dinner tables. Eve surveyed four hundred people—both homeless and volunteers—who were about to sit down together for a holiday feast.
Eli and Mace had come with her reluctantly. “Nothing we do here’s gonna change a thing,” Eli groused.
“Maybe not,” she said. “It’s still worth doing.”
And she thought of García. Eating his elephant one bite at a time.
“I don’t know what to say,” Eli stammered.
“Because they’re homeless?” Mace demanded. “You know, it could happen to any of us, with enough bad luck and bad decisions. Besides, you dress like a homeless dude, so you should feel right at home.”
Eli flushed as red as his hair. But not from embarrassment.
Across the room, Ty was waving at him, calling him over to help serve.
“What do I do?” He looked at Eve, his voice rising.
“Go. You handle eating just fine,” Eve reassured him. “Focus on the food.”
“So where do they need the most help serving chow?” Mace asked—but answered his own question when he recognized an old friend from pick-up games at the Cage on West Fourth Street.
Eve watched him walk away, thinking how, despite all his tough talk, Mace was wearing García’s red bandana around his neck. Always knew you had a soft spot for Frankie, she thought.
As expected, Haddox was gone. He was—well, who ever knew exactly where Haddox was? He would turn up again when it suited him.
She started work, partnering with Peter, a man who’d become homeless after losing his job as a security officer four years ago. He now volunteered at Saint Agnes, too, while he was looking for work.
Before long, the dinner was served—and it was time to eat. They took seats together at a table near a stained-glass window depicting the Last Supper.
Someone else reached for the seat beside her. Eve noticed, the minute she saw his hands.
People’s hands had always fascinated her. And this man’s hands were long, but lean and strong. There was still a slight indentation where he’d once worn a ring on his left hand. And today, there were plenty of cuts and bruises. Scars from a hard-fought battle.
She looked up into blue eyes—the ones that fascinated her, because they’d seen too much.
“Told you I wanted to see you again.” He lowered himself into the chair beside her. He wasn’t in uniform, just an ordinary cream cotton shirt and jeans. The dark circles under his eyes had disappeared, and there was not even a single fleck of red in his salt-and-pepper hair. He looked good.
“Didn’t think you meant so soon.”
“I figured Thanksgiving was as good a time as any,” the commissioner continued. “Besides, I have some time. The city’s s
afe. My department is unharmed. And Allie’s finally asleep at home; one of Jill’s friends came to watch her.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t have thought this was your kind of scene. Your department doesn’t have the best relationship with the homeless population.”
“All the more reason for me to try to change that. Besides, this is nice,” he said, looking around.
She saw him take in the red tablecloths. White china dinnerware. Candles.
“It doesn’t feel like a homeless event,” he added.
“Yeah, it’s all civilized. That’s why we like it, too,” Peter interjected with a grin, passing the commissioner a dinner roll.
An older man next to Peter with a scruffy gray beard—who’d been silent the entire meal—just nodded in agreement.
“I brought you a present. Exonerating evidence.” Logan passed her a photocopy of the final lines of Jill’s note, starting with The cancer is back and I can’t fight it again.
Her hand lightly brushed his injured one as she accepted it. She wasn’t prepared for the warm surge of electricity in his touch. Control is only an illusion, she was reminded.
She scanned the page’s contents, raised an eyebrow. “Looks like part of it’s missing.”
Logan shrugged. “It’s all I’ve got. Found it among her things.”
“Who was the recipient? She asks her—or him—to look after Allie.”
“I think she meant it for her friend Carrie—who’s actually with Allie now. I’m afraid Jill never did think much of my parenting skills,” he added with a rueful smile.
Eve felt something uncomfortable slither in her stomach. Definitely not an open book. So she’d find the answers for herself.
And she definitely wanted to look at the footage of the commissioner’s fight with Sam. Mace—who’d had the clearest view of the action—had questions.
Yet Vidocq had crossed some ethical lines of their own trying to bring Allie home. Were any of them really in a position to take the moral high ground?
That, Eve decided, was a problem for another day.
She’d settled in comfortably beside Logan, talking some more, when the phone in her pocket chirped.
She retrieved it. Haddox’s message read: There’s a lass I know, not like anybody I’ve ever met. If she wants to ditch the cop, I’ll help her track down Zev’s murderer. JFK. Gate 17. Terminal 4. I’ve an extra ticket for a friend.
She typed in reply: Is that what we are? Friends?
His answer came in a heartbeat: All up to you, luv.
Sometime the simplest things could be complicated.
“Is there a problem?” Donovan was asking.
She flashed him a smile, shook her head. But she didn’t put her phone away. She clutched it in her right hand, thinking.
Something had changed.
She’d spent most of her life alone, working. Her most meaningful relationships at the moment were with her Vidocq colleagues.
One of whom was dead.
García, like Zev. His death had made her realize: Solving Zev’s murder might give her intellectual satisfaction, but it was unlikely to dull her pain. There had to be another way.
What do I want?
She’d been working to safeguard a world she’d experienced only a small portion of—the ugly part, having to do with crime and the worst side of human nature. She wanted to experience its better half. Not just to enjoy art and architecture, museums and theater, music and dance. Not just to see historical landmarks and national treasures and scenic vistas. But to meet the kind of people who made the world better. Who created a place where men like García—and Zev before him—didn’t die. Where men like Sam did not create terrible threats.
And if she returned to criminal work—to Vidocq—well, she’d do so after having learned something.
Haddox was waiting.
And Logan Donovan, too.
“Eve, is there a problem?” the commissioner was asking again.
“No,” she said firmly and started to type her reply. “Nothing I can’t figure out.”
For MZP and CAP
Acknowledgments
My deepest gratitude to those who have been indispensable in bringing about this book. Thanks to Kate Miciak and Anne Hawkins for your unflagging enthusiasm and support. I’m especially grateful to all those at Random House whose contributions have made this book a reality, including Kara Welsh, Jennifer Hershey, Kim Hovey, Julia Maguire, Alex Coumbis, Maggie Oberrender, Nancy Delia, Amy Brosey, Victoria Wong, and Carlos Beltran. Thanks also to cartographer David Lindroth.
Congratulations to Jan Brandt, who won the honor of a character naming at a charity benefit for the New York Musical Festival. I hope you enjoy your fictional counterpart.
Special thanks to Clair Lamb, MacKenzie Cadenhead, Mark Longaker, and Natalie Meir.
Finally, heartfelt thanks to Maddie and especially to Craig, my partner in every story.
BY STEFANIE PINTOFF
In the Shadow of Gotham
A Curtain Falls
Secret of the White Rose
Hostage Taker
City on Edge
About the Author
STEFANIE PINTOFF is the Edgar Award–winning author of five novels. Her writing has also won the Washington Irving Book Prize and earned nominations for the Barry, Anthony, Macavity, and Agatha Awards. Pintoff’s novels have been published around the world, including the United Kingdom, the Czech Republic, Italy, and Japan. She lives on Manhattan’s Upper West Side, where she is at work on her next thriller.
stefaniepintoff.com
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Whistleblower Page 31