need-”
“Faye, I’m sorry, but I don’t really have time right now to listen to
what the psychologists say. I-”
“But you should make time for just that sort of thing, dear.”
He sighed. “Perhaps I should.”
“Every modern parent ought to be well-versed in child psychology.”
Jack glanced at Rebecca, who was waiting impatiently by the phones. He
raised his eyebrows and shrugged as Faye rattled on:
“You’re an old-fashioned, seat-of-the-pants parent, dear. You think you
can handle everything with love and cookies. Now, of course, love and
cookies are a part of it, but there’s a whole lot more to the job than-”
“Faye, listen, nine times out of ten, I am there when I tell the kids I
will be. But sometimes it isn’t possible.
This job doesn’t have the most regular hours. A homicide detective
can’t walk away in the middle of pursuing a hot lead just because it’s
the end of his shift. Besides, there’s a crisis here. A big one. Now,
will you pick up the kids for me?”
“Of course, dear,” she said, sounding slightly hurt.
“I appreciate it, Faye.”
“It’s nothing.”
“I’m sorry if I sounded . . . abrupt.”
“You didn’t at all. Don’t worry about it. Will Davey and Penny be
staying for dinner?”
“If it’s all right with you-”
“Of course it is. We love having them here, Jack.
You know that. And will you be eating with us?”
“I’m not sure I’ll be free by then.”
“Don’t miss too many dinners with them, dear.”
“I don’t plan to.”
“Dinnertime is an important ritual, an opportunity for the family to
share the events of the day.”
“I know.”
“Children need that period of tranquility, of togetherness, at the end
of each day.”
“I know. I’ll try my best to make it. I hardly ever miss.”
“Will they be sleeping over?”
“I’m sure I won’t be that late. Listen, thanks a lot, Faye. I don’t
know what I’d do without you and Keith to lean on now and then; really,
I don’t. But I’ve got to run now. See you later.”
Before Faye could respond with more advice, Jack hung up, feeling both
guilty and relieved.
A fierce and bitter wind was stored up in the west. It poured through
the cold gray city in an unrelenting flood, harrying the snow before it.
Outside the hotel, Rebecca and Jack turned up their coat collars and
tucked their chins down and cautiously negotiated the slippery,
snow-skinned pavement.
Just as they reached their car, a stranger stepped up to them. He was
tall, dark-complexioned, well-dressed.
“Lieutenant Chandler? Lieutenant Dawson? My boss wants to talk to
you.”
“Who’s your boss?” Rebecca asked.
Instead of answering, the man pointed to a black Mercedes limousine that
was parked farther along the hotel driveway. He started toward it,
clearly expecting them to follow without further question.
After a brief hesitation, they actually did follow him, and when they
reached the limousine, the heavily tinted rear window slid down. Jack
instantly recognized the passenger, and he saw that Rebecca also knew
who the man was: Don Gennaro Carramazza, patriarch of the most powerful
mafia family in New York.
The tall man got in the front seat with the chauffeur, and Carramazza,
alone in the back, opened his door and motioned for Jack and Rebecca to
join him.
“What do you want?” Rebecca asked, making no move to get into the car.
“A little conversation,” Carramazza said, with just the vaguest trace of
a Sicilian accent. He had a surprisingly cultured voice.
“So talk,” she said.
“Not like this. It’s too cold,” Carramazza said.
Snow blew past him, into the car. “Let’s be comfortable.”
“I am comfortable,” she said.
“Well, I’m not,” Carramazza said. He frowned.
“Listen, I have some extremely valuable information for you. I chose to
deliver it myself. Me. Doesn’t that tell you how important whisks? But
I’m not going to talk on the street, in public, for Christ’s sake.”
Jack said, “Get in, Rebecca.”
With an expression of distaste, she did as he said.
Jack got into the car after her. They sat in the two seats that flanked
the built-in bar and television set, facing the rear of the limousine,