Don't Blink (23 page)

“Yes, and when I’m done explaining everything to them, they’ll know he’s the one who shot you.”

Checkmate, Nick. Game over. No way out, not this time
.

I closed my eyes, swallowing my last breath.

Pop!

IT SURE SOUNDED like a gun — only it wasn’t. Not this time. Actually, it was one of the limo’s tires exploding, maybe from one too many hairpin turns, or maybe from a bullet during the chase.

Of course, I didn’t know that right away — I was too busy spinning around like laundry in a dryer as the limo flipped over.

And over and over and over. High bouncer, too. Possibly some cartwheels.

Call it the worst car crash I’d ever been in and — as crazy as it gets — the luckiest break I’d ever been handed, even though it hurt like hell.

My body slammed against the ceiling, the door, the bar. It was happening so fast, my hands were useless to protect me. There was nothing to hold on to, nothing to grab.

Somehow in all that flipping around, amid the crushing
of metal and shattering of glass, I managed to stay conscious. And when the limo finally came to a stop — upside down, no less — my vision was going in and out as if I were looking through one of those View-Master toys.

Click! Where am I?

Okay. I was lying facedown on what I guessed was the ceiling of the limo. Slowly, I lifted a hand to my forehead, swabbing it with my palm. I didn’t have to see the blood; I could feel it, warm and gooey. It was as if the huge lump I had gotten from the butt of Zambratta’s gun had erupted. It hurt like hell.

But the worst pain was lower in my body. The right side of my chest, my ribs. Every breath felt like I was being stabbed with a knife.

I was about to call out for help when I heard a moan a few feet away. It was D’zorio. As bad off as I was, he looked even worse.

There were shards of glass wedged into his forehead and cheek, and I was pretty sure a bone was protruding through his sock right below his ankle. He was wheezing and coughing up blood.

He looked at me. I looked at him. We both looked at his gun. It was maybe six inches from his hand.

Make that four inches.

He was reaching for it, his perfectly manicured nails now covered in blood, but clawing their way toward the grip of the gun.

Then, out of the blue, I heard a voice. “Go ahead, Joey, give me a reason!”

Wait! I know that voice … I absolutely do
.

I craned my neck to see the man kneeling beside the limo. The barrel of his Smith and Wesson .40 caliber automatic was trained on D’zorio.

Wait! I know this man. He’s the guy from the diner. And my sister’s house
.

I thought he had wanted to kill me, only now here he was saving my life. He wasn’t with the mob. He was against them. It was as clear as the three letters emblazoned on his jacket.

FBI
.

I HAD A broken rib for sure, maybe two. There were deep cuts and gashes on my forehead, my ear, and my right arm, all of which would definitely require stitches.

As the EMT finished examining me, Agent Douglas Keller of the FBI folded his arms and gave me a look that reminded me of my father, who’d been a junior high principal. “You need to get to a hospital, Nick,” he said. “We’ll talk about all this afterward.”

“We’ll talk now,” I said. “Or we won’t talk ever again. I’m not kidding —
Doug
.”

We were standing in the middle of the southbound side of the Pelham Parkway in the Bronx. Behind me, for several miles, was a parking lot of cars that weren’t going anywhere for a while. To my left, on the northbound side, was a slow parade of rubberneckers, each and every face asking the same question with a wide-open mouth:
What on earth happened
over there?
I could see the details they were taking in and trying to figure out:
A flipped limo — with bullet holes? Police everywhere — and FBI, too?

Not to mention that NYPD photographers were taking pictures, measuring skid marks, and drawing a chalk line around D’zorio’s driver, who, despite his size, had somehow been thrown to his death.
Remember, folks, always wear your seat belt
. As for what remained of Zambratta’s body trapped in the sunroof, you don’t want to know.

“You do realize, Nick, that I’m not required to tell you anything,” said Agent Keller.

“That’s right. I get that much, Doug. Just like I’m not required to write about the FBI agent who stalked me for two weeks while threatening my life,” I shot back. “Is that ‘Keller’ with two
l
’s?”

He smiled. “Glad you find all this funny,” I said.

“For the record, I never actually threatened your life, Nick.”

“No, but that’s what you wanted me to think. You said I was in a shitload of danger.”

“You
were
in a shitload of danger. You still may be.”

“Yeah, but not from the FBI. Not from you. So why were you trying so hard to scare me?”

Keller shook his head as if to say,
I can’t freakin’ believe I’m about to tell you this
.

But he did.

It seems that one Vincent Marcozza, Eddie Pinero’s attorney, had been cooperating with the FBI for the past ten months, although not by choice, of course. He had been about to get nailed for income tax evasion, so Marcozza had cut a deal.

“What kind of deal?” I asked.

“Let me put it this way,” said Keller. “Marcozza agreed not to bring his ‘A’ game to the courtroom. He basically let Pinero get convicted.”

My jaw dropped and I must have looked like one of the rubberneckers passing us. “Did the Organized Crime Task Force know about this?” I asked next.

“You mean, were their prosecutors in on it?”

“Yeah. That’s exactly what I mean.”

“No, they had no idea,” said Keller. “I mean, maybe privately they were scratching their heads over Marcozza’s crummy performance during the trial, but that was it. Nailing Pinero was a huge victory for them. They took it and ran.”

And that’s where I had come into the story. Literally. I had walked into Lombardo’s and right into Eddie Pinero taking his revenge on Marcozza.

Only it
wasn’t
Pinero, as we later found out. It had just looked that way because it was supposed to.

“How did you know it was D’zorio — that it was a setup?” I asked Keller now.

“We didn’t know. That is, not until you did.” He motioned with his hand. “Give me your phone for a second,” he said.

I gave him a quizzical look. Then I handed over my iPhone.

Keller unlocked the touch screen and went into the settings. I watched as he scrolled down, then tapped into my “Password Lock” and entered a four-digit code.

“There,” he said, giving it back. “Good as new.”

Huh?
“What was it before?” I asked.

Keller didn’t answer me. He didn’t need to. That’s how he had found me at my sister’s house. The FBI had turned my phone into a tracking device. But how? When? Who had done that?

“Yeah, you were pretty wrapped up in your newspaper that morning,” he said, playing off my expression. I flashed back to the Sunrise Diner and the first time Keller had approached me.
“Is this your phone?”
he’d asked.

“So, let me guess,” I said. “Because you saved my life, in return I never go public … I never write this story?”

“That’s the basic plan,” he said bluntly. “Especially given one other little thing I ought to mention.”

“What’s that?”

“The story’s not over, Nick.”

IT AIN’T OVER TILL IT’S OVER

I FELT LIKE a cat must after using up eight lives. In other words,
no more messing around
. Right smack in the middle of the Pelham Parkway I cut my own deal with Agent Douglas Keller.
Keep me alive and the story I could write dies. If I die, the story lives
. I would see to that — pronto, I promised him.

“Here’s where I keep my former editor’s number.” I pointed to the number two on my phone. “She’s on speed dial. She’s a better writer, and reporter, than I am. Hard to imagine, I know.”

Keller pinched his lips while nodding slowly. Weird, but I could tell there was a part of him that liked my playing hard-ball. He could relate.

“Okay,” he said. “Deal.” He handled it from there. And faster than I would have thought possible.

By the time he met me at the emergency room of the closest hospital — Jacobi Medical Center — he’d already informed
the NYPD that the FBI would be taking over my protection. Two cops had already been murdered trying to protect me. Enough said, enough damage done.

“After you get stitched up here, another agent and I will take you back to your apartment. You’ll have a few minutes to pack a suitcase,” said Keller.

We were in a curtained-off area of the ER, waiting for one of the doctors to show up. Were it not for about a dozen butterfly bandages holding me together, I might have already bled out.

“Once I pack, where do I go?” I asked. “Sorry if I don’t entirely trust protective custody schemes.”

“We’re going to a real safe place outside the city. Trust me on this one, Nick.”

“Where’s that? The real safe place?”

“Now, if I told you, how safe would it be for the next guy?” said Keller.

“What about David Sorren?” I asked next.

“What about him?”

“Does he know you’re taking me to the Batcave? He won’t appreciate that. Sorren can play tough, too.”

Keller cracked a slight smile. It was good to know he had one. “Sorren will find out soon enough,” he said. “If there’s anybody who might be even
more
concerned about your health than us, it’s the Manhattan DA. Mr. David Sorren needs you alive to prosecute D’zorio.”

“If the devil doesn’t get him first,” came a voice on the other side of the curtain.

Sorren
.

He took one look at me as he yanked back the curtain and
immediately shook his head. “Man, when this is all over, you’re going to have a hell of a story to write.”

“I guess so.
If
this is ever over, and if I’m in any condition to write it. Not to mention, if I’m actually allowed to write about any of this.”

I shot a quick, uncomfortable glance at Keller.

Sorren promptly introduced himself to Keller. Then he asked how and why the FBI was involved, the unspoken subtext being
How and why is the FBI involved without my knowledge?

Keller didn’t skip a beat. “Bruno Torenzi,” he said.

“Who’s Torenzi?” asked Sorren. “I don’t know that name.”

“Your scalpel-wielding psychotic contract killer. He took out Vincent Marcozza, Derrick Phalen, and two cops.”

“Make that three cops,” I said. “Torenzi showed up at my building to help out Zambratta. He’s the one who shot Officer Brison.”

“This Torenzi … I’m guessing he isn’t from around here,” said Sorren.

“Originally from Sicily. But he’s worked in the States before. We were wondering where he would surface next. Now we know.”

“Do you think he’s got one more assignment?” I asked.

Sorren rubbed his chin. He knew what I was asking.
Is Torenzi coming after me?

“That might depend on what’s going on upstairs,” he answered. “D’zorio’s in surgery. He has massive internal bleeding. It’s a coin flip whether he makes it.”

“Which is why we don’t want to take any chances here
with Nick,” said Keller, peering around the curtain at the rest of the ER. He sighed impatiently. “Where the hell is that doctor?”

I was getting impatient myself.

Then suddenly my phone rang.

I GLANCED AT the caller ID expecting it to be Courtney. Or maybe my sister. Or anyone else, for that matter. I didn’t expect it to be my niece, Elizabeth.

Especially because she was calling from her Braille cell phone, which she rarely used. “Mom said I’m only supposed to use it in case of an emergency,” she had once told me.

I could hear her saying those exact words as I answered.

“Elizabeth? Is everything all right?”

“Yes,” she said.

That’s all it took. One word from my niece, the fourteen-year-old girl with the freckles who I’d first held in my arms when she was a mere two days old.

One word
.

Something was wrong. Elizabeth has never been at a loss for words. The girl was a total motormouth.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“No.”

“What’s wrong, honey? Is it your mom? What happened?”

“Can I come into the city to see you?”

I could tell, or at least sense, that she was fighting back tears. Her voice was cracking. Quivering, actually.

“Elizabeth, what happened?” I repeated.

I pressed the phone hard against my ear as I exchanged looks with Sorren and Keller. They’d been talking, not paying any attention to what I was saying. Until now. Now both of them were staring at me.
Who?
Sorren mimed.

“I got into a bad fight with Mom and I’m really upset,” said Elizabeth. “I need to talk to you. You’re the only one I can talk to.”

A fight with her mother? It was certainly within the realm of possibility, I guessed. Elizabeth was a teenager and her mother was … well, her mother. Normally they were the best of friends, but even best friends fight.

So why wasn’t I buying any of this? Probably because Elizabeth wasn’t sounding like … Elizabeth.

“Where are you now?” I asked.

“I had to get out of the house, I was so mad,” she answered. “So can I please come into the city to see you? Please, Uncle Nick.”

“Here’s the deal, honey,” I said. “Any other time I’d probably say yes, but right now is really bad for me. I can’t get into the details, but you may hear about it on the news later.” I paused to put a little extra emphasis on my next sentence. “In fact, maybe you’ve already heard about what happened to me today. Is that true?”

Elizabeth was silent for a few seconds. “No, I haven’t heard anything,” she said.

But it was what she didn’t say — she didn’t ask me what had happened.

“This is what I think you should do,” I said. “You need to go home and try to patch things up with your mom. Whatever it was you were fighting about, I’m sure you both can work it out. It’s going to be okay.”