“What do you want?”
“You know what I want, Nick. Because you have it. Where’s the flash drive?”
Jesus Christ. In the chaos, the confusion, and the Vicodin, I’d forgotten about that. Clearly, LaGrange hadn’t. But how did he even know it existed? And what was with the knife at my throat?
“What are you talking about?” I asked him. “What flash drive?”
“You stupid bastard, don’t even try,” he snapped. “I know you had it.”
LaGrange twisted the tip of the blade slightly. More blood started running down my neck. Vicodin or no Vicodin, it hurt to get stuck in the throat.
“You’re right, I did have the flash drive,” I said. “D’zorio took it away from me before I got a chance to see what was on it. I don’t have it anymore.”
LaGrange squinted, sizing me up. He was trying to decide if I was telling the truth. And I guess he decided that I was.
“In that case, what good are you?” he asked, snatching the pillow from behind my head. The pillow? You’re kidding me…
He wasn’t – not one bit. He slammed it over my face, forcing the enormous weight of his upper body against my nose and mouth. I couldn’t breathe. That was the idea, of course.
The more I struggled, the harder LaGrange pressed, all three hundred pounds of the bastard. No air was coming in. Whatever was left in my lungs was spilling out of me like life itself. I was losing consciousness in a hurry.
There was nothing I could do this time; I was definitely suffocating to death.
I didn’t see what happened next, but I sure heard it. Someone came bursting through the door of my room. Not a word was spoken, but a gunshot was fired.
Ian LaGrange fell to the ground with a horrendous thud. He even took the pillow with him, and as I blinked my eyes into focus and breathed the sweetest batch of air I’d ever known, I got to see who had pulled the trigger.
Not the cop who had been stationed outside the door.
Not Doug Keller of the FBI, either.
Chapter 105
“THIS GUY SHOULD be fitted for a cape!” raved the New York Post. David Sorren’s timing remained just about perfect two days later as he walked up to a podium on the top step of the Manhattan Criminal Courthouse and, with the sunlight of a beautiful day beaming down on him, looked out at a huge, enthusiastic crowd and announced his candidacy for mayor of New York.
By then, anyone with a pulse had either read or heard the story of how he had come back to my hospital room because he’d forgotten his jacket. That’s when he’d seen the cop on duty slumped in the hallway. Sorren had grabbed the gun from the cop’s holster, bursting into my room.
Needless to say, he had my vote come November, Republican or not.
Courtney’s, too, although she remained a tad suspect of Sorren’s judgment given his involvement with Brenda Evans.
“I mean, she can’t be that good in bed,” she quipped, standing next to me as we watched Sorren wrap up his announcement to a chorus of cheers. Courtney glanced to see if I’d take the bait and comment on my firsthand knowledge of the subject.
Instead, I just laughed. Hey, I was feeling pretty terrific. Why not – Courtney and I were holding hands again. Corny? Maybe. But who cares when you’re in love?
“So what’s the big news you weren’t ready to tell me?” I asked, changing the subject.
“I knew you’d ask, Nick,” she said, reaching into her handbag. She handed me a press release. “Courtney Sheppard named editor in chief of New York magazine,” read the headline.
“Wow,” I said. “Congratulations. That is great.”
“Right back atcha,” she said. “Have you met my new executive editor? Cute guy, very talented. Great kisser.”
“Really? Do I know him?”
She playfully punched my arm and I grabbed hers in return, pulling her close. “Great kisser, huh?” I said before planting one on her. And right there in the middle of the roaring crowd we made out like a couple of teenagers.
“Does that mean you’ll take the job?” she asked as we came up for air.
“Absolutely not,” I said.
Courtney rolled those beautiful blue eyes of hers. “Why not, Nick? Because you don’t think we can work and sleep together?”
“No, that’s not it at all. I’m just not the executive editor type. I write stories, that’s what I do – and the kind I write you can’t find sitting in a corner office.”
Courtney smiled and I knew she understood, which warmed the cockles of my heart. “All right. I guess I’ll just have to lower my standards and sleep with a regular staff writer instead.”
“Correction, missy. Your highest-paid staff writer.”
“We’ll see about that, Nick. Just remember, I didn’t get to be editor in chief for nothing.”
We were about to kiss again when we both realized that someone was suddenly standing next to us. Speak of the devil – it was none other than Brenda.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she said, coming very close to blushing. I didn’t know she had it in her. “I saw you both here. I wanted to give Nick something.”
She handed me a slender rectangular box – gift wrapped, with a red bow on top.
“What’s this?” I asked, genuinely surprised.
“A make-good,” she said. “Something I’ve owed you.”
I was about to open it when she stopped me. “No, not here,” she said. “Open it later, Nick. And Courtney – good luck with this one. He’s actually a pretty decent guy.”
With that, she turned and walked away. No good-bye or anything. I didn’t even have a chance to say thank you.
“Decent guy”? All right, I could live with that. I think she even meant it.
A LITTLE MORE than a week passed. I was on my first assignment for New York magazine, and it was definitely cover material.
“Thanks for doing this, David,” I said. “This will be a great story – I promise you.”
Sorren leaned back in the chair behind his desk. We were in his office downtown at One Hogan Place and David was a man clearly at peace with himself.
“Are you kidding? Thank you,” he said. “I know being pushy is the first rule of politics, but given everything you’ve been through, the last thing you needed was my hitting you up for an article so fast. I didn’t want to exploit our friendship that way.”
“No problem at all. It’s the least I could do. After all, you did save my life.”
“Just dumb luck,” he said with an aw-shucks wave. “Of course, that’s the second rule of politics, isn’t it? Dumb luck.”
“It’s pretty high up there for journalism, too.”
“That’s you and me, a couple of lucky guys. If we’re not careful, we may wind up getting everything we want in life,” he said with a wink.
I reached for my beat-up leather bag on the floor, pulling it up to my lap. “Let’s get started, then, okay?”
“Sure thing,” Sorren said. “By the way, what did Courtney say when you proposed this article? I mean, it’s her first issue at New York. She have any doubts?”
“Doubts? Are you kidding me? I haven’t written a word yet and she’s already guaranteed us the cover.”
Sorren smiled widely as I pulled out a notepad. It was followed by my tape recorder. Immediately, his smile soured.
“Shit, Nick, I’m sorry. I should’ve said something on the phone when you called. I’ve got no problem with your taking notes but I can’t let you record me. It’s policy here in the DA’s office,” he explained. “Of course, the mayor’s office has no such policy.”
“That’s okay,” I said, placing the recorder on his desk. “Actually, this isn’t to record you. I wanted to play you something. If I may? That okay?”
“Sure,” said Sorren. “What is it?”
I hit the play button and turned up the volume. I didn’t want Sorren to miss a single word of Ian LaGrange’s voice.