Dear Omar: I have a new proposition for you. If you care about your son’s future, you will read every word of this note and do what it says. I know all about Junior Linford’s little hobbies. Do you know what he is up to in those clubs? I do. If you don’t want the NYPD and DEA to know too, then forgive my debt. Just call it an early holiday gift! While you’re at it, wire 50K more into my account by Christmas and I will stay quiet for good. My bank account number is below. That will finish our business forever. Bother me or fail to pay and I will tell what I know to the right people. Your son’s future is now at stake. Do not try to contact me. Just do what I say in this letter and you will never hear from me again.
I read the letter twice. It didn’t sound like the Alf I knew. Not at all. There was no signature, either. But the bank account number, typed at the bottom of the letter, was a clear lead. The NYPD could definitely check that out—make sure it really was an account controlled by Alfred Glockner. I suspected it wasn’t. And if it wasn’t, then another name would need to be added to my list of murder suspects.
My trip to Staten Island had yielded good information. I knew then that I’d made a smart decision waiting around for this letter. With the sense of a job well done, I carefully refolded the note and slipped it back into its envelope. Then I placed it into my shoulder bag and firmly zipped it closed.
I’d show the letter to Mike Quinn first. Then we could go to Detective Hong. (I still didn’t trust Franco.) I only hoped Omar was right about his son’s innocence, because I knew I couldn’t stop Hong from tipping off the narcotics division and DEA, just in case.
I took another sip from my cooling cup and turned my thoughts to Shelly Glockner. Frankly, she struck me as likely a suspect for murdering Alf as Omar Linford. Her husband’s life insurance policy was an obvious motive—though I couldn’t imagine she would have pulled the trigger on Alf herself. No, for that, someone like Shelly would have used an accomplice—
My mind was so preoccupied with puzzling out the possibilities that I barely registered the clanging steps crossing the deck behind me. Before I could fully turn around, I felt a jolt at my shoulder. Someone had snatched my shoulder bag!
As if in slow motion, I saw my cup of cocoa tumbling from my gloved hands into the churning waters below. Then I followed it—but not of my own accord.
Strong hands lifted me like a sack of green coffee and tossed me right over the rail! The sunny harbor blurred for a moment; then I struck the churning waves. Frozen concrete would have been softer.
The ferry’s roiling wake began spinning me literally heels over head. My nose, ears, and mouth filled with freezing water. The cold was mind numbing, but I was so angry I used my rage to fight against the shock of it.
Don’t panic, Clare! You’re a good swimmer! Don’t panic!
But I couldn’t even tell which way was up. The water was dark and murky, and I was still spinning! I was running out of air, too. I had to do something—
My coat!
The long, thick material was heavy with salt water and already half off. I ripped it free, letting it go. Feeling more than seeing, I noted which way the garment began to sink.
If that way is down, then this way must be up!
I kicked out immediately, shedding my blazer and slacks as I swam, giving my limbs the least possible drag as I propelled myself upward.
Light! I can see light!
I needed air. My lungs were burning so badly that I was ready to give in to the impulse and breathe in water. But I knew it would be the end of me, as good as giving up. So I fixed my gaze on that flickering sunlight above me, pictured the Mother of Exiles holding her golden torch, and stepped up my struggles.
Breaking the surface, I gasped and sputtered, then stared in horror at the vast field of choppy blue waves. The ferry was gone! With hardly any commuters on board, no one had noticed I’d been tossed over the side!
Desperately treading water, I cast about, wondering which way to swim. The cold was excruciating—like a thousand icicles stabbing every pore in my body. Already the bone-deep chill was stiffening my muscles, making it hard to breathe, harder to stay afloat.
No, dammit! I’m not going to die like this!
I thought of my daughter and fought harder to stay conscious, tread water, stay alive. That’s when I saw the orange tug and the fireboat! The two vessels had been sailing just behind the ferry!
“Help!” I shouted, the weak sound seemed lost in the splash of waves, the cries of circling gulls.
I yelled again and choked on a wash of briny liquid. I knew I was mere minutes—if not seconds—from freezing to death or drowning. That’s when I heard the tug’s loud horn, male voices shouting—
“To the starboard, Sean!”
“Donnie, toss me that hook!”
“Get a safety line around her!”
“No time, Connor. She’s about done. I’m going in!”
I felt the rumble of an engine in the water, smelled diesel fumes. Something big, heavy, and canary yellow hit the water beside me. The splash itself almost sent me under again. Then strong arms closed around my numbed, nearly naked body.
“I got you, honey,” a deep voice promised in my ear.
I lifted my face to find a strapping man holding me, his big, reassuring grin wide under a prominent nose and bushy dark eyebrows. “Don’t pass out on me now! Hang on!”
I tried to speak, but shivers overwhelmed me and my teeth were chattering like a dentist’s wind-up toy.
“Haul her up! Come on, quick! Her lips are turnin’ blue!”
I think I blacked out at that point because the next thing I felt was a cold steel deck behind my back and bare legs. My camisole was soaked and half torn off, my lace bra leaving very little to the men’s imaginations. I tried to speak, but strong, warm hands were pushing down on my diaphragm—hard enough to force salty water up my throat and out.
Gagging and sputtering, I finally realized that half a dozen burly firemen were standing around me, all in bright yellow FDNY life jackets.
“You’re okay, ma’am. Let’s get you warm.”
As I sat up, a number of large hands wrapped thick blankets around me.
“Is there anyone we can contact for you?” asked one of the firemen.
“M-m-m-mike,” I stammered. “Mike Quinn. He works at the—”
“I know Big Mike!” The dark-haired man who’d jumped into the water to save me patted my shoulder. “I’ll put in a call. What’s your name?”
I told him, my voice weak as I pulled the blankets closer around me. The deck was so cold! I tried to rise but stumbled. Several firemen instantly came to my aid. One simply hoisted me up and carried me inside the fireboat. The cabin was warm, and the man placed me on an aluminum-framed canvas stretcher and piled on another blanket, which I appreciated, even if I couldn’t thank him.
I was shivering so hard now I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t see straight, either, but I think that was because my eyes were still stinging from the salt water. A new blanket was tossed over me, this one electric. The warmth felt delicious, like a fortifying drink I could gulp and swallow.
A few minutes later, I was starting to feel better and began to sit up. The dark-haired fireman who’d pulled me out of the water had been watching over me close by. He quickly returned to my side in sweats and a T-shirt, a towel around his neck, and handed me a cup of strong tea.
“No need to worry, pretty lady. You’ll be okay. You said your name’s Clare Cosi?”
“Clare,” I repeated.
“I’m Sean. I just talked to Big Mike, personally. He’ll be at the FDNY dock when we pull in.”