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Next thing I knew, I was hot on the trail of a guy a lot like Balagula, and everything was going my way. Witnesses were coming out of the woodwork to sign depositions. Everything was falling into place for what was going to be the exposé of the century. The biggest story since Watergate.”
    “And that didn’t ring any bells with you?”
    “I was so full of myself, it seemed like it was my destiny.”
    She nodded. “I remember the feeling,” she said sadly. “I was absolutely certain that nobody could get to my jury.” She sat and watched as he rolled his glass between the palms of his hands. Finally she asked, “Why is it newspapers have trouble printing your name without the word reclusive as part of the package?”
    “I’ve had my fifteen minutes. It’s somebody else’s turn.”
    Corso downed the rest of his beer. The cold liquid did nothing to stem the dryness of his throat.
    “I gotta go,” he said. “Time and deadlines wait for no man.” He reached into his pocket, but she waved him off. “I’ve got it covered,” she said, with a smile. “Look at it as your tax dollars at work.”
    “Thanks,” Corso offered. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
    He got to his feet and retrieved his coat from the rack by the door. He could feel her eyes moving over him like ants as he shrugged his way into the coat and stepped out through the stained-glass doors.
    Outside, the promise of rain had been kept. Huge silver raindrops exploded on impact with the asphalt. Cars sloshed down Fifth Avenue, swept along inside silver canopies of mist. Corso pulled the coat tight around his neck and began walking uphill.

6
    Tuesday, October 17
    4:13 p.m.
    H alf his index finger was missing. Water dripped from the squared-off tip as he pointed toward the far end of the lot at a pair of buildings, barely visible through the rain.
    Fifty-something with a narrow face that hadn’t seen a razor in a week, he wore rubber boots and a sewer suit, the ensemble topped off by a drooping army camouflage hat.
    “Building on the right!” he shouted above the din. “Name’s Ball, Joe Ball. He’s the foreman. If anybody can help you, he’s the guy.”
    “Thanks!” Meg Dougherty yelled out the car window.
    When he nodded you’re-welcome a river ran from the brim of his floppy hat, splashing down onto the ground at his feet. He shook his head.
    “Been around here twenty years!” he shouted. “Don’t ever remember it raining any more than lately.”
    “Me neither.” Shattered raindrops wet Dougherty’s left cheek. She had her finger on the window handle but hesitated.
    “Not this hard, this long!”
    “It’s almost biblical,” she agreed.
    He smiled, revealing a set of tombstone teeth, tilted and oddly spaced along his gums.
    “That’s what my old woman says,” he said. “Says the Day of Judgment is at hand. Says we’re all gonna pay for our sins this time around.”
    “I sure hope not,” was all she could come up with.
    He showed his teeth again. “You and me both, lady,” he said. He turned and walked to a battered Chevy pickup, where he offered a final wave and climbed in.
    Dougherty rolled up the window, pulled the shift into drive, and started bouncing down the gravel track toward the buildings in the distance.
    The raindrops were huge, pounding the little car’s sheet metal as she drove the quarter mile. The flailing wipers barely broke even. From fifty yards, she could finally make out the buildings. A pair of old-fashioned Quonset huts, EVERGREEN EQUIPMENT painted on the front of each. A black sign on the door of the right-hand building read OFFICE . NO ADMITTANCE .
    Dougherty parked the Toyota parallel to the front of the building, as close to the office door as possible. She shut off the engine, pulled the hood of her cape over her head, and then sat for a moment, working up the courage to step out into the torrent. With a sigh, she elbowed the door open, stepped out, and made a dash for the office.
    The office