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Russian, “I’ll keep you warm.” He held out his left hand to her. Insistently.
    Knowing it was no longer a request, she relinquished her sapphire-studded locket and took his scholar’s palm. She stepped out, a jade goddess with sunshine hair – even at night. He hooked his arm around her svelte waist and pulled her against him. “I wouldn’t want you to miss this.”
    Her breath fogged the air as he kissed her. And then he took a drag from his cig as he walked her over to their victory, surrounded on all sides by men in black, carrying guns, who tried hard not to look at her.
    Ivan relinquished the girl, and she at once resumed fingering her locket, as if she needed something to occupy her hands. He stood over the near-to-dead man who bled freely from two locations. Handsome to a fault. An exceptional athlete. One of the good guys. But Ivan wagered their souls were comparably shaded. Black. Marked for destruction.
    “Having fun yet, Detective?” he sneered. But remorse swiftly clouded. After years of trying to be rid of this stubborn cockroach, Ivan felt slightly… uncomfortable at the thought of dispensing with him in such a blasé manner. A bullet to the head would be effective. But where was the satisfaction? “What do you think, ptichka ? Burn him or drown him?”
    She set her gaze upon the bed of the Harlem. “You would burn him next to a river? Would you also drown him alongside an inferno?”
    Ivan let out a startling laugh, full-bodied, deep-throated. He grabbed her again – “That’s what I love about you.” – and stamped his lips upon her neck. Noting she was indeed frigid, he removed his jacket, gallantly, and draped it around her shoulders with a showman air.
    She didn’t acknowledge the gesture and looked elsewhere as Ivan put the cigarette in his mouth again. “Pick him up,” he commanded his men with an undercurrent of excitement. “Take him to the pier.”
     

7
    Unrelenting night-life traffic comforted the Carnegie Hill studio suite high-rise. Carter, running on fumes, sat at his kitchen table with the lamp glowing over him, rehearsing his opening statement. Normally, he liked to pace and pretend he was in front of a grand jury, but that ship had sailed at around 11:45. He yawned despite his efforts to caffeinate himself – a coffee pot sat empty in the deep ceramic sink. Nevertheless, the candle would burn until he ran out of wicker.
    Pretrial motions for a case of federal larceny were next on his track list, but no way would he get to it tonight with any degree of brainpower. However, he had his plan of attack neatly laid out in organized papers marked with red. At least that was something.
    His iPhone burred and he took note of the caller ID. Mildly appreciative of the forced respite, he picked up.
    “Hey Rick. You on duty or what?”
    “Yeah,” senior Detective Valentino replied, sounding pissed off. “Hope I didn’t disturb you.”
    Carter scoffed. “You kidding? Hear from the Feds yet? You in?”
    “No. True to fucking form, your boy didn’t give the G’s any reference at all.”
    Carter gave a disapproving frown, scribbling something on the side of his document. “I’ll talk with him.”
    “Don’t bother. But while we’re on the subject, we got a report about an abandoned BMW with Zach’s plates over in the Bronx.”
    Carter’s hand stilled, and his gut dipped. “What?”
    “I checked the Dashboard and sure enough, his Z4’s sitting outside some shipyard. I tried to contact him, but he’s not answering per usual. Thought I’d ask you first before going after his ass.”
    “Oh God.” Carter rubbed a tired hand over his face, feeling his liver start to go. He scraped his chair back and jumped to his feet. “Hang on. I’m coming.”
     
    A bull red Mustang crept slowly down the darkened road to the pier, tires crunching gravel. It stopped, backed up, and parallel parked behind a surly, black BMW Z4 with orange New York plates.
    The lights went off and the