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next five words were a complete lie. “It’s good to see you.”
    “You too, Nick,” she said. She was probably lying through those brilliantly white teeth of hers, but I couldn’t be sure. That’s how good she was.
    As Brenda and Courtney quickly exchanged air kisses and pretended they liked each other, I realized Brenda wasn’talone. With her was David Sorren, the all-powerful Manhattan district attorney, not to mention one of
People
magazine’s “25 Most Eligible Bachelors.”
    “Hi,” he said to me, not waiting for Brenda to introduce us. “I’m David Sorren.”
    “Of course you are,” I said jokingly. Jeez, he had shiny white teeth, too.
    Beyond the cover of
People,
I’d seen him on the news at least a hundred times, usually standing on the steps of the Manhattan Criminal Courthouse touting the latest conviction of some bad guy. Now, with any luck, Sorren would be a complete prick in person so I could immediately hate him.
    “And you’re Nick Daniels,” he said as we shook hands firmly. “I’m a big fan of your writing. In fact, I think you got robbed last year on the Pulitzer.”
    So much for hating the guy.
    “Well, as we runners-up say, it was an honor just to be nominated. But thanks,” I said.
    “Don’t let him fool you—he cried for three days straight,” said Courtney, chiming in with one of her patented wisecracks. She began to introduce herself, but it was another case of someone who needed no introduction.
    “Yes, hello, Courtney,” said Sorren, giving her the extra-friendly two-handed grasp direct from the Bill Clinton playbook. “I’ve been wanting to meet you for quite some time. I’m glad our paths have finally crossed.”
    Courtney wasn’t born yesterday.
    “You’re not just saying that so
Citizen
magazine will run a big puff piece on you after you announce your candidacy for mayor next week, right?” she said.
    Sorren wasn’t born yesterday, either.
    “Of course I am. Let me know if it works,” he answered with a wink. “In the meantime, congratulations on your recent engagement. Is Mr. Ferramore here?”
    “No, he’s actually traveling on business,” said Courtney. “He’s in Europe. Home next week.”
    Brenda promptly took back the reins of the conversation, another thing she was always good at.
    “So, Nick, I understand you had quite the eventful afternoon,” she said. “That must have been terrible. I’m sorry you had to see it.”
    I was about to ask how she knew I had been at Lombardo’s when I remembered that this was Brenda Evans, the dogged reporter. Her sources extended well beyond her Wall Street turf.
    “Yes. It was terrible,” I said. “I’m sorry I was there, too.” I didn’t really have anything more I wanted to add. Thankfully, Courtney saved me. She turned to Sorren and instantly made like the investigative reporter she used to be.
    “David, I’m sure you’ve heard all the speculation about Eddie Pinero being responsible for Marcozza’s murder, right?” she asked. “What’s your take on it?”
    As leading questions went, this one was a major gimme. Sorren, like a young Rudy Giuliani—albeit better looking and with a full head of thick hair straight out of a men’s shampoo commercial—had made cleaning up organized crime one of his highest priorities as Manhattan DA.
    “At this point,” said Sorren, “most of my thoughts are with the families of those two officers who were gunned down.” He paused and drew a deep breath. “That said, I can assureyou of this: We’ll nail whoever committed those murders. And if it turns out that Pinero was connected, I’ll be swinging the hammer on him myself, and I’ll be swinging it hard.”
    Whoa. Easy there, Popeye…
    I could see the veins in Sorren’s neck pop through his skin as he finished that last sentence. It was more than mere conviction. It bordered on vengeance.
    It also brought the conversation to a screeching halt. All that remained were the obligatory parting