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in an uproar with me,” the cop said. “But I’m not holding the bag if that oiler falls off the fucking
     terrace. You don’t believe me, go look yourself. Walking tightrope on the rail, whatever the fuck he’s doing out there.”
    “I don’t have to look,” Gregory said, shutting his notebook and slipping it into his jacket pocket. Anthony Ryan had told
     Danny that Gregory had a special little pocket sewn into all his suit jackets, to hold his shield. It was something he’d learned
     from the Mob guys, who had the pocket made for their cigarettes.
    “I know exactly what he’s doing,” Gregory said. “He’s walking in the victim’s shoes; reconstructing her last acts, trying
     to get inside her head. It’s called detective work, hoople. And the fact you didn’t know that illuminates the reason why he’s
     a first-grade detective and you’re up here guarding furniture.”
    “Hey, the man is placing himself in a dangerous position. Consider yourself duly notified. I wash my hands of this matter.”
    Gregory mumbled something, then turned to Danny, his face crimson. “We got an appointment. We’ll continue this later.”
    He walked to the terrace door. But he didn’t step outside.
    “Hey, Spiderman,” he said. “Get your shoes on and let’s get going. We have to meet the Stones. I don’t want to keep those
     people waiting.”
    “Now?” Ryan said as he stepped out of the sunlight. Gregory didn’t answer him. Ryan’s hair was windblown, his pupils dilated,
     as he stepped into the darkened apartment, giving him an oddly confused look. “What time are we supposed to be there?” he
     said.
    Again Gregory didn’t answer; this time he was too busy sneezing.
    “How many is that?” Ryan said.
    “I lost count,” Gregory said, still clutching Gillian’s shirt. The sketch of the dark-eyed waif Cosette stared out from under
     his meaty fist. “I’ll complete the sneeze cycle in the car.”
    “Where are you meeting them?” Danny asked.
    “At a prearranged location,” Gregory said.
    “Am I going with you?” Danny said.
    “
You’re
going wherever you go,” Gregory said. “Not with us.”
    “Which hotel are they staying in?” Danny said, looking directly at his uncle. “Might as well tell me. I can find out through
     other sources.”
    “Then that’s how you should do it,” Gregory said.

6
    D anny Eumont strode furiously up Ninth Avenue, crossing streets against moving traffic, banging into everything and everyone
     in his path. Curses and car horns littered his wake. Fuck Joe Gregory, he thought. He’d tried to make him look foolish, ambushed
     him, let him say his piece, and then sprung information he’d held back. Like he was Mike fucking Wallace.
    How the hell was Danny supposed to know Gillian was in costume? And that understudy shit, what was that all about? Gillian
     would have told him if she was the understudy for the lead role. Was Gregory too stupid to see that? Trey Winters was selling
     a bogus story, painting Gillian as some out-of-control junkie, trying to make himself look like the good guy. It was too late,
     too obvious. Gregory may have bought into it, but not him. Danny wasn’t going to let Trey Winters skate on this. The hell
     with Gregory, he’d write this story. He owed it to Gillian.
    When he arrived at his apartment, the fresh baguette he’d picked up at the baker was still warm, but in two pieces from Danny
     squeezing it in the center. He tossed it on the kitchen counter and snapped on his computer. Then he put his baby to bed for
     a short nap. His baby was a 525-page manuscript, his first novel, one he’d been working on since college. It was an NYPD story
     about a renegade gang of brutal cops.
    He dropped the novel into a fireproof box in the closet, then he called his mother. His mother would never forgive him if
     she had to hear this news from Aunt Leigh first. He’d call so she’d be able to say those all-important words: “I already