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lay New York’s version of an urban backyard. I already knew because I had one of my own.
    “Sometimes I feel like I’m just treading water and trying to minimize whatever loss I can. The problem is that I’m not making any headway,” I groused.
    What I didn’t say was that deep down, I was bone-tired of constantly fighting, and worried that my fire was beginning to die out.
    Santou was wise enough to not say a word. Instead, he continued to hold me close, and I knew that he had unspoken worries of his own.
    What gnawed at me was being stuck in an office where I was viewed as nothing more than window dressing. How was I supposed to develop cases when I felt so trapped?
    My foot struck something hard and I tripped, nearly falling flat on my face. It was Santou’s steadying arm that saved me. I examined the offending item with my toe. It was a tree root that had pushed its way up through the snow and ice from beneath the pavement. The message couldn’t have been clearer. Adapt and thrive. Otherwise, leave or die. There was simply no other choice.

Four
    J ake and I headed out together early the next morning. I made my way toward the parking garage while he took Spam for a walk. I stopped at a nearby newsstand and bought the daily paper. There it was in bold, black letters strewn across the front page. The headline blared, BITSY VON FALKEN FOUND DEAD IN ABANDONED JERSEY LOT .
    Just terrific, I thought.
    I quickly read the article. Sure enough, Magda was mentioned, though not by name. Instead, the piece revealed there was a possible eyewitness who owned a luncheonette truck at the port. That should make it easy enough for any wily predator to hunt her down.
    Idiots, I fumed while climbing into the Trailblazer.
    I was still cursing to myself as I parked in front of Kossar’s Bialys and picked up a bag of fresh bagels. I’d become spoiled since returning to New York. These weren’t the sad lumps I’d gotten used to while away; the out-of-town imposters baked with blueberries and sun-dried tomatoes, among other offenses. Rather, they were honest-to-goodness firm-on-the-outside, chewy-on-the-inside New York bagels topped with sesame, poppy seeds, garlic, and salt, just asGod had intended. I stashed the bag inside my Trailblazer and took off.
    I drove as quickly as possible through the Holland Tunnel, all the while watching to make certain that tiles didn’t pop off. I safely emerged into a different world.
    Industrial New Jersey lay spread out before me. I sped past abandoned factories, their windows covered with sheet metal like pennies on a dead man’s eyes. It made me think back once more to what Magda had told me. The image was now permanently seared into my brain. What kind of maniac would have sewn Bitsy von Falken’s eyelids and mouth shut? I couldn’t stop shivering, though the heat in the vehicle was turned up full blast.
    I tried to occupy my thoughts with the view in front of me. No problem there. I found plenty to look at. New Jersey has the densest railroad and highway system in the country. But that’s not where it stops. The state also contains 108 toxic waste dumps.
    A flock of seagulls flew over one now, and I wondered if Jonathon Livingston ever realized that he was hovering above a strip of oil refineries. It’s earned the area an apt nickname: “Oilfield U.S.A.,” boasting the largest petroleum containment system outside of the Middle East.
    But this section of New Jersey has gained additional fame. Terrorism experts recently dubbed the stretch between Newark Airport and the Seaport to be the most dangerous two miles in America. The strip is a chemical juggernaut possessing more than a hundred potential targets. Among them are chlorine gas processing plants. An attack on one could be lethal to twelve million people within a fourteen-mile radius.
    I approached Newark. Its disjointed skyline resembled amouthful of jagged teeth. My own choppers were tightly on edge as I continued to think about