"Whatever else you are not telling me. I will find out. Make sure you are the one who tells me first."
"Yes."
I leave.
I sitin my car outside the tower. He has put me on a clock and given me until Monday, 8:00 a.m. to decide what kind of woman walks into his office next.
I do not know yet which one I am going to be.
I close my eyes for exactly one second.
Mistake.
My brain immediately gives me Sean Donovan on his knees on my kitchen floor.
Blood on his ribs. Mouth between my thighs.
Stop being careful.
Madonna mia.
I open my eyes again.
This man is becoming a professional liability.
I drive home.
The alert comesat 4:17 a.m.
I am not asleep. I have been sitting on the floor of my closet beside the open safe, running every operational angle of what could be inside the box on Fordham Road.
Standing surveillance hook. St. Helena's Hospice, Yonkers. Margaret Voss.
EXPIRED. 1:52 A.M.
Underneath, the secondary alert.
CALL LOG OUTGOING. SEAN DONOVAN. CONFIRMED VISIT 11:00 P.M. – 1:48 A.M.
Sean was with her when she died. He has been driving south since 1:48 a.m.
He has the key. He thinks the box opens at 9.
I do the math.
If I leave now, I can park my car on Fordham by 5. Dolan opens the back door at 8:30. Out of the bank by 8:42.
Eighteen minutes ahead of him.
Eighteen minutes is enough.
Only if I do not stop.
I do not stop.
It is8:31 a.m. on a Saturday, and I am parked on Fordham Road in a Range Rover that is not registered to me.
The duplicate key is in my pocket. I lifted it from Margaret Voss's bedside drawer two weeks ago. Made the copy at a hardware store on Steinway and returned the original before she opened her eyes.
