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  Frustrated, he made a pot of coffee and continued to his study, flipping on the lights and casting the room in a warm glow. Newspapers and magazines were strewn about his desk, documents stacked in huge piles on the tables, and a half dozen large ashtrays overflowing with cigarettes. Plopping down in a worn leather chair, he grabbed a bottle of Motrin for the pounding in his head and tried to remember how much scotch he’d consumed before going to bed. Was it three glasses? Was it four? Was it more? Christ, he had to get his drinking under control.

  Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he decided to check the headlines. An award-winning producer on The Weekly Reporter—a television newsmagazine on the nation’s number one network, the Global Broadcasting System—Ethan was the consummate news junkie, never wanting to miss a big story or feel out of touch. He turned on his computer and began to read: The price of oil had climbed two dollars on the British Mercantile Exchange, threatening to drive up gasoline prices at the pump, Congress had proposed new cuts in military spending to balance the budget, and a Palestinian terrorist had blown himself to smithereens in a crowded marketplace in Jerusalem, killing twenty-seven and injuring a score more.

  They were all breaking news.

  All important.

  All his kinds of projects.

  He sighed, knowing the show would never program any of these stories, now only interested in rapes and murders and high-profile sex scams—tabloid topics he abhorred to the bottom of his heart. What had happened to real journalism? To real reporting? To his thirst to discover the truth? Was that why he was hitting the bottle so hard?

  He poured another cup of coffee and clicked on his messages.

  A dozen emails had landed in his inbox. Most were unimportant, clutter from midlevel management, but as he scrolled through the list, he noticed a message from his boss, Paul Lang, the executive producer of The Weekly Reporter. How had he missed that one? It was flagged urgent, response requested, and had been sitting in his mailbox since early the night before. Ethan took a long drag on his cigarette, angry at himself. He should have checked and answered before going to bed. He opened the message and read:

  Ethan, where are you? The senior producers and I haven’t heard from you in weeks. Not since your last story aired. I can’t run my show when my staff is AWOL. I’d like you in my office tomorrow morning at 10:00 a.m. sharp. I have a high-profile story I need you to produce. Let me know if you can make the meeting. And be there on time.

  Ethan read the message a second time. It was just like Paul to question his productivity. Ethan had been cranking out one blockbuster story after another, and there was nobody on the staff any faster. Am I in trouble? Should I shoot him a quick email and tell him I’ll be there? he thought, scratching his head. He can’t possibly be awake, not at this hour. I’ll wait and call him when I get to the office.

  He clicked off his computer and walked back to the bedroom, but decided he might wake up Sarah if he climbed into bed, so he slipped on a pair of loafers, picked up Holly’s leash, and headed out for some fresh air.

  • • • • •

  The rain had stopped falling and the sky was brightening in a kaleidoscope of colors as he climbed off the elevator and made his way through the lobby. Ethan lived on the Upper East Side of Manhattan and had spent all of his forty-four years in the same apartment on the corner of Ninety-First Street and Madison Avenue. Feeling invigorated, he waved good morning to Winston the doorman and headed out to the street. Rays of sunshine were peeking through the clouds, and pools of water sat shimmering on the sidewalk. His neighborhood felt warm and inviting, and Ethan began whistling, his headache disappearing as he strolled down Fifth Avenue and into Central Park.

  Then his cell phone rang.

  He fumbled in his coat pocket and pulled out his iPhone. “Shit, it’s Paul,” he whispered to himself, his mood darkening once again. “I should’ve returned that damn email.” After taking a deep breath, he answered, “Hello?”

  “Hi, Ethan, hold on for Paul.” It was Monica, Paul’s number one assistant. God, they were already in the office. He waited for what seemed like an eternity before Paul barked into the receiver.

  “Where the hell are you?” There was no “Good morning. How are you? What are you doing awake at this hour?”

  Ethan responded calmly, hiding the disdain in his voice. “Hi, Paul. It’s pretty early for a telephone call, don’t you think? I’m walking my dog, then heading back to my apartment and into the office. Should be there in about an hour.”

  “I sent you a message last night. Did you get it? I haven’t heard a word from you. Nothing.”

  “I just saw it. So what’s up?”

  “You know what’s up. I told you I’ve got a big story for you. Why didn’t you answer my email?”

  Ethan hesitated, trying to control his temper. “Because I didn’t read it until just a little while ago and thought it could wait.”

  “What do you mean you thought it could wait?” Paul was now yelling. “This is important. I need to know if you’re available for an assignment.”

  “Well, you’ve found me, and I’m definitely available. So what’s the story?”

  “It’s the Pavel Feodor case. It’s been front page in all the newspapers. The guy was just convicted. First-degree murder.”

  Ethan recalled seeing the headlines but had no memory of the details.

  Paul droned on. “It’s a crash, and I want you to jump on it right away. You’re not doing anything at the moment, are you?”

  “I’m in between stories,” Ethan said sharply, not backing down. “I was on the air just a couple of weeks ago, and I’ve been pitching ideas ever since. But I don’t do crime stories, Paul. You know that. Isn’t there somebody else who could produce this story?”

  “There’s nobody else,” Paul said indignantly.

  Ethan hesitated, realizing there was no way to avoid the assignment. “So what’s so special about this murder?”

  “I’m too busy to give you specifics. I’ll fill you in when I see you at the meeting, and so help me God, don’t be late.”

  He hung up the phone.

  Ethan lit another cigarette and took a deep drag. “Why are all conversations with that guy the same—short, sweet, and full of sarcasm? He’s a real piece of work,” he said to himself. “No wonder I can’t sleep at night.” He stroked Holly between the ears and started back to his apartment, his mind spinning as he tried to remember anything he might have read about the Pavel Feodor case.

  But there wasn’t much.

  In fact, there was nothing.

  • • • • •

  Sarah was standing in the foyer getting ready for work as he pushed through the door and put Holly’s leash on a table. She was dressed in a dark-gray suit, a satin shirt matching her slate-blue eyes, and open-toed high-heel shoes. A touch of makeup accented her silky smooth skin, and her long blonde hair, freshly washed and smelling of jasmine, sparkled as it flowed over her shoulders and down her back. Ethan’s heart skipped a beat. She hadn’t aged a day in ten years and was just as beautiful as the first day they’d met. He leaned over and kissed her tenderly on both cheeks. “Hey, babe, you’re off to work early this morning.”

  “I’ve got a ton of paperwork piled on my desk and a dozen impatient lawyers clamoring for my time.” She looked in the mirror, smoothing her eye shadow, then peered at his reflection in the glass. “You look pale, Ethan. Do you have another headache?” she said cautiously.

  “No. Had one when I got up, but it’s gone now.”

  “Did you drink too much last night?”

  “Not too much.”

  “How much?”

  “Come on. Not now, Sarah,” he said ruefully.

  She continued staring at his visage. “So why the long face, Ethan?”

  “I just got off the phone with Paul.”

  “At seven thirty in the morning?”

  Ethan slumped into a chair, suddenly weary from his sleepless night. “Yeah. He was pissed as u
sual and chewed me out for not answering an email.”

  “Why’d he do that?”

  “Because he says he can never find me and wants me to produce some story about some big-time murder. A guy named Pavel Feodor.”

  “You don’t do crime stories, Ethan. That’s not your thing.”

  “I know. I know. And I know nothing about this case. Do you?” he said, hoping she’d learned something about the murder at the Manhattan District Attorney’s office, where she worked as a legal assistant.

  “Pavel Feodor has been hot gossip for months,” she said, surprised. “But I didn’t work on the trial, so I don’t know much more than what was whispered in the hallways.” She blotted her lipstick on a tissue. “Tell you what. I’ll ask around and see what I can find out.”

  “That would be great,” he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose, the pounding in his head starting to flare up again.

  “You really do look awful, Ethan,” she said stonily. “What’s goin’ on?”

  “Nothing, babe. I’m just tired.”

  “I’ve heard that before. Will you be home for dinner tonight?” she said as their six-year-old raced into the foyer wearing his camp uniform and holding his baseball glove.

  “Dad, there’s a Yankee game on TV tonight. Want to watch it with me?”

  “Sure, Luke, sounds like fun.”

  “Ethan, don’t make promises you can’t keep,” she said icily as she peered at her face in the mirror one last time.

  “I’ll do the best I can, Sarah. You know that.”

  “That’s what you say now, but something always comes up and you forget about us. Let’s go, Luke. I don’t want to be late for the bus.” She smiled, blew him a kiss, and walked out the door.

  Ethan stood motionless, listening to Sarah’s high heels clicking on the floor as she made her way to the elevator, angry at himself for always putting work ahead of family. Then he lit another cigarette and headed to his study, sitting down at his desk and rebooting his computer. After running his fingers through his hair, he punched in Pavel Feodor’s name and pulled up a year’s worth of newspaper and magazine stories.

  It was time to get ready for his meeting.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE GLOBAL BROADCASTING SYSTEM was headquartered on West Fifty-Seventh Street between Broadway and Eighth Avenue. It was a huge structure, Gothic in style, built in the 1920s by a big oil conglomerate. GBS had bought the building in the late 1960s and converted it into a television network. The complex housed every division of the corporation—radio, Internet, sports, entertainment, and news—each occupying several floors. Staffed twenty-four hours a day, the broadcast center was a beehive of activity, pumping out programming, filling the airwaves.

  Ethan hopped off the bus and looked at his watch. It was just after nine. Plenty of time before his meeting with Paul. He hustled down the block and pushed his way through a revolving door and into a cavernous lobby with a marble floor, potted plants, and an oversized seating area. The receptionist was sitting behind a large desk, sporting a cheerful smile and talking to a large group of noisy tourists waiting to be escorted to a taping of one of the many talk shows on the daytime schedule.

  Ethan searched for his ID card, swiped it through an electric eye, and passed through a turnstile. Hustling down to the elevator bank, he squeezed onto a crowded car and rode up to the tenth floor, then made his way through a maze of hallways, stopping to say hello to a handful of producers before unlocking his office on the far side of the building.

  The room was big and bright with beautiful views of Central Park and the New York City skyline. Facing the door was a large oak desk sandwiched between two file cabinets stuffed with documents, video disks, and DVDs. A reclining chair sat in the corner under a floor lamp, and a large leather sofa covered with scripts and newspapers was pushed up against the wall. Sitting proudly on a credenza under the window was an Emmy Award for an investigative report Ethan had produced on political corruption in Washington—a story the show would no longer program—a relic from the past.

  Ethan sat down at his desk and opened the file folder of Pavel Feodor articles he’d downloaded in his study. As he leafed through the pages, a short, heavyset woman with mousy blonde hair and sparkling green eyes handed him a Grande Mocha from the Starbucks across the street before plopping down and making herself comfortable on the couch. Mindy Herman was an associate producer, and at twenty-five, one of the best journalists on the show. She specialized in stories about big-city crime and urban blight and knew her way around New York City’s halls of justice like a predator searching for prey.

  “Hey, what’s shaking, Ethan?”

  “I’m about to take a meeting with Paul,” he said, sipping his Grande Mocha.

  “That sounds like fun, I guess. What’s he want?”

  “To assign me a new story. Some murder involving a guy named Pavel Feodor. Know anything about it?”

  “Of course,” she said, her eyes flashing. “You haven’t been following the case?”

  “Just the headlines. Not much more.”

  “Jeez, Ethan, the network’s been all over the story for months. Don’t you watch our programming?”

  “Yeah, almost every day,” he said. “I just haven’t focused on Pavel Feodor.”

  “So you’re going to meet Paul and don’t know anything about this guy or the murder he committed.”

  “That’s the gist of it,” Ethan said, waving his folder. “I’ve skimmed through a couple of these articles but don’t have a real good feel for the crime. Can you give me a quick summary of what happened?”

  Mindy got up and moved to a swivel chair in front of his desk. She began attacking the mess around his computer, straightening documents and putting a handful of paper clips back in their box. She was almost as obsessive as Ethan—one of the big reasons they loved working together. “Come on, stop fussing. I don’t have a lot of time. Tell me about Feodor,” Ethan said impatiently.

  “You really don’t know anything about him, do you?”

  “Just bits and pieces. So who the hell is he?”

  “A real piece of work,” she said. “Busted dozens of times as a kid. Was in and out of juvenile detention.”

  “For violent crimes?”

  “He was arrested once for attempted murder but got off. And since his juvy record is sealed, only the police and the DA know for sure about that part of his life. But the tabloids make him out a real monster.”

  Ethan pulled out his iPad and started taking notes. “So what’s this case about?”

  “There was a gun battle in the middle of the night about a year and a half ago in the Meatpacking District. No eyewitnesses. The police say a small-time gang was trying to buy heroin from one of the Mexican cartels, but the deal went south. Feodor was one of the shooters. The cops found lots of bullet casings. So they know he wasn’t the only thug firing away.”

  “Hold on a second,” Ethan said, grabbing a newspaper clipping out of the folder. “I read about the drug deal. Here it is. Says the shootout took place at some wholesale meat distributer, a place called Fernelli’s Beef and Poultry.”

  “Yeah, in the parking lot behind the building.”

  Ethan continued skimming through the article. “Who got killed?”

  “A Mexican was shot dead. They found his body, but not much of his head. It was blown off. Sounds gross.” She wrinkled her nose. “The cops think some of the other shooters were wounded, but they didn’t find any other bodies and couldn’t ID the blood in any of their databases. So they aren’t sure who they are.”

  “So it’s a heroin deal and a shootout,” Ethan said, still unclear why Paul was so interested in the story. “Where does Feodor fit into all this?”

  “The cops found him at the crime scene—lying in an alley leading from the parking lot to the street. At first they thought he was dead like the Mexican. He was barely breathing and bleeding like a pig, his leg torn to shreds. I think he was in a coma for a couple of days, at least
that’s what I seem to remember reading. Oh, yeah, and he was holding a Beretta.”

  “I read about the Beretta.” Ethan flipped through another article until he found what he was looking for. “The police say it’s the murder weapon.”

  “Yeah. Feodor’s gun killed the girl.”

  “What girl? I don’t remember seeing anything about a girl.”

  “God, Ethan, how many of those articles did you read?”

  “I told you. I only had time to skim through a couple of them. So who’s the girl?”

  “Somebody who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time,” she said, leaning back in her chair and putting her hands behind her head, a sheepish grin on her face. “And you have no idea who the girl is?”

  “Nope.”

  “And you’re about to go into a meeting with the big boss.”

  “Yup. That’s why I need you to tell me what happened. So I don’t look like an idiot when I’m sitting across from Paul and any of his team of misfits who happen to be at the meeting.”

  They both laughed.

  “Okay. Okay,” Mindy said, pausing and staring at Ethan, once again serious. “The dead girl is none other than Cynthia Jameson—the nineteen-year-old daughter of New York’s deputy mayor, and this, my dear, is the reason why this is the biggest crime story of the year.”

  Ethan sat quietly, wondering how he’d missed what had certainly been front page news for months. Shit. He was definitely losing his edge. He peered at the folder, then slid it across his desk. “Since you’re the expert on Pavel Feodor, tell me which of these articles I should read before I go into the meeting.”

  Mindy picked up the file. “This Vanity Fair story has good background on Feodor, and this Time magazine article is good on the trial.” She continued shuffling through the documents. “Here, found it. This one’s the best. It’s from The New York Times Magazine. Ran a couple of Sundays ago. If you read this one first, you’ll be in good shape.”