Lower Manhattan, 1977

Wednesday, July 13, 9:16 pm

Francesco DiMaso steered his old, blue Ford LTD down 5th Avenue in the waning evening light, woefully unaware he was about to have his ticket punched in less than seven minutes—six, if traffic was good.

He turned onto 8th Street, barely noticing the scantily clad mobs of people roaming the streets, everyone trying to escape the brutal heatwave holding the city hostage, their laughter mixing with noise from bars flashing colorful neon signs, and the growl of pulsating traffic.

Thick, muggy air pushed in through the car’s open window, carrying the stench from rotting garbage bags lining the streets, and exhaust fumes pushing through gullies. He caught a glimpse of his bruised face in the rearview mirror, sweat trickling down his busted left brow. The Door’s “Riders on the Storm” played softly on the car’s radio, ironically fitting, considering recent events. His conscience was heavy with lies he’d told Julie, his pregnant wife, to keep her from worrying.

But his hadn’t been the worst. Disappointment, anger, and dread tightened his chest and twisted his insides.

He glanced at the passenger seat, where his four-year-old son, Franco, sat crumpled in a pile on the dull, tan leather, dead to the world.

From somewhere deep within, a faint smile pushed through. Julie would kill him if she knew about all the junk he’d let him eat, not to mention riding shotgun. But today he couldn’t refuse his kid a single wish. Today, he wasn’t a cop, just Frank, father of soon to be two, trying his damndest to spend a few hours without a care in the world.

Tomorrow all secrets would end, whatever the consequences. It would break his family, the only way for the healing to begin.

He stopped at a red light and ran a hand through his son’s tousled, blond hair, envied his innocence. He’d done his best to protect him from the evil in the world and teach him right from wrong.

By the time he turned onto Mulberry Street, he’d left the crowds behind, and barely spotted a soul. He found an open space under a bright street lamp, half a block from home, and switched off the engine. He sat and rubbed his eyes. Little Franco’s soft, even breathing and a TV blaring somewhere in the distance were the only sounds in the dusky neighborhood. After catching all of six hours of sleep over the last two days, exhaustion took over, and all Frank wanted was to lie down and tune out the world.

He exited the car, made his way to the passenger side, and opened the door. He leaned over to pick up his son when the first bullet hit him in the lower back. The crack of the gun registered before shock and pain did. He jerked hard, his body twisting around, then two more bullets tore into his chest. His legs gave out and he crashed to the ground, banging his head. Everything turned black.

Wedged between the Ford’s cabin and its open door, the possibility of death never occurred to him. He was too busy processing his situation and trying to regain control of this temporary setback.

A hooded man kneeling over him roughly searched his pockets, panting hard. His intense body odor made Frank think bum or junkie. But at such close proximity a perfectly executed head butt or knee jerk to the nuts would send his attacker flying.

In theory, anyway, because his arms and legs pushed feebly at the ground in weak, uncoordinated slow-motion. Panic gripped him. Why couldn’t he move?

The backup gun strapped to his ankle miles away, he could no longer deny a serious disadvantage. The bright street lamp above stung his eyes, preventing him from seeing the junkie’s face. His attempt to reason with the man ended in wet grunts. A coppery taste filled his mouth and warm streaks dribbled down his chin.

Frank shifted his stinging eyes until they fell on a pair of unmoving, skinny white legs with tiny feet in brown leather sandals, resting on the car’s seat. The robber choked out sobs, muttering to himself, and Frank felt his head lifting as the man pulled on his golden necklace with the cross. The chain snapped and the back of his skull slammed against the passenger door. Everything around him slowed down.

Tufts of blond hair emerged over the seat’s edge as his boy leaned forward, hair disheveled, eyes wide, his tiny mouth hanging open.

Sit still, don’t say a word.

The warning remained trapped in Frank’s mind, the words glued to his tongue. He strained his blurring vision, but the image of his son grew dimmer, the sky darker. The street lamp shining on his face caved in on itself, the sobbing above him ceased, and weight lifted off his chest. Retreating footsteps and squealing car tires echoed, but he never took his eyes off Franco, never gave up hope. Ninety-seven seconds after the first bullet hit, his heartbeat stopped.

Down the street a radio blared through a window, and through another up the block a couple argued heatedly over the wails of an infant. Minutes ticked away, then the street lamp above the Ford fizzled out with a buzzing sound.

The boy’s breath caught in his throat and his body stiffened, his small fingers clutched the edge of the seat. Like a rolling wave, every light and electronic appliance in the neighborhood ceased to function, and a blanket of darkness descended over Manhattan. In one heartbeat the city fell eerily silent. Then all hell broke loose.

Manhattan, 2016

Chapter One

Friday, July 22, 12:09 am

Franco couldn’t deny it any longer. This had been a mistake. “I’m sorry...hold on a second,” he said, gripping the rooftop’s metal railing to keep his balance, his blue gym shorts around his ankles. All around him low hanging pinkish clouds held back SoHo’s city lights, dousing the neighborhood in a muted glow.

The half-naked man behind him grunted and stepped back. “Dude, this isn’t working for me.”

Franco detected frustration in his voice, but found it hard to care. Wiping sweat from his forehead, he scratched the blond stubble on his cheek, his naked skin damp from the sultry air. “Sorry, I...need a moment. I don’t feel so hot,” he said over his shoulder, straightening up. He spat on the ground, but the strange metallic taste lingered in his dry mouth. He swayed and saw double. “What the hell was in that thing?”

He got no answer and glanced at his bare chested hunk of a date standing there, zipping up.

Okay, considering this had barely taken ten minutes, date was probably grossly overstated. Franco eyed the ripped, olive-skinned stud who went by Pitcher9 on the MeatUp app, but whose real name he’d already forgotten. Pressed, he’d go with Hey since that was as intimate an introduction the situation warranted. A fading, crudely drawn mermaid tattoo on the man’s left oblique, possibly a blast from his youthful past, only increased his bad boy vibe.

“You’re not used to smoking weed is all,” Pitcher said with an edge to his tone. “Tense as you are, you needed it...not that it made a difference.”

Seriously, criticism from the guy playing whack-a-hole for the past ten minutes? Vampires were staked with more finesse. Franco bit his tongue and massaged his throbbing temples. He’d only experienced weed once, years ago, to a surprisingly aphrodisiacal effect; tonight, not so much.

He pulled up his shorts, the motion oddly uncoordinated and detached. Five stories below, Wooster Street turned into pieces in a kaleidoscope. He shut his eyes, his throat burning from the nasty coughing fit earlier, and spat again. “I’m sorry, but this didn’t taste like anything I’ve ever—”

“You gotta learn to loosen up a bit, daddy. It’s all good.”

Franco stiffened and clenched his teeth. All right, his face sported a fair amount of wrinkles, and his short, dirty-blond hair had thinned at the temples—he was a forty-three-year-old photographer slash waiter slash bartender still waiting for his big break—but he’d never been more popular, thank you very much. Besides, this prick was, what, four, five years his junior? Fuck him.

He snatched his black tank top off the ground and almost tipped over. Pulling it over his head in an awkward motion, he noticed light inside an apartment on the fourth floor across the street. The brownstone was still undergoing renovations, but recently a few tenants had moved into the grossly overpriced studios and one-bedroom units.

He began turning away when two shapes stumbled into view, slamming into the window with such force he heard a heavy thump. A pair of blinds were nearly ripped from the sill as the two men grappled with one another, their bodies writhing, twisting, and tripping backwards into the room. The one with shoulder-length, dark hair had the other guy’s neck in a tight chokehold, clamping one hand over his nose and mouth. The victim bucked wildly, clawing at the arm around his throat. The whole scene was a blurry melee of heads and limbs until a sharp jerking motion froze everything for a second. Then both men slumped forward and disappeared from view. Franco inhaled sharply and reeled back. “Shit, did you see that?” Adrenaline rushed through him as he spun around. Everything tumbled out of focus and he steadied himself against the railing. “He’s killing that guy.” Pitcher was crouched on the ground, tying his sneaker. “What?”
Franco grabbed him by the arm and pulled him up, pointing at the window.

The apartment lay in total darkness.
Pitcher shook loose. “Fuck are you talking about? You trippin’?” “I...where’d they go? I’m serious, he killed that guy. We gotta do...” Why did his tongue feel so heavy? He turned back to the building across the way. A figure stood at the window, staring straight at him.
“Oh, shit.” Franco flinched hard, bumping into Pitcher. “Over there, see him now?”
Busted blinds hung lopsided in an otherwise dark and empty window. “Seriously, dude, chill the fuck out,” Pitcher said with a low growl. “If you can’t handle drugs, don’t do them.”
“I swear...I’m not making this up.” Franco’s voice sounded tinny in his ears. With fingers like putty he fumbled for the iPhone in the pocket of his shorts, but it slipped from his grasp and clattered against the ground. “Shit. We gotta...call the cops, or something...he needs help.” And a hearse, most likely.

“There’s nothing there, all right? You’re high as a kite and you wanna call the cops? Good luck with that.”

Franco picked up his phone, his perception skewed, like he wasn’t inside his skin. He stared at the building across the street, then at the pavement five stories below. Blinked. Climbing over the guardrail would get him to the street the fastest, with time being of the essence, and all. He stood and stared, thoughts in his brain splitting like atoms, until a surprisingly insistent internal voice pushed through, and convinced him taking the stairs would be more beneficial to his health in the long run.

He sighed, turned around, and opened his mouth. Weird. Hadn’t someone just been there moments ago? And why was his mouth open?

Oh right, help. Someone needed...

Gently, an invisible wave washed over him, like sliding under the water surface in a bathtub and gazing at it from below. He entered another dimension, his legs on autopilot.

Chapter Two

“Sir, are you all right?”
Franco woke with a start to a firm hand shaking his shoulder.

Confused, his stomach churning, he blinked at red and blue lights bouncing across the cobblestoned street. His left temple throbbed painfully, and a hard surface pressed against his back and the palm of his hands. He glanced down.

Why the hell was he sitting on the sidewalk, propped up against the wall of the flower shop in his building in nothing but skimpy gym shorts, a tank top, and flip-flops? He raised his head in slow motion at the uniformed police officer looming over him. Asian guy, maybe early thirties, his eyes pinched, the face with the huge green fro warping in and out of focus. Oh, wait, not a fro, just the maple tree growing outside The Green Thumb.

“Are you all right, sir?” the police officer repeated more forcefully, his tone more suspicious than concerned. Franco didn’t blame him, he had a few questions himself...maybe once the spinning stopped. He realized his mouth was hanging open, and he closed it, feeling self-conscious. Some fifteen feet away another officer stood next to a white and blue patrol car, talking to someone over a cackling radio.

“Yes, I am...okay,” Franco said through a mouth like cotton, a bitter taste biting the back of his throat. He caught a whiff of urine and checked himself, relieved not to find himself sitting in a puddle. Hopefully, just the lingering scent from the wall’s encounter with a territorial dog.

Another patrol car pulled up behind the first one and two more uniformed officers got out, joining the one talking on the radio.

“Are you hurt?” the cop asked, and Franco pushed himself up, his thighs burning like he’d run a marathon. His vision rippled, his entire left side throbbed, and a sharp sting shot up his left elbow. He pressed his lips together and winced.

“Sir?” The officer, whose name tag read HAHN, sounded impatient, staring at him expectantly.

“I’m...fine,” Franco said with a strained half-smile, feeling like shit. “Did you call 911?”
“Um, what?”
“911, did you report an assault?”

The hair on Franco’s arms bristled. The brutal attack, the stranger’s face in the window...the botched, random midnight hookup.

“Yes...I called.” Not about the last thing, though.

His pulse quickened, and a chill prickled his damp skin. “Please hurry, someone murdered a guy up there.”

“Name?”
How the hell should he know, he’d never met—oh...
“Franco...DiMaso.” Pointing at the building across the street to a spot several flights up, it took every effort to push the words from his mouth. “He’s on the fourth floor...second window from the left.”

Apart from dull amber light pushing through curtains of a second-story window, the building lay in darkness. Goosebumps sprouted on his arms, and Franco rubbed them vigorously.

Jesus fucking Christ, he’d witnessed a murder. How could he pass out on the street? How late was it? He squeezed his eyes shut to focus, but words and scenes tumbled through his brain like balls in a gravity pick lottery machine—every time he thought he recognized a number in the dancing, white flurry, it spit out a different one.

An Emergency Service Unit vehicle rolled up and Hahn said, “Wait here.” He joined his colleagues and Franco’s eyes slowly traveled up his apartment building’s facade, a contemporary, eggshell colored walk-up.

The dense clouds from earlier had lifted, turning the night several shades darker. He stared past lights from his landlords’ apartment to the rooftop where he’d been standing only moments ago. He had been standing there moments ago, right? Yeah, sure, with the smoking hot...prick.

What happened to Pitcher, or whatever the hell his name was? One moment he’d been right next to him on the roof, berating him, something about drugs and kites and cops, and then...nada, one big blank.

He craned his neck, but couldn’t see him anywhere. Franco rubbed his temple and squeezed his eyes shut as a thousand needles skewered his skull. What the hell had they smoked?

He’d meant to say no when Pitcher shoved the fat doobie in his face. But then his friend Gino’s voice popped into his head, taunting, “Merda! Stop being so damn boring and live a little,” perfectly underscored by the 80s hit “Try it Out.” And he thought, hell, if disco compelled him to do it, what could possibly go wrong?

Yeah, well...

Talking with his colleagues, Officer Hahn pointed at him, and Franco heard the words asleep and loopy. He crossed his arms over his chest, puzzled at the unexpected pain. He couldn’t say why, but something told him to play it cool and resist the urge to rub his throbbing side.

The poor dead guy took precedence. Besides, wasn’t like he could explain his discomfort...or shake the feeling he’d screwed up, somehow. His chest tightened.

Three of the cops made their way to the building across the street with flashlights jaggedly painting the path before them. Hahn blocked his view.

“Mr. DiMaso, got an ID on you?”
“Upstairs.” Could Hahn smell the weed on him? He resisted the urge to take a step back, but apparently only barely.
Hahn’s forehead pinched together. “You okay?”
“Um, yeah, sure, why?” Too loud and clipped.
“Your pupils are dilated. Are you under the influence?”
Franco forced a tight-lipped smile. “No, I’m not.”
Hahn didn’t look convinced, but let it go. “Is this where you witnessed the crime?”
“No, I was on the roof.”

“Can you show me, please?”

Franco opened the thick glass door to his building, motioning for Hahn to follow. A sting made him flinch, earning him a questioning stare.

“Tripped on my way down,” he said. Probably true, but best to omit any reference to that part of the evening. Hahn seemed wary enough.

“This building have a security system?” He pointed at the dated camera hanging from the far left corner.

“Not really. It’s old, from when they redid this building...I don’t know, ten years ago? Only covers the entrance, same for the one inside The Green Thumb. Nothing on the outside, or upstairs.”

“Who else lives here?” he asked when they passed a double door on the second floor.

“Just my landlords, Bob Owens and Tony Prentice...but they’re in the Hamptons,” Franco said. “Bob organizes high profile fundraisers, and this is his office. They live one flight up.”

“And the flower shop?”

“The Grangers opened The Green Thumb four years ago, but live somewhere over in Hell’s Kitchen.” The more he focused on everyday things, the more details of the evening solidified. Except nap time on the sidewalk—that scene had ended up on the cutting room floor, and someone had wiped their filthy shoes on it.

On the fourth floor, Franco pointed at a double door ahead. “This is me, one sec.” He entered the dark, open floor plan apartment without turning on any lights and retrieved the wallet from his computer desk. When he returned, Hahn craned his neck, peering past him at ghostly outlines of lighting equipment standing near the window front. “You a photographer?”

“Yes.”

“Fashion?” sounded almost accusatory, the way he said it, but maybe Franco’s hearing was off.

He handed over his driver’s license. “Sometimes.”

Hahn pulled out a pad and pen and wrote down the information, returning the ID.

They climbed the last flight up to a metal door that opened out to the roof with a soft creak. Franco flipped a switch and small bistro lights wrapped around trees and plants softly illuminated the space with its lush garden and sitting area for alfresco dining. It had been his favorite place for years, but now, approaching the roof’s guardrail, the hair on his neck pricked up.

His hand recoiled at the touch of the cool metal rail, and the street below seemed to rush toward him, flipping his insides upside down and sideways. Holy shit, had he seriously been standing here, considering a one-step shortcut to the street? What the actual fuck?

His heart stuttered, and he hid his trembling hand behind his back, stealing a glance at Hahn. The cop stared across the street where his colleagues had turned the light on inside the apartment with the crooked blinds.

“Is this where you were standing?” Hahn asked, pulling out a small notebook.

“Yes.” Sort of.
“Then what happened?”
“Um, okay,” he said, folding his arms across the chest. “I...noticed an unusual light in the apartment—”
“Unusual how?”
“Um, they’ve been renovating the building...I think only a handful of units are rented.” He took a deep breath. “Anyway...first, I thought maybe new tenants had moved in, but then two men appeared behind the window, fighting each other. One grabbed the other in some sort of chokehold...and the other guy, the victim, was struggling really hard. The whole thing only lasted a few seconds, really, then there was this terrible...jerking motion, and the whole place went dark.” He rubbed his left temple.

“You sure you’re okay?”
“Migraines.”
“And when did this happen?”
“I don’t know, half an hour ago? Just after midnight.”
Hahn stopped scribbling and looked at Franco, his eyes probing. “What is it, half an hour or midnight?”
“What?” Franco pulled out his phone. 1:23 a.m.
He could have sworn he and Pitcher had come up here right before midnight, and were there for less than fifteen minutes. This made no sense. Feeling queasy, Franco took hold of the guardrail again. “Um...I...I guess about twenty minutes ago—thirty, maybe.” Maybe he had the time wrong? Increasingly frustrated with Hahn and himself, he swore inwardly. Nothing added up.

The cop leaned over the rail and squinted his eyes. “Didn’t you say your neighbors were gone? I see light in their apartment.”

“Their lights are timed.”

Hahn scribbled on his pad. “Was anyone with you when the attack happened?”

“Yes, um...a friend, but he’s gone.” Not surprised by Hahn’s puzzled expression, Franco quickly added, “He didn’t see what I saw, and left.” Hahn just stared, and Franco’s cheeks prickled warmly. “All right, so he wasn’t exactly a friend, more like a date. We were up here...talking. When I saw the attack, he was sitting on the ground over there. He insisted he didn’t see anything and left.”

Hahn’s radio squawked. He held up a hand and walked a few steps away to talk to the person on the other end in short, clipped sentences.

Franco lowered his head, feeling his energy evaporate with every breath.

Behind him, Hahn said “right” a few times, and ended the conversation. The cop studied him for several seconds. “Mr. DiMaso, there’s no crime scene or body over there.”