He stepped out under the Malibu’s bright orange canopy and watched the crowd for a while. The offices and garment factories had let out and the hordes were on the move, streaming through the dark into the subway entrances or bustling toward Penn Station. Night came so early these days. Barely past five now and already the stars were poking through the inky mantle of night.

He headed back to the Center. All the while he’d been hiking around with the real estate agent—when he should have been concentrating on Jorge’s problem—he’d found himself thinking instead about Alicia and that house. He kept reminding himself that it wasn’t his sort of gig, that he couldn’t resolve this for her.

But it wasn’t concern for Alicia. It was the questions. It was the house. What was his secret? What was it about the place that a wealthy anonymous backer would offer a fortune for it through Thomas, and kill anyone who got in the way?

Jack had to admit it: He was hooked.

He wasn’t far from the Center, so he headed that way. He wanted to tell Alicia that he’d figured a way she could keep her opponents off balance: Sean O’Neill. Jack had known the feisty little Irishman for years and knew he was an expert in legal harassment. He’d make life miserable for Thomas and his lawyers. He’d drown them in paper. Jack would have to warn him about the fate of his predecessor, but he doubted that would deter Sean.

As Jack came down Seventh, he thought he saw someone who looked like Alicia step out of the Center’s front door and start downtown. He broke into a trot to catch up to her, and quickened his pace when he saw her turn a corner. She looked like she was heading home.

When Jack rounded that corner, he spotted her half a block ahead. He watched her angle toward the curb to avoid some guy sweeping the sidewalk. That brought her near a dark panel truck. Jack saw the truck’s side panel door slide open, and as it did, the sweeper dropped his broom and charged Alicia, knocking her into the truck. He jumped in after her. The door slammed closed, and the truck roared off.

Jack stumbled a step and blinked. Had he really seen that? One second she was there, the next she was gone.

Shit!

He kicked into a sprint, dodging people and pushcarts and hand trucks as he dashed after the truck. He saw it up ahead. The light was turning red at Eighth Avenue. It would have to stop—

But no—it ran the red with a tire-squealing turn onto Eighth. An angry chorus of horns followed it uptown.