“Look, I need to find his backpack, if I can. I tried to get the originals of the files at the courthouse, but someone sliced out the pages with a razor. They’re hiding something. And the only way to get to the bottom of this is to see the copies Richie made.”

Without facing him she asked, “Where is this property?”

He told her, referencing the LBC tower. “Without those plots, the whole Reisner project would have ground to a halt.”

Her gaze remained fixed, but something cold and hard washed over her features.

“Are you with me?” he asked. “You know the place I’m talking about, don’t you?”

Her eyes swung back to him slowly, but her mind was elsewhere. “Bring me a name.” Her flat delivery was chilling.

The fire hadn’t abated. It was there but cloaked. Ted felt the ground shift beneath him. Was he being played? She had been married to a con man and came from a family of grifters. Was this some sudden zombie act, or was this the real Cheryl, all the darts, jabs, demands, and orders merely distractions?

“And the property?” Ted asked. “The money? I swear there’s a connection.”

“Forget about the money. Get me the name of the guy who killed Richie.”

“I’ll do what I can. That’s all. But I’m telling you, the police will do a better job at this.”

Ted wanted to continue to argue the point, but she had stopped listening. Cheryl’s eyes were focused over his shoulder. Ted turned to look. A party of five Asian men in dark suits had entered the restaurant and were standing by the hostess podium.

“My business meeting,” Cheryl said. “Right on time. Call me tomorrow. Keep me posted.” The zombie was gone, hidden behind the efficient businesswoman.

He took a last swallow of beer and wound his way through the now-packed restaurant. The hostess gestured toward Cheryl, and the men headed her way. Their path converged with his, and Ted almost bumped into the leading man, who zigged when Ted expected a zag.

“Excuse me,” the man said with a politician’s big smile.

Queens City Council Member Kevin Pak.

-20-

-20-

Ted loved watching Mets baseball in May. In the spring there was always hope. Late in the season—the last weeks of August—there might also be hope. But that hope was always tinged with the anxiety of impending implosion. The curse of the Mets. They were there to break hearts.