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  “So you’ll be fashionably late. As Miss Manners says, ‘Fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke.’”

  Just then, Charlene came through the doors from the bar area. Gave me a broad, leering grin.

  “Hey, Danny. You look good enough to put on top of a wedding cake.”

  “Thanks. But I just came by to talk to Noah for a few minutes.”

  Her mood changed quickly. “About that Andy kid, I hope. Noah’s been mopin’ around all day about it.”

  “I don’t mope.” Noah folded his arms over his broad chest. “I reflect. I ponder.”

  “Whatever.” Charlene came over to me, gave me a kiss on the cheek, and headed back out to the bar. Calling over her shoulder to Noah: “I’ll just be out here, reflecting and pondering about why I put up with you.”

  After she’d gone, he turned to me: “Chick’s crazy about me. It’s kinda touching, eh? The way she keeps her true feelings bottled up.”

  “She’s right about one thing, Noah.” I smoothed the sleeves of the tux jacket. Damn thing felt tight across the shoulders. Not that I cared. “You’re upset about Andy’s suicide. Perfectly understandable, of course, but…”

  Noah waved me away. Turned and started stacking dirty dishes in the dishwasher.

  “You know you need to talk about it,” I said. “If not with me, with Charlene. Or maybe Nancy Mendors.”

  “No, I don’t need to talk about it.” Keeping his back to me. “I need to stop thinkin’ about it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it don’t make any sense.”

  He straightened, rubbing his hands on his jeans. But still not looking at me.

  “I heard from some bros o’ mine over at Ten Oaks that Andy been actin’ worse and worse these last couple weeks. I mean, it looked for a time like his new meds were workin’. He wasn’t acting so fucked up. Talkin’ that android shit. Then all of a sudden, he starts up again. About not bein’ human and everything.”

  I took a guess.

  “Are you worried that your own medications will stop working? That things…that they might get bad again…?”

  Without turning, his head bobbed slowly. As though he were ashamed. Revealed. This big, shaggy bear of a man, standing in a too-small kitchen. In a converted coal barge moored by the river.

  As I was reminded again of the effort it took for him to hold things together. Meds or no meds. To keep walking his own, hazardous path. In Noah’s words, keeping this side of crazy.

  “You’re not Andy Parker,” I said at last. “What happened to him isn’t going to happen to you.”

  Finally, he turned back around. Faced me.

  “It almost did. Remember?”

  “I’ll never forget it. But we—you and me, Charlene, all of us—we just have to stay vigilant. Keep our eye on the prize.”

  A doubtful look. “And what would that be?”

  I reached over and gripped his shoulders. Met his skeptical gaze. “You, Noah. Alive and kicking and annoying the hell out of everybody. The prize would be you.”

  ***

  Just a few hours before, I’d left Treva Williams at the hospital and headed home to change for Sinclair’s political bash tonight. Which was when I remembered that the affair was formal.

  Cursing under my breath, I made a U-turn onto Fifth and crawled along the row of storefronts, looking for a tux place. To my surprise, I spotted one pretty quickly, and even found a parking space less than two blocks away.

  It took about thirty minutes to try on a traditional tuxedo, half of which were spent listening to the tailor fuss and fret about inseams, sleeve length, and creases.

  Though I didn’t hear a word of it. I was thinking about Treva, and what had happened in her hospital room.

  At first thought, her panic made perfect sense. It was a classic symptom among victims of violence: the expectation of some future horror. A kind of hyper-vigilance about the potential dangers that lay ahead.

  Particularly in her case. Not only had she been held hostage in an armed hold-up, she’d suffered the trauma of witnessing the cold-blooded murder of the man she loved.

  Then, that same night, Roarke had taken her at gunpoint from the apparent safety of her hospital room. Bound her with duct tape. She was trapped by the same armed madman who would most likely kill her as soon as his wounds had been attended to.

  If a person as seemingly sturdy and psychologically well-armored as Lloyd Holloway was shaken to the core by that experience, I couldn’t even imagine what it had done to Treva. Someone whose psyche was decidedly more fragile.

  It was now my job to find out.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  The lobby of the Burgoyne Plaza had the grandeur of a French chateau, complete with belle époque furnishings whose hand-carved lines gleamed beneath the massive crystal chandelier. According to the Pittsburgh Chamber of Commerce, the newly-built hotel was the crown jewel of the city’s Renaissance. The perfect accommodation for visiting presidents, dignitaries, and corporate giants.

  So, naturally, I fit right in.

  Though I must admit, as I walked up the enormous winding stairway to the mezzanine, I’ve always felt like an imposter wearing a tuxedo.

  Now, as I heard the hushed pad of my footsteps on the carpeted stairs, I realized there was another reason for my discomfort. The last time I’d been here was in connection with the Wingfield case, a year ago, and it hadn’t been a congenial visit. The memory of that time flooded over me as I stood on the top step, looking at my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror facing the staircase.

  I shook it off and walked over to the reception desk guarding the open double doors that led to the convention room, the site of Sinclair’s campaign dinner. There I fell in line with other formally dressed men and women, all waiting impatiently—and importantly—for their names to be found on the exclusive guest list.

  The young guy in an Armani suit manning the desk was GQ-handsome, his smile somehow both gracious and insincere as he drew a line through each VIP’s name. After which, we were ushered into the huge, opulent room by an equally young, beautiful hostess in a dress so tight and heels so high she could barely move.

  “On behalf of District Attorney Sinclair,” she said to each of us in turn, “thank you for lending your valuable support to his campaign.”

  I guess the thinking was having a hottie like this welcome you to the affair took the sting out of the thousand bucks it cost you for the privilege. Though given the disapproving look the girl was getting from some of the older, jewel-bedecked women, it may have been a mistake.

  There must have been over two hundred people inside the sparkling hall. Lining up at the appetizer buffet, standing in groups of two’s and three’s, getting drinks from the bar. Only a few had already taken their seats at one of the many elegant dining tables that took up most of the floor space. As though displaced and abandoned, they looked awkwardly around the room for a familiar face. Sipped absently from their water glasses. Poked the salads that had already been placed at every table setting.

  I also noticed, as I made my way through the throng, about a dozen thick-shouldered guys strategically placed at various points along the walls. Tuxedos stretched tight against their crossed arms. All wearing the same stolid, watchful expressions. As well as the same earpieces.

  Security. Even at an event like this, Sinclair and his people were taking no chances. The campaign had been a particularly bitter, divisive one from the start, and the volley of attacks and counter-attacks had only increased in recent weeks. Not to mention the usual barrage of crank calls, Internet ravings, and anonymous threats. Though, given the monied, invitation-only nature of the crowd, this kind of obvious security presence seemed like overkill.

  The noise level in the place was off the charts. Not only as a result of the cacophony of small talk, forced laughter, and repeated introductions, but also due to the jazz trio playing in a far corner. Badly. Amps turned up full, these guys were doing more damage to Charlie Parker’
s rep than all his drug busts combined.

  Which sent me scurrying to the other side of the room, dodging waiters, clusters of Chamber of Commerce types, and low-level civil servants grateful for the free booze.

  I finally managed to find an empty corner, near the swinging service door to the kitchen. Taking a breath, I surveyed the assembled group. Eventually I began putting names to some of the faces. State politicians. Media big-wigs. A few corporate CEO’s I recognized from news stories and magazine articles.

  The people who ran the city.

  As opposed to the waiters and hotel staff. Truck drivers and school teachers. Cops like Polk and Lowrey. Even docs like Holloway and Nancy and me.

  The people who made the city run.

  Events like this one always reminded me of that invisible, yet uncrossable divide. It also made me wonder why I’d accepted Sinclair’s invitation in the first place.

  Turns out, I wasn’t the only one wondering that.

  “Danny!” The familiar voice made me turn. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  It was Sam Weiss, an old acquaintance and feature writer for the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. Though he was best known for his top-selling book about Troy David Dowd, the Handyman. Which only fueled the interest in his upcoming one about the Wingfield investigation.

  Although my own age and the married father of two, Sam always looked to me like some harried grad student. Even tonight, in his tux, he had the tousled-hair look of having just leapt from a shower into a cab, after which he’d bounded headlong up the steps to the convention room. His smile was as crooked and knowing as I remembered, too.

  “I might ask you the same question,” I said, as we shook hands. “Shouldn’t you be home, bent over a keyboard, writing your next best-seller?”

  “I wish. But I still have my gig at the paper. At least until the next round of lay-offs. And with two kids in private school, I can’t give up my day job. Not yet, anyway.”

  He took a sip from his wine glass. “Meanwhile, what’s your excuse? You never struck me as a big Sinclair fan.”

  “I’m not. He asked me to come. Figures it’ll help.”

  “Price o’ fame, Danny. Speaking of which, I see you’ve managed to get your name all over the news again today.”

  “What can I say? It’s a gift. I just wish I could return it for a refund.”

  “Forget it, man. If you’re gonna get held hostage by a homicidal bank robber, you’re gonna pique the public’s interest. Looks like you’re still in one piece, though.”

  “More or less. I’ll feel even better when the cops track down Wheeler Roarke.”

  “Dream on. My source in the department says the cops figure Roarke is long gone. Him and his partner in crime. Out of state by now. Maybe even out of the country.”

  Sam and I watched the humming crowd disperse, finding their assigned seats at the dining tables. A few hold-outs lingered at the bar, ordering another round. Fortification for the upcoming speeches.

  I felt Sam’s hand on my arm. “Look, any chance I could get an exclusive interview? About what happened in that OR with Roarke?”

  “I’ll have my people call your people.”

  “Come on, man. At least give me something about the survivor from the bank robbery. Treva Williams. Christ, what a day she had. First in the bank, then again at the hospital. Talk about trauma, right? She gonna be okay?”

  I turned, irritation threading my voice.

  “Are you kidding me, Sam? I’m not going to talk about her. Besides, how do you know who she is? I thought the cops were withholding her name from the media. At least for a day or two.”

  “Believe me, they tried. But it’s a new world, Danny. We’ve got the Internet. More important, we’ve got guys who know how to hack the Internet. Most news outfits had the names of all the bank’s employees an hour after the hold-up went down. Not just the ones who got killed. The lone hostage Roarke released, too. Treva Williams. She’s in the First Allegheny database.”

  “So when they released the names of the three dead employees…”

  He nodded. “Process of elimination. Treva was the only one left. Is she still in the hospital?”

  “I think so. Though they’re talking about letting her go home tomorrow morning. There’s nothing physically wrong with her, and I guess they need the bed.”

  Sam pulled on his lower lip. “You gonna keep helping her, Dan? Like you did my sister?”

  Sam’s beloved younger sister had been the victim of a vicious rape and assault some years back. To this day, he believes my work with her saved her sanity. More credit than I deserve, I think. But I also know I’m unlikely to ever convince him of that.

  “Treva and I went through a horrific experience together,” I said carefully. “I think that connection gives us something to work with. If she wants to. Just as many trauma victims choose to try to block it out. Put the whole thing behind them. It rarely works. But it’s really up to her. At this point, I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

  He gave a reflexive nod, but I got the feeling he didn’t believe me. He’d guessed I was already too invested in Treva, in her psychological welfare. Sam was too good at his job to buy anyone’s party line—even mine.

  ***

  As people continued to take their seats, the raised dais at the back of the room became more visible. A broad banner stretched along the wall above and behind it proclaimed, “Sinclair for Governor.” With his usual slogan emblazoned beneath: “Smart. Strong. And on your side.”

  Peering over the sea of expensive hair-dos and Botoxed faces, I caught sight of the man himself. Sitting in the middle of a long table on the dais. What I took to be his wife and children sat at his right. To his left were the chief of police, some city councilwoman whose name escaped me, and the mayor.

  Though too far away to hear above the din of the crowd, they all seemed to be chatting breezily. Meanwhile, photographers and videographers moved stealthily on the floor in front of the tableau, capturing the moment.

  “Ever meet Mrs. Sinclair?” Sam drained his wine glass and put it on an empty tray stand in the corner. “Classic politician’s wife. Thin, blond, and bland. Lives on diet pills and Prozac, according to press gossip. Last time she had an opinion about anything, Bush One was president.”

  I gave him a sidelong look. “Does she know…?”

  “About Sinclair’s affairs? Hell, Danny, if she doesn’t, she’s the only one. It’s always possible, of course. I heard that during the Monica Lewinsky thing, Jay Leno did a joke in his monologue about Bill Clinton and the cigar. Brought the house down. The only one who didn’t get the reference was Hillary.” He shook his head. “From what I hear, to this day she’s never read the Ken Starr report.”

  I thought about this.

  “Think these rumors about Sinclair will hurt him?”

  “Probably not. He was always discreet. Usually chased some tail who had more to lose than he did. Paralegals. Assistant DA’s looking to move up the ladder.”

  Of course, I knew—from personal experience—a lot more about the kind of woman Sinclair slept with than Sam could ever suspect. Or would ever find out.

  “Then what’s your angle on the Sinclair campaign?”

  I leaned back against the corner. “I know you have one, or else you wouldn’t be here. Any staff guy from the paper could cover this fund-raiser.”

  He laughed. “The first and best angle there is when it comes to a politician: the money. Where’s the campaign getting it? Who’s behind the PAC supplying it?”

  He raised his chin, indicating the whole room.

  “Which of these rich, connected bastards is buying Sinclair’s loyalty? His support on some upcoming crucial policy initiative? His going soft on corporate taxes, or environmental regs?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know, Sam. Sinclair’s a pretty tough guy. Confident to the point of arrogance. I don’t see him taking orders from some shady big-money people.”

  “Then he won’t
make it up the mountain, Danny. Not all the way, which is what I think he wants. Nobody does without making some kinda deal with the devil.”

  Something in Sam’s voice caught my attention.

  “Are you just poking around,” I said, “or do you have something?”

  He smiled darkly. “I have something, all right. More than a tip, less than a fact. But my gut says it’s worth looking into.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning,” he said deliberately, “I think your pal Leland Sinclair is dirty.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Apparently continuing with their Charlie Parker theme, the trio in the corner had begun an assault on Zawinul’s “Birdland.” With the volume turned up even higher.

  “Jesus.” Sam held his ears. “Catch you later, okay?”

  Before I could stop him, he strode off, waving at some guy with a video cam on his shoulder. I started in another direction, toward a cluster of half-empty tables. I figured one of these had a place setting with my name on it. With luck, not at a table too close to the dais.

  Though what occupied my mind was Sam’s assertion about Leland Sinclair. Not that I knew the DA that well, or even liked him. Sure, there was no question he could be a real prick, and ravenously ambitious to boot. But corrupt? On somebody’s pad? Somehow I couldn’t see it.

  Even with more than half the crowd seated, it was still a game of dodge-and-weave getting across the room. Until, up ahead, I saw another familiar face. Broad, robust. It was Harvey Blalock, president of the Pittsburgh Black Attorneys organization. Another blast from the past.

  He was talking animatedly with a woman whose smooth, ebony back was toward me. Her tight-fitting dress displayed strong, shapely curves, accentuated by stiletto heels.

  As I approached the pair, I noted how strikingly poised she seemed. The confident tilt of her hips. The languid way she held her wine glass suspended between her fingers.

  Fingers whose nails, I realized, were painted a burnt red. It was Eleanor Lowrey.

  She turned as Harvey raised his eyebrows in greeting. The big attorney and I shook hands. He had the grip of a velvet-lined vice.