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  Eyes down. Voices low.

  Unseen. Unnoticed.

  Except for one waiter. Dark-haired, wiry. Sweat-beaded brow over severe thick-framed glasses. Moving slowly around his appointed table. One very near the dais. Fumbling with the lid of a large tureen.

  With eyes up. Watching us.

  As Fletcher moved his candidate and the rest of us around, placing us in various collegial positions, the photographers roved back and forth in a crouch. Shooting up at us. As though we were a mobile Mt. Rushmore, posing for the ages.

  The whole thing was ludicrous. Absurdly comic. And would have remained so—

  Except for that waiter.

  The one at the near table, who now stood ramrod straight. The closed soup tureen held perfectly still, balanced on the palm of one hand.

  As he watched us. Not serving. Not even moving.

  Watching.

  Until I noticed him watching. And not moving.

  And he noticed me doing so.

  Then he was pulling the lid off the tureen. Letting it drop with a jarring crash as he reached into the bowl.

  Bringing his hand up. With something in it.

  Which was when I called out.

  “Gun!”

  Going into a crouch. Rushing him, hands outstretched—

  Too late.

  The gun went off.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  I got lucky. Everybody did.

  The shooter must’ve panicked, seeing me lunging straight for him. His arm involuntarily went up as I connected, tackling him.

  The gunshot thundered loudly as I literally felt the bullet whiz past my ear. Then the shooter was stumbling backwards, my momentum carrying us both down to the floor.

  I was on top, scrabbling for the gun still in his hand. Barely aware of a rising crescendo of voices, cries, urgent shouts. And a riotous scuffle of feet.

  Gasping, grunting, the shooter wrestled with me for the gun. Squirming and bucking beneath me. Hate-filled eyes boring up at me through his thick glasses.

  It felt like we grappled this way forever, yet it was merely seconds. And then the first of the security guys reached us. Pinning the gunman’s arm down to the floor.

  And then there were three or four of them, pushing me aside to constrain both the shooter’s arms and his frantically kicking legs. I rolled to the floor, panting, gulping air. The security men shouting and cursing as they immobilized the guy. One pocketed his gun.

  Then a swarm of people grew around me, all talking and shouting at once. Somehow Biegler and Eleanor had vaulted down from the dais and were on the floor beside me. Still on my haunches, I swiveled my head in time to see other security personnel hustling the rest of the honored guests—Sinclair and his family, the chief, the councilwoman, and the mayor—out the near service door.

  “Are you all right?” Eleanor clutched my shoulder.

  “I’m fine. Anybody get hit?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  As I got to my feet, still winded, I saw Brian Fletcher standing with his hands outstretched, facing the frenzied guests. All talking, yelling at once. Stumbling out of their chairs. I could barely hear him above their cries of confusion, panic. Shouted questions from the media types heading toward us.

  “Please, people!” Fletcher was shouting now, too. “Please stay back! Stay in your seats! Everything’s under control!”

  He turned toward where the shooter lay, strait-jacketed by a phalanx of security guys.

  “You got that prick wrapped up?” Fletcher yelled.

  When one of the security guys—the head man, it looked like—nodded firmly, Fletcher motioned for him to join him. He lumbered over.

  “I need a couple of your men to keep everybody seated, okay? Especially the press. I want things contained.”

  The head of security said nothing, merely went back to his men and began giving orders in a cool, detached tone.

  Then Fletcher turned again to the crowd of guests, only a few of whom had retaken their seats. His voice calm, placating. “Please, we need your co-operation. Nobody’s been hurt. Please…we need you to stay in your seats. Let the police and security do their jobs.”

  Finally catching my breath, I looked down at the shooter. On his back on the floor, arms and legs pinned, he glared up at all of us with naked contempt.

  “Did I get him?” Spitting out the words, as though acid in his mouth. “Did I get that motherfucker Sinclair?”

  At this, one of the security guys cuffed him on the cheek with a huge fist. The shooter barely blinked.

  “Did I kill him? Eh? Is that fucker dead?”

  Biegler gestured angrily at the security detail.

  “Get this piece o’ shit outta here.” Then he turned to Eleanor. “Go check on the mayor and the others. Make sure nobody’s hurt.”

  She nodded and went out through that same service door. Meanwhile, the guests had more or less settled down, the majority now back in their seats. I saw a number still standing, though. Mostly press, barking into their cell phones. I also noticed that our two photographers were still in action, now snapping off candid shots of the chaotic scene. With a lot more enthusiasm than earlier.

  Until Fletcher caught sight of them and ran over, shouting at them to shut off their cameras. When he came back to where we stood, his head was shaking. Incredulous.

  “Fucking vultures.” Rubbing his temples.

  Security had the shooter up on his feet now, though he still struggled and kicked. Shouting curses. Eyes manic and gleaming behind those thick lenses.

  Biegler growled at the big men holding him. “Will you get him the hell outta here?”

  As they started to lead him off, a shout cut through the continuing hum of voices.

  “No! Wait!”

  It was Dave Parnelli, jostling through the crowd toward the dais. A security guy made a move to stop him, but Parnelli flashed his ID and was allowed through.

  He gave Biegler and me a curt nod, then peered right in the shooter’s glowering face.

  “I know this prick. Jimmy Gordon. Felix Gordon’s brother.”

  “Holy shit,” Biegler said. “You’re right.”

  As soon as I heard Felix Gordon’s name, the pieces started to fit together. I remembered the trial.

  Apparently, Fletcher didn’t. “What are you talking about? Who’s Felix Gordon?”

  “You don’t know Felix?!” Jimmy Gordon sputtered in anger. “You fuck! They killed him! My baby brother and you don’t remember?! You fucking bastard—”

  Which started another round of kicking and screaming. Before the security guy on his left hit Jimmy so hard his eyes rolled up in his head. He stayed conscious, but barely. Just enough to keep the fires of rage burning, banked and low, in his eyes.

  Parnelli kept his own gaze on Jimmy’s livid, contorted face. Though his voice was controlled. Matter-of-fact.

  “I prosecuted Felix for a double-homicide last year. Brutal. Sadistic. And premeditated. After convicting the slimeball, I went to Sinclair and asked permission to seek the death penalty. Which he gave me. So did the jury. Then Felix took a shiv from a fellow inmate three months ago, so justice was speeded up.”

  Parnelli finally turned to Biegler and me. “I’m sure you remember big brother Jimmy here sitting every day in the courtroom. Having to be restrained after the death penalty decision came down. Swearing that he’d get revenge on the DA’s office. On the whole damn system.”

  Biegler sighed, disgusted.

  “Yeah, I remember, all right—some punk from East Liberty. From a family of punks. Real bottom feeders. Burglary, home invasions. Assaults. Low-life scum.”

  Parnelli swiveled back to glare sharply at Jimmy, whose head lolled now. Much of the fight gone out of him.

  “You figure you’d make your bones doin’ the DA, eh, Jimmy? Another loser like your brother Felix. Well, it’s gonna be fun prosecuting another member of the family.”

  “Fuck you.” Jimmy Gordon wasn’t raging now. His voice h
ad fallen to a low, menacing growl. “Don’t matter what you do to me. Not now. See, I ain’t in this alone.”

  “Meaning what?” Parnelli looked unimpressed.

  “Meanin’, it don’t matter that I didn’t get Sinclair. It’s all set up. He ain’t gonna make it to that bullshit debate on Saturday.”

  His face screwed up, and a dark, scar-like grin creased its lower half.

  “’Cause he ain’t gonna live that long.”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  “What the hell happened out there?”

  It was the normally unflappable Leland Sinclair, pacing in one of the hotel’s exclusive guest suites. Brian Fletcher and I gave him a wide berth, standing near the sleek French windows leading to the balcony. Outside, the humid night had finally darkened, a somber black backdrop to the Steel City’s array of lights.

  “Well, I’m no expert,” I said. “But I think that guy was trying to punch your ticket.”

  Sinclair stopped and glared at me. Then at his beleaguered campaign manager, whose face had paled three shades down to chalk white.

  “What’s Dr. Rinaldi doing here?”

  Fletcher tried on a smile. “C’mon, Lee. I figured since the Doc saved your life, it’d be okay…”

  Sinclair took a long, exaggerated breath. Then let his gaze rest on me again.

  “Yes, well…I suppose I should thank you.”

  I shrugged. “Right place, right time. Glad it worked out.”

  Sinclair chuckled then, without humor, and stepped over to me. Held out his hand. I took it.

  “Sorry. It’s just—” He swallowed hard. Flustered. More agitated than I’d ever seen him. The attempt on his life had not only shaken him, as it would anyone. It had also challenged his grip on events, his need for control.

  “I am grateful, Dan,” he managed to add.

  “We both are,” Fletcher chimed in.

  Just then, there was a knock on the suite’s gilt-edged door. Fletcher strode over, squinted through the peep-hole, and admitted Dave Parnelli and Eleanor Lowrey.

  As they approached him, Sinclair took another long slow breath, combing his hair back with his fingers. Obviously welcoming the opportunity to reassert his authority. Back on familiar ground once more.

  “Well?” He raised his eyebrows at his ADA.

  “Everything’s squared away, Lee,” Parnelli said. “We got Jimmy Gordon in lockup. Screamin’ for a lawyer, natch. But he’s not goin’ anywhere anytime soon.”

  “I figured that. What about the Mayor?”

  “Probably home by now, nursing a drink. First thing we did after the fireworks was get him back in his limo.”

  “And Councilwoman Reeves?—or shouldn’t I ask?”

  Parnelli grimaced. “There we weren’t so lucky. She grabbed some TV people outside on the street and started talking. The usual bullshit. Our culture of violence. The break-down of society. Et cetera. Film at eleven.”

  Sinclair sighed. “Terrific.”

  Eleanor spoke up. “Sir, the chief is pulling some of the squad off the bank investigation, to form a joint task force with the FBI—”

  “What?”

  “Standard procedure in a case like this. Agent Alcott insisted on it. Especially in light of Gordon’s threats. His promise of another attempt on your life.”

  “She’s right.” Parnelli shook his head. “No way to keep the Bureau out of this. And, fuck it, why should we? They have the experience, the resources. This is your life we’re talkin’ about, Lee.”

  Sinclair grew irritated. “Great. Just what the public needs to see. Diverting manpower from the hunt for two ruthless killers, all to protect the DA. The guy who’s supposed to be in charge of protecting them. Helluva way to inspire voter confidence.”

  “It doesn’t have to play out that way, Lee,” said Fletcher. “We can say that law enforcement offered to put a full-court press on the Gordon threat, but that you declined. In the name of public safety. That you aren’t afraid of idle threats, and that nothing matters more than apprehending the murder suspects. Meanwhile, we let the cops and the Feds do it all back-channel.”

  “Okay.” Sinclair sniffed. “I can live with that.”

  “Except it wasn’t an idle threat,” I said. “Anybody else remember the guy with the gun?”

  “That’s another thing.” Parnelli massaged his chin. “With all that security, how the fuck did Jimmy Gordon get in here? With a goddam gun, for Christ’s sake.”

  Fletcher seemed to take this personally.

  “Listen, we’ve got the best security detail money can buy. Half these guys used to be Special Forces.”

  “Maybe not ‘special’ enough.” Parnelli took a step toward the campaign manager. “I mean, dressed as a waiter? Not exactly an original approach. Besides, I assume they checked out everybody on the hotel staff working the fund-raiser tonight. So again—how did your people miss him?”

  “I don’t know.” Fletcher looked genuinely chagrined.

  Both personally and professionally. Fumbling with his tuxedo tie, undoing it. As though giving some slack to a noose tightening around his neck.

  “Well, you better find out.” Parnelli turned and faced Eleanor. “What do we know so far, Detective? If anything.”

  I noticed that she straightened a bit, as though to prepare herself for a similar dressing down from the ADA.

  I also guessed she’d have felt a lot more confident giving her report in her street clothes. It probably wasn’t fun trying to seem professional wearing a tight, low-cut dress. Especially in a roomful of men.

  “CSU just dug the bullet out of the wall behind the dais,” she said. “Though I picked up the shell casing myself. Standard issue. The gun’s tagged and bagged, and the lab knows to red-ball it. But we got the basics. A .38, with the serial numbers filed down. You can pick one up on any street corner in town.”

  “And this Jimmy Gordon?” Sinclair asked.

  “You remember his brother Felix,” Parnelli answered before Eleanor could. “Double-dip conviction, then the death penalty. Though he didn’t live long enough to get the needle.”

  Sinclair blew air from his cheeks. “I also remember the news stories about Jimmy in the courtroom. The things he said.”

  He walked briskly over to the suite’s mahogany-framed wet-bar. Poured himself a Dewar’s on ice. Downed half of it. Then spoke to the wall in front of him.

  “A convicted man’s brother threatens revenge on the DA. In open court. Until he’s dragged away by the cops. Jesus, it sounds like some old movie. Hollywood bullshit.”

  Parnelli spoke carefully.

  “Actually, Lee, if you look at the court records, it happens all the time. Family members making threats. Of course, they rarely act on them. Usually it’s just shit they say in the heat of the moment. Only this time…”

  He let the words hang there in the air for a long moment. Nobody else spoke, either.

  Sinclair finally turned, tumbler in hand. The ice tinkled and cracked.

  “It’s…well, it’s hard to believe.” He glanced at Eleanor. “And the police are taking Gordon’s threat seriously? That there might be another attempt?”

  “We’re taking it very seriously, sir.” She pursed her lips. “And, frankly, I think you should, too.”

  Fletcher folded his arms importantly. Still stung by Parnelli’s rebuke, I figured.

  “I agree with Detective Lowrey,” he said. “I think we should cancel the debate on Saturday night.”

  Sinclair shook his head vehemently. “No. It can’t look like I’m afraid. That I let some thug intimidate me.”

  “Okay, okay. Then at least let’s beef up security, from now till Saturday. Maybe even change the venue at the last minute. Hillman Library’s pretty damn public…which means pretty damn accessible.”

  Sinclair laughed bitterly. “Maybe we should hold the debate at police headquarters. If all we’re interested in is security.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Sinclair look
ed down at his glass. “Brian, you know better than anyone that politics is about perception. If we move too aggressively to protect me, I look both privileged and cowardly. Neither of which garners votes from blue-collar types. The demo we need the most.”

  “Maybe.” For the first time, Fletcher let some grit come into his voice. “But as your campaign manager and your friend, I say we’ve got to take appropriate precautions.”

  Parnelli regarded Eleanor. “Which includes, I assume, checking on any other members of the Gordon family. Known associates. Anyone who might be working with Jimmy.”

  She gave him a tight smile. “Already in motion, sir. In fact, it’s the first thing on the task force agenda. Develop a list of possibles in terms of another attempt on Mr. Sinclair.”

  “Good. And keep me in the loop, okay, Detective?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I watched carefully as Sinclair finished his drink. The tight lines around his eyes. I could almost see his internal conflict. The battle between ambition and self-preservation. Between aspiration and common sense.

  “Okay, Brian,” he said at last. “I just hope to Christ we can keep the investigation under the radar. As much as possible, anyway. And I promise to give some thought to changing the debate venue. Meanwhile, I need to shoo all you people out of here. I have some calls to make.”

  I could guess what he meant. He had about two hundred guests to call and calm down after tonight’s events. Two hundred potential contributors who’d paid a thousand bucks each for a dinner they never got to eat. Which also meant they’d missed out on the chance—motivated by Sinclair’s after-dinner speech—to cough up even more.

  With Fletcher in the lead, we all trooped quietly out of the room. Though, as I glanced back on my way out, I noticed Sinclair wasn’t heading for the phone, but for the wet-bar. Where he again poured a good-sized Dewar’s on ice.

  And, again, stared at the wall.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  As I’d learned on my previous visit to the Burgoyne, the hotel had a private elevator for VIP guests. The same one that was carrying Fletcher, Parnelli, Eleanor, and me down to the lower parking level. The campaign manager had wanted us to avoid running into the press, or perhaps some lingering fund-raiser guests. Parnelli readily agreed.