77

Harlem, New York

Evening of Marcas’s first day in the city

Marcas felt a little uneasy as he got out of the taxi. Everyone he had spoken with had told him that Harlem wasn’t what he remembered—full of neglected buildings and neglected people. Since then, Harlem had become vibrant, family-friendly, and burgeoning with young professionals. Still, some had warned him that there were parts of Harlem where he would need to take care at night, mostly because the streets were deserted. This was one of those parts.

He studied his map with a flashlight he’d bought from a street vendor near his hotel. He zipped up his black jacket. At night this area was most likely no different from parts of other American—and French—cities. You just had to be aware of your surroundings. And, after all, he was a cop who knew how to take care of himself. Marcas started walking toward the address he had noted. What remained of the lodge was most likely three blocks away, a few centimeters on the, but a good kilometer on foot.

He passed building after building, quite a few of them under renovation and dark, because all the workers had gone home. He slowed down and tried to make out the streets and addresses. Nothing corresponded with his map. He had overestimated his sense of direction, but he continued on.

A few minutes later, he felt a presence behind him. The hairs on the back of his neck went up. He quickened his pace, not daring to look over his shoulder.

He saw an intersection up ahead and crossed the street. Maybe if he turned the corner he’d come across lights and people…

No luck. The intersecting street was as dark as this one.

Marcas dared to look over his shoulder. A form in a hoodie was trailing him. Maybe he was looking for a building too. Then again, maybe he wasn’t. Marcas started jogging. He looked over his shoulder again, and the person in the hoodie was jogging too. This guy wasn’t looking for a building. He was looking for someone with a wallet.

Marcas quickly scanned his surroundings. He couldn’t see any lights or signs of life. His instincts took over. He turned around and said the closest thing to a prayer he could summon.

“What do you want?” he yelled at the shadowy figure. “My money?”

The form in the hoodie stopped. Marcas got a good look at him, and he could see that it was just a kid—maybe only a few years older than Pierre. But if the boy was a junkie, he could be very dangerous. On top of that, he didn’t know if the kid had a gun. Marcas was sure he could take the boy if he wasn’t armed. A knife or a gun, though, would change everything. Marcas held his ground. The kid said nothing.

“I warn you, I’m a cop,” Marcas said. “You look like you’re young. I have a son. Here, if you need some money, take it. I’m going to slowly reach into my back pocket and pull out my wallet. Then I’m going to take all my money out of the wallet and give it to you. It’s yours, and we can call it a night. You can go your way, and I’ll go mine.”

The kid just stared, saying nothing. Marcas did what he said he would do. He took several bills out of his wallet and held them out. No sooner had he done this, than the kid rushed at him. Marcas’s stomach leaped to his throat. He pictured Pierre and got ready for the assault. But instead of knifing him, the boy grabbed the bills and ran off.

Marcas stood panting in the middle of the sidewalk. He couldn’t believe his luck. He waited for his heartbeat to return to normal. Then he looked around. He needed to find the building.