CHAPTER

ONE

NEW YORK CITY—1996

BILL CLINTON HAD WON THE PRESIDENTIAL election. To say I was underwhelmed would be an understatement. The news came in over the television networks as I drank an espresso at a Greenwich Village coffee shop. Bob Dole and Ross Perot had failed to unseat Clinton and I wanted the whole election process to be over. A few patrons stood, lifted their coffee cups high, and applauded. I lit a cigarette, took another sip, and returned to a book of poetry by J. D. McClatchy.

As far as I was concerned, the whole Reverend Rodney Jessup affair had ended any faint love affair I had with politics. Like a stumbling racehorse, Jessup hardly made it out of the gate. He was disgraced—as washed up as the plastic bottles that littered the Hudson. The preacher turned presidential candidate made his exit sometime in April when he withdrew his candidacy. That’s what a sex scandal will do to a pretender to the throne. John Dresser, my old friend and Stephen Cross’s boyfriend, had precipitated Jessup’s fall after I found Stephen dead, along with two other victims of the Combat Zone Killer, hanging on a cross. All it took was the Reverend’s recovered thumbprint and the name of a New York City porn theater written on one of his old business cards. The fact that Stephen’s former New Haven address was scrawled on the card didn’t hurt either. Jessup was kaput, gone bye-bye, a brief, sputtering comet in the world of presidential politics.

He was done and so was I.

I closed my book, still salivating over McClatchy’s beautiful lines, dropped a few bucks as a tip on the table, zipped up my leather jacket, and headed for the street. The evening was breezy and cool, but not bone-chilling. I had walked uptown in a lot worse weather. It was my night off from my employment as a dishwasher at Han’s Chinese, a job I’d held for more than a year. Mr. Han was a small Cantonese man with shining black hair and equally glittering eyes. No fool he. He knew he was getting a good deal at my hourly rate, but I often surprised myself at how much I enjoyed my new vocation. I had learned a smattering of Cantonese and had been welcomed into an extended family of sons, daughters, relatives, and aging grandparents. Besides, I liked sticking my hands in soapy dishwater. Sometimes the itch to apply for a bodyguard’s license or to leave New York rose up like ants crawling under my skin, and when it did, those warm, comfy suds calmed me down. There’d be a lot less murders in the world if everyone was required to stick their hands in hot water for eight hours a day.

I looked eastward down Thirty-Fourth. The Empire State Building shone back, its top tiers swathed in stratified layers of red, white, and blue lights. This, I presumed, was in celebration of our wonderful electoral process—a system I had never participated in. I was much more about action than process. The lights would blink out at some point and everyone would get back to business as usual now that the election had ended.

After Stephen disappeared, I moved into a basement apartment near Forty-Seventh and Tenth Avenue. I had been tempted to leave a couple of times when the cockroaches decided to eat off my plate, or when I felt too sun deprived, but the rent was cheap and I had come to think of it as my own little nest. I know it’s gross to say, but I thought of it like a rat’s burrow. God knows there are enough rats in New York City without my contribution. But I liked the close comfort my nest provided. I had dropped out of sight after Stephen’s disappearance, as much for safety’s sake as out of grief over my unrequited love for Stephen Cross. I didn’t want anyone to find me while I shed a bad pile of memories— including John Dresser; other Boston friends like Win Hart and Ophelia Cox who had slipped from my mind; Rodney Jessup, or his wife Carol, or any of his crew, such as Janice Carpenter, his public relations pit bull. And no one had.

Until now.

A late-model black Mercedes idled one space down from my door. Some gentrification had sprouted in Hell’s Kitchen now that Mayor Giuliani was cleaning up Forty-Second Street; however, a luxury sedan in my neighborhood was an oddity. I didn’t routinely carry heat these days, unless you considered dishpan hands a dangerous weapon, and the sight of the car gave me the creeps. For the first time in a year, I felt exposed and naked. Something about the black vehicle sent a shiver up my spine—call it my gift of prophecy revealed to me by a Boston fortune-teller, or the fact that I had read about Rodney Jessup’s Mercedes in Stephen’s diary.

I stopped about half a block away and studied the car. No exhaust poured out, but that didn’t mean anything. The car could have been idling long enough to mask any fumes dispersing into the chilly air. Its windows were dark and tinted, and anyone who might have been in the car was hidden behind the smoked glass.

I stood for a few more minutes before lighting another cigarette. When my lighter flared, the driver’s-side window slid down about a third of the way. Reason number 101 for not smoking: it gives away your cover. I caught sight of something—a pair of eyes peering past the open glass. The window glided silently up and the brief show was over.

I’d had enough paranoia. I didn’t think anyone would shoot me on the street, but knowing my history of small-time drug dealing, hustling, and to-die-for drag, anything could happen. I threw caution to the wind and walked down the block, away from the Mercedes, so I could circle behind the car to my apartment. The tag was hard to read, but as I got closer I saw it wasn’t from New York. It had Virginia plates.

My heart thumped in my chest and the back of my neck burned like I had been out in the sun too long.

I stayed on the sidewalk, close to the doorways in case I needed to duck inside for cover. When I was parallel to the car, the passenger-side window hissed down, revealing a pair of jeaned legs under the steering column, hands on the wheel, and a man in the passenger seat who looked familiar. I picked up my pace.

“Mr. Harper?” a voice called out.

I recognized the Southern lilt, the slight drawl that spun like silk over my name. I’d last heard that voice in a church more than a year ago in Manchester, New Hampshire.

The passenger leaned toward the window and a face came into view—the thin white face of the Reverend Rodney Jessup.

“Cody . . . I need to talk to you,” he said. “It’s important.”

I wasn’t sure what to say, but I sputtered, “The election’s over, Reverend. You lost.”

He smiled and said, “For some people that’s not enough. Do you mind if we come in?”

The question came out in a boozy slur and I smelled scotch on his breath, his drink of choice. But, still, he looked calm enough under the half shadows of the streetlamp. The driver hadn’t moved and I didn’t see a weapon.

“Who’s we, and why?”

“My bodyguard. I think you’d like him, but, more to the point, you’re good at finding people. You managed to track down Stephen Cross. I need you to help me find someone.”

I threw my cigarette in the gutter and stepped toward the window. I bent down and looked in. To the observer on the street, it might look as if Rodney Jessup was trying to pay me for sex. I had been in this position many times before. I glanced over at the driver. Holy guacamole. He was a dish, fully baked, and good looking. Hispanic, with eyes so dark I could barely see them in the dim light. I had no trouble seeing his muscles, however. My gaydar punched in at full tilt. Still, I wasn’t used to aiding and abetting the enemy.

“You’ve got balls, Rodney. Coming to me for help after you betrayed Stephen.” A red heat rushed into my face. Anger I hadn’t experienced since Stephen’s death boiled up again—and not in a good way. A few loose pieces of broken sidewalk lay nearby, and I thought about how easy it would be to hurl them through Rodney Jessup’s windshield.

“You know I didn’t kill him.”

“No, you obsequious son of a bitch, but your silence and subterfuge contributed to his death. In my book, you’re as guilty as Aryan America and even the Combat Zone Killer himself.”

Rodney sighed and leaned against the door. I thought he might break out in one of those old-time religion hymns or maybe start praying for me. The last thing I wanted was a prayer from Rodney Jessup, and I was prepared to make sure that didn’t happen. I wrapped both hands over the window casing and squeezed. I imagined them around Rodney’s throat.

“I know . . . and I’ve lost other people dear to me because of my sins.”

“Cut the crap, Rodney. You ain’t on the pulpit. A sob story won’t cut it with me.”

He banged his fists on the leather-padded dash and then turned to me. His eyes sparkled in the light of the streetlamp. “What the hell do you want? My family is in danger—Carol and the children. You know the players from the Combat Zone murders better than anyone.”

His voice broke and he swiped at tears.

His pain was somewhat touching, but I questioned the sincerity of his plea. Why me? Why not get a private investigator, or just contact the local cops in good ole Virginee? It didn’t make sense.

“Sorry, Rodney. You’ll forgive me if I don’t open up my insect-infested apartment to you. Who knows? You might be allergic to Raid, and I really don’t want to hear jokes down the road about how you slummed it one night with a drag queen in Hell’s Kitchen.” And just to stab the ice pick in the heart, I added, “And, besides, you might drop a business card.”

The booze made him oblivious to my venom. “I just want to talk. I only need fifteen minutes of your time.”

“Maybe fifteen minutes with your driver. But you—not interested.” I let go of the car and stood up, prepared to walk away.

I couldn’t see his face, but he called out after me, “There’s a lot of money in it for you. Say, half-a-million dollars.”

Stephen had a bounty on his head of a half-mil before he was murdered by the Combat Zone Killer.

I turned back to the car, leaned in, and got in Rodney’s face. “You really are a no good motherfucker.”

Close up, he looked creased and spent, but his voice was calm and steady when he replied, “I need you for this job. I’ll even pay for you to get a bodyguard license.” He pulled a card out of the breast pocket of his white oxford shirt. “Call me when you’re ready.”

If nothing else, I wanted the card as evidence, so I took it and walked away.

About halfway to my door I shouted back, “How did you find me?”

“The phone book,” he said as the window rose.

“My number’s unlisted.”

The window closed and the Mercedes pulled out from the curb, turned right at the corner, and sped away uptown in a flash of black and red.

I put the key in my door. Damn, there goes the neighborhood.