Billy waited till the Escalade had slowly slipped away. Then, unable to sleep, he sat in his easy chair to think things through.
Despite all that had happened that day, he needed to really think about things.
Because there was one glaring realization.
That he was—quite clearly—beyond over his head. And if he wasn’t very careful, he would end up as dead as poor Danny Pippo up in Greenport.
But then what, he thought. Just stop?
Let anyone he happened to talk to who was involved with this . . . yes, let them know that he was completely done giving a damn about Jack Landry, or all that money that went missing back and forth, about who the hell he really was?
Who any of them were!
And worse, after today, seeing Lola Bristow with someone, another mysterious character, he had to accept this question: Could he even trust her?
He had instincts. From all that he had done in his life, those instincts said one thing: get the hell out of this now.
So then—that decision reached—he was tempted to get a drink. But no, despite being so very tired from the day, best keep his head crystal clear to finish this unbelievably worrisome train of thought.
Namely: Now what?
Well, he couldn’t stay here. No. How long would it be before whoever the hell it was in that mansion sent his associates—the two goons—wanting to know things. Or the supposed daughter, “Lisa Cowles,” reappeared, wanting payback for that check?
And then, who knew who else might be involved? Who the hell searched Landry’s place? Who tried to rough him up? How many players were there in this game? Which—Billy was now aware—had some very high stakes.
And he was in the center of it.
So again. Now what?
Then a thought: Well—I have an out.
Would not be perfect. But might render him safer than staying here and carrying on like he wasn’t worried about his safety—and life expectancy—at all.
Do what Gretchen Di Voss and the new head of Worldwide and his tight-lipped big-pockets investor, Tony Hill, wanted. Go back to the city the very next morning. Take just what was needed to pack from here, then drive straight into Gotham.
Yeah. Get a good hotel with good security. Use the size and teeming hordes of Manhattan for protection.
Maybe even get Deacon Solomon to arrange extra protection, or at least alert the local police in New York.
Hmm. But then, maybe not . . .
Solomon, he trusted completely.
In a local police department, a local precinct . . . well . . . things could happen. These weren’t the bad old days of Serpico.
But still, when big money had something to ask, even a pretty straight and narrow uniformed cop might be tempted to assist.
That was just reality.
So—he nodded to himself, glad he took these minutes to think it all through. Make that decision.
He got up, ready to fall into his unmade bed, about as tired as he’d ever been. He just hoped, well, nothing bad would happen between now and morning.
But in that hope, he was due to be disappointed.
* * *
“Billy . . .”
He had been dreaming. Surprisingly enough, not a nightmare, not his fears playing out in the surreal theater of dreams.
No. He was back on television.
Some familiar faces. Di Voss’s father, the former head of Worldwide, long passed. But in the dream . . . still there, looking on, smiling as Billy interviewed a celebrity chef.
The chef looked rather generic, with a few days’ growth of beard, spiky dark hair, fashionably unkempt, and a white jacket with his name embroidered on it, but the name was a blur, unreadable.
The dish, appropriately enough, was some fish, the whole thing, fresh from the day’s catch out on Sheepshead Bay or one of the stalls in the fish market, now in its new digs at Hunts Point.
The chef had a cleaver. Held high.
To cut the head of the fish?
But he wasn’t doing anything because someone was saying . . .
His name.
“Billy?”
Then the TV set, the chef, Di Voss, the camera crew—all began to fade . . . like a Polaroid in reverse.
And Billy slowly came awake.
With the unsettling awareness that someone was standing over him, saying his name.
* * *
And now, again: “Billy, wake up!”
Billy had opened his eyes, this waking up occurring in slow motion. He could finally see who stood over him. A familiar face, but not one he was so sure he should be glad to see.
The Northold police chief.
Lola Bristow was in uniform, right at his bed. He thought he had locked the door, but the cottage, the door, the lock—not the most secure with the old doorjamb.
“Lola. What the—”
Then he saw someone else—a few steps behind her, also standing in his bedroom, and sending off now some quite serious alarms—a man in a suit. Quick guess: probably the very same man that had been in her police station office last night.
And despite the clarity of all his decision-making and planning from the late night before, he had the definite feeling that all that was—right now, in one way or the other—in serious jeopardy.
* * *
Lola gave him a small smile. The kind you might force when visiting someone in the hospital.
“Okay, sorry. We, um, let ourselves in. Didn’t want to make any kind of late-night scene at the door. Besides”—her smile broadened—“you really need to get a better lock on your door.”
“Been thinking that myself . . .” Then Billy, aware he was still flat on the bed, head on the pillow, propped himself up.
“Mind if I sit up? Wasn’t expecting visitors.”
At that, Lola nodded to the man behind her.
“Right. Funny. Okay, how about you get some clothes on, then maybe fix up some coffee in your little kitchen outside? And then— we can talk to you.”
“‘We’?”
Well, that answered at least one question, the police chief and the so-far-silent man in a suit were in this together. Whatever this was.
“Coffee sounds good. The talk, don’t know about. But”—he slid his legs out from the bedclothes—“guess I’m about to find out, right?”
To which Lola said nothing but nodded and turned to her companion as they left his bedroom.
Rather bold, Billy thought.
They shut the door behind them.
And all the time, getting dressed, Billy couldn’t come up with any theory about what this was about.
He was curious, to be sure. But he also felt genuine disappointment. His neat getaway and stay-alive plan looked like it had just gone clear out the damn window . . .
* * *
The chief had gotten his Keurig busy, one cup already gushing out, while two more pods waited their turn.
“Got milk, cream, something?” Lola said.
The man in the suit stood to the side. Now Billy noticed that he held something in his hands. A manila envelope, clutched in front of him.
Guess that manila envelope is part of this unfolding scene, he thought.
“Um, creamer of some kind. In the fridge.”
Lola nodded.
Billy took some steps closer. “If I knew I was having company, I could have gone to that great bakery—”
“Dellasandro’s?”
“Yeah. Got you some nice muffins or something.”
Lola grabbed the creamer and brought the first cup to the table.
“There you go,” she said.
“You are too kind.” Billy sat, took a sip of the coffee black, the bitter taste just about right for such a literally rude awakening. Then: “Okay, if you can multitask while the Keurig works its magic, how about you explain why I am being honored by you and Mr. Chatty over there?”
The line did not bring a smile from the man.
Lola pressed a button, getting a second cup on its way.
“Okay, you are on your way to being caffeinated. So—let me explain to you everything we know . . .”
That word again.
Billy thinking: Was his faith in Bristow so wrong? Was she somehow knee-deep in all this?
“That would be great. A good topic for a morning conversation, besides what the hell are you doing in my little cottage here . . . uninvited.”
To which, Lola’s companion finally spoke. “We’ll explain all that, Mr. Blessing. Will take some time. But we will.”
“He speaks,” Billy said.
And now the man walked over to the table, the ominous envelope in front of him, landing on the table as he took a seat.