Ian gave a thin smile. “Sure, buddy. It’s your world. We’re just furniture.”

“Guys.” Her tone pleading.

Things were falling apart, but Mitch couldn’t find it in himself to care. A week ago these had been his closest friends, his urban tribe. Only it was all built on bullshit. One of them was a secret cokehead, another had been screwing the woman he loved; and her, she’d lied to him about it. Not to mention that he was the one in the most danger for a risk he hadn’t wanted to take in the first place.

Nothing was what it seemed, nothing was true. So fuck it.

He leaned forward. “We were talking about games. Here’s one. Answer this for me. What’s the worst you’ve ever screwed over someone you said you cared about?” He fixed Alex with a glare. “Ready, go.”

The toxic silence tasted of copper.

Ian stood. “I’m taking off.”

“No, look,” Jenn’s eyes wide, imploring. “This is stupid. We’re just-”

“We’re just done with each other,” Alex said. He straightened, picked up a rag and wiped his hands. “Right?”

There was a stab in Mitch’s chest, and a child’s urge to take it all back. But he said, “Yeah,” then jerked his jacket from the back of the chair, turned to Jenn. “I’m leaving. Are you coming?”

“I…” She looked back and forth. “No. I’m going home.”

“I can take you.”

“Not tonight.” She stood, picked up her purse. Pulled a couple of twenties from her wallet and dropped them on the bar. “It doesn’t have to be like this. But you guys with your egos. You’d rather all crash and burn than get over each other.”

“Yeah, well, you’re certainly the expert on guys, aren’t you, Tasty.” The look on Alex’s face was pure meanness. “All that experience.”

Her face paled and eyes widened. Then she just shook her head. “Well, it was good while it lasted.”

“What was?” Ian asked.

“The Thursday Night Drinking Club.” She gestured with a sad smile. “Us.”

CHAPTER 22

THE VIEW WAS SPECTACULAR, Bennett had to admit. Outside Ian Verdon’s floor-to-ceilings, the city was glowing geometries, the river tinged pink with that shadowless five o’clock light. Magic hour, photographers called it.

He stared for another moment, then turned away, spun in a slow circle. The condo was tastefully modern, with clean lines and low-slung furniture. He walked over to a set of bookshelves, more pictures and knickknacks than books: a shot of a dude against a split-rail fence, face lined as ten-year-old boots; a box of Monte cristos with a broken seal declaring them Cubans; a sleek hourglass with pale blue sand. Idly, he opened the cigar box. Inside was a mirror, a razor blade, and a glassine bag filled with white powder. Lookie lookie. He poured a small bump on the back of his hand and snorted.

Damn.

He packed it back away, careful to put everything in the exact same spot. Addicts were clueless about a lot of things, but never their supply.

There was a cheap phone on the bookcase and a cordless in the kitchen. He chose the cordless. Shit was so easy these days. You could order any damn thing from the Internet. It took two minutes to crack open the phone, do what he needed to, and close it back up. He glanced at his watch: 5:30. On a Friday night, that might be pushing it a little. Best to head out.

Bennett replaced the phone, took one last look around the apartment, then stepped out, locking the door behind him. He strolled down the hallway, the indirect-lighting-and-muted-carpet combo that yuppies couldn’t get enough of, then punched the button for the elevator. As he waited he whistled, badly, savoring that chill ease of quality cocaine.

The doors parted and a gaunt dude in a nice suit stepped out. His hair was gelled and mussed just so, but his eyes were sunken, and the greenish remains of a shiner marked one. “Excuse me.”

Bennett smiled, stepped aside, then climbed into the elevator and rode it to the garage. He stood in the shadows near the gate, and when a black Wrangler pulled up to it, he waited till the Jeep was through, then ducked out.

His Benz was at a pay lot two blocks away. He climbed in, reached in the back and pulled out his laptop. As it booted, he opened his cell phone, dialed *67 to block caller ID, and then Verdon’s phone number.

The man answered on the third ring. “M’ello?”

Bennett said nothing, drew the pause out. Theatre.

“Hello?”

“I know what you did. And I’m coming.” He closed the phone, then turned to the laptop.

The trace program was silent for thirty seconds. Then the transmitter he’d put in Ian’s phone sent the number the guy was dialing. There was a pause as it ran the number against a reverse directory, and a name appeared. McDonnell, Mitchell. Twenty seconds, then the line disconnected. No one home. Ten seconds later, another number appeared, and another name. Kern, Alex.

Bennett smiled.

God, he loved predictable people.

CHAPTER 23

JENN WAS PAINTING HER TOENAILS and trying not to think.

She wasn’t a high-maintenance girl, one of those shiny chicks perpetually ready for a fashion shoot, blushed and mascaraed and highlighted, tanned and toned and bubble-butted. She’d had a girlfriend once who, when a boy would stay over, would set the alarm so that she could get up, put on her makeup, and come back to bed dolled up. Even did it with steady boyfriends, guys she saw for months. Everything about that sounded exhausting to Jenn.

But she liked to paint her toes. It was a summer indulgence, a celebration of sundresses and strappy sandals. She did it with the TV on something low-calorie, Inside the Actors Studio today, Matt Damon up onstage being charming. And she needed indulgence, needed something pleasant and routine to distract her from the steady rhythm of fear and guilt that beat through her. Ever since the robbery, her dreams had been nightmares, bright flashes and dark red liquid, shadows looming and reaching. Then the scene in the bar. And finally last night’s conversation with Ian, the man panicking about a crank call. He’d been breathless and sputtering as he told her, and all she could think of was his coke habit. She’d reassured him it was nothing, but as always, the fear hit in the middle of the night, telling her that it could be more.

Which was why it felt important, justified, to sit calmly on her couch and paint her toes. A way of holding back panic. When the phone rang, she finished the nail she was on before setting the brush in the bottle and reaching for the cordless.

“Ms. Lacie?”

“Yes,” she said, fanning her toes with a magazine and readying herself to hang up on the salesman.

“You’re a friend of Mitch McDonnell?”

Something in the tone made her wary. She uncurled herself, put her feet on the floor. “Yes. Who is-”

“He’s been hurt.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry, my name is Paul, I work at the Continental with Mitch. He’s been hurt and he’s asking for you.”

“What do you mean, hurt?”

“My manager just gave me your number and asked me to call.”

“But… hurt how? Like he fell or something?”

“I really don’t know. I just know that he’s asking you to come down here right away.”

“OK.” She stood, looked at the clock on the cable box. A few minutes after one. Saturday traffic wouldn’t help any. “I’m leaving now. I should be there by about one thirty.”

“I’ll tell him. He’s in a conference room on the second floor. The Atlantic.”

“Is there a doctor-”

“I really don’t know, ma’am.”

“All right. Thanks.” She hung up the phone and threw it on the couch. In her bedroom she shucked off cotton pajama bottoms and hopped into jeans, jammed her feet into flip-flops, grabbed her purse off the dresser, and bolted for the door.

Outside, it was a perfect summer day, the kind where nothing could go wrong. She tagged a passing cab, gave him the address, and asked him to step on it. To her surprise, he did, running yellows and weaving through traffic.