“What will I have to do?”

“All you have to do is tell the truth.”

“Is he going to be there?”

The “he” of course was Patrick Ghegan. “Yes he is. But he can’t hurt you. All you have to do is point him out once. After that, you don’t ever have to look at him again.”

The truth was, Michael would rather have Falynn look directly into the eyes of the jurors. He knew that teenagers – especially teenaged girls – could either be the greatest witnesses or an absolute nightmare. Falynn’s strength was how innocent and vulnerable she looked, her soulful eyes. Michael knew that John Feretti was going to have his hands full trying to break this witness – a young girl who had seen her father murdered in cold blood.

“We’re going to put him somewhere he can never hurt anyone else again,” Michael added. He was, of course, hoping for more than that. The DA was going to ask for the death penalty in this case. It was not the time to bring that up, however.

Falynn stared out of the window a few moments. “Do you promise?”

There it was, Michael thought. He had faced this moment before, specifically with the families of the employees murdered in the basement of that QuikBurger. He recalled Dennis McCaffrey standing before those men and women and making them a promise – the promise of finality, the promise of justice for their loved ones. Michael and Tommy had stood shoulder to shoulder that day and backed the DA’s pledge. It was a promise that nearly cost Michael his life. It was the Patrescu brothers who ordered the car bombing, the attempt on his life he had miraculously survived. In a twisted sense, the madness of that act had brought Michael his greatest joy: Abby and Emily and Charlotte.

“Yes,” he said, before he could think about it any more. “I promise.”

Falynn just nodded. She worried the edge of the magazine in her hands. After a few moments, she looked up. “How long does it all take?”

“Well, that depends on a few things,” Michael began, his heart beginning to soar. It was that old feeling, the feeling that the wheels of justice had just engaged, and he loved it. “The first part of the trial begins tomorrow. He has his lawyer –”

“And you’re my lawyer.”

At that moment Michael thought about trying to explain it all to her. He considered explaining how, when a person is a victim of a homicide, it is the state of New York that advocates for the victim, not a single person.

But all he could see was that face. That sad angel’s face.

“Yes,” Michael Roman said. “I’m your lawyer.”

SEVEN

Aleks walked the city. From 38th Street and Park Avenue he headed south a few blocks and began to wind his way toward Times Square, passing many landmarks he had only read about. The vaunted Madison Avenue, the Empire State Building, Macy’s, Herald Square, the stately, magnificent New York Public Library.

The city both dazzled and beguiled him. This was the center of the world. He wondered what effect a place like New York had had on his daughters, and what it would take to reverse such influence.

He knew that all he had to do in a place like New York City was walk down a street, alerting his senses to the aromas, the sounds, the sights, the rhythms. Before long he would catch the tail end of a conversation in Russian, Lithuanian, German, Romanian. He would ask after places, seeking the world beneath the world. It did not take long.

In a place called Bryant Park he found a pair of young Russian men who said they could help him find what he was looking for. For a small fee.

They played their games, took their stances, asserted their manhood. Eventually Aleks, who played the thick foreigner for them, got what he wanted.

THE FIRST BAR WAS call Akatu. It was a dirty, narrow place on West End Avenue in the Sheepshead Bay section of Brooklyn, a place smelling of old grease and sour tobacco. The tavern was half-full at midday, had a parochial feel to it, as if strangers were not welcome, or at the least needed to be watched. Aleks understood. When he entered, he sensed all eyes on him. Some conversations halted.

As he made his way to the rear of the bar, there were two husky men talking softly, blocking his path. They did not move as he approached, holding their small piece of ground, as violent men will do, forcing Aleks to skirt them by, hugging the wall. One man was thick-waisted and muscular, nearly Aleks’s size. He looked bloated, muscle-bound only, perhaps pumped from a just-finished workout. The other was shorter, also solid, but more likely the one to be carrying a weapon. He wore a cheap and oversized wool blazer in the too-warm bar. Aleks walked around them, giving them their territorial due. For the moment.

Aleks ordered a Russian coffee and a shot. As he put his hands on the counter, pushing forth a twenty, the barman saw his tattoo, the mark of the vennaskond. The man looked confused for a second – the mark was not nearly as well known as the Russian vory – but his face soon registered the truth. This was a man to be reckoned with. Aleks saw the bartender nod to the two men behind Aleks, and in the mirror he saw them give him some room.

Aleks asked a few questions of the bartender, letting on just enough to get the answers he sought, but give away nothing. After a few moments of conversation he discovered this man could not help him. But the bartender did have the name of a bar and another man who might be able to help.

The bartender excused himself, moved a few stools down, poured a refill to an older, bottle-blond woman who smoked unfiltered cigarettes and read a Russian newspaper. Her lipstick was the color of dried blood.

By the time the bartender returned, Aleks’s twenty had turned into a fifty, and the big man in the black leather coat was gone.

The liquor remained untouched.

THE SECOND PLACE, a Russian restaurant on Flatbush Avenue, produced no results, other than to lead Aleks to a third place, a café in Bayview. It was a stand-alone brick building, dark and smoky, and when Aleks entered he was greeted by the hiss of the samovar, the sound of an old Journey song on the jukebox, and the shouts of men playing cards in a back room. He mind-catalogued the room: Four hard men around a pool table to the left, to the right, at the coffee bar sat a klatch of old-timers from the Ukraine. They nodded at Aleks, who returned the greeting.

He asked about Konstantine. The men claimed to not know him. They were lying. Aleks had two more places on his list to visit.

He turned, saw the REST ROOMS sign at the rear of the bar. He’d make a comfort stop first.

As he walked the length of the tavern, Aleks sensed a presence. When he turned, there was no one there, no one following him.

He continued, descending the steps. He found the men’s room at the end of a short basement hallway. He opened the door partially, flipped on the light. Nothing. The room remained dark. It smelled of dried urine and disinfectant. He opened the door fully, checked for the light fixture, and in that split second a shadow stole from the darkness like a spirit, a gleam of steel catching his eye.

In the moment before the blade plunged towards his back, Aleks stepped to the side. The blade crashed into the drywall. Aleks shifted his weight, pivoted, slamming his left knee into the groin of his assailant, bringing a forearm down onto the hand holding the knife. The man grunted, buckled, but instead of hitting the floor he too shifted weight, exposing a second knife, this one a long steel filet. It was headed for Aleks’s stomach. Aleks grabbed the man by his thick wrist, powering back the arm. He slipped a leg between the other man’s legs and brought him to the floor. Before he could get the Barhydt out of its sheath the attacker slammed a fist into his jaw, momentarily stunning him.