“What will you do then?” the NY1 reporter followed up.

Jenssen did not appear to want to play the game. “I certainly would like to start with some sleep. Then walking, I guess.”

“Are you married?” yelled a female voice from the back.

Jenssen squinted out into the accompanying laughter, but did not answer.

“One more,” said the reporter, raising his voice slightly to get it in before the mayor moved on. “Why did you—all of you—risk your life and the lives of everybody on that plane by jumping from your seat and tackling a man who said he had a bomb?”

Jenssen tilted his head slightly, gazing down at the reporter with an expression of true confusion. “There is no why. It was too fast. I’ll ask you, why did you wear that shirt today?” He watched the reporter look down at his shirt. “Exactly. There was no decision to make. No thought required. Just need and do.”

The NY1 reporter waved his arm for more, but Bloomberg shook his head. Jenssen had already retreated from the microphone anyway.

“Over there. In the yellow dress. Yes, you. Go ahead.”

“This is for Ms. Sullivan. Did you think you were going to die when the hijacker had the knife to your throat?”

Sullivan gasped and brought her hand to her throat amid a surge of camera clicking. “This is going to be a long couple of days, I guess,” said Maggie, with a laugh and a nervous smile. “I . . . gosh, sure, I guess I did think I was going to die. How strange is that? I thought it was happening right then. I thought, Okay, this is how I am going to die. He cut me right away and I . . . I felt it, but I didn’t know how bad. No life passing before my eyes or anything like that. In fact, the only thing that passed in front of my eyes was Mr. Jenssen, racing in to tackle the . . . the jerk.”

The corps laughed at her self-censorship, avoiding a curse word.

“He saved your life,” said the reporter in the yellow dress.

Maggie’s lips came together tightly in an attempt to pinch back sudden tears. She just nodded. Jenssen looked a little embarrassed.

The reporter then followed up with a comment instead of a question. “Well, we’re all so glad you’re still here,” she said.

Gersten winced at the saccharine emotion, but a wave of applause rippled through the room. This was the sort of thing spoken at press conferences where the interviewees are celebrities—which is what The Six were now.

Another reporter. “Maggie, are you looking forward to going home?”

“As soon as they let us,” she said, behind a laugh. “Somebody said something about talk shows, but I need to get some serious mirror time beforehand if that’s the case.”

More generous laughter.

There were more questions, and more stammered answers from bewildered citizens literally thrust into the spotlight. It was all congratulatory and lighthearted, yet there was a palpable sense of relief—mostly that no one had said anything outrageously dumb or offensive, thereby killing the public relations buzz—when Mayor Bloomberg called for the last question. He pointed to a television reporter flanked by her camera crew and producer.

“Hi, Colin,” she said.

“Jenny,” said Frank, recognizing the reporter with a knowing smile.

“The reporter becomes the story. How strange is it to be on that side of things, and I’m wondering if you think there might be a book somewhere in all this?”

Supportive laughter from the rest of the press corps.

Frank thought of a dozen pithy things to say and declined them all. “Here’s something I never thought I’d hear myself say, Jenny: no comment.”

The room erupted with laughter, even the mayor.

Chapter 20

Fisk himself arrived at the Grand Hyatt just as some of the reporters were filing out of the lobby, while others were doing video pickups just inside the revolving doors. He stepped to the side, flapping the wings of his jacket in an attempt to cool himself down. His shirt was damp down both sides. He billowed it, getting some cool air moving. He could not remove his jacket because he was carrying. He figured he would start to dry out just about in time to head back outside.

He rode the short escalator to reception and eyed the bank of elevators. Half of the expansive lobby was curtained off for renovations. He detoured into the gift shop for an apple or a banana, and true to form came out unwrapping a bar of chocolate instead.

He pulled out his phone to text Gersten, but then saw DeRosier and Patton at the same time they saw him. “Everything all right?” asked DeRosier.

“We’ll see. Right now just cleaning up a couple of questions. What floor?”

“Twenty-six. It’s one of the ones still being renovated. How you liking the heat?”

Fisk rolled his eyes. “How you liking the air-conditioning?”

DeRosier pressed the elevator call button. “Liking it just fine.”

They stepped into one of the elevators. Fisk pressed 26 and nothing happened. Patton swiped his key card and the elevator started to rise.

Mike DeRosier was shaved bald and broadly built, a former Boston University hockey star who had played three years in the AHL and Europe before letting go of that dream in order to pursue his backup plan in law enforcement.

Alan Patton was shorter than DeRosier, and further differentiated by a thick head of black hair marked by a thin stripe of silver flaring up from his widow’s peak, a “skunk stripe” he was unusually proud of.

Patton said, “Gersten’s in a great mood, by the way.”

Fisk smiled to himself. He played his part. “It’s not such a bad assignment.”

“Not for me,” said Patton. “Anyway, from Gersten I’m willing to put up with the attitude.” Patton turned to DeRosier. “She’s wearing the tan pants with no back pockets.”

Fisk watched them in the reflective gold doors. DeRosier nodded as the floor numbers rose. “Know them well.”

“I think I would pay twenty dollars to see her in yoga pants,” said Patton. “God, I love yoga pants.”

“Yeah?” said Fisk. “How many pairs you own?”

DeRosier laughed.

Patton said, “You know how Jeter gives his one-night stands autographed baseballs? If I were him, I’d endorse a line of yoga pants. Just set up a rack inside the door of my penthouse, hand them to the hotties as they walked in.”

DeRosier said, “You downward dog, you.”

The doors opened on 26. The hallway to the right was curtained off, collapsed scaffolding and paint cans stacked against the wall—the renovation discontinued for the time being.

They turned left. Two uniformed cops posted to the hallway quickly tucked away their personal phones.

Two adjoining rooms had been opened up and converted into a hospitality suite for the floor. A small buffet table was set to the left with coffee, croissants, soda, and mini designer cupcakes from the shop downstairs. A wall television was on, pundits talking over footage of The Six’s press conference.

“My god, I look like absolute shit!”

Fisk recognized flight attendant Maggie’s voice from the adjoining room. Then laughter from her fellow heroes. Fisk looked in and saw that they were watching a second television, either sitting or standing, drinking Diet Cokes, stirring tea, snacking on coffee cake.

Fisk got Gersten’s attention and she cut in front of the television, joining him in the first room. DeRosier and Patton lurked within earshot. She was indeed wearing the tan pants, her badge clipped to the belt loop.

“How we doing?” he asked.

She looked back through the door. “Unwinding,” she said. “Awaiting our next move.” She looked back to Fisk. “How you want to do this?”

He looked around. “This setup is fine as is. I’ll just speak to each one at a time. Keep it casual, relaxed. In and out.”

Patton said, “Ah, the old in-and-out.”

Gersten said, “You’re lucky you’re here now. I think once the fame bomb hits them, it’s full-on diva time. This thing is exploding. That press conference?”