“And then?” asked Jenssen.

“After the ceremony tomorrow morning? Then you’re on your own. Cut loose. Released into the wild.”

That drew a few smiles.

Frank spoke up. “We definitely need to huddle at some point before we go our separate ways so we have a general game plan. I just want to point out that our bargaining position is much stronger if we stay together, as a team, as opposed to six smaller books on the same topic racing to be the first one out. Some of us have already made plans to get together later for drinks down in the lobby after the fireworks—that seems like a great time to toast the future and get on the same page. If not, then tomorrow morning before the big show.”

Gersten nodded. “Those of you who are planning to head over to the West Side to see the fireworks need to be ready to go in a little while. We have a surprise viewing spot we think you’ll like.”

Gersten stopped outside Nouvian’s room in the middle of the twenty-sixth-floor hallway. She was surprised to hear nothing, no cello practicing. She rapped a knuckle against the door.

Nouvian opened. He was wearing a white Hyatt robe, his hair wet.

“No practicing?” she said.

“Soon. I’ve been asked to perform at the ceremony tomorrow. Maggie’s suggestion. On top of everything else. But how could I say no?”

Gersten nodded amiably. “Mind if I come in for just a minute?”

“Certainly,” he said, surprised, stepping back. She moved into the room. The sheers were drawn but not the heavier curtains, allowing a gauzy view of the skyline at sundown. The entranceway was humid from Nouvian’s recent shower, the bathroom smelling of aftershave. She moved farther inside.

“Go ahead and have a seat,” she suggested.

He did, plopping down on the corner of his bed. His cello case stood against the wall near him. He looked a little puzzled.

Gersten said, “Here’s the thing. You probably know you’ve been acting in a suspicious manner.”

His interested expression immediately flattened out.

“You went missing earlier today, and when I found you, you didn’t seem like yourself,” she continued. “This raised red flags, and I checked into what you might have been doing and discovered some pay phones down behind the elevator bank.”

He did not know how to react, and so kept quiet.

“I followed up on it, because that is my job. I visited Mr. Pierrepont less than an hour ago at his apartment, and interviewed him.”

Nouvian did not know which way to go with this. “I don’t know what you’re . . .” he started to say, which then gave way to “This is an outrage.”

She tipped her head to one side, trying to defuse the situation. “He told me everything.”

Nouvian looked down, coming to grips with this. Then he searched her face, perhaps for signs of disapproval, of which there were none. “If he did, then what do you want me to say?”

“You have your own phone.” She pointed to it, charging on the nightstand. “Why not call him from here?”

Nouvian shrugged, his eyes misty. “I assumed you had bugged them or tapped them or whatever you do.”

Gersten smiled understandingly, shaking her head. “We are truly here to keep an eye on you. But when you start acting—”

“He was panicking that someone would find out.”

“He was? Funny. He said you were the one panicking.”

Nouvian sighed, looked away. “Well, I am the one with a wife and family. I am the one under a microscope now.” He rubbed his hands together. “The Secret Service check. All the questions up in Bangor. I thought, if I can just hang in there . . . if we can just ride this out . . .”

“Those background checks were just looking for red flags. This is a situation where you always want to be scrupulously honest. Trust me. Otherwise—as happened here—the machine turns around on you.”

He shook his head. “Easy for you to say.”

She moved closer to reassure him. “I don’t have any need to go any further with this. I thought you would like to hear this from me. And it is none of anybody’s business, about you and Mr. Pierrepont. Except your wife and children.”

Nouvian sighed, nodding. “I am at a crossroads, Officer Gersten.”

“Detective Gersten,” she said. “But you can call me Krina.”

“Krina. I know what you are thinking, and believe me, it is what I have been thinking about for . . . it’s been almost a year now. I was very unprepared for what happened with . . . him. This affair. That’s what it is. I know I don’t need to explain anything to you, but I love my children, nothing has changed there. And nothing will ever change.”

He looked away, across the room. As difficult as this was for him—and for Gersten—he seemed to want to air it with somebody impartial.

“What has changed . . . is my mind-set. This incident . . . my so-called heroic action . . . in many ways it has decided things for me. I need to act, and I know that now. And now I know that I can, you understand? But—in such a way that I can make the best future for my family as possible.”

Gersten raised her hands. “Again—your private, personal business. I think you’ll do the right thing. But will you do one favor for me? Not a favor—I’m going to insist upon it.”

He waited to hear what it was.

“No more scares like that. Okay? Let me and my fellow detectives finish our job here, and then you can go on to face whatever you have to.”

Nouvian nodded. “That sounds reasonable.”

Gersten smiled. “It does, doesn’t it?”

She turned and went to the door. Nouvian did not stand up from the corner of the bed.

“Krina,” he said, before she could get the door open.

She turned. “Yes?”

“I don’t want to write a book and I don’t want to make any money from this. I just want to play my music and raise my children. And that’s about it.”

Gersten nodded, feeling for him. “Well then, my advice, if you’re asking for it, is to just wait until after tomorrow to tell Colin Frank. Because it’s going to break his greedy little heart.”

Chapter 51

Back inside her own room, Gersten kicked off her shoes, watching NY1 on mute, her phone to her ear.

“Bin-Hezam was just a few blocks from Penn Station, Krina,” said Fisk. “He was right here. Can you believe it?”

“You saw his face,” she said, envious. “What did it say?”

“Great question.” She smiled, waiting while he thought it through. “You know what it said? It said that he knew he was going to die. He knew he was walking to his death. He wasn’t just resigned to his fate, he was dictating the terms.”

“Wait. After he got outside?”

“No. I never saw his face outside, his back was to me out on the sidewalk. This was in the lobby. The elevator door opened, and I looked at him—and it was like he had arrived at the pearly gates already. He was reporting for death. You just helped me confirm that.”

“What does it mean to you?”

“Dubin thinks he was going somewhere on another errand, but I don’t. I think he was headed to death. That’s the reason he came downstairs.”

“With a half pound of homemade acetone peroxide explosives in a bag?”

“Boom in bag, gun in hand. I think he heard that helicopter . . . I don’t know, maybe even before that. I mean, he called Saudi Air directly and spoke in Arabic. The first time all weekend he used his native language over the phone. He knew we’d be able to screen for that. He had to.”

Gersten chewed on that. “Maybe the helicopter over the hotel told him the game was up. That’s what it would tell me. If he knew he wasn’t going to get out of that building a free man, then what’s left for him? Instead of biting down on a cyanide pill, he went out the hard way.”

More silence from Fisk, then, “Another fair point. Maybe I’m overthinking this. Hey, you know what I miss? Cops and robbers. Jesus. Why can’t these shitheads just rob a bank?”