“The bad guy is gone. Focus on that. You found him—doesn’t matter how now. Bin-Hezam sleeps with the virgins. Call it a win.”

“I want to,” said Fisk. “But what can I do? I don’t feel good about feeling good about this. That’s the bottom line. Maybe I need to stop thinking about it for a while. What about you? Catch me up on Nouvian.”

She did. Fisk listened.

“I think he’s making a big mistake,” said Fisk. “Given what you just told me, I bet his book would outsell all the others.”

“It was kind of fascinating, though. He sees the foiled hijacking, and his role in it, as giving him permission to change. Like a near-death experience.”

“Hmm.” Fisk waited for more. “What does that say to you?”

She smiled. She was going to say this. “I’m thinking about maybe transferring out of Intel.”

“You . . . what?”

“Like you just said. I miss cops and robbers. Look at me here. I could get shit assignments like this out of a regular precinct. But at least I’d be doing something.”

Fisk said, “You’re serious.”

“I’m getting there,” Gersten said. “Maybe it would be better for us.”

“For us?” He thought about that. “Maybe it wouldn’t, though.”

“Not living this twenty-four seven?”

“Look,” he said, realizing she wasn’t just bitching about this, but that she was serious. “It’s been a rough weekend. We need to go somewhere so I can talk you out of this.”

“You’re welcome to try. Supposedly we’re meeting with the group later for a nightcap in the hotel lounge, after the fireworks.”

“Sounds totally unprofessional,” he said. “I’ll be there. Assuming nothing else breaks in the next few hours. Where you headed now?”

“Nowhere. Paperwork is calling to me. I’ve got to write up everything from the past two days. I’m going to play some music and get into it.”

“No fireworks?” he said.

“Depends on you. I’ve got a nice hotel room all to myself here.”

“Ah, you’re killing me. I have so much to clean up with this Bin-Hezam thing.”

“I know, I know. Try for the drink.”

“Sunday night,” he said. “That’s my goal.”

“What are you thinking? Cafe Luxembourg?”

“Like two regular people.”

“Sounds marvelous. Only problem is, we’ll probably both fall asleep before getting out the door.”

He said, “Takeout’s okay too.”

She smiled. It was good to talk to him. It helped. “Hey—I think maybe his mission was to get blown up and take out a bunch of cops in the process. Including you. So be more careful, all right?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll see you later.”

She hung up, dwelled on the conversation for a few minutes, then set it aside.

Focus on paperwork. Get through this. Table everything else until Sunday.

Chapter 52

Back at the Hyatt, Colin Frank sat in the common room, alone with his laptop. He was framing out the story in the form of a book and transmedia proposal. He knew some documentary filmmakers and was considering going that route first, a video document that would coincide with the book’s release in six to eight months, each one promoting the other.

He cracked open a second nip of Bacardi and dumped half of it into his Diet Coke, pushing back his ball cap and cycling through e-mails, leisurely reading the ones from prospective literary agents and managers, and a handful of personal introductions from various big-name movie producers.

When it all became too much, Frank at once leaped up out of his chair and gave a Tiger Woods–like fist pump, rejoicing silently in the empty hotel room.

Joanne Sparks put the finishing touches on her face in front of the bright bathroom mirror, smoothing out the cracked lipstick in the corners of her mouth. That bitch Maggie Sullivan was going to the fireworks, and this was Sparks’s first—and maybe last—shot at the Swede without the others serving as an audience.

She checked the skirt again—clingy-tight but not desperate-looking—tugging down the fabric at her slender hips and then grabbing her handbag, heading out to Jenssen’s room.

She paused halfway out her door, spotting Jenssen in running shorts and a wicking T-shirt down at the far end of the hall, talking to someone. Sparks stared down the hallway, unseen as yet. That far down the hall, she realized, were the cops’ rooms.

Detective Gersten.

Sparks watched a few moments longer—long enough—and then stepped back inside her own room, her door closing with a click.

She turned and whipped her handbag at the wall over her bed. It bounced off the headboard and landed on the nightstand, knocking over her alarm clock and television remote.

She returned to the bathroom mirror, face-to-face with her furious self.

“Cocksucker,” she said, gripping the counter.

She was done with Jenssen. Or even if not, she sure was going to act that way from now on.

Gersten stood in the doorway to her room, shoeless, feeling short. Jenssen stood almost a head taller than she. One of the sporting goods chains had sent over some swag, and he wore a blue-and-white Adidas shirt and shorts, and New Balance running shoes.

“You’re sure,” he said, “I can’t change your mind?”

Dangerous, dangerous man, thought Gersten. He knew just how to say it, delivering the line with just the right amount of play, in such a way that she felt somehow foolish declining.

At the same time, she didn’t appreciate the attempt at manipulation.

“Too much work, unfortunately,” she told him. “Appreciate the invitation, though. Nothing like a nighttime run.”

“Actually, more satisfying is the cool shower that follows.”

Gersten smiled, as much at the sentiment as the cheekiness.

“You’re certain I can’t change your mind?” he said. “What if I get lost?”

“Tell you what,” she said. She had her phone in hand. She quickly dialed DeRosier. “Detective DeRosier? Mr. Jenssen needs a buddy for a night run.”

“Aw, fuck,” said DeRosier. “I just ate.”

Gersten smiled at Jenssen. “He’d be thrilled to accompany you.”

Jenssen smiled wanly. “The feeling is mutual.”

Gersten smiled for real. She felt as though she’d gotten the upper hand in this exchange. “Be careful in the dark,” she told him, and closed her door.

She felt a little short of breath. She was flattered by Jenssen’s attention, and briefly wondered what sort of vibe she was putting out there.

“I hope I brought my sneakers.”

The voice surprised her. DeRosier was still on her phone.

“Good luck,” she told him, and hung up.

With Nouvian in a self-imposed exile, practicing the cello in his hotel room, flight attendant Maggie Sullivan and retired auto parts dealer Doug Aldrich were the only ones interested in attending the fireworks.

They left the hotel in a lone Suburban, no motorcycle escort, only an off-duty cop driving them and the mayor’s office’s PR person. The driver used his grille lights only when they hit the barricade on Tenth Avenue.

“Gonna be tough going back to being a regular citizen,” said Maggie, looking out at the revelers walking toward the water.

“Wish I was able to bring my grandkids to this,” he said.

The Suburban pulled over at a mobile NYPD checkpoint. At the corner was a rectangular box with windows, not much bigger than an SUV. Security cameras and satellite dishes stood on top of it.

“Here we are,” said the PR woman.

She opened the door for them and walked them to the enclosure. People looked their way, but nobody was close enough to identify either Maggie or Aldrich.

“In here?” said Maggie.

“You first,” said the PR woman.

Maggie entered the hinged door. Aldrich followed, then the PR woman. She had her phone out, but for taking photographs, not calls.

The door closed and the box started to rise. Maggie realized now, she had seen these things before in Times Square. It was like a hydraulic riser, a promontory nest giving a good view of the street below . . . but an even better view of the night sky, from above street level.