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He did not say anything at first. Pistillo circled the room, studying the glass jar of cotton balls, the tongue depressors, the hazardous-waste disposal can. Hospital rooms normally smell of antiseptic, but this one reeked of male-flight-attendant cologne. I did not know if it was from a doctor or cop, but I could see Pistillo's nose twitch in disgust. I was already used to it.

"Tell me what happened," he said.

"Didn't your friends with the NYPD fill you in?"

"I told them I wanted to hear it from you," Pistillo said. "Before they throw your ass in jail."

"I want to know how Katy is."

He weighed my request for a second or two. "Her neck and vocal cords will be sore, but she'll be fine."

I closed my eyes and let the relief flow over me.

"Start talking," Pistillo said.

I told him what happened. He stayed quiet until I got to the part about her shouting out the name "John."

"Any idea who John is?" he asked.

"Maybe."

"I'm listening."

"A guy I knew when I was growing up. His name is John Asselta."

Pistillo's face dropped.

"You know him?" I asked.

He ignored my question. "What makes you think she was talking about Asselta?"

"He's the one who broke my nose."

I filled him in on the Ghost's break-in and assault. Pis-tillo did not look happy.

"Asselta was looking for your brother?"

"That's what he said."

His face reddened. "Why the hell didn't you tell me this before?"

"Yeah, it's weird," I said. "You've always been the guy I could turn to, the friend I could trust with anything."

He stayed angry. "Do you know anything about John Asselta?"

"We grew up in the same town. We used to call him the Ghost."

"He's one of the most dangerous wackos out there," Pistillo said. He stopped, shook his head. "It couldn't have been him."

"What makes you say that?"

"Because you're both alive."

Silence.

"He's a stone-cold killer."

"So why isn't he in jail?" I asked.

"Don't be naive. He's good at what he does."

"Killing people?"

"Yes. He lives overseas, no one knows where exactly. He's worked for government death squads in Central America. He helped despots in Africa." Pistillo shook his head. "No, if Asselta wanted her dead, we'd be tying a toe tag on her right about now."

"Maybe she meant another John," I said. "Or maybe I just heard wrong."

"Maybe." He thought about that. "One other thing I don't get. If the Ghost or anyone else wanted to kill Katy Miller, why not just do it? Why go to the trouble of cuffing you down?"

That had troubled me too, but I had come up with one possibility. "Maybe it was a setup."

He frowned. "How do you figure?"

"The killer cuffs me to the bed. He chokes Katy to death. Then" I could feel a tingle on my scalp "maybe he'd set it up to make it look like I did it." I looked up at him.

Pistillo frowned. "You're not going to say "Like my brother," are you?"

"Yeah," I said. "Yeah, I think I am."

"That's horse shit."

"Think about it, Pistillo. One thing you guys could never explain: Why was my brother's blood at the scene?"

"Julie Miller fought him off."

"You know better. There was too much blood for that." I moved closer to him. "Ken was framed eleven years ago, and maybe tonight someone wanted history to repeat itself."

He scoffed. "Don't be melodramatic. And let me tell you something. The cops aren't buying your Houdini-cuff-escape story. They think you tried to kill her."

"What do you think?" I asked him.

"Katy's father is here. He's riled up as all hell."

"That's hardly surprising."

"It makes you wonder, though."

"You know I didn't do it, Pistillo. And despite your theatrics yesterday, you know I didn't kill Julie."

"I warned you to stay away."

"And I chose not to heed your warning."

Pistillo let loose a long breath and nodded. "Exactly, tough guy, so here's how we're going to play it." He stepped closer and tried to stare me down. I did not blink. "You're going to jail."

I sighed. "I think I've already surpassed my minimum daily requirement of threats today."

"No threat, Will. You're going to be shipped off to jail this very night."

"Fine, I want a lawyer."

He looked at his watch. "Too late for that. You'll spend the night in lockup. Tomorrow you'll get arraigned. The charges will be attempted murder and assault two. The D.A."s office will claim that you're a flight risk case in point: your brother and they'll ask for the judge to deny bail. My guess is, the judge will grant it."

I started to speak but he held up a hand. "Save your breath because and you're not going to like this I don't care if you did it or not. I'm going to find enough evidence to convict you. And if I can't find it, I'll create it. Go ahead, tell your lawyer about this chat. I'll just deny it. You're a murder suspect who's helped hide his killer-brother for eleven years. I'm one of the country's most respected law enforcement agents. Who do you think they'll believe?"

I looked at him. "Why are you doing this?"

"I told you to stay away."

"What would you have done if you were in my place? If it was your brother?"

"That's not the point. You didn't listen. And now your girlfriend is dead and Katy Miller just barely escaped with her life."

"I never hurt either one of them."

"Yeah, you did. You caused it. If you'd listened to me, you think they'd be where they are now?"

His words hit home, but I pushed on. "And what about you, Pistillo? What about your burying Laura Emerson's connection "

"Hey, I'm not here to play point-counterpoint with you. You're going to jail tonight. And make no mistake, I'll get you convicted."

He headed for the door.

"Pistillo?" When he turned around, I said, "What are you really after here?"

He stopped and leaned so that his lips were only inches from my ear. He whispered, "Ask your brother," and then he was gone.

38

I spent the night in the precinct holding pen at Midtown South on West 35th Street. The cell reeked of urine and vomit and that sour-vodka smell when a drunk sweats. It was still a step up from the aroma of flight-attendant cologne. I had two cellmates. One was a cross-dressing hooker who cried a lot and seemed confused about sitting or standing when using the metal toilet. My other cellmate was a black man who slept the whole time. I have no jail stories about being beaten or robbed or raped. The night was totally uneventful.

Whoever was working the night shift spun a CD of Bruce Springsteen's "Born to Run." Talk about comfort food. Like every good Jersey boy, I had the lyrics memorized. This may sound strange, but I always thought of Ken when I listened to the Boss's power ballads. We were not blue collar or suffering hard times, and neither of us had been into fast cars or hanging out on the shore (in Jersey, it's always "the shore," never "the beach") then again, judging by what I've seen at recent E Street Band concerts, that was probably true of most of his listeners but there was something in the stories of struggle, the spirit of a man in chains trying to break free, of wanting something more and finding the courage to run away, that not only resonated with me but made me think of my brother, even before the murder.

But tonight, when Bruce sang that she was so pretty he got lost in the stars, I thought about Sheila. And I ached all over again.

My one call had been to Squares. I woke him up. When

I told him what happened, he said, "Bummer." Then he promised to find me a good lawyer and see what he could learn about Katy's condition.

"Oh, the security tapes from that Quick Go Squares said.

"What about them?"

"Your idea worked. We'll be able to see them tomorrow."