No matter how impossible it all had sounded, no matter how insane his mind had gone, he realized that if there was truth to the letter, truth to the watch, he just might be able to save her.

THE DOOR SUDDENLY opened. Marcus Bennett’s large frame filled the doorway. Wearing gray pin-striped pants, a blue Hermès tie, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up, he was the epitome of style worn upon a tough, lumberjack-thick build. He held a crystal glass in each of his large, pawlike hands as he walked into the room.

Neighbors for six years, he and Nick were more than the usual drive-by-and-wave friends. Sharing a love of hockey, they had become each other’s excuse for catching 90 percent of the Rangers’ home games. They were passionate in their fandom, both having played in high school but neither rising to the level their overconfident self-image thought they deserved. To compensate for their unrealized aspirations, to prolong the dream, to extend the revelry of youth, they played in a men’s league every Wednesday night; Nick was goalie, Marcus his ever-present defenseman.

At thirty-nine, Marcus was seven years Nick’s senior. An attorney by schooling, he had bypassed the law for the field of mergers and acquisitions. Highly successful, he had amassed a fortune by the age of thirty-two but had since seen it dwindle as the result of multiple divorces and never-ending alimony payments, though he still was one of the wealthiest men in town. His expert vision for vulnerable firms to be taken over and exploited was not matched by his selection of female companions. Nick wasn’t sure if Marcus was blinded by lust or beauty, but there was no doubt that Marcus’s insight into woman paled next to his business acumen: three marriages, three divorces, six years.

With each failure, Marcus buried himself in work, swearing off women, even drunkenly threatening to become a priest as his momentary hatred of the female sex blinded him to all logic. But blind hatred would inevitably dissolve and be replaced by a new blind love.

As a result of his failures of the heart, he was close not only to Nick but also to Julia. She was the voice of reason, of comfort. She was the sister that Marcus never had, helping him through his emotional journey. She watched as he rode the roller-coaster of emotions from sorrow, to anger, to utter confusion. With Marcus, the love he thought eternal always flamed out more quickly than his latest Bentley lease.

Currently, Marcus was on to his latest conquest. Sheila was a former spokesmodel, though no one could figure out who she spoke for or if she ever actually had a real modeling credit to her name. Stunningly beautiful, with thick black hair and deep chestnut eyes, she was the physical antithesis to redheaded Blythe, his third wife, the pale beauty who hung on to the brass ring for all of eighteen months and walked away a ten-million-dollar prize winner.

His premature gray hair having receded to nothingness, his off-kilter nose broken three times on the ice, Marcus was far from handsome. He had never been known for his looks, possessing one of those faces that was lost in a crowd, forgotten by most. But his wallet and warm sincere smile always led his charge into the battles of love, attracting many and helping him to overcome any insecurity caused by his prior nuptial failures.

Marcus remained silent as he handed Nick a glass. There were no words exchanged, the moment hanging heavy with grief as Marcus’s brown eyes filled with anguish.

Nick stared silently at the glass, his mind briefly lost in the tawny color and smell of the scotch.

“I know you’re not a drinker.” Marcus’s voice was deep and commanding. “But all rules are lost now.”

Nick lifted the glass and took a long sip.

Marcus thrust his hand forward, opening his palm to reveal two Xanax. “They’re Sheila’s. She’s got three bottles of them. If you prefer Valium, she has that, too.”

Nick shook his head, avoiding the thought of taking an entire bottle to end this nightmare.

“The coroner’s over there with two detectives. They’re checking out everything. They said the whole place needs to be printed, evaluated, and photographed before they…” Marcus had trouble continuing. “Before they take her away.”

Nick knew all of this, he knew exactly how the hour was about to unfold. He knew the black body bag would be wheeled out atop the gurney in five minutes, the white-haired coroner leading the way, he knew the detectives’ names: Shannon and Dance, who would be coming through the door soon. And he knew all about Mitch Shuloff.

“You remember Mitch?” Marcus asked, as if reading Nick’s mind. “He came with us last year to watch the Red Wings crush the Rangers.”

Nick remembered. He was the obnoxious one who never shut up, obsessed with always being right, and even worse, he usually was.

“He’s the best. Plus I was about to call him anyway; he lost a thousand to me last night betting against the Yankees. Don’t hold it against him, but he’s a BoSox fan.”

That was exactly what Marcus had said before, exactly how Nick remembered it.

“Despite all that, he’s the best criminal attorney in New York,” Marcus continued. “You need a personality like his to cut through the bullshit and beat back unfounded accusations.”

Nick also remembered that Mitch hadn’t shown up at the police station.

“His problem, though, I will tell you, he’s not the most punctual. Let me get him over here, not that there’s going to be an issue, but you should never talk to a bunch of cops whose education was a marginal GED and whose view of the world doesn’t extend beyond Miller time and American Idol.”

Marcus walked to his large leather-topped desk and picked up the phone.

As Nick watched him dial, he debated what to say, wondering if he should let Marcus in on his little nervous breakdown.

“Before you make that call,” Nick interrupted.

Marcus stopped, slowly putting down the phone.

“I don’t know how to say this…” Nick paused, seeming to send a moment of unease through Marcus. “But I need to find out who did this.”

Marcus walked around his desk and leaned back against it. “They will. And the bastard will be held accountable.”

“No. I need to… I need to stop him.”

“Stop him from what?” Marcus said, confusion surfacing.

“I’ve got to find him.”

Marcus just stared, listening, pausing, searching for what to say. “Let the cops do that. Whoever did this is as dangerous as they come.”

“She’s not dead,” Nick blurted out.

Marcus exhaled, gathering himself. “Words can’t even express my sorrow for you. She was… perfection. Truly, if ever that word had a meaning, it was Julia.”

Nick put the glass of scotch on the end table and ran his hands slowly down his face, trying to focus, trying to determine if he was about to step off into a psychotic abyss.

“I can save her,” Nick said, jumping off into the illogical.

Marcus sat there patiently listening, watching as his best friend’s mind fell in on itself.

“I can’t explain it. I don’t know how, but I can save her.”

Marcus’s eyes remained fixed on Nick, not angry, not condemning. His eyes were pain-filled, heartbroken. Though he tried, he couldn’t imagine the depth of Nick and Julia’s love for each other, and he knew that with love so deep, the pain must be even greater.

“What if I said I could tell you the future?”

“Like if the Yankees will win the Series this year?” Marcus asked, lost to where Nick was going.

Nick stared at the fireplace, thinking how to proceed.

“I’m sorry,” Marcus said. “I… didn’t mean to-”

“No, it’s okay.” Nick turned back and looked deeply at his friend. “This sounds crazy. But hear me out. In a little while, they’ll arrest me, bring me in, try to get me to confess to something I didn’t do, show me a gun I’ve never seen before.”