“Welcome, welcome. I don’t know why we have a foreigner working for us, but in the long scheme of things, it doesn’t matter, does it? We shook hands, change your gloves.”

Mike said, “This particular foreigner was born in L.A. Do you remember the sitcom A Fish out of Water, with Mitzie Manders? She’s Bo Horsley’s sister, and Nicholas’s mom.”

Janovich blinked, his mouth widened in a huge smile. “You’re kidding. I loved that show. She is a beautiful lady, and she had wonderful comic timing. Tell your mother she has a fan in the New York OCME, will you?” He gave Nicholas a closer look and smiled. “Since you’re a foreigner, that stands for Office of the Chief Medical Examiner.”

“I’ll tell her, and thank you,” Nicholas said, amused, but Janovich had already begun examining Mr. Pearce’s body, talking as he worked. Nicholas crouched down so he could listen in.

“Stab wound to the right kidney. Took him down fast and hard from behind. Created quite a mess. I’d say this poor man bled out within three or four minutes. The blade would need to be at least five inches long to make a gash that deep. Not much of a cut in the shirt, I’m betting a stiletto of some sort.”

“Who’s our killer, then?” Nicholas asked.

Dr. Janovich glanced up at Nicholas and started, as if surprised to see him there at face level. He flashed a rare smile. “I guess I’ll have to let you figure that out.”

Nicholas stood, groaning a little as his knees popped. Louisa hurried over to them. She handed Nicholas Pearce’s cell phone. “I got in, no problem. You’ll see Mr. Pearce received several texts recently. He was supposed to meet someone with the initials EP here this morning.”

Nicholas said, “There was a short conversation between Pearce and EP. Listen to this: ‘I have news. Meet me at the Pine Street entrance of Fed Hall.’

“And Pearce wrote back: ‘Can’t get downtown this a.m. Meet me at store instead?’

“EP: ‘Nine-one-one.’

“Pearce: ‘I hope this is the good kind of nine-one-one. On my way.’”

—

THERE WAS a fifteen-minute gap in time, then another outgoing message from 8:15 a.m. Only thirty minutes earlier.

‘I’m here, where are you?’

Both Mike and Nicholas could imagine Pearce walking quickly, distracted, worrying about what this EP and his 911 alert were all about, wondering what was so important it couldn’t wait.

The good kind of 911? What did that mean? And who was EP?

“Evidently,” Mike said, “EP didn’t show up. Do you think it was a ploy to draw Pearce here to kill him?”

“Or maybe EP did show up and it wasn’t a good kind of nine-one-one. They argued first, then EP killed him. Whatever, Mr. Pearce knew his killer. Maybe.”

Janovich began his prep to take the body back to the OCME. Nicholas went down on his knees next to Mr. Jonathan Pearce. He said quietly, “We’ll find who did this, sir. Mark my words.”

Mike said, “You know, we’ve had a lot of trouble with gangs recently. Committing a murder in broad daylight is a surefire way through initiation.”

“Anything is possible. But it seems rather unlikely that a New York gang would congregate on Wall Street and send text messages to their victims.”

“No, generally not. Unless it was a gang of stockbrokers.”

He grinned at her. “I know what you mean. They’re a deadly bunch in London.”

“Here, too.”

“Well, then,” Nicholas said, “let’s get out of Dr. Janovich’s way and see what the witnesses have to tell us.”

They made their way to the group of witnesses huddled on the corner. There was another crowd gathered across the street, gaping and pointing, shooting more video with their phones, probably calling all their friends. He didn’t think there was a single crime scene in the world today that wasn’t recorded down to the blood on the sidewalk.

Most of the witnesses were clearly upset, but a few were annoyed at having to stick around to talk to the police and be late to work. But most were eager to tell what they’d seen.

Mike took the lead. “I’m Special Agent Caine, and this is Special Agent Drummond, FBI. We’d appreciate your telling us exactly what you saw.” A furious babble erupted, and Mike put up her hands. “One at a time, please. Sir?”

He was the eldest of the group, a businessman in a gray wool suit. “I was walking across the street and heard the two men arguing. I looked over to see the older man fall.” He swallowed. “The dead man.”

Nicholas asked, “How much older was he than the man who stabbed him?”

“Twenty years, maybe. The guy, the killer, he looked about twenty-five, thirty. No more.”

Mike was taking notes in her small spiral-bound reporter’s notebook. “Could you hear what they were arguing about?”

“Not really, but they were fighting over something, I don’t know what.”

“It was the phone,” said an older woman dressed in head-to-toe white cashmere, holding a small Chihuahua. “The guy wanted his phone. After he stabbed the older man, he grabbed the phone and used it. I had the most absurd thought—that he was calling nine-one-one. But who would stab someone, then call nine-one-one? But then people started yelling at the man and he dropped the phone and took off running.”

She’d clearly been crying, her eyes were red and bloodshot. “I’ll never forget the way he looked right at me, before he ran away—” She shuddered and broke off. Mike watched her frown, then she yelled, pointing, “That’s him! He’s come back. Right over there—he’s standing in that crowd of people across the street!” People around them were shuffling to get a better look, and the Chihuahua was barking his head off.

4

Nicholas jerked around to see the man looking straight at him. The man didn’t hesitate. He shoved his way through the crowd, pushing people down, then he was free, running full out. He disappeared around the corner.

The crowd was shouting, an NYPD officer who was nearby hesitated a moment, then took off after him. Nicholas shouted to Mike, “Come on, come on, after him.”

The streets were packed with people at the start of the workday. Nicholas passed the cop, his long runner’s legs eating up the sidewalk. He saw the suspect half a block away, darting in and out of the crowds. He was in good shape, strong, fast as an Olympic sprinter, the bastard, pouring on the speed.

A woman fell in front of Nicholas, and he yanked her to her feet as he passed, shouting to the man, “Stop, FBI. Stop running now!”

Of course the man ignored him, continued running south. Where did he think he could go? Battery Park at the end of Manhattan? If he tried to jump on the Staten Island Ferry, Nicholas had him, no way he’d be able to speed through the throngs of people. But if he caught the tube—no, the subway—then he’d be gone.

Mike, where was Mike? He glanced over his shoulder, she was two yards behind him, her stride smooth and fast. His mobile rang, but he ignored it. The man turned a corner, and Mike shouted, “Turn right, turn right now, there’s a street across to Broadway, Exchange Place, cut him off. I’m going straight, we’ll box him in.”

Nicholas was nearly hit by a wildly honking cab, heard the driver cursing him, but he never slowed. He burst out onto Broadway, nearly behind Mr. Olympic. Ten yards, five—Nicholas could smell his sweat—yes, now he had him. Nicholas reached out an arm to snag the man’s shoulder when he turned, something in his hand, and he pointed it at Nicholas—

And Nicholas was on the ground, doubled over, pain shooting through his body. His muscles jerked and jittered, his teeth clenched, his entire body cramped in on itself until he was sure it was all over for him. He couldn’t breathe—then the pain stopped.