Chapter 1

Under normal circumstances, Carlo Baresi liked rain. It washed away the worst smells of Manhattan. It encouraged green sprouts to poke their way through cracks in the sidewalk. It gave him a good reason to hide in the back of a movie theater and stare at Burt Lancaster and Howard Keel for hours on end.

Tonight was anything but normal.

Icy droplets battered the taxi’s windshield. When he tried to peer through the window, his breath fogged the cold glass. Streetlights might’ve helped, but he’d parked on a little-used side street without illumination for a reason. Nobody could see him here. Nobody could find out.

Tell that to his sweaty palms.

For the third time since climbing behind the steering wheel, Carlo scrubbed his hands along his wool pants to dry them off. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so antsy. His butterflies were never this bad for auditions. But he kept picking up the flashlight he’d brought to shine it on his wristwatch, counting down the minutes until it was time to go. Last time he’d looked, he still had five minutes to go. Three hundred seconds of picturing every little thing that could possibly go wrong.

Considering his imagination was his second best asset, it was no wonder his stomach felt like it was taking a nosedive off the top of the Chrysler Building.

He was overreacting. He knew that. The job was an easy one, the payoff more than worth it. But Carlo had managed to escape trouble for most of his twenty-two years by first being heavily involved at school, then finding both of his jobs well beyond the boundaries of Little Italy. He didn’t have firsthand experience at bending the rules. Not that driving a taxi and making a phone call were illegal, but he wasn’t so green not to realize the man who’d offered him the deal operated under his own code of ethics.

If his parents ever found out this was how he got his big break, they’d drag him to St. Patrick’s and lock him in a confessional until he needed a walker to make his way out again.

Nervous laughter bubbled up. He was damned already. His soul had been a lost cause since he’d discovered how much nicer it was to sneak off with one of the other altar boys than any of the available girls in the choir. Nothing he did tonight could blemish it more than it already was.

Time to check the watch again.

Three minutes.

The taxi reeked of cigarettes. Carlo hated the habit, but right now, he couldn’t help but wonder if maybe it might calm him down. It seemed to work for other guys. His dad sure was in a better mood after having a smoke when he got home from a long day at work.

Stretching across the front seat, he checked the glove compartment. No dice. All it held was a crumpled pack of Wrigley’s gum, a couple of stained Belmont racing forms, and an empty flask. Geez, was there a bad habit the taxi’s usual driver didn’t have?

Carlo sat back with a huff. So much for that idea. The distraction did work in one way, though. It killed enough time that when he checked his watch again, only one minute remained.

Close enough.

Fog still covered the windshield after he started the engine. Pulling his cuff over his hand, he swiped away the worst of it, only to discover the pouring rain didn’t want him to see, either. He turned on the wipers as fast as they would go and edged away from the curb.

The pick-up point was around the corner. Though Vestry had streetlights, the weather washed away the world, forcing Carlo to creep along so he could see the road. He’d scouted the area on foot as soon as he’d accepted the job, memorizing landmarks so he didn’t look like a knucklehead tonight. But those were practically invisible, everything beyond the sidewalk a black blur. Panic began to replace his nerves. He took a deep breath in hopes of calming his pounding heart.

Then, a shadow stepped into one of the pools of light spilling onto the street. It was a man, broad and bulky in a trenchcoat with the collar turned up and his hands shoved in the pockets. Nobody else was in sight. The man turned his head toward Carlo and nodded.

Carlo exhaled. This was it.

He pulled up and flipped the vacant sign off when the back door opened. The hollow sound of the rain hitting the roof grew tinny with the rush of cold air, muffling again once the man had slid inside. Droplets flew off the man’s coat as he settled back, but when he met Carlo’s gaze in the rearview mirror, Carlo’s knuckles tightened around the wheel.

This wasn’t the guy he was supposed to pick up.

In his instructions, Mr. Stout had never described the passenger. “But how can I be sure it’s him?” Carlo had pressed.

“You think Vestry’s crawling with suits at two o’clock in the morning?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Did I hire you to ask questions?”

“You said you were hiring me because nobody knew who I was.”

“Including Mr. Ascher. Don’t worry. You’ll have his number.”

Carlo had his passenger’s number, all right. But unless Joseph Donnelly had a secret life posing as someone named Ascher, something had just gone seriously wrong.

When Carlo didn’t speak, Joe frowned. “Aren’t you my ride?”

There was the proof he’d been waiting specifically for Carlo to show up. Carlo swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded. “All I need is the address for the meeting.” He got the line out just as he’d been told, though his intentions to try a new accent were squashed by his returning anxiety.