CHAPTER 1

IT WAS COMING on three a.m. when I finally managed to get myself smuggled out ofHarlem by a uniform who owed me a favor.

As we negotiated the gridlock maze of news satellite vans, barricades, andmounted crowd-control cops, there still wasn't the slightest hint about who hadkilled D-Ray.

Any standoff that led to a death would have been bad enough, but this bizarreshooting was the department's worst nightmare come true. No matter how muchevidence suggested that the NYPD wasn't responsible, it looked like wewere. The rabble-rousers, conspiracy theorists, and their many friends in theNew York City media were going to have a field day.

And if that wasn't enough to make me rip into a blister pack of Prilosec, therewas the mountain of reports and other red tape I'd be facing come morning. I'dhave gladly accepted another caning from D-Ray's grandaunt instead.

When the cop dropped me off in front of my West End Avenue apartment building, Iwas so burnt out from fatigue, unresolved tension, and worry about what layahead that I almost stumbled to the door. I craved a few hours of peaceful sleepas a man who'd been crawling for days through the desert craves an oasis.

But the oasis turned out to be a mirage. Right off the bat, my crazy Dominicandoorman, Ralph, seemed pissed off that I had to wake him up. I liked Ralph, butI was in no mood for petty surliness, and I gave him a look that told him so.

"Any time you want to trade jobs, Ralph, just let me know," I said.

He lowered his eyes apologetically. "Rough night, Mr. Bennett?"

"You'll read about it tomorrow in the Times."

When I finally made it into my darkened apartment, the Crayola products andPolly Pocket debris that crunched underfoot were actually welcoming. I musteredup enough energy to lock up my service weapon and ammo in the pistol safe in myfront hall closet. Then, totally wiped, I collapsed onto one of the high stoolsat the kitchen island.

If my wife, Maeve, were still here, she'd be standing at the stove right now,handing me an icy Bud while something wonderful fried—chicken wings or acheeseburger, heavy on the bacon. With divinely sent, cop-wife wisdom, she knewthat the only panaceas for the grim reality of the streets were grease, coldbeer, a shower, and bed, with her warm beside me.

A strange moment of clarity pierced my weariness, and I realized that she hadn'tjust been my love—she'd been my life support. On nights like this, thereally bad ones, she'd listen for hours if I needed to talk, and understandcompletely when I couldn't.

Right then, more than anything in the world, I longed to feel her fingers caressthe back of my neck as she told me that I'd tried my best. That sometimesthere's nothing we can do. I would circle her waist with my hands, and her magicwould make all my doubts and guilt and stress disappear.

Maeve had been dead for almost a year now, and in all that time, I hadn't foundany new ways to cope with it—only new ways to miss her.

I'd been at the funeral of a homicide victim one time and heard his mother quotea poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay. It kept ringing in my ears lately, like asong you can't get out of your head.

Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender the kind ...

I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

I don't know how much longer I can live without you, Maeve, I thought. My headsagged, and I leaned my forearms on the counter for support.

But I jerked back upright when I noticed that my left hand was resting in a poolof something sticky. I examined the stuff, sniffed it, then tasted it: grapejelly, Welch's finest, covering not just my hand, but my whole suit jacketsleeve.

Living without you isn't the only thing that's impossible, I told Maevewhile I stood up on tired legs to search for a paper towel.

How can I take care of all our kids the way only you could?

CHAPTER 2

I WAS HOPELESS on the domestic front, all right. I couldn't even find a papertowel. I rinsed off the jelly with water as well as I could, and put the suitcoat in a closet with some other clothes that were waiting to be dry-cleaned. Myluck started looking better when I poked around inside the fridge. There was aSaran-wrapped plate of baked ziti on a shelf, and I dug up a can of Coors Lightburied beneath half a case of Capri Suns in the drink drawer. I set themicrowave humming, and I was just crunching open my Silver Bullet when a hair-raisingsound emanated from the dark interior of my apartment—a sort ofhowling moan followed by a long, unholy splatter. Then it happened again, onlyin a different tone.

As I slowly lowered my untouched brew, I was visited by one of those blinkmoments I'd read about. Though my conscious mind wasn't sure what was causingthose noises, some deeper instinct warned me that it signaled a danger that anysane person would flee with all his might.

Against my better judgment, I staggered down the hall in that direction. Peeringaround a corner, I spotted a bar of light under the rear bathroom door. Itiptoed to it and slowly twisted the knob.

I stood rooted there, speechless with visceral horror. My instincts had been alltoo correct. I should have fled when I had the chance.

Not one, not two, but three of my children were projectile-vomiting into thetub. It was like looking at an outtake from The Exorcist while you wereseeing triple. I reared back as Ricky, Bridget, and Chrissy hurled again, eachone's upchuck triggered by the previous one, like they were trying to puke acampfire round. Think Vesuvius, Krakatoa, and Mount Saint Helens all going offin musical succession.

Before I could catch myself, I made the mistake of breathing through my nose. Mystomach lurched precariously. I blessed my stars that I hadn't had a chance toeat during the Harlem siege, or to get started on the ziti. Otherwise, yourstruly would have chimed in a fourth eruption of his own.

My Irish nanny, Mary Catherine, was right beside the kids, her golden ringletsbouncing out from beneath a red bandanna as she mopped furiously at the blowbackthey left. She had wisely put on elbow-length, industrial rubber gloves andcovered her face with another bandanna, but I could see from hereyes—usually crisp blue, but now damp and faded—that she was asexhausted as I was.

She gave me a quick wave, then pulled off the bandanna and said, in her liltingbrogue, "Mike, remember before you left for work, I told you Chrissy was lookinga little green?"

I nodded mutely, still struggling to absorb the enormity of the situation.

"I think that flu that's been going around school has arrived," Mary Catherinesaid. "Repent, for the plague is upon us."

I crossed myself solemnly, trying to pick up her joke to make us both feel alittle better. But a nervous part of me wasn't entirely kidding. The way thingshad been going, maybe this was the plague.

"I've got it from here, Mary," I said, taking the mop from her. "You'reofficially off duty."

"That, I most certainly am not," she said indignantly. "Now, the Tylenol is inthe cabinet over the sink, but we're running out of cough syrup, and—"

"And enough," I said, pointing toward the stairs to her upstairs apartment,formerly the maid's quarters. "I don't need any more patients to take care of."

"Oh? What makes you think you won't get sick?" She folded her arms in stubbornloyalty, which I'd come to know well. "Because you're a big tough copper?"

I sighed. "No—because I don't have time to. Get some sleep and you cantake over in the morning, okay? That's what I'm going to need."

She wavered, then gave me a weary but sweet smile.

"You're not fooling anybody," Mary Catherine said. "But okay."

CHAPTER 3

I MOANED along with the kids as the door closed behind Mary Catherine.

It's not that I don't love my children. I really do. But I'm the guardian of thekind of brood that would send Mother Teresa doctor-shopping for pharmaceuticalassistance.

How's this for the Bennett lineup? Juliana, thirteen; Brian, twelve; Jane,eleven; Ricky, ten; Eddie, nine; twins Fiona and Bridget, eight; Trent, six;Shawna, five; and Chrissy, four. A total of ten, count them: two Hispanic, twoblack, one Asian, and the rest white. All of them are adopted. Prettyimpressive, I know. Not many families can field a multicultural baseball team,plus a bench player.

It was primarily Maeve's idea. We started taking in her "stray angels," as shecalled our gang way back before Brangelina got into the act. How could either ofus have foreseen the nightmare of her death from cancer at the age of thirty-eight?

I wasn't completely alone, thank God. Mary Catherine had appeared like a giftfrom heaven while Maeve was dying, and for some unfathomably merciful reason,she still hadn't fled screaming. My crotchety grandfather-turned-priest, Seamus,was pastor of Holy Name Church, just around the corner. He'd wangled the job sohe could help with the kids and disapprove of me, but the disapproval was asmall price to pay for his help.

But it had been nearly impossible to take care of my young ones even when theirmother was still alive and they were perfectly healthy. What was I going to dowith the apartment transformed into a children's ward at a hospital?

A thousand worries sprang up in my already stress-racked head. How was I goingto get the well kids to school? What about taking the sick ones to a doctor'soffice? How much sick leave did I have left? Had I paid this month's healthinsurance premium on time? And what about the missed schoolwork? An image of thekids' strong-willed, meticulous principal, Sister Sheilah, loomed in my mindlike a specter.

I palmed my forehead and took a deep breath. I was a trained problem solver, Ireminded myself. I could get us through this. It was temporary—a roughspot for sure, but a brief one. Like in any survival situation, the worst thingI could do was panic.

I bent down over Chrissy, my youngest, as she began to wail at the tippity-topof her lungs. Through her thin Backyardigans pj top, I could feel her burning upwith fever. So were her copatients, Ricky and Bridget. They all started whiningfor ginger ale.

Me, too, I thought, searching around frantically for Mary Catherine's sparebandanna. And let's not spare the Jack Daniel's.

CHAPTER 4

THE MAN IN the beautifully tailored, two-button Givenchy suit had finished hismorning's work with his usual expertise and speed. Many things in his life hadchanged since he had seen the truth—he was a new man now—but hissuperior intelligence and skills remained intact.

As he stepped into the garage of the stately Locust Valley home, he heard thelawn sprinklers kick on. He glanced at the black dial of his stainless-steelRolex Explorer. Seven a.m. sharp. Excellent: he was running ahead of schedule,just the way he liked it.

He opened the gleaming door of the BMW 720Li, placed his Vuitton briefcase onthe passenger seat, and swung his long, muscular legs under the steering wheel.As he adjusted the rearview mirror, he caught his own reflection. With his lean,brutally chiseled features, his razor-straight, collar-length black hair, andpiercing, almost royal blue eyes, he looked like a model in a VanityFair ad. He smiled, showing himself his dimples and his perfect, gleamingwhite teeth.

He had it all, didn't he? he thought.

The V12 engine of the luxury BMW sedan came to life with an elegant explosionwhen he turned the key.

Too bad "it all" wasn't nearly enough.

While the engine warmed, the New Man took a Palm Treo 750 smart phone from hissilk-lined inside jacket pocket. The little gadget could do everything: phone,e-mail, surf the Web. He clicked on Microsoft Tasks and opened the file he'dbeen working on.

It was a mission statement, a brief written summary of his goals, philosophy,and ambitions. He'd actually gotten the idea from the movie JerryMaguire, of all places. In it, Tom Cruise's character sends out a missionstatement that gets everyone all riled up.

That was precisely what the New Man was going to do today.

Except this was no movie.

He still liked Cruise, even though Cruise had made a fool of himself onOprah with his couch-jumping antics. Maybe it was the slight resemblancethey shared, but the New Man considered him a kind of a role model, almost apsychic brother. Cruise was a perfectionist, a peerless professional, awinner—just like himself.

Rereading the document for the hundredth time, he knew it was complete. The onlyproblem that remained was how to sign it. There was no way he could use his realname, and the "New Man" wasn't distinguished enough. He could feel the true namehovering at the edge of his mind, but he couldn't quite reel it in. Well, itwould come, he thought, closing the Treo down and tucking it back into hisjacket. The important things always did.

He jauntily tapped the garage door opener on the Beemer's visor, and backed outsmoothly toward the daylight flooding in through the rising door.

Then his passing glance caught the rearview mirror again—just in time tosee the immense grille of a Lincoln Navigator, parked in the driveway directlyin his path.

He slammed on the brakes barely in time to keep from ramming the Navigator andturning the shiny, showy grille into a twisted chunk of metal.

He exhaled a seething breath through his gritted teeth and wrenched thegearshift into park. Goddamn Erica! She had to leave her monster SUV rightthere, didn't she? Exactly in the one spot where he couldn't getaround it. Now he'd have to go back inside the house, find the keys, move it,then start all over again in the Beemer. Like he wasn't in a distinctrush here. Like he didn't have important things to do. Erica wouldn't understandthat—she'd never had anything important to do.

And now, she never would.

That thought made him feel a little better, but when he strode back to theNavigator three minutes later, his annoyance erupted all over again. This wascutting into his comfortable extra margin of time.

He twisted the key in the ignition so hard it bent, floored the accelerator, andthrew the tranny into reverse. The SUV's seventeen-inch tires screamed as itrocketed backward, streaking rubber down the length of the herringbone-patternedlimestone driveway. Instead of curving along with it, he kept going straight,onto the immaculate lawn. The spinning tires tore deep gouges and threw up tuftsof shining green grass.

Leaving the Navigator's engine running, he parked the BMW, much more carefully,on the deserted suburban street. He was feeling a little calmer now. He wasalmost done with this crap, almost back where he'd started, and still ahead ofschedule.

Then, as he was getting into the Navigator to return it to where it had been, acold jet of water from a sprinkler pop-up lashed across the back of his designersuit from his shoulders to his waist.

His blue eyes practically smoked with fury, and he almost started pounding onthe steering wheel with the heels of his hands. But a memory cut in, from ananger management therapy session he'd been ordered to take part in several yearsbefore. The therapist had concentrated on techniques to ratchet down hisdestructive rage: count backward from ten, breathe deeply, clench his fists, andpretend he was squeezing oranges.

Squeeze your oranges, he could almost hear her soothing voice saying tohim. Then flick, flick, flick off the juice.

He gave it a try. Squeeze and flick. Squeeze and flick.

The sprinkler jet shot across the Navigator again, pissing into his face throughthe open window.

"I'll show you anger management, you idiot bitch!" he snarled, and stomped onthe accelerator.

Spraying grass and chunks of limestone, the SUV hurtled straight through thegarage and into the back wall at thirty-five miles per hour. The crash was likea bomb going off in a phone booth, with studs splintering and clouds of drywalldust billowing through the air.