The Burning Edge

But she survived.

And she would endure. She had no choice. She’d pull herself out of this pit.

I’m strong.

With the machine loaded, she leaned against it and hugged herself.

Taking comfort in the washer’s calming drone she slid her hands up and down her arms, thinking that it had been so long since she and Bobby had been—well—two years.

Two years.

Amid her emotional inferno, she acknowledged an aching, buried deep in her anguished loneliness, and she found herself thinking of a man she’d met hours earlier.

That reporter who’d approached her in Ramapo at the service center.

Jack Gannon.

Lisa had read his stories. He seemed to know as much about this case as the FBI; enough to piss off Morrow, so he must be good.

Gannon had been a bit pushy, but he didn’t come across as a jerk, which was her impression of press people, at least from movies and TV shows. Sure, that’s dumb, but this Gannon guy was different.

In the moment they’d met she’d sensed something she liked about him. He had a good face, a kind face, and the way he stood up to Morrow—“Is that right, miss? Does Agent Morrow speak for you?”—he’d exuded an air of confidence and trustworthiness.

She remembered how he’d kept his eyes on her as they drove away.

She knew because she’d kept her eyes on him.

29

Yonkers, New York

Jack Gannon hit the buzzer a third time at the outside entrance to Jerry Falco’s apartment above Save-All Electronics.

No response.

Frustrated, he turned, thinking that maybe Falco was at the Big Smile Deli Mart across the street. Then he heard movement inside the entrance landing. A man bent by age, wearing a fedora, sweater and baggy pants, pushed through the door.

Gannon held it open for him.

“Excuse me, sir. I’m looking for Jerry Falco.”

The man stopped.

“Who?”

Gannon spotted the hearing aid under wisps of silver-white hair.

“Falco. Jerry Falco. I’m supposed to meet him here at noon.”

“Falco? That kook?” The man started down the street. “Upstairs.”

Kook?

Great. This is what I’m dealing with. A pervy kook who can’t answer his own door, Gannon thought, taking the creaking stairs and nearly choking on the smell of cats. Gospel music leaked from somewhere into the gloomy hall as he banged on Falco’s door.

Gannon couldn’t meet with him last night because he got tied up in the newsroom. Falco had agreed to meet today at twelve noon sharp, to discuss reviewing his “video surveillance of the street for the time and date in question.”

What are the chances this weirdo can help me?

As a reporter, Gannon had met enough oddballs to know that you could never assume who was a waste of time, and who was going to come through for you unless you invested some shoe leather.

Trouble was, he didn’t know how much longer he could continue searching for his tipster. If he didn’t find something soon, he’d have to give it up. Lisker was breathing down his neck for another exclusive. He wanted him to help Chad Feldman, the business reporter, investigate American Centurion. Feldman had heard that the FBI– NYPD Joint Task Force was going harder on the armored-car company than anyone had imagined.

We get the sense something could break there, Lisker said ten minutes ago in an email to Gannon. Call me.

Gannon considered telling Lisker about his tip.

But what would I tell him?

He didn’t trust Lisker to understand the gut feeling he had about it and would bet a month’s salary that Lisker would force him to report on it prematurely, which would only guarantee his source would never surface again. It could also point the way for the competition, who could take the story away from you. No, he could not tell anyone at the WPA, not until he found his source and confirmed his veracity.

Gannon would call Lisker later.

But he was running out of time.

He hammered on Falco’s door again.

“Jerry, it’s Jack Gannon from the WPA!”

Locks clicked and the door across the hall cracked as far as the security chain allowed. A woman with white hair curled tight and pinned down everywhere glared at him. She cradled a cat in her arms while another one threaded between her ankles.

“Who the hell are you?”

“I’m a friend of Jerry’s.”

“He’s not home, get out.”

“Do you know where I could find him?”

“It’s Wednesday—if you’re his friend you’d know.”

“I’m his new friend…I just met him yesterday. Is that a calico?”

“On Wednesday mornings Falco meets his parole officer, then he goes to the Dented Tin Can.”

“The what?” Gannon was lost. “His parole officer?”

“Didn’t he tell you he’s done time in the big house?”

“For what?”

“Some friend you are.”

“We just met. What’s the Dented Tin Can?”

“It’s the hellhole bar two blocks north.”

“But it’s noon.”

“That’s where he is.”

The Dented Tin Can was in a crumbling brick building. It had neon signs behind its barred windows and it sat between two trash-filled alleys. Inside, the light was dim. Gannon waited for his eyes to adjust as a ballad yearned from the jukebox for a lost love.

He thought of Katrina before he was distracted.

Worse than Falco’s building, this place reeked of stale beer, cigarettes and melancholy. The bar was scarred, the bar stools patched with duct tape. Affixed to one of them was a middle-aged woman who looked as if she’d put on her makeup during an earthquake. She pointed her cigarette and two inches of ash at the bartender, telling him that childhood trauma caused her problems. “Freakin’ stepfather. Did I tell you what he did?”

Jerry Falco was alone in a booth hunched over a copy of the New York Post and four—Gannon counted—four empty beer bottles. It’s barely afternoon. Was he wearing the same clothes he wore yesterday?

“Mr. Falco? Jack Gannon, WPA. We have a meeting?”