Legacies

3.

Jack spent most of the afternoon looking at real estate. He finally found the place he wanted: a three-story Victorian town house on West Twenty-first Street between Seventh and Eighth Avenues.

The place had a history, and Dolores, the chubby agent from Hudak Realty, told him the whole sordid story. The previous owner had been a psychiatrist who'd blown his head off near Times Square and left the place to one of his patients. The patient later had an accident in the house and didn't want to stay there. So she was offering it for lease, fully furnished.

"Perfect," Jack told her. "But I must, absolutely must move in immediately. Rehearsals begin tomorrow, and I simply can't have any distractions."

Dolores said she was sure that would be no problem. She seemed ga-ga over the fact that her client was the actor who would be taking over the part of Javert in Les Miserables. He promised her tickets for his first performance. "When I step on that stage, you will be in the audience."

Jack signed a one-year lease as Jack Ferris, then paid first-month and last-month rent plus a security deposit with a check from a Santa Monica bank. He'd be done with the place before it bounced.

On the way out of the Hudak office he managed to snag a few pieces of stationery, and a blank deposit receipt form.

He picked up a disposable Kodak camera and hurried back to snap a couple of photos of the town house before the light faded. Then he called Jorge and met him at the Malibu Diner on Twenty-third—decent coffee and a fabulous array of their own baked goods.

He gave him the camera and a sheet with the layout and copy for the flyers they'd planned.

"Get this printed up with the Hudak Realty letterhead on top. Then pass them out like we discussed."

Jorge looked at the camera, at the rough sketch of the flyer, then at Jack.

"This will get me the money I am owed?"

Jack shrugged. "It's bait. If Ramirez bites, we've got a shot. If he doesn't, we'll try something else."

"All right. If you say so."

Jorge left, shaking his head.

Jack couldn't blame him. This was a long shot, even if Ramirez took the bait.

He stepped out under the Malibu's bright orange canopy and watched the crowd for a while. The offices and garment factories had let out and the hordes were on the move, streaming through the dark into the subway entrances or bustling toward Penn Station. Night came so early these days. Barely past five now and already the stars were poking through the inky mantle of night.

He headed back to the Center. All the while he'd been hiking around with the real estate agent—when he should have been concentrating on Jorge's problem—he'd found himself thinking instead about Alicia and that house. He kept reminding himself that it wasn't his sort of gig, that he couldn't resolve this for her.

But it wasn't concern for Alicia. It was the questions. It was the house. What was his secret? What was it about the place that a wealthy anonymous backer would offer a fortune for it through Thomas, and kill anyone who got in the way?

Jack had to admit it: He was hooked.

He wasn't far from the Center, so he headed that way. He wanted to tell Alicia that he'd figured a way she could keep her opponents off balance: Sean O'Neill. Jack had known the feisty little Irishman for years and knew he was an expert in legal harassment. He'd make life miserable for Thomas and his lawyers. He'd drown them in paper. Jack would have to warn him about the fate of his predecessor, but he doubted that would deter Sean.

As Jack came down Seventh, he thought he saw someone who looked like Alicia step out of the Center's front door and start downtown. He broke into a trot to catch up to her, and quickened his pace when he saw her turn a corner. She looked like she was heading home.

When Jack rounded that corner, he spotted her half a block ahead. He watched her angle toward the curb to avoid some guy sweeping the sidewalk. That brought her near a dark panel truck. Jack saw the truck's side panel door slide open, and as it did, the sweeper dropped his broom and charged Alicia, knocking her into the truck. He jumped in after her. The door slammed closed, and the truck roared off.

Jack stumbled a step and blinked. Had he really seen that? One second she was there, the next she was gone.

Shit!

He kicked into a sprint, dodging people and pushcarts and hand trucks as he dashed after the truck. He saw it up ahead. The light was turning red at Eighth Avenue. It would have to stop—

But no—it ran the red with a tire-squealing turn onto Eighth. An angry chorus of horns followed it uptown.

Jack kept running. He reached Eighth and stood panting, squinting into the red river of taillights streaming uptown. He spotted the truck two blocks ahead, moving away from him.

His mind raced. What now? He wasn't even sure that had been Alicia. And even if it was… he should stay out of it. Chasing after them himself was dangerous. Cowboy stuff like that was a sure way to get collared, and a collar could wreck his life. He should call the cops—do the 911 thing and let them handle it.

But he hadn't caught the license plate on the truck, and hadn't seen any distinctive markings.

She's in a dark panel truck somewhere on Eighth Avenue—maybe.

Yeah, right. That would—

A horn blared to his left. A taxi wanted to pull away from the curb, and Jack was blocking him. Jack held up his hand and approached the driver.