Absent Friends

About Spano's relationship with Jack Molloy, Thomas Molloy said, “Dad and Jack didn't have anything on the Spanos. If anyone had any kind of criminal empire in those days—though I think that's overdramatic—it was Aldo Spano. He passed it on to Eddie.” Asked whether his half-brother may have run afoul of Aldo or Edward Spano, Molloy admitted that was possible.

On the question of the payments made to Sally Keegan, Molloy refused to speculate. “Jimmy McCaffery was a good friend of mine when we were kids. Just because suing the state was his idea doesn't mean he knew anything about the lies that happened later. We were all taken in, it looks like.”

“This is the story Harry Randall was working on when he died,” Tribune investigative journalist Laura Stone told reporters. “Only this one, the McCaffery story. If his death wasn't suicide, it's logical to wonder what the connection is. Although he wasn't specific, Harry Randall had, in the past few days, expressed fears for his own safety.” Asked about the status of the work Harry Randall left unfinished, Stone answered, “Whatever Harry Randall was working on, the Tribune will follow it up. If his death is related to his work, the Tribune will find out.”

PHIL'S STORY

Chapter 4

The Bodies of the Birds

October 31, 2001

Phil read the Tribune's story on Harry Randall's death just as he'd read the others. Hugh Jesselson's byline was on it. Jesselson was a cop and crime reporter; Phil had run across him before, bound to in his line of work.

And Jesselson made this clear: the Tribune's take on Randall's death was different from everyone else's.

Jesselson's reporting was straight and dry, but the message was clear: The Tribune wasn't convinced. The Tribune wanted to know more. The Tribune couldn't see a reason for a man in Randall's position to take a swan dive through the clear October air.

What position was that? Phil studied the story, digging into his eggs. He discovered, because it was not there, something else. No police sources were quoted, no investigation cited. No matter whose byline was on the story, the NYPD was apparently not inclined to dig deeper into Randall's death.

But the Tribune was.

Laura Stone, another Tribune reporter—had Phil seen her name, maybe on the Bronx chemical spill story? Something like that, something that took digging, brains, and guts, he wasn't sure what, but he remembered being impressed—Laura Stone said her colleague Harry Randall had been working on something. Something big. He'd told her a certain amount about it. He'd expressed fears for his own safety.

Phil tore a piece of toast in half, chased crumbs of bacon around his plate. Expressed fears? The Harry Randall who'd sat in Phil's office, slouching in his chair as though even dynamite wouldn't dislodge him until he'd gotten his answers—and smiling as if to say the way he knew that was that dynamite had once or twice been tried—that Harry Randall had expressed fears?

No.

No, not even if he'd felt them. And Phil, remembering Randall's amused, acid-sharp eyes, his relaxed, drink-worn face, the drawling slow rhythm Phil had not been able to disrupt, did not think Randall had been a frightened man.

What, then? Not hard to figure out. “Whatever Harry Randall was working on, the Tribune will follow it up. If his death is related to his work, the Tribune will find out.”

Meaning: I'm here, if you want to stand up, show yourself, take another shot.

MARIAN'S STORY

Chapter 3

The Invisible Man

Steps Between You and the Mirror

October 31, 2001

As Marian stepped inside, the broad oak door swung shut, blockading the footsteps and fluorescent buzz of the cramped corridor, forbidding them entry into the wide quiet of the MANY Foundation's office.

Outside this well-oiled door—in the vinyl-tiled hallway, in the security-guarded lobby, on the crowded streets—frowning women and men scurried about on unconnected errands. Here within, where plant-draped partitions supported polished woodwork surfaces hovering over carpet the color of moss, all was purpose and peace. In a flight of fancy Marian had once likened herself and her staff to forest creatures, vibrant with industry, intent upon their daily tasks. “You do know,” Sam had asked, “that the daily task of half those cute little creatures is eating the other half?” Marian had smiled indulgently and hadn't replied.

That smile, that flight of fancy, had been before.