Page 41

PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA

Someone has rung the doorbell. It’s late and Michael is already on edge. He peers outside and sees a woman. She must see the peephole darken because she holds up an ID. He can see “FBI” prominently displayed on it.

Michael opens the door cautiously. The FBI agent introduces herself, but he doesn’t take in what she’s saying. His heart is pounding in his ears. O’Leary’s words hang in the back of his mind: It seems my companies have been infiltrated by a corporate spy.

“Mind if I come in?” the agent says, looking over Michael’s shoulder. The agent is tall with short hair, elegant in a way you wouldn’t expect.

He hesitates, but his head is clearing, survival mechanisms kicking in. He’s feared this day since he created the first shell company for Shane O’Leary. And he’s done far worse since then.

He nods for her to come inside. Takes her to the kitchen, explains that his daughter isn’t feeling well, offers the agent something to drink.

“I could use a whiskey, but I’m on duty,” she says with a smile.

Michael could use a shot himself, but doesn’t say so. “What can I do for you?”

The agent’s smile bleeds away. She says, “You ever heard of John Favara?”

Michael is confused. It’s an odd way to start a conversation. And the name is unfamiliar.

“I can’t say that I have.”

“On a spring day in 1980, Mr. Favara was driving home from work to his house in the Howard Beach section of Queens.”

“I’m not sure what this has to do with—”

“On his way home,” the agent interrupts, “from out of nowhere, a twelve-year-old boy darts into the street on a minibike, right in front of Mr. Favara’s car. The kid is rushed to the hospital but doesn’t make it.”

“That’s horrible, but again I’m not sure what it has to do with me. I don’t know Mr. Favara. I’ve never been to Queens. I’m not clear why you’re telling me this.”

The agent stares at Michael for what seems like a long time. “I’m telling you because the kid on the minibike was the son of a man named John Gotti. Have you heard of him?”

“You mean the mobster? Yeah, I’ve heard of him. But what’s—”

“So, the police rule it a tragic accident. The kid darted into the street in a blind spot. Clear-cut accident, so Mr. Favara faced no charges.”

“Okay…”

“But then something strange happened. John Gotti went on a vacation, and you know what happened to Mr. Favara?”

Michael feels his stomach clench. A bolt of ice jammed into his chest.

“Neither does anybody else. The last time Mr. Favara was seen he was being shoved into a van by a group of men.”

Michael feels the pulse in his temple throbbing. He tries to slow his breathing, show no reaction. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Why do you think?”

“I have no idea.” Michael holds the agent’s gaze. “And I don’t have time for riddles, so unless you want to tell me what this is all about, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

The agent doesn’t get up. “I think you know what I’m getting at here.”

“I’m afraid I don’t.” Michael stands, signaling that it’s time for the agent to go.

“Sit down, Mr. Harper.”

“I’d like you to leave.”

“If you want to save your daughter’s life, sit.”