Central Park

airport that arrived in New York at 10:30 a.m. The last international flight left Paris just before 8:00 p.m. But at that time the previous evening, she had still been in Paris. Which meant that she and Gabriel had been flown over on a private jet. Assuming they had been put on a plane in Paris at 2:00 a.m., they would have arrived in New York at 4:00 a.m. local time—early enough for them to wake up in Central Park at 8:00 a.m. On paper, it wasn’t impossible. But in reality? Even for a private jet, the red tape involved in entering the United States was complicated. Something did not add up here.
“Oh, sorry!”
A young man on Rollerblades had just bumped into them. Mid-apology, he shot a surprised and suspicious look at their handcuffs.
An alarm went off in Alice’s head.
“We can’t just stay here like this, in plain sight,” she said. “We’ll be arrested in under a minute.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Quick, take my hand!”
“Huh?”
“Hold my hand—pretend we’re a couple,” she said brusquely. “Now, let’s cross the bridge.”
This was what they did. The air was crisp and dry. The outlines of Central Park West’s luxurious buildings stood out against the pure blue sky: the two towers of the San Remo, the legendary façade of the Dakota, the art deco apartments of the Majestic.
“Don’t you think we should tell the police anyway?” Gabriel asked, continuing to move forward.
“Oh yeah, great idea! Let’s throw ourselves to the lions!”
“You should listen to the voice of reason, babe—”
“Call me that again and I’ll strangle you with these handcuffs! I’ll crush your throat until your face turns blue. You won’t spout so much crap when you’re dead.”
He ignored the threat. “You should at least check in with the French embassy.”
“Not until we’ve worked out what really happened last night.”
“Well, don’t count on me to play along with your little game. As soon as we’re out of the park, I’m going to the first police station we see and telling them everything.”
“Are you really this dumb or are you just pretending? In case you haven’t noticed, we are handcuffed together, you moron! We’re inseparable! So until we find a way to break the chain, you will do as I do.”
Bow Bridge was a gentle transition between the wild vegetation of the Ramble and the neatly arranged gardens south of the lake. At the end of the bridge, they took the path that ran along the lake up to the granite dome of the Cherry Hill Fountain.
“I don’t understand—why won’t you go to the cops with me?” Gabriel asked.
“Because I know what the police will do.”
“But what gives you the right to drag me into your mess?” the musician protested.
“How is it my mess? I may be in shit up to my neck, but so are you.”
“Not at all. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Oh yeah? How can you be so sure? I thought you couldn’t remember what happened last night.”
This reply seemed to throw Gabriel off balance. “Are you saying you don’t believe me?”
“Why should I? All that bullshit about being in a bar in Dublin? It doesn’t make any sense, Keyne.”
“It makes about as much sense as your story about going out on the Champs-Élysées! And anyway, you’re the one with blood on your hands. And a gun in your pocket. And—”
“Yeah, well, at least we can agree on that point,” she interrupted. “I’m the one with the gun, so shut your mouth and do exactly what I tell you, okay?”
He shrugged and let out a long sigh of irritation.
Swallowing, Alice felt a burning sensation in her chest and tasted acid at the back of her throat. Stress. Exhaustion. Fear.
How was she going to get out of this fix?
She tried to think straight. In France now, it was early afternoon. The guys on her team must have been surprised when she didn’t show up at work this morning. Seymour would have tried calling her cell phone. She had to get in touch with him as soon as possible; he was the one she wanted to investigate this thing. In her head, she began to formulate a checklist: (1) get a hold of the security-camera footage for the Franklin-Roosevelt parking garage; (2) make a list of all the private airplanes that had left Paris for the United States after midnight; (3) locate the place where her Audi had been abandoned; and (4) do a background check on this Gabriel Keyne and find out if he was telling the truth.
The prospect of this investigative work calmed her down a little. For a long time now, the adrenaline rush she got from her job had been her main fuel. In the past, it had been like a drug, and her addiction to it had wrecked her life, but these days it was the only real reason she had to get out of bed in the mornings.
She took a deep breath of the cool Central Park air.
Relieved that the cop inside her was now taking charge, she began to hone her plans: Seymour, under her orders, would investigate the story in France, and she would find out what she could on this side of the Atlantic.
Still walking hand in hand, Alice and Gabriel reached the triangular garden of Strawberry Fields and exited the park on the west side. The cop kept stealing glances at the musician. She absolutely had to find out who this man was. Was he the one who had cuffed them together? And if so, why?
He gave her a brazen look. “So what exactly do you have in mind?”
She replied with a question of her own: “Do you know anyone in this city?”
“Yeah, actually, one of my best friends lives here—a saxophone player named Kenny Forrest. Unfortunately he’s on tour in Tokyo at the moment.”
She rephrased her question: “So you don’t know anyone who can help us get out of these handcuffs or give us a place to shower and change our clothes?”
“No,” he admitted. “How about you?”
“I