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she was someone else. But Karen had checked out her credentials before confirming the appointment.
    “May I ask, how long have you been with FT ?”
    She hesitated; he could see her thinking about her response.
    “I haven’t been honest with you. My name is Sindy Steele, and I’m not a reporter.
    “OK … who are you?”
    “I’m the woman who’s going to save your life.”
    “I didn’t know my life was in danger.”
    “Dick Applegarden didn’t die of sleep apnea, whiskey and Ambien.”
    This can’t be happening, Michael thought. He knew he needed to sound firm, confident, despite the feeling that his world was imploding.
    “I beg your pardon—”
    But now she appeared confident, sure of her ground.
    “He was murdered.”
    “What do you mean? How’s that possible? They did an autopsy; the coroner determined it was—”
    “I know what the authorities said. They’re overworked and not always the brightest crayons in the box.”
    “And how would you know this?” he asked.
    “My business is security. I’m a bodyguard, Michael. I’ve protected some very high-profile, very vulnerable people.”
    “But how do you know anything about Dick Applegarden’s death?”
    “I was on an unrelated assignment for someone whose name I can’t disclose. He was staying at the Peninsula for a week, including the night your chairman died—or, as I believe, was murdered—in his room.”
    She looked at her watch. Michael checked his, it was nearly six o’clock.
    “Listen, this is too sensitive to discuss here. How about if we continue this over a cocktail at Bemelmans at the Carlyle? I just need fifteen minutes or so here to take care of some things before I leave.”
    “Perfect. I’ll go ahead and get a table. You look like you need a drink.”

Chapter 7

    Chapter 7
    Bronx, New York

    “I understand that you’re an undertaker, Morty?” Bishop Kevin McCarthy asked.
    “You mean besides my work for Mr. Sharkey? Yeah, I suppose you could say that, Father. Actually, I drive a hearse for the D’Amato Funeral Home in Brooklyn.”
    “That is God’s work too, my son.”
    “Yeah, I deliver them from evil.”
    Morty was starving. He looked at his two friends, Lump and Nicky Bats. They had just been released with him from Rikers Island, after seven months of pre-trial hearings for the kidnapping and attempted murder of Michael Nicholas.
    “I appreciate you getting us out of there. You must have some pretty powerful friends,” Morty said.
    “The Lord takes care of its flock. I’ve invited a good friend of the Church, Frank Cortese, tonight for dinner. He was instrumental in securing those unfortunate cassette tapes and in arranging for your release. You will find him interesting, I promise.”
    “Hey, Bishop, I love the guy already. He got us out of that hole,” Nicky Bats chimed in.
    “No worries, my son. Sister Mary Margaret blessed us with her superb lasagna,” the bishop said, gesturing toward the large well-worn pan covered with aluminum foil.
    Morty eyed the familiar setting of this typical church basement. He had been in many of them over the years. A small stage on the left and the hundred or so old metal and plastic-cushioned chairs served as the auditorium for the parochial school next door, St. Joseph’s Catholic. He could remember hearing the joyous sounds of children rising up throughout the building. There were the happy wedding receptions, immediately following the religious ceremony upstairs in the church, with bands or a simple boom box providing the music for the dancing and celebration festivities.
    He knew that this same room had likely been the site of thousands of Irish, Italian, and now, more typically, Puerto Rican or Colombian wakes following the funerals held in the church upstairs.
    A kitchen in the next room allowed for the preparation of whatever dishes the families and friends of the deceased wanted to feast on while the guest of honor, unable to attend, was either on his ascent to