PROLOGUE

  Most people believe that, if you're lucky, luck follows you everywhere 24 hours a day. 28-year-old Sam Collins was one of those rare people who knew that luck only serves to create opportunities at certain moments. There were only four or five such moments in someone's lifetime. What you do when opportunity presents itself is what counts.

  He was a middle manager in a computer company that designed protective software. It was luck that got him the job at the company, but it was his skills that earned him his current position. He worked hard in school, then in college, and it was luck that granted him a job interview at ProSoft. Sam was fresh out of college with no work experience, but ProSoft was willing to give him a chance. He did great at the interview and, after getting the job, he started by designing software. Now, he was selling software to various big business companies and managed his team of software designers at ProSoft.

  Every day, after work, Sam and his colleagues went to the nearby bar for a few drinks or sometimes, like today, for a celebration. His team had just designed and successfully sold the newest program to a big hotel chain, for protection from credit card frauds and identity thefts. The software did the usual credit card pre-authorization and reported if a card was stolen, but almost every POS machine could do that. The software did so much more. It connected to other hotels and received reports if a person had skipped bill payment, did the credit card match the identity of the person, going so far that it could even access records, criminal or otherwise, of the person, so the hotel knew who the guest was before even he or she arrived. That last one wasn’t, strictly speaking, legal, but hotels could always say they used records for visa purposes. The fact that it was also used to check American citizens could be explained as a human error. Fortunately, nobody had to explain anything unless someone sued them for invasion of privacy. And the only way that could happen was if that person got caught. To avoid such hassle, all a receptionist had to do was say they accidentally overbooked, thus denying service to that person. The program was state of the art. If everybody played their part right, the system was flawless.

  Collins’ team was comprised of eight men and women plus himself, and they were all having a good time. One of them, Colin Thompson, held a toast.

  “Here’s to the best team at ProSoft!”

  “And to all those crooks and cons who make a living out of stolen credit cards. We’d be out of business without them,” said Grace Patton.

  Sam chuckled. “Crime does pay. Just not for criminals.”

  He was looking around the table at all those people who were working for him. He would say that their every project was a team effort, but the truth was that these eight men and women did all the work. Sam would only say what kind of software he wanted, and every now and then he would make some sort of suggestion. He would credit himself as one of the designers, but he would also credit them for the successful sale, even though he was the one doing all the presenting, negotiating, and selling. It was a fair trade.

  “So, Sam, what do we do next?” asked Ed Matheson.

  “I don’t know, Ed. Maybe software or an algorithm to automatically detect and delete badly pirated movies.”

  This got Sam some laughs from around the table. Grace followed up with: “Those things are a hazard to the viewers.”

  Sam looked at the other end of the table.

  “Dennis, can it be done?” he asked.

  Dennis LaMarr thought for a second.

  “Well, I could make an algorithm that would search certain bitrate, file name, coding type, if the file has TS or CAM in its name—”

  “Dennis.”

  Dennis stopped to see everyone staring with smiles on their faces. “I was kidding,” Sam said.

  Everyone started to laugh, but Dennis wasn’t offended by it. He could sometimes get so caught up in work that he didn’t know when someone was joking. He started to laugh at himself as well.

  Sam noticed Grace getting closer to him. Even though she was attractive, he made it a policy not to get mixed up with his colleagues. He didn’t mind if they mixed with each other, but he wanted to stay focused while at work. For example, Laura and Shawn were known to occasionally disappear somewhere private during work hours, but Sam allowed it, because he noticed that they worked better afterward. But he also knew himself. He would get distracted.

  “Waiter! Another round!” Sam ordered. They were celebrating, after all.

  He decided to call it a night a few minutes after 1 AM. He would have stayed longer, but as luck would have it, his car decided that today would be a good day to break down, so he was forced to choose between the subway and a taxi. He decided to take the subway, since the stop was nearby and it would be damn hard to get a taxi at this time. He was feeling a bit tipsy, but it was to be expected after all those drinks he poured in himself tonight. He was actually surprised he wasn’t drunker. “That’s some luck,” he thought to himself. “I close one of the biggest deals of my career and I don’t have a fucking ride home.” He was offered a ride by some of his colleagues, but he was too proud to accept. “At least this fresh air will sober me up a bit.”

  ***

  “That’s some luck.” For Daniel “Dan” Wallace, this was supposed to be an ordinary evening at Pat’s. But after seeing a guy running by the diner, with a lady’s purse in his hand and a woman chasing him, he left his steak and fries at the table and started running after him.

  He was a homicide detective and off-duty, so technically he could have just called it in and had a patrol car dispatched, but he felt like blowing off some steam.

  “POLICE! STOP RIGHT THERE!”

  But he knew the guy wasn’t going to stop. They never do. He was actually okay with that this time. The thief interrupted his evening meal, so he was going to pay the price. After a few minutes of running, jumping over hoods, and running through traffic of squealing, honking cars, the snatcher made a sudden turn to the right, into an alley. Following him, Wallace felt a punch in the face. The purse snatcher was waiting for him behind the corner. After Wallace fell to the ground, the thief proceeded to run away. “Stupid!” Wallace murmured while getting up. He should’ve checked the alley before going in. The guy could have had a knife. Looking through the dimly lit alley, Wallace saw a fence at the end of it. The scrawny purse snatcher jumped and grabbed the top of the wired fence trying to jump over it. But Wallace grabbed him by his hoodie and, being about twice the snatcher’s size, simply threw him on the ground. He quickly incapacitated him with a right jab to the jaw. He punched him again, just for the sake of it.

  “GET AWAY FROM THAT MAN!”

  It was one of two uniformed police officers running toward them. Someone must have called the police. Wallace stepped away.

  “Hands against the wall!”

  “Easy, Starsky, I’m a detective. The badge is in my right pocket.”

  After sorting everything out with the officers, they read the snatcher his rights as they led him to the car. The purse was returned to its rightful owner. Looking at his watch, Wallace discovered that he had been chasing the guy for at least ten minutes. Which meant it would take at least twenty to get back to Pat’s. He would love nothing more than to go home and straight to bed. He wasn’t hungry anymore, but he had forgotten his coat at the diner. “That’s some luck.”

  ***

  The moonlight was reflecting on Sam’s blonde hair as he walked for the next twenty minutes. The sky was clear and the air a bit cold, but it was to be expected from early spring. Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain on the right side of his body. His left hand went for his ribs as if trying to swat a fly. The pain was growing. He looked at his palm and saw blood. Looking down at his ribs, he saw blood pouring over his blue and white striped suit. He was in shock, but his mind was working like crazy. He saw enough movies and read enough books to know he had been shot. But he was surprised that he didn’t hear the gunshot. In the next five seconds, his thoughts swirled around in his mind, racing, but as he fell to the ground, incapacitated by the pain, he chose to focus on the thoughts concerning the situation he was in. He thought, “It could have been a silenced gun.” But he remembered that books usually described the sound of a silenced gunshot with a quiet metallic clank, and he hadn’t heard anything. He was amazed how many random thoughts passed through his mind, he couldn't even catch them all. Only one thought didn’t go through his mind, but Sam didn’t realize that: he was dying. After those five seconds, it didn’t matter. Sam Collins, 28, was dead. His luck had run out.

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  CHAPTER 1

  CRIME SCENE

  Wallace felt as if he had slept for only ten minutes when his phone sounded the six-o’clock alarm. It took all his strength to get out of bed. Last night’s chase had left him exhausted, and his face still felt sore from the punch he had taken.

  He let the coffee machine drip his morning dose of caffeine while he went to the bathroom. He looked into the mirror. A tired man stared back at him, his expression heavy with anger and pain. His unshaven face showed no bruising or swelling, and he was grateful for that. His hair made him look like a scarecrow.

  Wallace stepped into the shower and was done in less than five minutes. An old army habit. They had been trained to conserve water: one minute to get wet, then water off, then soap and lather; another minute to rinse. After showering, he shaved. It hadn’t grown much since yesterday, but his beard was thick and made it seem longer than it was. He combed his brown hair to the side and left it to dry while he drank his coffee.

  Exiting the bathroom, he looked around his apartment. It was big enough for one person. The living room doubled as a bedroom and was connected to the kitchen. He poured himself a cup of coffee and a glass of scotch at the counter that separated the two spaces. Sitting on a high stool, he drank in silence.

  He didn’t subscribe to newspapers; he would read them at the precinct. Instead, he let his eyes wander around the apartment. Dirty shirts lay on the floor, and a pair of pants hung over the edge of the couch. He made a mental note to take them to the laundry.

  After finishing his coffee-and-scotch routine, Wallace got dressed and left the building. His apartment was on the third floor facing east, so at this time of day his car wasn’t touched by the morning sun, even though it poured through his living room window. He hated getting into a cold car and could barely wait for summer. He slid into his silver-gray 2001 Ford Taurus and drove off. He planned to stop at Pat’s for a quick breakfast.

  Then his phone rang.

  He glanced at the screen: Cpt. Rosenberg.

  “Captain,” he answered.

  “Hey, Dan. Hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “You know you didn’t. What happened?”

  “What makes you think something happened? Maybe I’m calling to see how you’re doing.”

  “No civilized person calls at 6:30 in the morning to ask how someone’s doing. What happened?”

  A short pause.

  “Okay. I was trying to lighten the mood, since you’re going to hate me after this call. A body’s been found.”

  Great, Wallace thought. No breakfast today.

  “Where?”

  “March Street. Near number 2261.”

  Now Wallace understood why Rosenberg had called so early. March Street was busy in the morning; traffic alone could contaminate a crime scene.

  “I’m on my way.”

  ***

  Wallace spotted the yellow tape half a block away.

  Two patrol units were angled across March Street, light bars still flashing against the brownstone facades. Morning traffic was beginning to thicken at the far intersection.

  He parked behind one of the cruisers and stepped out.

  “Detective Wallace,” he said to the uniform at the perimeter.

  Officer Hall handed him a clipboard. “Scene log, sir.”

  Wallace signed in: 06:47 hours.

  “Who’s primary?”

  “I am, sir. Officer David Hall. Body was discovered at approximately 06:02 by a jogger. Perimeter established immediately. Captain ordered the scene frozen until you arrived.”

  “Good.”

  Wallace scanned the street.

  Three- and four-story brownstones lined both sides. Across from the body stood a construction site; steel supports rising from a poured concrete foundation. No finished floors. No exterior walls. Just skeletal framing and stacked materials. Too exposed. Too unstable.

  He dismissed it and moved on.

  “Anyone working overnight there?”

  “Negative. They lock up around six p.m.”

  “Check for cameras anyway. Nearby buildings too. Doorbells, dashcams. Anything facing the street.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Wallace approached the inner boundary but stopped short. CSI photographers were still working.

  “Photos complete?” he asked.

  “Almost,” Jones replied. “Overall shots done. Mid-range and close-ups finishing. Sketch in progress.”

  “Let me know when measurements are taken.”

  Jones nodded.

  The victim lay on his back in a dark pool of partially coagulated blood. The pooling was concentrated beneath the torso with minimal spread. No visible drag marks. No arterial spray on nearby surfaces.

  Likely collapsed where he was shot.

  “Okay,” Jones said a minute later. “You’re clear.”

  Wallace stepped closer.

  “Single entrance wound,” Jones said, examining the right side of the torso. “Approximate diameter suggests a mid-caliber handgun. No visible stippling.”

  “No powder burns?” Wallace asked.

  “None apparent. We’ll confirm during autopsy.”

  So not close range.

  “Exit wound?”

  “Negative.”

  Wallace nodded.

  “Brass?”

  Hall answered. “None located.”

  Wallace scanned the asphalt himself, tracing where a casing might have landed if ejected.

  Nothing.

  “No casings,” he said quietly. “Either a revolver… or someone picked up after themselves.”

  He crouched, studying the body’s position relative to the curb and street.

  “Angle?”

  Jones adjusted slightly.

  “Hard to say without extraction. Slight deviation from horizontal. Nothing extreme.”

  Good. That told him little...yet.

  “Widen the perimeter another fifteen feet,” Wallace said. “Slow grid search. On your knees if you have to. I want everything bagged.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He moved to the edge of the tape where the jogger sat wrapped in a blanket.

  “Ms. Figueroa? Detective Wallace. I need a timeline.”

  She swallowed hard.

  “I found him a little after six. I didn’t hear anything before that.”

  “You didn’t hear a gunshot?”

  “No.”

  “Cars? Arguments?”

  She shook her head.

  “I thought he fainted,” she added. “I turned him over.”

  “Which way was he facing before you moved him?”

  “Face down.”

  That matched the blood pattern.

  “An officer will take a formal statement later,” Wallace said. “For now, stay available.”

  She nodded.

  Back at the body, Jones handed Wallace a wallet after he pulled on gloves.

  Driver’s license: Sam Collins, 28. Cash intact. Credit cards. Business card from ProSoft.

  “Not robbery,” Wallace said.

  “Doesn’t look like it,” Jones agreed.

  Evidence markers began appearing across the widened search area.

  A used condom near the curb.

  Loose coins in the gutter.

  And a small rusted metal fragment pulled from the base of one of the remaining wooden utility poles lining the street.

  “Probably construction debris,” Jones said.

  “Bag it,” Wallace replied.

  Everything got logged.

  By 08:45 hours, traffic pressure was becoming a problem. Horns sounded beyond the barricades. The quiet morning had given way to impatience.

  Collins’s body had been sealed and transported to the medical examiner’s office.

  Wallace signed out of the scene log.

  “Door-to-door canvas,” he told Hall. “Anyone awake between one and six. Security footage before it gets overwritten.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Wallace took one last look at the stretch of asphalt where Collins had fallen.

  One shot.

  No witnesses.

  No brass.

  No obvious motive.

  Clean scenes bothered him.

  They meant control.

  He turned and walked back to his car.

  ***

  It took him nearly an hour to reach the 14th Precinct of the Greybay City Police Department. It would have taken him about twenty minutes from March Street were it not for the morning rush hour. He hated sitting in unmoving traffic. That was why he normally came in early.

  Before heading to his office, he stopped at the captain’s.

  Harvey Rosenberg, fifty-nine, thirty years on the force. Former street cop. Former detective. He would never admit it, but he missed fieldwork.

  “Take a seat, Dan.”

  Rosenberg was one of the few people Wallace allowed to call him that, apart from his ex-wife.

  “So,” the captain said, “what did you find?”

  Wallace reviewed his notes.

  “Victim identified as Sam Collins, twenty-eight. Works at ProSoft. Shot. No signs of robbery. No casings. No witnesses. Scene was unusually clean.”

  Rosenberg frowned.

  “So we have nothing.”

  “For now. We’ll wait on autopsy and ballistics. I’ll start background checks—friends, family, coworkers.”

  The captain nodded.

  “Do what you have to do.”

  Wallace stood and moved toward the door.

  “Dan.”

  He paused.

  “Don’t forget—you still have friends. Not all of us believe what’s being said about you.”

  Wallace gave a small nod.

  “I know.”

  Rosenberg said it after most of their conversations.

  And Wallace needed to hear it.