hello. The end of the day had officially been reached. And what a day it had been.
The terror trial of Magnus Jenssen had ended as it must: with a guilty verdict. Jenssen had all but admitted his guilt from the beginning, but pled not guilty just to gum up the courts and roll the dice and maybe luck into some sort of acquittal on procedural grounds. It didn’t happen. Neither did the trial afford Jenssen much of an opportunity to air his anti-American screed.
Fisk had avoided the trial altogether. The government’s case was so exceptionally strong that Fisk’s testimony was not needed. Gersten’s murder was included in the charges, yet Jenssen was spared the death penalty due to a pretrial agreement with prosecutors in which his cooperation—he divulged his methods and detailed the participation of his accomplices—was taken into consideration.
Today was the sentencing. Fisk had been invited to make a victim’s statement and declined. Gersten’s mother went full Staten Island Grieving Cop’s Mother on him: it had been a rough several months for Mrs. Gersten, and as much as Krina might have wanted him to get close to her, the woman’s finger-wagging left him cold. She had slumped, nearly lifeless herself, as the bailiffs finally removed her from the courtroom.
He had sat in the back of the courtroom looking at the back of Magnus Jenssen’s blond head. Jenssen never once turned to look behind him, so Fisk had not seen his blue eyes. Fisk had expected him to turn. Not wanted it, or needed it, but expected it. And now that it hadn’t happened, he felt a tug of disappointment. He had managed to give Jenssen very little emotional consideration, reserving all his thought for Gersten.
They had come here a few times before they ever became a couple, with that feeling hanging in the air between them, a pregnant feeling of anticipation and longing as their attraction gathered steam. She would sit at the bar, and Fisk would stand next to her, talking close, she swinging her leg into his, little bumps of camaraderie and flirtation; spying is not the “great game,” flirting is. Gersten never wore perfume, but he still had a bottle of the shampoo she kept at his place, and for a while he uncapped it every morning, never to use it, only to inhale the scent. Now it stood in the wire basket that hung from his showerhead along with his own Head & Shoulders and his razor, his focal point every morning and every postworkout shower.
Would he and Gersten have married? Had kids? Moved to Staten Island (if she’d had her way) or Brooklyn (if he’d had his)? What color would the door to their house have been? Or would it all have come crashing down in time, the way of most relationships? He wasn’t an easy guy to love.
It was easy to go on loving someone who wasn’t there anymore. But he knew this in his bones: she had been The One. It would have taken another cop, and a tough one at that, to put up with him.
He sat facing the door, as most cops do, but his gaze was far away. It had been a long time since anyone had snuck up on him, even without meaning to.
“Hey, whoa. Easy. I come in peace.”
Fisk must have looked startled and angry. He recognized the sandy-haired man standing at his table. He looked like he could have been a computer programmer, probably a science fiction buff: pale skinned, plain faced, wincing.
“Dave Link,” said Fisk, making him. “Sorry, man. Weird moment.”
“Not a problem,” said Link. “Good to see you, Fisk.”
Link had two identical drinks in his hands. Whiskey, neat. Fisk looked down at his own glass. To his surprise, it was empty.
Link set one down in front of Fisk. “Compliments of the Central Intelligence Agency,” he said. “May I?”
Fisk nodded to the empty seat. Link sat, turning the chair so that he was facing half toward the bar, with the back wall at his shoulder. “Thanks,” said Fisk, raising the fresh drink from the tabletop to toast him, but not drinking it
The terror trial of Magnus Jenssen had ended as it must: with a guilty verdict. Jenssen had all but admitted his guilt from the beginning, but pled not guilty just to gum up the courts and roll the dice and maybe luck into some sort of acquittal on procedural grounds. It didn’t happen. Neither did the trial afford Jenssen much of an opportunity to air his anti-American screed.
Fisk had avoided the trial altogether. The government’s case was so exceptionally strong that Fisk’s testimony was not needed. Gersten’s murder was included in the charges, yet Jenssen was spared the death penalty due to a pretrial agreement with prosecutors in which his cooperation—he divulged his methods and detailed the participation of his accomplices—was taken into consideration.
Today was the sentencing. Fisk had been invited to make a victim’s statement and declined. Gersten’s mother went full Staten Island Grieving Cop’s Mother on him: it had been a rough several months for Mrs. Gersten, and as much as Krina might have wanted him to get close to her, the woman’s finger-wagging left him cold. She had slumped, nearly lifeless herself, as the bailiffs finally removed her from the courtroom.
He had sat in the back of the courtroom looking at the back of Magnus Jenssen’s blond head. Jenssen never once turned to look behind him, so Fisk had not seen his blue eyes. Fisk had expected him to turn. Not wanted it, or needed it, but expected it. And now that it hadn’t happened, he felt a tug of disappointment. He had managed to give Jenssen very little emotional consideration, reserving all his thought for Gersten.
They had come here a few times before they ever became a couple, with that feeling hanging in the air between them, a pregnant feeling of anticipation and longing as their attraction gathered steam. She would sit at the bar, and Fisk would stand next to her, talking close, she swinging her leg into his, little bumps of camaraderie and flirtation; spying is not the “great game,” flirting is. Gersten never wore perfume, but he still had a bottle of the shampoo she kept at his place, and for a while he uncapped it every morning, never to use it, only to inhale the scent. Now it stood in the wire basket that hung from his showerhead along with his own Head & Shoulders and his razor, his focal point every morning and every postworkout shower.
Would he and Gersten have married? Had kids? Moved to Staten Island (if she’d had her way) or Brooklyn (if he’d had his)? What color would the door to their house have been? Or would it all have come crashing down in time, the way of most relationships? He wasn’t an easy guy to love.
It was easy to go on loving someone who wasn’t there anymore. But he knew this in his bones: she had been The One. It would have taken another cop, and a tough one at that, to put up with him.
He sat facing the door, as most cops do, but his gaze was far away. It had been a long time since anyone had snuck up on him, even without meaning to.
“Hey, whoa. Easy. I come in peace.”
Fisk must have looked startled and angry. He recognized the sandy-haired man standing at his table. He looked like he could have been a computer programmer, probably a science fiction buff: pale skinned, plain faced, wincing.
“Dave Link,” said Fisk, making him. “Sorry, man. Weird moment.”
“Not a problem,” said Link. “Good to see you, Fisk.”
Link had two identical drinks in his hands. Whiskey, neat. Fisk looked down at his own glass. To his surprise, it was empty.
Link set one down in front of Fisk. “Compliments of the Central Intelligence Agency,” he said. “May I?”
Fisk nodded to the empty seat. Link sat, turning the chair so that he was facing half toward the bar, with the back wall at his shoulder. “Thanks,” said Fisk, raising the fresh drink from the tabletop to toast him, but not drinking it
Similar Books
