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the same, the accident had involved a lieutenant in the NYPD driving while in a state of intoxication. As if that was not enough, this lieutenant was Jordan Marsalis, the Mayor’s younger brother. The media had gotten in on the act, turning the case into a political football. The pressure from Christopher’s opponents had become unbearable, and his own party had made it clear behind the scenes that it wasn’t at all happy with the situation. So Jordan had eventually tendered his resignation and handed in his gun and his shield.
    Since that day he had not drunk a drop of alcohol, nor driven a car. And he had hardly ever heard Christopher’s voice until the latter had called him to announce that Gerald had been murdered.
    Now, sitting at the table in the diner, Jordan reflected sourly that history was repeating itself. In the afternoon, his brother had thanked him with the same words he had used that evening.
    I know what you’re doing and I’ll never forget it
.
    But he had.

CHAPTER 9
     
    Jordan left the restaurant and crossed the street, to where light spilled out through the glass door of his building. As he moved his helmet from one hand to the other and felt in his pocket for his keys, he heard loud music coming closer.
    Instinctively, Jordan knew that this music meant trouble. He turned and saw a dark, shiny Mercedes parking just ahead of him on his side of the street. From the open window came the electronic rumble of a techno track, played at high volume. The doors were flung open and two black men got out and came towards him, their lazy walk heavy with menace. They were both wearing bright tracksuits and jogging shoes. One had a woollen cap on his head and the other a black bandana.
    One of the two, the man with the cap, he had never seen. The other he recognized immediately. Everyone knew him as Lord. It was Jordan who had put him inside for possessing and dealing heroin, as well as wounding two officers while resisting arrest.
    ‘Hello, Lord. How come they let you out?’
    ‘I was a good boy, Lieutenant. Six months off for good behaviour.’
    ‘I’m not a lieutenant any more, Lord. And I hope that’s the last time I have to say that today.’
    ‘Oh, I know. They kicked you out on your ass. You’re a private citizen now. Just like us – right, Hardy?’
    Hardy said nothing, didn’t react at all.
    ‘Do you know what it’s like to spend three years in the can?’ Lord went on.
    He didn’t give Jordan time to reply. Not that he was interested in what he had to say anyway. He was enjoying himself. He turned to his friend as if sharing a joke.
    ‘Oh, I forgot. Lieutenant Marsalis can’t go to prison, because he’s the Mayor’s brother, so even when he’s out driving, smashed out of his head, and knocks down some poor bastard who happens to get in his way, the most he gets is a little slap on the wrist – and then he’s free to go off and kill somebody else.’
    ‘Stop beating about the bush, Lord. What do you want?’
    It was a dumb question, whose sole purpose was to gain time. Jordan could perfectly well have answered it himself. He tightened his grip on the chinrest of his full-face helmet, ready to use it as a weapon.
    Lord took a step back and with a rapid movement unzipped his tracksuit top, took it off, and dropped it on the ground. Then he lifted his arms and stood there in his undervest, his biceps and chest muscles tensed, in a bodybuilder’s pose.
    ‘Do you see these, Lieutenant? Know how I got them? By working out four hours a day, every one of the thousand-something days I spent in the can. And you know what I used to think about when I was lifting weights?’
    ‘No. Surprise me.’
    ‘I used to think about seeing you again, knowing you didn’t have your shield any more to protect you.’
    Jordan saw the shadows outlined on the rectangle of light cast on the asphalt through the glass door behind him. He didn’t have time to turn before the door opened and two people stepped