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do want meatballs.”
She hung up.
The smoke alarm went off; the cookies were ruined. Turning around, Christine opened a window, then fanned her hand in front of the alarm until the siren stopped. Opened a few more windows, and watched the smoke get sucked out into the night air. She discarded the cookies, the acrid smell reminding her of the time she blew up the Corsetti restaurant. Insurance paid big on that one.
As the smell faded, Christine moved into her bedroom. She opened the closet door and reached behind the row of shirts. She pulled out her gun and a sharp knife,then checked her email and printed out the photos of Callahan and Ashley. She studied them, let the images imprint in her mind, then folded them and put them into her purse.
Shutting all the windows, she inhaled the smell of the burnt crumbs once more. Her sister. Uncle Tony was giving her a very interesting job.
She shrugged on a jacket and checked the weapons.
She was ready for work.

 
Michelle Sandler pulled up in front of her father’s Saddle River mansion. The expensive part of northern New Jersey, rumor had it that P Diddy or Jay Z or one of those rappers lived down the street. Michelle had never met him, and probably wouldn’t know it if she did. But her father said whoever he was threw loud parties over the summer and kept everyone on the block from getting any work done.
Frank wasn’t picking up his phone again. He never did when he worked. Michelle wondered if he’d even seen the news. Probably not, he was just out talking with Asians, trading steel with people in Korea or Japan or China. Whatever he did.
She tried John again too, but got no answer. Had everyone decided to go into radio silence once the news broke? With no other options, she decided her father could be the most helpful.
She had to ring the doorbell three times before her dad, dressed in a robe with a glass of scotch in his hand, answered.
“What is it?”
That was his standard greeting. He never asked how she was, never wondered what was going on at work. It was always about what she wanted. She guessed that’s how things worked throughout his career, so he treated everyone that way. Usually it annoyed her, but tonight she actually wanted something.
“John’s in trouble.”
Robert Sandler’s face broke a little bit, his eyes widening, his mouth curving into a frown.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Michelle. Come in.”
She stepped through the doorway, pushing past her father and heading into the sitting room. The faint smell of cigar hung in the air, and she could tell her father was doing his best Hugh Hefner impression. Minus the women, of course. As far as Michelle knew, there’d been only one woman since her mom left, and that woman was long gone too. Instead, her father buried himself in business, drank scotch, smoked, and sat around at night listening to sports on the radio.
When she was a kid, she was awed by this room. It was set up to look like a library. Tall bookshelves on all four walls, a long carpet, two big chairs with a round table between them. Near the exit was a bar with three glasses, two bottles of scotch, and a radio. On the bookshelves, however, weren’t books, but files. All her father’s clients, foreign nations, and the arms deals they made. He said looking through the files was like looking through history. He found it relaxing.
Sitting in the chair that faced the entrance, she waited for her dad to catch up. Robert Sandler never hurried. He moved at his own pace and everyone waited for him. He sauntered into the room, sat in the thick leather chair, took a long sip of scotch, and let a sigh escape his lips. The whole process seemed to take minutes.
“Now,” he said, his voice sounding like an NPR announcer. “What’s the problem?”
She told her father about the picture of John at the Ferry Station.
“We’re talking about your ex, John, right? I can’t believe this, Michelle. He couldn’t kill someone. I don’t even know how he’s able to