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  “That may be, but we can’t simply discount it, we need to prove it or present a compelling narrative to how your blood ended up in Mr. Stein’s home.”

  “I could say I had a nosebleed.”

  “That would put you in his house. You’ve denied being there.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “How did your blood get there?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “As I’ve stated from the beginning, if we can’t address the evidence, we have to consider a plea. Allow me to get to work on the change in representation and talk to the DA on what they’ll want for your release.”

  “Okay. And don’t forget to get a hold of Gavin Hill. He’s going to be key.”

  “I’ll reach out. Now, you should already know this, but you’re a celebrity, and that means the inmates and guards will be gunning for you.”

  Cory shrugged. “At least the media can’t touch me in here.”

  “No, but they can add pressure to those who make public decisions. Therefore, you must avoid confrontations and disturbances. If you get into trouble, it’ll weigh on my ability to get you out of here.”

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Cory resisted the urge to hold his nose. The smell of body odor was making him sick. After a twenty-minute wait, Cory made it to the head of the line. A guard with a scar running down his cheek said, “Lupinski! You’re up. Number nine.”

  Cory rushed to the open telephone hanging on the white-tiled wall. He tapped a number in. It rang twice.

  “Linda? It’s me.”

  “Oh my God, Cory. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, it’s not the Hilton, but I’m all right. When can you come and see me?”

  “Mr. Worth said next week. He said we can start emailing tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, I’m going to get a tablet after I finish my calls. Can you believe it? I can call every day, and they give me a computer?”

  “I miss you so much.”

  “Me too. How are the kids?”

  “They’re all right. Tommy still accepts what I tell him, but Ava . . . you know, she’s having a tough time with all this. She won’t go to school.”

  “It’s all my fault.”

  “Stop blaming yourself, Cory. That bastard Tower, it’s all his fault.”

  “We’re going to get him, you’ll see. Bring the kids next week.”

  “I was thinking to see what it looked like myself. You know, see if it’s okay for them.”

  “I need to see them . . . but, uh, okay. See what it’s like first. Worth is working on getting me out of here. Maybe I’ll be out before you even get here.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep.”

  “Oh, please God.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up too high.”

  “How’s your hand? I saw on the news—”

  “It’s better. I cut it on a can when I got to Somerville.”

  “Somerville? In Massachusetts?”

  “Yeah, I had to leave Boston—”

  “You went to Boston?”

  “At first, and then when I called you that time, they traced my call.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “It’s okay. From there I went to Somerville and then I had to go to Greenwich. Where they found me.”

  “How did they know you were there?”

  “I’m pretty sure Black double-crossed me. I think Tower got to him.”

  “But he was helping you.”

  “I know. You can’t trust anybody. I’m going to get what I need on my own.”

  “On your own? You’re scaring me, Cory. You need a lawyer, a good one.”

  “I’m working with Worth. I think he’s coming around a little about me being framed.”

  A recorded voice broke into the call. ‘You’re approaching the end of your allotted time. You have thirty seconds before the call will disconnect.’

  “Lin?”

  “You got to go.”

  “We’ll talk tomorrow. I love you. Tell the kids I love them and will see them soon.”

  “I hope—”

  The line went dead.

  Cory trudged to a holding area. He’d have to wait an hour before getting back in line for the phone again. It was okay. He had the time and needed to talk to Donny.

  * * *

  A bang on the bars snapped Cory out of mentally rolling around his conversation with Donny. He was convinced his friend hadn’t leaked his whereabouts. It had to be Black.

  “Move it! You want this or not?”

  A guard was holding a tablet through the bars. Cory went to grab the computer, but it was pulled out of reach.

  “You don’t play by the rules, we’ll take it back. No contact with anyone unauthorized. You can read, research legal stuff, and get educated, but if you’re one of those nerdy types, don’t even think of trying to surf the web or anything.”

  “I won’t.”

  “You do anything close to it, and we’ll revoke privileges. You understand?”

  “Don’t worry, you won’t get any trouble from me.”

  The guard looked him up and down. “You’re that musician, right?”

  “Yeah, used to be known as Cory Loop.”

  “What do you play?”

  “Guitar.”

  “Me too. Mostly blues.”

  “The blues are the root of jazz and rock. It always comes back to the blues.”

  “That’s what they say. But I’m just a hack.”

  “I’d be happy to give you some lessons. I taught a lot of adults.”

  “Maybe I’ll take you up on that.”

  He held up his bandaged hand. “I need to get back to playing. My hand is all stiff.”

  “It’s getting better?”

  “Yeah, this bandage is nothing compared to what was on it before.”

  “All right. Maybe I can get you some space in the library to loosen up. They got a couple acoustic guitars in the rec room. They’re crap, but better than not playing.”

  “Yeah. I had this teacher when I was starting out, he said to pick up your instrument every day, even for just five minutes, if that’s all you got.”

  “Sounds like the guy at the music store I was taking lessons from, he said not to put your ax in the case. He said leave it on a stand where you can see it. Said you’d pick it up more often.”

  “He’s right. When I was a kid, I basically slept with my first Gibson. And I still got her.”

  “It’s weird, sometimes, I get so mad, so frustrated practicing, can’t seem to make any progress.”

  “I know it’s hard, but you can’t get frustrated. You think you’re not making progress, but if you’re practicing the right things, you’re definitely improving, even if you can’t see it.”

  “That’s the thing, what to practice?”

  “I love noodling around on my ax as much as the next guy. And it’s not a bad thing, you have to have fun, but you need to work on the stuff that’s hard to play. Slow it down, get it under your fingers.”

  “That’s what my guy says, stop glossing over the tough stuff and get it right.”

  Cory shook his head. “Some things just take longer. Break it down into small pieces and get one part of it down. Then move to something else.”

  “You mean like one phrase in something hard to play?”

  “Sometimes not even that much. Just one bar. Get down one bar as good as you can and move on to a new thing. You’ll accomplish something and avoid getting frustrated.”

  “Makes sense. Hey, what’s the deal with tuning to a G?”

  As Cory started explaining it, another guard shouted, “Franklin, get moving. They need you in laundry.”

  “Got to go.”

  “Nice to talk music, man.”

  Cory did feel good talking about music as he fired up the tablet. He hoped Franklin would take him up on his offer. Cory signed into his Gmail account. The in-box had over three hundred messages.

  He bypassed them, going to one his lawyer sent. He note
d the email address he provided and sent a message to Gavin Hill:

  “Hi Gavin, Sorry I’ve been out of touch. I didn’t know what was wrong, but it seems my Facebook account was hacked. Ugh! Let’s use email to chat until I get it squared away. Your last message was about the family that took Richard in. I’d love to hear all about it.”

  Cory hit send and went to his in-box. There was an email from Linda, but what caught his eye was the one below it.

  His heart raced. Cory’s finger hovered over the open button as he considered the possible implications.

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  The email was from the Kravis Children’s Hospital at Mt. Sinai. Cory received regular communications related to his volunteer work, but this was different. The subject line was “Blood Supply Critically Low - Please Donate Today”.

  Cory’s eyes scanned the body of the message, but he wasn’t reading. He was trying to place the faces and names in the blood donation center. Who was it?

  Cory composed a message to Worth: “I think I know where the blood came from. I’ve been donating blood for years at Mount Sinai. Somebody must have taken some of mine and planted it. We need to find out who works there that’s connected to Tower.”

  After alerting his lawyer, Cory read Linda’s message. He told her about the Mt. Sinai link and that he was waiting on the West Village Facebook connection. Cory ended his reply on an upbeat note, mentioning he was giving a guard music lessons.

  There was another message from Linda. She had cut and pasted a couple of notes his musician friends had sent her. They wished him luck in evading capture. He smiled at how Americans loved an underdog, especially one who could outwit the authorities.

  Cory explored the tablet, checking out the library and legal and educational resources he could access.

  He wondered what he’d be able to find if Worth couldn’t get him out, when an email came in. It was from Gavin Hill. Cory took a deep breath and opened it.

  “Hello Dan, Sorry about the Facebook troubles. About a year ago, the censors there put me in Facebook jail when I kept posting about how terrible the mayor was. He’s running the city into the ground. Maybe you posted something they didn’t like.”

  Cory read the email again. He didn’t say a word about Tower. This was crazy, he thought. Cory took a second and wrote back: “Hi Gavin, I don’t think I posted anything political, but these days the weather will offend somebody. I requested an account review and expect they’ll reverse it. You were starting to tell me about Richard Sullivan and the family he lived with. Want to hear more . . . Dan.”

  Cory paced the small cell. This emailing back and forth was wasting time he didn’t have. He wondered whether he should ask Gavin for his telephone number. It would speed things up. He grabbed the tablet and typed out a message. Before hitting send, he rolled it around.

  Would Gavin think he was being too forward? What if Gavin asked for Cory’s number?

  Cory discarded the email. He needed to clear his mind. He navigated to the music app and pulled up Jim Hall and Pat Metheny. They were two of his favorite jazz guitarists. Cory appreciated their technical skills and incredibly different styles.

  He sat on the bed and closed his eyes. The music washed over him, inspiring him to get back to playing. A lick Jim Hall played in a duo with Bill Evans caught his attention. He paused the player and internalized the three-bar phrase, mimicking what he thought were the chords and notes with his fingers.

  Cory’s bad hand was tight. He couldn’t wait to hold a guitar again. Couldn’t wait to get back to his family and life.

  * * *

  Cory said, “You’re still hanging over into the next measure, just before the bridge. Cut off the note on the upbeat of four.”

  Franklin said, “I thought I had it that time.”

  “You’re almost there. You’re doing great. I’m just picky.”

  “Let me try again.”

  “All right. One, two—”

  The door swung open. A bald-headed guard stepped into the rec room. “Lupinski, your lawyer’s here.”

  Worth was standing in a cinder block-walled room. The canary yellow walls did nothing to diminish the space’s drabness. It matched the somber look on his lawyer’s face, alarming Cory.

  “I didn’t know you were coming. Everything all right?”

  “Please take a seat.”

  “No. Just tell me.”

  “Getting you released is going to take some time. We’re not going to have the bail hearing.”

  “Why not?”

  “The DA objected, claiming that the fake passport you had was evidence you were planning to leave the country.”

  “I wasn’t—”

  “They mentioned the activity on your laptop supported their fears.”

  “Oh, man.”

  “New York courts are inclined to allow bail, but the feedback was concerning. I felt it best to pull the petition rather than risk a denial.”

  “You pulled it?”

  “I had no choice. We’ll wait until the atmosphere is more forgiving. Additionally, it’ll give you time to build a clean record while you’re in here. That will help.”

  “How long do I have to wait?”

  “A minimum of thirty days.”

  “A month?”

  “It may be sooner. The court is going to put the trial on the calendar soon.”

  “What will the date be?”

  “I asked for six months to prepare. The DA objected. I expect we’ll meet in the middle. Approximately ninety days from now.”

  “That’s right around the corner.”

  “We need to get to work. Is there any information from the Facebook contact?”

  “I’m working on it. He was supposed to email me. What about the blood bank at Mount Sinai? That’s definitely where it came from.”

  “I spoke to the head of the department, a Mrs. Murray. She assured me they have the strictest of protocols governing the collection and storage process.”

  “Everybody says that bullshit. Meanwhile, people hack into everything.”

  “If you can identify the person you believe responsible, I could attempt threatening them with a subpoena.”

  “I have good contacts there from the volunteering I did. They’re still getting money from the foundation I set up, so, I hate to say it, they owe me. Get Mount Sinai on the contact list.”

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Cory dialed Mt. Sinai, reaching Jane Santo. The head of the hospital’s public relations for the children’s division said, “Cory? Is that you?”

  “Yep, it’s me. How are you?”

  “Aren’t you, uh, in—”

  “Yeah, I’m calling from the Tombs.”

  “Oh my God. Are you all right?”

  “I’m doing okay. Look, I need some help. I’m being framed for murder, and they say my blood was found at the scene.”

  “I don’t understand how this involves me.”

  “Not you directly, but you know I’ve been donating blood for the kids for years now.”

  “Yes. We’re very appreciative.”

  “My lawyer spoke to Mrs. Murray, and she gave him the line about how secure everything is regarding the donation and collection process.”

  “I have to agree. Though I don’t know the specific procedures, the hospital has SOPs on everything. Something as important as the blood bank has some of the most stringent ones.”

  “Can you do me a favor?”

  “That would depend.”

  “Usually, Jeff or Caroline takes my blood, and there’s an old guy, Jerry, who shuttles the bags and stuff.”

  “I know them, not well, but what about them?”

  “They’re all still there?”

  “Yes. As far as I know.”

  “Can you find out who else could get to a bag of blood after someone donates?”

  “Access is limited. The blood supply is a precious resource.”

  “I know that. But can you just check? All I need are
their names. There can’t be many since you said access is limited.”

  “That’s a human resources issue. I don’t—”

  “Come on, Jane. I’m not asking for a lot. My life is on the line! I did a lot for you. All I want to know is who can touch the blood I’ve been donating and whether they had a record or something in their background.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll check and get back . . . oh, how will I let you know?”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  * * *

  Cory washed away the medicinal taste of the powdered eggs they were fed for breakfast with a cup of burnt coffee. He put his tray away and lined up against the wall. It was only 7:20 a.m. He’d have to wait until at least 2 p.m. to see what Santo had on the blood bank employees.

  He saw Franklin stepping in between two inmates who were getting in each other’s faces. Cory couldn’t imagine working in such an environment. Franklin walked one of them to the back of the line and inserted the other near the front.

  The guard walked over to Cory. “How you doing this morning?”

  “All right. You practice that lick?”

  “Soon as I got home.”

  “In all twelve keys?”

  “I did five or six of them.”

  “Nice. Play ’em every day for a week, and you’ll own it.”

  “I really like the way it sounds.”

  “I have a couple of variances on it. I’ll show you later.”

  “Great. See you at four.”

  “Okay. I’m going for my shift in laundry.”

  “Wish I could get you out of it.”

  “It’s okay, man. I need to burn some time.”

  Cory got back to his cell after working and checked the tablet for any emails. His heart leapt at the sight of one from Gavin Hill. He swallowed and clicked it:

  “Hello Dan, Hope you’re having a good day. Sorry I got sidetracked. My wife gets dialysis twice a week. Betty just got onto the transplant list. We’re hoping she doesn’t get worse until a kidney becomes available, but we have faith it will all work out.

  “Getting back to Richard Sullivan. The family he lived with was a foster one. The Leonardos were special people. They’d taken in many troubled children over the years. I believe Richard was with them for about five years or so. Like a lot of things, it’s hard to remember these days.