The notification came at 6:43 AM on a Tuesday, which was appropriate because Tuesday in Manhattan is when the city pretends to care about something other than itself. Jack Callahan was half-asleep in
"We know your plan, Jack." He hung up. The number was blocked. He'd gotten threats before--from traders he'd beaten, from clients who'd lost money, from his ex-wife's lawyer. But something about this one sat wrong in his chest, like a piano wire pulled two turns too tight. By three that afternoon, he was standing in the lobby of 444 Central Park South, exactly where an anonymous email had told...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews