The Thomas Blume Series

Chapter 1

Chapter One

I snapped awake from the dream. Or was it a nightmare?

The squeal of the aircraft landing gear tugged me from my thoughts. Last thing I remembered, I had been staring out the window, half a miniature bottle of whiskey shy of being drunk, when I must have drifted off. The cry of rubber on runway had been a rude awakening.

The light streaming through the oval window seemed hollow and sharp here, causing me to squint. Back in London, it would have been softer, more welcoming.

Or maybe I’d indulged in a few too many drinks during the flight and imagined it. The Jack Daniels and Coke mixtures I’d been making had become more Jack and less Coke the closer I got to the States. Perhaps I was anxious about returning to where it all began and seeing the faces of my past. Or perhaps I was just an old drunk who couldn’t go eight hours without the booze.

Either way, being back on American soil for the first time in a long time, scared me, brought back all sorts of memories.

The pilot made his usual announcements, and I remained seated as everyone around me bustled to their feet and reclaimed their carry-ons from the overhead compartments. I rolled my head slowly along the headrest of my seat, wondering whether I was ready to set foot back in New York, where it all began. I’d been in London for almost a year, not nearly enough time to wash away the mixed feelings the Big Apple had long ago planted in my heart.

Really, I had no choice but to return. The demise of my previous employer had not specifically pointed me back home, but it had given me the nudge. Somehow, chasing the one case that dragged me to London had, ironically, pointed me back to New York. After a year of ghosts and dead-ends, I was ready for some answers. The truth had been gnawing at the edge of my conscience for so long, taunting me with the fate of my family.

With the aisle traffic clearing out, I climbed to my feet and took down my small carry-on bag. As I struggled with it, the depth of my inebriation became clear. Christ, was I almost smashed? Stupid state to arrive in my old home town.

Different continent, but the same old demons.

One thing about New York, though, was the feeling you got from just being there, a feeling unlike anywhere else on the planet. More than anything, it felt good to see a bright and gleaming East Coast sun blazing down on the tarmac as I exited the plane and moved along the air-bridge. Trudging slowly towards the baggage claim, more things reminded me of what I had once loved about this city. Giants jerseys, Yankees caps, and advertising for Broadway shows.

And oh God, the delicious smell of greasy, overpriced pizza. My stomach growled.

I made my way toward the final security checkpoint that would lead me into the central hub of JFK International. I took out my wallet and passport, trying to be as ready as possible before reaching the kiosk.

The terse woman behind the counter barely looked at me as I slid my documents through the slot at the bottom of the glass. She examined them for a long moment before looking up at me with a little too much scrutiny for comfort. Finally, she shrugged and pushed my wallet and passport back before yelling out: “Next!”

American hospitality. Don’t you just love it? So warm. So Goddamned welcoming.

Glad to be out from underneath her scowl, I carried on and made my way to the restrooms. Jetlag and an impending hangover threatened, so I headed straight to the wash basins. I splashed cold water over my face and then wiped the excess away with a handful of paper towels from the wall dispenser.

I avoided looking in the mirror. I knew what I’d see there. The ragged-looking reflection, the three days’ worth of beard, the messy hair that somehow made the gray streaks around the edges more pronounced. At my age, was all of that gray just the natural progression of time or the high stress my job often placed on me? Maybe a bit of both.

I still carried the strong jaw and sturdy build of my father, but the steel blue eyes and dark hair was pure mom.

I stepped back out into the growing bustle of JFK airport, wondering whether I could do anything else to procrastinate. I had to stop being such a damned coward. New Yorkers are supposed to be tough and mean. That’s the cliché I needed to mimic. Yes, it was the stereotype, but I was certain it didn’t apply to New Yorkers who had escaped overseas when life had gotten too hard for them. Maybe I could develop a new image—the cowardly New Yorker. A stereotype of one.

With the familiar heaviness of a few drinks affecting my balance and an even more familiar sense of uncertainty, I made my way through the terminal. I headed for the exits, moments away from setting foot into the city that had given me so much and taken so much more. And while they had not died in New York, the city had practically taken my wife and son as well.

And that’s what it came down to. The driving reason I pushed down all the uncertainty and fear. I’d returned to New York for one reason, and I’d be damned if I left before confronting the man who killed my family.