You may be walking. It may be the first sunny day in spring and a car will slow beside you and a door will open and someone you know, maybe even trust, will get out of the car, and he will smile, a becoming smile. Condor does the only thing he can to preserve his skin. He goes to the New York Times and tells them the whole thing in the hopes that they'll publish it. After all, if you tell people that you're about to be killed, the killers will think twice about actually doing it.
Killers hate publicity.
I've been told that my life may be in danger because I might have been talking to investigators about something that happened on December 23 of last year. Well, you people are my New York Times, my safety valve. Now, a lot of you don't know this, but I spend part of the year in La Jolla, California, an ocean-side suburb of San Diego. Since we're living in the age of the Internet, I can practically work anywhere in the world. And let's face it, Colorado Springs ain't the warmest place to be in the winter.