The Informant

by Thomas Perry

  She packed the files she'd been reading into her briefcase, turned off the lights in her office, and walked out the door. "Geoff, I've been suspended for the rest of the week. Keep track of my calls, open my mail, and sort it in my in-box in priority order. We'll have a lot of catching up to do on Monday."

  6

  HE WAS FEELING more relaxed now that he had found Frank Tosca's house surrounded by FBI agents. The destruction of the life Michael Schaeffer had built in England had stopped, and his trouble was contained for the moment. Delamina and the other two men who had been sent to England to find him were dead. Now Frank Tosca couldn't walk his dog without having his picture taken, and he couldn't talk to his family without having it recorded. Tosca didn't need to be dead. If the Justice Department was already preparing a murder case against him, then his brief run at being the head of the Balacontano family was over. He would be transformed from the young bull who was going to bring back the old days into a dangerous liability. Even if the FBI didn't arrest him, his closest friends would abandon him.

  He checked out of his hotel Thursday morning at ten A.M. and got into his rented Toyota Avalon. Since he had moved to England he hadn't driven much. His main house was in Bath, and so he walked nearly everywhere. He kept a Jaguar in the garage because Meg liked to drive in the country sometimes and liked to have him drive her on social occasions when she had to be the Honourable Lady Margaret Susanna Moncrief Holroyd of Axeborough. He missed her this morning.

  He drove in the direction of Tosca's house. Before he left for JFK he wanted to take one look at the surveillance team in daylight. There had to be more certainty about Tosca's fate. If the feds were committed to a full-scale operation to keep Tosca in their field of vision twenty-four hours a day, then they had nearly enough evidence, and Tosca was doomed. But he had to be sure. He didn't want to be home in Bath two months from now thinking Meg was safe, and then discover more of Tosca's underlings making their way through his back garden.

  He made sure he was below the speed limit, which was only twenty-five in these narrow residential streets, but he didn't spot the FBI field team. The vans with the remote listening devices and telescopic lenses were not in evidence on the streets where they had been last night. He knew the FBI preferred the use of buildings for long-term surveillance. They were less obtrusive, held more people, had a higher vantage point, provided a clearer view of the target, and supplied an inexhaustible source of electric power.

  He began to look closely at the houses. He drove by the three where the vans had been parked two nights ago and studied the immediate area. There seemed to be none of the signs that would reveal the presence of FBI agents. There was no lowering of blinds or shades so there could be cameras above the rods or mountings. There were no dishes or disks that might be parabolic microphones, no cars parked in the wrong places, no crews working on the roads or on the wires, the pipes, or the landscaping of any of the houses. Most of the garage doors were open, and he could see high-end station wagons and SUVs—nothing that was either powerful or nimble. He drove to the house around the corner where two nights ago the high hedges had hidden the chase cars lined up in the driveway. He passed the entrance, and he could see the long driveway was empty. The windows had no curtains on them, and he could see into empty rooms.

  He was certain now that the FBI had left. The surveillance was over. Had Tosca been so stupid or unlucky that he'd already said or done something in the few hours since Tuesday that had allowed the agents to arrest him? He drove back to the block where Tosca's house was and drove past it. There were no cops searching the house and grounds, no signs of any police vehicles anywhere. The surveillance had ended, and that meant he was going to have to take care of Tosca himself. He drove out of the residential streets to the commercial part of town. It was still before noon, so he had a lot of time to fill.

  He went to a big movie theater in a shopping mall and watched a movie about bank robbers. It was so far from reality that he could watch it uncritically. The real bank robbers he had met were stupid. They all knew that bank robberies were investigated by local, state, and federal agencies. They knew that while they were committing their crime, they were being videotaped from several angles. They knew that tellers' stations had silent-alarm buttons, and that the money they got was marked and sometimes contained an ink bomb. They did it anyway and kept doing it until they were in handcuffs. But these were movie bank robbers, so they were attractive, smart, and lucky, none more so than the beautiful girl safecracker who wore the spandex catsuit and handled the explosives.

  When that movie ended, he went outside again and went for a walk, then had a light lunch. After that, he went to another theater and watched another movie, this one about a high-powered woman executive who was forced to pretend she was married to her male rival. When the two finally did what everyone had been expecting for two hours and the lights went on, he walked some more, had dinner, and went to a third movie. It was about a professional killer, and he slept through most of it. When it was late enough and most of the people on the streets had already driven home, he left his car parked in the lot of the big hotel on Glen Cove that looked like a British manor and walked toward Tosca's house.

  He'd been aware of the possibility that he was wrong and that the FBI agents would be back after the rest of the world was asleep so they could work unnoticed until they were established in some comfortable place and had all their gadgets working. But there were no signs of them tonight either. It had also occurred to him that if they had conclusive evidence on a man who was unlikely to be alone and sure to be heavily armed, they might pull everybody back for a day and swoop in later. But the neighborhood presented too much clear evidence against that theory. There were cars in all the driveways. Television sets projected moving glows on many white ceilings. If the FBI had planned to raid the house of a Mafia capo like Tosca, they wouldn't want civilians in the line of fire. There were no feds: he had the night to himself.

  Tosca's house had a lawn that looked like a city park, with tall old trees at irregular intervals. There was a long driveway with a circle around a flower bed near the door, in nearly the same sort of grand miniaturization as the empty house around the corner.

  He turned his attention to the house. The place would be filled with dozens of machines that were supposed to make the night go away, make the cold and the heat stay within a degree of each other, bring in images from everywhere in the world, and keep Frank Tosca safe. Considerable effort would be required to hide from the machines and stay invisible. He set to work on the electronic gear.

  He climbed a tree at the corner of the house to reach the eaves and pulled himself up onto the roof. If there was a power failure and the phone lines were cut, the battery-operated internal modem in the security system control box in the house would begin dialing the headquarters of the security company. But the signal would be sent by a battery-operated transmitter that amounted to a cell phone mounted on the roof. He found the power cord for recharging the battery, followed it to the transmitter mounted near the peak, and disconnected both power sources.

  Just beyond the edge of the roof was the tree he had climbed to get up here. He grasped a limb and lowered himself to the ground, walked around the house to the telephone circuit box, and pulled the wires from their connections. Next he went to the electrical circuit box and flipped the main circuit breaker to cut the power to the house.

  He had not completely neutralized the alarm system. The security circuit box inside the house would have a rechargeable battery that would cause the alarm to sound when a breach occurred. All he had done was ensure that the signal wouldn't go to the security company and the police.

  He circled the house, looking in the windows to find the easiest way in. He knew the system installed on the windows and doors. Each contact consisted of a magnet on one side and a switch on the other. If the magnet on the window frame moved away from the switch in the sill, the switch would close, the alarm circuit would be complet
ed, and the alarm would sound. There was an alarm system box somewhere in the house, and it was possible to open it and turn off the system. But it was always hidden in a closet or cupboard, and Tosca had a big house.

  After a few minutes he found the window he wanted. It was divided into four small panes on the top half and four on the bottom, and looked out onto a small garden of low, thick flowering plants. He used duct tape to cover one pane so it wouldn't shatter and make a loud noise. Then he wrapped his crowbar in his jacket and pushed it against the windowpane until it gave inward with a quiet crack. Nothing fell to the floor. He pulled the glass out and set it on the ground. Then he put his arm inside. He placed the magnet he had brought right beside the window at the center of the sill where the switch would be. Next he reached up to disengage the latch and raised the window. No alarm sounded.

  He climbed inside, lowered the window again, took his magnet, and moved to stand with his back against the inner wall of the room. He stood still, looked into the dark house, and listened. When he was still a boy, Eddie Mastrewski had said, "If you want to be good at night work, watch the cat."

  The cat he meant was the big yellow tomcat that Eddie allowed to live in the office of the butcher shop. Most of the time he seemed to be asleep. He slept whenever there was no strong reason not to. "You mean now?"

  "He's resting. Learn from him."

  The boy could tell that Eddie was serious. Eddie's lessons were also tests, and the boy knew it. He watched the cat for a long time before he was sure that the cat wasn't exactly sleeping, but not exactly not sleeping either. The cat's eyes were not quite closed, and he was still aware of the things that were going on around him. He kept watching the cat while he was working—weighing, wrapping, and labeling cuts of meat that Eddie's expert knifework placed on the cutting board—and he kept noticing other things. At the end of that day, Eddie said, "What have you learned?"

  The boy said, "I'm not ready to say yet. I want to think about him and watch some more."

  "Good start. That's what the cat would do."

  The boy watched the cat get up at twilight and start to walk out the back door of the butcher shop. The boy reached for him to scoop him up so he could be watched, but the cat wriggled, turned its head slightly, and placed all four fangs on the boy's wrist, not quite breaking the skin, but showing him the possibility. The boy didn't let go, so the cat's claws came out to give him a quick, shallow slash that made the boy drop him.

  The cat landed on his feet with a faint thump, and his body flowed around the door and into the evening.

  The boy didn't know Eddie had been watching. "They're faster than we are because their nervous system is quicker. If you beat a cat to something, he's letting you win."

  "Why would he do that?"

  "He does it for his own reasons, and he doesn't talk. Go ahead. I'll clean up."

  It was not a small favor. Every night each surface of the shop had to be cleaned and washed, and all the metal polished before they locked the door. The boy went down and out into the weedy empty lot behind the shop, sat down on a cinder block, and waited, trying to catch sight of the cat.

  It took him minutes of patient staring at denser spots in the general darkness, but then a car went by and the light of its headlights reflected off the cat's amber eyes. The boy stayed where he was, watching for three hours while the cat waited in ambush for small creatures of the night, or took up a new position and then melted into nothing more than a concentration of the darkness, something that might be a rock or a clump of grass or a piece of wood—but not a cat. And then, when the cat knew that the prey was too close to escape, it moved like electricity or a thought, and grasped the animal. The cat would hold the prey with its foreclaws and kick with the rear claws to gut it. As the boy got used to watching the cat, he began to learn the things that Eddie wanted him to see, the secrets. A cat could shape himself into a hundred motionless not-cat silhouettes. And the cat could shape time. He would wait as long as the prey thought a cat might wait, and then longer. Then he could move so quickly that the only view the boy had was a memory, an impression of something that had already happened.

  When he was finally ready to tell Eddie what he had observed, Eddie said, "Remember that you and the cat are in the same business, and he's the grand champion. He was born into it, kind of like you. People say cats are cruel because they'll play with a mouse, pretend to let him go, and then catch him again. It's not cruelty. He's practicing, trying to get better at being what he is. If you could move through the dark like a cat does, you'd live forever."

  Eddie had practically lived forever, long enough to die of his other job. Eating all those precious cuts of meat, marbled with fat and cooked over a flame, had ultimately given him a heart attack. When he finally died, Eddie's funeral was arranged by the same local undertakers who had arranged his parents' funeral, but there was a different feeling to it.

  All of the women who had received special attention from Eddie, the wives who had him deliver special cuts of meat to their back doors while their husbands were away at work, showed up. So did a couple of divorcées and a widow Eddie would let come into the back of the shop to pick out their own delicacies. It was as though Eddie's secret girlfriends had agreed that if they all showed up, no gossip could possibly single out any one of them for disapproval. The boy considered their silent agreement the last noble gesture of his childhood, and was careful to be very polite and respectful to each of the ladies during the funeral and the endless reception held at Eddie's house afterward. When everyone had gone home, he went to the butcher shop and did some defrosting.

  Eddie had told him at least five years earlier that when he died, the boy should thaw the big blocks of ice at the back of the freezer. The boy took the blocks to the back of the shop, and used hot water, sunshine, and a blowtorch. Inside the ice, carefully wrapped, the boy found several sealed plastic boxes. Each was labeled GIBLETS AND GIZZARDS FOR CAT. In them were stacks of hundred-dollar bills.

  The next day the boy gave all the meat in the shop to neighborhood families, gave the shop and its equipment one last cleaning as Eddie had taught him, and put the house and the shop up for sale. He gave the cat to the lady florist two doors down from the shop who always bought cat treats for his daily visits to her store.

  In the darkness, inside of a strange house all these years later, he used what he had learned about the night. He had been immobile long enough for his eyes to get used to the dark, and he'd heard no sounds of people. He began to move. He kept the surface of the wall three inches from his right shoulder and never stepped on the hardwood floor except at the edges, avoiding the center where loose boards might creak. His stronger arm and leg were near the wall, where an opponent couldn't neutralize them easily, and he could use them to push off. His knees were bent slightly so he could jump, duck, or dive quickly.

  His breathing was even and deep, and his movements were patient. He simply stayed in one place long enough to feel and hear the void before him and then move forward to fill it. Many years earlier, when he was just learning to move in the night, he would stop in a hallway, listen for the sounds of the house, and count to a hundred or two hundred before he moved again. He did these things without having to calculate now. He was living in these seconds, but also sending his mind on ahead, searching for Frank Tosca.

  He had to get a feel for the rooms. The living room was sure to be at the front of the house, and a house this size would probably have a foyer at the entrance. The kitchen and pantry would be at the back of the house and have their own entry. Coming forward from the kitchen there would be a formal dining room, so people could enter it from the living room and be served from the kitchen. In a one-story house the bedrooms would be toward the back, probably off a single corridor. That corridor would be the most dangerous part of the house tonight.

  He moved in the direction where he predicted the corridor would be and verified that he had found it. The hallway was a single, straight one with three doors on
each side. He stopped beside the first door.

  He was eager to find Frank Tosca. He had met him a few times when they were both in their twenties. Tosca had been arrogant and sullen, with a habitual expression that hinted he was contemplating violence. But he had managed to endear himself to senior people in the Balacontano family. Tosca had been a particular favorite of Vincent, Carlo's younger brother, who had a reputation for throwing money around, partying, and drinking too much. Tosca was broad shouldered and thick necked, and Vincent liked to go to clubs with two men who looked like that as his bodyguards. It gave Tosca a chance to watch the old capos when they were still near their prime, and his proximity made some of their legitimacy rub off on him. In retrospect, it probably shouldn't have been surprising that he had risen so high in his early forties, but it also wouldn't have been surprising if he had been killed.

  Schaeffer stuck his head in the first doorway and saw an empty bed. It was flat, still made. He studied the room in the moonlight from the window and saw that it had nothing out of place, and that there was nothing in it that seemed to belong to anyone in particular. The dresser held a white antimacassar and an empty tray for jewelry or pocket change, but there was nothing in it. The bathroom counter by the sink was bare. He moved to the room across the hall, and found it empty too. These were guest rooms, each with its own bath, a dresser, a chair, and no sign that anyone had stayed there recently. He checked a third room and then moved toward the fourth. He needed to be sure he wasn't leaving anyone behind him as he advanced.

  The fourth room was a child's bedroom, a boy's room with an aquarium, an electric guitar on the wall, some posters, and a clothes hamper full of dirty clothes. He could smell musky sweat from ten feet away. This was a terrible discovery. He knew now that Frank Tosca had heard what had happened to Delamina and drawn the right conclusion. He had known that he had no adequate defense against a man like the one who was coming for him, so he had taken his family and left.