He took his seat at the bar. His eyes searched the pub’s cabinlike interior for his favorite waitress—Colleen, the stunner of a redhead who normally took care of him. She was nowhere to be found.
“Always a flip side to the coin,” Eve said. “Sometimes you experience something spectacular: maybe that same wine, but from a different bottle. It’s never quite the same. Experiences are diminished when they’re repeated. That’s why they’re called once-in-a-lifetime. So you can remember them, perfect and untainted.”
Colleen burst out of the kitchen; Haddox flashed her a smile and motioned for another Guinness. “Thank goodness for Guinness. Perfection each and every pour.”
Eve’s sigh was exasperated. “There’s this guy I know. He’s not like anybody I’ve ever met. Basically lives in his own version of reality. It’s about as real as the bits and bytes he hacks into.”
“My version of reality? You say it like there’s some other kind. You know something else I don’t get? You’re searching for Zev’s killer, but you won’t accept my help.”
“Maybe I don’t need your help.”
“Maybe you need me—and that’s what scares you.” Colleen set his pint of Guinness in front of him. “This is grand, luv.” He appreciated how the head rose just proud of the rim.
Haddox took a sip, then said to Eve, “So tell me about this case.”
So Eve told him. About the commissioner and the balloon inflation–turned–flash mob. About Allie Donovan and the grainy film footage and the phone.
Haddox didn’t say anything. For several moments, he stared at Colleen—who was all smiles for him—and pushed his shepherd’s pie around with his fork. He almost asked Colleen what time she finished work.
He didn’t. He couldn’t resist Eve’s invitation. Because the case was intriguing—and there was always the chance of twice-in-a-lifetime. So he told her, “I’ll be there in thirty.”
“Make it twenty,” she replied.
“You ever see the Eiffel Tower at night?”
“Sure.”
Haddox stretched his legs over the side of the barstool and threw on his waxed Barbour rain jacket, pushing his brand-new pint of Guinness and barely eaten serving of shepherd’s pie to the side. He didn’t mind giving up the pie; he wasn’t that hungry and he’d been craving another smoke, anyhow. But it was always a shame not to finish a decent stout.
“The metal lady twinkles every half-hour with over twenty thousand bulbs and what they call fairy lights,” Haddox told Eve. “I must’ve seen it over a hundred nights. Still gets me every time.”
VIDOCQ FILE #Z77519
Current status: INDEPENDENT CONTRACTOR
Corey Haddox
Age: 39
Race/Ethnicity: Caucasian/Irish
Height: 6'1"
Weight: 178 lbs.
Eyes: Blue
Hair: Brown
Prominent features: cleft chin
Current Address: Unknown.
Criminal Record: Convicted under the Gramm-Leach-Bliley Act of multiple counts of computer hacking, bank record pretexting, and identity theft. Sentence: twenty-five years.
Related: Though never charged, Haddox was suspected of killing his brother-in-law—a habitual drunk, wife-abuser, and leader of the splinter paramilitary Real IRA (RIRA). In retaliation, the RIRA has issued a death warrant for Haddox in Ireland.
Expertise: A rare talent in the world of computer hackers. Combines personal charisma with cyber-genius to become the ultimate skip tracer and con artist.
Education: Trinity College, Dublin, B.Sc. (honors), Information Systems.
Personal
Family: Father, Duncan (in Dublin nursing home with multiple ailments), and sister, Mary. Mother, Emily, deceased.
Spouse/Significant Other: None. Commitment issues.
Religion: Catholic, lapsed.
Interests: When not immersed in the cyberworld, plays guitar with whatever Celtic blues band he can find.
Profile
Strengths: Motivated by the need to expose hidden secrets and codes—the more complex, the better. Follows the thrill of the chase, which takes him job to job and place to place.
Weaknesses: Unpredictable. He resists being pinned down to anyone or anything. Deep-seated fear of flying.
Notes: Haddox is extremely comfortable in his own skin and extraordinarily perceptive. He cannot be motivated through traditional means. He’ll be more likely to stay in the game if he’s kept off-balance.
*Assessment prepared by SA Eve Rossi. For internal use only.
Chapter 14
350 Riverside Drive, Vidocq Headquarters
Eli Cohen’s stomach didn’t growl so much as it groaned. He was at his computer in the back parlor office, desperately trying to focus. First, he sat up straighter—though his chair squeaked in protest under his weight, which was now an embarrassing sixty-five pounds greater than his doctor preferred. Then he took a great gulp of piping-hot coffee from his mug—scalding his tongue, causing him to dribble down his perpetually stained denim shirt. Finally, he concentrated hard on the task at hand.
The money.
Eve’s takedown, Tony Falcon, was a skilled thief, but he was even more adept at unloading his bounty. He’d sold a Picasso last month for five million dollars at nearly fifty percent of its auction value. That was no small feat when the typical black-market price of a stolen piece was capped at ten percent.
Normally Eli would’ve been in the zone, thanks to his obsession with finances. It wasn’t only that he liked tracking the ins, outs, and potential hiding spots of the U.S. dollar—though he did find the process kind of like a kid’s scavenger hunt. And like any kid, he enjoyed a fun and challenging game.
But in a world where everyone constantly lied, there was truth in that old adage: Put your money where your mouth is.
When Eli was a boy, his grandma had told him that his education was the greatest gift she could give him. Other kids got toys and vacations. Not Eli. And he noticed.
But he also noticed how, after his father died, his grandma had worked two different jobs with long shifts—and that every penny that didn’t go to food or rent went to making sure he stayed in school and went to college.
Viewed this way, money was more than a science of the mind. It was the ultimate polygraph test—where individual choices spoke volumes about behavior, values, and truth.
In other words, people might lie with their lips but not with their wallets.
So what did Falcon’s money trail reveal about him? Eli was very close to knowing. But he hadn’t nailed it yet.
Not with the distraction from the mouthwatering aromas wafting out of the kitchen downstairs. Pumpkin. Spiced apples. Sausage. A hint of sage. His stomach growled again.
He shut his computer—followed the aroma straight down to the kitchen at 350 Riverside Drive—and stopped short.
Eli could’ve said that was because the smells were so intoxicating.
Or that his stomach was now in outright revolt.
But in reality, the moment he saw the chef, he felt his knees go shaky and his words stick in his throat. The man was young, right about thirty, with platinum hair spiked up in all directions and tattoos running down his arms. He wore a black T-shirt and jeans under his apron—and he wasn’t moving so much as he was practically bounding across the large stainless-steel kitchen. He noticed Eli, but it didn’t matter. He was enjoying himself too much to stop.
“Want to try?” He pointed to a tray of sausage-and-apple stuffing.
The man’s voice was a little high-pitched. It wasn’t what Eli expected—but he quickly decided that he liked it.
“Sure.” Eli could hardly get the word out. He felt like such a schoolgirl.
“My name’s Tyler Whitt. Friends call me Ty.” He grabbed a fork and lifted the tray, revealing biceps that advertised his regular dates with the weight room.
“I’m Eli.” He noted Ty’s long fingers. Clean, scented with a potpourri of spices. Eli took the
fork, poked it into the highest corner, where hopefully nobody would notice a missing bite. “What’s in this?”
“A fresh baguette. Apples, sausage, and celery—a little sage, bound together by eggs and cream. A savory bread pudding.”
Eli managed to bring the heaping fork to his mouth without dropping any morsels. Let the flavors come together. Closed his eyes. “Hands down. Best stuffing I’ve ever had.”
“I’m top of my class at the CIA.”
Eli stared, saying nothing. Eve’s stepfather, Zev Berger, had spent a long career in the CIA—and this house had served as a secret intelligence outpost until his death last year. When Eve inherited the stone mansion, she had transformed it into a state-of-the-art workspace for her own team.
Part of the government, too. FBI, not CIA. But also secret. Off the books. Not part of the bureaucratic machine at 26 Federal Plaza.
Eli was about to make a comment about Zev, but he must’ve looked confused because Ty added, “You know: Culinary Institute of America.”
Of course. Eli felt stupid all over again. Maybe he should just think of a good exit line. Get out of there before he really put his foot in his mouth.
Ty covered the stuffing tray and hoisted it into the air with one hand. Miraculously, it didn’t drop. “You live here?”
“I only work here. Though some days, you’d never know the difference.” Eli’s eyes followed Ty as he stored the tray inside the warming oven.
“So when Eve hired me to cook dinner for a small army, does she have a large family—or am I cooking for all your coworkers?”
“We’re not a family—but take it from me, we’re just as dysfunctional.”
“Your own family doesn’t care that you spend Thanksgiving at work?”
“My parents have passed,” Eli explained. “Rest of the family’s too messed-up to deal with. My sister’s married to a real asshole who makes fun of my ‘lifestyle choices.’ She’s got a junkie for a son and they treat me like I’m the depraved one in the family. But the small army you’re cooking for isn’t us. Eve volunteers every year, apparently, for a gathering of the homeless at Saint Agnes. I’d told her I wouldn’t join her, but I’ve changed my mind. It’ll be worth it, just to sneak a taste of your food.” He fidgeted. “But enough about me; where do you spend Thanksgiving?”
“I usually volunteer down at Saint Matthew’s.” Ty opened the Sub-Zero, pulled out a bag of potatoes. Dumped them in the kitchen sink.
“Healing through food?” Eli leaned on the center island, popped a stray carrot in his mouth.
Ty shrugged. “Food always makes people feel better—no matter what’s wrong. I learned that as a kid.”
“Me too.” Eli pointed to his belly. “Story of my life.” Except now Eli was conscious that he’d just advertised the coffee stain on his shirt.
Ty opened a drawer, found a peeler. “Want to help?”
Eli shook his head. He was all thumbs and didn’t want to embarrass himself. “I’ve got to finish something upstairs. But my grandma would’ve agreed with you. Every time she wanted to make me feel better, she made potato latkes with applesauce. I’ve never tasted any better. Crispy. Not too thick.”
“Is that a challenge?” Ty shot him a sideways glance.
“If you want it to be. She always had latkes at Thanksgiving. Every holiday, in fact—just because I loved them. Much better than mashed potatoes.”
“Then I’m going to make latkes to rival your grandma’s. Got to find a grater around here. Probably requires a thumbprint to use it.” He started opening drawers. “I had to stick my eye in a retina scanner to open the freakin’ knife drawer. Everything’s buttoned up tighter than Fort Knox. Exactly what kind of business are you running here, anyway?” Ty stared at him curiously.
The answer stuck in Eli’s throat. He never knew what to say. And when he got nervous? He talked way too much.
Eli wouldn’t have lasted a month in the regular FBI; the bureaucratic machine would almost certainly have chewed him up and spit him out. It still might—if he crossed the line and broke their confidentiality rules. Because this was a clandestine division that gave him freedom—what fancier people called carte blanche. He settled for saying, “It’s kinda secret. But the work’s not too bad.”
Then he hoped that was enough, as he stood there, awkward and tongue-tied.
Ty opened a bottle of wine: an Oregon pinot noir. Eli expected a couple glasses to follow—but, to his dismay, Ty drained half the bottle into the sauté pan and began scraping the sides with a wooden spoon. Then he asked the follow-up question Eli always dreaded. “How do you interview for this secret business?”
Again, Eli had no good answer. Since I was arrested for insider trading eight years ago? Since I got lucky and was offered a sweetheart of a deal: help the government stalk criminals and get out of jail free? “Stumbled into it, really,” he mumbled.
Ty tilted the half-empty bottle of pinot in the air. “The rest is fuel for the chef. Want some?” Now the glasses came out. One was poured. Offered.
Eli desperately wanted that drink. It would loosen him up. Help keep the conversation moving. But he hadn’t finished unraveling Falcon’s financial trail. “I’ll take a raincheck.”
Ty rolled the wine around in its glass. Savored its aroma before taking a drink and returning to the potatoes. “Healing through food,” he repeated.
Eli scrambled for something to say next. He wondered if they’d made the connection he’d been hoping for. Sometimes shared values forged friendships. He’d seen it happen.
Just rarely with him. But you never knew. This could be the start of something incredible.
It didn’t matter at the moment.
Because Eve was calling to him from the hallway, saying, “Hope you’ve wrapped up Falcon—because it looks like we’ve got a brand-new case.”
VIDOCQ FILE #A30888
Current status: ACTIVE
Eli Cohen
Age: 53
Race/Ethnicity: Caucasian
Height: 5'8"
Weight: 237 lbs.
Eyes: Hazel
Hair: Red
Current Address: 122A Orchard Street (Lower East Side).
Criminal Record: Multiple felony counts for embezzlement, tax evasion, and money laundering. Sentence: thirty-five years.
Expertise: Corporate financial systems and the clandestine movement of money.
Education:
City University of New York, B.S.
Fordham University, MBA
Personal
Family: Parents deceased. Estranged from extended family after coming out of the closet in March 1990. Remains in touch with sister, Elaine.
Spouse/Significant Other: None.
Religion: Nontraditional Jewish, devotee of the mysticisms of Kabbalah.
Interests: Comics and fantasy baseball.
Profile
Strengths: Enjoys the challenge of deciphering complex financial models.
Weaknesses: A loner who doesn’t bond well with others. Excessive preoccupation with his health (non-diagnosed hypochondria) compromises his abilities and work habits. History of depression. (In 2010, he was hospitalized for seven weeks following a failed suicide attempt.)
Notes: Isolated and misunderstood. Will attach himself to someone who understands him. His fundamental insecurity makes him vulnerable.
*Assessment originally prepared by SA Eve Rossi. For internal use only.
Chapter 15
Unknown Location
This was not how her afternoon was supposed to go. Allie sat alone, shivering—unable to shake the feeling that things had just spun entirely out of her control.
Now she was stuck: mouth dry and cottony. Absolutely parched with thirst. Feeling like a knife had been thrust into her brain. All thanks to the God-only-knew-what her kidnapper had drugged her with.
She blinked away an image of her dad—shot, falling—and rocked forward, curling her knees to her chin. Her chest heaved with a long, unbr
oken sob. She couldn’t believe that her father was gone. She had never felt so sad—or so alone.
The thought steeled her: Time to focus. No one was coming to save her.
She had no memory of her journey to this place. Still, she thought she knew where she was.
She was inside a rock.
The rock had a concrete floor below—and a solitary sixty-watt light dangling above. She thanked God it was the new energy-saving kind that was shaped like a spiral. Mom had bought those at home, and they were guaranteed to last five years. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about it burning out.
There was also a door—and the door had a lock.
Allie walked over to it and listened, putting her ear to the crack. She hoped for any sound of life from outside, but there was only dull silence and the whistle of cold air blowing in.
The room was secure, because workers stored things here.
She looked around and saw garden supplies. Plastic buckets with the NYC Parks maple leaf logo stamped on the side. Bags of fertilizer. She imagined she smelled mulch, and for the briefest of moments, she thought of spring and pink crocuses and daffodils and experienced a weird emotion that was happy and sad at the same time. Everything here was spring, summer, fall. No snow shovels or salt, which meant no workers would be checking this room.
One bucket was not part of the stack. She walked over and checked inside, where she saw a blue Gatorade and three protein bars.
Is this my dinner?
She’d kept it together ’til then, but she lost it when she saw the protein bars. Her mom—who was all about farm-to-table and fresh, organic food—had hated protein bars.
She was so cold she didn’t feel the tips of her fingers or toes. Her throat started to close. Then her breathing became very shallow and fast.
She knew she was having a panic attack—even though she’d never had one before. She fought it the same way she did her grief: by closing her eyes and trying to picture a moment when she had been happy and relaxed. She remembered a Sunday dinner before Mom got sick when they were all laughing. Mom had made spaghetti primavera and served it with two loaves of French bread—and Dad had downed an entire baguette, all by himself. People always talked about how family events were important, like birthdays or graduations or weddings. But the ordinary moments—the ones just like these—were the ones Allie thought were the most special.
Whistleblower Page 9
