“Nothing now, or nothing ever?”
“Nothing now.”
“And before?”
She chuckled. “I guess history has proven them to be not so significant.” Then her smile faded. For the first time since I’d known her, I saw a tentative look on her face. “And you? Anyone significant since . . . ?” I shook my head. She looked at me for a while, expressionless.
“Lauren says you spend a lot of time alone,” she said.
“Lauren says quite a lot, apparently. Don’t you ever need her to shut up and do some work?” Jane smiled a little, waiting for more of an answer. “It’s something I know how to do,” I said. “It works for me.” Jane was silent, but she did small things with the curve of her mouth and the arch of her brow that managed to convey both deep skepticism and a little sadness. Her huge, black eyes held mine for what seemed a long time. Then her phone rang. Jane flipped it open and listened.
“Shit,” she said after a while. “The meeting’s not till tomorrow— what the hell is he doing here now?” She listened again. “I don’t care what he’s asking for—give him some coffee, put him in the conference room, tell him I’ll be there in twenty minutes, and shut the door.” She closed her phone. “Shit,” she said softly.
“Not your father this time?” I asked. Her smile was tight and not happy. She shook her head.
“One of my board members, and biggest investors—but not my biggest fan. The board is meeting tomorrow, but he seems to want to get a head start on something.” Her smile softened. “I’ve got to go,” she said. She stood. “I’m sorry to run off. I liked this. Call me when you get your case wrapped up; I’ll buy you dinner.” She put on her coat and fiddled with the buttons and paused. Then she put her small, warm hand gently against the side of my face. And then she kissed me. “I hope you have some luck today,” she said softly, and then she was gone.
I sat there, motionless, the blood rushing in my ears, the heat slowly fading on my lips. When my pulse was under 120 again, and I felt like I’d regained some control over my limbs, I gestured to the waitress for the check.
I was walking home when Neary called. We were on.
Chapter Twenty-four
My alarm went off at twelve-thirty. I had slept deeply and without dreaming for four hours. I splashed water on my face and ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and drank coffee while I watched the Weather Channel. The forecast called for temperatures to drop into the twenties that evening, and for snow to fall by dark. I didn’t doubt it, judging from the heavy, pewter clouds that had moved in while I’d slept. I dug out a pair of flannel-lined jeans and some wool socks. I put on one of my miracle-fiber running shirts and pulled a black turtleneck over it. I checked my cell phone battery—fully charged. I checked the Glock— cleaned and loaded. I pulled on my black leather jacket and stuffed a pair of gloves into the pocket, and I was good to go.
I waited for Neary on the corner of Seventh Avenue and Sixteenth Street. At precisely two o’clock he rolled up, sitting in the passenger seat of a gray van. He looked tired, and so did his ride. It had dented fenders, a bad case of body rust, and some scarred black lettering on the driver’s door that read “L&H Painting 1227–29 Myrtle Ave.” The long side windows were thick with dirt, and the ones in the rear were even worse. But they were made of one-way glass. A rear door popped open, and I climbed inside. We pulled away, headed downtown.
There were two guys in the van with Neary. The driver was wiry, with unruly salt-and-pepper hair and a day’s growth on his narrow face. His eyes were deep-set and pale blue. He wore a gray down jacket, and his hands were strong looking, with prominent veins. He had a small gold hoop in his right ear. He might have been thirty or fifty or anything in between.
“Eddie Sikes,” he said in a scratchy whisper, as he eyed me in the rearview mirror. I nodded.
The guy in back with me was black, around my age and height, but bulkier. He had very short hair and an open, amiable face, with high cheekbones, a square chin, and a wide mouth that seemed on the verge of laughing. He wore horn-rimmed glasses and was dressed out of the Paul Stuart window: a brown checked blazer, brown woolen trousers, a blue button-down shirt, and a paisley tie. A brown topcoat was across his lap. He looked like a successful advertising executive, until you noticed the thin scar that ran from his left temple all the way down the side of his neck, and his enlarged, calloused knuckles, and his eyes—as warm and friendly as a pair of bullets. Of course, the matte black grip of a big automatic, visible on his hip where his jacket fell away, was also a good clue.
“Juan Pritchard,” he said. His voice was pleasant, deep, and friendly sounding.
“Two men are in the building already,” Neary told me. “They replaced two of the uniformed security people, walking the floors. They say all four of our guys are back from lunch. We’ve got a spot saved on Water that’ll give us a view of everything.”
I look around the van. It was the surveillance welcome wagon, a rolling smorgasbord of peeping gadgetry. High-powered binoculars, low-light scopes, digital cameras, video cameras, still cameras, an array of lenses, a half-dozen tripods, audio recorders, directional mikes, and a bunch of other stuff I couldn’t identify, were racked up and down both sides of the van, nestled snugly in beds of custom-cut foam. It had all the creature comforts, too. At my feet was an ice chest filled with bottled water, and next to it a carton of some kind of high-protein energy bars. In the far corner, by one of the doors, there was even a little chemical toilet. It was the kind of deluxe stakeout rig only a firm like Brill could afford. We could live in here for a week if we had to. But we didn’t have that kind of time, and we didn’t need it, not for what we were up to.
At its most basic, our plan was to rattle cages—four of them, one at a time—and wait to see what happened. For it to work, I had to be right about two things: that our mole was an amateur, an otherwise straight citizen, except for this foray into serial blackmail; and that he or she was already spooked, maybe on the verge of running scared. The actual mechanics were simple. I would call one of our suspects. My speech would be short and threatening. Without identifying myself, and using a voice scrambler, I would tell him or her to be at the southeast corner of Broad and Pearl Streets in ten minutes’ time. Otherwise, Nick Welch’s suicide case would be reopened as a murder investigation. And then we would watch and wait. An innocent person might have any number of reactions to that kind of call: incomprehension, confusion, disbelief, anxiety. Our mole, on the other hand, inexperienced and already skittish, would—we hoped—do one of two things: show up at Broad and Pearl, or run. If that happened, we’d be watching and following. Then Neary and I would confront the guy and shake—hard.
It was simple, but not without risk. The biggest one, of course, was that I’d gotten it all wrong. Maybe our mole was no amateur, maybe Trautmann had trained him well, or maybe he had ice water in his veins. Maybe he’d take my call, and do absolutely nothing. If that was the case, our only alternative would be to mount close surveillance on Trautmann and all four of our suspects. That would be expensive and time consuming, and it would mean Pierro was shit-out-of-luck, for now at least.
There were other risks, and we’d tried to plan around them. But there’d be things we hadn’t thought of. That was one of the truisms of this kind of work: nothing went according to plan. People did the unexpected, equipment broke, all luck was bad. Shit happens.
It was slow going downtown, but Sikes drove well. He knew the streets and was unruffled by the traffic. He and Pritchard made some desultory small talk about the Knicks, but mostly it was quiet in the van, with a faint undercurrent of tension. It wasn’t obvious, or even unpleasant, just a low-level hum, like the cycling of a heating system. The sound of each of us getting his head in the game.
At three o’clock, a maroon Chrysler pulled out of a spot just off the southwest corner of Water and Broad, and our van pulled in. We had a view of the MWB offices, to the south, and the intersection of Broad and Pearl, to the
north. An attractive woman with dark eyes and olive skin and lots of curly hair was behind the wheel of the Chrysler. There was a fine-featured Hispanic man in the passenger seat. Neary spoke to them.
“Thanks for keeping it warm. What’s happening?” he asked.
“Nothing,” the woman said. “Pressman and Sanchez were on the horn ten minutes ago. Said they were all at their desks.”
“Okay. You and Victor head up Broad. Let me know your location,” Neary said. The woman nodded, and they drove off.
“Let’s do a radio check,” Neary said to Sikes. Sikes reached into a compartment on the side of the driver’s seat and took out a big radio in a black leather holster. He flicked a switch and static bloomed, then dwindled to a hiss.
“Unit One to all units, radio check,” he said.
“Unit Two to Unit One, this is Pressman, on the third. I hear you, Eddie,” said a voice.
“Three to One, Sanchez here, Sikes. I’m on four. You sound good,” said another.
“Unit Four to Unit One. DiLillo here.” It was the woman in the Chrysler. “Got a space on the west side of Broad, just south of Stone. Good view. Hear you fine. Victor’s out walking.”
“Unit Five to One. This is Victor, Eddie. It’s freaking cold out,” another voice said. Sikes looked at Neary, who nodded.
“Juan has your toy,” Neary said to me. Pritchard pulled a black, plastic case from under his seat, opened it, and took out a black plastic box a little larger than a beeper. The voice scrambler. He handed it to me.
“Checked it out this morning. It works fine. Give it a try,” he said. I spoke into it.
“Testing, testing, one, two, three. In brightest day, in blackest night, no evil shall escape my sight,” I said. I sounded like a robot castrato. I flicked it off.
“I’ll be outside the building,” Pritchard said. He fixed a tiny earpiece in his left ear and went out the back door. A minute later he was on the radio, asking for a check. Sikes acknowledged him.
Neary reached back and handed me a sheet of paper. “Here’s your cheat sheet,” he said. On the page were the names, office numbers, and home addresses of each of our suspects, along with physical descriptions of each of them, and grainy headshots that looked like they were copied off ID photos. It also listed the cell numbers of everyone on our little team.
“Who first?” I asked. I thought I knew the answer. Neary’s management wanted more than anything to know about the two Brill people on the list, and Neary wanted to know about Cheryl Compton.
“Compton,” Neary said. Sikes picked up the radio.
“Unit One to Unit Two. Give me a location on Compton, Lenny,” Sikes said. A couple of moments later a voice came back.
“Two to One. Give me a minute, Eddie,” the voice said. There was silence for a while. “Two to One. She’s not at her desk. She’s . . . in the hallway. She’s turning.” There was another pause. “She’s in the can, Eddie. Been in and out of there all day. Could be she’s got her period, or the runs or something.” Sikes rolled his eyes. Neary took the radio.
“One to Two. This is Neary. Spare me the health report, Len. Where’s Vetter?”
“Two to One. Just passed him in his office, boss, working at his desk,” Pressman answered. Neary looked at Sikes and me.
“Vetter first, then.” He spoke into the radio. “Unit One to all units, we’re live now with Mitch Vetter. Acknowledge.” One by one Neary’s people called in their acknowledgments. Neary handed me a cell phone. “Caller ID’s blocked. It’s all yours,” he said. I punched in Vetter’s number and switched on the voice scrambler.
“Mitchell Vetter speaking.” I remembered the high-pitched voice and the New York accent.
“Listen to me. Unless you want to see the Nick Welch case reopened as a murder investigation, be at the corner of Broad Street and Pearl in ten minutes. Ten minutes, Vetter, or you’ll be answering a lot of questions about Nick Welch.” There was a long silence at the other end of the line. And then there was laughter.
“Sid? Fucking Sid, is that you?” Vetter was laughing hard. “Jesus, you are a sick puppy. The voice thing is a cute touch, though. But who the hell is Nick Whosis? Sid? Sid?” I hung up. Neary looked at me. I shook my head.
“He thought it was funny,” I said. “Unless he is very slick, he didn’t know who Nick Welch was. He thought I was somebody named Sid.”
“Unit One to Unit Two. What’s up, Lenny?” Neary said into the radio. Lenny’s whispered voice came back quickly.
“Two here. He’s at his desk, laughing and making a phone call. Now he’s talking, still laughing. He’s stopped laughing now, looks confused. Still talking, shaking his head. Now he’s off the phone.” Pressman paused for a moment. “He’s just looking at the wall now, shaking his head. Now he’s typing at his keyboard again.”
“What do you think?” Neary asked me.
“I think he’s not our guy, but give him a few minutes,” I said. Neary nodded and called Pressman on the radio.
“One to Two. Lenny, stay close to Vetter for another fifteen.” Pressman acknowledged. Neary handed the radio back to Sikes, who updated the other units. Then we waited. After about a day, fifteen minutes passed, during which time the most exciting thing Mr. Vetter did was to buy a soda. We agreed to move on. Neary looked at Sikes.
“Unit One to Unit Two. Where’s Compton at, Lenny?” Sikes said. It took a couple of minutes for the answer to come back.
“Two here. She’s at her desk, nobody else in the room.” Neary nodded. Sikes got on the radio again and told all of Neary’s people we were placing the call to Compton. They acknowledged, and Neary looked at me. I flicked on the voice box and punched her number.
“Cheryl Compton.” She spoke quickly. I said my piece, and again there was a long silence, longer this time than with Vetter. But when Cheryl answered, it wasn’t with laughter.
“Who is this?” she said in a low, tense voice.
“Ten minutes, Cheryl,” I said. More silence.
“What the hell are you doing to me?” she hissed. I hung up. Neary looked at me.
“She wasn’t laughing,” I said. Sikes called Pressman.
“Talk to me, Lenny.”
“She’s just sitting there, holding on to the arms of her chair, looking at the walls. She looks . . . I don’t know, real stiff.” There was a pause. “Now she’s picking up the phone. She’s talking, now she’s hanging up. Looks like maybe she left a message for somebody. Okay, she’s getting up now. I’m moving.” There was another pause, longer this time, then Pressman came back. “She’s walking around the main corridor, to the north end of the building. She’s going down one of the aisles. She’s at a window, looking out. I got to keep moving, sorry.”
We waited for Pressman to come back. Neary was pale and rigid with tension, and maybe anger. He looked exhausted. Sikes looked bored. Then Pressman spoke.
“Okay, she’s back in her office now. She’s on the phone again . . . talking . . . hanging up. Looks like another message. She’s just sitting there again.” Neary looked at me.
“I don’t know, Tom,” I said. “Give her some time.” He looked at his watch. It was three-forty and getting dark out. It was also getting closer to rush hour, which mostly worked against us. The bigger crowds made it harder to spot a tail, but they also made it much easier to lose your subject.
“Twenty minutes,” he said. Sikes spread the word. We waited. Pressman gave us reports every five minutes. He told us about Cheryl Compton sitting, staring at the walls, calling numbers that seemed not to answer, pacing around her desk, sitting back down, and staring some more. Twenty minutes came and went, and Neary gave it fifteen more. Five minutes before that deadline, Compton seemed to settle down and go back to work.
“Something’s sure as hell bugging her,” Neary said. “And I’d like to know who the fuck she’s calling.” His voice was tight with frustration. He shook his head. “It’s getting late; let’s move on. Where are Desai and Mills?”
“Keep an eye on her, Lenny,” Sikes said into the radio. “We’re moving to the fourth floor now. Unit One to Unit Three, where are your guys?” Sanchez’s voice came over the radio, telling us that Mills and Desai were in their respective offices.
“Desai first,” Neary said. Sikes nodded and picked up the radio.
“Unit One to Unit Three. We’re going with Desai. Tell me what you see, Sanchez.”
Sanchez’s voice came back quickly. “I’m looking at him now, Eddie. He’s working at his desk.” Neary gave Sikes the nod, and Sikes notified all units that we were live with Desai. Neary looked at me. I picked up the cell phone and did my thing.
“What? Who . . . who is this?” Vijay Desai said. “Who are you calling for? Is this some kind of sales thing?”
“Ten minutes, Desai,” I said.
“Ten minutes for what? Who is this?”
I hung up. I looked at Neary and shook my head.
“Either a great actor or completely clueless. My vote is clueless,” I said.
Sikes got on the radio. “What’s the haps, Sanchez?”
“He’s just sitting there. Looks kind of confused.”
“Give him ten,” Neary said, but before Sikes could get back on the radio, Pressman’s voice cut in.
“Unit Two to Unit One. Vetter is moving. He’s got his coat on, headed for the elevators.” He sounded out of breath.
Sikes spoke quickly. “Unit One to Unit Six. You hear that, Juan?”
“I heard,” Pritchard said. “I’m by the doors. What’s he wearing, Lenny?”
“Tan pants, brown leather coat, thigh length, blue-and-red-striped scarf,” Pressman answered quickly.
“I’ll let you know when I pick him up,” Pritchard said. While we waited, Sikes spoke to Sanchez. Desai was apparently back at work. After a few minutes, Pritchard came back.
“Got him. He’s headed up Water, toward William Street. I’m half a block back,” Pritchard said. “Victor, you close by? Can you flank him?”
“Can do. I’m at Broad and Pearl, heading up Pearl to William,” Victor said.
JM01 - Black Maps Page 28
