“You know what’s the best part of an operation like this?” said Thomlinson, his eyebrows doing a dance reminiscent of Groucho Marx.
“This I wanna hear,” said Margaret.
“I mean, ya gotta respect a satellite-based navigation system that helped take down Scott Peterson for the murder of his wife. And I’m all in favor of a law that says we can use it at will to track the movement of a car ’cause its driver has no reasonable expectation of privacy while driving on a public thoroughfare. No. No breach of the Fourth Amendment there. And who’s not to marvel over a designer ankle bracelet with a GPS chip for the likes of Martha Stewart?” His eyebrows did their dance again as he reached for a cigar. “No, I’m in favor of the operation ’cause it means I get to spend a couple of hours alongside the vivacious Leticia Hollander over at CyberCentral.”
“For what?”
“To brush up on my hi-tech tracking skills.”
“You dog. You’ve run hundreds of satellite shadows.”
“She doesn’t know that.”
Chapter 63
While Buju Banton was making reggae magic with Bogle, which was blaring through Thomlinson’s four-by-four’s six Jensen speakers, the detective had his eyes fastened on the rear of Shewster’s Lincoln that sat curbside outside Angelo’s Salumeria on Mott Street in Little Italy. Thomlinson figured either Shewster or his limo driver had a yen for fresh mozzarella.
“Purchase complete,” Thomlinson said, sitting upright, watching the regally dressed driver return to the stretch limo. “Buju, we’re on the prowl again!” Turning the key in the Jeep’s ignition, he resumed the tail.
Installing the GPS device to the frame of Shewster’s vehicle would be a breeze. Two high-powered magnets would see to that. The challenge for Thomlinson was getting it done without being seen.
“This should take awhile,” he said, watching the Lincoln glide in next to the Mobil gas pump. The driver got out of the car and inserted a credit card in the pump’s slot and proceeded to fill the tank. Thomlinson glanced at the foot-high numbers posted under the Mobil red, white, and blue logo.
He shook his head. “Shewster’s not gonna like that charge. No sir. Three sixty-nine for high test is liable to break the bank!”
He wouldn’t swear to it, sitting a hundred feet from the station, but when the driver replaced the gas nozzle, Thomlinson thought he read $73.36 as the total purchase.
“No sir. Ol’ Shewster’s not gonna like that one bit,” he said, reengaging the starter and falling in behind the gas-guzzling limo.
It was close to 7:15 P.M. before Thomlinson’s unwavering pursuit offered an opportunity to do the deed. He’d been figuring the Town Car would disappear behind some high-wired security gate, which he would then need to outwit to get to his target. Though he was prepared for the possibility, the limo driver’s appetite saved him the bother. He followed as the Lincoln turned right into the parking lot of a Red Lobster eatery on Sunrise Highway. He was willing to bet the vehicle didn’t end up there too often when Shewster was seated in the back.
He watched as the driver got out from behind the wheel, closed the door, and used a key remote to activate the vehicle’s alarm. Thomlinson thought that a good sign. Had he been going in for takeout, he may not have set the alarm.
Thomlinson loved defensive parkers. They always parked at the end of a row, away from other vehicles, in the spot furthest from the restaurant. Very often they took up two spots. That wasn’t the case for the limo, but it was parked at the end of a row and a good distance from the entrance to the lobster lover’s paradise.
Not only was the view of the limo obscured when Thomlinson sidled the Jeep next to it, but his body going horizontal, his armed stretching under the vehicle, went unnoticed as well.
Thomlinson looked at his watch. He hadn’t eaten since noon and was tempted to go inside for a bite, but got back in the Jeep instead. Why? Because Detective Second Grade Cedric Franz Thomlinson was allergic to shellfish.
Chapter 64
When his cell phone rang, Driscoll was getting out of the shower. Wrapping himself in a towel, he followed the ringing to its source, tracking wet footprints across a hardwood floor.
“Driscoll, here.”
“Catch you at a bad time?” It was Margaret.
“No. Why?”
“You sound annoyed.”
“I’m not. Whaddya got?”
“I spent most of yesterday afternoon and part of last night getting back to our sources. It appears Shewster got into the game only when Ted Clarkson came into the picture. I spoke to the bus driver. After you left him he got a call from a woman.”
“A woman?”
“Yup. Said she had been instructed to call him after seven P.M., which coincides with what he told you.”
“Interesting. The call he had gotten before I arrived was from a man. Or so he thought.”
“Guess Shewster’s an equal opportunity employer.”
“What’d he tell her?”
“You must of coached this guy good. He told her he had already spoken to a Lieutenant Driscoll and gave her your number. She got a little pushy. Said since a bundle of cash was riding on it, her boss required lots of paperwork, background checks, and follow-up calls.”
“Cute. She tell him who her boss was?”
“Being stupid must have ranked high on Shewster’s ‘Don’t You Dare’ list. Clarkson got a little pissed off by what he called, and I quote, ‘her you’d-better-buy-this-life-insurance policy-or-else attitude,’ and told her again to call you.”
“Glad I picked up the tab for the crullers.”
“Crullers?”
“You had to of been there.”
“If you say so. Anyway, his allegiance to you cut off any calls to our friends in Carbondale. No life insurance tactics applied up there.”
“Do me a favor?”
“Sure.”
“Stop by a Dunkin’ Donuts shop, pick up a dozen crullers, and deliver them to Clarkson. Tell him there’s three million more in the oven.”
“You have coffee yet?”
“No.”
“When you do, make it decaf.”
Chapter 65
The officer who handled incoming calls to the Twentieth Precinct West Eighty-second Street was used to receiving crank calls. The Twentieth averaged fifteen to twenty a month. Considering the advances in telephone technology and the availability of caller ID, not to mention the capabilities of the police in that regard, you would think oddballs who liked to cry wolf would smarten up.
That’s what Officer Stephen Turley thought he had received from a very excited female. She claimed to work at PC Haven, on West Fifty-seventh near Tenth, and said he’d been to the store. When asked who she meant by “he,” she clammed up and said she didn’t want to discuss it by phone, thought maybe she should talk to a lawyer. Mucho dinero was on the line, she told him, and she didn’t want to foul up her chances of collecting the reward. When Turley asked what she meant by that, she said, “You’re kiddin’, right? Where’re ya from? Mars?” That remark angered him. Rather than making it personal or go on listening to her gibberish, he told the loon he’d have someone look into it. After hanging up, he had a chance to think more clearly, without her punctuating everything she told him with “Oh! My God!” According to his monitor, the call had come in from PC Haven. That much was legit. Roll call for the past couple of months had included a directive to be cognizant of the murderous spree of a set of homicidal twins with a huge bounty on their heads. Not that he needed to be reminded every morning-he was a native New Yorker and was well aware of the twin psychos and the reward offered for their capture. Nah. Couldn’t be, he thought. But after replaying the conversation in his head, he decided better safe than sorry. She had called the right precinct for Fifty-seventh and Tenth. He called it in to Dispatch.
He stared at the phone, lost to thought. He’d been to that PC Haven. He tried to fit a face to the caller. Nothing. No big deal, he thought, when the r
esponding officer returned to the house, he’d find out who it was that suggested he came from Mars. He picked up the newspaper, and being a sports enthusiast, went directly to the back.
The patrol car, empty of its two police officers, sat at the curb outside the office supply retailer.
Inside, a crowd of employees had encircled a chubby redhead whom the two officers were questioning. Her name tag read “Rita.” Her beefy hands were clutched to a newspaper.
“He was here! I checked him out! Oh, My God! Three million dollars! Oh, My God!”
“Can you describe him for us?” one of the officers asked.
She placed the newspaper on the checkout counter and smoothed it out with her palm. “Him!” she said, pointing to the hooded Angus. “Only he was wearing glasses when he came in. He’s not in the picture. But, I’m tellin’ ya, it was him! Oh, My God! Oh, my God!”
“What’d he buy?”
“A computer. An HP Compaq nc4200 WiFi Notebook. The PM 760 model. On sale!”
One of the other employees ran to get the weekly flyer.
“Was anyone with him?”
“Nope.”
“How’d he pay for the notebook?”
“Cash. Funny thing, though. The bills smelled like horses.”
“Horses?”
“Yup. I was gonna ask him if he hit it big at the track or somethin’, but the look he gave me said NFW.”
The officers exchanged glances.
“No f’in’ way,” a store clerk explained.
“We got that. What kind of look?”
“One I’ll never forget. Like he wanted to kill me.”
Chapter 66
Driscoll was in the elevator going down for a late lunch when his cell phone rang. He didn’t bother answering it because the reception was zero inside the mechanical lift. He checked the screen. The caller was Thomlinson. He’d return his call when he reached the first floor.
His beeper sounded. That was rare. He checked it. Again, Thomlinson.
Depressing and holding the illuminated button for the first floor, he continued his descent. He knew his action made no difference. But in his adrenaline-fueled state, he did it anyway.
Stepping off the elevator, he retrieved his phone. It rang before he flipped it open.
“Driscoll.”
Thomlinson got right to the point.
“The Twentieth took a call from a very excited cashier IDing Angus buying a notebook computer in a local PC Haven store. According to the cashier, he was alone. Paid cash. And get this. The cashier says the money smelled like horses.”
“Horses, giraffes, or zebras-I got a good feeling on this.
Grab your jacket and meet me in the lobby. Tell everyone to get ready to move. Is Margaret there?”
“Right next to me.”
“Good. Bring her with you.”
Chapter 67
“What’s in the bag?” Cassie asked, as Angus climbed the stairs to the loft.
“A computer.”
“A computer? I thought we weren’t goin’ with a Web site.”
“We ain’t.”
“Then why do we need a new computer? What’s wrong with the one we got?”
“You see any freakin’ online access cable coming through the wall?” Opening the box, he gave the user’s manual a perfunctory scan and placed the notebook atop a chest-high barrel near the window to the street. He plugged in its AC adapter cord and turned it on. Not once did he look at his sister.
“You said we didn’t need a Web site. Didn’t even need a phone. Then you promised you’d clue me in when you figured out what the hell you were doin’! What’s with the freakin’ computer?” Annoyed, she rummaged through the PC Haven bag, finding the receipt. “You went across town? Angus, this is New York freakin’ City! Ya think nobody here reads the papers? This is the television capital of the world, for Chrissake! What’s this?” She had discovered what else was in the bag. A smile lit her face as she retrieved it.
“That, lovee, is a Beretta Tomcat. Be careful. It’s loaded.”
“Wow! Now, this is cool.” Her eyes ogled the pistol. She passed it from hand to hand. “Why do we need it?”
Turning his attention from the notebook, he looked at her. “You wanna get Driscoll off our backs, right?”
“Of course.”
“Good! We’re not gonna use a Web site. Not gonna need a phone.”
“I’m lost, Angus. You wanna bring me all the way into the loop?”
He shushed her, staring at the active matrix screen, its icons coming to life. “We just need to find the right target,” he said with a grin.
Chapter 68
Racing along West Fifty-seventh, Street, Driscoll spotted the department helicopter hovering above the northern tip of Clinton Cove Park, a few blocks ahead. Three miles south sat the Intrepid Sea, Air, and Space Museum, where victim number four, Tatsuya Inagaki, had been discovered.
After crossing Tenth Avenue, he pulled alongside a blue and white patrol car in front of PC Haven. Three others, their emergency lights ablaze, were double-parked across the street, along with a pair of unmarked cruisers from the Twentieth. He, Margaret, and Thomlinson got out and disappeared inside the electronic retailer, anxious to meet with Rita Crenshaw, the young lady who had reported spotting Angus.
Inside were a bevy of police officers, a cluster of excited employees, and a handful of curious customers. But no Rita Crenshaw.
Chapter 69
Malcolm Shewster was seated directly behind his chauffeur when the limo swerved seemingly out of control, hit something, then continued on. He depressed a switch, bringing down the privacy glass separating him from his driver. “What happened back there, Eddie? I thought for a minute we were about to buy the farm.”
“Sorry, sir. It was either swerve hard or take a crater in the road full-on. We hit a smaller one in the process, though. I am sorry, sir.”
“No need to apologize. It sounded like we lost something. A wheel cover, perhaps?”
“That would be unlikely, sir. The tires are mounted on aluminum-alloy wheels. I’ll take it in to the service center, though. Let the mechanics take a look. If you’d like, I could pull over and give the undercarriage a-”
“We’re pressed for time. Continue on. The young lady was told to expect us at precisely 1:15.” Lost to his thoughts he added, “You know it’s been a long time since I met a young lady at her workplace. Well, near her workplace, in this case.”
“Those must have been the days, sir.”
“Some memorable moments, Eddie. To be sure. It’s sort of strikes me as ironic, though.”
“How’s that, sir?”
“Eddie, we’ve been together, what, fifteen, sixteen years? I feel we can speak candidly. This will take us back a good number of years, but the last time I met a young lady during her lunch hour, I had something other than food in mind. It took a great deal of coaxing to have her join me in the backseat of my automobile, where we could explore other ways of killing an hour. If you know what I mean.”
“I believe I do, sir.”
In the reflection afforded by the Lincoln’s rearview mirror, Shewster caught the fraternal smile that had erupted on his chauffeur’s face. “I suppose some customs haven’t changed all that much over the years. Nor will they ever.”
“I’d say you’re right on both counts, sir.”
“The ironic part, Eddie, is that I’m already in the backseat and the young lady we’re going to meet will have no qualms whatsoever about joining me. Of course, we’ll be back here talking, instead of…well, you know.”
“Of course, sir. We’re approaching the intersection, now. You said she’d be in front of a Duane Reade on the northwestern corner. Is that correct, sir?’
“That’s right. I’m told the young lady’s name is Rita. I’m looking forward to meeting her. We’ll have much to discuss. Yes, Eddie, the backseat has always been a comfortable place for me to conduct business. Back in the day, in a different fashion, of
course, but I’m sure this afternoon’s rendezvous will be a rewarding experience nonetheless.”
The privacy glass slid up as Eddie pulled the limo to the curb in front of the drugstore where a generously proportioned young woman appeared to be waiting.
Eddie lowered the passenger-side window. “Rita?” he asked.
“That’d be me.”
Eddie smiled, got out of the limo, and came around to open the rear door of the Lincoln.
“Hi,” a cheerful voice sounded from within. “I’m Malcolm. Come on in.”
Chapter 70
“Whad’ya mean she stepped out?” Driscoll barked.
Josh Gribbens, an embarrassed precinct detective, searched the Lieutenant’s face seeking sympathy. He found none. “Her supervisor said she ducked out to pick up a prescription. The Crenshaw woman told her she’d be right back.”
“She wasn’t instructed that none of the employees were to leave? Especially Miss Crenshaw?”
“This woman-her supervisor. She’s a bit of a flake.”
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