Critical

by Robin Cook

  Franco climbed out onto the sidewalk. “Good evening, officer,” he said. The policeman arrived just as Franco reached full height.

  “There’s no parking or standing,” the cop said, as he eyed Franco and then bent down to look in at Angelo.

  “He’s just dropping me off, officer,” Franco said as he also bent down to wave good-bye to Angelo. Angelo had slid across the bench seat to be behind the wheel. Franco closed the door lovingly.

  “Hey!” the officer called out suddenly as Angelo started to pull away. Angelo stopped with his heart racing. “Your seat belt!” the policeman yelled.

  “Thank you, officer,” Angelo said in a tense voice after putting down the window halfway.

  Franco’s heart had raced as well. With definite relief, he smiled at the policeman, then walked north toward the Trump Tower commercial entrance.

  AMY LUCAS LOOKED over at the clock high on the wall across from her desk. With utter relief, she saw that it was finally five-thirty, her normal quitting time. The day had been a mixture of anxiety and tedium. The anxiety had been getting called into the CEO’s office and being questioned about Paul. She’d never even met the CEO before, much less been called into her office. Although she suspected it would be about Paul, she wasn’t entirely sure. There was always the concern about being fired, not that she’d done anything to deserve it but more because she couldn’t afford to be fired. Financial need evoked a kind of paranoia, and her finances were being strained by her contribution toward keeping her mother in an assisted-living facility. Each month was a struggle to stay in the black.

  Paul’s absence had also been the source of anxiety. She’d been working for the man for about ten years and had moved with him from their previous job to Angels Healthcare about five years ago. When he’d not shown up by ten that morning, Amy feared something was wrong, because Paul Yang was generally very precise and methodical, like most accountants, unless he had been drinking. That was the worry. As the day wore on and he didn’t appear or call, she came to believe he was on one of his binges, like he’d had before the move to Angels Healthcare, and it saddened her. Back then it had been difficult, because she’d had to make excuses for his absence on a regular basis, and even on one occasion rescue him from a fleabag motel.

  After the motel incident, he’d seen the light, and overnight he became thankfully motivated to stay away from alcohol. Only Amy knew he’d gone to AA meetings and had kept it up for years now. She’d hoped he’d stay away from alcohol for good, but now, five-thirty in the afternoon, she was certain he’d relapsed.

  If it was true, as she expected it was, that he’d gone back to alcohol, she blamed the stress he’d been under regarding the stupid 8-K form and the ballyhoo about whether or not to file it. She knew he was upset about it because he had specifically told her so, but he didn’t tell her why he was so agitated. Amy wasn’t an accountant, and had never even gone to secretarial school. She was pretty much self-taught, although she did take appropriate courses in high school and was exceptionally good with the computer.

  Sometime after she had typed the 8-K on Paul’s laptop, he had called her into his office, and then, as if there was a great conspiracy afoot, gave her a USB drive, which contained the 8-K file.

  “I want you to keep this,” he’d whispered. “Just put it someplace safe. On a separate file is the Securities and Exchange Commission’s website.”

  “But why?” she’d asked.

  “Don’t ask! Just keep it unless something happens to me.”

  Amy could remember looking into his eyes. He was being so melodramatic that she’d thought he was joking with her, because he did have a sense of humor. But he apparently wasn’t joking, because he dismissed her and never mentioned the USB drive again.

  Now, as she was ready to leave for home, she opened her bag and took out the USB storage device and looked at it as if she expected it to communicate with her. She couldn’t help but wonder if Paul’s absence fulfilled his request for her to file the 8-K. When he’d given her the charge, he’d never described what he meant by “unless something happens to me.” Certainly, going on a binge qualified as something happening to him, but Amy wasn’t confident. She slipped the drive back into its side pocket and closed her purse. Her last thought before leaving was whether she should call his home. She’d considered doing it off and on all day but wasn’t sure if she should. She’d even considered calling one of his old girlfriends, whose number she still had, but she decided not to do it since he’d had no contact with her for five years, as far as she knew. With a sigh, her indecision was such that she thought it better to do nothing than to do something that might make the situation worse. With that thought she turned off her desk lamp and left the office.

  “WHAT THE HELL is going on?” Carlo said with a shake of his head. He was mystified.

  “I haven’t the slightest idea,” Brennan said.

  Carlo and Brennan were in Carlo’s black GMC Denali, pulled over to the right side of Fifth Avenue at Grand Army Plaza. Just to their right was the Pulitzer fountain with the statue of a naked Abundance in all her glory.

  Carlo and Brennan had picked up Franco and Angelo the moment they’d emerged from the Neapolitan Restaurant. At a safe distance in Johnny’s parking lot, they had joked about the two Lucia enforcers, trying to decide which one was the weirdest-looking. To them, Franco looked like a hawk with his narrow, hatchetlike nose and beady eyes, while Angelo looked like someone from a horror movie with his extensive facial scarring.

  “What a pair,” Carlo had commented as he’d put his sub sandwich down on the center console and put his car in gear.

  Tailing the two had been easy, since Franco’s car stood out from the crowd with its erect tail fins and whiter-than-white sidewall tires. The only problem spot had been getting on the Queensboro Bridge, since they had missed a traffic light, and Franco’s car had driven out of sight. After a short period of anxiety, they had been able to catch up to their quarry, thanks to the traffic light on the Manhattan side of the bridge. From there, they had proceeded to Fifth Avenue without a problem until Franco had suddenly pulled to the side a bit beyond the commercial entrance to the Trump Tower.

  Franco’s parking had been so precipitous that Carlo had had to drive by and make a right at 55th Street, and go around the block. That maneuver had also caused a bit of concern about losing them until they’d returned to Fifth Avenue and saw Franco’s car still standing where it had been.

  For the next thirty-five minutes, Carlo and Brennan had stayed where they were next to naked Abundance, alternately watching Franco’s car with a pair of binoculars Brennan had thoughtfully brought along. They couldn’t see much, just two silhouettes having an active conversation from the looks of their intermittent hand gestures. While they waited, they finished the sandwiches they’d gotten at Johnny’s. Without knowing where they were going or how long it would take, they’d jumped at the chance to have some food.

  The stakeout had gradually become boring until both men sat up a little straighter when the NYPD officer had appeared and closed in on the car.

  “What’s going down?” Carlo had questioned. Brennan had the binoculars at the time.

  “I don’t know. They’re just talking.”

  “Let me see!” Carlo said. He took the binoculars from his colleague, who was lower in the organizational hierarchy. Carlo and Brennan had known each other for years from living in the same neighborhood and attending the same high school.

  “Franco’s walking toward us,” Carlo said as he continued watching through the binoculars.

  “Uh-oh,” Brennan said urgently. “Angelo is driving away! What should we do?”

  “Let’s stick with Franco,” Carlo said. “He’s stopped at the Trump Tower entrance. My guess is he’s waiting for someone to come out of the building.”

  “What about Angelo? I could get out and stick with Franco while you tail Angelo.”

  Carlo shook his head. “My bet is Angelo’s just going
around the block. Let’s stick where we are. I’m starting to think they’re planning on snatching someone.”

  “That’s crazy with all these people around, not to mention the cops.”

  “I can’t argue with you there,” Carlo said, and then quickly added, “I think he sees who he is after. He just tossed his cigarette into the gutter.”

  “Who is it, a man or a woman?” Brennan questioned. He eyed the binoculars and had to resist an urge to grab them away from Carlo. After all, he’d had the sense to bring them along.

  “I think it must be that girl with the green coat. She’s taking a cab, and he is, too. I bet he’s pissed because Angelo’s not in sight.”

  Carlo tossed the binoculars into Brennan’s lap and put the Denali in gear.

  “What are we going to do?” Brennan asked while searching for Franco and the girl. “God, the girl looks like she’s twelve. What could Franco and Angelo be after her for?”

  “It doesn’t make much sense.”

  “Uh-oh! The girl’s got a cab and is about to leave Franco high and dry. Should we try to follow her or stick with Franco?”

  “We’ll stick with Franco, you dope.”

  Brennan pulled his eyes from the binoculars and cast an angry look at Carlo. He didn’t like being called a dope.

  “Well, lucky for Franco. He’s caught himself a cab as well. Hang on! We’re off to the races.”

  “YOU MUST BE joking,” the taxi driver said, twisting around to look at Franco sitting in the backseat. “‘Follow that cab!’ That’s the first time I’ve actually heard that outside of the movies. Are you for real, man, or is this a joke?”

  “It’s no joke,” Franco said. “Keep that cab in sight and you got yourself a twenty-dollar tip.”

  The driver shrugged and turned back to drive. A twenty-dollar tip was well worth a little extra effort.

  Franco bounced around in the backseat and had trouble handling his cell phone. Giving up for the moment, he struggled with the seat belt instead. Once he got that secured, he wasn’t being thrown about quite as much, especially since the car had steadied to a degree once it had gotten up to speed. It was still relatively hard to dial the number, because the driver was weaving in and out of the lanes.

  “Where are you?” Franco demanded the moment Angelo answered.

  “I’m stuck in traffic on Sixth Avenue going north. Where are you?”

  “In a cab heading south on Fifth. The bird has flown.”

  “Okay. As soon as I can, I’ll head south.”

  Franco flipped his phone closed. He was irritated at himself for two reasons: He should have had some sort of a plan when the girl or woman, whichever she was, appeared. More important, he should have insisted they take Angelo’s humdrum Lincoln Town Car for their evening activities instead of his babied Cadillac. The idea of Angelo wrecking his car or even denting it in New York City’s rush-hour traffic made him sick.

  “We’re coming up on the cab in question,” the driver said proudly. “Want me to pull up alongside?”

  “No!” Franco said quickly. “Just stay behind.”

  The two taxis made good progress down Fifth Avenue, catching the lights. Franco began to wonder if Paul Yang gave them the wrong information about her living in New Jersey, of if she did, whether she was going out on the town for the evening, which would complicate things.

  Franco’s fears were dispelled near the New York Public Library, when Amy’s taxi suddenly braked and turned right. Franco relaxed a degree, sensing they were headed toward the Port Authority Bus Terminal.

  Flipping open his phone, Franco called Angelo. “Where are you?” he demanded, as he’d done previously.

  “I’m just turning south on Seventh Avenue,” Angelo said. “Where are you?”

  “We’re heading west. I’m pretty sure we’re going to the bus terminal, but I’ll know better once we hit Eighth Avenue.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know, especially not knowing if you are going to be in the area. I suppose I have to follow her into the terminal and get on the bus with her.”

  “Yeah, well, lucky you.”

  “Screw you,” Franco said. He regretted not thinking faster when the cop came up to the car. He should have had Angelo get out instead.

  “If I don’t hear from you sooner, I’ll call you when I’m at the bus station.”

  “Okay.”

  “I hope this is worth it.”

  “It’s worth it,” Franco said. “There’s millions at stake.”

  Franco flipped his phone closed as they came to the traffic light at Eighth Avenue. As he expected, they turned right. A minute or so later, he tossed the fare plus some change and an extra twenty dollars through the opening in the Plexiglas divider and jumped out before the taxi had come to a complete stop. Amy was already entering the terminal.

  As usual during rush hour, the terminal was a sea of people. Tailing Amy was easy in one respect and hard in another. The easy part was her strange hair color, which was like a neon light. The hard part was her height. If Franco didn’t stay directly on her, she disappeared out of sight within seconds.

  Suddenly, a problem reared its ugly head, one that Franco had failed to anticipate. Amy got into a line to purchase a ticket, but Franco had no idea where she was going. As the ticket line quickly moved forward, Franco panicked. He thought about pushing ahead and just standing to the side when she ordered her ticket so he could overhear where she was going. But he dismissed it out of hand. He didn’t want to call attention to himself, because he didn’t want her to recognize him later. Just another face in the crowd was not a problem, but doing something out of the ordinary right next to her was quite another story.

  Franco was the fourth person behind Amy, and when it was her turn at the ticket window, he strained forward in an attempt to hear, but it was futile. As she retreated from the ticket window, she had her ticket in her hand, and she passed within several feet.

  That was when Franco realized there was yet another problem. Amy was walking away, and there were three people in front of him. Panicking again, trying to keep Amy in sight, he pushed ahead, saying, “Excuse me, I’m going to miss my bus, do you mind?” Several of the people grudgingly let him pass. The third, however, stood his ground.

  “I don’t want to miss my bus neither, pal,” the man said. His face was coated in a fine white dust, suggesting he was a plasterer or a painter.

  Unaccustomed to being opposed and worried about losing Amy, Franco felt a surge of anger well up inside him. Controlling himself with some difficulty, he said, “I can’t miss my bus. My wife’s having a baby.”

  Without a word and with obvious irritation, the painter reluctantly stepped aside and motioned for Franco to go before him.

  “Where you going, Dad?” the agent said, having overheard Franco’s statement.

  For a second, Franco froze. With everything going on, he hadn’t thought about his needing a destination. Frantically, his mind tried to remember some place in New Jersey, any place, and luckily, Hackensack popped into his consciousness. He didn’t know why Hackensack but was thankful nonetheless. He told the agent the name of the town, and while getting out a twenty-dollar bill, he glanced back over his shoulder. Amy was a distance away, being engulfed by a crowd at the base of an escalator. She disappeared quickly.

  Franco paid, then ran for the escalator. When he got there, he pushed ahead using the same line that had worked so well at the ticket window. Once he got to the top, he frantically searched the area and was immediately relieved to see Amy waiting in line alongside a number 166 bus with her petite face buried in a New York Daily News.

  With a sense of relief on one hand and a new worry on the other, Franco went to the end of the line. The new problem was that his ticket wasn’t for the number 166 bus.

  Despite being out of breath, Franco called Angelo and found out that Angelo was just outside the bus terminal.

  “I’ll be on a one sixty-six bus,�
� Franco said, trying to cover the phone with his hand. “Find out the bus’s route once it gets out of the Lincoln Tunnel, because I have no idea. Then drive over to Jersey yourself. I’ll keep you posted where Amy and I are, and obviously when we get off. Try to get as close as possible so when we do get off, we can end this circus.”

  “I’ll give it my best shot. Meanwhile, you got any more pictures of Maria Provolone in this hog of yours to keep me company?”

  “Up yours,” Franco said and flipped his phone closed. He didn’t like Angelo razzing him about Maria, his one true love, who’d been shot and killed their senior year in high school by a rival gang.

  At last, the line began to move. Franco wasn’t as concerned about the ticket discrepancy as he’d been about having no ticket at all, and he was proved to be right. The bored driver making his umpteenth run just took the ticket without checking it, as he did with all the passengers. Franco moved down the center aisle. He saw Amy almost immediately. She’d taken a window seat in the middle of the bus and was back into her newspaper. By coincidence, the seat next to her was vacant. For a second, he thought about sitting next to her and engaging her in conversation, but he quickly nixed the idea. On this kind of job, surprise was critical. Instead, he took an aisle seat several rows behind her.

  The bus didn’t leave for another fifteen minutes, making Franco wish he’d had an opportunity to grab a paper himself. Instead, he had to just sit there. At least he had the opportunity to plan the rest of the evening. It wasn’t easy, because what was to happen depended on what Amy Lucas did at the other end of her bus ride. He knew worst case would be if a companion picked her up. Ultimately, that could mean he and Angelo might have to ice two people, which doubled the opportunity for trouble.

  When the bus finally closed its door and pulled away from the loading platform, it had to wend its way within the terminal until exiting onto a multistory-high ramp that dove down directly into the Lincoln Tunnel. The good part was that ramp avoided the clogged city streets; the bad part was that he was going to be significantly ahead of Angelo.