by Ed Markham
“Bingo,” Omar said, noting the exact time. “Let’s hope the pump cams are synced with the indoor footage.”
The first video he brought up showed a woman filling the gas tank of a small Toyota sedan. She finished and drove off alone. “Strike one,” Omar said.
The second video showed another Toyota, this time a pickup truck, sitting empty with a gas line snaking into its tank.
“Nobody buys American anymore,” Omar said, laughing nervously.
After a few seconds, the young man stepped into view and climbed into the truck.
“Here we go,” Martin said.
David watched Omar pull up a third video cued to the time the young man returned to his Toyota. The car’s rear end—including a New Jersey license plate—filled the screen.
“Run it,” Martin said. “And let’s hope that kid hasn’t spent those bills.”
Chapter 36
VINCENT TUCCI JR. would never have guessed that Thursday, September 6, would turn out to be one of the coolest days of his young life.
It had started boringly enough for the sixteen-year-old: He’d had his usual breakfast and 7:30-a.m. commute to school. Like all of his friends, Vinnie Tucci drove himself. The bus was for middle school kids and fucking dorks.
Around 11:30, he’d driven to a sandwich shop to grab lunch, and then to a gas station to fill up his Tacoma and grab a Sprite. After school, he’d gone to J.V. football practice and then home for dinner. That’s when things had taken a decidedly awesome turn.
The doorbell rang while Vinnie and his old man were watching SportsCenter. Vinnie jumped up to answer the door and found two men wearing navy blue suits standing on the front stoop. They flashed wallets with ID cards marked “FBI,” just like in the movies.
“Holy shit, are you serious?” Vinnie said excitedly. “Yeah, come on in.”
Hearing the commotion, Vincent Tucci Sr. abandoned SportsCenter and joined the three in the front room.
“What’s this all about?” he asked, eyeing the agents and then his son. “What the hell’d you do, Vin?”
“I’m Agent Owens, and this is Agent Wolak,” said the taller of the two men, who was black and in his mid-thirties. “Your son hasn’t done anything, Mr. Tucci.”
The Tuccis had never had a black man in their home, and Vincent Tucci Sr. wasn’t thrilled that streak had been snapped. “Then what do you want?” he said, speaking to Wolak, who was white.
Owens stepped forward. “You can address your questions to me, sir.”
“Okay, what do you want?” Tucci Sr. repeated.
“Jesus Dad, chill out,” Vinnie said. “They’re here to talk to me.”
“That’s right,” Owens said, turning to the younger Tucci. “Like I said, you’ve done nothing wrong, son.”
“Don’t call him son,” Tucci Sr. interrupted. “His name’s Vinnie.”
“Vinnie,” Owens said, holding Tucci Sr.’s eyes before turning to address the boy. “We know you stopped to buy a soda this afternoon at a gas station at the corner of Brookway and Oak. Isn’t that right?”
Vinnie thought for a moment. “Yeah, that’s right,” he said.
“We need to know if you held onto the change the cashier gave you at that gas station,” Owens said. “The dollar bills, not the coins.”
“Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t,” Tucci Sr. said. “First we want to know what this is about.”
Owens ignored the demand and continued speaking to Vinnie. “Do you still have those bills?”
Vinnie thought about it. “Yeah I do. Hold on a second, I gotta grab my roll.” He ran out of the foyer and returned a few seconds later holding a silver money clip containing a few bills and cards. “My dad gave me this. It’s his old one. Real silver.”
Vinnie started to pull the cash out of the clip but Owens stopped him. “Hold on there a minute, Vinnie. Please don’t touch the money. Can you hold it just by the clip?”
The boy did as he was told, and Agent Wolak took out a pair of latex gloves and a small Ziploc bag. “Mind if I take that from you?” he asked.
Vinnie held out the clip and Wolak withdrew the cash, careful to touch only the edges of the folded money. Once they were out of the clip, he let the dollar bills spread open slightly, and he dumped Vinnie’s driver’s license, school ID, and debit card into the boy’s hand. Wolak looked at the bills and counted four, including a five in the middle. “Okay, looks like we’ve got eight dollars here. Does that sound right, Vinnie?”
The boy nodded, and Wolak placed the bills in the Ziploc bag.
“You going to compensate my son for that?” Tucci Sr. asked.
Owens pulled out his own wallet and withdrew a $50 bill. He handed it to Vinnie.
“Whoa, a fifty!” the boy shouted. “Sweet!”
“Hey, that’s too much!” Tucci Sr. said. “We don’t want your bribes here, pal.”
Owens ignored him and spoke directly to Vinnie. “I’m sorry we can’t tell you what this is about, but I want you to know you’ve played a meaningful role in an ongoing federal investigation of great importance.”
The boy’s eyes lit up with pride, and an excited smile spread across his face.
Owens pulled a card from his wallet and handed it to Vinnie. “Here’s my card. Hold onto it and call me in a couple weeks. If I can tell you then what this was all about, I will.” He turned and nodded to Wolak.
As Vinnie admired the card, the agents left the house and walked toward their black sedan. Owens pulled out his cell phone and dialed Quantico.
“This is Agent Roger Owens, out of our Newark office,” he said into his phone. “We have the bills the Tucci boy picked up from the gas station.”
Chapter 37
A SINGLE, SUSTAINED clarinet note floated out among the dark skyscrapers and apartment buildings and hung there, suspended, until it dipped into its string accompaniment.
As the concerto played softly from the hotel room’s stereo, the man peered into the black shield of window that looked out onto the city. Silent, slowly moving masses of cars and pedestrians glided past fifteen floors below.
At his back, a muted television was showing a replay of Philip Goodman’s cable program, which the man had watched for a time before the shadow had overtaken him.
Fits of deep sadness and melancholy were familiar to him now, though the excitement of the past few days had at times buoyed his humor. Just an hour earlier, he’d watched with interest as the cable news pundits discussed the latest murder in what were now being called the “Colony Killings.” A journalist had tweeted the phrase earlier that day after reports surfaced detailing the types of messages left at the murder sites. The nickname had taken root in the popular press almost immediately.
The man had been satisfied. He’d estimated it would take at least a week for the details of the snake and accompanying messages to emerge, and he’d not been far off. The public still didn’t know about two of the victims, which the man found regrettable, though not surprising. But he had been surprised—surprised and encouraged—at how quickly the media discussion surrounding the murders had broadened to include an analysis of America’s current state of political affairs.
“Frankly, with all the anger and bipartisanship we’ve seen flare up over the last half decade, I’m not surprised to see someone’s taken things too far,” one correspondent had said.
Another had added, “We’re all still talking about whistleblowers and the NSA’s domestic spying program. Couple that with the tension surrounding gun ownership laws, not to mention the old Bloomberg-era hubbub in New York over soda restrictions—which I think you could certainly lump in with the late Senator Jacobsen’s legislation on sodium and sugar limits—and you can see why there’s a renewed interest in the Constitution and how far we’ve moved away from that document. Would you agree, Mr. Speaker?”
“No, I don’t think we’ve moved away from our Constitution at all,” Speaker of the House Spencer Farnsworth had responded, a little belligerently. The s
peaker had thinning dark hair and small grey-blue eyes that shifted rapidly back and forth as he spoke. “But then, I’m of the camp that believes the founders intended our Constitution to be a living document, meaning it should evolve and adapt itself to the times. I would agree that some of the things you mentioned—the NSA’s domestic surveillance program and the restrictions on the foods or drinks a person can purchase—certainly seem out of step with the principles of personal freedom our founders espoused. I would also agree that a growing constituency of passionate voters and elected representatives believe that our nation has reached some type of crossroads. But you know, I feel much of that is media driven and, frankly, overblown to the detriment of our cohesiveness as a nation.”
Later, as he watched Philip Goodman’s program and observed the way the audience members hooted and cheered the host on, the man’s mood had soured.
Look at them, he’d said to himself. So passionate and so ostensibly earnest in their convictions. But it’s an entertainment for them—a competition to see who can brandish their patriotism with the most fervor.
He’d lowered his eyes from the television, brooding.
Now the man looked out on the dark landscape of the city—feeling nearly crushed by the weight of the lessons he’d learned—and decided the day of his sacrifice couldn’t come soon enough.
Chapter 38
DAVID SAT AT one end of the conference table and regarded his father’s map of the East Coast. He saw that someone had drawn an X in the empty circle marking New Jersey.
Martin paced on the far side of the room, coffee mug in hand, while Lauren sat hunched over her laptop, reviewing the media reports on Deb Pepper.
It was almost eleven. Physical and psychological exhaustion had flooded the room and was slowly suffocating them as they waited for an update on the prints from the gas station currency.
A few hours earlier, Martin had provided details on the latest quotation.
“I got a hold of Shelby,” he’d said as he returned to the conference room after spending some time in an adjacent office. “It’s William Livingston—a delegate from New Jersey. Shelby says the words are originally from the Bible.” Martin paused to read something from his spiral notebook. “Isaiah, chapter fifty-eight. ‘Undo the heavy burdens . . . Let the oppressed go free.’ Livingston employed the passage as a call to end slavery.”
Lauren had volunteered to search for the connection in Deb Pepper’s media report while David worked with Omar on the gas station images.
“Let’s run them through NGI,” David had told him.
“NGI,” Martin had said, pursing his lips. “Another acronym I don’t recognize. Do I want to know?”
“Next Generation Identification,” David had said. “Facial recognition software.”
“The Bureau has a large cache of mug shots,” Omar had explained, eager to join in the conversation, “and we’re working with states to incorporate driver’s license photos. It’s not perfect technology, but it’s getting there. We used it to help identify the Chechen brothers who orchestrated the Boston Bombing. It’s really just a matter of building up our database of photographs.”
Martin had thrown up his hands and briefly launched into another personal freedom tirade.
While they all waited for news on the prints, Omar had also filled in David and Lauren on the link analysis connecting the computer at the University of Virginia to each of the first four victims. “I’m working on tying the same IP address to a search for Deb Pepper,” he’d said.
David nodded. “I want people down there with this photo, asking around.”
Lauren had asked Omar, “Is there any way we can see what other names have been searched on that IP address?”
Omar had started to shake his head even before she’d finished speaking. “The law doesn’t allow us to go fishing like that. We have to be precise with our search requests—give them specific names or terms. We can’t just ask for everything.”
“Thank god,” Martin had cut in. “At least somebody had the sense to regulate a little restraint around here.”
Now, as the evening yawned toward midnight, David felt as though his thoughts were stuck in a loop—a stock car tearing around the same track over and over again. He kept flipping forward and backward through the photographs in his cell phone, imagining how the pale woman might have operated in each of the settings. It wasn’t difficult.
Martin cleared his throat. The sound was loud and sharp in the quiet conference room, and it shocked everyone to attention. “How long will it take for our people to compare the prints from those bills to what we have on file?” he asked.
Lauren sat back in her chair, her eyes glazed with fatigue. “Hard to say. There are probably dozens of overlapping prints on each of those bills. Forensics will isolate each one, and then compare them to what we have in our system. I wouldn’t be surprised if it takes them twelve hours. Maybe longer.” She paused. “They’ll be gun-shy after today. I bet they’ll have every expert on the East Coast reviewing those prints before green-lighting a tentative match.”
Martin nodded. “All right, then that’s that for tonight. I say we all go home and get a little sleep.”
Lauren started to protest, but David cut her off.
“He’s right. Things may not slow down again if we find a match. We should get some rest while we can.”
Lauren chewed her lower lip. “Fine. I just want to finish up these media reports.” She looked at her laptop. “Ten minutes.”
David nodded to her and pulled on his black coat. He patted Omar on the shoulder and thumbed toward the door.
“Got it,” Omar said. “I’m right behind you.”
Outside, the evening air was warm and quiet as father and son walked side-by-side toward their cars. David expected his father to have a cigarette, and was surprised when Martin didn’t light up.
“Hell of a day,” Martin said. “If this gal turns out to be our whacko . . . ” He whistled, and then cleared his throat into his fist.
“I haven’t seen you smoke since you’ve been in town,” David said to him.
“I’m down to one a day, and I don’t like having it around you.”
David felt an unexpected rush of affection for his father. “Thanks for backing me up with Thompson this afternoon,” he said. “I can always count on you to fight for me.”
Martin laughed. “Yeah, you know that’s what I’m good for. Fighting.”
The two separated and walked toward their vehicles. With David in the lead, they maneuvered the glowing, tree-lined access road that connected the secure fist of Quantico to Interstate 95. David peered up through his windshield at the night sky, but could see no stars.
Friday, September 8
Chapter 39
JASON TOROWITZ SAT with the heel of his palm resting on the butt of his sidearm, which was clipped into his hip holster. He’d developed the pose when he first started on the force; he thought it drew people’s attention to his weapon—a not-too subtle reminder that he wielded the lethal authority of the NYPD.
Even though he was right handed, Torowitz wore his watch on his right wrist. When he sat with his hand on his gun, he liked people to see the watch—an oversized Citizen automatic that glinted in the overhead lights of the building’s lobby like the chrome on the exhaust pipes of Torowitz’s Harley Davidson V-Rod.
Now he glanced down at the watch’s mammoth face and saw it was nearly two in the morning. Quittin’ time, he thought.
He hated the eight-to-close shift. It wasn’t the odd hours so much as the absence of visitors. Or women, to be more precise. As far as Officer Torowitz was concerned, the best part about working lobby security at the Empire State Building was the split-tail.
All day long, they streamed past him—cute little honeys from all over the world. Californians, French chicks, Russians, Germans, Swedes, you name it. They all stood in line, waiting to ride the high-speed elevator to the roof with nothing better to do than look at the big, han
dsome, New York City police officer who sat sentry in the middle of all that sleek marble and gilt plating.
Torowitz liked to make eye contact with them. It was fun for him to see how long they could last before smiling and looking away. Usually just a half-second. But sometimes, when he was lucky, some hot little number would give him a good two- or three-second stare that would make him thankful he was sitting down. Usually that’s where it ended. But he’d been slipped a few phone numbers in the sixteen months since taking on the post, and a couple of those girls—the sexy ones—had gotten to see his night stick.
But this shift—the fuckin’ late shift—was always the worst, Torowitz thought. Mostly gooey-eyed couples, drunks, and a few mopey loners Torowitz worried would try to jump. Why they kept the building open until two in the morning was a mystery he would never understand. But what the hell, you took the good with the bad.
Torowitz heard his walkie-talkie crackle.
It was Hal Roebuck, who ran the security team up on the observation deck. “Lobby, this is Deck. Sending down the last two of the night. Over.”
“Thank fuckin’ god,” Torowitz said. He threw a wink at Juanita Lopez, who operated the lone metal detector kept in operation after midnight.
Lopez clapped her hands, shouted a loud “Amen!” and hauled her gargantuan behind off the too-small stool on which she somehow managed to balance herself. Torowitz had thought more than once that she looked like an over-loaded ice cream cone.
Lopez began the process of logging out of the metal detection security equipment while Torowitz stood waiting for the elevator doors to spit out the night’s final visitors.
A smiling couple emerged from the open elevator doors with their arms wrapped around each other. Torowitz watched them walk through the marble-floored lobby, their steps reverberating loudly in the late-night quiet. He waited for the call to come down from Hal Roebuck that the observation deck was secure.
