by J. B. Turner
Perez’s thoughts turned to Leon. She wondered when he would call. He had promised to call half an hour earlier because he knew how worried she was. But still nothing.
He worked in downtown Manhattan, miles from the Bronx. But she wondered if the shootings outside Yankee Stadium meant he would have to work later, or would even have trouble leaving Manhattan. She had heard on the radio that subway lines across the Bronx and Manhattan had been shut down for an hour as the police responded to social media rumors that the culprits had been spotted on a subway train.
Her gaze wandered back around the diner. Everyone’s attention was seemingly glued to the TV.
She turned and glanced out the window and across the parking lot. Twenty yards away, two young men were sitting in a pickup truck, smoking cigarettes, staring straight at her. Her stomach immediately tightened. They were definitely staring at her. She was the only diner sitting by the window.
The men looked Hispanic, like her. Not unusual in Hempstead. But what set them apart were the gang tattoos on their necks, the distinctive blue-and-white clothes, and the arm out the window sporting numerous gang symbol tattoos which she was very familiar with. MS-13.
Were these the same guys who had threatened Leon? Were they here to threaten her now? And why hadn’t Leon called? She felt a growing sense of dread.
Perez turned away from the window, trying not to think about the men—maybe they were there for reasons that had nothing to do with her; maybe she’d only caught their attention because she was near the window. On the TV behind the counter, the terrible images of fleeing crowds outside Yankee Stadium were being shown for the umpteenth time.
She couldn’t shake the feeling of grave unease she got from the gangbangers outside. Maybe she should call Leon. Should she call the cops? She imagined they already had too much on their plates to worry about a young woman being stared at through a diner window in broad daylight. The men in the truck weren’t doing anything illegal, after all.
Her cell phone rang and she nearly jumped out of her skin. Leon.
But she didn’t recognize the number on the caller ID. “Yeah, Camila speaking.”
She heard only silence, although she sensed someone was there.
“Yeah, who’s this?”
“Hey, Camila speaking,” said a man’s voice with a distinctive Salvadoran accent. “You look nice today. Real nice.”
Perez turned and saw that the passenger in the pickup was grinning like a jackal, cell phone pressed to his ear. Her heart skipped a beat. How had they gotten her number?
She felt alone and desperately scared as she sat in the booth, listening to the man’s breathing. Exposed to their malevolence. Their reach. She had prayed long and hard that they would leave Leon alone.
“What exactly do you want?” she said.
“We don’t want anything. We’re just here to remind you that our friends are very grateful for your fiancé’s help in the past, and they won’t forget that. Neither will we. And they’ve asked us to tell you that if you need anything taken care of, they will be only too glad to help.”
“I don’t want anything taken care of. Do you understand that? I’d like us to get on with our lives. That’s all.”
“And you will. Trust me, we want nothing more than to allow you to get back to that real nice fiancé of yours. He’s an interesting guy. Talks well.”
Perez felt sick at the mess their life had become. It was all down to Leon’s weakness of character and his betrayal of his employer. She knew he wasn’t a terrible person. And she had rationalized that his were the actions of a desperate man, being blackmailed and in fear for his life. At the mercy of highly dangerous people.
She just wanted it all to end. She wished she had someone she could talk to, other than her priest. But she didn’t have anyone. No one to look out for her. And these men probably knew that.
The more she thought about what Leon had done—falsifying reports and passing on classified information to gangsters—the more it hurt. He should have taken a different path. But she also knew that if he had, he would have been killed. Or she would have been. What sort of choice was that? They had him. And there would be no escape.
Somehow Leon would have to live with what he’d done. It seemed like a small price to pay. But there was a bigger price she was paying. An emptiness in her soul that couldn’t be repaired.
Perez drank her Coke, not able to look out the window at the men. Her parents would be mortified if they knew what her fiancé was involved in. She had been brought up by her parents—incredibly hardworking people from Mexico—to study hard at school, obey the law, and love everything America had to offer. They had told her since she was a child that she was lucky. That she should cherish the freedoms and the economic opportunities that America offered.
She had obeyed the law her entire life, despite the prevalence of gangs in the neighborhood where she grew up. But Leon had dragged her into his world. His actions and her silence would ultimately define them both on Judgment Day. She would have to atone for her sins in another life. She knew that.
“You still there?” the voice said.
She cleared her throat, pressing the cell phone to her ear. “I don’t want to see you again.”
“And you won’t, we promise. We think it’s important that you understand that there can be consequences for making bad decisions.” Bad decisions. So that was it? They were issuing a not-so-subtle warning for her and Leon not to make bad decisions. Which meant, in her eyes, going to the cops or the Feds. It sent a chill down her spine. “We just want to let you know that we’re here, in Hempstead. You know who we are, and we know who you are, and we’re cool with that. Don’t be afraid of us.”
“Afraid of you? But I am. Don’t you see that?”
“Listen, miss, no need to be afraid of us. People you need to be afraid of are those crazies shooting up cops outside Yankee Stadium. Now that’s fucked up. And in broad daylight.”
Perez turned and stared through the diner window at the passenger in the pickup. “Please don’t follow me. You need to leave us alone.”
“Just so long as you know we have your back.”
Eleven
The waters off Southampton were sparkling in the late-afternoon sun. Reznick walked along the beach with the traumatized hedge fund manager. Robert O’Keefe was still struggling to come to terms with the horror his brothers had wreaked. The waves were hitting the sand hard, edging higher up the golden dunes. The soothing sound reminded Reznick of home, sitting by the tiny cove beside his house in Rockland, Maine.
They walked in silence for another hundred yards before Reznick spoke.
“Talk to me about Charlie Campbell. I can read files and prison reports for hours, but I want to know what this guy was really like. Tell me about him. Who was he?”
O’Keefe looked up at the blue sky as if for guidance. “He moved in with my mom a few months after my dad died. My brothers were a lot younger. More impressionable. I was a teenager. I couldn’t stand the sight of him.”
Reznick was glad that O’Keefe was at least talking. “What exactly was the problem with him?”
“Well, for starters, he had served serious time. In Leavenworth. Aryan Brotherhood inner circle. He brought that whole thing into our house. The hatred. The anger. The knives. The guns. And the drugs.”
“What else?”
“I hated him. He wasn’t my dad. No one could replace my dad. And certainly not some psychopath like Campbell. Once my mom married that animal, she condemned all of us to a bad future. It began when she started writing to him in prison. No idea why she did it. I think she was lonely.”
Reznick nodded.
“She was a religious woman. She believed in God. She believed in the church. And she believed in redemption. She believed she could make him a better person. I suspect she had a Mother Teresa complex. But, God knows, it wasn’t a good move for us.”
“It must’ve been a good move for Campbell.”
“Very true. When he got out, he had a ready-made family. Mom loved him. I was powerless to do anything about it. I left home as soon as I could, went to college, got a degree in economics, and never looked back. Got a job in an investment bank. But my brothers, they were left behind. I always wished I could’ve taken them with me, and maybe it wouldn’t have come to this. Charlie Campbell molded them from poor rough boys into the murderous bastards you saw today.”
“So Charlie Campbell was Aryan Brotherhood?”
“Not just that. He was high up. Very senior.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
O’Keefe brushed some hair out of his eyes as the wind whipped up the beach. “Charlie? When I left—must be fifteen years ago now, maybe more. He tried to be nice to me. To win me over. But he never did. When he died a few months ago, my brother Todd called me. I thought it was strange, as we’ve been estranged all this time. I think you might be right that this is what it all comes back to. It triggered them. His death triggered them.”
“Todd? He’s the youngest?”
“Yeah, followed in Campbell’s footsteps. Serious prison time. I just turned my back on them all. Didn’t want to deal with it. But Todd blamed the cops for what he described as killing his dad. That’s what he called him. His dad. I told Todd that Charlie Campbell wasn’t our dad. Not then. Not ever.”
“Go back to what you said. Todd blamed the cops?”
“Yeah.”
“For killing Campbell?”
“Exactly.”
Reznick turned and looked back and saw Farrelly standing on the sand near the house. The young Fed was speaking into his cell phone, staring down the beach at them, as if relaying the fact that Reznick was talking alone with O’Keefe. Reznick faced Robert, whose head was tilted up into the sun’s rays as though he were trying to warm up his mood. “So, he blamed the cops for killing Campbell. What happened?”
“I believe it was a surveillance operation on Campbell. That’s what Todd told me.”
“What exactly did he tell you?”
“Just that some undercover cops had Campbell and his crew under surveillance, and then they pounced and arrested him. Campbell put up a struggle. And he was killed, some sort of choke hold.”
Reznick wondered why Meyerstein had not shared that information about Campbell and how he had died. “Unfortunately, these things happen from time to time.”
“Not in Todd’s eyes. He blamed the cops. Not only that—he also told me there was going to be a reprisal from the Brand. I was freaking out.”
Reznick was beginning to hear a whole new narrative. He wondered why these facts had been omitted from what he’d been told. “Todd made this threat?”
“Right. He said something along the lines of ‘the NYPD are going to know what a reprisal means,’ or something.”
“What kind of reprisal?”
“Todd wasn’t specific. He just said the NYPD were going to pay. Campbell was very senior, at least that’s what I heard. And Todd said that the word had gone out. Some ‘shot caller’ had decided? I wasn’t too sure what that meant.”
“I think it refers to a top guy inside who calls the shots.”
“So the word went out.”
“Did he give you the name of the person who made this call?”
“No. Just someone in the Aryan Brotherhood leadership. I guarantee you that my two crazy brothers didn’t do this without the Brotherhood at least helping them with logistics and giving the go-ahead.”
Reznick nodded. “I agree. I have a very important question. And I’m going to ask you to take your time before you answer. Robert, what did you do after your brother made those threats?”
“Well, first I was scared.”
“That’s natural, trust me.”
“Todd has a way of talking. It sounds very much like Campbell, slow, deliberate. Chilling. So . . . I was concerned.”
“What did you do after you heard those threats?”
“I called the FBI.”
Reznick took a few moments to absorb this information. “I want to make sure I have this right. The FBI had this information three months ago? Are you sure? I mean positive?”
“One billion percent positive. Remember I told you that I told people about what I knew? Well, that’s it.”
“Who did you call at the FBI?”
“The FBI field office in New York. I googled the number. And I spoke to a guy.”
“You spoke to a guy? FBI in lower Manhattan?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“Who in the FBI did you speak to?”
“Special Agent Cortez, I think.”
“Cortez. I saw Cortez a couple of hours ago. So what happened?”
“What happened? I don’t know what happened. I never heard back from them.”
Reznick rubbed his temples. If what O’Keefe was saying were true, it meant the FBI had advance warning of the attack and had failed to act on it.
He patted O’Keefe on the back. “You did the right thing, Robert.”
“Fat lot of good it did.”
“I need another favor.”
“What kind of favor?”
“Can I see your cell phone?”
“Why? I already showed the FBI.”
“I just want to check something.”
O’Keefe pulled out his cell phone from his pocket and handed it to Reznick.
“Did you use this phone to call the Feds?”
“Yeah.”
“Can I have the passcode?”
O’Keefe gave him the passcode. “Do you have a warrant to do that?”
“No, I don’t. You don’t have to give me permission to do this. But I’m assuming you have nothing to hide.”
“I live a straightforward life.”
Reznick smiled. “Glad someone does these days.” He keyed in the passcode, unlocking the phone. He scrolled down through the contacts. He also made a mental note of O’Keefe’s cell phone number. “Bear with me now.” Reznick walked down to the water’s edge, pulled out his own cell phone, and called a hacker he knew.
“Hey, Mr. R., how goes it?”
“Not much time, my friend. I’ve got a cell phone number.” Reznick gave him Robert O’Keefe’s number. “I want to know if and when this cell phone contacted the FBI field office in New York within the last three months.”
“Why do you want to know that, man? Is it connected to what happened at the Yankee game today?”
“Yup.”
“Man, that’s terrible.”
“I know. I was there.”
“I saw the footage. It’s horrific.”
Reznick cleared his throat. “Can you help? I want to check whether the guy who owns this cell phone is telling the truth.”
“I’ll get back to you ASAP.”
Twelve
The twelve-story federal Metropolitan Correctional Center in lower Manhattan was close to the FBI’s New York field office. Meyerstein headed down a series of brightly lit corridors flanked by four FBI special agents and a surly prison guard, keys jangling from his belt. Cameras watching her every move, the sound of metal doors clanking behind her. She didn’t show it, but she felt uneasy. It was hard not to.
They passed through electronic doors and into the high-security unit, 10 South, which housed only the prisoners deemed the most dangerous, while they awaited trial. The inmate she was going to meet had been charged with murdering a leader of the Black Mafia Family street gang, conspiracy to murder a fellow inmate, and racketeering.
Meyerstein followed the guard until they came to a windowless room with just a desk and two chairs chained to the concrete floor.
The guard smirked. “Make yourself at home. He’ll be with you in a little while. Don’t try and provoke him. Guy is ready to blow at any minute.”
Meyerstein forced a smile. “Appreciate the advice.” She went inside with the two special agents by her side; the other two agents waited outside. She stood, hands clasped in front of her.
>
Meyerstein was surprised the inmate had agreed to see her. He had a reputation for extreme violence—stabbings and hits. She had read his file. The man had connections she was hoping he could leverage. But whether he would listen to her proposition was another matter.
Meyerstein sighed and began to flick through messages on her cell phone. Another from O’Donoghue requesting a preliminary report and another from the FBI’s senior legal counsel wanting to discuss the Jon Reznick issue. She could see O’Donoghue was seriously concerned how it would look if Reznick’s involvement in the FBI, stretching back several years, were revealed.
She wondered if O’Donoghue was going to use Reznick’s very public pursuit of the snipers as an opportunity to end the Bureau’s relationship with him. Was it possible that O’Donoghue would really try to cut all ties to Jon Reznick on the same day that Reznick had hunted down the two snipers and taken them out? It was perverse. She viewed it as treachery, nothing more, nothing less. Political expediency. But increasingly she had felt at odds with her senior colleagues, all highly experienced intelligence experts, who questioned the wisdom of having a former black-ops assassin working for the FBI on classified investigations.
Meyerstein understood their concerns. She might have had the same misgivings herself if she were in their place. But she knew too well not only what Reznick was capable of but how his skill set had augmented the FBI’s at critical moments. A couple years earlier, he’d even managed to rescue her after the Russian Mafia had kidnapped her. Reznick, not her senior colleagues, had come through for her. She considered him invaluable both for the dangerous work he did for her and across the FBI and for his ability to act as her sounding board, as and when required.
The clanging of electronic doors slamming shut snapped Meyerstein out of her musings.
A huge, fearsome-looking white man, heavily tattooed—swastikas on his forearms—was standing in the doorway, flanked by two hulking prison officers.
The prisoner shuffled into the room wearing shower slides. He was classic Aryan Brotherhood: Celtic crosses on his neck, ice-blue eyes staring at her.
