by J. B. Turner
“Mr. R., OK to talk?” The Miami hacker.
Reznick was pleased to hear his voice. “Sure, go ahead.”
“So, the guy, Robert Joseph O’Keefe, did contact the Feds directly. Was transferred to an extension belonging to Leon Cortez. Three minutes and thirty-one seconds the call lasted.”
Reznick took a few moments to process the information. This meant that the FBI were aware, or should have been made aware, three months ago, about the threat posed by the O’Keefe brothers. But why hadn’t measures been taken to haul in the O’Keefes? Also, why hadn’t Meyerstein mentioned this? It didn’t seem credible that Cortez wouldn’t have passed the tip higher up the chain within the FBI. Or maybe he had, but the information had gotten lost or the threat level downgraded after an initial investigation.
The problem with intel was that it was jealously guarded. Sometimes not shared among other intelligence agencies as much as it should be. Sometimes not even within a single intelligence agency. Was it possible that the field office in New York hadn’t alerted the higher ranks of the FBI? Reznick knew from bitter experience that even good intel sometimes got lost among a deluge of shit intel. And sometimes just simple sloppiness.
“Something else,” the hacker said.
“I’m listening.”
“The NYPD left a message, a couple of months back, asking Robert O’Keefe to return their call.”
“So the NYPD were aware too. Interesting. And?”
“The message was from a cop named Jimmy Greer. He gave a direct gang unit number for NYPD at their HQ in lower Manhattan and a cell phone number.”
“Can you text me this guy’s name and cell phone number and the NYPD number?”
“Gimme a second . . .”
A ping emanated from Reznick’s phone.
“Done.”
“Got it. Really appreciate that. One more thing. This is time critical. Tell me this guy’s location, at this moment.”
“According to his cell phone, Jimmy Greer is hanging out at . . . a place called the Corner Bar in Sag Harbor, Long Island.”
Reznick ran the idea around his head. Sag Harbor was only a twenty-minute drive away.
“Hey, Mr. R.? Good luck. And if you need me, whatever the hell you’re doing, I’ll be right here.”
“I know you will. I really appreciate it.”
“You got it.”
Reznick was trying to piece together how the cop, Jimmy Greer, fit into the whole thing. Maybe the FBI’s New York field office had brought their concerns to the NYPD? He walked back up the beach to the house. Farrelly was having coffee at the kitchen table and talking to O’Keefe. “Robert, I appreciate your time in such difficult circumstances,” Reznick said. “You mind if I have a quick couple of minutes before I head off?”
O’Keefe got up from his seat, and they headed through to a sun-filled study on the other side of the house. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the beach. “What’s on your mind?”
“A few things, actually. You said you spoke with someone at the FBI about your concerns?”
“That’s correct. I told them what Todd said when he called me. I was concerned.”
“You did the right thing. What about the NYPD? Have they ever been in contact with you?”
“A couple of hours ago.”
“No, I mean, maybe in the last few months.”
O’Keefe frowned. “Oh yeah, I remember, I also contacted the NYPD after Todd’s call. I gave a dispatch officer the information, then I got a voice mail that said to give an officer in the gang unit, Jimmy something, a call.”
“What did Jimmy say?”
“I left him a message with the same information. That time, I got a call back on my home number from the Department of Justice.”
“What?”
“They said they’d made note of my concerns and were investigating. And that was that.”
Reznick’s senses switched on at hearing that the DOJ had been involved. He could see there was a lot more to that morning’s sniper attack than met the eye. It seemed like the O’Keefes had been on the radar of multiple agencies for months. Which begged the obvious question: Why hadn’t they been detained and questioned, at the very least? “Let me just make sure I have this all straight. So you alerted the authorities, both NYPD and FBI?”
“Absolutely. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Robert, I’m worried about your brother Todd.”
“You should be. He’s crazy. I mean, very, very dangerous. He’s always been nice to me—don’t get me wrong. But I know what he’s like. What he’s capable of. He killed a neighbor’s cat when he was ten.”
“Shit. Listen, I’m guessing whatever he’s feeling, whatever desire he has to avenge your stepfather, will only be exacerbated by your brothers’ deaths. I’m concerned that Todd is planning to kill again.”
O’Keefe nodded. “He’ll want payback. Trust me, you need to find him. Todd is definitely the most dangerous one of the family.”
Fourteen
The car headed through the toll plaza and into the Holland Tunnel on the way to lower Manhattan.
Todd O’Keefe was sitting in the back of the SUV being driven by the bartender from the clubhouse. He knew there were license plate readers across the city, and they’d be looking for a car connected to him. But changing vehicles and using cabs was a way around that.
He began to do some breathing exercises. He had rehearsed in his mind over and over again what was going to happen. He had even scoped out the locations. The groundwork had been laid. He had a picture, in his mind’s eye, of what he was going to do.
The tunnel lights flashed by. Closer and closer. He had been dreaming of this day for weeks.
O’Keefe felt wired, grinding his teeth. He had popped some amphetamine pills and had snorted a few lines of coke. He was feeling top-line crazy. Just the way he liked. The lights whizzed by.
“You want to talk about the minivan?” the driver asked.
“Let’s hear it.”
“It’s on the level you want. It’s already in position. Inside is everything you need.”
“When was it dropped off?”
“Just over an hour ago by an associate of ours.”
O’Keefe sniffed hard as his mind flashed back to his previous visit. The parking garage gave him the perfect line of sight for what he planned to do next.
“I’m sorry about your brothers, man.”
O’Keefe said nothing. He just stared ahead at the tunnel, the headlights of oncoming vehicles making him squint his eyes occasionally. For a second, he was back in the woods near his childhood home in upstate New York. Exploring with Travis and Ryan, each of them with a flashlight. Sometimes they’d camp out there in the summer. And build fires. They sat around talking. As the youngest, he just listened. They talked of robbing, stealing, to get money for their mother. She was broke. And so it had begun: they stole anything they could get their hands on. Eggs from barns, tools from houses, laptops and clothes from out-of-towners’ vacation homes. They took it all.
O’Keefe closed his eyes for a few moments, lost in memory. He remembered when their oldest brother, Robert—Bobby—found out. Bobby had looked at the three of them as if they were dirt. Todd couldn’t understand it. They had brought in money for their mother, and food. They had the best organic eggs in upstate New York ever since they had stolen some hens and kept them in their garden. It was shortly after that that the police became regular visitors to the house. The cops hauled Todd, Ryan, and Travis out of the family home while their mother screamed, trying to hang on to them. The cops just sneered. Called them poor white trash. He knew they were poor. He also knew they were white. But they were never trash. They wanted to survive. They weren’t going to live on handouts.
Then Charlie Campbell came into their lives.
Charlie became their dad. He took the brothers under his wing. He showed them how to catch rabbits. Hares. Deer. Skin them. Gut them. Cook them. Eat them. And he taught them to fight. They fought
like crazies. He demanded they fight. Always fight. When the kids who lived nearby mocked them for not having cool clothes, they got their lights knocked out. And so the police came back. The ritual was repeated again, again, and again.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything about that,” the driver said, snapping O’Keefe from his reverie. “I mean, God rest their souls.”
O’Keefe nodded. “My brothers were tough. And they understood that sometimes you’ve got to sacrifice yourself. For the greater good. For the cause. For what we believe in.”
The driver nodded.
“How long you been out?”
“Five years.”
“How you finding it?”
“Tough. Family. Money. Cops. The usual shit.”
O’Keefe nodded. “I might not make it out of Manhattan after tonight. You have to know that.”
“Find a way. We’ll help you disappear for good. For years if need be. I know a ton of people that’ll help you. But for today, you need anything, you know where the clubhouse is. The shot caller got your number?”
“Yeah, we’re all set.”
They exited the tunnel, and the skyscrapers of lower Manhattan loomed large. Traffic was clogged up for a block or two because of construction. Eventually, the car pulled up at a red light.
O’Keefe looked at the people strolling on sidewalks, talking into their cell phones, eating hot dogs while walking their dogs. A black guy wearing a smart gray suit on the crosswalk, checking messages on his cell phone. Cell phones had been widespread when he was put away. But it seemed to O’Keefe, since he’d been out, that everyone was using them all the time now. Streaming music, sending messages, emails, surfing the net, Snapchat.
The lights changed and the SUV pulled away. They drove on in silence for a few more blocks until they reached Greenwich Street.
O’Keefe felt his heart beginning to beat a little faster as they drove up to the sixth level of the parking garage. The driver reversed into a space and switched off the engine. He scanned the deserted garage. Then he turned and pointed to a minivan parked at the far end of the lot. “That’s it.” He rifled in his pockets and handed the keys to O’Keefe. “The bag, everything you need, it’s already in there.”
O’Keefe took a moment. “The cops always laughed at us. Said we were poor white trash.”
The driver nodded.
“We’re going to send the cops a final message tonight. They sent Charlie home in a body bag. Well, guess what, same is going to happen to their guys tonight.”
The driver hugged O’Keefe tight. “Blood in, blood out, brother.”
O’Keefe got out of the SUV and watched the driver pull away. He was on his own now. The way he liked it. He headed over to the van, which was parked with its back to the wall. It had tinted windows as he had requested. He pressed the fob, opening the driver’s door, and slid into the front seat. The bag was at his feet.
He reached over and opened the glove compartment. Inside were the military-grade binoculars.
O’Keefe picked up the bag and binoculars and climbed into the back of the van. He leaned forward and opened the back window. His position was perfectly concealed from the street by a low concrete wall topped with metal bars above. He trained the binoculars on the busy downtown street. The coffee shop was located on Trinity Place, perhaps 100 yards away, 120 at a push.
He scanned the sidewalk as pedestrians strolled by the café, oblivious to what was about to happen. A few were standing outside chatting, coffees in hand; a workman wearing a hard hat was talking into his phone.
O’Keefe felt the sweat on his forehead, wiping it away with the back of his shirtsleeve.
He unzipped the bag and pulled out a rifle case, opened it up. Sniper rifle. He mounted the scope. He checked that it was securely mounted to the base. He aimed through the metal bars. Then he began to focus the reticle on the scope. The pedestrians on the street were blurred. A few adjustments. Suddenly, pin-sharp focus through the crosshairs.
He listened to his breathing as he stared into the scope. He felt his anger begin to rise. A black anger, putrid hate, at people he didn’t know. People unaware of who he was. And why he was there. They would never understand. Never comprehend the choices he made. He thought again of Travis and Ryan. He assumed it was cops who had killed them too.
His stomach tightened. They’d been prepared to lay down their lives. Prepared to die. Prepared to fight, no matter what or why. They’d carried out orders. Like good soldiers. Blood in, blood out. And all for Charlie Campbell, the man who had taken them under his wing. A man who had taught them to shoot. To hunt. To fight. And to kill. They saw, like he did, the way Campbell had looked lovingly at their mother. Protective. Their biological father had left them. Abandoned them. But Campbell stayed by their side until they were old enough to look after themselves. Charlie Campbell taught them everything he knew.
The more he thought of Campbell, the more he felt a primeval rage within him.
Campbell was a cold-blooded killer, the authorities said. But O’Keefe knew the type of man Campbell really was. He was cut from that same cloth. Blood in, blood out. He remembered listening as a boy while Campbell spoke of being prepared to kill. To defend your race. To defend your blood.
O’Keefe was staring through the crosshairs and wondered how long he would have to wait. It might be a while. But he knew that in New York City, and especially in Manhattan, and most especially around lower Manhattan, there were cops everywhere.
And sure enough, a few minutes later, a cop car pulled up outside the coffee shop. Two female cops got out. One headed into the shop while the other leaned against her cruiser, talking into her cell phone.
O’Keefe felt his heart racing as if he’d taken a shot of speed. He lined up the crosshairs, perfectly focused on the cop outside. He held his breath. Savoring the moment. The pleasure of the soon-to-come release. The rush of emotions that would follow. But more than that, the payback for Charlie Campbell. His dad. Blood brother.
O’Keefe controlled his breathing like he’d been taught. He centered the scope. The first cop emerged from the shop laughing, carrying two large coffees. He felt his finger on the trigger. The cop’s face was in the center of the crosshairs. Slowly, he squeezed the trigger. A shot rang out. The cop fell, direct hit to the face, blood exploding on the sidewalk and her uniform. The second cop was in his crosshairs, bending over her colleague, radioing for backup. He squeezed twice, hitting her in the back.
The second cop slumped on top of her dead colleague.
Panic as people fled in all directions.
Fuck them.
O’Keefe pulled the van window shut. Put the rifle in the bag. Got back in the front seat. He started up the minivan and quietly pulled away, then headed out of the parking garage and back onto the streets of lower Manhattan.
Charlie Campbell would be avenged.
O’Keefe gave a wry smile as he moved to his next location in the city.
Fifteen
When Reznick’s cell phone rang, he was riding up front with the FBI driver on the short journey from Southampton to Sag Harbor.
“Jon, two cops have just been killed in lower Manhattan.” Meyerstein’s voice sounded strained.
Reznick felt sick as he listened to the details of the cold-blooded attack.
“We just got footage from a parking garage. It’s Todd O’Keefe. He’s in the city. And he’s clearly been given support. Somewhere to lie low. I’d really prefer if you were back in the city right now, Jon. I don’t think Todd is going to stop there.”
“What about Farrelly?”
“We’ve instructed him to stay with Robert O’Keefe and his family until we get backup.”
“I want to talk to you about something, Martha. After talking to Robert, I think the FBI needs to look at its files again. I have reason to believe that he informed both the FBI and the NYPD that his brother Todd was going to do something. He was very concerned—”
“Do something?” She
sounded dubious. “What do you mean by that?”
“Avenge Charlie Campbell, their stepfather.”
“I’ve gone over our file on the O’Keefes. There is no heads-up from Robert O’Keefe on Todd.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Excuse me?”
“Martha, I’m telling you, something is not right. I have proof that Robert O’Keefe is not lying.”
“What kind of proof?”
“Not the sort that will hold up in court without a warrant, but that doesn’t matter.”
“Jon, I don’t like your tone of voice. You’re insinuating that we didn’t act on information that could’ve prevented this.”
“I’m sorry, but it’s true. He contacted the FBI. And the cops.” Reznick tapped his fingers against the back of the phone and decided to plunge ahead. “I got someone to check Robert O’Keefe’s cell phone records. He had a conversation that lasted exactly three minutes and thirty-one seconds with Special Agent Leon Cortez of New York.”
“Leon Cortez?”
“Correct. That’s all I know. But after that call, Robert O’Keefe never heard back from Cortez or the Feds.”
“OK, that is concerning. But there’s nothing in the file on this, so I’m assuming that whatever he had to say wasn’t important. You’d be surprised how many people report things but are reluctant to give us the details we actually need in order to take their claims seriously.”
“Robert O’Keefe has no reason to lie. After he spoke with Cortez, he called the NYPD. Shortly after that, he said he got a call from the Department of Justice, saying that they had taken over the case from the NYPD. Something is seriously wrong here.”
Meyerstein was quiet for a minute. “What you’re saying is that this was either ignored or buried.”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
Meyerstein groaned. “I’ll look into it. You have my word. But it’s probably best if you head back. Right now.”
“I’ve come all the way out to the East End of Long Island. We’re in Sag Harbor.”
