Break

by Ty Patterson

  ‘We’ve already run his voice prints and done a social media check,’ the older twin interrupted calmly. ‘We got no hits. We could have checked out the cameras at the club to see where he disappeared. But when we EMP-ed them in the evening, all of them went out. That was the only way we could protect you. Even the ones outside the club.’

  ‘We got nothing, then?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that,’ Beth smirked. Her fingers flew and a brief video appeared on the screen. A boxy-looking SUV speeding along an avenue. ‘That’s his getaway vehicle.’ She held a finger up to silence him. ‘Watch.’

  He obeyed. The ride raced down the street and slowed at a traffic light. Its rear was illuminated by the lights of another vehicle and, even through the darkened windows, the shape of a man was visible.

  ‘Bald head. Rear seat. We ran comparisons against all the footage we have from ADX. Werner says there’s a high probability that’s Sheller in that vehicle. Going north on Fifth Avenue.’

  Cutter leaned forward in excitement. ‘If we can track where that vehicle went,’ he half-spoke to himself.

  ‘We hit a block there,’ Beth said regretfully. ‘We got lucky with that one street camera, but—’ She brought up another image, a parked SUV. ‘That’s the vehicle we were tracking. It was left on West 53rd.’

  ‘They switched rides,’ he guessed.

  ‘Yeah, and we lost them there.’

  Harlem, Bronx, Yonkers, they could be anywhere.

  He glanced at his watch and got to his feet.

  He had one more card to play.

  * * *

  NYPD Police Commissioner Bruce Rolando took out his wallet and passed two ten-dollar notes to Quindica and Difiore.

  ‘It’s your fault,’ he told Cutter as he burst into the conference room in the afternoon. ‘Gina and Peyton were adamant you would insert yourself in this meeting.’

  ‘Cutter,’ Jamison greeted him from DC.

  ‘Sir,’ he nodded at the video conference screen and turned to his friend. ‘I had to represent myself.’

  Difiore snorted, turned it into a coughing fit and was studiously impassive when he looked at her suspiciously.

  ‘This idea of yours—’ the FBI Director began.

  ‘Is the only way we can draw out Sheller, sir.’

  ‘It’s risky.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Is there any other option? Detective Difiore and Special Agent in Charge Quindica haven’t made much progress.’

  He held up his hand quickly before the cop exploded. ‘I mean your task force is held back by procedures, and then there are the dirty cops—’

  ‘We got your point, Cutter,’ said Rolando, granite-faced. No one liked to hear they had corrupt employees.

  ‘How will it go down?’ Jamison filled the awkward silence.

  ‘Quindica and Difiore will hold a press conference. Announce they have a significant lead.’

  ‘In what? The Task Force is not public knowledge.’

  ‘On The Elitist, the race crimes, Crump, Martinelli … they’ll say they’ve found a link. A common thread.’

  ‘That alone will not be enough.’

  ‘I’ll go on TV. Say my statement will blow apart the establishment. I will reveal some details of my past—not the classified parts, but I’ll drop enough hints that Sheller will know I’m talking about him.’

  ‘We’ll have to put you up in a safe house,’ Quindica said. ‘We have several in the city.’

  ‘We have them, too,’ the detective chimed in, ‘but—’

  ‘Yours might be compromised.’ Cutter shook his head. ‘The Feds’ too. I’ll find one.’

  ‘You think he’ll take the bait?’ Rolando polished his reading glasses.

  ‘Yeah. I’m the one who knows the most about him. On the law enforcement side. He won’t want his cover blown.’

  ‘Only if Knowles had talked.’

  Cutter started to nod, but caught himself quickly when he found Quindica and Difiore staring at him. ‘There was no opportunity to question him?’ he asked smoothly.

  ‘Nope. He was dead before we arrived.’

  ‘You found out who that club member was?’

  ‘Vance Trent. But the real member is in Cancun, where he’s got a second home. He hasn’t been to the club in months. This intruder faked his appearance and membership card.’

  ‘He also hacked into Trent’s email,’ Quindica added, ‘and sent a confirmation to Tizzard’s team that he was attending. That’s serious chops.’

  ‘He’s got a team behind him,’ Cutter asserted. ‘There’s no way he could do all that himself.’

  ‘How do you figure that?’ Difiore asked him when everyone’s eyes swung his way.

  ‘I haven’t come across many lone operators who can do everything. Good at disguises, hacking … nope. Fake Trent wasn’t acting alone.’

  ‘We’ve found no signs that there was anyone else with him, sir,’ the detective told her boss. ‘We’re still investigating, however.’

  ‘What about these rumors on social media? That Sheller would turn up at the rally?’ Jamison’s chair squeaked in protest when he leaned back and stretched.

  ‘No one who looks like him at the event, sir,’ Quindica replied. ‘We ran facial recognition on all the attendees. However, all cameras burned out earlier in the morning—’

  ‘All?’ Jamison frowned.

  ‘Yes, sir. We’re looking into that, too. The club installed new ones, but not all were replaced. We don’t have full coverage of the inside.’

  ‘They burned out in the evening, too, didn’t they?’ Rolando growled.

  ‘Yes, sir. Grogan’s right. The impersonator had help.’

  ‘Find out who he is. And set this up. Cutter’s idea—crazy as it sounds, it just might work.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  82

  Darrell was nervous, sweating, when he took up his position opposite the bodega.

  He had gone to school in the morning and then slipped out during a change of class. He had raced back home and changed into a Tee and jeans.

  Not feeling well, he texted Manuel.

  Liar. You’re going for recon.

  Darrell didn’t respond. He deleted the texts and went to the subway. Hoped and prayed his mom wouldn’t find out that he had skipped school.

  The store was easy to find. It was the only one of its kind for several blocks, and Nails’ description had been accurate.

  He drew out a bar of chocolate from his pocket, unwrapped it and bit into it as he watched.

  * * *

  At twelve pm, Difiore went in front of the press. She and Quindica decided the SAC wouldn’t be with her.

  ‘Let’s not mention the Task Force. That will raise more questions.’

  The detective had agreed.

  She straightened her suit, drank from a glass of water and took the first question.

  ‘The NYPD’s giving us the runaround,’ the reporter growled. ‘The last few weeks have seen a rise in crime and shootings. The commissioner has nothing to say about those. He repeats his stock phrases—’

  ‘Is there a question in that?’ Difiore interrupted the journalist, who was from a tabloid that attacked the cops at every opportunity. There was no love lost between the publication and the police.

  ‘What’s happening with the crimes?’ he yelled, red-faced, as a snicker went around the room.

  ‘You should have led with that,’ she replied and launched into details of the monthly stats on crimes and how they compared to previous periods.

  ‘That’s not what I asked,’ the reporter raised his hand again, but she ignored him and pointed at another journalist.

  She took question after question, surprised to find that she was enjoying the thrust and parry with the reporters. Peyton must be smirking. She was sure I would do well. I was the one who was hesitant.

  It was toward the end of the press conference that she released her bombshell.

  ‘We’ve got a confidential informant,’ she sa
id, ‘who has proof that Assistant Chief Crump’s killing is related to that of Officer Martinelli’s. The two murders are connected to several other crimes in the city. Hold on!’ she raised her hand when the reporters broke into a clamor, shouting questions, demanding answers.

  ‘That’s all I have for you for now,’ she told them when they had quieted. ‘Those are active investigations; we’ll have to verify his account—you know how police work goes.’

  She couldn’t hold back a smile when the first journalist fired back. ‘Not very well.’

  ‘Your snitch is a man?’ another reporter asked.

  ‘I can’t comment on their identity,’ she deflected.

  ‘You’ll put him up in a safe house?’

  ‘No other questions.’

  * * *

  Gunner kept watching when the detective disappeared. A TV host came on screen and recapped the conference.

  He looked away blindly when she summarized the key statements. He knew what they were.

  He was cool. Calm. His breathing was steady.

  He knew he was at his most dangerous then.

  ‘Cray,’ he called the hacker.

  ‘Yes, boss. I saw it. You think they’ve got Grogan?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll make some calls. Where is he?’

  ‘He’s not answering his office phone. I can send someone to check it out in person.’

  ‘Do that. At his apartment, too.’

  ‘He’s got cameras there.’

  ‘Get someone to walk up and down the stairs. Casually. Like a visitor to another floor.’

  ‘Gotcha.’

  He called the deputy chief he had spoken to earlier.

  ‘Trejo, what was that about? That press conference?’ he growled softly.

  ‘Beats me,’ the high-ranking officer confessed. ‘It took us all by surprise. Difiore keeps to herself, like I said before—’

  ‘Who’s her informant?’

  ‘I don’t know. No one does. I tried to find out. I just finished a meeting with the commish. Asked him too. He brushed me away.’

  ‘Find out. And where they’ve stowed him.’

  He made more calls and got the same responses. It looked like the press conference had been authorized by Rolando himself, and other than he and Difiore, no one at the NYPD knew what was up.

  None of my contacts, Gunner corrected himself.

  He called Mease.

  ‘Ring your NYPD friends,’ he told the strategist. ‘Find out what that press conference was about. … You don’t know? It would help if you watched other news rather than just the campaign coverage.’ He broke it down for the accountant, who sucked in his breath sharply.

  ‘Have they connected you?’

  ‘That’s what I want you to find out,’ Gunner raged and ended the call.

  * * *

  Three pm. Darrell was exhausted, but he still watched. He didn’t stick to one spot. He kept moving, finding different observation posts on opposite sides of the street as he made notes discreetly.

  He could see the Chinese couple and the third owner, Moshe, occasionally through the windows. They had a smile for customers and frequently came out of the bodega and greeted passersby.

  He could guess who the regulars were by the way they were greeted and made a note of their arrival times.

  He would hang around till seven pm, and then he would head home.

  * * *

  Cutter rang some of his favorite TV reporters and invited them to a hotel room for an interview.

  ‘It will be explosive,’ he promised them. ‘However, you cannot tell anyone beforehand that you’re meeting me. Or where it will be held.’

  ‘That’s—’

  ‘That’s the only way it will go down. And it has to be live.’

  A few reporters protested, but most went along. He provided good sound bites, and his teasers, on the back of Difiore’s conference, were enough to hook them.

  Cutter booked a suite in a downtown luxury hotel and made arrangements with the manager, whom he knew.

  ‘No shooting,’ Dom Perez warned him.

  ‘There won’t be. It’s a press conference.’

  The manager, who had served with him, looked at him cynically. ‘I know you, Cutter. The last time you booked a room with us, cartel shooters invaded my hotel.’

  ‘Hey, that was over a year ago. Besides, you got good publicity out of it. These are well-known TV hosts,’ he dropped a few names. ‘No hitters this time. I promise.’

  ‘I gave you the best suite,’ his friend said grudgingly.

  ‘Appreciate it. However, your front desk should take their phones and only then give them the room details. Security,’ he said hurriedly, when Perez raised an eyebrow. ‘I don’t want anyone to know which room I’ll be in. Not until the last minute.’

  ‘I’ll deploy some security personnel.’

  ‘You’re a rock star.’

  ‘Flattery won’t get you anywhere … but an introduction to Ellen Ronning might.’

  ‘Done.’

  The TV journalist, a friend, was a highly respected reporter who was also single.

  ‘She’s a good person,’ he cautioned his friend.

  ‘And I’m not?’

  * * *

  At seven pm, Ronning and several other TV news anchors crowded the hotel’s lobby, along with their crews.

  Darrell was in the subway, clutching his notebook.

  Cutter was in the suite, readying himself. The Fixer had an image. He had to maintain it. Checked red shirt tucked into blue jeans, a dull leather belt at his waist. Sneakers on his feet, customized with Vibram soles.

  He surveyed the room critically and hid his Glock and spare guns in several strategic locations. He wasn’t expecting intruders, but being prepared had been drilled into him enough to become habit.

  Finally, he checked his escape routes.

  One would be through the service door. Another through the elevator shaft and a third from the roof, where he had stowed another base-jumping kit.

  He waited for the reporters.

  * * *

  ‘That’s good work.’ Nails studied Darrell’s notes. He took a photograph with his cell phone and handed the journal back to the teenager. ‘Go back tomorrow and keep watch.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Will that be a problem?’

  The student moistened his lips and shook his head. I’ll have to skip school a second day. If Mama finds out, there’ll be hell to pay.

  * * *

  ‘You might have heard Detective Difiore’s press conference today,’ Cutter began when Ronning signaled they were ready.

  Six TV reporters seated on chairs, facing him. Their camera crews behind, filming the scene. He was on a couch, relaxed, left arm stretched out, right hand close to a cushion beneath which was his Glock.

  ‘I’m the NYPD’s informant,’ he smiled.

  83

  Gunner’s spoon stopped in midair. His eyes bulged when he took in Grogan’s face on TV. He thumbed up the volume on the remote and pushed away his half-eaten dinner. What the Fixer had to say was more important.

  ‘Why have you come forward?’ Ellen Ronning answered. ‘Aren’t you risking the investigation?’

  ‘What’s there to risk?’ He smiled broadly. ‘I’m not going to reveal any inside information to you. Back to your first question … I am hoping this gig’—he gestured at the cameras—‘will encourage others. There will be many who know exactly what’s gone down and who’s behind it. Some of them will be troubled; their consciences will be pricking them. My message to them is: Step out. Tell the NYPD what you know, help them take the masterminds down. The cops will protect you.’

  ‘We don’t see any police here,’ another reporter called out.

  ‘You won’t see them.’ Grogan smiled confidently. ‘They’re there, however. I’ll be going into a safe house after this interview.’

  He waggled his fingers to invite questions, and they came thick and fast. Many of them w
ere about what he knew, who Crump’s killer was, who the shadowy perps were. He smiled, deflected some but answered other ones. With his dark hair slicked back, his green eyes standing out in the hotel room, Grogan had even the experienced TV hosts eating out of his hand.

  Gunner became aware of a sound, like the hard scrape of rocks, and realized with a start that it came from him. He was gritting his teeth. He stopped himself and forced himself to stay calm until the interview was over. He turned off the TV and flung his dinner plate against the wall. His rage partly vented, he picked up his phone. There were already several missed calls. He took the most important ones.

  ‘Trejo, stop talking and listen,’ he rapped out when the cop’s voice rose. ‘He knows nothing. He and the NYPD are playing a game. Do you think you’d still be in your office if he had real information? You’d be arrested by now. I’ll take care of it. Where’s Difiore?’

  ‘She’s with her task force. I checked. She and that FBI woman were watching the interview.’

  ‘Find out where this safe house is.’

  ‘I’ll try, but you’ll—’

  ‘I’ll take care of it.’

  He called another assistant chief, a deputy, several lower ranked cops and several politicians. He repeated the same message, that he would take care of it.

  Mease was last.

  ‘You saw it?’

  ‘Yeah,’ the accountant replied. ‘How worried should we be?’

  ‘Not at all. Grogan’s playing a game—’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Did cops burst inside your house? Has Rubin been arrested? I’m still here. He’s got nothing. I’ll take care of him.’

  ‘There should be no blowback.’

  ‘There won’t be.’

  He called his cell leaders and checked that business was uninterrupted. It was.

  ‘Nails, did you see the interview?’

  ‘What interview?’ his Brownsville leader asked. ‘I’ve been on the street.’

  ‘All good?’

  ‘Yeah, why do you ask?’