The Betrayer

by Daniel Judson

  She opened it, scanned the bill, and saw the phrase “Save time, pay online.”

  She had put the paper she’d found in their father’s apartment in her desk drawer for safekeeping. Retrieving it, she looked at the eight-digit code just below Jeremy’s cell phone number.

  Could it be?

  She called Fiermonte.

  “Hey, Cat.”

  “I need to know which cell phone carrier Jeremy used.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “The number Jeremy left, it was a cell phone number, right? His cell phone, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you know which carrier it was?”

  “Not offhand.”

  “Could you find out?”

  “I’d have to call Morris.”

  “Call me back as soon as you know.”

  “What’s going on, Cat?”

  “Please.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  She ended the call, stepped to her laptop, powered it up, and went online.

  Less than three minutes later, her cell phone rang.

  “It’s a Sprint number,” Fiermonte said.

  Cat hurriedly went to the Sprint home page and located the account member login box. Under “Username” she entered Jeremy’s phone number, then under “Password” entered the eight-digit code.

  Within seconds she had access to Jeremy’s account.

  “I think you’d better come over,” Cat said.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I think I maybe found what Jeremy wanted me to find.”

  A pause, then: “Give me a half hour.”

  She ended the call, then tried her brother’s cell again. But just like before, her call went to his voice mail without ringing once.

  Laying her phone down, she proceeded to search Jeremy’s account, starting with his call history.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Johnny was crossing the East River via the Williamsburg Bridge. It was another warm June night, and he was just another of the millions who would be out and about in Manhattan now that summerlike weather was here.

  Just another thirtysomething, dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt and boots, heading for somewhere.

  Stay out of my way, and I’ll stay out of yours.

  He had called for the cab from his cell phone as he walked up to McCarren Park, just a few blocks north of the apartment. He knew better than to have the driver come to his door. Dickey McVicker had given him a wad of bills as they rode back together from the meeting with Cat — three grand in twenties.

  Financing, McVicker had called it. Transportation, bribe money, etc. If you need more, just let me know. And I’ve alerted certain people that you’ll be out and about, and that you’re under my protection.

  As Johnny pocketed the money, he thought of asking what that meant exactly. He already knew that McVicker had influence, both with the underworld and, to an extent, the police. But was he really this powerful? Could he really extend his influence around Johnny — around a moving target — like a shield? But before Johnny could ask, McVicker handed him a slip of paper and said, Your brother’s favorite dealer hangs out in a bar in Little Italy. You should start with him.

  On the slip of paper was a name and address.

  How do you know this? Johnny had asked.

  It’s one of my bars. I make it a point of knowing everything that happens in my bars. I’ve passed word to him that you’re coming, but he’s a cocky shit, likes to feel that he has the power, so don’t let him give you the runaround. McVicker paused. Every minute counts.

  You know something, Dickey.

  I know that Russian. He’s a vicious little fuck, just like his old man.

  And the son of the man who betrayed you, Johnny had thought.

  McVicker had then handed Johnny a third item: a cell phone.

  Keep this with you at all times. There’s a number in its contact list. Call it and you’ll get me.

  Johnny took the phone, checked that it was powered up, then pocketed it as well.

  Be careful but be quick, McVicker said. I’d like you to let me know what you find out, as soon as you find it out. He paused. And don’t trust anyone.

  Except you.

  Except me. He had smiled then. Always me.

  Alone in the back of his cab, halfway across the East River, Johnny was watching the city lights. A long line of glowing high-rises, and below them the FDR crowded with cars. It was the same view as from his kitchen window, only closer now by a mile.

  Here we go, he thought.

  As the Williamsburg Bridge ended and became Delancey Street, Johnny looked to his right and saw the Delancey Bar and Grille. Early in the evening still, not yet eight o’clock, but people were already gathered outside.

  Seconds later the cab was passing Clinton Street, and Johnny briefly glimpsed the spot where Jeremy had parked his motorcycle — in view of a preschool’s security camera.

  Looking at both places hadn’t told Johnny anything he didn’t already know.

  But he was here now, in the heart of it, of whatever shit his crazy kid brother had stirred up.

  Not technically behind enemy lines, but for Johnny, considering what his life had become, close enough.

  He didn’t want to do this, not one bit. He didn’t need it; there was more than enough on his mind these days. Staying safe, making money, saving as much of it as they could, just in case. He had burned through all of the money he’d inherited from his father during his journey through Southeast Asia. A foolish thing, yes — and what he wouldn’t do to have even half of it back. Or just a fraction of it. He had come back to New York broke — on Haley’s dime, in fact — and had no one to turn to but Dickey McVicker.

  The more they earned and stashed away, the less dependent on McVicker they were.

  And should they need to start all over again somewhere else, they could do so without depending on anyone but themselves.

  This appealed to Johnny greatly.

  But right now all he cared about was getting back to his apartment, being in the comforting darkness with the woman he had vowed to keep safe at all costs. He wanted to be there right now, needed at this moment to feel a connection to her, so he sent her a quick text asking how she was. She replied a half minute later. Missing you but fine. Watching the boys passing below.

  Johnny smiled at that. She was such a wiseass, loved to tease him in this way. She had brought more than purpose and wisdom to his life — she had brought humor. He sent off a second text, telling her that he’d be back as soon as he could, so whoever she chose to have come up shouldn’t stay too long. He imagined her seeing that and smiling, too.

  He ended the text with the emoticon of a smiley face — code that meant he wouldn’t be able to text again for a while, the equivalent to ending a radio broadcast with “over and out.”

  She replied seconds later with a text containing the same emoticon.

  Over and out.

  Before Johnny realized it, the cab had reached its destination — Eldridge Street, a block from the eastern edge of Roosevelt Park. Johnny paid the fare with McVicker’s money and got out.

  When the cab was gone from sight, Johnny began crossing through the block-wide park.

  Beyond it was Little Italy.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Cat let Donnie Fiermonte in and together they sat at her dining room table. She seldom had company — dinner company, anyway — and had long since adopted this part of her apartment as the hub of her home office.

  On the table before them was her notebook computer, up and running.

  “What have you got, Cat?”

  “The code Jeremy left was the password for his cell phone account.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No. Jeremy’s billing cycle ended last week, and his call log only covers the current billing cycle, so I can only see the calls he made in the past five days. He made several to a nine-one-seven number, the last one being at six last night, sev
en hours before he got shot at on Delancey.”

  “Did you run the number?”

  “It’s a prepaid cell phone.”

  “So a dead end.”

  “For that, yeah, but at eleven o’clock last night he made a call to a landline up in Chappaqua.”

  “And?”

  “It’s registered to a Jeffery Hall.”

  “Any idea who he is?”

  “I logged on to my work computer and looked him up. He’s a pharmaceutical rep. No warrants, no record, not even a single traffic violation.”

  “Why would Jeremy call a pharmaceutical rep at eleven o’clock at night?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Fiermonte thought for a moment. “The rep could be selling samples out of the back of his car,” he suggested.

  “Maybe.”

  She was hesitant, and Fiermonte knew why.

  “It was a grainy videotape at best, Cat. And just because Jeremy didn’t look high or strung out at that moment doesn’t mean he’s stopped using.”

  She brushed that aside. “I was able to look up last month’s account balance. Jeremy’s plan allows four hundred and fifty minutes. If he stays below that amount, his bill should come in just under eighty bucks a month. The thing is, last month’s bill was over three hundred dollars.”

  “He made a lot of calls last month, but barely any in the last five days.” Fiermonte paused. “Sounds like maybe something came to an end a week ago. A friendship or relationship.”

  Cat shrugged. “Three hundred dollars in calls sound an awful lot like love to me.”

  “But why didn’t he just increase his plan, pay a little more for unlimited calls?”

  “Maybe whatever was going on, he wasn’t expecting it to last.”

  “A love affair?”

  “Johnny has a history of being with married women. One might even call it an obsession.”

  Fiermonte thought about that. It was impossible for them to talk about this — and to sit as closely as they were, both looking at the computer screen — and not be reminded of their conversation over drinks a week ago.

  A conversation they had all but ignored since.

  “I wonder if this Hall guy is married.”

  “He’s a sales rep, so if he is, he’d be away a lot.”

  “Giving his wife and your brother a lot of time to talk on the phone.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can we see any of his texts?”

  “No, just the current call log.”

  “The thing is, Chappaqua’s less than an hour from the city. Why just talk a lot? Why not actually get together?”

  “No reason why they couldn’t have done both.” She paused. “Jeremy can be a bit…intense. He scares women off as fast as he attracts them.”

  “So he left his number and password in a way you’d find it but nobody else would, just so you’d see the last number he called. Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “No. There’s more.”

  “What?”

  Cat navigated from the call log page to the main account page, then clicked on a tab marked Picture Mail.

  A folder opened, showing a list of icons shaped like little cameras.

  “Jeremy’s cell phone camera must automatically upload any pictures he takes. Mine’s set to do that, too. There are three pictures in this file.”

  “What of?”

  Cat clicked on the first icon and a JPEG image opened.

  The photo showed a man walking down a city street. By the way the photo was framed — the man was all but diagonal and the image was slightly blurred — it was likely that Jeremy had taken the photo both discreetly and quickly.

  But that didn’t concern Fiermonte. What concerned him was that the photo was of Detective Morris.

  “Jesus,” he said.

  “Exactly,” Cat agreed. “According to the time and date stamp, this photo was taken three nights ago.”

  Fiermonte was clearly intrigued. And concerned. “What’s the next photo?”

  Cat clicked on it. The photo that opened showed two men standing face-to-face, engaged in conversation.

  While the first photo had concerned Fiermonte, this second one outright bothered him. At first he didn’t recognize the second man, and then he did.

  He was smoking.

  “That’s the guy who was manning the door at McVicker’s warehouse.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What the fuck is one of McVicker’s men doing with Morris?”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it?”

  Again, it looked as if Jeremy had taken this photo quickly and secretly.

  “When was this taken?”

  “The night before last.”

  “I mean, Morris and McVicker’s guy are standing, what, three or four feet from the camera. It’s not like Jeremy could take a picture with his cell phone from a distance, right? So he was standing right there with them. And the same for the first picture.”

  “Jeremy met with Morris three nights ago, and then Morris and this other guy the night before last.”

  “Could Jeremy have taken these while walking by them? Without them knowing he was there?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “I’m not so sure, Cat. I mean, they don’t seem to be looking in Jeremy’s direction in either picture.”

  “You’re thinking he could have been following them?”

  “It’s a possible explanation.”

  “I take it Morris didn’t say anything to you last night about him meeting with Jeremy.”

  “Not a fucking thing.”

  “Curious, huh?”

  “Yeah.” Fiermonte paused to think, seemed almost reluctant to ask for some reason. “So…what’s the last photo?”

  Cat clicked on the final icon. This photo was the blurriest of the three. It showed a man dressed in black who all but filled the frame. Though his body was a blur, his face, strangely, was relatively clear.

  Clear enough to see his features.

  “That was taken just after midnight last night,” Cat said. “That has to be our shooter. Same clothes, same hat, everything.”

  “Jesus,” Fiermonte said again.

  “My guess is the blood on the visor is his. Jeremy must have hit him with it at some point. Maybe between that blood and this photo, we can find out who he is. And who he works for.”

  Fiermonte sighed, then: “Can you e-mail these to me? The photos and the numbers.”

  “I already did, while I was waiting for you.”

  Fiermonte was looking at the screen. Something had caught his eye.

  “There’s another folder marked Received. Anything in that?”

  Cat hesitated.

  Fiermonte looked at her. “What?”

  “It’s just a photo.”

  “Of what?”

  “A woman.” She shrugged. “A naked pic, that’s all.”

  “Let me see it.”

  Cat didn’t want to, felt sympathy for the woman, but she knew he needed to see it. She switched to that folder and opened the only photo it contained.

  The nude woman was a brunette, early forties. She was standing before a bathroom mirror, a cell phone in her hand, her hand held off to the side slightly. Her build was different from Cat’s — less athletic, more womanly. Better curves, fuller breasts. Her chin was held up a bit, in a way that struck Cat as being bold.

  Cat felt as though she were invading this woman’s privacy. And her brother’s.

  “I fucking know this woman?” Fiermonte muttered.

  Cat was genuinely surprised by this. “What?”

  “I know her. I’ve seen her.”

  “Where?”

  “When I went to the restaurant where Jeremy was working last month, to check up on him, she was there. Sitting at the bar. The place was being renovated, and she was the designer.”

  “Did you get her name?”

  “No. But I bet you a drink she’s Mrs. Jeffery Hall of Chappaqua, New York.”

  F
iermonte removed his cell phone from his jacket pocket and dialed 411.

  “What are you doing?” Cat asked.

  “Calling information for the number of that restaurant. Someone there should be able to give me her name.”

  “And then what?”

  “If it is her, we’re going up to Chappaqua.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight?”

  “And if her husband is home?”

  “Let’s hope for her sake he’s not.”

  Fiermonte said into the phone, “Manhattan, Messina’s. A business, Seventh Avenue.” As he waited for his call to be connected, he said to Cat, “E-mail me that picture, too.”

  “Do you really need it, Donnie?”

  “I’ll be discreet, I promise.”

  Cat closed the photo, then sent it as an attachment to Fiermonte’s office e-mail address.

  When Fiermonte’s call to the restaurant answered, he asked for the manager, then gave a quick story about how he had been in there recently and how impressed he was with the renovations, and might he get the name and contact information of the designer responsible? The whole thing took less than a minute.

  Ending the call, he said, “Elizabeth Hall. She’s not a Manhattan designer, though. She works out of her home in Chappaqua. Get your jacket.”

  “Maybe I should go alone,” Cat suggested.

  “Why?”

  “It’s someone’s life, Donnie. Would you want a stranger to knock on your door and start asking you difficult questions in front of your wife?”

  “I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  “Don’t you? And besides, we now have another reason to keep this quiet, no? I’ll be going there as a concerned sister. No big deal. But you’re still an assistant state prosecutor, right? That makes it a big deal.”

  “I’ll ride up with you.”

  “And what, sit in the car? ‘Just ignore the man out there in your driveway, Mrs. Hall, while I ask you if you’ve been sleeping with my kid brother.’ It’s just Chappaqua, Donnie. An hour there, an hour back, an hour maybe to talk. That’s if she’s able to, that’s if she’s even home.”

  Fiermonte said nothing for a moment, then backed down. “Alright, fine. Go have a woman-to-woman with her. Just take good notes, okay?”

  “I always do.”

  “And be careful.”