You Have the Right to Remain Silent

by Barbara Paul

  “For which you just happen to have a computer handy. Page said you’d be plugged into the FBI system. What were you doing when I came in?”

  “Take a look.”

  Marian got up to go look over his shoulder at the tiny screen. “What is it?”

  “An account in a bank in Brussels—in my name. Opened at five-fifteen A.M. today. Crude, Page, crude.”

  “Is that the trail he laid connecting you to Evan Christopher?”

  “Part of it. I knew he’d do something like this,” Holland added, almost under his breath. “Page was rushed when he set this up—it’s clumsy, full of holes. Easy to find.” As Marian watched, he changed the name on the account from Curt Holland to Trevor Page.

  She laughed shortly. “Will that help?”

  “It can’t hurt. Changing the name alone won’t be enough—I’ll have to come back later and try to figure out the identification codes. But if Page ever checks back, he’ll just destroy the record. Once he knows I’m on to what he’s doing, he’ll stop. Page knows better than to play computer games with me.”

  “Modest, aren’t you?”

  “No.” The bank’s records disappeared from the screen and a new set of numbers and symbols appeared. The screen changed four or five times and Holland said, “Now we’re in the FBI system. Since Page seems to be going for the obvious today, I’ll just check my mail first. Ah. There it is.”

  EQ in custody. Can offer immunity and one-way ticket to country of choice in exchange for assistance in closing case. Respond immediately.

  “Well, well—isn’t that nicely put,” Holland said ironically. “You read it and it says he wants information about the groups I’m supposed to be arming with laser weapons. I read it and it says he needs help counteracting Quinn’s testimony. Damage control.”

  “How could you help?” Marian asked.

  He shrugged. “By manufacturing evidence. By making sure Page left no computer trail incriminating himself.” Holland made the screen change several more times, and then typed in his reply.

  Require proof EQ alive.

  “He’ll see that as a test,” Holland said. “It’ll take him some time to set it up, if Quinn is still among the living as Page claims. But in the meantime …” He concentrated on the keyboard. “This will take a while. The file I’m going after is buried under several security layers.”

  Marian stifled a yawn and went into the kitchen. It had been a long and stressful day, and she was ready for it to end. But the kitchen clock said it was only 8:05; not quite over yet. Kelly’s evening performance at the Broadhurst had just started. From the refrigerator Marian took one of the cartons of soup she’d brought from the deli earlier on. “Want some soup?” she called in to Holland.

  “No.” Still concentrating.

  His failure to add a thanks irritated her. She heated the soup—kreplach, the pastries fat and bursting with meat—and was just pouring it into a mug when she heard a mild cry of triumph from the living room. She took a swallow of the broth and went back in, carrying the mug and a spoon with her. “What have you got?”

  “FBI safe houses in all the five boroughs. If Quinn’s alive, he’s at one of these addresses.” He scrolled down.

  “So many,” Marian murmured. “How can we check them all out? Wait—go back.” Holland returned to the original screen. Marian quickly read through the addresses and said, “Okay.” The screen changed and she looked at the rest of the list. She reached out and tapped the screen with a fingernail. “This one.”

  “Bleecker Street? Why?”

  “It’s the only address in my precinct.”

  Holland looked up at her in appreciation. “Of course! Page won’t want to deal with police from other precincts—not when he has his own tame cop in the Ninth. The Bleecker Street safe house may not have been available when Page needed it, but it’s still worth checking first.” His eyes narrowed. “But neither you nor I can do the checking. I’m on the FBI wish list. And if Page saw you snooping around, that would blow our whole set-up.”

  “You think he’s guarding Quinn himself?”

  “Probably not, but it’s not worth chancing. We need help. Do you suppose your partner Foley would lend a hand?”

  Marian laughed raucously.

  “Just thought I’d ask,” Holland remarked dryly. “Isn’t there anyone at the Ninth Precinct you can trust?”

  She thought about it. “I think I trust Gloria Sanchez, but Gloria doesn’t care to exert herself more than is absolutely necessary. Maybe we can get help from outside the Ninth, though. My former partner might pitch in, if I can get hold of him. Ivan plays hard on weekends. And there’s a man in Intelligence who helped me out of a tight spot once—he might be willing to help again.” She took a bite of kreplach and chewed.

  “So?” Holland said, arching his eyebrows. “Why aren’t you calling them?”

  She pointed her spoon at the computer. “You seem to have the phone line tied up.”

  For once, Holland looked abashed. “Sorry.” He shut the computer down. “It’s free now.”

  Marian started calling.

  22

  At eleven o’clock Saturday night the upper West Side coffee shop was crowded and noisy; the nearby Paramount had recently disgorged its movie audience, all of its members ravenous and all in the mood for talking after two hours of semi-silence. Marian had taken a seat by the window, barely beating the crowd. The city had finally realized summer was over; the cold drizzle outside had prompted someone in the coffee shop to turn on the heat. Whoever had done it, had overdone it; Marian was in danger of drowsing off. With her fist she made a clear place on the steamed-up window, not that there was much to see.

  A waitress with raccoon eyes brought the coffee and peach pie Marian had asked for. The pie looked as if it had been around for a while, but the coffee was fresh and strong and she swallowed it down, welcoming the caffeine. She was waiting for Gloria Sanchez, who’d surprised her by saying yes to Marian’s call for help. Jaime Romero from Intelligence had jumped at the chance; he’d been arguing with his wife when Marian phoned and was looking for an excuse to get out. Only Marian’s former partner, Ivan Malecki, had dragged his feet; he had a date he didn’t want to break, he said. But when Marian finished filling him in on what was going on, he’d immediately announced he was on his way.

  Trevor Page had responded at once to Holland’s demand for proof that Edgar Quinn was still alive. His computer-conveyed message said Quinn could be seen walking twice around the Lincoln Center Fountain sometime between 10:30 and 10:45 that evening. Holland himself couldn’t check it out, as he’d surely be walking into a trap; and Marian couldn’t risk being spotted either. Ivan and Romero had never seen the men involved, so the job of determining whether Quinn was alive or not fell to Sanchez. She claimed no one would recognize her, because neither Page nor Quinn had ever seen her in her full-blown latina mode.

  If Quinn didn’t show at Lincoln Center, they’d know Page was bluffing and the place was probably staked out with a thousand feds. But if Quinn did show, that would tell them something too. If he was accompanied on his walk around the fountain by a man or men Sanchez couldn’t recognize, then Page did indeed have the FBI behind him. But if Quinn’s sole companion was Trevor Page, then Page was acting alone.

  At that moment Ivan and Romero were watching the Bleecker Street address that was on the list of safe houses Holland had dug out of the FBI files. They were looking for a blond man with a triangular face to come out of the building, a man who might look as if he were being escorted against his will. If two or more men did emerge from the building in time to keep the Lincoln Center appointment, Ivan and Romero would try to discover how many people—if any—were still inside. It all depended on what the Bleecker Street safe house turned out to be; an apartment building or hotel would be easiest to check.

  And Holland? Holland was still hiding out in Marian’s apartment, busily using the new laptop to remove all traces of his existence from the FBI da
tabanks.

  Marian looked at her watch; five after eleven. It was one week ago exactly that she’d stood in East River Park and looked at four dead men handcuffed together. If everything fell into place and she did manage to nail Trevor Page, she’d have something to fling in DiFalco’s face when she resigned. She was not above wanting a little payback; but even more than that, she wanted to go out with a bang.

  The coffee shop door opened to a gust of rain-laden air and Gloria Sanchez entered with a flourish, looking for all the world like Carmen Miranda wearing a raincoat. Startled, Marian waited until the other detective reached her table and asked, “Is that your idea of a disguise?”

  “Hey, I fit right in.” Sanchez pulled out a chair and sat down across the table. Then she looked at Marian with a slow smile. “He’s alive.”

  Marian softly beat her fists against the table top. “Hallelujah! Who was with him?”

  Sanchez’s smile broadened. “The one and only Trevor Dead-Eye Page. Nobuddy else.”

  Marian let out the breath she’d been holding. “He is acting alone! I knew it, I knew it! Jesus, Gloria—the thought of bucking the entire FBI scared me shitless, but one renegade agent we can handle. Whoa … I’m jumping the gun. Did you spot any back-up?”

  “Nope. I hung around after Page and Quinn left, and no trench coats stepped outta the shadows or nothin’. It’s just Page, Marian. He’s doin’ a solo.”

  Marian felt like dancing on the table. She and Holland had talked about the feasibility of asking Sanchez to follow the two men, in case Marian was wrong about the Bleecker Street address. But they’d decided against it. For one thing, Holland insisted nobody could follow Page when Page didn’t want to be followed. And for another, they might be putting Sanchez in danger. Marian hesitated a moment and then said, “Gloria, why are you helping?”

  The other woman shrugged. “You’re the only real cop I work with. You gunna eat that pie?”

  Marian pushed the plate over to her. She felt flattered and guilty at the same time, but that was not the moment to tell her fellow detective she was quitting the force. Sanchez ate three bites of the pie and decided that was enough. They left the coffee shop and ran through the steady drizzle to catch a downtown bus.

  On the way back to Marian’s place, Sanchez asked, “What if they don’ go back to Bleecker Street?”

  “Then we’ll just have to check out the rest of the FBI’s safe houses in Manhattan. I don’t think Page would keep Quinn too far away—he needs him to lure Holland out of hiding.”

  “Yeah, how’s that supposed to work?”

  “Well, we think Page is trying to set up a situation in which he shoots Holland—he’ll claim self-defense or that Holland was trying to get away, and I’m supposed to be his witness. Don’t know how he plans to work it. But what we’re trying to do is make sure that situation never develops. We have to get Quinn away from Page, get him to talk. With Quinn’s evidence, we’ll just move in and make an arrest and nobody gets hurt.”

  “How you gonna get Quinn away from him?”

  “Depends on what Romero and Malecki find on Bleecker Street.”

  The drizzle had turned into a steady downpour, so both women were dripping wet by the time they’d run from the bus stop to Marian’s apartment building. Upstairs, they found Romero and Ivan hadn’t arrived yet.

  Marian handed Sanchez a towel and told Holland that Quinn was alive and Page was acting alone. Holland surprised both women by throwing back his head and laughing out loud. “Ah, your splendid news is of evangelical proportions! There have been times in the past two years when I despaired of ever finding a way out of the perplexing bureaucratic morass Trevor Page has thrust me into, but now—thanks to you—now a bloody beautiful exit sign begins to blink in the darkness. Sergeant Larch, Detective Sanchez—I am forever in your debt.”

  Sanchez stared at him. “Holy frijoles.”

  His uncharacteristic exuberance wasn’t dampened. “What’s more, I like your outfit.”

  “Hm. Tell you the truth, Holland, I’da suspected you before Page.”

  “I already told him that,” Marian said. “Want some soup? I think there’s some left.”

  It was another half hour before Ivan Malecki and Jaime Romero got there. They showed up wet and grinning; the Bleecker Street address had indeed been the right one. Marian handed out more towels and introduced Gloria Sanchez to Ivan, who said, “Aw shucks. I thought you were Rita Moreno.”

  Romero looked at Holland and said, “You must be …”

  “The bait,” Holland said dryly. “Curt Holland, formerly with the FBI, now a fugitive from injustice. I owe a debt of gratitude to both of you, putting yourselves out like this.”

  Romero didn’t like his manner. “We’re doing it to help Marian.”

  Holland smiled his sardonic smile. “She has good friends,” he said with unexpected graciousness.

  “I wan’ some coffee,” Sanchez announced and headed for the kitchen.

  When they all had coffee and found seats in the living room, Ivan and Romero took turns telling what they’d learned. The two men had never met before that night but found they worked well together. The address on Bleecker Street turned out to be a church, a fact that made Marian groan. “No, that’s good,” Ivan said. “It’s an old, narrow, three-story brick building, and the Souls on Parade use only the first two floors—”

  “The what?”

  “The church that owns the building, Souls on Parade. I think they’re from California. Anyway, the Paraders use the first floor for holding services and meetings and the like, and the second floor is offices and living quarters. The third floor is divided into two apartments.”

  “One of which is leased by the FBI.”

  “We think both of them are,” Romero interjected. The entrance to the two apartments was at the back of the building; the church was separated from the structure to the left by a sidewalk only about three feet wide. Romero and Ivan had almost missed the two men they were looking for, because they were watching the only entrance they could see from the street, the one to the church itself. “But when we spotted that guy with the triangular face,” Romero went on, “we knew we had the right place.”

  Romero had brought listening equipment with him. When Page and Quinn were out of sight, the two cops followed the narrow sidewalk around to the back where they found a flight of outside stairs. Romero hauled out his equipment and listened: Paraders on the first and second floors. At the top of the stairs on the third floor they were faced with two doors. Romero checked both apartments; nobody home.

  Ivan said, “I was surprised they had no electronic security system, but I guess they figured the rigmarole of installing one would call attention to the place.” He grinned. “Deadbolts and Yale locks, all of which can be opened.”

  Romero grinned back. “An’ you just happen’ to have a set of picks.”

  Ivan pretended to be affronted. “You know carrying picks is against the law. I merely said ‘Open, Sesame’ and the problem disappeared. One of those apartments is sure as hell occupied. Rumpled bed, take-out food cartons in the trash. But the other apartment hasn’t been used in a long time.”

  “That’s why we think the FBI rented both places,” Romero said. “A fully functional apartment in the Village standing empty? No way. The feds wanted to make sure they didn’t have any neighbors. And that apartment has another use as well. It’s part of an escape route.”

  “Wait a minute,” Marian interrupted, trying to visualize the layout. “Two entrances, you said. That sounds like no hallway separating the apartments. Do they have a wall in common, then?”

  “Sure do,” Romero said. “And right off the kitchen in both apartments there’s a … a pantry, would you say?”

  “I guess,” Ivan answered.

  “From the kitchen it looks like a broom closet when the door is closed. But—and here’s the cute part—you can get from one pantry into the adjoining one in the other apartment. The feds knocked a ho
le in the wall, just enough for a crawl space. We found the pantry door in the occupied apartment locked, to keep your man Quinn from getting out. But that’s the escape route.”

  “One moment.” Holland had a question. “I assume the two rear entrance doors are in close proximity? If someone were watching both doors, how would escaping from one apartment to the next be an advantage? There must be another way out of the building other than the rear entrance.”

  “You got it,” Ivan said. “The empty apartment is on the side of the building overlooking that three-foot sidewalk separating the church from the next building. And there are fire ladders down the side walls of both buildings. You wouldn’t even have to go all the way to the ground. Through the pantry wall, out the window onto the fire ladder, step across three feet of open space to the fire ladder next door, up to the roof and away.”

  “It’s a good set-up,” Romero added. “No alley in back, no place at all for a surveillance team to hide. If the feds suspect the building’s being watched from out front, they can come and go by means of the fire ladders without ever being seen from the street. Neat.”

  Marian pursed her lips. “But with one glaring flaw. What better place for a stake-out than that empty apartment? Page must check it every time he comes in, but still—”

  “Hold it a minute,” Ivan interrupted her. He looked at the former FBI man. “Sorry, Holland, but I got to say this.” He turned to Marian. “Are you sure you wanna go on with this? You’re going against your captain’s orders. You’re harboring a fugitive. You’re planning a B and E. The rest of us, we can claim we didn’t know you were acting against orders—we don’t take the heat. But you got no loophole, Marian. If we don’t pull this off, you’re in deep shit—you know that, don’t you?”

  “I know it,” she said quietly.

  “So think again, willya? Drop it right now and we all go home clean. Holland turns himself in and fights the charges with legal counsel the way everybody else does. If he turns himself in to you and not the FBI, you’re a hero instead of a shoo-in for early retirement. Otherwise, you could even do time on a harboring charge, for chrissake.” He jerked his thumb toward Holland. “Is he really worth the risk?”