by Jason Dean
‘A lawyer? He can’t have been too talkative.’
‘Probably not, but I’ve learned you don’t always get the best results by tackling a problem head on. And the fact I’m a woman doesn’t hurt.’
Jenna started to knock her knees together like an excitable kid. Her legs had been distracting enough motionless, but this was too much. Bishop forced himself to stand up and move back to the window so he could concentrate on her words.
‘I asked for his secretary, a Ms Eileen Turnbull, and said I was a new temp from Accounting. I told her we needed to invoice Mr Armitage for the last quarter, but that I’d labelled his file a dead account by mistake and deleted his billing address from the system. Since he was Mr Stillson’s client, would she have it in her address book up there on her PC? And, by the way, could she keep this to herself as I might lose my job if my lapse ever got out? Eileen knows us girls got to stick together and got me that box number in a matter of seconds. She was nice. I liked her.’
Bishop smiled. ‘What’s not to like?’ He nodded at her. ‘You’re quick on your feet, Jenna.’
‘Another echo from my misbegotten youth, although these days they call it “social engineering”.’
He thought for a moment. ‘So if it’s a box number, it means Cortiss has to be contacted somehow when mail arrives, right?’
‘Sure. I’d imagine he’d use their text alert or automated call system. I know I would. If I knew a cheque was waiting for me, I’d want it now, not later.’
‘I agree. So you think a letter will reach him by morning if we make the afternoon post?’
‘Should do. Little Neck’s only a stone’s throw from here. Hold on.’ She stood and went back into the kitchen, returning with a pen, a legal pad and some envelopes. Handing them over, she said, ‘I’ll take it down to the mailbox while you shower. What are you going to write?’
‘Nothing,’ he said. He tore off four blank sheets, folded them over twice and inserted them in an envelope, sealed and addressed it, and dropped it onto the table. ‘I’m kind of glad you’re so into puzzles now.’
‘Well, I don’t just like puzzles.’ She gave him that half-smile and said, ‘I kind of thought you were smarter than that.’
THIRTY-SIX
Danny Costa sat in the thirteen-year-old grey Volvo in a corner space of the residential parking bay behind the apartment building, and waited patiently for another sighting of Bishop or Jenna Falstaff. The man for professional reasons, the woman for more personal ones.
Last night, when Danny had reported to Hedison after the cops’ invasion of the Ambassador, Hedison had looked very interested when Danny brought up the presence of the woman. And her hesitation outside the house before driving off. When Costa had handed over the notebook containing the Honda’s licence number Hedison had smiled and said, ‘You know, Danny, I’d put even money on Bishop seeking this girl out now he’s run out of places to hide. Leave this with me and I’ll get her address over to you so you can check her place out.’
Hedison had been true to his word and since then it had been just a matter of keeping watch. Just before midday, the Falstaff woman had come out to her car and driven off. The target had appeared at the living room window shortly thereafter with a towel around his waist. Costa texted Hedison with the news, expecting him to be happy. Instead he was almost indifferent when he called back, as though it was no surprise that events had played out the way he’d predicted. Danny could hardly blame him. In all the years they’d known each other, Hedison had rarely put a foot wrong. He told Danny to attach the tracking equipment he’d supplied to the woman’s vehicle when she returned, just in case. They didn’t want to lose Bishop a second time.
Costa had done as instructed and all was now well again, for the time being.
One thing was for sure, life always became a lot more exciting when Hedison called. Of course, Costa knew Roy Hedison was merely the alias the man had been using when they’d first met ten years ago. But it still felt natural to think of him under that name, rather than his real one.
When they first met, Hedison was making a name for himself in the Cattrall drug organization for his ability to extract information from just about anybody put in front of him. Instead of the usual brutal interrogation methods, his favoured technique was to kidnap a young female relative of the suspected informer, ply her system with narcotics and then take her in all manner of ways right in front of the subject. The psychological effect of seeing the girl actually seem to be enjoying the rigorous physical invasion was usually more than the informer could stand and he’d soon be desperate to tell everything he knew. Once the information was gleaned, Hedison would finish off the subject and either send the girl to join him or arrange for her to be carted off to one of the organization’s countless prostitution offshoots for additional training towards her new career. Nothing got wasted.
When Hedison told Costa he needed a right hand he could trust, he hadn’t realized how loyal a partner he’d found. That their interests overlapped in so many areas only cemented the relationship and Costa soon became an enthusiastic participant in their subsequent interrogation sessions, offering suggestions and fine tuning their technique in ways that startled even Hedison. But then, Costa had always thought that work should also be fun.
Four years later came the mass arrests of key personnel that signalled the end of Cattrall’s dominance in the market. Hedison disappeared just before that happened, then showed up at Costa’s door months later, clean-shaven, with his black hair back to its original colour. Whereupon he’d admitted to being an undercover DEA agent all along. He said he’d been forced to make a career change when his bosses had unearthed some of his less orthodox practices while on the job. And that he’d resisted giving them Costa’s name since loyalty was a quality he valued above all things. There was always work for loyal people.
He’d kept his promise. In the years since, Costa had always been happy to help out with anything Hedison needed doing. It was a pleasure to work with someone who planned ahead and always had an answer for every problem. And Hedison always paid more than he needed to, especially when things got bloody. The jobs often provided their own little bonuses, as well, like this Jenna Falstaff. A whole range of possibilities loomed there.
Looking up at the apartment windows through the lightly tinted glass of the windshield, the watcher’s thoughts turned to what Hedison might have in mind for Bishop. If it were merely a case of removing him a simple 911 call would have done the job, so he was being kept under surveillance for a specific reason. Apparently, there was something Hedison wanted Bishop to do, although Bishop didn’t know it yet.
Costa just sat in the vehicle and watched. And wondered what that something could be.
THIRTY-SEVEN
When Jenna came back from mailing the envelope, Bishop explained what he had in mind for the afternoon and asked if she wouldn’t mind helping out. Jenna didn’t need much persuading. Less than two hours later, she was driving Bishop down a quiet, residential street in Brooklyn’s Ridgewood district. A long row of pre-war, two-storey townhouses lined each side, mostly with well-kept front yards. Sam Chaney’s was No. 92. Bishop knew he had a small garden out back, too. He’d come out here once before when Chaney had organized a weekend barbecue for his teammates while they were between assignments. It had been one of the few times they’d all socialized together. To Bishop, it felt like a lifetime ago.
‘It’s the one on the right with white fencing,’ he said. ‘But don’t slow down.’
‘Gotcha,’ Jenna said and kept the Honda at a steady fifteen.
Adjusting the visor on his cap, Bishop studied the house as they got closer. He knew Chaney still lived there because Jenna had got into the Land Registry server again and checked. A silver Chevy SUV was parked on the street out front. Same model as his last one. Just newer. Chaney had always been a creature of habit where cars were concerned.
The upstairs drapes were drawn, which further indicated that Chaney was
in there right now. The guy was definitely a night owl, which is why Bishop had decided to check his place first. Tennison would wait. Right now he’d be at his office where there were far too many variables. Too many people who might recognize Bishop. Home turf was always better in these situations. Fewer witnesses.
Bishop scanned the other parked vehicles as they passed by. All empty as far as he could make out. But that might not mean anything. He’d have to see.
There was an intersection about a hundred yards up ahead. Bishop saw a small store on the corner with a couple of spaces next to it. ‘You want to park up over there for a minute?’
‘Sure.’
Bishop liked how Jenna kept unncessary questions to a minimum. Or at least waited for an appropriate time to ask them. Not many people had that ability. Bishop felt she would have made a great soldier. When she pulled in, he turned to her and said, ‘Do me a favour, huh? Can you go and grab me a copy of today’s Times?’
Jenna looked at him and smiled. ‘All the way to Brooklyn to buy a paper. You sure know how to treat a girl.’ With the engine still running, she climbed out and disappeared into the store.
Bishop used one hand to adjust the rear-view mirror until he could see everything behind him. Specifically, the vehicles they’d just passed on the opposite side of the street. More specifically, the dark grey Crown Vic with tinted windows, parked a few houses down from Chaney’s. This time Bishop smiled to himself. I see you.
Less then a minute later, Jenna got back in, handed him the paper and said, ‘You’re still front page news, if you’re interested.’
‘I’m not.’
‘So why did you want the paper?’
‘I needed to confirm something and thought it’d look suspicious if we stopped here for no reason. Check the rear-view. See the dark grey sedan back there?’
Jenna moved the mirror to its original position. After a few moments, she said, ‘The one with the tinted windows? Is that a guy in there?’
‘Uh, huh. He must have ducked down in the seat when we passed by.’
‘Police?’
Bishop smiled. ‘That’s a Crown Victoria. Number one choice for cab drivers and law enforcement, and that doesn’t look like a cab to me.’
Jenna puffed out her cheeks. ‘So what do you think it means? That Thorpe reported your meet with him yesterday?’
‘Possibly. More likely the Marshals are making sure all the angles are covered. That’s what I’d do. But it means they’ll also have Tennison under surveillance, which means I can’t do anything except check back in a day or so and hope they’ve lost interest.’
Jenna nodded. ‘So where to next?’
‘Back to yours, I think.’
‘Okay,’ she said. She pulled out towards the intersection. ‘Still, at least you’ve got the Cortiss lead to follow up. Maybe he’ll be able to shorten the list of suspects for you.’
Bishop looked out the window and said, ‘Stranger things have happened.’
THIRTY-EIGHT
‘How can they call this rush hour if nobody’s moving?’ Jenna said, tapping the brakes. It was Tuesday morning and they were sitting with all the other commuters on the northbound lanes of Cross Island Parkway.
He turned and looked at her as she patted both palms against the wheel. She was wearing a simple tan T-shirt and blue jeans, although her natural curves made the clothes look anything but ordinary. He liked her casual attitude towards her own appearance. It made her even more attractive.
Bishop was wearing one of Owen’s suits she kept stored in the back of her bedroom closet, awaiting her brother’s release a few years down the line. The arms were a little long, but it was a good fit, overall.
‘Relax,’ he said. ‘It’s not even eight thirty.’ He knew the post office at Little Neck didn’t open until nine.
‘I know, but it’s at times like these I wish I’d gone for an automatic transmission.’
‘A city girl going for a stick shift is different. Seems you never take the easy option.’
Jenna looked at him and smiled. ‘That’s me all over.’
She turned in her seat and reached into her shoulder bag on the back seat, pulling out a small notebook with a picture of a young Elvis on the cover. That was another aspect of her character that intrigued him: this fascination with a white rock ’n’ roll icon who’d been dead for over thirty years. She definitely wasn’t run-of-the-mill. Far from it, in fact. He watched, amused, as she also retrieved a pair of thin-framed reading glasses and put them on.
‘Anybody stares at a monitor as much as I do ends up needing these sooner or later,’ she said. ‘Usually sooner.’
‘They suit you,’ he said.
She smiled. ‘Flatterer. I don’t how interesting you’ll find it, but I did a little research while you were asleep. Your Randall Brennan wasn’t exactly a saint, was he?’
‘Who is?’ Bishop said. ‘And I wasn’t being paid to protect anyone’s morals. All I knew about Brennan was that he was a successful arms broker who persuaded developing countries to sign long-term deals for their weapons. And that he was established enough to be able to do most of his work without leaving his upstairs office. And I know that when his family noticed strange people following them whenever they left the estate, he went to RoyseCorp for help.’
‘Finally,’ Jenna said as the vehicles ahead started moving, gradually picking up speed. She kept pace and said, ‘You ever meet him? Morgan Royse, I mean.’
‘Once. Not long after I signed up with the company I got introduced to him briefly. It was pretty uncomfortable. Neither of us had much to say, although I found out later it was down to him that I was offered the job in the first place. Maybe he got a recommendation from somebody and sent the word down. Then a few months later he turned into a recluse. Nobody really knows why. Nowadays he communicates with his top execs, a few VIP clients, the occasional head of state and that’s about it. Commutes daily to his forty-storey office building by personal helicopter, never ventures below his penthouse suite and hasn’t had his picture taken in years. Unless I missed one while I was inside.’
‘Maybe he’s shy,’ she said. ‘You know he and Brennan were in Vietnam together?’ She opened the notebook on her lap to a specific page and looked down. ‘Both were colonels, too.’
Bishop took a sharp breath as the car in front braked and Jenna followed suit with about an inch to spare. ‘You want me to take that?’ he asked. She frowned at him, then passed the notebook over. ‘Yeah, we heard some rumours they knew each other from the Marines.’
‘Okay. How about this, then? I found a twenty-year-old puff-piece in the New York Times archives about Alicia Brennan and her involvement with a big AIDS fundraiser. Randall gets a brief mention as the proud husband taking time out from his heavy work schedule to support her.’ They were travelling at forty now and Jenna removed her glasses. She leaned over to Bishop and tapped the notebook, her finger marking a passage. ‘Read the part I wrote down. And the date of publication.’
Aloud, he read, ‘“. . . easier said than done, since the day-to-day administration of the midtown private security firm Randall and his partner started up only three months ago takes up most of his waking hours these days.”’ Underneath, Jenna had written April 17, 1987. Bishop turned to her. ‘RoyseCorp opened its offices in January 1987.’
‘January 15, to be exact.’ There was a sign for exit 31E and Jenna moved them into the right lane. ‘Because the company and Royse aren’t mentioned by name, I guess nobody worked out that they had a history when they were investigating the murders. The cops already had you, so they didn’t bother digging any deeper. Interesting, no?’
He nodded slowly, digesting the information. ‘Yeah, although I don’t see how their history is connected to the murders, or me.’ He paused, then said, ‘I guess Brennan and Royse split up when Brennan went into the arms business. Royse must have bought him out. Although there can’t have been too much bad blood between them if Brennan turned to Royse fo
r protection later.’
‘He probably figured he qualified for a discount. I doubt we’ll ever know for sure; trying to get any kind of concrete info on Royse is almost impossible, and that’s a rarity for me.’
‘He’s probably got an entire staff devoted to covering his tracks. Anything else?’
Jenna took the exit for Northern Boulevard and Douglaston. ‘Only an odd obituary in Brennan’s home town paper, the Thornton Gazette. It turns out Brennan was the sole surviving heir of one Helen Gandy at the time of her death in July 1988.’
Bishop frowned. ‘Never heard of her. She famous or something?’
‘To conspiracy buffs, Gandy’s practically the holy grail. She was J. Edgar Hoover’s personal secretary for over fifty years until his death in 1972. She was also the first person called when his body was discovered and was suspected for years afterwards of removing the most inflammatory files from his office before anyone even knew he was dead.’
‘Well, it’s an interesting footnote. Not much more than that.’
Jenna smiled. ‘Not a believer in conspiracies then, I take it.’
‘I’m more a believer in Ben Franklin. He was the one who said three can only keep a secret if two of them are dead. Conspiracies work fine in movies. Not so easy in real life.’
She raised an eyebrow at him. ‘Still, she might have had some files worth stealing when she died and passed them on to Brennan.’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t buy it. Sure, certain information is worth money, but files from the 1970s? Any government secrets that old would be for curiosity value only. Often the simplest answer’s the one to go for, and in this case I think it all comes down to money. Brennan had plenty of it and a secret vault almost nobody knew about. Combine the two and you’ve found your motive.’