Against his better judgment, Seaver began to warm to the idea. “How would you do it?”
“Pyranol.”
“’At’ll do it, all right. But we don’t have any of the stuff.”
“Our CIA friend Wade Hicks will give you whatever we need,” Alejandro said confidently.
“You seem sure of that.”
Alejandro looked at his hands. “Andy, you visited my father five days before he was killed. You told me that you had asked him to keep an eye on the traficantes in and around Zihua. For who? The NYPD? No way. You asked him to do that as a favor for Hicks. That’s why Chilebean and Mr. A. Brown get whatever they need from the Agency. Hicks is trying to make amends for what happened to my father.”
For several long minutes Seaver looked out the window. Then he said, “Maybe you’re right.” He took out a cheroot and lit it up, blowing smoke across the room. As if this small bombshell had never gone off, he asked, “What else will you need?”
Alejandro just stared at him for a moment. Then he shrugged and responded in a matter-of-fact way, as if he were making a shopping list, “Igniters for the Pyranol. Digital timers with watch faces powered by camera batteries.” He slipped into a momentary silence, then added, “This could get hairy. Get me a Heckler and Koch MP5 nine-millimeter submachine gun, and four or five magazines loaded with Glaser rounds.”
“Why an MP5?”
“Because it comes equipped with a sound suppressor. It weighs four pounds, has almost no muzzle recoil or jump, and its barrel is 4.5 inches long.”
“You realize that those damn Glaser rounds have thirty lead pellets packed into their noses.”
“That’s why I want them. They make a wound the size of a saucer, yet they won’t go through walls and kill innocent people.”
Seaver suddenly grew cautious. “I don’t know if the boss will go along with this. Your job is to lie, entrap, facilitate, suborn, conspire, whatever. What you’re not supposed to do is give Rambo imitations.”
Alejandro’s eyes blazed with anger. “You tell Romano that I want to do this. If he gives you a hard time, tell ’im that I have something he wants real bad.”
“What?”
“I know how those undercovers were blown.”
29
Calvin Jones was a senior police administrative aide in the office of the deputy commissioner, management and budget. He was a lanky man with oversize ears, slightly protruding eyes, and steel gray hair. SPAA Jones was a man fatally addicted to nose candy. For the past two and a half years he had been Pizzaro’s main source of information within the NYPD. He had been badly shaken up by an unexpected late-morning telephone call from Pizzaro. “Meet me downstairs. Now.”
Walking out of One Police Plaza, he spied the man who owned his soul, the stone killer with the white strip of hair, sitting on one of the wooden benches that lined the wide walkway leading into the plaza. As Jones approached, Pizzaro got up and walked through the Municipal Building’s archway; Jones followed. Pizzaro crossed Centre Street into City Hall Park, going on to Broadway, where he bought an ice-cream sandwich from a sidewalk vendor. Walking north, Pizzaro waited for his informer to catch up and then asked pleasantly, “How are you, Calvin?”
“Good. I’ve been wanting to talk to you about our arrangement.”
Pizzaro raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “How’s that?”
“I take a lotta chances getting you that information, so I figure that I should get a lot more money—say, double what you give me now.”
Pizzaro smiled acquiescence, but the skin around his eyes tightened imperceptibly. “Whatever is fair, amigo. You’re an invaluable source.” He offered him a wintry smile. “The day policemen are sworn in is the day that most of their personal records are made out, correct?”
“Hector, we’ve been over that landscape many times.”
“Humor me, amigo.”
“Yeah. They fill out insurance forms, they choose a medical plan, fill out tax withholding forms, and they sign their oaths of office.”
“No other Department records?”
“Not that I can think of.”
“Who is at the swearing-in ceremony?”
“The mayor usually shows up, the top brass in the Department, family, friends. All the paperwork is completed before the invited guests arrive.”
“Before they arrive, who is there with the rookies?”
Jones thought carefully before he replied, ticking each off on his fingers. “Representatives of the various medical plans to explain them to the rookies, someone from the pension bureau to tell them their different pension options, someone from payroll to explain what’s going to be taken out of their paychecks. Oh, yeah, and the CO of the Police Academy to lay the law down to them and tell them what’s expected of them, and …” His voice trailed off as something struck him.
“And what, Calvin?” Pizzaro said, jamming the last of his ice cream into his mouth.
Jones’s eyes drifted uneasily over to the rows of official cars parked in front of City Hall, and he confessed reluctantly, “Representatives of the various religious, line, and fraternal organizations are there to sign the rookies up even before they really start training.”
“I see them mentioned all the time in SPRING 3100. So what?”
“So they’re not part of the Department. They’re all private organizations, and none of their records are part of a cop’s folder. See these outfits are there to look after cops, like a union would.”
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me that before? I assumed they were part of the Department.”
“No, they’re not,” SPAA Jones said sheepishly. “I never thought of them before because they aren’t officially part of the department.”
“How many of them are there?”
“Around thirty.”
“Can you get me a list of them?”
SPAA Jones reached behind and took out his billfold. He flipped it open and took out a blue-and-green plastic card with an embossed blue-and-gold shield in the center and passed it to Pizzaro. “This is the Centurion Foundation’s 1993 card.”
“Who are they?” Pizzaro asked, studying the card.
“Businessmen who give out scholarship awards to the various religious, line, and fraternal organizations. A list of them all is on the back.”
Pizzaro looked over the names. “New York cops appear to be big-time joiners. Where do these outfits have their offices?”
Jones was eager to cut this fascinating conversation short. “All over the city. The PBA is across the street in the Woolworth Building. A lot of them have their offices there. But they’re all listed in the phone book.”
“If they were going to put a cop undercover, would they pull his membership records in these organizations?”
“No. They only pull his fingerprints and his folder. I guess no one ever thought to ask these organizations to destroy their records.”
Dumb gringos, no wonder they’re losing their war, Pizzaro thought. He slipped the Centurion Foundation’s card into the pocket of his soft cotton shirt, saying, “You did good, Calvin.”
Jones’s back stiffened. “Thanks.”
Pizzaro made a move to pull out his silk pocket scarf containing a few packets of his own version of the Fink’s Fizz, then thought better of it. He’d wait until he got a replacement for Jones before letting him sniff himself into hell. Mañana, pig.
Tito, the dapper doper who, of all the crew, was most trusted by Pizzaro, stood in front of his boss’s desk looking at the blue-and-gold laminated card the counterintelligence chief was holding up in front of him.
“I want you to get the address of every one of these organizations. Then take some people and break into them. I want a copy of their membership lists.”
Tito looked perplexed. “Am I looking for something special?”
“Yeah, you are. If you come up with the name Fiona Lee or Alejandro Monahan, you let me know real fast.”
Tito reached for the card. Pizz
aro yanked it back just beyond his reach. “No mistakes.”
A basketball swished through the tattered hoop in Yeshiva Beth Chaim’s school yard at the exact moment Joey-the-G-Man’s brow wrinkled in consternation. He was looking at the surveillance photograph that Chief Burke had slid across his desk. “Am I supposed to know who this guy is?”
“I think you do.”
“Refresh my memory.”
“It’s Eamon’s son.”
Holding the picture up in front of him, Romano said, “Now that you mention it, there is a resemblance. What’s he doing in one of your photos?”
“He was observed by one of my teams paying a visit to one of Che-Che Morales’s hideaways.”
“Really? The last time I heard of him he was slinging tacos in his mother’s restaurant.”
Looking with disdain at the Intelligence chief, Too Tall Paulie said, “You’re the perfect man for your job. You trust no one, you’re a state-of-the-art liar—and you don’t give a shit who you have to hurt to get the job done.”
Their angry eyes locked and held for a moment.
Joey-the-G-Man pushed the photograph back across the desk. “I think you’d better leave.”
“He’s Eamon’s son.”
Joey-the-G-Man swept his hand at the window. “All those boys playing basketball are someone’s son.” He leaned forward. “You’re a sanctimonious prick, you always have been. For years dopers have been icing each other because of your disinformation, and you walk away clean. Holier-than-thou Paulie, facilitate a homicide? Never,” he added in a tone dripping with sarcasm. Then, making an obvious effort to calm down, Romano said almost apologetically, “Paulie, all I can tell you is that I don’t know anything about Alejandro. I didn’t even know he was in New York.”
“Why is it that I don’t believe you?” Burke said, getting up and walking out of the office without closing the door behind him.
Driving back to police headquarters, Too Tall Paulie pressed a button on the side of the steering column. The concealed door panel snapped open. Keeping his eyes on the road, he reached down and switched on the radio. The squawk of police calls filled the car. Taking out the handset, he transmitted, “Narcotics CO to Central, K.”
“Go CO, K.”
“Have the Whip of Unified Intelligence ten-two my office forthwith, K.”
“Ten-four.”
Sal Elia was waiting calmly when Too Tall Paulie stormed into his office twenty-three minutes later. Going behind his desk, Burke said, “I want you to go sick.”
Elia looked astonished. “Why?”
“I have a job for you; I don’t want you working any charts.” Paulie unlocked the bottom drawer that held the confidential telephone, took it out, and set it on the floor. From the false bottom panel, he took out an envelope and passed it to the lieutenant. “The photograph inside belongs to Police Officer Fiona Lee. She is currently on assignment flying dope into the country for Che-Che Morales.”
Looking at her smiling face, Elia asked, “Is she experienced?”
“I snatched her out of recruit school. She’s smart and she’s tough, but she’s out there all by her lonesome.”
“Why me, why now? And whatcha want me to do?”
“I want you to baby-sit her. I planted outside Environment the other night, and I saw her leaving with Alejandro. I now think that the singer might be working for Che-Che—or, worse, for Joey-the-G-Man.”
“What a way to fight a fucking war,” Elia said, shaking his head sadly.
Alejandro and Fiona were exhausted when they arrived at his apartment early Wednesday morning. “Let’s make it a quick evening,” she said. “The hell with whether or not they’re watching us.”
“Stay a little while and then go,” he said, throwing himself across the bed.
They lay on opposite sides of the mattress. She spread her skirt over her legs and tucked the pillow under her head. “Maybe I’ll snooze for a minute or two,” she said, and closed her eyes.
He fell asleep, too. He dreamed of a mango sculpted into the shape of a flower, and he heard the surf of La Playa Ropa pounding against the rocks, and he saw Indians hawking rugs and serapes along the Paseo del Pescadero. He opened his eyes and found himself next to her. Her skin was warm, and her scent reminded him of lilacs. He brushed a strand of hair away from her face; her closeness excited him. Suddenly she opened her eyes, and they shared a longing stare. He kissed her; she caressed his face with her hand and kissed him back. He caressed her breast; she pressed her body closer. He felt the heat from her face and slid his hand under her dress.
Suddenly she grabbed his wrist and tugged it away from her body. Sitting up, she said, “I don’t want to do this. Not now, not here.”
“Fiona—”
“Please. Don’t say anything, Alejandro. We both know that it would be stupid.”
“You’re right. I got carried away. I don’t want it to happen this way, either. I want it to be different with us. If it happens …”
“Me too,” she said, and kissed him.
“I’ll go downstairs with you and put you into a cab.”
She smiled. “If any of those dirtbags saw you doing that, they’d really get suspicious.”
He took hold of her hand. “Be careful, please.”
“You too.”
30
The Parapoint delivery systems were stacked on the dolly inside the loft. Alejandro was standing at one of the long tables looking at the photographs of the dopers’ warehouse that Seaver had included in the shopping list Federal Express delivered to his apartment late Wednesday afternoon. Included with the Pyranol and the nine-millimeter submachine gun were keys to the padlocks that secured the warehouse’s accordion door.
Alejandro had the shopping list and his burglary kit packed into an overnight bag, along with a .38-caliber detective special from the stash in his closet. He loaded it with lethal Glaser rounds.
Hearing the elevator coming up, he thrust the photographs into the overnight, pushed the bag well under the table, and ran into the toilet. He waited until he heard the elevator gate clatter open before he flushed the toilet and walked out, zipping up his fly. “Hey,” he said, going over and giving Fiona a peck on the lips, noticing how tired she looked.
“What about a kiss for me?” Pizzaro asked.
“You’re too ugly,” Alejandro said.
Pizzaro’s beeper went off. After looking at the number, he took out his cellular telephone and walked off by himself, unfolding it. Standing with his back to the others, he spoke briefly, disconnected, and made two additional calls before he folded up the phone, turned to the others, and said, “Let’s get those parachutes out of here.”
Fiona helped wheel the dolly onto the elevator.
Sal Elia had parked the Jeep Cherokee on Fashion Avenue four blocks away from the Thirty-sixth Street loft. When he saw the dopers’ van being loaded, he started the engine. He wanted to be able to drive right out after them. Normally he would have put many different kinds of vehicles on a tail job like this one, but he did not have the luxury of any help this time. Elia had decided that he would have to take a risk and stick close. He didn’t want to get himself gridlocked behind a bus while Fiona and her friends disappeared.
Pizzaro told the van driver to cut across town and take the West Side Highway north.
“I thought we were gonna—”
“Do what I tell you,” Pizzaro snapped, half turning in the passenger seat and looking intently in both side-view mirrors.
Elia fell back another car length. He felt more secure on the overhead parkway because of the distances between exits. He switched on the radio concealed inside the door panel and listened to the crackle of the police transmissions. If something unpleasant is going to go down, I want that handset on my lap, he thought.
He was almost relieved to see that the Jeep Cherokee had just scooted back behind the beer truck and was tailing. There you are, my policeman, Pizzaro thought. Looking at the driver, he said, “
Get off at the next exit and cut across to Fifth Avenue.” Glancing at Fiona in the back, he asked, “How you feeling back there?”
Fiona’s heart skipped a beat at the doper’s sudden concern for her comfort. “Just great, Hector.”
Crowds of people ebbed and flowed across South Street. Pier 17 and and the Pier Pavilion were filled with afternoon tourists. The temperature had soared into the nineties. Children gazed with awe at the steel bathtub square-riggers Wavertree and Peking, and they waited their turns to climb up the gangplanks.
Seaver was inside Mobile Control One, in the parking lot across the street from the Fulton Fish Market, with a headset on, watching the video monitors. It was 3:03 Thursday afternoon; Alejandro was late. He was supposed to have been inside the warehouse by three and be out by four. He had just crushed out his cheroot in the ashtray when he spotted Alejandro, carrying an overnight bag and strolling past the warehouse. The undercover was wearing jeans, a short-sleeved shirt with its tails out, Top-Siders, and a Mets baseball cap pulled down over his brow. Seaver noted the transmitter pen sticking out of Alejandro’s shirt pocket.
Alejandro walked to the corner and turned to walk back past the warehouse. “Now,” Seaver said into his headset. One by one, per his instructions, the video cameras on all the surveillance platforms were switched off. It would never do to have a film record of Chilebean breaking into a dope warehouse bereft of a search warrant.
Alejandro took out the set of keys that Seaver had gotten from the Ruger Lock Company, unlocked the padlocks, and rolled up the door. Standing in the doorway with his back to the street, he slid the wrench and lock pick into the cylinder and skillfully raked open the door. He hurried inside, closed the door, and leaned up against the wall, getting his bearings. The interior was cool and silent, the only sounds filtering in from the bustling seaport and the summer afternoon.
Outside, one of Seaver’s detectives in an Izod shirt rolled down the door and slapped the padlocks back on.
Alejandro looked at the rows of racks lining the floor. Their shelves were crowded with dolls and toys. There were rows of large stuffed animals, pandas, lions, apes, elephants, and giraffes. Some of those strikingly large, inanimate creatures were still wrapped in protective plastic for shipping. There were pallets of lead bars stacked one on top of the other. Other stacked pallets were covered with large canvas overspreads. There were large cardboard cartons stacked neatly on the floor. Three forklifts were parked to the right of the entrance. A balcony ran around the interior, and there was an overhead crane on a track that cut across the middle of the warehouse. He heard barking and, looking in the direction of the sounds, saw cages holding stray dogs that had been snatched from the streets.
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