Even

by Andrew Grant

  “No,” Weston said. “At his job. He works construction, now.”

  A framed, five-foot-square artist’s impression was attached to every panel of rough blue hoarding that separated the pedestrians on East Twenty-third Street from the spindly steel skeleton rising out of the narrow lot on the other side. There were eight pictures altogether. Each one gave a different vision of the finished building, from a grand marble-lined lobby to a serene Japanese roof garden, complete with tiny bronze sculptures.

  Weston pulled up next to a designer couple power-snacking at a granite breakfast bar, and we had to walk past the view from one of the balconies to reach the foreman’s compound.

  “How tall is this place going to be?” Tanya said, staring at the pictures.

  “Not tall enough,” Weston said, hammering on the wooden gate. “Except for maybe the penthouse. Won’t see the Chrysler, lower down. The Met Life’s in the way.”

  “And the Empire State’s not that high,” Lavine said.

  “Shame,” Tanya said. “Three buildings, each the tallest in the world at one time, all from your living room window. What a view that would be.”

  Eventually the foreman ambled across to talk to us.

  “Yeah?” he said. “What? I’m busy here.”

  “FBI,” Weston said. “Looking for Julio Arca.”

  “Not here.”

  “His wife said he was working today.”

  “He is. Not back yet.”

  “When do you expect him?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “The park. ’Cross there. With the other guys.”

  “His coworkers?”

  “No. Guys in suits. Like you.”

  “Like us? How many?”

  “Two.”

  “When did they go?”

  “Don’t know. Ten minutes ago. Fifteen maybe?”

  “What does he look like, this Julio?”

  “Like a regular guy.”

  “Age?”

  “Thirties, I guess.”

  “Height?”

  “Five ten, maybe.”

  “Hair?”

  “Buzz cut. But he had a hard hat on.”

  “Mustache? Beard?”

  “No. Shaved.”

  “Clothes?”

  “Boots. Coveralls, like me. And a fluorescent vest.”

  The little park was swarming with people. They were sitting on benches, sprawling next to statues, lying on the grass, walking their dogs, lining up to buy coffee from an outdoor café. Some were on their own. Others were in groups. Some were wearing suits. Several were in work clothes. But none matched the description we had for Arca.

  The path from the gate at the southeast corner was one of six that radiated out from an ornamental fountain on the far side of the café. Another oval path crossed in front of us, a few yards in. Lavine paused when he reached it.

  “Better split up,” he said. “I’ll go straight on. Kyle, you go left. Dave and Tanya, you go right. You on the air?”

  Tanya patted her bag.

  “Good,” he said. “RV at the fountain if you don’t find anything.”

  Weston was the first to come through on the radio.

  “On me,” he said. “Statue, southwest corner. Code blue.”

  Lavine reached him just before us.

  “What have you got?” he said.

  “Found him. But there’s a problem. I think we’re too late.”

  Weston led the way round the outer path until we reached another monument. From a distance it looked like a giant candlestick, but as we drew closer I saw it was actually a stout, white flagpole with a five-pointed star at the top. Seven people were gathered around its square stone base. A woman, eating sandwiches. Another listening to an MP3 player. Another on the phone. Three teenagers, sitting together at the far corner, talking. And one man. He was leaning back against a carved plaque. His hard hat was lying on the plinth next to him, upside down. Clumps of fresh mud had fallen from the cleats on his work boots and the leather on the toes was torn and scuffed. His yellow vest was rucked up under his arms as if he’d slumped down from a standing position. His neck was twisted sharply to the right. His eyes were shut. And his tongue was lolling out from his mouth like a giant pink slug.

  “See what I mean?” Weston said.

  “How did this happen?” Lavine said.

  “Must have been the two guys he left his job with,” Weston said. “I already checked for them. No sign.”

  “What about these people?” Tanya said. “Someone must have seen something.”

  “Wouldn’t count on it,” I said.

  “Kyle, call it in,” Lavine said. “I want the place sealed off. Nobody leaves. Everyone gets questioned. Twice. See if there’s any CCTV from the streets or the park. Or the construction site. Get forensics here. And the ME. Tell them to put a rush on it. We’ll make a start with these guys.”

  “Hang on a second,” I said. “Who checked his vitals? Or are we just making assumptions, here?”

  “Kyle?” Lavine said.

  “No,” he said. “I pulled back and called you guys.”

  “You don’t think . . . ?” Tanya said.

  I stepped forward and reached toward his neck with two fingers. But before I made contact the guy’s right arm whipped up and his fingers clamped tight around my wrist.

  “Afternoon, Julio,” I said. “Or should we call you Lazarus?”

  Lavine and Weston wanted to arrest the guy on the spot, but I persuaded them that a sandwich and a coffee at the park café would be a more productive option.

  “OK, then,” Lavine said, after taking a swig of cappuccino and munching through a couple of biscotti. “I’m ready to talk. What was that about, back there, Julio? Are you a Boris Karloff fan or something?”

  “Relax, man,” Arca said. “I was just checking you out.”

  “Checking us out? Who do you think you are?”

  “A guy with a cell phone.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You think people don’t talk, because we’re not in the service now? You think I don’t know six more Tungsten guys got canned, the same as me? And five are dead?”

  “Let me see the phone,” Weston said.

  Arca took a small silver Motorola from his coverall pocket and put it on the table. Weston picked it up and prodded a couple of buttons.

  “It’s not the phone that called Raab,” he said. “But your wife called you. Right after we spoke to her.”

  Arca didn’t reply.

  “She told you we were coming. That’s why you tried to run. Doesn’t make you look good, Julio.”

  “Five guys are dead,” Arca said. “My wife gets a call out of nowhere. You tell her you’re the feds. How does she know?”

  “So you set this up with your boss? You’re getting paranoid.”

  “He established a viable cover,” I said. “Headed for a populated area. Created a diversion. Observed our reactions. Pretty smart, I’d say.”

  “We’ll come back to that,” Lavine said. “But right now, tell me why you got fired from Tungsten.”

  “Don’t know,” Arca said.

  “You got fired from a job paying you a couple of hundred grand a year, and you didn’t ask why?”

  “Oh, yeah, we asked. Fed us some ‘client complaint’ bullshit.”

  “Why did the client complain? What did you do?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What about your buddies?”

  “Nothing.”

  “So they fired you for no reason. How’d that make you feel?”

  “Great.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. They gave me fifty-five grand. The chance to retrain. Now I got money in the bank. I don’t have to go overseas to earn a living. And people don’t try to kill me every day.”

  “What did you do at the hospital?” I said.

  “In Iraq? Premises team.”

  “There was more than one team?” Lavine said. />
  “Right. There were three teams. Premises—that was us. Supplies—they guarded the medicine trucks coming in. And close protection—they went with the doctors when they were off-site.”

  “What about the team that just got fired?” I said.

  “Premises team, the way I heard.”

  “These overseas guys, they have weird traditions,” I said. “They can be very sensitive. Easy to offend. Are you sure . . .”

  “I know about their traditions. We get training before we go over there. I’d been three times, already. And we did nothing wrong. None of us.”

  “Then did you see anything strange? Out of place? Maybe something that didn’t hit you till later?”

  “No. Nothing like that. It was a hospital. Sick people, funny smell. It was boring. Why are you asking me these things? When are you going to ask me about James Mansell?”

  “Why ask about him?”

  “Because he killed those other guys.”

  “He did? Why? How do you know?”

  “Look. Six people get payouts. They go freeriding together. Nothing unusual about that. Lots of guys do after their final tour. But then five of them don’t come back. You do the math. And do it quick. I’m the only ex-Tungsten guy left around here. Don’t want him coming back for my slice of pie.”

  Lavine kept himself under control until Arca had disappeared through the trees. Then he slammed his palm down on the table so hard it sent a wave of leftover coffee slopping into his saucer. People glanced at us from other tables. Tanya fidgeted, uncomfortable with the attention, and began to chew her lower lip. Weston stayed still, but I saw his knuckles whitening around the arms of his chair.

  “What now?” he said.

  Tanya shrugged.

  “Anyone got a quarter?” Lavine said.

  “Feel a big tip coming on?” I said.

  “I’m thinking about James Mansell,” he said. “Heads, he’s in mortal danger. Tails, he’s a mass murderer.”

  “But which?” Tanya said. “Or maybe both?”

  “Doesn’t matter right now,” Weston said. “Either way, we’ve got to find him.”

  “Agreed,” Tanya said. “But how? Arca was useless as a lead. Tungsten was a dead end. And now we’re looking for one guy who could be anywhere in the whole of the United States.”

  “Or Mexico,” Weston said.

  “Don’t forget Canada,” Lavine said.

  “Anywhere in the world, then,” Tanya said. “And that’s some haystack for the four of us to comb through.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  When I heard that expression as a kid I always thought it was stupid. How could a needle possibly end up in a haystack? And why would anyone care?

  When I got a little older I thought, So a needle’s in there, and we need it back. No problem. Get some matches. Hay burns. Needles don’t.

  Later still I thought, Why waste time on a fire? Use a magnet. Make the needle come to you.

  Eventually, when I thought about it a little more, I put it all together. It’s not about whether you need matches or a magnet, at all. It’s about knowing where to get the right tools for the job.

  Tanya’s phone rang as we were trudging back through the aimless clusters of people still frittering their time away in the fading afternoon sunshine. It was Lucinda, her assistant at the consulate. They’d finished crunching Tungsten’s phone records ahead of schedule and wanted to talk her through the results. Tanya listened intently. A satisfied smile spread across her face. And finally she said if they could knock out five copies in the time it would take us to collect Weston’s car and get over to Third Avenue, she’d stop by and collect them herself.

  The detour via the consulate didn’t add much journey time. The traffic was light for a Wednesday, and Weston left the engine running while Tanya ducked inside to pick up the stack of fat manila envelopes. She got back in the car without a word, and no one broke the silence until we were away from the curb and moving again.

  “I better call the boss,” Lavine said, taking out his cell phone. “Tell him we’re coming in.”

  The call lasted the rest of the way back to the FBI garage.

  “Varley’s not here,” he said, after Weston had finished tucking the car neatly into its bay. “He’s gone to sort out some other crisis. So there’s no point going all the way upstairs. May as well just head for the twenty-third.”

  Tanya wouldn’t part with the reports until Lavine had collected the chair from his desk and wheeled it into the glass booth with the others.

  “You can skip section one,” Tanya said, when everyone had finally opened their plastic binders. “That covers landlines. People have seen too many cop shows to use a regular phone for anything suspicious. They always use their cell phones for that. Psychologically it seems like no wires, no records. The fools.”

  “Section two’s just a list of numbers,” Weston said.

  “Correct. We pulled out the numbers of all Tungsten’s own handsets. Then we looked at the itemized records and identified all the calls from company cell phones to other company cell phones, and from company cell phones to company landlines. Everything not on that list was a cell phone call to someone outside the company. That’s all in section three.”

  “Long list,” Lavine said.

  “Correct again. So we narrowed it down. First with a reverse directory. Then with Google. That took care of 95 percent of the numbers. My people called the rest. Said they were from the phone company, checking records, if anyone answered. They kept trying, or took the details off their voice mail greetings if no one picked up. Tedious work, but worth it. Take a look at what we found. That’s section four.”

  “Six numbers,” Weston said. “With dates against five of them.”

  “That shows when the last calls were made from Tungsten to those numbers. The dates don’t stand out?”

  “They do to me,” I said.

  “They should to all of you. They’re also the dates that Simon and the four Americans were killed.”

  “They all received a call from the same cell phone the day they died,” Weston said.

  “Correct.”

  “From someone going after the money,” Weston said.

  “Not necessarily.”

  “It had to be,” Lavine said. “But who?”

  “Don’t know. We only have the originating number, not a name. We called it, but no one answered.”

  “Voice mail?” Lavine said. “Did you leave a message?”

  “No. It didn’t go through to a mailbox.”

  “What about the sixth number?” Weston said.

  “There’s something about it . . .” Lavine said.

  “It’s the only one we couldn’t account for. It received its last call from Tungsten the day after Simon’s, but before two of the Americans.”

  “It’s James Mansell’s phone,” I said.

  “I think so, too. It has to be. Which means . . .”

  “Mansell’s dead as well,” I said.

  “Oh, no,” Lavine said, standing up and striding toward the door. “It doesn’t. Stay there. Don’t move. There’s something I’ve got to show you.”

  Lavine rummaged through the clutter on his desk for over a minute, then came back into the booth brandishing a blue Post-it note.

  “Take a look at this,” he said.

  It was the same number.

  “Where did you get that?” Tanya said.

  “In Raab’s paperwork,” Lavine said. “It’s the number of the guy he was planning to meet, Sunday night. When he was killed.”

  “It was Mansell that Mike was due to meet?” Weston said. “No. How could that be?”

  “Mansell must have survived the attacks on his buddies,” Tanya said. “Then tried to get help when he realized the trouble he was in.”

  “Needing help, I understand,” I said. “But how on earth did he end up in touch with Raab?”

  “It makes sense, if you think about it,” Lavine said. “It’s standard procedure. M
ike’s team floods everywhere they work with flyers. They ask people to call a hotline. The calls are screened. Anyone genuine would have been passed up the chain.”

  “All the way to Mike?” I said.

  “Absolutely,” Lavine said. “Mike was a hands-on guy. He liked to judge for himself whether people were on the level.”

  “It does fit,” Weston said. “We know Mike was meeting someone with a British accent, remember. That’s why the NYPD suspected you. One reason, anyway.”

  “Then why meet in an alley?” I said. “Why not an office, or police station?”

  “To keep the killer in play,” Lavine said. “In case he was watching. Mike didn’t want to scare him off.”

  “So what went wrong?” Tanya said.

  “Mansell must have arrived after Mike was already dead,” Lavine said.

  “He would have seen what happened, and figured the Tungsten guy got there first,” Weston said. “The same guy who killed his buddies.”

  “Then he would have run, figuring there was a leak from the bureau,” Lavine said. “He’d have thought, how else would the Tungsten guy know about his meeting with Raab?”

  “That’s pretty much the same assumption we made,” Weston said.

  “And it’s not impossible,” Lavine said. “Tungsten is hooked up with the DOD. Why not with the bureau, as well?”

  “I’ll tell you something else it explains,” Weston said. “Why Mike didn’t put up a fight.”

  “Right,” Lavine said. “That part never sat right with me. But now we know. When this guy from Lesley’s scam walked into the alley, Mike thought it was Mansell.”

  “It explains a lot,” Weston said. “And it proves Mansell is alive. Or was, at least up to Sunday night.”

  “Poor fellow,” Tanya said. “His friends are dead, he’s been scared off the bureau, and he thinks the guy from Tungsten is still after him.”

  “The guy from Tungsten probably is still after him,” I said.

  “Then we’ve got to find him,” Tanya said. “And stop him. Fast.”

  “We need a warrant,” Weston said. “Then we can go back to Tungsten’s compound. Tear the place apart.”

  “How long will that take?” I said.