“Michael, what do you want from me?” Her voice stiffened, sounded cold even to her.
“I know things are over between us,” he answered. “I’ve accepted that. But surely you can’t want them to kill me. I have to get out of the country.”
“They’ve got your passport!” she said. “You can’t leave!”
“I can sneak into Mexico,” he said. “And if I can get there, then I can go anywhere else. Someplace where they won’t extradite capital cases. France, maybe. I don’t know. I haven’t gotten that far.”
“That’s crazy, Michael. How are you-”
“I need money,” he interrupted. “Cash is the only thing that’s going to get me out of here. They’ve frozen all my accounts. I can’t even use an ATM machine. But I’ve got money hidden, Taylor. Overseas. Lots of it. Enough to disappear forever. All I have to do is get to it.”
“And what about the girls, Michael? What about all those girls, and God knows who else?”
There was a long beat of silence before Michael spoke again. “I know what you must think, Taylor. But I really am not guilty of everything they say I’m guilty of. Besides, I’ve lost my taste for it. It was something that got out of control because of the writing, because I was so far into the writing.
I’ve got it under control now, for good.”
“You make it sound like a drug problem, Michael. But it wasn’t a drug problem. You were killing people!”
“You don’t understand, Taylor. You don’t understand what it’s like.”
“Of course I don’t. I hope I never do! There is no understanding, Michael. You were killing people.”
“Look, I can’t stay on this phone forever. They’re probably listening now. So I’ve just got to come out and say it: Are you going to help me or what?”
“I don’t know,” she said softly.
“Taylor, how much money have I made for you and the agency and that damn publisher? You owe me. Just call it an advance on royalties. And besides, they’ll kill me if you don’t. And while I know you don’t anymore, remember, you once loved me.”
Taylor felt her head swim yet again. Would this ever go away, ever be over with? “Look, I don’t know. I need time to think, Michael. I just need a little time to think.”
“How much time?” he asked, his voice just on the edge of desperation.
“Call me tonight,” she answered. “I’ll be home after seven.
Call me on my cell tonight.”
“I’m trusting you, Taylor. My life’s in your hands.”
She cringed. “Don’t say that, Michael. Please don’t say that.”
He clicked off, and the phone went silent. She stood there a moment, staring as the steady stream of pedestrians shifted to avoid bumping into her. Taylor held the phone out in front of her and squinted to read the screen in the harsh sunlight. She pulled the number up and didn’t recognize the area code.
He could’ve gotten it anywhere, she thought. Could’ve taken it from anyone…
She hurried down the block to the agency, then up the stairs to her office. She pulled off her coat, locked her office door, then sat down at her desk. She stared out the window for a moment, thinking.
Then she knew what she had to do.
Four hours later, Hank Powell pulled up in front of Taylor Robinson’s apartment in a nondescript sedan driven by Special Agent in Charge Joyce Parelli. At strategic points in the block surrounding Taylor’s building, NYPD plainclothes detectives and dressed-down FBI agents kept watch over the neighborhood.
Taylor met them at the door in a white blouse and pair of jeans. She looked pale, Hank thought, tired and shaken. Her handshake was firm, though, as she took his hand.
“It’s good to see you again,” she said, shutting the door behind them.
“I’m sorry it’s under these circumstances,” Hank said.
“Taylor, this is Joyce Parelli. She runs the New York Field Office.”
Taylor nodded. “Hi. Pleased to meet you.”
“Me, too,” Joyce said. “So how’re you holding up?”
Taylor led them into the living room, where her cell phone lay on the coffee table like a time bomb waiting to go off.
“I’m hanging in there,” she said, “but frankly, just barely.”
She turned to Hank. “I thought you said he wouldn’t call me.”
Hank shook his head. “I didn’t think he would. I thought he’d be smarter than that.”
“He’s desperate,” Taylor said. “He needs cash. He’s got money out of the country, but he can’t get to it.”
“Did he tell you how much he needs?” Joyce asked.
Taylor shook her head. “No. I assume that’ll come when he calls me tonight.”
“If he calls,” Hank said.
Taylor turned to the kitchen. “Oh, he’ll call. Don’t worry.
I could tell it in his voice. I need a glass of wine. Are you guys off duty?”
Hank and Joyce glanced at each other. “I’m good,” she said. “Don’t need a thing.”
“If you’ve got a can of soda,” Hank said.
“Diet Coke okay?” she called from the kitchen.
“Sure.”
Taylor came back in few moments later with a glass of white wine and a tall glass full of soda and handed it to Hank.
“What am I going to do?” Taylor asked. “When he calls, what’s the game plan?”
“A lot of that’s up to him,” Parelli said. “What he wants you to do and how he wants you to do it.”
“Can’t you just tap the cell phone and find out where he is, then go pick him up?” Taylor demanded.
“We can monitor the calls,” Hank explained, “and we will.
But especially if he’s on a cell and moving around, which he will be, then it gets really tough. Unless he stands still and talks to you a very long time, then by the time we figure out where he is, he’s not there anymore.”
“Shouldn’t you go ahead and move whatever equipment you need up here now?”
“We don’t need anything up here now. We’ve got a van outside now that’s got everything in it we need.”
Taylor paced back and forth in the living room. “This is driving me crazy,” she said, exasperated. “We’ve got to get this over with.”
Hank, concerned, looked over at Joyce for a moment.
Joyce made a slight motion of her head toward Taylor.
“Taylor,” Hank said, his voice reassuring, “we need you to hang in there with us just a little while longer. When he calls, I want you to listen to him, be calm, and I want you to agree to anything he says.”
He crossed the living room and stopped in front of Taylor.
He reached out and touched her forearm. She stopped pacing and looked up at him.
“Can you do that for me? Can you help me with this?”
Taylor gave him a look that was half smile, half sneer.
“Men … You’re all just looking to get something for free.”
Hank smiled back at her. “I knew I could count on you.
Now, we wait.”
Ten minutes later, the cell phone rang. Hank nodded at her. She hit the connect button and turned the volume up as loud as it would go. Hank stood next to her, straining to listen.
“Hello.”
“Taylor?”?
“Yes, Michael. I’m here.”?
“Have you had a chance to think about this?”?
“Yes, Michael. I’ll help you, on one condition.”?
“Yeah?”?
“You use the money to get as far away from here as you can.?
Don’t ever come back. Don’t ever let me see you again.”
“Don’t worry,” he said, his voice brightening. “I’m out of here.”
“Now,” Taylor said, “how much do you need?”
“I need at least a hundred thousand,” he said. “In small bills.”
Taylor looked up, her face tense. Hank nodded at her.
“Keep going,” he mo
uthed.
“That’s a lot of money. I’ll need some time to get it together. I can’t just run out to a cash machine.”
“How much time will you need?”
“The banks open at ten. I’ll have to move a little money around between accounts. Maybe a couple of hours.”
“That’s fine. Noon, then.”
“Where are we going to meet?” Taylor asked.
A few moments of scratchy silence followed. “I’ve always thought the easiest way to get lost was to wade into the middle of a crowd. Grand Central Station at lunchtime.”
“Grand Central’s a big place,” she said. “How will I find you?”
“Go to the kiosk, that place in the middle of the main concourse.”
“You mean the information booth? Under the big clock?”
“Yeah, that’s it. Put the money in a bag and go to the center of the main level there. Keep your cell phone close by.
I’ll call you.”
“And then what, Michael?”
“There’s a million places to hide in there. We’ll meet somewhere out of the way. You’ll give me the bag. If I’m lucky, you’ll kiss me good-bye. And that’ll be it. You’ll never see me again.”
“It’ll be over,” she said softly.?
“Yeah, over.”?
“Michael, where are you?”
“I’m in the city.”
“But where in the city? Have you got a place to sleep?
Have you eaten? Are you taking care of yourself?”
“Yeah, Taylor. I am. I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said.
Then she clicked off. Joyce Parelli smiled. “Nice touch.”
“What?” Taylor asked.
“That ‘Have you got a place to sleep?’ ‘Have you eaten?’
‘Are you taking care of yourself?’ Nice touch, make him think you still care.”
Taylor glared at her. “What makes you think I don’t?”
Hank Powell hoisted the handle of his heavy, industrial broom and maneuvered it around a series of metal wire wastebaskets that were in his way. The green coveralls he wore were thick and scratchy, much more uncomfortable than his usual work uniform of suit and tie. But the overalls were loose and rumpled, covering up the outline of the Glock 19 that was holstered under his left armpit.
Around him, the lunchtime crowd at Grand Central Terminal ebbed and flowed like a human river, the bodies moving in dozens of directions at once and, miraculously, somehow managing not to trip over one another.
The tiny earpiece wedged uncomfortably into his right ear crackled. “Six-Able,” a voice said. “In position. Nothing.”
“Roger,” Hank said, bending his head down as he spoke, as if to focus on his sweeping.
He looked over, across the main concourse at Grand Central Station, to the center kiosk. A herd of people milled around, the massive information booth with the famous four-sided clock almost a magnet for the crowd.
Hank had lost sight of her, but he knew that somewhere close around the information booth, Taylor Robinson was standing nervously, trying not to seem too obvious, holding a zippered canvas bag containing a small fortune.
“Three-Charlie,” the earpiece crackled again. “In position. Nothing.”
Around him, in civilian clothes, disguises, custodial uniforms-anything they could come up with-were two dozen NYPD detectives and FBI agents. Joyce Parelli was walking around with an armload of shopping bags, looking like a tired suburban housewife, frustrated because her train was late.
Suddenly the earpiece snapped again and he heard Taylor’s voice as she answered her cell phone. They’d wired her so at least they could hear her side of any phone conversations.
Outside the building, a crew manning scanners tied into the cell phone repeaters would tape the whole phone call.
“Yes,” Taylor said into the cell phone.
Hank continued slowly sweeping, resisting the urge to look up. He scrunched his shoulder to press the earpiece into his ear harder.
“Where? Track 42? And then-?”
There was a long pause. “Okay, the escalator up to the Forty-seventh and Madison exit. Right before the escalator
… You’ll be there … Yes, yes. I understand … Yes, this concourse. Okay, I’m on my way.”
Then there was a popping sound and everything went silent. Hank leaned down and spoke into the tiny microphone concealed behind the lapel of the coveralls. “It’s Track 42, main concourse, the escalator out to Madison. Beta Team, converge. Alpha Team, cover the outside entrance. Charlie Team, you’re backup. Let’s do it.”
Hank stood up straight and leaned the broom against a wall, then began walking toward the train tracks. As he wove his way through the crowd, he spotted Taylor off to his right, walking quickly, just ahead of him. He maneuvered his way across the concourse to a position directly behind her, perhaps twenty feet away. She walked quickly up the short flight of stairs to the long hallway with the track entrances on either side. Up ahead of them, Hank recognized two NYPD undercover cops standing against a wall, chatting like two old friends. They looked up and watched Taylor as she walked by, then moments later made eye contact with Hank. As Hank passed them, they casually split apart and began meandering down the hallway toward the escalators.
Hank’s pulse quickened as he felt the net tightening around Michael Schiftmann. The one thing he was afraid of was that something would go wrong and people-especially Taylor-might get hurt. But he also knew that his agents and the New York City police officers were as well-trained as they could be. They were ready.
Hank watched as Taylor’s pace accelerated. “Don’t run,”
he whispered out loud. “Slow down.”
The numbers above him grew. The track numbers were in the forties now. Ahead of them, the bank of escalators up to Madison Avenue were crowded but not packed.
Hank watched as a figure dressed in black crossed in front of Taylor. He strained to get a look. The figure stopped, reached out, said something to her, then grabbed the zippered bag and exploded away from her.
She screamed. Around her, a burst of noise erupted as a panic spread.
Hank ran, shoving people out of the way. “He’s got the bag!” Hank shouted into his lapel mike. “Go!”
He got to Taylor inside of three seconds. “You okay?” he shouted.
“Yes,” she gasped. “But-”
Another officer in jeans and a T-shirt ran up. “Stay with her,” Hank ordered. Hank turned from her and ran toward the escalator.
“Hank, wait!” Taylor shouted.
Hank hit the escalator and started up just as he saw a trio of undercover officers with a man jammed between them at the top of the down escalator. Hank rode up the escalator until he was almost even with them, then jumped to the other side. The man they held wore a satin black running suit, his head held down close to his chest. Hank grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head up.
It wasn’t him.
He looked up at the other officers. “Did you get the right guy?” he demanded.
“Yeah, who the fuck’d you think we got?” a voice shot out.
“It’s not him, damn it!” Hank yelled.
Hank turned. Taylor was at the bottom of the escalator. As they approached, Taylor stood there, her arms by her side, her fists balled.
“That’s what I was trying to tell you,” she yelled over the din around them. “It wasn’t him.”
They piled off the escalator, the scrum of bodies jamming into one another in the confusion and pandemonium. The cops and agents, with the guy in the running suit held tightly between them, pushed themselves off to one side. Hank grabbed the guy and pulled him toward him. He was about Schiftmann’s size, with black hair about as long as his. From a distance, it could have been him.
“All right,” Hank ordered, leaning down in the guy’s face.
“What the hell were you doing?”
Hank suddenly realized the guy was te
rrified. “Jesus,” he squealed in a high-pitched, nasally voice. “The guy didn’t say nothing about no cops.”
“What guy?” Hank yelled.
“I met a guy down in Union Square Park,” he piped. “He offered me five bills to get the bag from this lady and bring it to him. He said it was some shit he needed from his old lady but he was under a restraining order and couldn’t go near her. He didn’t say nothing about no cops.”
“Where is he?”
“He said we’d meet outside, on Madison.” Sweat poured down the guy’s face, his eyes wide in fright. “Honest, I didn’t know I was doing nothing wrong!”
“Five hundred bucks to pick up a bag and you thought this was a stand-up deal,” Hank spat. “What do you take me for?”
“Should we go after him?” one of the cops asked.
“Save your breath,” Hank said. “He’s gone.”
He keyed the lapel mike. “All teams, stand down. We missed him.”
The crowd around them was moving on now, life in Grand Central as back to normal as it ever gets.
“What’s next?” Joyce Parelli asked.
Hank shrugged. Suddenly Taylor’s cell phone went off.
Taylor almost jumped, then turned to Hank, imploring.
Hank, startled, nodded. “Go ahead,” he said softly.
Taylor punched the button to take the call and held the phone to her ear. Even over the ambient noise of the terminal, he heard a muffled voice coming over the phone sharp and hard. Hank leaned in as Taylor went gray, the color visibly draining from her face. She looked up at Hank, her eyes giving away a level of fear deeper than anything he’d ever seen. Then, dazed, she lowered her arm in front of her and flipped the phone shut.
“What?” Hank snapped. “Was it-”
Taylor Robinson swayed. For a moment, Hank thought she might faint. He stepped to her, put his hands on her arms to steady her.
“He said he’s going to kill me,” Taylor said, her voice so low he had to lean in to hear it. “He said I’ve betrayed him, and now he’s going to kill me. Just like the others.”
CHAPTER 38
Monday morning, Manhattan
Esmerelda Cardenas stepped off the bus at Twenty-third and Ninth Avenue and started up the block toward Twenty-fourth Street. The Monday morning Chelsea traffic was lighter than usual, she thought, as she adjusted the large tote bag on her shoulder so it wouldn’t pinch her weathered brown skin.
By Blood Written Page 37