The October List

by Jeffery Deaver

  "Now get in your car and drive home. It's okay. You gave us what we wanted. It's all over with now. Just go home."

  Thomas turned and reached for the Jeep's door with shaking hands. When he'd opened it, Daniel took a paper towel from his pocket and, wrapping it around the grip of the gun, drew the weapon and shot the businessman twice in the back of the head. He leaned down and looked in the passenger compartment, where blood flecked the dashboard and the windshield and the face and hat of his daughter, who was screaming as she stared at her father's twitching body. She was clawing frantically at the door handle.

  Daniel held up a reassuring hand. She froze, uncertain about the gesture, he imagined, and turned slightly toward him. He shot her once in the center of the chest. As she slumped back, staring up, he shot her twice more, in the mouth. For the brain stem. This emptied the five-round cylinder.

  Daniel dropped the gun on the seat and pocketed the paper towel. He returned to the Prius and pulled around the Cherokee slowly. He drove out of the neighborhood, occasionally checking the rearview mirror, but saw no lights, no emergency vehicles. He noted only a few SUVs, two, coincidentally, with nearly identical infant seats affixed in the backseat.

  He took a direct route to the parkway and then headed into the city. Eventually he ended up in the South Bronx. GPS sent him to an intersection, near one of the better--or at least cleaner--housing projects. He drove to where a Taurus sat idling in a parking space. He eased up behind it and flashed his lights, though the driver had already seen him, he'd observed. When the Ford had pulled out of the space, Daniel parallel parked, wiped the interior for fingerprints, then climbed out and dropped the keys on the floor of the car, leaving it unlocked. He got into the Taurus's passenger seat.

  Daniel nodded to bald, fit Sam Easton, behind the wheel, and Sam lifted his foot off the brake and sped down the street.

  "Heard it went good. Andrew called."

  "Fine. And no tail," Daniel said. "I'm ninety-nine percent sure."

  Sam nodded, though--as Daniel would have done--he continued to check the rearview mirror more frequently than a prudent driver might.

  Before the Ford turned onto the street that would take them into Manhattan, Daniel glanced back and noted two young men slow as they walked past the Prius, looking around, then easing closer, like coyotes sniffing out wounded prey.

  Daniel read a text. The cash had been drained from the Aruba account and was already laundered.

  "You want to go home?" Sam asked. "Or drop you at the usual place?"

  "Downtown. The club."

  Daniel invariably spent Friday afternoons swimming at his health club in Battery Park, then would have a drink or two at Limoncello's and take his boat out for a sunset ride in New York Harbor.

  After that some Indian or Thai food and back home, where he'd summon one of the girls from the outcall service he used. Whom to pick? he wondered. Daniel was in a particular mood after the shooting--he found himself picturing the outstretched bloody body of the target's daughter. This memory was persistent and alluring.

  He decided he'd ask for one of the girls who allowed her customers to practice rough trade. Still, he reminded himself that he'd have to exercise a bit more restraint than several weeks ago when Alice--or was it Alina?--ended up in the emergency room.

  CHAPTER 3

  12:20 P.M., FRIDAY

  1 HOUR, 10 MINUTES EARLIER

  GABBY!"

  She turned to see the pudgy redheaded man approaching through the aisles of the electronics superstore, near City Hall.

  She thought again of her initial impression from a month or so ago, when they'd met. The round thirty-something had farm boy written all over him. A look you didn't see much in Manhattan. Not that there was anything wrong with this image intrinsically (anything but the hipster look, Gabriela felt); the problem was just that it was too easy to picture him in overalls.

  She smiled. "Hi!"

  "What're you doing here?" Frank Walsh asked her, smiling.

  He wore a tan Polo shirt, which matched everybody else's here. His name tag reported, F. Walsh, Computer Fix-It Dept. Manager.

  She took his hand, which he turned into a hug.

  Gabriela said, "Have a meeting downtown. Thought I'd say hi."

  His face seemed to glow. "No kidding! I was just thinking about you. Wow, Tiffany's."

  She glanced down at the bag. "Just my comfy shoes."

  "I like the ones you're wearing," he whispered, noting the spiky high heels, which elevated her to his height. Stuart Weitzmans. They cost the same as one of the computers on sale at a nearby end cap.

  "Try walking to work in them sometime," she said with a laugh.

  On the far wall scores of the same Geico commercial flickered from TV screens large and small.

  Frank glanced at his watch. "You free for lunch?"

  "No, I have to get back to that meeting. Got time for coffee, though."

  "Deal."

  They went to a Starbucks next door, collected their drinks--she a black coffee, Frank a frothy latte. They sat and chatted, amid the muted grind of blenders and the hiss of the steam device.

  Despite appearances, Frank was about as far removed from the farm as could be. "Nerd" was a better descriptive, a word that she would have avoided but he'd said it about himself once or twice so maybe it was politically correct. Computers consumed him. His job here, of course. And he seemed to be an avid participant in online role-playing games; she deduced this from the way he had coyly asked her if she knew certain titles (she'd never played one in her life). Then, looking a bit disappointed, he'd changed the subject and didn't bring the topic up again, probably embarrassed.

  Frank Walsh was a film buff, too; he went to the movies twice a week. This they had in common.

  They sipped coffee and chatted. Then he confided with a grimace, "I've got the weekend off... but I've got to visit my mother."

  "Congratulations. And all my sympathies."

  He laughed.

  "She's on Long Island?" Gabriela recalled.

  "Syosset. But I'm back about noon Sunday. There's a noir festival at the SoHo that starts then. You interested? Sterling Hayden, Ida Lupino, Dan Duryea. The best of the best."

  "Oh, sorry, Frank. Have plans Sunday."

  "Sure." He didn't seem particularly disappointed. "Hey, I'm making a mix tape with those songs you liked. Well, mix download. Mention 'tape' to a new clerk here and they're like, 'Huh?' "

  "Wow, thanks, Frank." Though she wondered: Which songs were those? She didn't listen to much modern music, no pop at all. A lot of classical and jazz. Many old-time crooners and cabaret singers. Sinatra, Count Basie, Nat King Cole, Rosemary Clooney, Denise Darcel. She'd inherited a massive collection of marvelous albums. Hundreds of them, embraced by their beautiful, rich-smelling cardboard jackets. She'd bought a Michell GyroDec turntable a few years ago, a beautiful machine. When she cranked up the volume in her apartment, the sounds it sent to the amplifier were completely pure. Arresting. They stole your soul.

  She may have mentioned this to Frank in passing and he'd remembered.

  Conversation meandered: to De Niro's latest film, to Frank's mother's health, to Gabriela's plans to redecorate her Upper West Side apartment.

  Then: "Funny you show up today." Uttered in a certain tone.

  "How's that?"

  "I was going to call you later. But here you are. So."

  Gabriela sipped the strong coffee. She lifted an eyebrow toward him pleasantly. Meaning, Go on.

  "Ask you something?"

  "You bet."

  "Any chance of us?" He swallowed from nerves.

  "Us...?" Gabriela wondered if that pronoun was the end of the sentence, though she suspected it was.

  Frank filled in anyway: "Dating, more seriously. Oh, hey, I'm not talking about marriage. God. I don't even think that makes financial sense nowadays. But every time we've been out, it's clicked. I know it's only a few times. But still." He took a breath and plunged forward. "Loo
k, I'm not a Ryan Gosling. But I'm working at losing a few pounds, I really am."

  He looked down into his coffee. He'd made a show of using Equal, not sugar, and ordered with 2 percent milk, though Gabriela knew those were not the tools for fighting weight.

  She told him, "Women like men for a lot of reasons, not just their looks. And I went out with somebody who was a dead ringer for Ryan Gosling once and he was a complete dick."

  "Yeah?"

  "Hey, I like you, Frank. I really do. And, there could be an 'us.' I just want to take things real slow. I've had some problems in the past. You have too, right?"

  "Hey-ay, I've been a mistake magnet." He elaborated on what he'd told her a few weeks ago, about a difficult breakup. She couldn't quite tell who was the dumpee and who the dumper.

  As she listened, she counted sixteen freckles on his face.

  "I respect that," he said seriously.

  "What?" Had she missed something?

  "That you're being reasonable. Taking time, thinking about things. And that you didn't get all weird and run out of here."

  "How can I run? I'm wearing killer high heels."

  "Which're pretty nice."

  And now that Frank had raised a Serious Topic and the matter had been debated, he dropped it, for which she was infinitely grateful. He rose, pulled three sugar packets out of the tray and returned, spilling the contents into his coffee, then stirring up a whirlpool. Before he sat, though, he whipped his Samsung phone out of its holster.

  "Smile."

  "What?"

  He aimed the camera lens at her and shot a few pictures, full length, from head to shoe, as she grinned.

  Finally he sat, reviewed the pictures. "Some keepers." Frank then sipped more coffee and looked up at her. "You know, that film festival's going on all week."

  "Really? I'm free Tuesday if you like."

  "I'm working then--"

  "Well--"

  "No, if Tuesday works for you, I'll swap shifts."

  "Really?"

  "For you, yeah."

  "That's really sweet, Frank. Really sweet." She gave him a breezy smile.

  CHAPTER 2

  11:00 A.M., FRIDAY

  1 HOUR, 20 MINUTES EARLIER

  BRAD KEPLER AND NARESH SURANI waited in an NYPD conference room that featured a single speckled window, which overlooked a building that, Kepler believed, overlooked New York Harbor. This was as good as most views got--at least for detectives third--in One Police Plaza. At least when they were involved in an operation that had no name, that nobody knew about, and that therefore could presumably fuck a career as much as make one.

  Kepler admired his arm, less muscular than when he'd joined the force but more robustly tanned. He then regarded Surani, who had a nearly gray complexion, which stayed gray no matter how much sun he got. Both men were more or less mid-thirties and more or less fit, though Kepler's physique reflected the reality of life as a detective: sedentary, with walking the most strenuous exercise on the job. He'd chased somebody a month ago, and caught him, but his hip still hurt.

  Fucker.

  "This guy the shit he seems to be?" He tapped a file on the table in front of him.

  "Dunno," Surani answered his partner. "Never heard of him. What's this room for? I didn't know it was even here."

  The office, near their division, Major Cases, was scuffed and dim and populated with a lopsided table, six chairs, three of them unmatched, a filing cabinet and dozens of boxes labeled Discard.

  And the fucking useless view. But at least it was a view, unlike his cubicle, five or six or a thousand floors away, where the only thing he could feast his eyes on was the ass of Detective Laikisha Towne. Which was a lot to see. And that image appealed not in the least.

  Kepler now regarded the boxes and decided it was amusing, the labels. The boxes looked like they'd been here for months. So why hadn't somebody just discarded them, per instructions?

  Welcome to the NYPD.

  The time was just after 11:00 a.m. You could smell old oil, garlic, fish--like you could in much of the building from time to time, depending on prevailing winds and humidity, given the proximity, and the relentless encroachment, of Chinatown. As for Little Italy: Arrivederci!

  "I'm hungry," Kepler said.

  "I am too. But."

  "Where is everybody?"

  Surani didn't know. So they took phone calls, they made phone calls.

  "Because," said Kepler, on his Galaxy, explaining to a perp he'd busted, now out on bond, "they wouldn't knock it down any farther. It's the best they'll do, which means it's the best you can do. Eighteen months. You can serve that standing on your head."

  "Shit, man," came Devon's voice from the other end of the line.

  "Okay. Gotta go." Kepler disconnected, snuck a look at his warm brown arm once more. He didn't tell anybody its source was the lamps of the Larchmont tanning salon, fifteen miles from home. He told people he jogged every day, he played golf, he swam.

  "That was Devon?" Surani asked.

  "Yeah."

  "Eighteen months? Standing on his head? No way. He's fucked."

  "I know that. You know that. Devon will know it. Too bad but he shouldn'ta drove the getaway car."

  "Which it wasn't," Surani said.

  "What?"

  "The car. Nobody got away."

  Kepler gave a laugh. "Captain's late. They're both late. And I'm hungry. You fucking ruled at trial yesterday."

  Surani said with some modesty, "Yeah, that went good. I was happy. Good jury. I like good juries."

  The two detectives bickered more than they complimented each other, and were sometimes downright insulting--but all forms of repartee were based on a similar affection. "Infuriating" was a word that often arose.

  He and Surani had been lovers for the past seven years, and partners--in the professional sense--for four. Someday soon, one or the other would propose marriage. Kepler was pretty close to popping the question.

  And God save anybody on the force who made a single comment about it, lifted a single eyebrow, exhaled a single sigh.

  Kepler examined his phone again, to order takeaway. At the beginning of his address book on the Galaxy were three folders, !breakfast, !dinner, !lunch, the punctuation mark added so the files would stay first in line, before people. He was debating between the first and third--he was sort of in a pancake mood--when the brass finally cruised into the room.

  The promise of sausages and waffles went away, along with the phone itself, when the harried man, in a suit, strode inside. Wrinkled of face, boasting multiple chins, Captain Paul Barkley was in his late fifties. He carried the round belly of somebody who ate when it was convenient for him, not when the long hours and necessities of a case required him to grab breakfast to go when it was really lunchtime, or vice versa.

  Still, the man had a rep as righteous as Kepler's tan--and far more genuine. Everybody knew Barkley had paid his dues and he carried bullet scars to prove it, according to legend. So none of the detectives griped, at least not too much, and definitely not to his face.

  "Gentlemen."

  "Captain," Surani said. A nod from Kepler.

  "Busy day," Barkley muttered and looked at his iPhone to prove it. Read a text. Sent a text, ignoring the men.

  Kepler's stomach protested. Waffles. He wanted waffles. Or maybe a club sandwich.

  Barkley snapped, "So, what's this about? Request for an undercover op?"

  "Right," Kepler said.

  "Where's Detective McNamara?"

  "On the way," Kepler said.

  "Well, get started." Barkley raised an intimidating eyebrow. Impatience ruled.

  "Well, you know, sir, we're not sure. We didn't put it together."

  "It was--" Surani stopped speaking and looked behind the captain, into the doorway. "Here's the mastermind of the op. She can give you all the details. Hey, Gabby!"

  The beautiful but severe woman stepped into the room. Unsmiling, typically, she looked over all three men, nodding
a greeting to the captain.

  Kepler, with his proclivities, wasn't the least interested in Detective Gabby for her body. But, man, she dressed well. He appreciated that. A thin white blouse beneath the black-and-white-checked jacket. What was that cloth called again? There was some word for it, that pattern. A gray skirt.

  And those were great dark stockings. Nice high heels too.

  He and Surani weren't into cross-dressing, but if they had been, there were worse people to mimic than Detective Gabby.

  She was a bit of a legend herself. Daughter of a detective working Organized Crime, she'd joined the force right out of college, working Crime Scene. When her father was killed in the line of duty, she became a detective and moved up to Major Cases, often working OC detail, like her old man had, specializing in the ultra-violent Eastern European gangs based in Brooklyn and Queens.

  Known for her undercover work, she had a shining arrest record. And--more important--her conviction rate was off the charts. Anybody could collar anybody; having the brains and balls to make sure the fuckers went away for a long period of time was something else altogether.

  Gabby pushed an ornery strand of auburn hair off her forehead.

  The captain asked her, "So you want to run an undercover op?"

  "Sounds like a TV show," Kepler quipped, trying to get her to smile. Everyone ignored him and he decided to stop being cute.

  "That's right," she told them.

  "What's the deal?"

  "I heard from a CI of mine there's a player who's surfaced. Guy named Daniel Reardon."

  "Never heard of him. Organized crime?"

  "No connection with any of the crews I could find," Gabby reported. "According to my informant, he runs a small operation out of a Wall Street front. He's got two partners he works with. Have first names only. Andy or Andrew, and Sam."

  "Or 'Samuel'?" Kepler inquired.

  She turned her eyes on him; usually they were green, today they were more yellowish, eerie. "Only 'Sam.' " Spoken briskly, as if: Wouldn't I have mentioned the longer name if that was what I'd heard? "Don't know anything else about them. But my CI heard it's an eight-figure operation."

  "Jesus. Who's your informant?"

  "Guy connected with the Sedutto crew."

  With some reverence, Kepler asked, "Your guy's a confidential informant embedded with Sedutto? And he's still alive?"