He nodded. “Yes, confidentiality is very important to the FBI. That’s why I’d like to share something with you, Marshal.”
Georgia followed Krause to the backseat of his black Ford Explorer. They were alone, the windows shut, sealed off from the commotion of agents on the sidewalk. Krause pulled a small Sony tape recorder from a black leather briefcase and pushed Play.
…So a couple of firefighters died—so what? You think this is the first time an accusation like this has been leveled against me? This is Mike McLaughlin you’re talking to. Not some street hoodlum. Trust me on this. In a week or two, no one will remember their fuckin’ names. They’re just a couple of nobodies, anyway…
Krause shut the tape off. “Ever heard this before?”
“Is that Michael McLaughlin?” asked Georgia, hoping to avoid Krause’s scrutiny.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“You didn’t answer mine.”
“Don’t get smart with me, Marshal. You’re in enough trouble already. This tape arrived in the mail yesterday at the home of a retired NYPD detective named Ray Connelly. Do you know who he is?”
“He’s the father-in-law of Douglas Hanlon, the firefighter who survived the Café Treize fire,” said Georgia.
“Doug Hanlon’s father is a personal friend of yours, I believe.”
“You don’t think I sent that tape to Ray Connelly, do you?”
“You stood in your own squad office before the top agents in the Bureau of Fire Investigation and the FBI and threatened to publicize McLaughlin’s status to the media. Now a confidential tape shows up in the hands of the father-in-law of one of the victims, and you want me to believe you didn’t mastermind this?”
“I didn’t,” said Georgia.
“You’ve never heard the tape before in your life?”
Georgia closed her eyes. There was no way out of this. She couldn’t tell Krause that Nathan Reese had given her a copy of that tape. And she didn’t know how it had gotten into Connelly’s hands. For all practical purposes, it certainly looked like she had done it.
Krause seemed to read her thoughts. “You’ve allowed your emotions to intrude one time too many into the FBI’s case, I’m afraid, Marshal. Chief Brennan has requested a meeting with the U.S. Attorney at Manhattan base tonight to discuss some charges the FDNY is fixing to make against my people—unfounded charges, I might add. Maybe it’s time your people found out just how thoroughly you have compromised our case. Because as far as I’m concerned, Marshal, your actions leave me no recourse but to keep Mr. McLaughlin under FBI jurisdiction for the forseeable future. The FBI will not be turning him over for state prosecution. Not now. And—as long as I’m head of the New York office—not ever.”
40
It always amused Michael McLaughlin the lengths that people and companies went to to ensure the security of their homes and businesses. Video surveillance. Electric fences. Metal and motion detectors. Keyless entry locks.
It made the average Joe on the street feel secure. It pacified the insurance companies and placated the citizenry. But it never kept a determined professional out. Real security, McLaughlin knew, was fairly simple. Three hungry pit bulls and an AK-47 pointed at the door. Every crack dealer in the city knew that. Problem was, real security couldn’t take place in the genteel world of corporate boardrooms and legal procedures. Everything else was just a game. And Michael McLaughlin knew that the best way to beat the game was not to play at all. He wouldn’t break into his target tonight. He’d walk in.
A bomb threat—called in by one of Coyote’s stooges—was all it took to bring out the circus of emergency personnel. When it came to the Green Warriors, nobody in law enforcement took any chances. Within minutes, five fire companies were on hand, along with half a dozen police cruisers. Then a chief in a Chevy Suburban. Then a HazMat truck, followed by the NYPD’s bomb squad and Emergency Services Units. Soon after, a suit from the Office of Emergency Management showed up and another from the Department of Environmental Protection. In New York City, there was no shortage of agencies available for any occasion.
Michael McLaughlin blended perfectly into the throng. He looked like a firefighter—tall, broad, with big hands and an open Irish face. His father’s face, before drink took it away. It helped too, that he was wearing a turnout coat and helmet, one of many stolen uniforms he kept in storage over the years.
He walked up to the two-story building behind the gates. The bright lights had a sort of forced cheer at this hour. In fact the whole building looked out of place in New York. Too modern. Too suburban. Too much glass. He missed the days when the neighborhood wasn’t quite so yuppified, when hookers and bums warmed themselves over fires in open trash cans. Those were people he understood. Not these radicals he worked for, with their lattes and credit cards and lofty notions of saving the world. McLaughlin knew that about the only thing you could ever save or destroy was yourself, and he’d done plenty of both.
But the New York of McLaughlin’s youth was fading. He was forty-five now. A part of him never expected to live that long. So many of his contemporaries hadn’t made it past thirty-five, and those who did had ended up old before their time behind cell block walls. He knew he’d been lucky. Smart, and lucky. He’d operated without partners and had kept a fairly low profile as he got older. He never killed—never even raised his hand—except for business. That’s what picked off most of his friends: temper and drink. He’d kept an iron grip on both. But the older he got, the more he understood that the game can only be played so long. He had to get out. Even the rackets had changed. All the good cons were Internet-based these days. Credit-card scams. Stock manipulation. Insurance fraud. It was hard to muscle in on operations with no overhead and no labor force. It was hard to shake down an operation that could close up shop and move to El Paso or even overseas in twenty-four hours. McLaughlin felt like a dinosaur in a dying industry.
He lifted a handy talkie to his mouth and began to speak into it as he made his way through the open security gates. No one stopped him or even seemed to notice his presence, not even the two security guards, who appeared to be more interested in discussing pension plans and retirement benefits with a couple of bored firefighters.
He took the first fire stairs he came to. It opened onto a large room in the semi-basement, with two large storage tanks and catwalks above. Everything looked new. Everything looked meticulously clean. Along the catwalk were exposed galvanized steel pipes. He followed the pipes that fed storage tank one and storage tank two until he found the return line that would direct any refill back to the tank outside. Right next to the return line was a large spindle valve. They had big plans for the future here, McLaughlin could see. Though there was no third storage tank, already the firm had inserted a line to accommodate one.
No need to worry about that anymore, he thought with a smile. Two turns of the valve handle with a wrench was all it took to open. There was nothing in the return line right now. There would be.
The fire rigs were still parked at the entrance, their flashers beating out a staccato rhythm on the building as McLaughlin walked to the other end of the facility. There, he buried a small tube of white phosphorous powder and a timing device inside a carton of plastic pellets and computer casings. Pushing the numbers 1-2-3 on a cell phone would activate the device. Coyote’s words echoed in McLaughlin’s head now: I don’t want any bloodshed, Mike.
It constantly amazed McLaughlin how squeamish all these radicals were about violence, except in the abstract. And so he’d promised: No bloodshed. He would keep that promise. He wouldn’t shed any blood at all. Coyote would do it for him, without even meaning to. It wasn’t personal—just good business. He couldn’t afford anyone being able to tie him to this operation. And now, there wouldn’t be.
41
Georgia was shocked to walk into the meeting at Manhattan base and see Paul Brophy in the conference room, looking very alive and very uncomfortable in the presence of so many former colle
agues who had helped send him to jail.
“You found him,” Georgia murmured to Carter when he helped her into a seat. All eyes were on Georgia, with the shiner on her cheek the size of a plum.
“That’s one of the reasons we’re here,” he said softly. “That, and you—your behavior with DeAngelo.”
Georgia had thought the Feds were her biggest concern, but looking at the grim expressions on Chief Brennan, Mac Marenko and Carter, she realized that her own people were just as angry with her. It was hard even to look Mac in the eye. She wondered if he felt betrayed on a personal level as well.
A lawyer from the U.S. Attorney’s office introduced herself coolly to Georgia as Arlene Steinberg. She was a stern-faced, heavy set woman and she took a seat next to Krause and Nelson. Georgia was placed on the end of the table so everyone had an equal shot at her. Her only potential ally—Nathan Reese—wasn’t part of the meeting, having been ordered to wait in the car.
Everybody was trying hard to act professional, but the veneer was paper-thin. The marshals were convinced the Feds had given McLaughlin too long a leash, and he’d used it to commit crimes right under the FBI’s nose. The Feds countercharged that Georgia was undermining their case from within—by helping her fugitive ex-boyfriend and publicizing a confidential tape. The Green Warriors didn’t even seem to figure into the power struggle anymore. This was personal.
Krause went on the offensive, slamming his tape recorder on the table and replaying the voice of Michael McLaughlin.
“Anyone here care to dispute that your own fire marshal, a woman entrusted with the confidentiality of a Federal investigation, breached it in order to pass along this tape?”
It was a clever tactic, Georgia noted. By keeping the discussion on the tape’s dissemination, Krause kept it away from the tape’s content. But Carter wasn’t going there.
“Are y’all even listening to what that man’s saying?” he shot back. “He’s practically admitting to the killing of Russo and Fuentes.”
“He’s admitting to being accused, Marshal Carter. That’s all. The tape is inadmissible in court. You know that. And Marshal Skeehan knew that when she mailed it to that NYPD detective.”
“I didn’t mail anything to Ray Connelly,” said Georgia.
“Of course. Just like you didn’t let DeAngelo get away tonight,” said Krause. “The point is, security was breached. Our good faith agreement has been broken.”
“Good faith?” Marenko snarled. “What good faith? You sent a rookie cop undercover with absolutely no training. And you kept her there after she informed you of a conflict of interest. She almost got killed last night at that diner.”
“Diner? What diner?” asked Arlene Steinberg. “I was under the impression that Marshal Skeehan’s sole contact with Mr. DeAngelo was at an undercover meeting several nights ago.”
Krause fumbled with some papers before him and slid them toward her. “It’s all there in my report,” he said.
“Do you mean to tell me that Marshal Skeehan made contact with Mr. DeAngelo at a separate meeting that was never authorized by my office?”
“We have the report.”
“I don’t care what you have now, Agent Krause. Your office appears to have made some mistakes on this case as well. It appears you put a marshal in a situation that was inadequately supervised after she’d already informed you of a conflict of interest.”
Arthur Brennan had remained remarkably quiet until now. But at Arlene Steinberg’s words, he placed his palms on the table and leaned his girth forward slightly. “I have a more serious charge I’d like to have an answer to, Chuck. Mr. Brophy here says that Jamie Sullivan had a meeting scheduled with your office before he died. Now, I want to know what that was about.”
Krause spread his palms. “I know nothing about any meeting.”
Brennan looked at Brophy, who shrugged. “That’s what Sully told me,” said Brophy. “He told me he thought Freezer—that is, McLaughlin—might be under Federal protection. He wanted to find out ’cause me and him, we always felt bad that maybe we made a mistake with the George Skeehan fire.” Brophy’s voice died out when he mentioned Georgia’s father’s name. He stared at his hands on the table then shot her a quick, pleading look.
“We didn’t know, Georgia. Honest,” said Brophy. “I had some problems later as an investigator, but me and Sully—we did the best we could. We didn’t know until Cullen Thomas came forward two years ago that maybe Freezer set the fire that killed your father.”
Georgia cut a look to Krause. “Is that true? Did McLaughlin set that fire?”
Krause shook his head. “I have nothing—nothing—to indicate that there is any truth to that rumor.”
“It’s not a rumor,” said Brophy. “Sully told me he had an appointment with the FBI.”
“Whom did he make the appointment with?” asked Krause.
“I don’t know,” Brophy admitted. Krause gave him a withering look and returned his gaze to Brennan.
“That’s who you’re going to listen to, Arthur? A convicted felon who was drummed out of your own department? That’s what you brought me in here to discuss?” Krause rose from the table. Nelson rose as well.
“The FBI will notify this department if and when we pursue any litigation against Michael McLaughlin. If the FDNY wishes to have any claim against Mr. McLaughlin in the forseeable future, may I heartily suggest that you do your utmost to find and destroy all copies of the tape I played here tonight. Good evening.”
Krause snatched up his tape recorder as he and Nelson left, profusely apologizing to Arlene Steinberg on the way out for not keeping her up to date on the investigation. Georgia couldn’t help but smile. Even the FBI had asses to kiss. Brennan ordered Carter to take Brophy home. That left Georgia and Marenko. Brennan’s benevolent dictatorship ended the moment everyone outside the FDNY had gone. He made that clear by ordering them into Marenko’s office, then slamming a fist on the desk the moment Georgia closed the door.
“You,” he pointed to Georgia. “The only reason I’m not giving you charges is because I’d have to explain what happened here. And I don’t want any of this going beyond this room.”
Georgia stared down at her shoes. She debated whether to take her drubbing in silence or make a stab at defending herself. Defense won out, though it had the feel of Custer’s last stand. “Chief, I didn’t give that tape to Ray Connelly.”
“I know you didn’t.” That stopped her. Georgia bounced a look from Brennan to Marenko. Marenko rose in response and walked out of the room. A moment later, he came back with a sealed envelope that he tossed in front of her.
“There’s the tape you handed to Carter.” Obviously, Marenko and Brennan had made the decision during the meeting not to let Krause know they still had a copy—not only because it would have been a tacit admission of guilt, but because Krause would almost certainly have taken it. “It’s been in an evidence locker since you turned it in.”
“That proves I’m not to blame,” said Georgia.
“But you are to blame,” said Brennan. “The moment you opened your mouth in this office last Thursday and threatened a leak, you put the entire credibility of the Bureau of Fire Investigation up for grabs. Krause wouldn’t even have been in here, assuming a breach, if you hadn’t given him just cause.”
Georgia’s insides churned. Brennan was right. She could feel Marenko looking at her, but she made no attempt to make eye contact with him. She knew he was probably angry with her for getting herself into this mess. Marenko seemed to take the hint. He grabbed a stack of envelopes and papers in his “in” box at his desk and began thumbing through them to save her the shame of his scrutiny.
“As for this DeAngelo situation—” Brennan continued. “Chief,” Marenko interrupted, looking up from his papers with a pained expression. “She’s hurt, for chrissakes. You can’t fault her for getting beat up. The Feds put her in this situation.”
“You,” Brennan pointed a stubby finger now at Marenko, “
are entirely too personally caught up in this to offer an opinion.” The chief returned his gaze to Georgia. “Now I want a straight answer from Skeehan. Do you know where Rick DeAngelo is?”
“I know that he went to try to make his peace with Louie Buscanti,” said Georgia. “But I don’t know where either Rick or Buscanti are right now.”
“Did he attack you tonight, Marshal?”
Marenko stopped opening his mail. Georgia could see that he wanted an answer to this one, too, but he kept his eyes on the envelopes before him. It was the only way he could maintain control.
“He hit me because I asked him to,” Georgia admitted. “Some agents saw us in a park and I knew my career would be ruined if it looked like I was conspiring with a fugitive. I had to make it look like I’d been attacked.”
“And why were you in that park with DeAngelo?” Georgia cut a look to Marenko. He caught it, then pretended not to.
“He wanted to see my son. His son. I know it was a stupid thing to do, but I didn’t know if I’d ever see him again.” Georgia turned to Marenko. “I just wanted Richie to see his dad.”
Georgia expected Brennan to yell at her. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath. He looked exhausted from tonight’s encounter. “Both of you, go home. This discussion about DeAngelo never took place—understood? As far as I’m concerned, Skeehan, you were attacked by a fugitive.”
“Yessir. Thank you, sir.”
42
Brennan left and Marenko walked Georgia outside a few minutes later. A light snow was falling, turning to rain as it hit the streets. Tires hissed on the wet pavement.
“You want me to call you a cab?” he asked woodenly.
“Mac, I know you’re upset about tonight.”
“I’m tired, Scout. I don’t want to talk about it right now.”
“I think we should.”
“All right.” He stuck his hands in his pockets. “You put everything on the line tonight for this guy—your job, your son, me. I think you still have feelings for him.”
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