by Stuart Woods
“Tell me, exactly why is the FBI so interested in keeping a cop killer on the streets?”
“I can’t tell you that,” Grant said.
“Is what he’s doing more important than the lives of cops on the street?”
“Of course not.”
“Then why haven’t you turned him in to the NYPD?”
“We only need another day or two to wrap up this whole thing, then they can have him, as far as I’m concerned.”
“You’d better hope to God the newspapers don’t get wind of this,” Holly said.
“Oh? Are you going to tell them?”
“I hadn’t planned to, but . . .”
“That’s what I thought. If you blow this case, Holly, I’ll . . .”
“You’ll what?”
“Hey, hey,” Stone said. “Let’s hold it down, all right? People are staring at us.”
Grant threw his napkin on the table and stood up. “If you screw up this case, I’ll have you for obstruction of justice, and I may throw in that money thing, too.”
“Oh? What money thing is that?”
“Your five million dollars.”
“What five million dollars?”
“Just remember what I said,” Grant said, and stalked out of the restaurant.
Stone thought the other customers looked relieved. “Now why did you want to go and piss him off?” he asked.
“I enjoy pissing him off,” Holly said.
A waiter brought three lunches and went away.
“Holly, speaking as your sometime lawyer, he has a point about interfering with a federal investigation.”
“Oh, sure. You think he’s going to arrest me and let it get out that the FBI has been harboring a cop killer?”
“Well, probably not.”
“That was just a lot of bluster. Grant blusters a lot.”
“Especially where you’re concerned, I’ll bet. And he knows about the money?”
“He’s known about it almost from the day I put it in the tree.”
“Does he know which tree?”
“He has no idea where it is. He can’t even prove that it exists, and even if he could, he’d have a hard time explaining why he’s known about it for months and didn’t report it. Don’t worry, Grant isn’t going to cause any trouble for himself.”
“Holly, I’ve been thinking about this, and I think you should leave the money in that tree.”
“And wait for the putative lumberjack to discover it?”
“If somebody finds it, then you can confiscate it as the fruit of a crime.”
“Anybody who found it would be a fool to tell anybody.”
“And you’d be a fool to go back to the tree. Right now, you’re clean. Only Grant knows about it, and, as you’ve pointed out, he’s unlikely to mention it to his superiors. But if you go back to the tree and get it, there’s always the chance that someone will see you do it or that something else might go wrong. You just can’t take the chance.”
“Okay, I’ve had your full views on this subject. Can we change it now, please?”
“Sure, what would you like to talk about?”
“How can I take Trini before the NYPD does?”
“Holly, you’d better forget about Trini. Let them take him, then you can get in line to prosecute him.”
“Which means never.”
“Lots of people could match that description, surely you know that.”
“It’s Trini. I know it in my bones.”
“If it is, wouldn’t you just as soon see him get the death penalty in New York as in Florida?”
“No, I wouldn’t. I want to sit in a Florida prison and watch him take the needle.”
“Dino can arrange for you to sit in a New York prison and watch. Wouldn’t that do?”
“No. I want to arrest him.”
“You want to kill him, don’t you?”
“If he gave me an excuse, I would.”
“Don’t you realize that he’d have as good a chance of killing you, maybe better?”
“I’ll take that chance.”
“So you’re going to pursue Trini with reckless abandon.”
“Right up until the moment somebody takes him off the street, and I hope it’s me.” Holly set her empty plate aside and started eating Grant’s lunch.
22
STONE WAS ABOUT to ask for a check when Lance strolled up to their table.
“Mind if I join you?” he asked, sliding into the banquette seat next to Holly.
“We’ve just finished lunch,” Stone said.
“I won’t keep you long. Let me buy you coffee.” He was sitting too close to Holly for Stone’s comfort.
A waiter appeared, and Lance looked at Holly.
“Decaf cappuccino,” Holly said.
“Stone?”
“Double espresso, please. The real thing.”
“Same for me,” Lance said.
“How did you know we were here?” Holly asked.
“The CIA knows all,” Stone said wryly.
“Oh, not all, perhaps,” Lance said. “Truth said, one of my people followed Agent Harrison and called me.”
“And why is the CIA following the FBI?” Stone asked.
“We have come to expect a certain . . . how shall I say? . . . lack of candor from our colleagues at the Bureau,” Lance said.
“Even after nine/eleven?” Holly asked.
“They’ve become more candid about certain things since nine/eleven,” Lance said, “and less candid about others.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Because they’re the Bureau,” Lance said.
“Oh. I knew that.”
“Frankly, in part because of this behavior, I don’t expect them to survive as a discrete entity much longer.”
“Oh, come on,” Stone said. “Congress would never allow the Bureau to expire as an agency.”
“Mark my words, Congress will insist on it,” Lance replied. “They have become too devious for their own good. When senior officials start lying to congressional committees, the Bureau does not enhance its longevity.”
Stone snorted. “Whereas Congress expects the Agency to tell the truth?”
Lance nodded gravely. “Certainly not. They simply expect a certain lack of frankness, given the work we do.”
“So why are you here, Lance?” Stone asked. “Certainly not for the coffee.”
Lance sipped the cup that had been set before him. “A plentiful reason for being here,” he said, looking around. “I’ve always liked this place. It’s like Paris without the French.”
Holly laughed, but Stone restrained himself. “Come on, cough it up.”
“I merely came to suggest that you watch the six o’clock news this evening.”
“Why?”
“You don’t want me to take all the fun out of it by telling you in advance, do you?”
“Yes,” Stone replied. “Besides, wouldn’t you enjoy watching the expressions on our faces?”
“Well, there is that,” Lance said, smiling. “Oh, all right: On tonight’s local news you’ll learn that the killing of the policeman in Little Italy was the result of a random gunshot from the street, not an execution.”
Stone and Holly gaped at him.
“You’re right, Stone, the expression on your faces was worth it,” Lance said.
“Tell me,” Holly said, “how do you get a witness’s description of the shooter from a random incident?”
“An excellent question,” Lance said.
“So who is manipulating the media, and why?” Stone asked.
“An even better question. Look at it this way: Who benefits from the altered perception of the incident?”
“Trini Rodriguez,” Holly said quickly.
“Of course, but not just Trini.”
“I think I’m picking up the thread,” Stone said.
“Enlighten us.”
“If the cop was killed as a result of a stray bullet, then the NYPD is no longer i
nvestigating an execution, but an accident—manslaughter, not murder.”
“Very good!”
“So what?” Holly said.
“Detectives loaned from other precincts will be sent home, and the investigation will become much less intense,” Stone explained. “And that takes some of the pressure off Trini, at least for the moment.”
“But why would the NYPD want to take pressure off a cop killer?” Holly asked.
“Not the NYPD,” Lance offered. “The FBI.”
“Excuse me,” Holly said, “but this is way too sophisticated for my simple mind.”
“You have an excellent mind, Holly,” Lance said, “but not as devious as that of the collective guile of the Bureau.”
“Holly,” Stone said, “Grant has just told us that Trini’s use to the Bureau is important for only another couple of days.”
“Bingo!” Lance said.
“So they want Trini on the street long enough to complete whatever the FBI wants him to?”
“Bingo again!” Lance said. “And would you like to know what Trini is doing for the Bureau?”
“Yes, please,” Holly replied.
“Now I must remind you that you two are, each in your way, arms of the Agency, and as such, you may not reveal to anyone what I am about to tell you.”
Stone sighed.
“Specifically, you may not reveal it to Dino,” Lance said.
“Why not?” Holly asked.
Stone spoke up. “Because Dino is NYPD, and he would be outraged to learn that the Bureau is messing with the investigation into a cop killing for its own purposes, and he might intervene.”
“Exactly,” Lance said. “Are we all in the tent now?”
Stone and Holly nodded.
“Well,” Lance, said, looking around to make sure he was not being overheard in the crowded restaurant, “it seems that our Trini has somehow convinced the Bureau that there is a financial connection between his mob friends and a certain Middle Eastern terrorist fraternity, the name of which shall not escape my lips.”
Stone shook his head. “The Mafia financing a terrorist organization? Not possible.”
“Stone, you forget that the Mafia is a terrorist organization, in its small way, and that their sympathies become altered when there is money to be made.”
“No, Lance, the mob is—in its small way, as you put it—a bunch of patriotic guys who are very grateful for the opportunities the United States has given them to become rich—stealing, extorting, and killing.”
“You have a point, Stone. Perhaps it is the case that the mob has been let in on the little secret—given an opportunity to do something patriotic.”
“And what would that be?” Holly asked.
“The boys have a great many money-laundering connections that our Middle Eastern foes covet. Since the Treasury Department has cracked down on wire transfers to suspect locales, and since the National Security Agency has greatly increased their surveillance of Middle Eastern cell and satellite phones, not to mention penetration of their websites, it has become much more difficult for them to move money around the world. On the other hand, the increased scrutiny of terrorists has had the happy effect, for the mob, of diverting attention from their own financial transactions.”
“I suppose it makes a kind of weird sense,” Stone said.
“Not to me,” Holly replied.
“Look at it this way, Holly,” Lance said. “Would you be willing to put your pursuit of Trini Rodriguez on hold for a couple of days, if the payoff were to destroy a terrorist money-management cell and confiscate a lot of their available cash?”
Holly looked into her cappuccino. “If I had to, I suppose.”
“Voilà!” Lance exclaimed. “A patriot!”
“And what happens after this little operation is over?” Holly asked.
“Then,” Lance said, “I might be able to help you achieve your objective.”
“You swear?” Holly demanded.
“I swear to try,” Lance said. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be content with that.”
“Oh, all right,” Holly said.
23
STONE LET THEM into the house and closed the door behind him. “Pack some things,” he said. “Casual—jeans, et cetera, something you can wear to a good restaurant, but still casual.”
“Where are we going?” Holly asked.
“Away for the weekend. Daisy will love it.”
“That’s good enough for me,” Holly said.
Daisy looked pleased, too, when she heard the news.
Stone had previously backed the car into the garage. Now he pressed the remote, and by the time the door had opened, he had started the car and had it in gear. He pulled across the sidewalk gingerly, then turned toward Third Avenue, driving as quickly as he could and frequently checking the rearview mirror. A touch of the remote closed the door behind him.
“Why are we leaving town?” Holly asked.
“One, it’s a weekend; New Yorkers leave town on weekends. Two, it’s good for Daisy. Three, I need some country air. And four, to keep you out of trouble for the next couple of days.”
“And why do you think I need to be kept out of trouble?”
“I know damned well that if we stay in the city this weekend, you’ll be looking for Trini. You won’t be able to help yourself.”
“I said I wouldn’t interfere for a couple of days. Why do you keep looking in the rearview mirror?”
“For safety reasons,” Stone replied. “New Yorkers are very careful drivers.”
“Not from what I’ve seen. Who do you think might be following us?”
“Maybe the two men who were watching the house.”
“What?”
“There were two men in the block: one across the street, wearing a black leather jacket, and one a few buildings up, wearing blue coveralls, looking in a shop window.”
“What’s so odd about a man looking in a shop window?”
“It’s a knitting and sewing shop,” Stone explained.
“Maybe he knits?”
“Maybe he’s FBI, if we’re lucky. Maybe he’s a friend of Trini, if we’re not.”
“How would Trini know where to find us?”
“You do recall chasing him all over Little Italy?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe that annoyed him. Maybe a friend of his got the license plate number of my car when you were camped outside La Boheme.”
“Oh.”
Stone turned left on Sixty-fifth Street and, eventually, crossed Central Park. Daisy looked longingly at the trees and grass.
“Don’t worry, baby,” Holly cooed. “We’re going to find you a place to play.” She looked at Stone. “We are, aren’t we?”
“Yes,” Stone said. “Lots of grass and trees.”
“How long a drive?”
“An hour and forty-five minutes, if we beat the worst of the traffic. If we don’t, who knows?” He tapped a number into the car phone.
“Mayflower Inn,” a woman’s voice said.
“Hi, this is Stone Barrington. May I have a table for two at eight?”
“Of course, Mr. Barrington. We’ll see you then.”
“We’re going to a country inn?” Holly asked.
“Only for dinner.” He left the park, turned right on Central Park West, then left onto Seventy-second Street.
“Why won’t you tell me where we’re going?” Holly asked.
“What’s the matter, don’t you like surprises?”
“I like them if they’re pleasant ones, and when they happen suddenly,” Holly said. “But not when I have to ponder them for an hour and forty-five minutes.”
“Daisy isn’t worried.”
“Yes, she is. She’s just being polite.”
“You be polite.”
“All right, I’ll shut up.” She laid her head against the headrest.
Stone switched on the radio and pushed a button, tuning it to 96.3 FM. Classical music filled the car. “Moza
rt,” he said.
“I know.”
He turned onto the Henry Hudson Parkway, then reached under the dash and fiddled with something. A loud beeping ensued, accompanied by flashing red lights. Then everything was quiet.
“What was that?”
“That was my super-duper radar detector and laser diffuser.”
She leaned over and looked at the speedometer as he changed lanes and accelerated. “I’d arrest you in Florida,” she said.
“I’ll get arrested in New York, if my detector doesn’t work. Would that make you happy?”
“Very. I like to see justice done.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Soon they were taking the curves of the Saw Mill River Parkway.
“Aren’t radar detectors illegal in New York State?” she asked.
“I’m not going to answer that without a lawyer present.”
“There is a lawyer present.”
“Oh, yeah. My lawyer just advised me not to answer. Anyway, we’re just passing through.”
“You mean, we’re going to another state?”
“Other states are not very far away, when you live in New York City.”
“You ever heard of the Mann Act?”
He laughed. “You think I’m transporting you across a state line for immoral purposes?”
“I certainly hope so,” she replied.
They turned onto an interstate, then, after a few minutes, another. Twenty minutes after that, they were driving along country roads with forest on both sides.
“We’re in Connecticut,” she said.
“You recognize the trees?”
“No, I was tipped off by the sign a few miles back that said, ‘Welcome to Connecticut.’ ”
“No wonder you’re such a good cop.”
“I don’t miss much,” she said.
Holly dozed and woke up as they came to a stop sign. “Where are we?”
“Still in Connecticut; a town called Washington.” He turned left, went up a steep hill, then turned left at a white church. “This is the village green,” he said. A moment later, he turned into a drive and parked before a shingled cottage with a turret.
“Who lives here?” Holly asked.