The Burning Edge

New York City

“Are you comfortable, Lisa?”

She was sitting in a finely upholstered wingback chair with her legs resting on a matching ottoman. Dr. Sullivan sat across from her in the hotel’s luxury suite. Morrow had arranged use of the top-floor room.

The curtains were drawn, the lights dimmed.

It was quiet, calm.

“Yes, I’m comfortable.”

Along with Sullivan and Morrow, FBI Agent Craig Roberts was with them, making a video recording of the session of Lisa’s cognitive interview. While he adjusted the tripod and camera, Sullivan ensured Lisa was ready by confirming that—other than the mild sedative she’d given Lisa last night—she was not under any medication. Lisa was rested and had eaten half a muffin and fruit that morning.

“Are we set, Craig?” Morrow was anxious to proceed.

“Good to go.”

The red recording light blinked.

The yellow legal pad on Sullivan’s lap was filled with handwritten notes. After making a formal evidentiary introduction on the video, she began.

“Lisa, I spent much of last night and this morning reading reports and witness statements. I’ve reviewed yours several times and I’d like you to think back. Go back to about one hour before you stopped at the service center. Tell us what you were doing, thinking. Then take me into the center with you. I want you to recall everything you see, hear, smell, taste, feel, right up until police arrived.”

Lisa nodded. She took a deep breath, wiped the corner of her eye and spoke in a steady tone of her everyday ache from Bobby’s death; of the kids; of selling the cabin; of the idea of moving to California.

“I came off the thruway at Ramapo because I wanted to get a snack for myself and gifts for the kids, a magazine for Taylor and a comic book for Ethan.”

Lisa remembered waiting in line to pay, seeing the armored truck arrive, the guards entering the main lobby, the motorcycles, the riders coming in behind the guards. But she couldn’t remember details; not their clothing; they wore racing suits, helmets with dark visors. She couldn’t remember shoes, or jewelry, or anything, because her attempt was overwhelmed by…the popping sounds of the guards being shot…and blood everywhere.

“I’m telling myself this can’t be real and they’re ordering us to put our cell phones on the floor and get down on our stomachs with our hands behind our heads.”

The shooters do the same with the center’s staff and other customers.

Some of the bundled cash had tumbled near Lisa and all the items that had spilled from her bag to the floor. One of the gunmen brushed against her, grunting as he collected the cash, tossing it into a bag.

She was terrified and prayed to God for help.

“Then the man next to me—” Lisa’s voice broke “—tells me he’s a cop and asks me to help him reach his gun.”

Lisa recounted how she tried to help but dropped the gun; how the gunman rushed to them; how he put the gun to the agent’s head; how the agent looked into her eyes before the explosion splashed his brains and skull fragments on her face; then feeling the gun drilling into her head; expecting to die.

Lisa remembered how everything smelled like lemon floor cleaner; how she was numb, feeling nothing except the dead man’s warm brain tissue.

“It burned on my skin, searing me, branding me, because it was my fault he was dead because I dropped the gun and now I was going to die!”

Lisa saw her reflection in the face shield of the killer’s helmet; then how, for a burning moment, she saw through its semitransparency, saw the killer’s eyes, ablaze through the blood flecks.

Speaking haltingly in spasms, Lisa explained how she lay on the floor waiting for death; how her heart hurt, hammering so hard against her ribs; how when she was waiting to die she saw Bobby, the kids; that time stood still until the police came.

Lisa closed her eyes. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she gasped for air.

“I’m sorry, I can’t remember any more.”

Sullivan saw Morrow watching from his chair in the corner. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and cupped hands to his face in frustration. Sullivan resumed concentrating on Lisa.

This was a process.

It took time.

“It’s okay, Lisa. You’re doing fine.” Sullivan passed her a tissue, then poured a glass of water for her and waited as she collected herself.

“Are you ready to continue?”

Lisa blinked back her tears and nodded.

“For this next stage I need you to try to remember every single detail, no matter how trivial. Don’t hold back. No matter how unimportant it seems, I need you to tell me, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good. I want you to try to recall everything in reverse, going back from when the police arrived until when you walked into the center. Okay? Please, try recalling it all in reverse and noting every little detail that comes to mind.”

“Everything?”

“Yes, like how the shooter held the gun, what angle, the grip he used. Did he wear gloves, how was his arm and hand extended. Did you see his neck, his skin, his wrist, a watch, a scar, moles, hairs? Did he have an accent, the tone of his voice, everything.”

Lisa nodded, repositioned herself, and for the next twenty minutes narrated events starting at the end and then going backward. Sullivan made notes and was encouraged at the outset, but eventually this technique, like the previous one, failed to yield anything new.

Lisa apologized.

“It’s okay,” Sullivan said. “This is hard. Not many people can do this the first time. Are you up to trying one more method?”

Lisa nodded.

“This will be the most difficult. You can decline and we’ll end the session, but I’m asking you to put yourself in the position of the shooter and then the agent.”

Lisa gave Sullivan an are-you-serious look.

“This sometimes works,” Sullivan said. “Try thinking what they would see from their perspective. If it’s too traumatic, I can end the session.”

Lisa contemplated what Sullivan had asked, then imagined herself back at the center, but as the killer, extending his right arm and the gun, pressing it against the agent’s head with such malevolence.

I love you, Jennifer.

Squeezing the trigger, the deafening bang, the instant explosion, like Kennedy’s head in the Zapruder film, firing brain tissue across her face, marking her for death with the agent’s skull fragments.

Now he presses the gun into her skull.

“I am the killer. I see Lisa’s fear. I taste it. I savor it as she begs for her life. This is it. This is my chance. I should pull the trigger; just kill her while she’s lying there begging to live, the agent’s blood on her face, oozing under her. But I hesitate. Why? The other gunman is yelling that we have to go. It’s over.”

Lisa shook her head and stared at the hotel room carpet as if she saw herself on the truck stop floor, as if watching the entire scene unwinding right in front of her.

“It’s over.”

She did not feel Morrow’s gaze on her.

He was on the edge of his chair, poised to somehow reach into her memory and haul in everything, the way a trawler’s crew pulls in a drift net. He could no longer hold back.

“Lisa, wait.” Morrow still believed critical details were locked in her head.

“Frank.” Sullivan’s tone cautioned him, but he shrugged her off.

“Lisa, you were right there, practically touching the killer,” Morrow said.

Lisa nodded, eyes fixed on the carpet.

“You must’ve seen something about the shooter. What did you see?”

For a time Lisa did not speak. She just looked at the carpet.

“Lisa?” Sullivan’s tone was softer. “What do you remember?”

Lisa said nothing.

Frustrated, Morrow stood, hands on his hips.

“What do you see?” he asked.

Lisa started shaking her head again until her face gave way to anguish. She caught her breath as a great choking sob burst from her throat and she crumpled into tears.

“I see the dead agent’s face staring at me and it melts into Bobby’s face staring at me and both of them are telling me it’s my fault. I dropped the gun. It’s my fault…he was going to kill me. Why didn’t he just kill me?”

Sullivan went to her, put her arms around her.

“It’s all right,” she told Lisa softly. “We’re going to end the session. It’s all right.” Sullivan took her hand in both of hers. “It’s not your fault. What happened was not your fault. What you’re feeling is natural and you did very well today. None of this is your fault.”

Sullivan gave her tissues and water. Soon Lisa’s crying subsided and she went to the bathroom to recover her composure. Morrow went to the window where he cracked the curtain, looked out at New York and contemplated all that he was facing. Then he turned to Sullivan, who was making notes.

“She’s our only hope,” Morrow said. “I need her to remember something, anything.”

“I know. But it’s like she hits a wall. Like something’s blocking her from retrieving the information we need.”

“What is it?”

“It’s the trauma. Her ordeal has obliterated her recollection of details.”

“Even the smallest thing?”

“Frank, you have to allow for what she’s been through—having brain matter splashed on her, having been that close to the murder, having a gun to her head, preparing to die. She’s grappling with guilt over the agent’s death while still mourning her husband. We’re asking a hell of a lot of this woman.”

“I’ve got four homicides and four killers at large and right now she’s my best link to finding them. There has to be something more we can do.”

Sullivan bit her bottom lip and looked at the bathroom door.

“There’s another method I could try.”

“Let’s do it then.”

“You have to understand, she’s psychologically exposed. This one is dangerous. It could push her over the edge.”

“We have to do it. This is not the time to pull our punches.”

20

Dog Lake, Ontario, Canada

Ivan Felk unfurled a map of San Francisco on the cottage’s dining table.

“Huddle up, time for review.”

Using a pencil, he made a small X on Market Street and began detailing the next mission for Rytter, Unger, Northcutt and Dillon.

“This is the Federal Reserve Bank of San Francisco. It’s on Market but occupies much of the block bordered by Main Street, Mission and Spear, with security cameras at every point.”

Felk spread an array of photographs of the building.

“The rear receiving dock has seven loading bays monitored by cameras and a manned loading-control booth…here. The dock opens to a parking lot protected by a steel bar fence that is security gated. There.”

Felk tapped his pencil to an enlarged color photo.

“The delivery entrance is off Main Street, here. There is a guard station with a reinforced hydraulic crash gate that can stop twenty-five thousand pounds at 35 mph. The exit is also equipped with a crash gate that opens onto Spear Street. Any questions so far?”

Felk glanced at his squad and took a moment to consider them.

They were the survivors of Red Cobra Team 9; men who were largely hated in their own countries; asked to do the secret, dirty work of the very governments who’d hired them, betrayed them, disowned them and left them to die.

These men were a rare tribe, baptized in blood, bonded by their loyalty to each other. Felk glanced at them with pride as they drank from their coffee mugs. They were the best of the best; fighting machines with their shaved heads and goatees, each with hardened biceps sleeved with swirling tattoos. As with Ramapo, each man was betting his life on the next mission. They’d committed every point of the San Francisco job to memory.

Felk continued.

“According to our intel—and this came at a very high price—on the sixteenth, the bank will process an order of ten million dollars to be shipped to federally insured banks in Hawaii. A three-man crew from Ironclad Armored Courier will transport the cash to its cargo terminal at Oakland International Airport.”

Felk positioned his laptop on the table and consulted it.

“In addition to GPS, Ironclad’s truck has an engine kill switch, which can be activated remotely via satellite by Ironclad’s dispatcher. The dispatcher can override the driver and stop any truck in their fleet at any time, to counter hijackings, thefts, robberies.”

Felk had photos of Ironclad’s depot in Millbrae.

“As some of you know, we have an ex-contractor friend, Dante. After his tour of Iraq, he worked with classified nuclear national security systems at the Livermore lab before the economy took his job. It left him bitter and in debt. We hired him.

“Dante has demonstrated to us that from his laptop, he can bypass Ironclad’s online security, seize control of the truck and shut it down at any point. He killed the engine on an Ironclad truck making deliveries in San Bruno. The company thought it was a stall-throttle issue.”

“We could’ve used him at Ramapo,” Unger said.

“He wasn’t available for that stage.” Felk tapped the map. “Let’s review assignments. We have a cache of equipment in a storage locker in Daly City, with new bikes. We had help purchasing them. On the sixteenth, Unger and I will surveil the Ironclad truck. We’ll follow it when it exits the reserve, over the Bay Bridge and into Alameda County. The rest of you will join us when the truck leaves the eight-eighty for the airport.

“At that point Dante will remotely detonate two small IEDs we’ll set up in safe areas at a school and a mall near the airport. That will create enough fear and chaos to occupy emergency services. Within minutes after the IEDs go, the truck will be on a clear strip of Air Cargo Road. Dante kills the truck’s engine. It stops and we move in fast.

“In California we’ll obtain a new frequency device through Dante that jams all cell phones and radio messages in a half-mile radius. The crew and any wireless user witnessing our operation will be rendered incommunicado.

“Rytter and Unger will first affix C4 to the truck’s driver and passenger doors. Dillon and I cover up front. Rytter and Unger then affix C4 to the rear doors. Northcutt covers. We detonate, toss flash bangs into the truck, immobilize the crew, offload and haul ass on the bikes to the vehicle switch point in San Leandro. Then we drive to our meeting point in Sacramento where we courier the cash to our contact in Kuwait City, just like we’ll do with this cash tomorrow. Dillon will ship it to Kuwait from couriers in Kingston, Ottawa, Toronto and Montreal.”

Felk glanced at the Ramapo cash, neatly arranged beside other bags of items in a far corner. The cash was wrapped with bands stamped Imitation Studio Prop Supplies—Movie Prop Notes Not Legal Tender.

“We had considered shipping the money by air transport in steel coffins—a repatriation of human remains—but that method is subject to greater Customs scrutiny, including X-ray screening, so we decided to be obvious.

“Shipping by movie prop money courier is a huge risk, but this is the fastest way to move our cash, under the circumstances. We’re shotgunning the delivery in several small packages through different courier companies to reduce chances of the entire load getting tripped up in Customs somewhere. Our Kuwait City contact will arrange to ship the cash to Karachi. After San Francisco, we all meet in Karachi, pick up the cash and equipment. We then go to Quetta, contact the go-between and use the money to lead us to our guys and lay waste to the fuckers who took them.”

Felk paused to take a hit of coffee from his mug.

“Tomorrow we’ll disperse and all move out. We must meet by the twelfth at the hotel in San Francisco to give us plenty of time for a few dry runs. You all have cash and credit cards. Travel any way you like to get there. I think it should be less risky entering the United States—they’re not expecting us to be entering the States. Besides, they’ve got no description of us. They have nothing. No one knows what to look for.”

“But the news reports say they have an eyewitness,” Northcutt said.

“I think that’s bullshit. We were careful. We took steps. We left nothing to ID us, no DNA, no casings, nothing.”

“What about the reward?” Dillon said. “What if someone gives us up?”

“No one will give us up. Everybody helping us is in some way tied to the people we’re going to rescue. They’re all part of this.”

Felk went to his laptop and activated the latest video of his members being tormented by the insurgents holding them. He turned the screen to Rytter, Unger, Dillon and Northcutt and looked them in the eye.

“This could be any one of you. We will not leave our men behind. We are at war. If the guards in California resist, kill them all.”

The meeting ended with each man retreating into his thoughts.

As they prepared for travel, they contended with the horrors that haunted them. They were ghosts of what they once were. It was an unspoken truth they’d recognized about themselves in the shadows of their darkened eyes. They were chained to their comrades taken hostage and the sword of Damocles hung over all of them.

We are the dead, the dying and the damned, Felk thought. We have nothing to lose.

Watching Dillon pack the Ramapo cash for shipping, Felk took interest in one of the small bags Dillon had repositioned. It contained various items Rytter had scooped up with the cash that had spilled onto the service center’s floor. Rytter had kept them because he figured they might hold potential use for the squad.

Felk examined the FBI agent’s badge and his ID.

Special Agent Gregory Scott Dutton stared at Felk from his laminated ID photo. All-American pumped with righteousness from Bridgeport, Connecticut. Felk looked through Dutton’s wallet. It held about a hundred in cash, credit cards, bank card, loyalty cards; a receipt for a headlight set from a Newburgh, New York, dealer. A woman’s face beamed at Felk from a snapshot.

That would be the wife.

Felk looked back at Dutton’s bureau ID. The agent’s eyes were burning bright, duty-bound; fated to make a stupid move. Yet some of the news reports portrayed him as a hero who’d sacrificed his life. Probably get some sort of hero’s full-color honor-guard funeral at Arlington. Felk sneered.

What did his men get for their sacrifice?

They were dragged through a backwater street like animals, their bodies desecrated.

And what about his men held captive and tortured?

What awaited them if Felk’s squad failed to deliver the ransom?

Decapitation.

There’d be no honoring of their work; the risks they took, the price they paid, the blood they’d given, the toll exacted. No memorials. They were throwaway heroes, every one of them.

Including his younger brother.

Clayton.

“Don’t leave me!”

Staring out the window to the lake, Felk suddenly saw himself at ten in Ohio during winter.

Just him and Clay, getting set to play hockey on the frozen pond near the house. The Felk brothers are the first of the boys to arrive for the game. No one else is in sight and Clay’s practice pass bounces over Ivan’s stick and the puck glides far over the ice.

So very far.

Ivan skates after it over smooth-as-glass ice, so clear he can see the muddied bottom with undulating grass, even fish, it’s like he’s flying until the air cracks and the ice collapses under him and instantly he’s in the water, so cold it punches his breath from him as he plunges to the bottom where he drives his skates into the mud and pushes up, breaking the surface, body stabbed numb, ears ringing with hysteria.

“Clay! Help me, Clay!”

In his thrashing panic Ivan sees his little brother skating…AWAY! OH, GOD, HE’S SKATING AWAY! NO!

“Clay, don’t leave me! C-C-Cla—Clay—HELP ME!”

At eight years old, Clay’s heart is nearly bursting, skating so hard to old man Corbin’s dock, and the post that has that white old-fashioned lifesaver with the rope. Snow covers the ice and now Clay’s running on his skates, snot tears tightening on his face as he yanks and jerks and pulls the rope and trips and runs then skates while crying choking sobs, hearing Ivan’s screams, praying he’s still thrashing in the water. Clay skates, but it’s so far and the rope’s uncoiling behind him, but Clay skates and skates and like Dad showed them drops to his belly on the ice near Ivan and slides the lifesaver to Ivan who gets it over his arms yelling, “Pull, Clay!” Clay slides to the end of the rope, digs in his blades, feeling the weight of his big brother’s life at the end and Ivan feels the strength of Clay’s will dragging him from the icy jaws of death, wrapping his jacket around him and practically carrying him to old man Corbin’s door where there’s a hot stove going inside pounding on that stinking cracked door hearing his old mutt yapping the old man’s eyes JESUS! Ivan’s covered in ice his lips are blue heat spills from the house and Clay’s begging help my brother please! Oh please help him…

Felk turned from the window to his computer and replayed the last video from the insurgents, his rage building as he watches the sword rise over his brother’s head as Clay’s cries echo with his own from the pond.

“Don’t let me die! Ivan, please! Don’t let me die!”

Hang on, I’m coming, Clay.

Felk swallowed and turned back to the bag of items collected by Rytter from the service center. What’s this? There was something else that got swept up with the cash Rytter had recovered.

It was a plastic photo-ID employee card for Good Buy Supermart.

Felk looked at the woman on the card.

Her face was familiar: She was the woman next to the cop.

Was she the eyewitness? Was she the threat, the one thing that could stop them? No. No way. She didn’t see anything.

Right?

She didn’t see anything. There’s no goddamn way a supermarket clerk can stop this operation. Who is she?

He studied the ID

Lisa Palmer.

Felk stared at Lisa’s face for a very long time.

21

New York City

Tense from a troubled sleep, Jack Gannon woke early.

In the predawn light he saw his files blanketing him, fished out his splayed notebook and paged through his late-night thoughts on his tipster.

Mr. Anonymous could be linked to the heist.

In the wake of the murders, the caller’s cryptic information now rang too many alarm bells. Gannon had to steal time to chase this lead down, but couldn’t tell anyone what he was doing.

If it dead-ended, then no one would know.

If it turned out to be something, he’d alert Lisker.

Following a hunch never sat well with editors and, unlike some reporters, Gannon never oversold a story.

He started a pot of coffee then climbed into the shower.

After a breakfast of microwaved bacon on a cold bagel with lettuce, tomato and mayo, and orange juice, he fired up his laptop and got to work. He downed his coffee while checking the major news websites to see if his competition had advanced the story.

Nobody had hard news, mostly rehash. All was good until he read the lead item from the New York Daily News.

$6.3M Armored Car Heist Killers Fled Upstate The ice-cold killers who vanished with $6.3M after gunning down three guards and an FBI agent may be in Upstate New York near the Canadian border, sources told the Daily News.

Gannon cursed. The Daily News reported that locals near Alexandria Bay, New York, told police they’d spotted sport bikes that fit the general description of those in nationally broadcast security video. The exclusive gave the tabloid the jump. Expecting Lisker to call soon and scream at him, Gannon turned to his work.

He would devote as much time as he could get away with to pursuing his instincts on the caller. Then he’d turn to another angle: New York State police trooper Brad West, his friend who’d helped him at the scene.

Later he would press Brad to get his wife, the Ramapo cop, to help him find out more on the eyewitness. There had to be a way to get to the woman who saw the FBI agent’s murder up close.

For now, Gannon laid out every note he had on his tipster.

Judging from his voice, Gannon placed the guy in his late twenties. He was plain-speaking, maybe a blue-collar background, sounded concerned, troubled. He kept calling Gannon sir.

Military?

There wasn’t a whole lot of solid information. Gannon was mindful of the caller’s tone and his genuine fear, as again he scrutinized the key aspects of the content of his calls.

“This is big! I swear to God what I’m telling you is true!”

“It involves an operation, a mission, an attack on America.”

Then Gannon told him there was nothing he could do with vague, groundless information, that he needed something solid to support it, like documents or some sort of evidence. Gannon thought that would scare him off, as it did with most calls of this nature, but his tipster surprised him by agreeing to meet.

“I’ll bring the confirmation you need.”

They’d agreed to meet at a diner near Times Square. Gannon waited there, but was stood up and never heard from the guy again.

That’s how it ended.

Gannon checked the timeline.

That was three days before the heist.

Damn, he needed to find this guy, to determine if his tip was valid.

What if it was somehow connected to the murders? What happened?

Gannon went online, panning the social chatter on Facebook, Twitter and other social networks for anything related to the heist that might be a lead. Nothing useful surfaced.

He went back to his notes, recalling how his tipster had called him five times over ten days. Caller ID showed that all the calls came from pay phones in New York City. At the time, Gannon figured there was no use following up the numbers, but now he realized the pay-phone numbers were his only connection to the caller.

Gannon had noted the dates and times of the calls. Two came from two different phones in Manhattan, but three of the calls came from the same number. The guy could’ve been calling near where he lived or worked.

The number started with 914–969.

That was a prefix primarily used in Yonkers.

With everyone using cell phones, pay phones were disappearing; the WPA had done features on the trend. Gannon used online directories and quickly located the pay phone his tipster had used three times. It was in the 300 block of Warburton Avenue in Yonkers.

Within minutes, Gannon was in his old Pontiac Vibe, northbound on the Henry Hudson Parkway. Whenever he could, Gannon avoided driving in New York. The traffic and parking were nightmares. But this morning he needed flexibility and took his car.

Traffic was good and the city was coming to life by the time he arrived in Yonkers. The moment he found a parking space on Warburton, his cell phone rang. It was Lisker.

“Where are you, Gannon?”

“Yonkers. I’ll be in a bit later.”

“What are you doing there?”

“I’m chasing something.”

“What? Be more specific.”

“I’m chasing an angle about the heist being an inside job.”

“What? The New York Signal had that yesterday. Did you see this morning’s Daily News?”

“Yes.”

“We got beat again. Will your lead top the Daily News?”

“I won’t know until I check it out.”

“Be quick. CBS News just said a massive ground search for the suspects will be launched today near Alexandria Bay. We’re sending people from our Syracuse bureau. I want you on standby.”

“Okay.”

“We’re losing this story, Gannon. We need to break this thing wide open! They tell me you’re good, but I’m not seeing it.”

“I’m pushing my sources.”

“Push harder.”

Lisker ended the call.

Gannon exhaled.

I’m on the ropes here. He took a hit of coffee from his commuter mug and sent texts to Brad West, Adell Clark and Eugene Bennett.

He got out of his car and walked the block and a half to the pay phone.

There it was.

A pedestal style with a metal enclosure scarred and laced with graffiti.

Gannon confirmed the number and took stock of this section of the avenue: a mix of small businesses, a deli, a check-cashing store, a florist, a beer wholesaler, auto shop, electronics store, hair salon and farther down, an assortment of tired-looking postwar homes and small apartment buildings.

Gannon had done his homework. He knew buildings on the east side of the two-way street backed on to the Old Croton Aqueduct Trailway. It was a long narrow park. Due east of it was Pine Street, where David Berkowitz, the killer known as the Son of Sam, lived before he was arrested.

Welcome to the crime beat.

Gannon popped a stick of gum into his mouth to help him think. There was one very slim chance he’d get anywhere with this lead.

Security cameras.

Covering crime, he knew that most businesses invested in a good security system to reduce the risk of theft, vandalism, liability and to lower insurance rates. These days most systems were digital, making it easier to store video records indefinitely.

Standing at the pay phone, he turned three hundred and sixty degrees, eyeing all the stores, checking off those with a line-of-sight for cameras. He had the time of the last call he’d received from this phone. He had to determine which stores had cameras; if they were angled to capture enough of the street and the phone clearly; and if he could persuade them to check their archives for him.

Easy.

Yeah, right, he told himself.

In a city where everyone was suspicious of everyone, he knew it would be as easy as asking for someone’s wallet.

What did he have to lose?

The phone stood directly in front of the Big Smile Deli Mart.

Gannon would start there.

22

Yonkers, New York

The deli mart was a two-story weather-beaten redbrick building with a retracted roll-up steel door.

The store was open for business. Customers were coming and going.

Outside, it had two exterior stands. Fresh, terraced selections of tomatoes, peppers, onions, mushrooms, lettuce were on one side of the door. Apples, pears, oranges, bananas, lemons and grapefruit filled the other stand.

There was a neon beer sign flickering in one window.

Inside, the store’s hardwood floors creaked. The air smelled of damp cardboard and nearly soured milk. Its four aisles were narrowed between shelves jammed with groceries. The cold case had beer, soft drinks, milk, eggs, yogurt, ice cream and butter. The deli counter had a display case with an array of meats, salads and pastries.

A slender Middle Eastern man in his early seventies stood behind the counter. A security camera was mounted on the wall above him, angled over the register and the door with an unobstructed view to the street and the pay phone.

This held promise, Gannon thought.

The old man’s droopy dark eyes took quick note of Gannon’s interest in his camera while he rang in the purchases of the three customers at the counter.

Gannon wanted to approach the clerk when he was alone and walked down an aisle to buy some time. There was a man wearing a Yankees cap at the newsstand flipping through GQ and an old woman browsing the deli display case. A younger Middle Eastern man and older woman were working behind the deli counter. Both wore white aprons.

When the counter traffic cleared, Gannon approached the old man.

“Excuse me.” He placed his business card on the surface over the lottery-ticket case, opened his wallet to his press badge. “I’m a reporter with the World Press Alliance and I was hoping you could help me.”

The man glanced at Gannon’s ID, then his card, without touching it. His impassive face bore a pencil mustache. Gannon continued.

“I’m trying to locate a man who called me from the pay phone out front and I thought maybe if we could view your security camera’s recordings it might help.”

The old man shrugged and shook his head.

“It’s important,” Gannon said. “I’d be willing to compensate you.”

The man shook his head. His eyes shifted to the younger man who’d come from the deli to the counter, likely the old man’s son.

“Who are you?” the younger man asked Gannon.

Gannon identified himself and started repeating his request before he was cut off by the old man, who issued a stream of what Gannon guessed was Arabic to the younger man.

As the two men talked, the old woman, wiping her hands on her apron, joined them in a heated three-way conversation. Gannon knew his request had hit on some deep-seated emotions. The younger man turned to him.

“We can’t help you.”

“It’s all right, I understand.”

“No, you don’t. After 9/11, our store was robbed. My father was beaten. Two years ago, we were robbed again and the scum dogs told him they had a right to his money because he supported al-Qaeda. They were ignorant racists. My parents are Americans. They’ve lived here for forty years. I was born here. We pay taxes, we vote and we mind our own business. He would like to help you, but he’s afraid there would be repercussions. Okay? So unless you’re going to buy something, I’m sorry, but we must ask you to leave.”

Gannon thanked them.

After he left, he headed for the check-cashing office across the street.

Eyeing the security camera over the counter, Gannon was satisfied that it was aimed at the door and the pay phone.

“May I help you?” asked an Asian woman in her twenties, wearing a blazer and a smile that weakened a bit as Gannon explained. When he finished, she said, “I’ll ask my boss,” and picked up a cell phone.

Gannon knew it was futile here.

He turned to the window and she relayed his request. While waiting for the predictable answer, his attention went across the street to the floral shop beside the deli mart. A shapely woman was tending to the flowers in the street display.

“I’m sorry,” the Asian woman said, and Gannon turned. “But my boss says you have to make your request to corporate security downtown.” She jotted down the number on a corner torn from the back page of the New York Post she was reading and passed it to him.

The business next door was an electronics shop.

Gannon saw the shop’s security camera trained at the proper angle. He looked to the counter and the balding manager with an assortment of pens jutting from his pocket protector. An older woman was trying to understand his directions on how to program her cell phone.

“Be right with you, sir,” the manager said.

Gannon nodded, went to the side of the store and stood before the array of big-screen TVs, watching a replay of last night’s Yankees game.

At that moment, a second man entered the store. Gannon recognized him as the guy reading magazines in the deli mart, the Yankees cap.

“They sucked last night,” the ball cap guy said, joining him at the TVs.

He was about fifty, six feet with a potbelly straining a mustard-stained Mets T-shirt. The cuffs of his jeans were frayed and the guy needed a shave, a haircut and, judging from his greasy strands, maybe a shower.

“Yeah, that’s too bad.” Gannon moved to the display of laptops.

“I might be able to help you,” the ball cap guy said.

“Sorry?” Gannon turned back.

“I overheard you in the deli asking about security tape and I might be able to help you.”

Gannon doubted it.

“How can you help me?”

“I’m with a Community Watch program.” He nodded upward. “I live on the second floor above this store and I keep electronic surveillance of the street. I work closely with the NYPD.”

“Is that right?”

“Yup, and if we can reach an agreeable consulting fee, I could check my recordings for the dates you’re interested in.”

“And what fee would be agreeable?”

“Seeing how you work for a big news agency, let’s say one thousand.”

“Too high.” Gannon smiled. “I don’t even know if you have what I’m looking for, and if the quality is acceptable. I’ll give you fifty to check and another fifty if you have what I need.”

“Make it two hundred in total.”

“One-fifty, and only if you have what I need, in good quality. Agreed?”

The ball cap had to scratch his whiskers to decide.

“One-fifty, fine.”

“Let me get your name and ID first. Got a driver’s license?”

“Driver’s license? What do you need that for?”

“My personal security against getting ripped off.”

“Well, I’m not too sure about that.”

“That’s what I figured. Have a nice day.” Gannon started to turn.

“Hold on.” The ball cap guy reached for his wallet and handed Gannon his license. His name was Jerry Falco. He was fifty-three. Gannon took down all his information before Falco snatched his license back.

“Satisfied?” Falco asked.

Gannon presented him with a business card and his WPA ID.

Falco eyeballed him for several seconds then invited Gannon to follow him. They went outside to the door between the electronics shop and check-cashing office. Falco pressed buttons on the security keypad, opened the door for Gannon. The building reeked of cats. Gannon tried not to breathe deeply as Falco led him up a narrow wooden staircase.

There were two apartments with scuffed doors across from each other. The walls were webbed with cracked plaster. Neither door had a number or nameplate. Falco’s keys jingled as he inserted them into the lock and turned. Before opening the door, he hesitated.

“I need you to wait out here a bit while I go in and tidy up, all right?”

“Sure,” Gannon said, thinking, I’ll just hold my breath and try not to inhale a fur ball.

Falco opened the door, entered then shut it. In that instant, Gannon thought he saw a camera on a tripod aimed at the street below.

Weird.

But Gannon also glimpsed a display of photographs taped to a wall; a collection of shots of the flower shop and the shapely woman he’d just seen tending to her flowers.

Was this guy some kind of voyeur or peeping perv?

As Gannon contemplated the question, his BlackBerry vibrated.

The number was blocked. Gannon answered, keeping his voice low.

“Jack, this is Brad. I got your message.”

“What’s up with Ramapo?”

“Buddy, I wish I could help you, but they’ve tightened things up.”

“Can you give me a hypothetical?”

“Afraid not. I had to make this call from a safe phone. I wish I could help, believe me. I have to go.”

“Wait, wait. If you were me, where would you go right now and what would you do?”

A long silent moment passed.

“Hypothetically?”

“Yes.”

“I’d haul myself back to the service center as fast as I could right now.”

“What’s going on, hypothetically?”

“I would just do it. Get there and watch and learn. I have to go.”

Gannon stood outside Falco’s door. Should he go to Ramapo now or wait? He wrestled with the decision amid the sounds of furniture being rearranged in Falco’s apartment. If he didn’t go to the center and missed something, Lisker would nail his balls to the newsroom wall.

“Mr. Falco!” Gannon knocked hard on the door. “Mr. Falco, I have to go!”

Falco’s door opened about six inches.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Falco, I have to go, but I’ll be back.”

“I don’t understand. I only need a few more minutes, then you can come in and I’ll help you find what you’re looking for.”

Gannon held up a crisp twenty, folded around his business card.

“This is for you. I will be back. I really need to do this, but I have to go. Believe me, I want to see your stuff and we have a deal, but I have to go.”

Falco inspected the twenty as Gannon rushed down the stairs, to the street and trotted to his car.

23

Ramapo, Metropolitan New York City

Morrow stopped the car at the main entrance of the Freedom Freeway Service Center.

Dr. Sullivan, in the front passenger seat, turned to Lisa in the back.

“How are you holding up? Are you sure you can you do this?”

Lisa was looking directly ahead, her hands clasped together in her lap as she struggled with the panic rattling through her.

A part of me died here, Lisa thought.

She’d agreed to return to the center this morning after two more difficult and fruitless interviews the previous night. Sullivan had said that research showed that on-the-scene sessions increased the accuracy of memories and the chances of unlocking suppressed details.

But there were risks.

As the engine ticked down and Morrow consulted his phone, Sullivan searched Lisa’s face and touched her hand.

“Remember, we discussed the downside, Lisa.”

Lisa nodded. Reliving the event also increased the potential to intensify the emotional fallout and further traumatize the witness.

“After I do this, my kids and I are going home, okay? That was the deal. I will do everything I can to help you catch these monsters, but my kids and I need our lives back. We’ve got a lot to sort out, you know?”

“I understand,” Sullivan said.

Morrow finished on his phone.

“Let’s go, we’re ready.”

With the exception of a few emergency and service vehicles, the parking lot was deserted. A teenage boy wearing a Freedom Freeway T-shirt and ball cap was trying to corral the discarded ribbons of yellow crime scene tape slithering across the lot. The service center’s big sign out front said SORRY TEMPORARILY CLOSED; so did the one printed in block letters on the sheet of paper taped inside the glass door.

The flutter and clang of the flagpoles underscored the quiet.

Morrow held up his palm, indicating that he, Lisa and Sullivan would wait outside the entrance as Agent Craig Roberts, holding a walkie-talkie, exited to greet them.

“Almost ready now,” he told Morrow. “Heads-up, manager behind me.”

“Got it,” Morrow said.

The FBI’s Evidence Response Team had been poised to clear and release the scene last night when Morrow alerted them to hang on to it. The delay frustrated Mac Foyt, the center’s manager, who had followed Roberts outside to plead to Morrow.

“Agent Morrow, we were told we could open this morning.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Foyt. We’re going to need a little more time.”

A breeze kicked up the pages on Foyt’s clipboard and lifted his tie as he undid the collar button on his white shirt and tried to make a case.

“We’re respectful of what happened, don’t get me wrong,” Foyt said. “We’re cooperating, but I’m getting calls from companies that are planning routes, fuel schedules. I’ve got my staff on hold, a hell of a lot of business on the line.”

“We ask for your patience a little while longer, Mr. Foyt,” Morrow said.

Roberts clipped a small microphone to Lisa’s collar. It was wired to a pack she’d helped him fasten to the side of her waist.

“Good. This will pick up everything you say,” Roberts said as the walkie-talkie he’d set on the ground crackled. Roberts grabbed it, spoke into it, then to Morrow and the others.

“Ready,” he said, then turned to the manager. “Mr. Foyt, you’ll have to excuse us, but we need you and your staff to clear the area now.”

“It’s just me and Aaron.” Foyt grimaced and whistled to the teenager in the lot. As they walked together to a Cadillac Seville parked some distance away, Sullivan acknowledged Morrow’s nod and turned to Lisa.

“We’re going to begin. All set?”

As if cued, the air split with motorcycle engines starting up and Lisa caught her breath. Four of them idled about fifty yards down the roadway beside a white unmarked panel van.

“Now? We’re doing it now? I thought we’d walk in and talk first.”

“No, we have to replicate the event cold, like this. It’s the most effective way.” Sullivan put her hand on Lisa’s shoulder. “We’ve used statements to re-create everything as accurately as possible. The people in the vehicles and inside are all law enforcement—FBI, state, local.”

Roberts held the door open for Lisa.

It was moving too fast. Lisa took a breath, then entered with Sullivan beside her, encouraging her to narrate every memory, sensation and detail.

Upon stepping into the lobby, Lisa’s skin tingled and the small hairs at the back of her neck prickled. The scene was otherworldly. Nearly two dozen casually dressed men and women were at the ATMs, or looking at the big map, or in the store, or the lobby. She recognized Detective Percy Quinn and Anita Rowan with the Ramapo P.D.

Oh, God, just like before, yet different.

There was an eerie, deceiving quiet; a funereal air. There was activity, yet it was as if the service center were a mausoleum, empty of life.

As if she were watching ghosts.

Sullivan was beside her, gently urging her to report details.

“Don’t hold back, Lisa,” she whispered.

Lisa swallowed.

“I remember I needed to pee then get some magazines and a snack … The air-conditioning felt good, people were at the ATMs…people were in the store… I went to the store, picked up snacks and magazines. I got in line to pay and remember it was taking a long time…”

As she went through the chronology of events, recalling how the lights went off then on again, how she paid for her items, how she started back across the lobby, she glimpsed Roberts talk into his walkie-talkie and soon two men entered with a cart and bags.

The guards.

Lisa froze.

Through the window she saw the white van doubling as American Centurion’s armored car. Then she heard the motorcycles, saw men in racing suits and helmets with dark visors enter, extend their arms, shape their hands, their forefingers, as if holding a gun.

Pop! Pop!

Lisa flinched as the ghost killers shouted the firing sounds. Her heart beat faster as she detailed events, moment by moment.

Even the scene outside was replayed.

Inside, the killers barked commands. Lisa went numb. Her legs crumpled and she was on the floor—in the very same spot—it was absent of blood, absent of death, but reeked of industrial bleach.

Oh, God, no!

A man was on the floor beside her, facing her, about the same age as the agent, and he started saying, “I’m a cop…my gun’s on my hip under my shirt…slide closer, lift it out…tuck it under me…I can get off shots…”

Lisa’s thought process spun into a whirlwind of what was remembered, what was re-created and what was real.

Everything went blue.

She can’t breathe as her trembling hand reaches for his weapon…she can’t feel it because she knows what’s coming…she drops it and the gunman rushes to them with such fury, seizing the weapon, the man’s wallet, extending his arm, his hand, his gun finger…

Lisa recounts every detail, when she is overcome.

“NO. GOD, NO! DON’T KILL HIM!”

But the gunman shouted.

BANG!

Lisa spasmed as her memory replayed the hot splatter of blood—the explosion.

The killer moved to her.

No, wait.

In that instant, as the killer’s finger pushed violently against Lisa’s skull, it happened. In the terrifying moment between one death and her life, it happened. Her heart skipped.

Time stopped.

With the unbearable pressure mounting on her skull, the horrifying images rewound to the shooter placing his gun against Agent Gregory Scott Dutton’s head. His last words—“Jennifer, I love you”—roared in Lisa’s ears and memory rewound a bit more to that sickening instant when the killer extended his arm and the cuff of his racing suit slipped back and in a searing telltale flash Lisa sees…

SHE SEES IT!

Lisa grabbed the shooter’s arm, clamped it in a viselike grip.

“A tattoo!” she shouts from the floor. “He’s got a tattoo!”

Morrow’s eyes widen. Jerked into action, he pulled out his notepad.

“Help her up! Quick!” Morrow said. “Lisa, please, can you sketch it now!”

Lisa was sobbing convulsively as Sullivan helped her to a sitting position, passed her the pad and sat on the floor with her.

“It was like a snake caught in ropes,” Lisa managed to say through her tears, struggling to steady her hand as she drew. “The snake’s head was up like it was going to bite, its mouth open, showing fangs, and the ropes and things were kind of braided.”

After several moments, Lisa passed her sketch to Morrow.

“Please, don’t ask me to do any more today. Please.”

“No, Lisa. We’re done for today. You did very well. Everyone did very well,” Morrow said, then huddled around her drawing with other investigators.

Sullivan comforted Lisa, praising her amid her quiet sniffles. They sat that way for a long time. Someone brought Lisa a Coke while Morrow and the others absorbed the break, quietly sending emails and making calls. Morrow approached Lisa, apologetic. There was one more thing. He asked Lisa to allow an NYPD sketch artist to work with her at fine-tuning the tattoo image when she returned to the hotel.

“It won’t take long. It’s important,” Morrow said.

Lisa agreed.

Off to the side, Agent Roberts was on the phone to Agents Vicky Chan and Eve Watson. He was arranging to drive Lisa back to the hotel in Manhattan so she could work in the room with the sketch artist before collecting Ethan and Taylor and going home to Queens.

Then Agent Roberts, another agent and Dr. Sullivan prepared to leave the service center with Lisa. They were outside the entrance when Morrow caught up to them.

“Lisa.” He took her hands. “Thank you. I know this was painful.”

“Catch them, Frank.”

“We will. I’ve taken care of whatever you may need at your house while we continue investigating. From surveillance to having someone stay with you, if you want.”

“Well, our lives have already been turned upside down.”

“Whatever you’re comfortable with. Think it over and let us know.”

“Okay.” She tried to smile before noticing someone approaching.

“Excuse me, Agent Morrow?”

Everyone’s attention shifted.

“Jack Gannon, World Press Alliance. Sorry for interrupting, but I was wondering if you could update your progress on the investigation?”

Morrow was quick to respond.

“The investigation continues. We have no further comment at this time. We’ll update the press when we have something.”

“And here?” Gannon looked at Lisa and assessed that she was not a cop. In fact, she looked familiar. Was this the woman he’d seen with Morrow before? “What can you tell me about the nature of your investigation here? I’m sorry, miss, you are…?”

“I—I—” Lisa shot a look to Morrow. “I’m not sure I can—”

Morrow’s jaw tightened.

“She has no comment at this time.” Morrow positioned himself between Gannon and Lisa. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, please.”

“Is that right, miss? Does Agent Morrow speak for you?”

“Beat it, Gannon,” Morrow said.

“Let me pass you my card.”

Before Gannon could pull a business card from his wallet, Roberts, Morrow and the other agent got Lisa into an FBI sedan.

As it wheeled away, Lisa’s eyes met Gannon’s.

She kept looking at him until the car disappeared toward the thruway back to Manhattan, her children and her life.

24

New York City

A cobra, entwined in thorns, hood flared, fangs exposed.

Experts said it represented a feared killer ready to strike from the depths of its agony. The black-and-gray drawing filled the large monitor in the boardroom at the FBI’s Manhattan office.

“This is a solid break for us,” Morrow told the investigators who’d gathered for an emergency case-status meeting late in the day.

Lisa Palmer’s sketch had been enhanced to a sharp pencil image of the deadly snake. Its body twisted with bramble, circling the wrist of the suspect who’d murdered FBI Special Agent Gregory Scott Dutton and at least one of the three guards.

“To date, we still have no latents, no casings, no plate, no DNA. This descriptor is the strongest lead we’ve got so far. It came from our key eyewitness this morning.”

Morrow said it had emerged after interviews with a psychiatrist and was reliable. The witness had been positioned next to the shooter’s wrist. Earlier in the day, after recalling the tattoo, the witness worked with an NYPD police sketch artist to ensure accuracy of the detail. The image had just been submitted to the Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System, which also held information on tattoos, scars, photos and other physical characteristics on some sixty-six million people.

“We’ve also submitted it to every possible U.S. agency—military, prison security and gang task forces at national, state, local police levels—alerting them to look for any individuals bearing a similar tattoo. We’ve advised they exercise extreme caution and alert us.”

Glenda Stark added: “We’ve also alerted Interpol, U.S. Customs, airports, train and bus terminals. But we’re not releasing the information to the press at this time.”

Al Dimarco, a New York detective with the Joint Bank Robbery Task Force, stared at her from his status sheet over his bifocals.

“Why not?” Dimarco was puzzled.

“We’re pressing intelligence sources first,” Morrow said.

“Meanwhile, you go with this needle-in-a-haystack search for your cobra killer?” Dimarco said. “Cripes, blast the tattoo to the press, it goes viral and the whole freakin’ world is looking for our guy within hours, Frank.”

For a second, Morrow envisioned a New York Post headline: FBI Search for “Cobra Killer.” Morrow respected Dimarco, a legend with the NYPD, but had always considered him to be too cozy with the New York press, liked to see his work on the front pages.

“Yes, Al, we could give it to the press, but we believe our subjects don’t know we have it. If we told the press, we’d be giving our edge to the suspects, who could take every effort to cover it. These guys are good. Let’s work quietly with intel first. The tattoo could be the key to us grabbing the whole crew and its network. If we blast it through the media, we alert the subjects that we’re coming.”

Dimarco shrugged. Morrow flipped through his file before stressing his point.

“You all got the handouts and the e-version, but I’ll state the obvious—we want everyone who is canvassing and recanvassing to show the tattoo, especially to employees at the service center and American Centurion.”

“Hold up, I’ve got another question,” Dimarco said. “If these guys are so smart, why did they leave a living witness?”

“They left a lot of living witnesses,” Morrow said.

“I’m talking about our tattoo witness here,” Dimarco said. “She was less than two feet from the shooter. He had a gun to her head, then pulled away. They’d already knocked down four. Why didn’t they put her down?”

“I would say they were sensitive to response time. They were working by a clock. They could’ve seen people in the parking lot making calls,” said Percy Quinn. “Witnesses reported seeing one shooter urging the gunman to leave the scene. We figure they feared they were taking too long and that locals were responding.”

“That’s plausible,” Morrow said. “Unless you’ve got another theory on that, Al?”

“No, but it’s very fortuitous that she was not killed.”

“We have no reason to suspect she was involved, if that’s what you’re getting at, Al?”

“No, it just struck me as odd.”

“She begged for her life,” Morrow said.

Glenda Stark requested Morrow move the meeting along.

“All right, updates,” Morrow said. “Going around the table—what do we know from confidential informants, what are we hearing from the street?”

“Even with the reward, we’re not getting much,” Tony Carza, a New York detective, said. “It’s an indication that these guys are not known locally.”

“The call line, tips?” Morrow asked.

“Got about sixty that we’re following,” Agent Hughes said. “Half of them related to possible sightings of the sport bikes from the public appeal using the security video, but nothing concrete.”

“Financial?” Morrow asked. “Anything from banks, casinos, on large amounts of cash, wire-transfer services?”

Agent David Whitfield, an expert in white-collar crime, reported that nothing unusual had surfaced that could be tied to the heist.

Morrow took a moment to think.

“All right, we know that these guys knew to be there at that time,” he said. “They knew to hit that truck at the top of its route when it was heavy. What about the Freedom Freeway? Percy, who has access to delivery and pick-up times?”

“Mac Foyt and his secretary, Betsy Leeds. They handle the receipts. American Centurion services the ATMs on the same trip roughly every five days, although they float the times and dates.”

“And how is that communicated to the center?”

“Verbally. American calls Betsy or Foyt. We looked at both, but they have been cleared. Leeds is a choir leader at her church.”

“And the staff?”

“We’re working our way through background. Len Purdy, the dishwasher at the restaurant, did time at Rikers ten years ago. He stole Corvettes and Ferraris and lived it up in Atlantic City. His buddies at the Bottoms Up, a local dive bar, claim he wondered about knocking off an armored car, but Purdy says it was bar talk. The only risk he takes is with lottery tickets.”

“That it?”

“We also looked at Amy Danson, a clerk at the center’s grocery store. Her husband is doing a hard stretch at Northern State in Newark. She visits him every weekend.”

“What’s he in for?”

Special Agent Stan Garlin with the Newark office said Tyson-Lee Danson had held up four liquor stores.

“Two in Trenton, one in Bayonne and one in Hoboken. He used a sawed-off shotgun. He’s a crackhead with a low IQ. We don’t think he is in the same league as our Cobra guys,” Garlin said.

“That’s it for the center so far,” Quinn said.

“Al, what’s the status with the task force and Armored Centurion? Do we know if our subjects had help there, or got access to routes and logs?”

Dimarco adjusted his bifocals, wet his index finger on his tongue and turned to his notebook.

“The company is cooperative as we continue to interview staff. As you know, every hire is prescreened, polygraphed, fingerprinted, criminal checks are made. So the list is fairly clean. We’ve got a lot of young security guards, retired cops, ex-military, the usual mix.”

“And support staff?”

“We’re working through all staff. We’re also looking at all former employees, anyone with a beef, anyone facing financial stress, the usual.”

“What about the routes? Did they print them out?”

“All documents were printed, given to the crews. When routes were completed, the data was entered into the company’s computer and the paper was shredded,” Dimarco said. “We’re building a pool of staff we’d like to reinterview. Some have already submitted to a polygraph. This afternoon we’ll have warrants for all phone records, computer records of all staff.”

“I’ll join you on the reinterviews, Al,” Morrow said.

“We’ve set them up for tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Morrow said. “That just about wraps it up, but before we break, I want to underscore that we have a lot of people helping on this case, but unauthorized release of information to the press will be regarded as obstruction. You all know that.” Morrow’s eyes went around the table and lingered on Dimarco just long enough for his point to be made.

As people began collecting their notes and phones, Glenda Stark interrupted them with an announcement.

“One last thing. The funeral for Special Agent Dutton will be held in Bridgeport, Connecticut. The director will be attending. The day and time is still being sorted. Everyone in law enforcement is welcome.”

It was late by the time Morrow got home.

He dropped his jacket on a chair and made his way to the kitchen. The lights were dimmed, but the counter and table were spotless. Not a dish or leftover in sight. Exhausted, he loosened his tie, glanced at the mail, then went to the living room. On his way, he met Beth, descending the stairs.

“How did it go today?” she asked.

“We got a break.”

“Good, I’m glad. We got pizza. There’s plenty left in the fridge.”

By his wife’s tone and the shine in her eyes, he knew all was not well as they went to the kitchen to talk.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Pepperoni.”

“No, what’s bothering you?”

“Jerrod told Hailey he likes someone else. She’s taking it hard. She’s in her room and won’t come out.”

“I’ll go talk to her.”

“No, she’s being consoled. Text support from her friends.”

Morrow accepted that there were places a father couldn’t go.

“Is she going to be okay?”

“She’s upset now, but she’ll be fine. It turns out they weren’t that involved. Better this happened now, rather than later. Are you going to eat some pizza?”

“No, I’m not hungry. How was your day?”

“Crappy.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Did you eat downtown?”

“No, I was working. I’m just not hungry, Beth. What is it?”

On the brink of saying something, Beth searched his face. Reconsidered, blinked several times and waved it all off. Morrow figured—hell, hoped—it was all to do with Hailey or Beth’s job.

“I’m going to have a shower, then look at some reports,” he said.

Later, in the living room Morrow reviewed where they were on the case. He flipped through all the agencies that would be acting on the alert for the tattoo. It was a good lead. Dimarco was right, it was tempting to circulate the info through the press, but they needed time.

He scanned some of the agencies. Air force, Office of Special Investigations, army CID, U.S. Marshals, Homeland Security, the Defense Intelligence Agency, Marine Corps Intelligence and the Naval Criminal Investigative Service. On and on it went. Somebody would have to come through. Dimarco and the task force were going full bore on the armored car company. Piece by piece they were getting closer, Morrow could feel it. If they could get another break…

He would clear this case.

He had to.

“Frank?”

Beth stood before him.

“Tell me what’s going on,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“I was doing laundry and I found this in one of your shirts.”

It was a business card for Dr. Arthur Stein, oncology specialist.

“I want the truth, Frank.” Her chin crumpled. “I deserve to know.” She nodded upstairs. “We deserve to know.”

Morrow looked at his wife. His mind raced back to the moment he’d first set eyes on her; then to the moment they were married; then to the moment when Hailey was born.

“Tell me, Frank.”

Something caught in his throat. His Adam’s apple rose and fell before he found his voice.

“I’ve got cancer. It’s terminal. I’m sorry.”

“Cancer? What? No. No.”

“I’ve got just over a year.”

Beth shook her head.

“No.” She kept shaking her head. “No, there must be a mistake.”

“There’s no mistake.”

“There has to be, Frank! We’ll find another doctor. We’ll—”

He took Beth in his arms, holding her as she cried softly so Hailey wouldn’t hear.

Suddenly overwhelmed by the pain of leaving them, he closed his eyes hard.

25

Ramapo and Southfields, New York

Gannon sat alone in a booth of the Moonshade Café and gazed into his second mug of coffee until the sting of self-rebuke subsided.

It was coming up on an hour since his disastrous confrontation down the road at the service center with Agent Morrow’s group.

It was not Gannon’s best moment.

He’d been borderline rude in scrambling to read the situation. He hadn’t expected to come upon Morrow leaving the scene with a woman who appeared troubled.

Something had happened in there with her. She had to be Morrow’s witness. I was so close, but I dropped the ball. What happened with that woman in the center?

Gannon searched the cream clouds of his coffee for the answer as he tried to determine his next step.

Time was slipping by.

Maybe he could salvage something out of the incident, shape it into a story? He needed help. Using his BlackBerry, he sent a message to Brad West, his state police source who’d tipped him to coming to the center today.

Am in your hood, got time to meet?

Gannon knew he was pushing things, but he had few options. Eugene Bennett hadn’t responded to his latest request, and he hadn’t heard back from Adell Clark. At the moment, Brad was his best shot.

After sending his message, he checked for any breaking stories on the heist. Nothing new had surfaced. The search upstate was the lead story of the day. Part of him wished he was up there. It was easier to report and if they made an arrest it would bust things wide open.

Lisker had also dispatched staff from the WPA’s Rochester bureau to support the team from Syracuse. They’d already filed words and images from the scene. The hunt had built-in drama, made for good pictures—helicopters, dogs and cops on ATVs combing the region—but so far it had failed to yield anything.

At least we’re covered there, Gannon thought, determined to follow his instincts and keep digging, just as Brad West responded to his message.

Where R U now, Jack?

Ramapo, Moonshade Café.

Meet us in 20 min at Jade Sun Chinese place S. of Southfields on 17, just N. of 17A on the right.

OK.

Us? Who is ‘us’? Gannon wondered.

Ten miles later, he arrived at the Jade Sun. Parked among the pickups and commercial vehicles. He noticed an unmarked police car.

Who belongs to the unmarked?

Gannon looked it over before he entered the diner. It smelled of deep-fried food. Cutlery clinked along with the hiss of running water and Johnny Cash singing “Ring of Fire.” Half the tables and booths were in use. Trooper Brad West was in uniform, occupying one side of a booth opposite a woman in a West Point sweatshirt and jeans.

“There he is.” Brad smiled at Gannon, offering his hand and a seat beside him as the woman turned.

“This is my wife, Detective Anita Rowan with Ramapo P.D. Anita, this is Jack Gannon, a reporter with the WPA.”

“Hello, nice to meet you.” Gannon shook Anita’s hand.

“I was telling her,” Brad said, “how if it wasn’t for you, the charity in Buffalo would have tanked. When I went to Jack, he wrote a fantastic story on the front page of the Buffalo Sentinel. That got us the benefit concert, and the donations rolled in like water over Niagara Falls. I told him he had a friend for life here. How ya doing, buddy?”

“Good, thanks, Brad. I appreciate this.”

“No problem, sit down. Ya hungry? The egg rolls are deadly here.” Brad glanced at the waiter. “My treat.”

“No, thanks.”

“Ya sure?”

“Just a ginger ale, maybe.”

“Can I get a ginger ale?” Brad repeated to the server, turning to Gannon.

“You’re all he ever talks about,” Anita said to Gannon, twisting a straw through her fingers. He sensed unease behind her smile. He was walking a tightrope. Brad West had a big heart. He trusted Gannon with his job and now he was going to extend that trust to include his wife, who, from the way she was working that straw, was apprehensive.

“How can we help you, buddy?” Brad said.

“Wait,” Anita asked. “You’re not going to use names or anything?”

“Don’t worry,” Brad said. “I told you, Jack’s a good man.”

“I protect sources, I don’t use names.”

Anita studied her straw.

“I saw you back at the center,” she said, “through the glass, outside with Agent Morrow.”

“You were there, inside?” Gannon said.

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me what you were doing?”

“Helping with the investigation.”

Their food arrived, a heaping plate for Brad, who dug in, and a salad for Anita. It was followed by ginger ale for Gannon, who sipped some, deciding it was time to play his cards.

“Maybe you could help me confirm a few things?” Gannon asked Anita.

“Maybe.”

“The woman with Morrow, who looked a bit distraught, that was a witness, right?”

“Right,” Anita said.

There’s my confirmation, Gannon thought.

“And the FBI brought her back to the scene today?” he continued.

“Uh-huh.” Anita took a forkful of salad.

“Walked her through the scene, I imagine.”

Anita nodded.

“She must be the key witness?” Gannon asked.

“I can’t say.”

“Is she from the city, or local?”

Anita hesitated as she picked through her salad. Tension mounted with every passing second of silence. Gannon threw a look to Brad, who nodded at Anita to continue.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Brad, I’m just not comfortable doing this. I mean, I just came from the center. I don’t feel right about this. You two go way back, but this is not something I do. I’m sorry.”

“Honey, I trust him completely.”

“It’s okay,” Gannon said. “I understand.”

“Anita, you can trust him,” Brad said.

“What I don’t get—” she stabbed her salad with her fork “—is why do you need to know? That’s part of a police investigation.”

“He needs to know because he’s reporting on the heist,” Brad said.

“I asked him, Brad.”

“Journalists investigate, too,” Gannon said. “I’ve got a tip, a long-shot tip I’m working on that may be connected to the case.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a bit vague right now, but it’s possible someone with advance knowledge on the case contacted the WPA.”

Anita put her fork down and turned to Gannon.

“If that’s true, you should tell the FBI.”

“I’m not a police informant. I’m a journalist and I investigate independently.”

“Except when you need our help, like now.”

“Anita,” Brad said.

“It’s okay,” Gannon said. “I understand, and I apologize for making you uncomfortable. As for my tip, I’m not certain of its reliability and I’m still looking into it. Please keep that confidential. Look, I should be going.”

“Hold up,” Brad said. Then he turned to Anita. “Jack is the best journalist I know. When a charter jet crashed in Lake Erie near Buffalo, everyone said it was terrorism. Truth was, the Russian pilot committed suicide. Jack got the story and was nominated for the Pulitzer. Then there was the Styebeck case. Remember? The murders tied to a suburban-Buffalo detective? They fired him for protecting sources on that story, right, Jack?”

“Yes.”

“Turns out, Jack was dead on the money on Styebeck,” Brad said. “Anita, I help him not because he helped save my charity, but because he gets to the truth and never ever gives up his sources. He’s honorable.”

Anita stared at her husband. As she ate her salad, she weighed her words carefully before she turned to Gannon.

“What are you going to say in your story, based on what I told you?”

“I’ll say investigators returned a key witness to the scene of four murders and walked her through the tragedy in an effort to find the fugitive killers, something like that.”

“And to whom will you attribute the information?”

“Sources.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes, for that part, then we’ll have some background and updates, like with the search upstate.”

“We’re hearing there’s nothing to that,” Brad said. “Something about the veracity of the information, or some confusion.”

“We have people up there reporting. And we’ll add other aspects to the story.”

“Are you good with that, Anita?” Brad asked.

“Tell me what happened in Buffalo on the cop case,” she asked Gannon.

“No one believed my reporting, including some senior police officials who pressured the paper until I was fired.”

“And?”

“I was not wrong.”

Anita nodded thoughtfully.

“You can use what I told you, Jack.”

“Thank you.”

“No names, got that?”

“I got it.”

Back at his desk in the WPA’s headquarters, Gannon typed quickly, assembling the wire service’s main story on the search for the killers in the interstate armored car heist.

“I like your stuff, lead with it. It’s exclusive news,” Lisker had acknowledged. “Everybody and his dog will have the story on the ‘futile search’ upstate.”

It took less than forty-five minutes for him to write the full piece. He sent it to Hal Ford on the desk, Ford gave it a quick edit before putting it out to all WPA subscribers.

Gannon went to the window and massaged the back of his neck.

He was beat.

The sun had set and the horizon had dissolved into a swath of pinks and blues. He looked at the Empire State Building rising from Manhattan’s twinkling lights and reflected on Anita and Brad, who seemed to be suited to married life.

What was that like?

Gannon glanced at the empty desks of people who’d already gone home to their families in New Jersey, Westchester or Long Island. He glanced at the framed photos of their kids, wives and husbands, beaming through the chaos of stylebooks, notes, newspapers and assorted messes.

In the end, family is what mattered.

Gannon had his sister and niece in Arizona, but beyond them he had no one.

Nobody waiting for him.

Nothing to rush home to but an empty apartment.

Empty.

That’s how he felt.

He thought of Katrina for a second.

Then he turned to the skyline and somewhere in the night he saw a face he’d seen earlier that day.

The witness.

What had she endured? What was her story? Who was she? Where was she from? What was her situation? Married? Single? Involved?

In the moment their eyes met at the service center something had connected between them.

A longing?

A deep sense of loneliness?

Give your head a shake.

He was too tired to think straight; crazy to believe that he’d somehow made a spiritual, cosmic bond with the witness.

All right.

But he needed to find her, that much made sense.

Four funerals were coming and he was determined to take the reader into the heart of this story—the whole story.

“Jack!” a news assistant called out. “Call for you.”

He took it on his landline at his desk.

“Gannon.”

“Mr. Gannon, this is Jerry Falco, in Yonkers.”

“Mr. Falco, yes, sorry.”

“I may have what you need. Are you still interested?”

Gannon checked the time.

“Yes. I’m very interested.”

26

Toronto, Ontario, Canada

VIA passenger train number 45 edged the windswept shore of Lake Ontario, swaying gently through the picture-postcard towns and farm fields east of Toronto.

Ivan Felk had an economy-class window seat. Few people were aboard. The aisle seat next to his was empty. So were the seats near him. Yet in the soothing rhythm of the train’s click-clacking, Felk seethed.

The previous night, he’d sent a message to the untraceable account of the insurgents holding his men. In it, Felk had claimed responsibility for the deadly heist outside New York City and sent news reports, all to confirm his team’s actions to secure the ransom by the deadline.

The insurgents responded with a new video.

Felk viewed the images on his laptop: the camera panned over the aftermath of his team’s failed military mission in the region’s frontier city; then to the desecration of the dead; then to the torment of the hostages. The footage then cut to a man before a plain black backdrop, his face concealed in a black scarf with only his eyes showing.

Felk locked onto them.

The insurgent gave readings from the glorious text, his voice traveling through Felk’s earphones. Then he switched to English.

“Heed this message from the New Guardians of the National Revolutionary Movement. We acknowledge your work to collect the fine. We must see your continued atonement for crimes committed by the invading infidels. We must see evidence in America of further work to collect the remainder of the fine. Full payment must be received by the last day of this month, or the infidel spies will be executed.”

The man concluded with another tribute from the holy text; then the footage showed the blade of the executioner’s sword resting on the neck of a hostage: Felk’s brother.

Clay, oh, Jesus, hang on. I’m coming.

Felk snapped his laptop shut, yanked out his earphones.

I’m going to waste these mothers.

He ran his fingertips over his chin.

Calm down. Focus. Focus. Focus.

His mind scanned the operation.

Dillon’s assignment was to ship the movie-prop cash to Kuwait, then join the others in California. They knew the method was a gamble, but it was a risk they had to take.

The team had split up.

Each man was now traveling independently to San Francisco. How they got there was their choice. Supported by their network of friends, they each had counterfeit passports, ID and credit cards and several thousand dollars in cash. They would meet at the hotel in San Francisco by the twelfth, ample time to conduct surveillance, drills, set up the IEDs far in advance of when they needed to launch the mission.

Each soldier knew his job.

Each one was sworn to duty.

Life and death.

We will not fail.

Felk looked through his window to the south.

Somewhere beyond the great, endless lake and its seamless meeting with the sky, he saw himself back in Ohio in the wood-frame house where he and Clay grew up.

It was a little nothing-ass speck of a town at the fringes of Youngstown, in the graveyard of factories, steel mills and the American dream.

Their old man was a Vietnam vet, a U.S. marine who did two tours. He’d survived Khe Sanh and came home with a mangled leg to work at an AljorCor Aluminium plant before it closed. Then he worked the Old River Metal foundry before he was laid off.

He always drank, but by then he drank more.

Sometimes he hit Ivan and Clay, but they forgave him. He was their dad and they knew he had problems. For years they heard him screaming in his sleep at night—heard their mother comforting him.

She used to come home, her hands raw, from her job in the VanRoonSten meatpacking house. After it ceased production, she got a job on the line at the Steel Gryphon power-tool manufacturing operation. But Steel Gryphon was sold and the work went to Mexico. After that, his parents bounced downward to jobs that paid less and less.

One night, when he’d been hitting the sauce pretty good, the old man opened up to Ivan and Clay.

“Your mother will kill me for telling you this, but you’re old enough to hear the goddamn truth,” he said between pulls on his beer. “I won’t tell you the things I seen in the war. You can’t understand unless you were there. But the only time I felt alive was when I was in the shit. I swear to God. And nowadays, I wake up feeling dead, you know?” He pointed his fingers, holding his burning Lucky Strike, at his sons. “Take my advice, boys, enlist. We’re all gonna die. Just depends how—day by day, earning eight-fifty an hour, or serving your country on a field of goddamn glory.”

Things never got better for his family.

As his parents’ savings melted, their desperation rose. They struggled not to show that they were losing their dignity a piece at a time.

Ivan remembered his mother gathering up her jewelry—her engagement ring, a necklace, earrings the old man got her one anniversary, her mother’s wedding ring. She put them in a plastic lunch bag. “It’s just things I don’t need anymore,” she told him, but the look on her face said otherwise when she took them to the jeweler. She came home looking older, but with seven hundred dollars that she used to pay for groceries and a heating bill.

After that she found part-time work cleaning the restrooms at the Eastwood Mall.

Ivan and Clay worked, too; pumping gas after school, shoveling snow, landscaping, giving what they could to the household. But it was never enough because their parents were unemployed for long stretches.

Then came the day his mother never returned home from work. The bus driver found her at the end of his route, thought she’d fallen asleep.

Brain aneurysm, the doctor said.

That was the day God abandoned Ivan and Clay Felk.

After they buried her, the old man turned to stone.

He hung on for about a year, sitting alone in the dark, nothing but the swish of the bottle keeping him company until the night of the firecracker explosion. They found him in his living room chair, with the framed wedding picture in his lap under his brains. He’d put his pistol in his mouth and joined her.

Ivan was twenty. Clay was nineteen.

This was the story of Felk’s working-class family in the broken heart of the Rust Belt. His estranged uncle drove his battered Dodge from Akron to help get a lawyer to take care of selling the house and everything.

“I shoulda tried to visit more. I’m sorry, boys. You can come stay with me and Aunt Evie for a bit to get things figured out. Got a room over the garage.”

The man was a stranger to them. They weren’t listening.

One week after he left, Ivan signed up with the U.S. Army.

He tried to persuade Clay to enlist with him.

“No, I’m going to California,” Clay said.

“To do what?”

“Make surfboards. Live by the ocean. Put Ohio behind me.”

“You don’t know jack about surfboards. Enlist. Let’s give that to Mom and Dad as our way to honor them. We’ll keep on fighting. For them.”

Clay caved to his older brother and signed up for the U.S. Marines, ultimately becoming a Scout Sniper. Clay saw action in Iraq and Afghanistan. He was good at his job.

Ivan did well in the army and, like his brother, was a superb soldier. It wasn’t long before he was recruited by the CIA for its Special Ops Group.

The covert missions with SOG gave him access to classified procedures, technology, off-the-manual operations, intelligence experts, mercenaries, ghost teams, networks and murky entities thriving throughout the region.

That’s where he befriended Rytter, from Germany, and Northcutt, from England. The three elite soldiers gave consideration to the lucrative life of private contractors. In the post–September 11 world, it was a growth industry.

When their time was right, they quit their government jobs and established Red Cobra Team 9, a private professional security company. Felk persuaded Clay to join. The team enlisted trusted friends. Red Cobra Team 9 had lucrative subcontracted orders via larger companies contracted to complete secret missions for the CIA and other intelligence groups. They did the dirtiest of jobs. They were “plausible deniability.”

Scapegoats.

During a clear night on a covert rescue operation in the mountains of the disputed region between Afghanistan and Pakistan, Ivan and Clay watched the constellations wheel by from their camp.

“We’re a long way from Youngstown, bro,” Clay said.

“Better than bagging groceries or pumping gas,” Ivan said.

“Dad would be proud. These are fields of glory.”

The brothers spent the rest of that night reminiscing. It was a good night for them, the last time they had a chance to really talk. Several months later, they went out on the team’s last mission.

The horror of it blurred across Felk’s memory with a shrieking grind of steel on steel and his body jolted.

The CN Tower and Toronto’s skyline rose before him as the train eased into Union Station, where Felk got into a cab.

“Take me to the airport, please.”

“Which one? Island or Pearson?”

“Toronto International Airport.”

“That’s Pearson,” the driver said.

27

Toronto, Ontario, Canada

Lester B. Pearson International Airport, named after Canada’s fourteenth prime minister, was one of the busiest hubs in the world.

Felk’s cab ride from Union Station downtown to northwest Toronto took some forty-five minutes. As the airport came into view, he consulted the ticket he’d purchased online.

“Terminal One,” he told the driver when they neared the exit ramps for departures.

The driver nodded. “Where you headed?”

“New York,” he lied.

Inside the terminal, Felk went to the self-service kiosk to check in. He submitted his counterfeit passport, followed the prompts on the touch screen. He was not checking in any bags. He had one carry-on. The night before, he’d gone online and submitted his advance passenger information to expedite the process. Now it took little more than a minute for the kiosk to dispense an electronic boarding pass for his flight to San Francisco.

He moved on to the U.S. Customs and Border Protection Preclearance section of the airport. He showed his boarding pass to the attendant, who directed him to fill out a blue U.S. Customs card.

Felk completed the form, then moved through the area, joining other travelers in the line that snaked before a row of busy inspection booths, where he’d be processed for entry into the United States.

He surveyed the people near him: a wrinkled slack-jawed man clutching a U.S. passport who kept asking the elderly woman with him to repeat her mundane comments. “I said, it’s eighty degrees in Miami!” There was a young woman behind them wearing a Johnny Depp T-shirt, nodding her head, earphones leaking music as the thumb of one hand worked the phone she was holding. Her other hand gripped the handle of a pink suitcase that had a tiny stuffed bear chained to one of its zippers.

As he neared the row of booths, Felk heard the mechanical clunk-chunk of officers using the admittance stamps on passports. Then he heard something that pulled everyone’s attention to booth number nine.

“Did I wave you forward, sir!” a female CBP officer barked.

A short, heavyset man stopped dead in his tracks.

“Get back behind the red line!”

His face crimson, the man stepped back.

Disbelief at her rudeness rippled through the line. Felk was fourth from the front and did not want to draw number nine. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun, accentuating her stern face. She could have been in her thirties; and by the way she seized her water bottle, she could have been in battle. As she guzzled, she kept one eye on the line as if they were advancing enemies, even pink-suitcase girl with the teddy bear.

Felk took stock of the other officers nearby. Number seven was a white-haired grandpa who seem bored but calm, and number eight was a twenty-something guy, all spit and polish and worthy of the corps. Then there was number nine.

What was her freakin’ problem? Felk wondered.

The CPB officer at number nine was Magda Vryke, and her problem was manifold.

Today was supposed to be Magda’s day off but fat-ass Daisy called in sick, which was total bull. Then, as Magda was leaving for work, feeling pissed off and bloated, her life partner, Lynne, told her she wanted to back out of their condo purchase. What the hell? And when Magda arrived at Pearson, she found a dump of new alerts on her computer monitor: three new “PAs,” her name for Parental Abductions; one from France, one from Austria and one from Italy. And there was an advisory for a German chemical engineer with suspected links to terrorist factions who may be en route to the United States.

All were Red Notices with Interpol, which meant the subjects were to be detained on sight and arrested by local authorities.

And—we’re not done yet—some several hundred miles south in Washington, D.C, the Office of Enforcement at U.S. Customs and Border Protection headquarters had processed an urgent alert from the FBI through Homeland Security to all CBP Preclearance facilities.

It advised to “detain any subject bearing a tattoo similar to the image shown.” Magda Vryke had glanced at the cobra-in-barbed-wire-bracelet picture; read the background history. She was familiar with the high-profile armored car heist murders in New York City. But the alert puzzled her and she gave her head a little shake. If anything, those guys would be fleeing the States, not entering. Whatever, Magda thought as she screwed the cap back on her water bottle and smacked her booth light.

“Next! Come on, step up!”

Ivan Felk arrived and placed his documents on her counter.

“Where are you going today, sir?” Magda Vryke folded his Canadian passport, cracking its spine before inserting it into her passport reader.

“San Francisco.”

She eyeballed him, then the passport photo on her monitor, to make sure they matched. Felk was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved turtleneck sweater that complemented his muscular build. He was clean shaven, as he was in the photo.

“Purpose of your trip?”

“Visit friends, see the sights, vacation.”

Magda punched a few commands on her keyboard.

“Where were you born, Mr. Chapman?”

“Belleville, Ontario.”

“Don’t they have a big base out there?”

“That air base in Trenton is close by, just west.”

“Drove by there once. Impressive.” Magda stamped his passport. “Have a nice trip.”

“Thank you.”

He’d just been admitted entry into the United States. Felk collected his papers, gripped the handle of his bag. Almost there. He exhaled as he moved on to the next stage of the process, preboard security screening.

It was on the next level up.

The lines were jammed. People were moving slowly through the scanning stations. Felk saw security cameras everywhere. Occasionally he recognized fellow travelers from preclearance. This area was operated by the Canadian Air Transport Security Authority. As Felk moved through the line, a CATSA officer directed him to a screening station.

He joined the hundreds of passengers in the global choreography of loading luggage on the conveyor belts, extracting laptops, removing belts, shoes, jackets, emptying pockets and depositing everything into trays. At the direction of the screening officer, Felk stepped through the scanner.

It sounded.

Damn it.

“Step forward and extend your arms, sir.”

He took a quick deep breath and complied as the officer passed a wand over his body, stopping near his right wrist.

“Pull back the sleeve of your shirt, please, so I can have a look.”

Felk hesitated, trying to remember, trying to calculate the risk.

“Are you refusing, sir? I need you to pull back your sleeve.”

“Oh, no, sorry. No.”

Felk rolled back his sleeve immediately, angry at himself for forgetting his watch.

“There you go,” the officer said. “Sir, go back through, put the watch on a tray to be scanned and come back.”

Felk did everything successfully and went to the end of the conveyor to collect his luggage and laptop where another officer was waiting.

“Is this your computer, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Could you put it aside here, and turn it on for me?”

“Yes.”

Felk had taken steps to remove everything incriminating on all the drives when he was on the train. He’d stored the videos online in email accounts. Nothing was on the laptop drives.

He’d also erased his history.

The officer used tongs and a patch of cloth to chemically swab the computer. Then he put the sample in a microwave-oven-size machine to determine if Felk had been handling explosive compounds.

Then it hit him.

The guns! Christ, the guns!

He’d forgotten about the guns and ammo Dillon had shown him at the cottage. He’d washed his hands, but was it enough not to set off any alarms?

Damn it.

Casually putting on his belt, Felk tried to read the face of the screening officer studying the swab results on the screen.

This could be it.

He swallowed hard. He could flee, but they had his photo. He couldn’t believe that it could be over. Just like that. His body tensed. He thought of Clay, the other men, and begged fate for a break.

No, please, no.

“You’re good, sir,” the officer said.

Felk nodded with a smile, his tension melting as he collected his things and headed to his gate, just like any other passenger at any other airport at any other time. No one could have imagined what he and his men had done, or what they were going to do.

Ninety minutes later, the thrust of his Air Canada Airbus A319 pushed him back into aisle seat number 23C. As the jetliner climbed and leveled, he savored a measure of relief.

That he’d gotten through without any problem told him that the team was clear. They’d gotten away from Ramapo cleanly. The FBI had nothing on them. Felk was on track to the next step of the operation at five hundred and fifty miles an hour. He lowered his seat and closed his eyes.

As he fell asleep he was haunted by the face of the eyewitness.

The supermarket clerk.

Don’t worry about her. We were careful. She saw nothing that could hurt them.

Nothing.

28

Queens, New York

Lisa Palmer’s two-story frame house was at the edge of Rego Park.

Mature maple trees lined the sidewalks of her block, shading the small, neatly clipped front yards of the postwar homes. Most were fenced and displayed small signs alerting potential intruders to their security systems. A few front doors were fortified with ornate steel.

It was a pretty neighborhood of fourth- and fifth-generation Irish, Italian, Russian and Jewish immigrants that had evolved to include new Albanian, Korean, Colombian and Iranian Americans.

How long since I left to close the deal on the cabin at Lake George?

Four days? Five days?

It didn’t matter, Lisa thought.

After everything that had happened, seeing her home again was balm.

Lisa and the kids took it all in from the back of Vicky Chan’s FBI car after it had rolled off Queens Boulevard, on to Sixty-third, then down their street.

They’d left their Manhattan hotel earlier that afternoon.

“What lovely gardens.” Dr. Sullivan was in the front passenger seat.

“People take care of things here. It’s a good neighborhood,” Lisa said.

“My GPS is wonky,” Chan said, confirming the address. “It’s 87-87?”

“Yes, not much farther.”

“Can Mallory come over for a sleepover?” Taylor asked.

“Not for a few days, hon.”

“Can I go over to Jason’s?” Ethan asked.

“No, sweetheart. I’d like you to stay home until we get back to normal.”

“When will that be, Mom?”

“As soon as I can make it happen.”

Rita Camino and Agent Eve Watson were already waiting at Lisa’s house and came out to help with the bags.

“Go check out the kitchen,” Rita said after hugging the kids.

Ethan and Taylor rushed off, then shouted back, “Cake!”

The words Welcome Home! were inscribed in blue on the white icing.

“Chocolate, your favorite,” Rita said. “I got Burt in the bakery to make it. I told him it was for my aunt Louise’s release from the hospital.”

“Thank you.” Lisa hugged Rita. “You’re the best.”

“Just want to help out by sweetening things.” Rita smiled.

After chatting over cake and coffee, Lisa gave Dr. Sullivan and Agent Chan a tour of her home, starting upstairs with the three small neat bedrooms—hers, Taylor’s and Ethan’s—and a full bathroom. Then down to the finished basement. It had a guest room and smaller bathroom, which they’d once planned on turning into an apartment for additional income.

Chan left her bag on the bed. The plan was for her to bunk in the guest room, to stay with Lisa and the children for as long as Lisa wanted. In a private moment, Lisa tapped Chan’s sidearm under her T-shirt.

“Vicky, please keep that concealed as much as possible, for the children and me. I’ve seen enough of guns.”

“I was thinking the very same thing.” Chan touched Lisa’s shoulder before she and Watson went outside to check Lisa’s doors, windows and her security system.

Dr. Sullivan went upstairs to talk with Ethan and Taylor, who were showing off their rooms. Rita, the eternal saint, insisted on cleaning up in the kitchen while Lisa grabbed her bag and went to her office alcove off the living room to make some calls.

First, she checked her messages.

There was an automated announcement from the school on an upcoming parent–teacher night; a dental-appointment confirmation for Taylor; a message from Lisa’s friend Sophia: “Where are you? I’ve texted you a gazillion times. Did you sell the cabin? Are you coming to live in California? Call me, text me, anything.”

Then there was a message from the bank. “Donna Madsen, Mrs. Palmer. When it’s convenient, could you come in? We need you to sign…” That call was followed by a prerecorded telemarketing message—“Congratulations, you’re the lucky winner”—then another message from Sophia. “Getting ready to fly to London and still haven’t heard from you. I’m getting a little worried, so can you get back to me, please?”

Lisa wanted to text Sophia, but as she reached for her bag she realized that her cell phone had been taken in the crime. It triggered a sudden memory of the killer’s gun against the agent’s head then hers.

Focus on the here and now.

She would email Sophia later and let her know she’d “lost her phone,” but that everything was fine.

Right, fine in that I am alive.

Stop it. Concentrate on being a mom, on getting a grip.

Good advice, she thought, shuffling through her mail, most of it bills. She needed to get back to work. She’d planned to give it one more day before getting back into things but seeing the bills, she reconsidered the need to wait. Lisa called the school, informing the office that Ethan and Taylor would return to class tomorrow. Then she called the supermarket. She’d return to work tomorrow. Nick, her boss, was pleased.

Then she went through her bag and searched in vain for her work ID.

Where did I put it?

It was foggy as she went back over everything from her last shift. She had gone home from work and got ready for her overnight trip to the lake. She recalled holding her ID in her hand at some point. She always put it in her bag.

But it wasn’t there.

Maybe she left it on her dresser, or night table?

Entering her bedroom upstairs, she heard Dr. Sullivan’s muffled voice from down the hall. She was gently explaining to Ethan and Taylor how even though the bad guys “are likely very far away,” it was important to keep “all this stuff with the police secret so the bad guys didn’t know, so the police could catch them.”

This is the toll exacted on my family.

Lisa was hit with a sudden wave of sadness. She didn’t know if it was the room, a flash of Bobby, or something else. But having to swear her children to FBI secrecy because she’d witnessed a bloodbath, two years after their father had died, was a lot to ask.

This whole freakin’ mess was a lot to ask.

Lisa’s eyes stung.

She went to her dresser and traced her fingers tenderly over an elegant marble box, the cremation urn that held some of Bobby’s ashes. She roiled with emotion. It triggered the raw sensation of loss. Something had been stolen from her—the fragile peace of mind that she and the children had painfully rebuilt?

Hang on. Just hang on.

As a jetliner from La Guardia screamed its ascension across the distant sky, Lisa touched the corners of her eyes.

No, I refuse to let those monsters win. These bastards had no right to do what they did. I am taking back control of my life. I’ll spend every second of it praying for the FBI to catch those fuckers.

Looking at the urn, her heart aching, she assured herself that she would go back to the cabin, make their final tribute and start living the rest of their lives.

She’d do it for the kids, for Bobby.

And for me.

“Lisa?”

She turned to Dr. Sullivan.

“How are you doing?”

Lisa touched a tissue to her eyes. “You won’t believe me, but I feel stronger.”

“I believe you.”

“Just by being here, I feel like I am getting some control again”

“Lisa, of course you have to resume your life. Just know that it’s okay to accept any feelings, bad dreams, fears, anxieties. It’s all part of the trauma. Take your time, deal with them and move on. It’s part of the healing. To some extent you’ve already done that with Bobby and you’re still doing it.”

“It’s so hard.”

“Having us all around may give you a false sense of external security, might delay your healing. However, while you may be a little emotionally vulnerable, I sense that you’re very strong, incredibly strong, actually.”

A few moments of silence passed before Dr. Sullivan said, “I think Eve and I should go soon. You need to get back to your sense of normal. You have my number, so you or the kids can call me at any time for any reason.”

Dr. Sullivan hugged Lisa.

“Thank you.”

Downstairs, Eve Watson told Lisa her house was secure then passed her a business card with numbers penned on the back.

“The NYPD will have unmarked units swing by regularly, 24/7. Here are the precinct duty-desk numbers.”

Lisa nodded. Then, as Chan joined them, she lowered her voice.

“I plan to send the kids to school and get back to work tomorrow. I’m thinking after tonight, we should be okay on our own. What do you think?”

“Whatever you are comfortable with, Lisa,” Chan said. “We can stay with you as long as you like, but there’s been no evidence of a threat. Remember, our Behavioral Analysis Unit doubted that the suspects would have cause to attempt to pursue any witnesses. They don’t know who you are or where you live. They’re probably long gone from the Greater New York City Area.”

“Did anything come out of the tattoo yet?” Lisa asked.

Chan and Watson exchanged glances.

“We can’t say,” Watson said.

“Are you serious? After all I’ve gone through to help?”

“I’m sorry. It’s for operational reasons,” Watson said.

“Morrow’s orders,” Chan said.

Stung, Lisa realized she could learn more on the case from the press. The insult of shutting her out only fortified her decision about sending the kids to school and going back to work.

Watson was looking at her BlackBerry. “I just got this via the Hartford office. Agent Dutton’s funeral will be in two days in Bridgeport.”

“I want to attend,” Lisa said. “Will I be permitted?”

Chan and Watson threw her question to Dr. Sullivan.

“I’m the last person he saw,” Lisa said. “I need to be there.”

“I’ll give Morrow the heads-up,” Chan said. “We can take you.”

After Watson and Dr. Sullivan left, Rita said her goodbyes, too. Later, Ethan and Taylor played a computer game in the living room. Chan went to the guest room and worked quietly on her laptop while making calls on her cell phone. Lisa went to her own home computer, sent an email to Sophia, then started laundry.

In her small utility room, Lisa held fast to the therapeutic virtue of an ordinary task while she grappled with the aftermath of the last few days, and years, of her life.

As she loaded the washer, she reflected on Bobby’s death and widowhood, which was something that only happened to old ladies.

Or so she’d always thought.

I’m only thirty-one.

Nothing made sense to her. The life she’d known with Bobby was behind her. Selling the cabin was a turning point, a rose on the casket of a dream. She was preparing to move on when this—this horror happened.

I was a heartbeat away from death.

But she survived.

And she would endure. She had no choice. She’d pull herself out of this pit.

I’m strong.

With the machine loaded, she leaned against it and hugged herself.

Taking comfort in the washer’s calming drone she slid her hands up and down her arms, thinking that it had been so long since she and Bobby had been—well—two years.

Two years.

Amid her emotional inferno, she acknowledged an aching, buried deep in her anguished loneliness, and she found herself thinking of a man she’d met hours earlier.

That reporter who’d approached her in Ramapo at the service center.

Jack Gannon.

Lisa had read his stories. He seemed to know as much about this case as the FBI; enough to piss off Morrow, so he must be good.

Gannon had been a bit pushy, but he didn’t come across as a jerk, which was her impression of press people, at least from movies and TV shows. Sure, that’s dumb, but this Gannon guy was different.

In the moment they’d met she’d sensed something she liked about him. He had a good face, a kind face, and the way he stood up to Morrow—“Is that right, miss? Does Agent Morrow speak for you?”—he’d exuded an air of confidence and trustworthiness.

She remembered how he’d kept his eyes on her as they drove away.

She knew because she’d kept her eyes on him.

29

Yonkers, New York

Jack Gannon hit the buzzer a third time at the outside entrance to Jerry Falco’s apartment above Save-All Electronics.

No response.

Frustrated, he turned, thinking that maybe Falco was at the Big Smile Deli Mart across the street. Then he heard movement inside the entrance landing. A man bent by age, wearing a fedora, sweater and baggy pants, pushed through the door.

Gannon held it open for him.

“Excuse me, sir. I’m looking for Jerry Falco.”

The man stopped.

“Who?”

Gannon spotted the hearing aid under wisps of silver-white hair.

“Falco. Jerry Falco. I’m supposed to meet him here at noon.”

“Falco? That kook?” The man started down the street. “Upstairs.”

Kook?

Great. This is what I’m dealing with. A pervy kook who can’t answer his own door, Gannon thought, taking the creaking stairs and nearly choking on the smell of cats. Gospel music leaked from somewhere into the gloomy hall as he banged on Falco’s door.

Gannon couldn’t meet with him last night because he got tied up in the newsroom. Falco had agreed to meet today at twelve noon sharp, to discuss reviewing his “video surveillance of the street for the time and date in question.”

What are the chances this weirdo can help me?

As a reporter, Gannon had met enough oddballs to know that you could never assume who was a waste of time, and who was going to come through for you unless you invested some shoe leather.

Trouble was, he didn’t know how much longer he could continue searching for his tipster. If he didn’t find something soon, he’d have to give it up. Lisker was breathing down his neck for another exclusive. He wanted him to help Chad Feldman, the business reporter, investigate American Centurion. Feldman had heard that the FBI–NYPD Joint Task Force was going harder on the armored-car company than anyone had imagined.

We get the sense something could break there, Lisker said ten minutes ago in an email to Gannon. Call me.

Gannon considered telling Lisker about his tip.

But what would I tell him?

He didn’t trust Lisker to understand the gut feeling he had about it and would bet a month’s salary that Lisker would force him to report on it prematurely, which would only guarantee his source would never surface again. It could also point the way for the competition, who could take the story away from you. No, he could not tell anyone at the WPA, not until he found his source and confirmed his veracity.

Gannon would call Lisker later.

But he was running out of time.

He hammered on Falco’s door again.

“Jerry, it’s Jack Gannon from the WPA!”

Locks clicked and the door across the hall cracked as far as the security chain allowed. A woman with white hair curled tight and pinned down everywhere glared at him. She cradled a cat in her arms while another one threaded between her ankles.

“Who the hell are you?”

“I’m a friend of Jerry’s.”

“He’s not home, get out.”

“Do you know where I could find him?”

“It’s Wednesday—if you’re his friend you’d know.”

“I’m his new friend…I just met him yesterday. Is that a calico?”

“On Wednesday mornings Falco meets his parole officer, then he goes to the Dented Tin Can.”

“The what?” Gannon was lost. “His parole officer?”

“Didn’t he tell you he’s done time in the big house?”

“For what?”

“Some friend you are.”

“We just met. What’s the Dented Tin Can?”

“It’s the hellhole bar two blocks north.”

“But it’s noon.”

“That’s where he is.”

The Dented Tin Can was in a crumbling brick building. It had neon signs behind its barred windows and it sat between two trash-filled alleys. Inside, the light was dim. Gannon waited for his eyes to adjust as a ballad yearned from the jukebox for a lost love.

He thought of Katrina before he was distracted.

Worse than Falco’s building, this place reeked of stale beer, cigarettes and melancholy. The bar was scarred, the bar stools patched with duct tape. Affixed to one of them was a middle-aged woman who looked as if she’d put on her makeup during an earthquake. She pointed her cigarette and two inches of ash at the bartender, telling him that childhood trauma caused her problems. “Freakin’ stepfather. Did I tell you what he did?”

Jerry Falco was alone in a booth hunched over a copy of the New York Post and four—Gannon counted—four empty beer bottles. It’s barely afternoon. Was he wearing the same clothes he wore yesterday?

“Mr. Falco? Jack Gannon, WPA. We have a meeting?”

Falco lifted his head from his paper.

“Who are you?”

“Jack Gannon, the reporter. We met yesterday.” Gannon slid into the booth. “You were going to help me review some security video?”

Falco took a pull from his beer, stuck out his bottom lip, shook his head.

“I don’t know you.”

Gannon recoiled. What was this? He couldn’t be that drunk.

“I gave you twenty bucks. We made a deal. You were going to help me. You called me last night, you said to meet you at noon.”

“Fuck off and leave me alone, asshole!”

Was this guy on meds? Gannon was at a loss, when he felt a big hand on his shoulder.

“Let’s you and me talk, pal.” The bartender nodded to the bar, taking Gannon out of earshot. Gannon gave him a brief summary, then the bartender said, “You don’t really know Jerry, then?”

“No, what’s his story?”

“A long time ago he was a network-TV news editor. He drove home drunk after a party and killed a little girl. He did time, got beat up in the joint. He’s not all there, see. He’s been in and out of jail ever since. He gets by on a small inheritance.”

“He was supposed to help me with his video work. I need to see it.”

“Buy him a meal.”

“What?”

“After he sees his parole officer, he comes here and cries in his beer. Food usually brings him back, closer to normal.”

About an hour later, Falco’s recollection returned after he ate the clubhouse sandwich Gannon bought him. “Let’s go,” Falco said, still enveloped by despair when, without an apology or explanation, he led Gannon to his apartment.

It was cleaner than Gannon had expected. He was acquainted with the photographs of captured video stills on the walls of the woman at the flower shop across the street. Gannon now noticed inspirational passages of Scripture scrawled on paper taped near the photos, passages about forgiveness, redemption.

Very weird.

Before the windows there were three tripods with cameras aimed at the street. Falco sat at a desk that looked like a TV-editing suite, with small monitors, consoles and electrical equipment.

“I keep a vigil on the neighborhood and send police anything suspicious I see.” Like the woman at the flower shop, Gannon thought. “You were interested in a call made from the pay phone?” Falco asked.

“Yes.” Gannon gave him the time and date.

Falco entered commands on a keyboard and a sharp color-video image with a date graphic appeared on a monitor. It showed the street, the pay phone. Then the activity began moving backward at high speed.

“This will take a moment,” Falco said. “I got this equipment from a friend at Channel 88. It’s older.” Falco turned to Gannon. Seeing him fixated on the photos of the woman, Falco said, “It’s not what you think.”

“Sorry?”

“I’m not a peeper or a voyeur or anything.”

“No, it’s okay.”

“About fifteen years ago, a little girl died because of me.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“It was my fault and I’ll carry that mistake to my grave. Had she lived, she’d be the same age as Florence, the woman across the street in the pictures. It gives me comfort to see how she would be doing in her life, had she lived.”

Gannon just nodded.

“Here we go.” Falco stopped the rewind on the time and date of the last call Gannon had received on that phone from his tipster.

“Jesus.”

The monitor showed a clear image of a man using the pay phone. Falco’s keyboard clicked and the image got larger. The man was white, medium build, brush cut, olive-green T-shirt, jeans.

“That’s your guy, right?”

It had to be him. Gannon double-checked the date and time.

Incredible.

“Yes. Can you make a color print from this still now, then send me a clear electronic version? You have my email address on my card?”

“Sure, for three hundred dollars.”

“No, I wasn’t going that high.”

Falco raised his index finger over the delete key and held it there.

“Okay, okay, three hundred.”

Gannon hurried down the street to the ATM machine, his heart racing as his tipster’s words echoed.

This is big! I swear to God what I’m telling you is true!

30

Near JFK International Airport,

Queens County, New York

American Centurion’s depot was on Rockaway Boulevard among the acres of storage operations, customs brokers and freight-forwarding agencies clustered around Kennedy.

It was situated in a warehouse equipped with cameras, loading bays secured with razor wire, motion sensors and a round-the-clock K-9 security team.

At 6:30 a.m., Agent Morrow and Detective Al Dimarco met with other investigators there to continue their work.

Moe Malloy, company founder and CEO, was on the loading floor flipping through pages of his clipboard amid the grind of diesel engines. Malloy was resuming operations today. But detectives and agents were stopping the trucks before they moved out, requesting guards expose their wrists for inspection, then showing a photo or something to the crews.

“What’s going on?” Malloy asked Morrow and Dimarco in the gruff, cement-mixer voice he was known for.

Morrow opened a folder and showed Malloy the cobra tattoo.

“Does this look familiar to you?”

Stress lines cut deep into Malloy’s craggy face, the manifestation of the strain of three murdered employees, a six-million-dollar loss, a maelstrom of insurance claims and the stench of police suspicion that someone inside his company was responsible. He hadn’t slept since the attack.

“No. It’s not familiar to me. Should it be?”

“It could be a factor,” Dimarco said. “Have another look. It’s a tattoo.”

“Everybody and their mother has a tattoo.” Malloy reexamined it and shook his head. It was not familiar to him or to his crews on duty that morning.

The three men went to Malloy’s second-floor office. He shut the door, offered Morrow and Dimarco fresh coffee while they glimpsed 747s lifting off, near enough to rattle windows.

The rattling propelled Morrow back to Beth, shaking in his arms after he’d told her about his condition. How she held on to him through the night; how Hailey sobbed when they broke the news to her the next day.

“We just have to carry on,” he told them, thinking of the September 11 jumpers who’d had no time to say goodbye.

Malloy’s question brought Morrow’s attention back to the case.

“Are you any closer to nailing the fuckers who hit us?”

“That tattoo’s a good start,” Morrow said.

“What about upstate? Did you find the getaway bikes?”

“Not yet, it’s only a matter of time.”

“You guys keep saying that, but I don’t know if you’re ever going to find these cocksuckers.”

“We’re working on it,” Morrow said.

“You’re working on it?” Malloy scratched under his chin, his jaw muscles pulsating. “You’re working on it. You want a dose of honesty?”

“Sure,” Dimarco said.

“It makes me want to puke when I see that shit in the press that you think this is an inside job.”

“These guys knew exactly what they were doing, Moe,” Dimarco said.

“We think they had help,” Morrow said.

“Bullshit. Not in my yard. I built this company from nothing. I was a tow-truck driver from Uniondale when I towed a beat-up armored truck. The bankrupt company couldn’t pay. I kept the truck and started my own business with it. That was twenty-two freakin’ years ago. Now I got a fleet of twenty-five rigs, one hundred people on the payroll. Not one loss. Not one problem. American Centurion is financially sound. We’re audited every six months. We’re inspected. We’re fully insured. We’re solid. Our operational policy is one of the best. Our contracts are competitive, our staff screening and training is intense. I am the company. This is my life’s work. We’re cooperating with you, volunteering all our records, phone, computer, every damn thing you ask for. For you to imply that this was an inside job is insulting to me and to Gary, Ross and Phil, the outstanding men I lost.”

“I appreciate how difficult this is,” Morrow said, “but the subjects knew where to go, when to go, and that the truck was heavy. Do you think that was a lucky guess, Moe?”

Malloy turned to his window, ran a hand across his face and watched another jet lift off. Morrow and Dimarco allowed him a moment.

“Some of the guys are pissed off at me. They say I’m starting up too soon, that it’s disrespectful to Phil and his crew. I know it is. But goddamnit, we got contracts and deadlines. I got three funerals coming up. We’ll have to shut down again for each of them. Everybody here is torn up. This is killing us,” Malloy said. “So what do you need today, just showing that tattoo picture around?”

Dimarco opened his folder, handed Malloy a sheet of paper.

“We need to reinterview these people.”

“But you already polygraphed them, like you did with everybody.”

“Yes, and we’d like to talk to these people again.”

Malloy let out a long, slow breath.

“Lester’s here. I’ll call Donna.”

Lester Ridley’s huge tattooed biceps flexed when he folded his arms. He eyed Morrow and Dimarco, sitting across a small table from him in an otherwise-empty office.

Morrow scanned his file again. Lester was thirty-two, had five years with the company as a driver. Before that he had seven years with the army. Lester had two little boys. His wife, Roxanne, ran a day care out of their home to help with the bills.

“You grew up in Levittown. Your mother raised you alone after your father walked out,” Morrow said.

“So what?”

“When you were seventeen you got into a jam. You and two older guys knocked off a liquor store. You pleaded out and gave up your friends. The D.A. ensured you had no record. This was a little something your prescreen missed. Nobody here knows but us,” Morrow said.

Lester pressed his thumb and forefinger over his mustache and blinked.

“You and Roxanne are sinking in debt. You missed a mortgage payment and the bank’s leaning on you, isn’t that right, Lester?” Dimarco said.

“That’s none of your business,” Lester said.

“The results of your polygraph were inconclusive. We need you to tell us all you know about the hit,” Morrow said.

“I told you everything.”

Morrow glanced at his watch.

“This is what’s going to happen,” Morrow said. “Very soon Roxanne will likely call you. She’ll be upset because FBI agents will be in your home, in every room, executing search warrants. They’ll seize your computer, go through your house. We will obtain your phone records, credit card and bank records. We’ll know who you called, who called you, who you emailed. Tell me, what are we going to find, Lester?”

Lester’s chest rose and fell as his breathing quickened.

“Nothing.”

“Hold up your hands, show us your wrists.”

Dimarco checked them for tattoos. Nothing of note. Then he slid the sheet bearing the cobra tattoo toward Lester.

“You’re familiar with tattoos, who do you know that has one like this?”

Lester glanced at it.

“I never saw one like that. I already told your guys out there.”

“Lester, this doesn’t look good for you,” Dimarco said. “Make it easy for yourself, for Roxanne and the boys. Protect yourself, like you did when you were seventeen. You probably didn’t mean for anybody to get hurt in Ramapo. Tell us what happened.”

Lester shook his head, tears came to his eyes and he looked off.

“Phil, Ross, Gary, they were my friends. I got money problems, but Roxanne’s brother’s going to give us a loan. Help us out. Yeah, I got into some trouble when I was a kid, but the two douche bags set me up. Why are you wasting time on me when you should be looking for the scum who did this? You two are assholes, you know that?”

“Lester.” Dimarco leaned into his space. “We got four murders, six million in cash gone. People tend to lie when we ask questions. When our examiner asked you if you had any financial stress, you said no. When we checked, we found that you owe close to two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. This is how you help your friends, Lester, with lies?”

“I got nothing to do with this, I swear.”

“Let’s see what we find out with the warrants later,” Dimarco said.

Lester’s cell phone rang.

“Roxanne, I know, I know…take it easy…”

Less than fifteen minutes later, Donna Breen arrived with her husband.

Morrow and Dimarco asked him to wait outside as they interviewed her. Donna was nearly eight months pregnant. She apologized as she positioned herself into a cushioned chair that Morrow rolled in from the office nearby.

“I’m sorry. I can’t stop crying.”

Donna was Moe Malloy’s young cousin, a churchgoing newlywed. She had worked at American Centurion for three years as an office assistant who handled personnel files. She did not undergo a polygraph because of her condition, and her preliminary interview the day before was curtailed because of nausea.

Morrow consulted the interviewing agent’s note: “Subject is cooperative, credible and may possess useful information on other employees. Reinterview recommended.”

Dimarco showed her the cobra image.

“No, I’ve never seen that one before, but there are a lot of guys here with tattoos, you should have them show you.”

“We’re checking,” Morrow said. “Donna, you indicated you had insights on ex-employees. Tell us what you can, starting with Felix Johnson.”

“Felix? Oh, he was a piece of work, sexist and offensive. The guards are screened and trained, but that doesn’t mean they have what it takes.”

“Right, did Felix have a grudge?”

“I doubt it. He was just lazy. He missed a lot of work and when he showed up he didn’t want to work. Moe let him go.”

“And Bonita Irwin?”

“Bonita was sloppy. She got written up for not keeping her log up-to-date, forgetting her weapon, forgetting to lock the truck after her route. Moe had to let her go. But I wouldn’t say Felix or Bonita had a grudge.”

Dimarco and Morrow asked a few more questions before wrapping up. As Donna rose from the chair to leave, a thought occurred to her.

“You should show the tattoo to Gina when she gets back.”

“Gina?” Morrow asked.

“Gina Saldino.”

Dimarco flipped through his notes and found a question mark by her name. No one had interviewed Gina Saldino, an office worker.

“She’s on vacation,” Donna said. “She left about a week ago.”

“What can you tell us about her?”

“Very quiet, shy. I think she broke up with her boyfriend. He could’ve been in Pakistan or someplace like that. She only mentioned it once when I saw her crying at her desk. She never talked about it again. She was sad and private, almost mousy, but good at her job. She never made any mistakes.”

“What was her job?”

“She helped Moe and Butch Tucker finalize the routes, the schedules, the size of deliveries. I mean, Moe and Butch controlled the info, Gina put it on a spreadsheet and gave it to the crews, and input the data later.”

Morrow threw a silent question to Dimarco.

How did we miss this?

31

Yonkers, New York

Thirty miles north of JFK, Gannon stared at Falco’s “surveillance” photo of the man using the pay phone.

This is my caller.

Gannon’s pulse quickened as once more he checked the time and date of the picture with the time and date of the last call from his tipster.

Oh, yeah, it’s him. No doubt about it.

But Gannon’s elation began evaporating soon after he’d thrust the three hundred bucks into Jerry Falco’s hand and asked him if he’d recognized the man in the photo.

“I’ve never seen that guy before, nope.”

Gannon left Falco’s building and went across the street to the Big Smile Deli Mart where he showed the eight-by-eleven color shot to the manager and his family. Still wary of Gannon, they gave it a cursory glance.

“No, we don’t know him,” the old man said.

“He never comes here, this one,” the woman added.

Gannon had to believe them; he had no choice. But before leaving the store, he bought an issue of Sports Illustrated magazine and tucked the photo inside to protect it. He then showed the picture to people at neighboring businesses: the florist, the check-cashing office, the electronics store, then to the bartender at the Dented Tin Can.

Nothing.

He soon realized that he was facing a needle-in-a-haystack search and all he had was a picture of the needle. But it did not diminish what he felt in his gut. There’s something to this. Don’t give up. He was determined to take his search beyond the immediate area, when his phone rang.

It was Lisker.

“Did you arrive at American Centurion yet?”

“No.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m in Yonkers.”

“Yonkers? You’re still poking around there? What’s going on?”

A long moment passed.

“Gannon?”

You’re going to have to play a card here. You’ve invested a lot of time chasing this hunch. You’re getting somewhere, but there’s no guarantee it will pay off. You can’t give up on it and you can’t give it up to Lisker. Not yet. Lisker’s not a journalist. He doesn’t understand a gut feeling when a frightened source calls. Don’t blow this.

“I’m pursuing a difficult angle, one I think is tied to the heist.”

“What? You know I like all leads outlined to me first?”

“Well, I don’t work that way. I’m a reporter, not a bureaucrat. I follow my instincts, not a template. Do you want memos, or exclusives?”

Lisker said nothing and Gannon filled the silence.

“Let me follow this my way and see where it goes.”

A long stretch of tension crackled between them before Lisker said, “You’ve got until four this afternoon. Then I want your ass in my office.”

Gannon headed down Warburton Avenue, walking a tightrope between Lisker’s wrath and a story that may not exist.

What if I’m dead wrong and wasting time?

He had to stop thinking about it, tend to his business and keep digging. It’s what he did best. So he kept pushing it, block after block, visiting pizza shops, pawnshops, barbershops, a porn shop, a jeweler’s, a liquor store, a pet store. He asked bus drivers stopped at red lights, a cabdriver waiting on fares, two NYPD cops who’d pulled over for coffee from a pastry shop.

As time ticked by, Gannon slipped further and further down the rope of futility. He must’ve walked twenty blocks by the time he entered Big Picture Used Movies and Rentals. Next to it was a tanning salon and a Greek take-out place. Leaning on the counter, waiting for the clerk to finish a phone call, Gannon was thinking of packing it in soon, getting a cab back to his car and bracing for a showdown with Lisker.

“Can I help you find something?” The clerk was tall with oily hair, a bad case of acne. He could stand to eat a sandwich or two.

“I need your help.” Gannon opened the magazine to the photo, which was getting creased from so many showings. “I need to locate this man. Does he live around here?”

The clerk held the sheet three inches from his nose. Gannon anticipated the usual head shake, but this guy—Oren, according to his name tag—blinked a few times.

“Yes, I think so.”

Gannon’s heart skipped a beat.

“You’re sure?”

“This looks like a police surveillance photo,” Oren said. “Are you a cop? Do you have identification? What does this concern?”

Oren seemed sharp enough to trust. Gannon reached for his wallet, showed him his World Press Alliance ID and dropped his voice.

“I’m a reporter with the wire service. I won’t tell you where I got the picture, but I can tell you that it is extremely important that I locate this man. We were supposed to meet a few days ago, but he vanished and he never gave me his name. Naturally, I’m concerned. He may be tied to something bad. If you help me locate him confidentially, I will share all the information I can.”

Oren weighed Gannon’s request, excused himself, then went to a female clerk organizing DVDs in the horror-supernatural section, showing her Gannon’s photo. They both shot looks at him before she came to the counter. Her name was Greta. She stood about five-three, had pierced eyebrows and a black Cleopatra-helmet of hair.

“Is this matter connected to our store in any way?” Greta asked.

“Not at all, I’m just trying to locate him.”

“And what does it concern?”

“He’s vanished. He was supposed to meet me, but never gave me his name or address. He had information on something very important. It’s not a police matter.”

“How come you don’t have his address?”

“Because he indicated he was hiding. I’m a reporter and he called me for help anonymously. Now I need your help.”

“How did you get this picture?” Greta asked, handing it back.

“Look, no one needs to know how I found him. I’ve come this far to you, and you don’t know who has helped me along the way. I will keep it that way. I protect sources.”

She moved to the keyboard and started typing, staring at her monitor.

“You’ll keep the store’s name out of any stories?” Greta asked.

“Yes. I need to find him.”

While looking at her monitor, Greta tapped her fingers on the counter. Gannon noticed she had little flowers painted on her red-glossed nails. She tapped for several moments before coming to a decision.

“His name is Harlee Shaw,” she said.

“Harlee Shaw, okay.”

“He likes classic war and Westerns.” She consulted her monitor. “He’s got The Searchers and The Dirty Dozen out and both are overdue.”

“I see.” Gannon knew she was on the brink of sharing what he needed. “And you’ve got his address there?”

“Uh-huh.” She blinked thoughtfully.

Greta reached for a notepad, clicked her ballpoint pen and jotted down an address, tore the sheet and gave it to Gannon.

“It’s about four blocks,” she said.

“Thank you.” Gannon tucked the information in his pocket.

“Be careful,” she said.

“Why?”

“He’s very strange.”

Oren nodded in wholehearted agreement.

“That’s why we’re helping you,” Greta said. “We think he needs help.”

“What do you mean?”

“Once I heard him in the store arguing with disturbing intensity.”

“Who was he arguing with?”

“No one.”

Gannon’s heart sank as he started walking to the address.

In minutes he’d gone from the high of finding his source, to the low of finding out that he was a whack job. Taking stock of all the energy he’d invested exhausted him, but he would see this through. Like a losing team, Gannon would play out the clock, he thought as he came to Shaw’s building. It was an eighteen-story apartment complex built in the 1970s with blond brick in the vintage of industrial eastern European blandness. To Gannon it bordered on Section 8 housing.

In the secure glass-walled lobby he went to the tenant directory and pressed the intercom button for number 1021, Shaw’s apartment, according to the video-store information.

No response.

As expected.

He tried two more times without success. When two white-haired women arrived from the elevator to exit, Gannon inquired about Harlee Shaw.

“Never heard of him,” one of them snapped.

The women eyed Gannon from head to toe and were careful to ensure the security door locked behind them before they left. Gannon didn’t care. He’d come too far to give up. He returned to the directory, pressed number 402—the button for the super. Within ten seconds the intercom speaker came to life.

“Yes?” A woman’s hurried voice.

“I’m Jack Gannon—”

“Are you here for a rental?” The woman cut him off.

“No. I’m concerned about a tenant.” Gannon glanced up at the camera recording him.

“Which one?”

“Harlee Shaw, in 1021. I have business with him and I’m concerned for his safety. I haven’t heard from him. He doesn’t answer his phone. It’s been a few days. I really need to check on his welfare.”

Gannon counted the seconds passing and got to five.

“Who are you?”

“Jack Gannon. I’m a reporter with the World Press Alliance.” Gannon held up his photo ID to the camera.

“Step inside, please, and wait. I’ll be right there.”

The lock on the interior glass door buzzed and Gannon stepped into the lobby. A few minutes later, to the jangle of keys, a fast-walking woman of about fifty, wearing a T-shirt and jeans, arrived.

She looked Gannon over after they’d stepped into the elevator.

“A reporter, huh?”

“What do you know about Harlee?” Gannon asked.

“He lives alone and keeps to himself. Bet you hear that a lot.” As the car rose, she picked her way along her key ring. “I’m sure you know there are a ton of laws and policies about entering an apartment without permission.”

“I know.”

“But I have discretion if I think it’s an emergency,” she said. “Mr. Shaw’s late with his rent. He’s never late and I ain’t seen him. He hasn’t answered my calls on the phone and at his door, or picked up his mail. And now you’re here with a concern. I’m likely wrong, but I consider that an emergency and reason to check on his welfare. My name’s Shelly.”

“Jack Gannon.”

“Yeah, I saw that on your ID.”

The elevator doors opened on the tenth floor. Shelly led the way to unit 1021 and knocked hard on the door.

“Mr. Shaw! Mr. Shaw, are you okay?” Shelly called.

Again, she rapped loudly then pressed her ear to the door. She turned to Gannon, shook her head, then inserted her key. As the door cracked, Gannon detected an odor. Then saw the security chain.

This is not good, he thought.

Shelly surprised Gannon when she produced a telescopic metal hook. She extended it, and with one expert move, used it to unfasten the chain, as though she’d done this before.

“Mr. Shaw!”

Noise from near and distant units, TVs and voices, filled the hallway, but inside everything was silent. The odor grew more intense as Shelly pushed the door open.

As they went down the apartment’s hallway, Gannon glimpsed the small kitchen, saw the table cluttered with take-out-food wrappers. A mountain of filthy dishes rose from the sink. Bugs feasted on the garbage strewn on the floor. It was hard to breathe.

“Mr. Shaw!”

As they entered the edge of the small living room, Shelly seized Gannon’s arm and released a guttural wail.

“Jeezus!”

Within a split second Gannon’s skin tingled, his mind struggled to comprehend what he tried to process as an elaborate joke.

It had to be a joke.

Something was waiting for them on a sofa chair. He saw a pair of boots, pants above them. Feet and legs in the boots, a T-shirt, a bare arm with an empty hand curled like a claw; another arm with the hand clamped on the end of a long-barreled gun pointed to where a head would be. A broom handle was inserted into the trigger guard of the gun. The head had been divided by a powerful explosion, the way a cannonball would plow through a pumpkin, propelling glops of cranial tissue in a volcanic eruption to the wall, the ceiling, the sofa arms, the table beside it.

Gannon fought to breathe normally, to think.

Shelly recoiled to the nearest wall, biting her fingers between spurts of, “Oh, Jesus! Oh, Christ!”

Gannon turned to her.

“Listen to me, Shelly. Do not touch anything. Go now to the nearest phone, not the phone here, and alert police. It looks like a suicide.”

She started nodding.

“Do it now, Shelly! I’ll wait here.”

Gannon did not want the 911 call on his cell phone. He wanted the super to make the call. The instant she left, Gannon battled the roaring blood rushing in his ears. His heart was racing as he worked to gain control.

He only had a short time.

The apartment would be sealed once the NYPD arrived.

He reached into his pocket for his digital camera and began taking pictures of everything, including the blood-spattered note on the table. It looked as if it was written in ballpoint.

I never meant for this to happen.I am so sorry, Harlee.

Gannon took pictures of the note.

Then he flipped the camera to video mode. This was his only chance to look for answers about Harlee Shaw, his anonymous caller. Without touching a thing, Gannon recorded all that he could.

When he heard the sirens, he left the apartment and stepped into the hall. Shelly was sitting on the floor, back against the wall, knees pulled to her chest, hugging herself and cursing softly between pulls on her cigarette.

32

Queens, New York / Bridgeport, Connecticut

Lisa opened her closet.

Hanger hooks scraped on the rod as she rifled deep into her never-wear stuff and pulled out the dress, still protected in a Spring Breeze Cleaners plastic bag.

A chill shot through her.

She’d only worn it once.

I can’t do this. Yes, you can. You need to do this.

Lisa looked at the dress, swallowed and began rolling off the plastic.

Rita got it for her at Kim’s Dresses in Forest Hills because Lisa couldn’t function at that time. It was a simple cotton wrap, knee length, three-quarter sleeves with a modest neckline.

Black.

Lisa put it on and stood before her full-length mirror, which Bobby had fastened to the inside of the closet door for her. The mirror used to stand in the corner.

How many times did I bug him to screw it to the closet door? Then one day—surprise. Done. He was like that, turning little things into gifts.

The dress fit. In fact, it was a bit loose. She’d lost a few pounds, but it worked. She slid her feet into low-heeled black shoes. Her hands shook a little, giving her trouble with the clasp when she put on her pearl necklace, a birthday present from Bobby.

She got it, adjusted it. When she looked into the mirror the full impact hit her and her knees weakened. She gripped the closet door to steady herself. Of course, this is what she’d worn to Bobby’s funeral.

The official uniform of the grieving widow.

She let the tears come.

Will it ever stop hurting? Help me through this, Bobby, because I have to do what I have to do.

Ethan surfaced in the mirror, watching from her bedroom door.

“What’s going on, Mom?”

She continued facing the mirror, blinking back her tears. “I’m getting my things ready.”

“For what?”

“Vicky and Eve will pick me up in the morning to go to the funeral for one of the people who got hurt.”

“Do you have to go?”

“Yes, to show my respect. It’s just for the day. Rita will be here. Sweetie, we talked about this yesterday. Are you okay? How’s school going?”

“Good.”

“Don’t you have some homework to do while I’m gone?”

“Just geography, we have to draw a map.”

“Better get started today. Now, you haven’t told anybody about us helping the police and stuff.”

“No.”

“Good.”

“Mom, we’re still going up to the cabin like you promised, right? We have to.”

“Yes, Ethan. Nothing’s changed, okay?”

“Okay.”

“So what’s bothering you, then?”

“I don’t want to move to California, Mom. It’d be like leaving Dad forever.”

The hurt in his voice was too much for her and she went to him, dropped to her knees and took him into her arms.

“We can never ever do that.” She put his hand over his heart, covering it with hers. “He will always, always be with us, wherever we go. Your father is part of us, part of you, Taylor and me. Wherever we are, he is with us and will always, always be with us. Do you understand that, honey?”

“I think so.”

“Good.” She smiled, brushing at her tears, kissing him softly, seeing so much of Bobby in his face. “That’s good.”

The next morning, Agents Vicky Chan and Eve Watson arrived just before seven. It was surreal for Lisa, saying goodbye to Taylor, Ethan and Rita just as she did a week ago.

Because this time she did it as a federal witness to four murders and this time she did it in mourning clothes.

She took a deep breath.

Chan and Watson wore blue conservative blazers and skirts.

Aside from threads of small talk, the car was quiet as Chan pulled on to I-95. The drone of the freeway traffic fit with the funereal mood and residual tension. After all that she’d given the FBI, Lisa was feeling shut out from the case. She had wanted to ask the agents if the FBI was any closer to making an arrest, but killed the thought. Earlier, they’d made it crystal clear to her that if something had happened they would not tell her. They’d got what they needed from her—at least that’s how she interpreted it.

Any new information Lisa got came from the press, particularly Jack Gannon—that good-looking wire-service reporter. Her face reddened. She shouldn’t be thinking about him like that. Anyway, this Gannon guy knew things, she thought as they rolled through suburb after suburb.

Lisa was happy they had finished with the hotel, glad to be home with the kids without the FBI living with them, smothering them. She had declined Dr. Sullivan’s offer to accompany her to the funeral. “Events like this can be traumatic. They can rip open wounds, resurrect pain,” Dr. Sullivan cautioned.

Like I didn’t know.

Lisa was determined to face this on her own terms.

She had resumed piecing her life together. She’d already put in a few shifts at the supermarket. Funny, when they made her a new photo ID to replace her old one, it felt as if she had started over. Here was the new Lisa, her first official “after-Bobby” photo.

None of the girls at the supermarket pressed her too hard for missing a few days. Most of them knew she’d gone upstate to sell the cabin. And when she added the cryptic “unexpected family issues,” nobody inquired. Some may have speculated that it probably had something to do with the kids or the cabin. For the most part, everyone tended to leave Lisa alone, and her boss was happy to have her back. The FBI agent’s funeral fell on her day off, so it worked out. With the exception of Rita, no one knew she was the FBI’s key witness to the armored car heist.

Being back at her checkout was both therapeutic and depressing. Lisa had glanced at the older cashiers, the near-retirement lifers, then at the new girls, and for the first time she saw the timeline of her life at the Good Buy Supermart. This was all there would be for her. She thought of what she’d endured; realized how life was so fragile, so short. Then she thought of her old dream and her chance to start a new chapter of her life in California.

It’s scary, but we’re going to do it. It’ll be best for all of us. Life’s too short to live it with regrets.

About an hour after they’d left Queens, they approached Bridgeport, Connecticut. Chan guided them to Saint Patrick’s Church using the GPS unit on the car’s dash. Traffic was backed up already, uniforms from Bridgeport P.D. were directing.

“It’s not just the director who’s coming from HQ,” Watson said as they inched along North Avenue, “it’s the U.S. Attorney General and a ton of dignitaries. I heard they were expecting two thousand people from law enforcement.”

“Full ceremonial honors,” Chan said, nodding to the corner of the parking lot and the satellite trucks and news crews from New York, Boston, Hartford, Philadelphia, New Haven and many others, including some of the national press from Washington, D.C.

After parking, they’d come up to Morrow and Dr. Sullivan talking with others gathered near the large overflow canopies. They’d been erected on the lawn next to the church over rows and rows of folding chairs, big-screen monitors and speakers linked to microphones set up in the church.

“How are you holding up?” Dr. Sullivan asked Lisa.

“Okay, I guess. I’m taking it moment by moment.”

“That’s all anyone can do.” Morrow squeezed her shoulder.

“How is Jennifer Dutton doing?” Lisa asked.

“Not so well, as you might imagine. But she wanted to be here for Greg. Her father is at her side and her doctor is here,” Morrow said before he was approached by a grave-faced man.

“Excuse me, Agent Morrow, but the director is ready for your briefing now. He wants to make a press statement afterward.”

After Morrow left, Lisa, Chan and Watson entered the church. Seating was prearranged; theirs was midway, left side, at the main aisle. The church smelled of candle wax and fresh linen. Whispers and nervous throat clearing echoed. A choir sang hymns. Lisa looked at her funeral card and the program, which was outlined in calligraphy.

Agent Gregory Scott Dutton smiled at her from the cover.

“I’m a cop…my gun’s on my right hip, under my shirt.”

She touched her fingertips to his face.

I’m so sorry.

The service commenced with the procession of altar boys and the priest, the casket rolled behind them, trailing the fragrance of the flowers that draped it. The casket was followed by Jennifer Dutton, seven months pregnant, sobbing while her father, the former detective, held her close to him as they walked. They passed only a few feet away…Lisa could feel Jennifer’s gasps, saw the talons of agony cutting into her face with such force something in Lisa’s heart gave way. Lisa gripped the wooden pew in front of her as a wave of anguish overwhelmed her, sending her tumbling back…back to that horrible moment…when her telephone rang in her kitchen…

…the spouse of Robert Anthony Palmer?

…it’s the hospital…Bobby’s been rushed to the intensive care unit…come right away… Rita hurried over to watch the kids…Lisa raced to the hospital…nearly blowing red lights…battling tears…I’m coming…everything moving in a slow-motion dream…no…she was dreaming…she was dreaming…the hospital’s antiseptic air…the P.A. calling doctors…the reception…I’m Lisa Palmer…yes…my husband, Bobby…this way…in that room…Jesus God…her knees buckling…he’s on the bed…the machines…Bobby…! Is that Bobby?…his head is a turban of bandage…she’s numb…someone’s telling her…a doctor someone…Bobby had stopped to help a woman with her car stalled on the freeway when a big rig swayed…the surgeon is saying…significant head trauma…saying the pressure on his brain…can’t relieve the pressure…not much time left…so sorry…but I made meat loaf…Bobby loves meat loaf…she was going to surprise him with apple pie…they’d fought over a bill…a freakin’ useless bill…now…Bobby…cuts on his face…she’s got his hand trapped in both of hers…her tears flow over her wedding ring…over his wedding band…that face when he first asked her…“So what are you doing Saturday?”…for the rest of your life…she’s squeezing his hand…she can’t let go…don’t you leave me, Bobby…! the alarms are beeping…screaming…nurses are telling her it’s time to let go…she can’t let go… the alarms…she’s screaming…you have to leave…Mrs. Palmer, you have to leave…I’m so sorry…we did everything we could…he’s gone…we’re so sorry…one last look and an undefined energy burned through her with a brilliant light…

…light…

The light.

Lisa twisted her wedding rings and gazed up at the light streaking through the beautiful stained-glass window. Wishing all of this was a bad dream as she tuned in to the eulogy given by the director of the FBI.

“…Greg did not hesitate to take action in order to save others, even if it meant sacrificing his life. He gave us the ultimate gift for which we suffer an unbearable loss…”

Several pews from where Lisa grappled with her anguish, Agent Frank Morrow wrestled with his anxiety for Beth and Hailey, who were facing a life without him.

They were still in shock, still reeling from learning of his terminal condition. He wished to hell he could alleviate their suffering and help them through this. God, all they needed was a break. One break to clear this case, then he could deal with his own life and the time he had left.

Was he just praying?

Hell, now, that’s something he hadn’t done in a while.

At that moment in Queens, as Ethan Palmer worked on his homework, he thought of his mother in that black dress.

It was the dress she wore at Dad’s funeral. Wearing it today had made her sad again. He didn’t like seeing his mother sad.

Or his sister.

He glanced from his homework at the kitchen table to the living room where Taylor and Rita were playing a video game with the sound off. Ethan liked living here. He’d lived here all his life and he didn’t want to move to California and leave everything behind.

It would be sort of disrespectful to his father.

Ethan picked up his small pearl-handled penknife. His dad had given it to him on his birthday and he treasured it. Such a cool little knife. He never went anywhere without it.

If they moved away, he’d miss his best friend, Jason. He’d be the new kid at school and that would suck. And worst of all, maybe his mom would find a new boyfriend who would become his new dad. He didn’t want a new dad because he loved his dad and missed him so much it hurt.

But his mom was already making big changes, like selling their cabin.

Dad loved the cabin. Ethan loved it. Taylor and Mom loved it, too. They had the best times there, swimming, fishing, roasting hot dogs on sticks over a campfire and looking up at the stars.

Mom cried when she tried to tell him why she had to sell it; that with Dad gone, things were harder now. Things had changed. Ethan begged her not to sell it. But what could he do? He was just a ten-year-old kid.

What would Dad tell him?

Buck up and be a man, son. Look after your mom and your sister.

Ethan put his knife down and went back to putting the final touches on the map he was drawing for school. Mrs. Chambers said it had to give directions and distance from Queens to a favorite place. Ethan did a map to the cabin at Lake George. He had all the information from a copy of an old map Dad sketched once for Arnie, his friend. Now, it was like Dad was helping him with his homework.

Pleased with the results, Ethan pinned his map on their message corkboard by the back door for Mom to check. Then he wrote on the calendar square for next Saturday, “going to the cabin.”

He sure missed his dad, all right.

Ethan grabbed his knife, left the kitchen, went upstairs to his mom’s bedroom to do what he always did when he felt this way.

He went to her dresser, stood before the special marble box and caressed it with his fingers. He knew it was a cremation urn that contained some of his father’s ashes. Ethan slid his arms to either side of the box, drew his face near, turned his head and pressed his cheek to the top, feeling its surface against his skin.

“I miss you, Dad.”

In Bridgeport, Connecticut, Agent Dutton’s body was committed to the earth. At the graveside ceremony, the FBI director presented Jennifer Dutton with the FBI’s Memorial Star, a medal given to the relative of an agent whose death was caused by “adversarial action.” Then Jennifer Dutton’s father held her as her husband’s casket was lowered into the ground.

After the burial, hundreds of mourners gathered for the reception at the community hall near the church. Jennifer sat in a chair while she, her father and family members formed the funeral receiving line.

This was it.

This is where Lisa needed to do what she had to do.

She took her place in line along with Chan and Watson. It moved slowly. As she neared the family, Lisa noticed the funeral director’s staff delicately attempting to keep the line flowing with respectful requests to “please keep your condolences brief, please, thank you.”

But Lisa needed to do more than console Jennifer.

As she got closer she heard people say, “I am so sorry for your loss,” “Greg was such an amazing person,” “Our sympathy to you,” “We’re going to miss him.”

Lisa found herself standing before Jennifer Dutton, looking into her face, pale, broken, bright red veins webbing her tear-stained eyes. I know your pain. I know you are not here, that you’re falling through an abyss right now, but I need to break through. I need you to hear me.

Lisa took Jennifer’s hand. It was warm, weak.

Lisa held it tight.

“Jennifer, my name is Lisa Palmer. You have my deepest condolences.”

Jennifer nodded, but nothing registered.

“I was with your husband when he died.”

Chan turned and Watson shot a look at Lisa, who with measured words continued attempting to penetrate Jennifer’s grief.

“I was there when it happened.”

“Excuse me—” Chan’s voice was soft “—this isn’t the appropriate time.”

Jennifer blinked as if awakened, her attention focusing.

“There’s something I must tell you,” Lisa said, bending, nearly on her knees so that she was face-to-face with Jennifer, never letting go of her hand. “I have to tell you what he said before he died.”

Jennifer’s free hand flew to her mouth, her face crumpling with fear and an aching to know at the same time.

“We’re so sorry…” Chan grasped Lisa’s shoulder firmly.

“Yes,” Jennifer said to Lisa. “Tell me.”

“He said, ‘Jennifer, I love you.’ Those were his last words. I know, I was on the floor next to him. He tried to do the right thing. To save people. I held his hand as long as I could.”

A harsh, throaty cry rose from deep within Jennifer, forcing her to lift her head back to release it. All attention went to her and to Lisa. Her father put his arms around her as concerned mourners strained to see, prompting Jennifer’s doctor to approach her.

Chan and Watson tried to move Lisa away, but Jennifer wouldn’t release her hand.

“No!” Jennifer groaned to the others. “Let her be, let her be.”

Lisa remained rooted until Jennifer was able to speak again.

“You know, I felt him that day, felt him call out to me,” Jennifer managed to say, her voice a rasped whisper. She pulled Lisa to her and the two women, bonded in grief, held on to each other.

“Thank you for this. Thank you for telling me,” Jennifer said.

Much of the return drive to New York was passed in silence as Lisa suffered the unspoken wrath of Agents Chan and Watson for her perceived violation of FBI etiquette or protocol.

Lisa did not care.

Widow to widow, she knew what had to be done.

Lisa had to give Jennifer Dutton what was rightfully hers.

33

San Francisco, California

Where’s Rytter?

Ivan Felk swallowed whiskey, gritted his teeth and looked out from the hotel’s rooftop bar at the lights necklaced across the Bay Bridge.

It was late.

Unger, Northcutt and Dillon had checked in, but not Rytter. Where the hell was he? As Felk searched his phone yet again for messages, he’d received a new one from their support man in Kuwait City.

All props arrived safely. We’re awaiting next stage of the production.

That was good, significantly good. But Felk’s relief was short-lived.

The operation’s next stage would originate across the street in less than a week, at the Federal Reserve Bank of San Francisco. He needed every squad member here, now.

Rytter was missing.

Today was rendezvous day. It was critical they prepare. They had to check their gear and then drill. Felk put his phone away, gulped the last of his drink, tossed some bills on the bar. He turned to leave, when the flat screen above the bar stopped him cold.

A national news network was reporting from Bridgeport, Connecticut, on the funeral for FBI agent Gregory Scott Dutton “…who, along with three guards, was murdered in a commando-style six-million-dollar armored-car heist in Greater New York City. Our correspondent Frances Felder is at the ceremony where dignitaries from Washington, D.C., paid tribute to the fallen agent. Frances… Yes, John, it was an emotional service with Agent Dutton’s pregnant widow receiving the FBI’s Memorial Star on what the director of the FBI called a painful day in the bureau’s history—”

Painful? Those fuckers don’t know what pain is, Felk thought.

My men were betrayed and sacrificed defending you and assholes like you. And you praise this guy for his stupidity—for trying to stop the rescue operation of our brave people. You praise him? He’s not a hero, he’s a lesson, and you’d better learn it—anyone who gets in our way is an enemy combatant.

The news report ended, but Felk’s anger roiled as the glass-pod elevator descended seventeen stories inside the hotel’s colossal atrium. The others were waiting in the main-floor bar. Unger had flown directly to San Francisco. Northcutt flew to Los Angeles then drove up. Dillon flew to Seattle and drove down. Rytter had flown to Chicago and was driving across the States from there.

“Anybody heard from Erik?” Felk asked the others.

No one had anything to report.

“Shit. We can’t wait. Let’s move out. Dillon’s got a van.”

They went southbound on the 280, a multilane freeway of red-and-white lights that wove through a galaxy of terrace-hilled suburbs to Daly City. The self-storage outlet was near the Metro Mall and the Home Depot.

“You take care of things, Dillon?” Felk asked.

“Yes, the van’s rented on one of the counterfeit cards.”

Felk wanted this inspection done late at night. Fewer eyes around. As with most stages, they’d been supported through their network of trusted friends. Details were sent to Felk through an encrypted email and a key had been left at the hotel for him, under his alias. Using the information, he guided Unger as they navigated around the facility to unit 90, their unit.

They backed the van to it.

They had 24/7 outside access.

Felk pressed the unit’s password on the keypad then inserted the key into the steel lock. Metal rumbled as they raised the steel door. It was ten feet by twenty, plenty of room for their needs. It held motorcycles and large storage crates. They set to work inspecting their equipment, weapons, ammunition, clothing, wiring, hardware and other items. One isolated tub contained several white blocks of C4 packed in white Mylar-film wrapping.

“Looks good,” Unger said.

The snap-click-clack of the men making a closer examination of the M9 Beretta pistols and the M4 carbines pulled Felk back to Red Cobra Team 9’s assignment—the last mission.

Under layer upon layer of secrecy, they were subcontracted through a private security firm that was hired through the CIA to hunt and neutralize terrorists in the western frontier—a no-man’s-land straddling the border between Afghanistan and Pakistan that had been lost to al-Qaeda.

The territory was a whirlwind of militia cells, insurgents and tribal forces responsible for hostilities against all western troops. It took years before coalition leadership negotiated conditional peace with clan leaders, sweetened with humanitarian aid, but balanced on the condition that western troops would never enter the designated zones of the territory.

The peace actually took hold until western intelligence suggested insurgents were using those zones to plot devastating attacks against local governments who’d allied with western governments. Red Cobra Team 9 was hired for a covert mission to remove targeted leaders in the forbidden zones.

The night drop was done with radio silence.

Felk’s squad fell to earth never knowing that the intelligence on which they had staked their lives was false, that it was part of a calculated strategy to draw out militia cells for a larger “eradicating” action by coalition groups. But it could never be known that it was the western alliance that had violated the agreement. All Felk knew at the time of his team’s unsanctioned mission was that he needed every man on his squad to do the job.

Just as he needed every man now to finish it.

“Ivan?”

We did not come this far to fail—not with my brother’s life on the line.

“Ivan?” Northcutt had asked him a question. “We just got a message from Rytter. He’s in Nebraska.”

“Nebraska? Why is he so late?”

“We don’t know. He isn’t answering.”

34

Ogallala, Nebraska

Trooper Duane Hanson with the Nebraska State Patrol finished his coffee and took stock of the vast windblown plain while rolling westbound on Interstate 80.

He was just beyond the exit for Brule, midway through his shift, thinking about lunch at Thorsen’s Diner in Big Springs and maybe hitting the books again. He had five years with uniformed patrol and was working on getting selected for the Investigative Services Division.

Making the Cold Case Unit was his dream.

He’d studied, applied and written the exam. His interview was in three days. The brass at Troop D headquarters in North Platte was encouraging. Captain Wagner liked him, and Lieutenant Tolba let slip that Hanson had scored the highest he’d ever seen on an ISD exam.

It likely helped that Hanson was a voracious reader and had a near-photographic ability for retaining details, especially when it came to a “Be On the Lookouts.” While most guys scanned the local, state and national BOLOs, Hanson devoured them every day.

It would be sweet to make it into ISD, he thought, plus, there’d be the little pay boost. He flipped down his visor to a pretty woman smiling at him from a small color snapshot.

Darlene.

He’d met her in high school. They’d been married six years now. She was doing well selling real estate. They’d started talking about buying that property down by the river, starting a family.

Something came up on the right lane.

A Chevy pickup passed him, coming close to breaking the limit. No, that won’t do. Hanson pushed his old Crown Victoria Police Interceptor until he overtook the pickup, got in front of it and slowed things down to the proper speed limit.

Sometimes they just need me in their face, to remind them to abide by the law of the land. Hanson glanced in his rearview mirror. Looked like a young ranch hand, who gave a tiny embarrassed wave.

Hanson smiled to himself.

Reminds me of me, he thought as something blurred by both of them.

“What the hell? Now, that’s a serious violation.”

Hanson hit his lights and siren. The Ford’s big eight roared as he reached for his radio and alerted his dispatcher.

“Seventy-eight-ten westbound on eighty at Brule in pursuit.”

“Ten-four, seventy-eight-ten, description?”

“Looks like a white Chrysler, maybe a three hundred. Man, he must have a Hemi in that thing. He’s up to one-twenty-five, maybe one-thirty. Light traffic. Road is good.”

Hanson’s chase did not last. The driver pulled to the shoulder. Hanson eased up behind the vehicle. It was a Chrysler 300, looked like a rental. Hanson called in the tag, an Illinois plate. Then he gave the location, grabbed his book and got out of his car.

As he approached the driver, his training kicked in.

Be alert. Expect the unexpected.

One occupant. Hanson inventoried him: white, male, in his thirties, clean-cut, military-style brush cut. Blond. Tattooed and well-built; jeans, plain white T-shirt.

“Good afternoon, sir. What’s your rush?”

“I’m sorry. I lost concentration on my speed. I apologize.”

The accent was European, German, maybe.

“Back home on the autobahn there is no limit.”

“Well, this is Nebraska, sir, and our limits are clearly posted. If you exceed them, you break the law. Where you headed?”

“I’m on holiday.”

“Right, that doesn’t answer my question.”

“I was going to meet a friend on the West Coast.”

“Okay, well, I’m going to have to see your license and registration.”

“Of course, Officer. This car is a rental.”

Maybe it was the guy’s accent, his body language or something in the air—Hanson couldn’t pinpoint the reason, but he was getting a weird vibe. The driver got the registration from the glove compartment, pulled his license from his wallet and handed both to Hanson.

In that instant, he noticed a tattoo on the driver’s wrist, not quite covered by his watch.

Hanson clipped the information to his book.

The driver was Dieter Windhorst of Hamburg, Germany.

“That’s a pretty sophisticated watch you got there. Are you a serviceman?”

“I was in the military.”

“It’s a small world—my dad was with the corps, he’s got a watch like yours. Would you mind if I had a closer look?”

As the driver considered Hanson’s request, the corners of his blue eyes crinkled and he moved his arm so Hanson could look at the watch.

“It’s quartz,” the driver said. “Dual time, has temperature, altimeter.”

“Very cool, may I see it?”

The driver hesitated at the casual forwardness of the American cop, unlike police in Europe. It bordered on amusing. Clearly thinking cooperating might help the situation, he shrugged.

“By all means.” The driver removed the watch and gave it to him.

“It is also waterproof. Quite good.”

Hanson held it close, but was actually noting the driver’s wrist tattoo, a cobra in a strike position entwined in wire.

Unease pinged in the pit of Hanson’s stomach.

“Yup, Dad’s wasn’t that good. Very cool.” Hanson returned the watch. “Thanks. Hang tight, partner, it’ll take a while to process your information and to write you up for the infraction.”

“I understand. My apologies.” The driver replaced his watch.

In his car, Hanson radioed for an NCIC check on the car and Dieter Windhorst of Hamburg, Germany.

“Ten-four.”

“And please make an urgent check with Homeland and the FBI. I think we’ve got something here. Can you send backup to my twenty? No lights or siren. I need them now.”

“Roger that.”

Hanson’s pulse quickened as he flipped through the BOLOs on his clipboard. He stopped at an FBI alert displaying a clear illustration of a tattoo depicting a cobra, fangs bared and braided in barbed wire.

Damn, he glanced toward the car, that’s it.

The alert warned that any subject bearing the tattoo could have links to four homicides arising out of the armored car heist in New York City. The subject should be detained for questioning by the FBI. Approach with extreme caution as the subject is considered armed and dangerous.

“Seventy-eight ten subject vehicle a rental out of Chicago, O’Hare. Copy?”

“Ten-four.”

“Lessee is Dieter Windhorst, German national. I’m shooting the particulars to you now.” Hanson checked his small mobile computer. No outstanding warrants or wants.

“What about Homeland, FBI and Interpol?”

“Stand by.”

“What’s the ETA on my backup?”

“Not good, seven-sixty and seven-eighty-one are tied up with an overturned cattle truck near North Platte.”

Hanson dragged the back of his hand across his mouth.

He’d seen news reports of the armored car robbery in New York.

Four homicides, three guards and an FBI agent.

“Seventy-six to dispatch. What’s the situation with county, any chance of any backup within five?”

“Not looking good. Seventy-six, NCIC has a supplemental from Interpol and Homeland. Passport for Dieter Windhorst of Hamburg, Germany, is flagged as lost slash stolen from Schiphol Airport, Amsterdam. Do you copy?”

Damn, that’s him. I got a world of trouble sitting in front of me.

Each passing second increased the chances of the driver realizing that Hanson knew he was a wanted man. He could run.

“Seventy-six. Copy. The subject is consistent with the FBI BOLO, NCIC number W581898201. I’m going to bring him in.”

Hanson flipped down his visor, glanced at his wife’s face and activated his PA system.

“Sir, would you please remove your keys from the ignition and drop them outside your window! Extend your hands outside the window, exit the car and lie flat on your stomach with your hands behind your back!”

The driver did not respond.

Hanson cursed under his breath.

If he runs, I’m screwed. I have to do this now.

Hanson stood six-two, weighed two hundred pounds and was a former defensive tackle at college. He’d made all-state. As a state trooper he faced many difficult situations and drew on his football days whenever he had to get physical. He was quick, smart and strong.

But this guy gave off an icy vibe.

Hanson would prefer backup right now.

“Sir, please follow my instructions.”

Another moment passed and Hanson met the driver’s stare in the rental’s rearview mirror for nearly a minute before the driver’s body shifted.

He removed the keys. They chinked to the ground.

That’s good, Hanson thought. But this ain’t over.

The driver then extended his hands and opened the driver’s door from the outside. Keeping his eyes on Hanson, he raised his hands, palms open. He came to the rear right of his car and got on his knees, then lowered himself onto his stomach, lying flat on the ground.

He placed his hands behind his back.

And waited.

“Don’t move, sir!”

His pulse galloping, Hanson got out of his car, drew his gun from his holster and trained it on the driver. As Hanson approached him, he pulled metal handcuffs from his utility belt and tossed them on the ground next to the driver, keeping his gun steady.

“Close one cuff on your left wrist, let me hear it lock. Leave the other cuff open and place your hands behind your back. Do it now, please.”

Very slowly the driver complied. He was a big guy. Hanson estimated that they were a match in weight and height.

“Thank you. Now spread your legs.”

Hanson holstered his gun, moved quickly to place his knee on the driver’s back, to slip the open cuff on his free wrist. But the suspect made a lightning twist of his body, drove Hanson into the ground, smashing a fist to his head, striking like a snake for his gun. Vision blurred, senses floating, Hanson clawed to regain control. His football years and police training fueled by adrenaline rocketing through him, he got his hands on his gun.

Too late.

The driver’s steel grip was already on the Glock.

Oh, Jesus, he’s got my gun, got his finger on the trigger.

Hanson crushed his hands around the driver’s, who was angling the gun at Hanson. Reaching deep for every iota of strength, Hanson growled to fend off the barrel that was slowing turning toward him.

This guy’s strong. Fight. Fight. Fight.

Hanson shifted his weight and summoned strength he didn’t have.

A prayer and Darlene’s face blazed across his mind as he gave all he had to the battle just as the gun fired.

35

New York City

Jack Gannon arrived in the WPA newsroom needing an afternoon coffee, but there was no time. Lisker had seen him and called his desk phone.

“In my office, now!”

Two days had passed since Gannon and the super had discovered Harlee Shaw’s corpse.

Through the glass walls of Lisker’s office, Gannon recognized the two men waiting with Lisker as the detectives who’d first questioned him at the scene, Mullen and Walsh.

This is not good.

He’d never expected them to show up at the WPA unannounced. As he cut across the newsroom Gannon’s throat went dry. He hadn’t given Lisker the full picture on his tipster’s death. All that he’d told him was that his tip may have dead-ended.

Now, with two detectives from Yonkers waiting for him in his boss’s office, he realized that he’d made a mistake.

Gannon’s mistrust of Lisker stemmed from his time at the Buffalo Sentinel, where his managing editor had burned him. The editor betrayed Gannon’s confidence to the person Gannon was investigating. The incident had left Gannon with a pathological aversion to telling any editor about any major lead he was working on until he had the story locked up.

Since learning Harlee Shaw’s identity, Gannon had spent every free moment secretly digging into his life for any connection to the Ramapo heist. He had the suicide note committed to memory:

I never meant for this to happen.I am so sorry, Harlee.

Did Shaw mean his suicide or the murders in Ramapo? Was Gannon unraveling the conspiracy behind four homicides and a 6.3-million-dollar heist? Or was he mired in the sad case of a disturbed man?

Harlee Shaw grew up in Hoboken, New Jersey, was a former member of the U.S. Army, saw action in Iraq then came home to a job in private security. Shelly, the super, told Gannon that Shaw was a lonesome type, very sad. Shelly figured it was a result of his time in Iraq. But Gannon was unable to link Shaw to the heist.

So far.

He needed to keep digging.

He also needed to keep pressing his sources to help him get an interview with the woman who’d witnessed the FBI agent’s murder. There was a compelling story to be told. But he shoved all that aside and entered Lisker’s office, braced for his wrath.

“Park it, Gannon.” Lisker, leaning on his desk, arms folded, indicated the small meeting table where Mullen and Walsh were seated, wearing rumpled suits and stone-cold faces. “Apparently you’re acquainted with these gentlemen from the Third Precinct of the Yonkers P.D. They dropped by so you could further enlighten them on your involvement in the tragic case of Mr. Shaw.”

“My ‘involvement’? Am I going to need a lawyer here?”

“No, unless you did something criminal.” Walsh opened his notebook. “We just have a few follow-up questions. We’ve gone over your statement and we’d like you to elaborate on your dealings with the deceased and how you came to be at his residence on the day of his death.”

As Lisker’s gaze burned into him, Gannon cleared his throat.

“Well, as I told you, he called me anonymously a few times, claiming to have a tip on a big story. He would not give me his name. We get calls like these, most are from nut-jobs.”

“So why did you seek him out?”

“I don’t know what it was but I had a gut feeling about him. He said he had a big story about national security, but as for the details, he was vague, cryptic and scared. He called about five times and finally he agreed to meet me but never showed.”

“If he didn’t give up his name, how did you know where to find him?”

“I tracked his number to a pay phone in Yonkers, asked around and that’s how I located him.”

“So it was important that you find him?”

“I had a gut feeling, so I put in some time.”

“I’m curious…” Walsh looked at his notes. “Shelly Konradisky, the super, told us that you stayed alone in Shaw’s apartment right up until the time help came after her 911 call. What did you do in there?”

“I just took stock of the room.”

“Really? You touch anything? Take anything?”

“No.”

“Response time was sixteen minutes. Seems like a long time to keep a corpse company.”

“Journalistic curiosity.”

“Bull-fucking-shit, Gannon,” Mullen said. “Why were you interested in finding Harlee Shaw? What were you looking for in his apartment?”

Gannon’s Adam’s apple rose and fell. After assessing his situation, he decided to show his hand.

“All right. Whenever he called, he would call me sir. I pegged him for military, or ex-military. To me he sounded genuinely frightened about something. And when he agreed to meet, he said he would bring documents to prove his claim of a pending security threat. Now, all of this could have been part of a psychological problem. I’ve encountered my share of disturbed callers. I don’t know about this case. He was a no-show at our meeting. Three days later, the hit at Ramapo happened, a commando-style armed robbery.”

“So?”

“After that, I never heard from him again and I got thinking, what if his tip was related to the heist?”

“That’s a big-ass what-if, Gannon,” Mullen said.

“You never followed a hunch?”

“What was it you said? You get nut-job calls,” Mullen said.

“Did Shaw ever give you anything to support his claims?” Walsh asked.

“No, but I found out he was ex-military and worked in private security.”

“Private security?” Mullen snorted. “He was a mall cop, with a drinking problem. He talked to himself and was undergoing counseling. Did you know all that?”

“No.” Gannon swallowed hard. “Did he have a criminal record?”

“No record.”

“If he’s a psych case, then why are you guys so interested in my interest in him?”

“Because a suicide is a crime scene until we release it. You mucked around in our crime scene and we want to know why,” Mullen said.

“So it was definitely a suicide?”

“According to the Westchester County medical examiner’s preliminary report,” Walsh said.

“Did his counselor tell you what drove him to it?”

“He was despondent over losing some of his buddies in Iraq.”

“I found out he did a tour with the U.S. Army.”

“Two,” Walsh said. “After that he went back as a contractor, came home all messed up and decided to eat his gun.”

“I think we’re done here,” Mullen said.

“Are you going to pass this case to FBI agent Morrow?”

“Who?” Mullen asked.

“The case agent on the Ramapo homicides.”

“What for?”

“To look into a possible link between Shaw and the heist.”

Mullen threw a glance to Walsh that had the beginnings of eye rolling before Walsh said, “We’ll take that under advisement, Jack. Thank you.”

Walsh concluded the interview by closing his notebook.

After the detectives left, Lisker closed his office door and held up his thumb, keeping it a quarter inch from his forefinger.

“I am this close to firing you.”

“Why?”

“Insubordination, violation of newsroom policy, near-criminal behavior.”

“I was following a lead.”

“That’s why two detectives were here? You embarrassed the WPA.”

“I was doing my job. Most editors practiced in journalism support their reporters.”

“Shut up and listen. From this point on—”

A knock interrupted Lisker, and Beland Stone, the WPA executive editor—everyone’s boss—stuck his head in the office.

“Dolf, those revenue reports are in. I need to see you and Wallace in my office in two minutes.”

“Of course.” Lisker waited for the door to close then continued. “You’re off the heist story.”

“What?”

“Here.” He turned to his desk and passed Gannon a news release for a national dog show at Madison Square Garden. “While you are still employed here, you’ll be our new color writer. Start by covering this.”

“You’re joking.”

“Go with the photographer and get us a color story with art.”

“You’re serious?”

“Get out.”

Gannon returned to his desk with anger rippling through him.

Okay, I screwed up, big-time, but no way will I give up on this story.

He took several deep breaths and began scrolling through the newswire, struggling to think. He stared blankly at the screen waiting for his heart rate to level off as he clicked through story after story.

I’ve put in too much time, called in too many favors. I know there is something there. I’ll go rogue if that’s what it takes. I’ll bust this story. There is something there.

Gannon closed his window for the newswire, went to a hidden file on his computer’s hard drive and opened it. Images of Harlee Shaw’s decomposing body blossomed in vivid color on his monitor. Gannon studied them, unsure what he was looking for.

“What the hell is that?” Angelo startled him from behind.

Gannon’s first inclination was to hide the photos. But he had an idea. Checking the area to ensure he and Dixon were alone, Gannon explained the photos. Fresh eyes may find something.

“A typical suicide…” Dixon shrugged. “Now, when I was in Iraq, I saw some real damage, man. Come on, we have to go to the dog show. Photos of those mutts usually get good pick-up.”

“Wait, keep looking. Is there anything that strikes you as different?”

“Cripes, Jack.” Dixon took his mouse, clicked through, zooming in professionally on certain details. “It’s a suicide. The guy no longer wanted to breathe, it’s in his note.”

“But what else?”

“He no longer wanted that tattoo, either?”

“What?”

Dixon enlarged the area of Shaw’s wrist and pointed to the discoloration.

“See, he was fading a tattoo. Whatever he had there, he no longer wanted it. Looks like a snake or something. Come on, let’s go.”

“Hang on.”

Gannon drew his face close to his monitor, puzzling at the tattoo, not sure what to make of it. Was this something?”

Gannon’s cell phone rang.

“Gannon, WPA.”

“Jack, its Adell.”

The sound of his best source, Adell Clark, the ex-FBI agent from Buffalo, took his thoughts back to his hometown.

“Adell, it’s been so long.”

“I’m sorry I’ve been out of reach, I’m in Chicago on a case and it’s been time-consuming.”

“I understand. How’s your little girl?”

“Oh, she’s a handful.”

“Pretty soon the boys will be knocking on your door.” He smiled.

“Jack, I got your messages and I’ve been following your stories on the case. Listen, I just picked something up from a friend with the Chicago FBI that may help you.”

“In Chicago?”

“No. It’s a big break and it’s in Ogallala, Nebraska.”

36

North Platte, Nebraska

The man known as Dieter Windhorst drifted toward death.

He’d lost his struggle for State Trooper Duane Hanson’s gun when a bullet smashed through his jaw, shredded his optic nerve, then tore into the frontal lobe of his brain.

He’d been rushed from Ogallala, an hour east, to Great Plains, a regional trauma center in North Platte. After three hours of surgery, he lay shackled at the ankle to a hospital bed, his condition deteriorating. In the chair next to him, an FBI agent snapped through Field & Stream magazine, keeping a vigil punctuated by the squeak of soft-soled shoes on polished floors as the nurses checked on him at twenty-minute intervals.

It’d been some twenty-four hours since Trooper Hanson had stopped him.