Need You Now

32

A gent Henning agreed to meet me at eight A.M. It was her idea to get out of Manhattan, in case I was being watched or followed. By default, that meant Position Four on my list of meeting spots, a thirty-minute train ride to my old stomping grounds on the other side of the East River.

I grew up in Queens, lived there till I was fifteen-until Peter Mandretti became Patrick Lloyd. I accepted the fact that Queens has its critics; I didn’t accept the criticism. Yes, Brooklyn has more interesting housing, and there can be only one Manhattan, one Gotham-like center of the universe. The Bronx has the Yankees, and Staten Island has… well, as I might have told my friends in Queens, I’ve never had no freakin’ reason to go there, so who the hell cares what they got? But I do know this: only Queens has the Lemon Ice King of Corona.

Trips to the Ice King on warm summer nights hold a special place in my memory. Rainbow was my favorite flavor, notwithstanding my sister’s blunt reminders: “It’s the Lemon Ice King, moron.” The line could be long, but that was part of the experience, and with Shea Stadium a bike ride away, it was possible to snag a couple of last-minute seats for a Mets game on the cheap. Or you could just walk across the street to the park, where old Italian men played bocce ball for hours. The Ice King had no dining area-it was a tiny joint on the corner that served only ices-so benches by the bocce courts were the primo spot for scooping out chocolate or fruity slush from a cup. In summertime, you were lucky to find a seat.

On a cold morning in January, I had no such problem.

Andie glared at me, arms folded, her breath steaming as she fought off the cold. “You know, Patrick, it would have been perfectly acceptable for your list of designated meeting places to include one or two indoor locations.”

“My bad,” I said. “I’ll bring you back for a cherry ice in July.”

It was nearly an hour past dawn, but the sun was nowhere to be seen in the gray winter sky. Andie wasn’t getting any warmer, so I did a quick follow-up on the park ranger mentioned in the Daily News . Not surprisingly, the FBI was already aware that the victim was the same ranger who had found me unconscious and had sent me to the ER just a few hours earlier. Andie assured me that there was no need for me to speak directly to the detectives handling the homicide investigation-she had it covered-and then moved on to another subject.

“I met with your father last night,” she said.

Her mention of Dad was a funny coincidence. Just moments earlier, my gaze had drifted to the tuxedo shop across the street where, according to my mother, Dad had rented a hideous, yet stylish, powder blue tuxedo for their wedding.

“How is he doing?” I asked.

She offered a few details about his treatment, then added, “I wish I could tell you he was better. But he’s getting good care, and I can say he’s a fighter.”

“That’s something, I suppose.”

“I’m technically not allowed to tell you his new name or location,” she said. “In fact, my supervisor wouldn’t even give me that information. But I’m the curious type. And, frankly, I wouldn’t be much of an FBI agent if I couldn’t pinpoint a prison hospital that just admitted a sixty-year-old white male transfer patient who has non-Hodgkins lymphoma.”

“What did you find out?”

“He’s in Boston,” she said, and then she mentioned the name of the hospital. “His new name is Sam Carlson.”

As per our previous conversation, we were operating on a quid pro quo basis, and I knew this update was not gratis. She wanted something from me.

“I believe it’s time for you to give up the name of the man who opened a certain numbered account at BOS/Singapore.”

She meant the account that was at the heart of the search for Cushman’s money, of course. I said, “As I recall, there was one more condition. You were going to tell me why the FBI is still helping my father, even though your supervisor thinks I’ve been holding out.”

“I’ll be honest with you,” she said. “I don’t know why.”

I wasn’t sure I believed her, which made me want to hold on to the name Manu Robledo until she really gave me something. “That’s not good enough.”

A wisp of wind sent a swirl of white powder across the frozen bocce court. I shifted gears and told her about my meeting with Barber and Lilly. The exchange of data piqued her interest.

“What would it take to get my hands on Lilly’s files?” she asked.

“That’s way beyond the scope of our original deal,” I said, “and it’s confidential bank data. But I might see my way toward sharing it with you if you can tell me what BAQ means.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“One of the files mixed in with Lilly’s data is encrypted on a level that the federal government would use for a matter of national security. The only thing my tech expert can determine is that the letters B-A-Q appear in sequence with unusual frequency. It’s possible that it’s an abbreviation for something.”

“Your tech expert?” she said.

I had no intention of bringing Evan into this. “Don’t ask,” I said.

“The abbreviation BAQ doesn’t mean anything to me.”

“I didn’t expect an answer off the top of your head. Do some digging. Get me an answer, and I’ll give you Lilly’s files. Get it to me quick, and I’ll throw in the name of the man who opened numbered account 507.625 RR.”

It was the first time I’d mentioned the actual BOS account number, and it seemed to buy some credibility.

“Deal,” she said.

Another breeze, which became a gust, cut across the bocce courts. Andie was downwind and took the brunt of it.

I said, “Why don’t you go find someplace warm.”

She brushed the icy powder from her eyebrows, muttered something about a fast plane back to Miami, and then looked me in the eye. “One last thing,” she said. “I shared your father’s new name and location because you wanted to know them. But after meeting with him, I feel like I should add one thing you probably won’t want to hear: don’t contact your father.”

Her bluntness took me aback. “Would you tell me if he was going to pass soon?”

“It’s not imminent, but that’s not my point. I don’t say this to be cruel or to hurt your feelings, but your father was moved and given a new identity at his own request. He doesn’t want you to find him.”

A reunion had never been my stated mission, but Andie’s frank advice made me realize that it had indeed been a subconscious goal. I tried to absorb the blow. “Did he tell you that?”

“Yes. In almost exactly those words.”

“Did he tell you why?”

“He has his reasons.”

“That doesn’t really answer my question.”

She drew a deep breath of the cold morning air as she considered her response. “There are things that he doesn’t want to have to explain to you.”

“That’s pretty vague.”

“He’d prefer it that way. I’m sure of it.”

“Did he kill Gerry Collins?”

“Patrick, I can assure you of one thing. It has absolutely nothing to do with your father’s guilt or innocence.”

“It’s my mother, isn’t it?”

Andie struggled. “I don’t know if you’re aware of this or not, but your mother tried to contact your father while he was in witness protection. He’s convinced that’s what got her killed.”

“I didn’t know it, but I always suspected.”

“Now you know.”

“That was a long time ago,” I said. “The Santucci family isn’t what it used to be. Who’s to say it would be anywhere near as dangerous for his children to see him before he dies?”

“He doesn’t want to take that risk.”

Our eyes met, and held. The vibe between us wasn’t about love and romance, but it suddenly occurred to me that I’d worked harder at this relationship with Andie Henning than I’d worked at any relationship with any woman who wasn’t named Lilly. I didn’t always trust her-not by a long shot-but at least, with respect to her advice about my father, I sensed that I could trust her completely.

“Thank you,” I said.

“You’re welcome.”

There was compassion in her tone, and it was as if she was telling me that hearing the harsh truth was only part of the equation. Now all I had to do was deal with it.

Or, knowing myself, ignore her well-intentioned advice.