The Blue Zone

CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

Phil Cavetti opened the doors to the dingy, sparsely filled bar, the Liffey, on West Forty-ninth Street. No one even looked up as he stepped in.

An assortment of raggedy-looking old-timers with beers in front of them were yelling at a soccer match on the TV. One wall was covered with black-and-white pictures of famous soccer stars and tenors. Another had a Gaelic national flag draped like a tapestry. Cavetti stepped up to the bar, next to a balding man in a tan raincoat, hunched over his beer.

“Drinking alone?”

The man turned. “Not sure. Brad and Angelina are supposed to drop in any minute now.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Fuck it.” He sighed. Alton Booth removed the newspaper from the stool beside him. “I have this feeling I’m being stood up.”

Cavetti sat down. “I’ll have what he’s having,” he instructed the muscular, ponytailed man behind the bar, sleeves of colorful tattoos running up and down his arms.

“Shirley Temple!” the barman called loudly. A few people turned away from their match to look.

“He knows I’m a cop, right?” Cavetti snorted in an amused sort of way.

“Everyone in here does. You sat next to me.”

The barman brought Cavetti a Killian’s, with a smirk that let him know he’d had him made as soon as he walked in. Cavetti took a swig of his beer. “So you got me here, Al. I’m kinda thinking it wasn’t for the charm.”

“Sorry.” The FBI man shrugged sheepishly. He slid a manila envelope across. Cavetti unfastened the clasp and pulled out what was inside.

Photos.

He laughed. “Couldn’t help yourself, huh?”

“What’s the joke?”

“Kate Raab said that to me. Every time I see her, I bring out pictures.”

“Wait till she gets a load of these.”

Cavetti slid out the contents. There was a cover sheet marked CRIMINAL EVIDENCE, from the Seattle office of the FBI. The top sheet read PIKE’S MARKET. HOMICIDE OF SHARON RAAB, A/K/A SHARON GELLER.

“A team of agents on our field staff were following up on the crime scene,” Booth explained. “These were taken by a security camera in a garage a block from the hotel. The agent in charge, ambitious up-and-comer that he was, ran the plates of all vehicles leaving area garages within a few minutes after the attack.”

“Thorough.” Cavetti nodded, leafing through the photos, impressed.

They were all of the rear of a single car. A Chrysler Le Baron. Years before, Cavetti used to drive one. This one was newer. Michigan plates-EV6 7490.

“Rental,” the FBI man said, anticipating the next question. “Two days before. It was turned back in the day after at the Sacramento airport.”

Cavetti looked at him impatiently. “Do I have to order another beer, Al, or are you going to give me a name?”

“Skinner.”

Cavetti’s eyes widened. “Fuckin’ A…”

“Kenneth John Skinner” was one of the licenses they’d traced to Benjamin Raab.

So it wasn’t Mercado after all. It was only made to look that way. Raab was behind it, even if he hadn’t pulled the trigger.

The son of a bitch had murdered his own wife.

“Does this photo come with an understanding of what’s going on?”

“I understand we’ve got four agents dead, Phil. And that Oscar Mercado is missing. I understand that we’re dealing with a man we’ve greatly underestimated. Problem is, Assistant Director Cummings is starting to understand that, too.”

“Cummings?”

“The AD wants this over, Phil. They want Raab, Mercado-this whole thing put under wraps. No more pissing around your little Blue Zone. His directive is, ‘By whatever means…’”

“Whoever it puts at risk.” Cavetti nodded. “Whoever happens to get in the way.”

Booth shrugged again. “Your boys are squaring off against each other, Phil.” He signaled for another beer. “Either that, or this is one fucking elaborate scheme to get out of paying alimony.”

“You’re right.” Cavetti took a final swig and stood up, patting Booth on the back. “His daughter’s not going to be thrilled about this at all.”

He looked at Booth, then glanced around the dingy bar. “What is it you like about this place, Al?” he asked, reaching into his pocket for a bill.

Booth stopped him. “I was on Westies patrol when I was cutting my bones back in the seventies.” The Westies were the bloody Hell’s Kitchen gang whose members were always used as muscle for the mob. “This was the local HQ. I was outside this place so many times on surveillance, one day the manager came out and brought me a beer. Haven’t paid since.”

Cavetti laughed. He had a few of those stories himself.

But he wasn’t happy. He had spoken with Kate Raab yesterday. He was certain she hadn’t been truthful with him when he asked about her father.

Now he felt doubly scared for her.