The Final Reckoning

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

He wondered at first if it was some kind of joke. When he saw it, he had immediately looked around the rest of the office, to see who might be behind it, but there was no telltale sniggering. Besides, he was hardly ever in this office. He had no co-workers to speak of, still less work buddies. As a first grade detective, that's not how you operated. Out of the bag meant you were neither glued into a uniform, nor chained to a desk. Jay Sherrill worked as he imagined a top surgeon or lawyer might, running his own day, travelling around, with the cellphone and BlackBerry in place of an office.

Yet someone had put this here and they had done it in the last few minutes. When he had arrived an hour ago, seeking a quiet space to think through his next move after that none-too-subtle warning from Stephen Lake of the Intelligence Division, there had been no Post-It note stuck to his computer screen. He had gone to the vending machine for a cup of Styrofoam coffee, could only have been five minutes, and now there it was. The message was marked in block capitals: SUBWAY. ACROSS STREET. 4.15

He looked at his watch. It was 4.06pm. It could be a trap. He thought of some of the cases he had fought in the last two years, including one that touched on an outer ring of the mafia. Every cop in New York knew how those guys liked to exact their revenge. But his own role had been marginal; overwhelmingly, it had been an FBI operation. They surely wouldn't come after him. And in a crowded subway station, during the day?

He studied the note once again. It was cleverly worded. Someone passing by would have assumed it was not a message at all, but a reminder Sherrill might have jotted down to himself. The block capitals betrayed no clues. But how could someone have possibly got in here, one of the most heavily secured buildings in New York city, and got out again that quickly? He had no idea.

He also had no choice; he would have to go. You couldn't ignore a direct message like this; no cop would.

He walked out of the main entrance and was about to turn left for the subway station when he saw it, directly opposite him. Subway, the sandwich bar. He was almost relieved. It was the last place in the entire United States any mafioso would use for a hit: right opposite headquarters, it was an alternative police canteen, brimming with cops fuelling up on foot-long Philly cheese-steak heroes with extra everything. It was the kind of place a first grade detective like Sherrill always avoided, knowing the derision and resentment that would come his way from the old timers the instant he stepped inside.

He pushed the door open and scanned the room, hoping he wasn't making it too obvious. A line of customers, either cops or secretaries on lunch hour; a couple of middle-aged men on cellphones. None of them seemed to recognize him.

‘Excuse me,’ Sherrill said, still scoping the faces, as a blue-overalled cleaner shuffled into him, lethargically wielding a broom and a flip-open, extended dustpan. One of those ridiculous, preppie habits Sherrill couldn't shake: apologizing when someone bumped into him.

‘No problem, Detective,’ the cleaner murmured back.

Sherrill wheeled round to see the man, black, dreadlocked and with white headphones in his ears, raising his eyebrows in recognition: ‘You wanna take a walk?’

Sherrill said nothing and watched, stunned, as the man propped his cleaning equipment by the front door and headed out. Once outside, the cleaner walked purposefully, not waiting for Sherrill to catch up. He remained a half-pace in front, looking ahead, so that he and the detective might just be two New Yorkers hurrying about their business, not communicating at all.

‘Thanks for coming, Detective Sherrill. Sorry about,’ he made a small movement with his hand, ‘all this.’

‘Who are you? How do you know my name?’

‘We're co-workers. I'm an agent with the NYPD Intelligence Division. Undercover.’ Still looking straight ahead, he smiled briefly. ‘In case you hadn't noticed.’

‘How did you-’

‘Get into your office? That was easy. I've got an NYPD pass. Besides, cleaner's overalls? That's a regular invisibility cloak in this town. Fuck Hogwarts. Just gotta be a black man dressed as a cleaner: no one sees you then, trust me. Hey, Sherrill, pull out your cellphone.’

‘My cellphone, why?’

‘Just pretend you're talking into it. And don't keep looking at me.’

For the second time in six hours, Jay Sherrill was coming face to face with his own inexperience. He had never done undercover work. He realized now, he didn't know even the basics. He did as he was told and tried to fake a phone call.

‘OK, what do you want?’

‘I don't want anything. I'm risking my fucking job here-’

‘I'm sorry, I didn't mean-’

‘Want something? What is it with you people?’

‘I'm really sorry. That was-’

‘I have some information that might help you.’

The pitch of Sherrill's voice lifted. ‘Information?’

‘On the killing of Gerald Merton.’

‘What kind of information?’

‘The eye-witness kind.’

Sherrill couldn't help but shoot a glance at the man walking just ahead of him. Then, guiltily, he returned to the blank middle-distance stare adopted by all those talking on cellphones in the street.

‘You were there?’

‘I saw it all. From the beginning.’