Wild Card

48

Elise and Elena hailed a cab on the Third Avenue side of Bloomingdale’s and got into the rear seat just in time to see a policeman shoot a man on the sidewalk.

“You think that guy was after us?” Elena asked.

“Maybe,” Elise replied, “but if he was, he isn’t anymore.” She gave the driver Stone’s address and prayed for traffic to get out of the way.

Dino was on his way uptown in his car for lunch with Stone when his phone rang. “Bacchetti,” he said.

“Dino, it’s Joan,” she said.

“Hi, Joan.”

“There’s trouble, and Stone isn’t answering his phone.”

“Tell me.”

“This morning, after Jamie’s story about the Thomases ran in the Times, Stone called Elise and gave her the all-clear — thinking they wouldn’t dare go for her now.”

“That seems reasonable.”

“Elise and her mother went to Bloomingdale’s. They were trying on clothes in the Ralph Lauren department when two women were shot in a dressing room opposite theirs. They’re on their way here now.”

“Shot in the middle of Bloomie’s?”

“Exactly. Will you tell Stone about this and also tell him to watch his ass?”

“I’ll do more than that,” Dino said. He hung up and called the Nineteenth Precinct and found they were already on the job, and that a suspect had been shot by a street cop on Third Avenue, outside the store. He asked to be kept apprised of the details and hung up.

Stone was already at their table when Dino arrived and gave him the news.

“I’m flabbergasted,” Stone said. “The Thomases have gone absolutely bonkers, and I’ve made a big mistake thinking they would behave sensibly now, in their own interests.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” Dino replied. “We haven’t connected these killings to the Grants yet. At least we took out the assassin, though.”

“Where?”

“On the street outside the store.”

“Who was he?”

As if in answer to his question, Dino’s phone rang, and he walked away from the dining room to answer it. He returned shortly.

“This is very interesting,” Dino said, sitting down. “The killer had a notebook with the Grants’ names in it and the Plaza was mentioned. Do you know if they had breakfast there?”

“No.”

“Here’s the other thing. The guy was carrying an American passport in the name of Jonathan Morgan that, when checked, was valid, until our intelligence unit started running down the name. Turns out, Morgan doesn’t exist, but the shooter entered the country on that passport, and the computer didn’t kick back.”

“What do you take that to mean?” Stone asked.

“It seems to mean that there’s a foreign intelligence aspect to this thing. No street forger could make that passport. It requires a special kind of expert and a real number from the State Department or, abroad, an embassy or consulate. Our people are running prints and our facial recognition program now. We’ll have to wait and see if they get a hit.”

Harod Avaya was still sitting on his park bench when his telephone chimed loudly. That meant a news alert from the New York Times app. He pressed the alert and waited for the story to come up.

Two women were fatally shot twenty minutes ago in the dressing room of a designer shop at Bloomingdale’s. Shortly afterward, the alleged shooter was himself shot on the street outside the department store. No word yet on his identity or that of the victims.

Harod was stunned that Avin could have allowed himself to be chased down in the street and shot by the police. He began thinking ahead. Avin was carrying the passport by the same forger as that of his own. They would be tracking the ID down by now, but he had been assured that the document would hold up under scrutiny. He remembered that the three passports sold to Harod and his two compatriots did not have consecutive numbers; that was a relief.

His phone rang, and he recognized the number as that of a throwaway used by Rance Damien.

“Yes?”

“We have to meet right now,” Damien said.

“Park bench on the East River, near the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge,” he replied.

“Forty minutes,” Damien said, then hung up.

Harod put away his phone and took a stroll, always keeping the bench in sight. Damien turned up on schedule and sat down, putting a briefcase between his legs. Harod went into his phone and deleted the voice mails and texts from Damien. Then, satisfied that the man had not been followed, he approached the bench and sat down. Damien was pretending to read the Times.

“Why didn’t you return my calls?” Damien demanded.

“What calls?” Harod took out his iPhone, checked his e-mail and message pages. “Nothing here,” he said. “Is something wrong?”

Damien put down the newspaper and slid it across the bench to Harod. “Front-page story on us,” he said, “continued at length inside.”

“I got that on my iPhone this morning. It’s nothing to do with me.”

“Did you send a man to Bloomingdale’s to kill the Grants?”

“We located them at a police safe house this morning, and Avin followed them from there to the Plaza, where they had breakfast, and then to Bloomingdale’s. I just got a flash from the Times that two women were shot in Bloomingdale’s and the shooter was killed by police outside. I assume they are talking about the Grants and Avin, though no names have been released yet.”

“Goddammit, I canceled the four contracts!” Damien shouted.

“Keep your voice down, or I will walk away.” Harod looked around the area for threats. “I showed you my phone. I got no messages or texts.”

“Don’t you see what this means?” Damien asked. “As soon as they identify the women, they’ll be coming for us. We may have to leave the country.”

“There’s no need to panic,” Harod said. “They’ll question you, and you were in your office at the time. They can’t connect you to Avin or me. You’re safe. Do you still want to cancel the other three contracts?”

“Yes, for now,” Damien said.

“Then I’ll have the money, as per our agreement.”

“It’s in the briefcase between my feet,” Damien said. “Two hundred thousand dollars, as agreed.”

“Then, when you reactivate the other contracts, there will be no further charge. Now go.”

Damien rose and left, leaving the briefcase under the bench.

Harod’s phone rang, and he checked the caller ID. Avin’s phone; the police had found it. He switched off his iPhone, removed the data card, and ground it under his heel before kicking it into the grass. He then picked up the briefcase and laid it across his knees. It was beautiful, he thought, brand-new. He wanted to see the money. He placed his thumbs on the latches and pressed.

His world exploded in fire.