“The Seventies?” said Mary wistfully. “I was happily married then. I was a housewife and mother. I had a husband and I had a brother.” Carlos nodded and noisily sipped his Cola through a straw. Mary looked around the ball park. Every seat was full. The Baltimore Orioles were having a good season and the city had rallied to support them. Beyond the stands were the towering office blocks of the city centre. Mary shielded her eyes from the sun with her hand as she scrutinised the tall buildings. When she turned back to Carlos, his seat was empty.
Cole Howard left it until 10 a.m. before ringing Jake Sheldon’s secretary and asking if he could see the director. He wanted to be sure that Sheldon had seen the new computer-enhanced photographs and the written request for a wire tap. The secretary told him that Sheldon was at a meeting until noon but that she’d pencil him in for twenty minutes after that.
Howard picked up a set of the Clayton photographs and went along the corridor to the office Kelly shared with five other agents. She was on the phone and Howard read through the departmental notices on the wall while he waited for her to finish. “Good morning, Cole,” she said brightly as she replaced the receiver. He put the pictures on her desk and watched her as she scrutinised them. She brushed her blonde hair behind her ears, her eyes wide. He saw the glint of a wedding band. She looked up at Howard and then back at the photographs. “This is amazing,” she said. She was wearing a pale blue dress with short sleeves and gold buttons. It reminded him of one of his wife’s expensive Chanel outfits and he wondered who Kelly’s husband was and if he had money. “Are these from Clayton Electronics?” she asked.
Howard nodded. “That’s right,” he said. “Can you run them by the people in the car rental office? Also, I’d like you to see if you can get a match from our files. Try Interpol, too. Let’s see if we can get a match now that we’ve improved the resolution.”
“Sure,” she said eagerly. “This is incredible. How on earth did you get these?”
“High-powered computers and a couple of space cadets,” said Howard.
Kelly looked at the pictures of the snipers. “Pity that the snipers have got their scopes up against their faces.”
“Yeah,” agreed Howard. “I’ll send them to Lovell and Schoelen’s Navy SEAL unit and see if they can ID the third sniper. Did you have any luck chasing down their bank accounts?”
Kelly shook her head. “Both accounts were closed three months ago,” she said.
“Yeah, I thought they would be,” said Howard. “What about the credit cards?”
“The Justin Davies American Express card has turned up in Los Angeles,” she replied. “A couple of homeboys were trying to buy a boom box with it. The local police found their apartment full of stuff they’d been buying. It was like
“How did they get the card?”
“They say they found the wallet in the street. One of the agents from our LA office is seeing them this afternoon, but they stuck to the same story all day yesterday. If they did lift it, we’ll get a description eventually. The other card is still loose.”
Howard nodded. “Okay. Look, I’m going up to see Sheldon at noon. I’d like you there.” She nodded and went back to studying the photographs.
“There’s nothing that warms my heart more than to see a good Catholic boy on his knees,” laughed Shorty.
“Why don’t you join me, and while you’re here you can plant a big wet one on my arse,” replied Joker. He was kneeling in front of the low-level shelves where the bottled beer and soft drinks were stored, restocking and making sure that all the labels were facing outwards, like soldiers on parade.
“I’d love to, but I’ve arranged to meet a young lady over in Queens, and if I’m not there in an hour she’ll as likely start without me.” The small man took off his apron and retrieved his jacket from a hook on the wall. “You’ll be okay minding the shop on your own?”
“Sure, Shorty, no sweat. You enjoy yourself.”
Shorty winked as he walked by the bar, heading for the door and the sunshine. “I surely intend to, Damien.”
“And give her one for me!” Joker shouted after him, standing up and stretching. He carried the empty crates into a storage room, then went back to the bar and began slicing lemons and limes. There were only three customers: two old men in tweed jackets and caps sitting at a round table playing cribbage and a long-haired young man in torn jeans who was nursing a half-pint of Guinness. He was one of the two teenagers who’d been collecting for the IRA when Joker had first visited Filbin’s on St Patrick’s Day, the one who’d held out the bucket. His name was Dominic Maguire, though everyone called him Beaky because of his large nose, and he was a regular visitor to the bar, both as a fund-raiser and as a customer.
“So how’s it going today, Damien?” asked Beaky.
“Slow,” said Joker, scraping the fruit slices into a bowl. He washed the knife in the small sink under the bar. “Where’s John today? John Keenan was Beaky’s friend and the two were practically inseparable.
“Over in the Bronx, seeing a lawyer. He’s hoping for a shot at the next Green Card lottery.”
“Good luck to him,” said Joker. “You want another?”
Beaky shrugged. “I’m a bit short, to be honest, Damien.”
“That’s okay,” said Joker, taking his almost empty glass and refilling it. “You can have this on me.”
Beaky grinned. “Yer a saint, thanks a lot.”
Joker poured himself a double measure of Famous Grouse and added a splash of water. He raised the glass to Beaky. “Cheers,” he said. He savoured the whisky as Beaky returned the salute. “I hope John gets his Green Card,” he added.
“Don’t see it makes any difference,” said Beaky.
“There’s plenty of guys can get you a counterfeit one if yez needs it. Me, I wouldn’t even bother.”
“Why’s that?”
“Once they get their claws into you, they never let go,” said Beaky. “The IRS get onto you, immigration keep checking on you, it’s too much hassle. I get paid in cash, no tax, no fingerprints on file, no nothing. I’ve been here three years with never a problem.”
“But what if you want to leave?”
“No sweat, I can get a fake I-94 and a stamp in my passport, that’s all you need. When you leave, the airline looks at the 1-94 and they take it off you and send it to INS. They don’t know shit. They’re not trying to stop people leaving, they just don’t want to let you in.” He took a mouthful of the dark stout and wiped the foam off his upper lip.
“It’s as easy as that?” asked Joker.
“Depends who you know,” said Beaky. “Why, you want something doing?”
Joker shook his head. “Nah, I’m okay so far. But I’ll let you know.” He finished his whisky and helped himself to another. “Say, a friend of mine was in New York some time ago, said he was trying to get a Green Card, maybe you know him. Matthew Bailey.”
Beaky put his head on one side like a parrot listening to a sound it hadn’t heard before. “Bailey? Yeah, a carrot top, right?”
Joker nodded. “Hair like a fox, that’s him.”
“Where was it I saw him? Yeah, I know, O’Ryan’s Bar. Sometime last year. He was planning to go to Washington, I think.”
At the mention of Washington, Joker’s stomach lurched. That was where Pete Many on’s body had been found.
“Do you know where I can get hold of him?” asked Joker.
“Yeah, he was going to see a guy called Patrick Farrell, a pilot who runs some sort of aircraft leasing company between Washington and Baltimore.”
“You don’t know the name of it, do you?” asked Joker. “I’d really like to get in touch with Matthew if it’s possible.”
“No, but I’ll ask around,” said Beaky.
The last thing Joker wanted was for Beaky to go around asking questions about Bailey, but he knew that to refuse the man’s offer would only raise suspicion. He took Beaky’s glass, refilled it and then turned the subject to a robbery which had taken place just three streets away, leaving a husband and wife and their young daughter dead from knife wounds. As they talked, Joker’s mind was racing. It shouldn’t be too hard to track down a pilot called
