It was right in front of him.
The ghostly images of the killers in flight, juxtaposed with those of the four people they had murdered. The faces of the dead men stared from the enlarged photographs set up next to the monitors. The FBI was about to confirm their identities. Now, for the first time, the world would meet the victims.
There was the crew chief, Phil Mendoza: aged fifty-two, of Flatbush, Brooklyn, married thirty-two years, with three children and six grandchildren. Mendoza, a former U.S. marine, had nine years with American Centurion and was considered the old man of the team.
Next was Gary Horvath, aged forty-one, from Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. Horvath was recently separated after his nineteen-year-old son was killed when a rig hauling scrap metal rolled over his Honda on the Jersey Turnpike. Horvath was a former self-employed limo driver who’d put in seven years with the armored car company.
Then there was Ross Trask, twenty-four years old; the crew’s rookie, who started with American Centurion two years ago. Trask was from the Bronx and was about to join the New York Fire Department. He was engaged to his high school sweetheart. She operated a hairstyling salon. Their wedding date was a month away.
The FBI agent was Gregory Scott Dutton, who’d joined the bureau in 2007. Right from the academy at Quantico, Dutton was assigned to the Bridgeport residency office in Connecticut. He’d worked on the joint-terrorism task force’s investigation on the Bridgeport link to the attempted Times Square bombing. Dutton’s widow was seven months pregnant with their first child.
The instant their names were released, reporters alerted their desks to dispatch people to track down their families, ignoring Agent Miller’s pleas to respect their privacy.
The story was too big.
There were too many factors: four homicides, one of them an FBI agent going for his weapon, the 6.3 million dollars and the nature of the attack. The killing of the FBI agent was compelling. Since the bureau’s creation in 1908, fewer than fifty agents had been killed as a result of direct adversarial force.
Gannon’s call to the WPA went to Lisker.
“We’ve been watching the conference live,” Lisker said. “We’ve sent people to The Bronx and Brooklyn to profile the guards. What do you have to maintain our lead on the story?”
Gannon cupped his hand over his phone.
“Nothing, so far. I’m working with my sources.”
“After the press conference, I want you to help on the profiles of the guards. You and Dixon head to Flatbush. Profile Mendoza. I’ll get Hal Ford to get you the family’s address.”
“What about the FBI agent?”
“Our Bridgeport stringer got his home number. No one’s answering. The stringer’s on her way to the house now, but we think the agent’s widow is avoiding the press.”
Gannon was uneasy with Lisker’s micromanaging of the story. It would lead to problems. Gannon turned back to the news conference and surveyed the agents watching from the sidelines. The undercurrent of emotion seething beneath their grim faces was palpable.
For the FBI, this wound went deep.
Gannon found Special Agent Frank Morrow observing from a corner and for one burning moment their eyes met, before Morrow suppressed a sneer and looked away.
Then Gannon saw Katrina Kisko, sitting midway at the side. She’d glared at him long enough for him to feel her wrath before she resumed focusing on the conference.
“With the support of American Centurion,” Agent Miller said, “the FBI is offering a two-hundred-thousand- dollar reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the suspects. We’re appealing to the public, to anyone with any information about this crime, to contact us.”
The amount sent ripples of murmuring across the room.
“We’ll take a few questions now,” Agent Miller said.
The reporters asked about leads, evidence, Agent Dutton’s action, FBI policy on drawing a weapon, safety and training of armored guards, statistics about heists, the high-performance sport bikes used for the getaway, the commando-style attack, the suspects, motive, number of agents on the case, the emotion, FBI vendetta, the risk of being an armored-car guard, the amount of money stolen, witnesses, links to other heists, the possibility of the crime being an inside job, the potential link to domestic or international terrorist groups.
For nearly forty-five minutes, reporters went up and down a range of aspects relating to the heist before Miller concluded.
“We’ll call another briefing when more information is available. Thank you.”
As the conference broke up, Gannon told Dixon he would meet him where he’d parked his SUV, then pursued Agent Morrow, who’d left the room alone. At the moment, Morrow was his only shot at a stronger angle. The agent was thirty paces ahead, about to round a corner, when Gannon called out.
“Excuse me, Agent Morrow?”
He turned, recognized Gannon and stopped. Gannon double-checked to ensure they were alone.
“Jack Gannon, WPA. We met at the scene.”
“I know who you are.”
“May I ask you a few confidential questions?” Gannon said.
The sternness of Morrow’s face dared Gannon to continue.
“Look, I can understand that you and the agents on the case might be having a hard time and—”
“How’s that? Now you know what we’re going through? Did your ‘sources’ tell you how we’re feeling?”
“No, I was just being respect—”
“You don’t know dick, Gannon.”
“Were the facts in my story wrong, Agent Morrow?”
Morrow didn’t answer the question. Instead, he asked one.
“Who are your sources?”
“You’re kidding, right? I’m not telling you who my sources are.”
“I didn’t think so. But let me enlighten you, all-star, if I fuck up, people get away with murder, maybe even die. If you fuck up, what happens?”
“Possibly the same thing.”
“Is that right?” Morrow almost laughed.
“I’ll tell you one thing—you can bet your pension your shooters are reading every word I write, wherever they are.”
“Now you get why we don’t want to talk to you.”
“I see.” Gannon tilted his head to the briefing room. “But you sure do need us to spread the word on your bike photos and reward. You have no problem using us like a fifty-dollar hooker. But when we dig, when we do a little journalistic investigating, well, that changes everything. Which brings me full circle— Was my information wrong?”
Morrow’s jaw muscle pulsed.
“Just as I thought,” Gannon said. “Well, think about this. WPA stories go everywhere, and I mean, everywhere. The killers likely read my stuff. I am a conduit to what they digest, Agent Morrow. Think that over.”
Gannon’s phone rang, Morrow walked away and he answered it. It was Dixon, anxious to get rolling to Brooklyn.
“On my way.”
Gannon left.
As he exited Federal Plaza, he hurried to where Dixon had parked; a spot off Broadway on Chambers. Gannon was near the northwest edge of City Hall Park when across the street he spotted Katrina Kisko on a bench. She was talking to a guy in a suit and taking notes. Gannon recognized the man as a New York City police detective he’d met a couple of times.
He looked as if he was telling Katrina something significant.
