guy he’d seen her with at City Hall Park after the press conference. It was such an obvious angle, too.
He’d missed it. Katrina didn’t. She’d taken him to school.
Gannon swallowed the humiliation, then shoved files and notes into his bag and left. As the elevator descended, temptation rose. Gannon could annihilate her story by using Juan Mendoza’s explosive revelation.
It would be sweet to hit back.
On the street, Gannon hailed a cab.
“Anywhere near Central Park.”
It would be so easy to use Mendoza’s information. Lisker would love it. But the glory would be short-lived. Gannon had to adhere to his own code. His word was his word. He did not give up sources and he did not burn them.
That’s how he lived with himself.
Compared to what the Mendoza family and the other families of the dead men were suffering, Gannon’s wound of being journalistically whopped was nothing.
But it stung.
He’d been beaten by the woman who’d dropped him.
It was over with Katrina, so forget about her, he told himself after paying the driver and walking toward the park to decompress as sirens wailed behind him.
Before entering, he bought an ice-cream cone from a vendor, vanilla. He often came to Central Park to reassess matters, and was relieved to find an empty bench in the shade by the time he finished his cone.
He sat down, took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He cupped his face in his hands and rubbed his eyes before they traveled over the park, then to his bag on the bench beside him.
That’s when it hit him.
The thing he’d forgotten. It all came to him with clarity. He had a collection of about two dozen printouts, notes and fragments of information, ideas and tips that he collected in a folder labeled To Be Checked Before Ruling Out.
He’d thrown the file into his bag.
Gannon followed a fundamental rule to check every piece of information against any live story he was working on for any possible connection, something he learned long ago from an old battle-weary crime reporter in Buffalo.
With all the distraction and pressure arising from the Ramapo heist, Gannon had forgotten to check it against his file.
His mind started racing, for there was one item that screamed to be checked: the anonymous call about an impending threat to national security that came in about a week before the Ramapo robbery.
Yes, at first Gannon had dismissed it as useless babble from a nut-job. A lot of people from the crazy train called the WPA.
Gannon reviewed all the notes he’d taken from the calls, checking the quotes and things he’d flagged.
He checked everything against what he knew of the heist.
It was a commando-style attack akin to a military mission or operation. It encompassed the execution of an FBI agent, a representative of the federal government. Is that in line with “an attack on America?”
Eventually, the caller had agreed to meet Gannon and bring him documented confirmation but was a no- show.
That was that. Gannon had never heard from him again.
That was three days before the heist—then nothing.
Radio silence from the tipster.
Could the calls be linked to the heist?
Was it a long shot? Or was it a lead?
Gannon read over his notes.
What if there’s something here?
Could he afford to spend time looking for this guy?
Could he afford not to?
As Gannon continued scrutinizing the note, his heart beat faster.
He had to find this guy.
“Are you comfortable, Lisa?”
She was sitting in a finely upholstered wingback chair with her legs resting on a matching ottoman. Dr. Sullivan sat across from her in the hotel’s luxury suite. Morrow had arranged use of the top-floor room.
The curtains were drawn, the lights dimmed.
It was quiet, calm.
“Yes, I’m comfortable.”
Along with Sullivan and Morrow, FBI Agent Craig Roberts was with them, making a video recording of the session of Lisa’s cognitive interview. While he adjusted the tripod and camera, Sullivan ensured Lisa was ready by confirming that—other than the mild sedative she’d given Lisa last night—she was not under any medication. Lisa was rested and had eaten half a muffin and fruit that morning.
“Are we set, Craig?” Morrow was anxious to proceed.
“Good to go.”
The red recording light blinked.
The yellow legal pad on Sullivan’s lap was filled with handwritten notes. After making a formal evidentiary introduction on the video, she began.
“Lisa, I spent much of last night and this morning reading reports and witness statements. I’ve reviewed yours several times and I’d like you to think back. Go back to about one hour before you stopped at the service center. Tell us what you were doing, thinking. Then take me into the center with you. I want you to recall everything you see, hear, smell, taste, feel, right up until police arrived.”
Lisa nodded. She took a deep breath, wiped the corner of her eye and spoke in a steady tone of her everyday ache from Bobby’s death; of the kids; of selling the cabin; of the idea of moving to California.
“I came off the thruway at Ramapo because I wanted to get a snack for myself and gifts for the kids, a magazine for Taylor and a comic book for Ethan.”
Lisa remembered waiting in line to pay, seeing the armored truck arrive, the guards entering the main lobby, the motorcycles, the riders coming in behind the guards. But she couldn’t remember details; not their clothing; they wore racing suits, helmets with dark visors. She couldn’t remember shoes, or jewelry, or anything, because her attempt was overwhelmed by…
“I’m telling myself this can’t be real and they’re ordering us to put our cell phones on the floor and get down on our stomachs with our hands behind our heads.”
The shooters do the same with the center’s staff and other customers.
Some of the bundled cash had tumbled near Lisa and all the items that had spilled from her bag to the floor.
