The Burning Edge

There had to be a way to get to the woman who saw the FBI agent’s murder up close.

For now, Gannon laid out every note he had on his tipster.

Judging from his voice, Gannon placed the guy in his late twenties. He was plain-speaking, maybe a blue- collar background, sounded concerned, troubled. He kept calling Gannon sir.

Military?

There wasn’t a whole lot of solid information. Gannon was mindful of the caller’s tone and his genuine fear, as again he scrutinized the key aspects of the content of his calls.

“This is big! I swear to God what I’m telling you is true!”

“It involves an operation, a mission, an attack on America.”

Then Gannon told him there was nothing he could do with vague, groundless information, that he needed something solid to support it, like documents or some sort of evidence. Gannon thought that would scare him off, as it did with most calls of this nature, but his tipster surprised him by agreeing to meet.

“I’ll bring the confirmation you need.”

They’d agreed to meet at a diner near Times Square. Gannon waited there, but was stood up and never heard from the guy again.

That’s how it ended.

Gannon checked the timeline.

That was three days before the heist.

Damn, he needed to find this guy, to determine if his tip was valid.

What if it was somehow connected to the murders? What happened?

Gannon went online, panning the social chatter on Facebook, Twitter and other social networks for anything related to the heist that might be a lead. Nothing useful surfaced.

He went back to his notes, recalling how his tipster had called him five times over ten days. Caller ID showed that all the calls came from pay phones in New York City. At the time, Gannon figured there was no use following up the numbers, but now he realized the pay-phone numbers were his only connection to the caller.

Gannon had noted the dates and times of the calls. Two came from two different phones in Manhattan, but three of the calls came from the same number. The guy could’ve been calling near where he lived or worked.

The number started with 914–969.

That was a prefix primarily used in Yonkers.

With everyone using cell phones, pay phones were disappearing; the WPA had done features on the trend. Gannon used online directories and quickly located the pay phone his tipster had used three times. It was in the 300 block of Warburton Avenue in Yonkers.

Within minutes, Gannon was in his old Pontiac Vibe, northbound on the Henry Hudson Parkway. Whenever he could, Gannon avoided driving in New York. The traffic and parking were nightmares. But this morning he needed flexibility and took his car.

Traffic was good and the city was coming to life by the time he arrived in Yonkers. The moment he found a parking space on Warburton, his cell phone rang. It was Lisker.

“Where are you, Gannon?”

“Yonkers. I’ll be in a bit later.”

“What are you doing there?”

“I’m chasing something.”

“What? Be more specific.”

“I’m chasing an angle about the heist being an inside job.”

“What? The New York Signal had that yesterday. Did you see this morning’s Daily News?”

“Yes.”

“We got beat again. Will your lead top the Daily News?”

“I won’t know until I check it out.”

“Be quick. CBS News just said a massive ground search for the suspects will be launched today near Alexandria Bay. We’re sending people from our Syracuse bureau. I want you on standby.”

“Okay.”

“We’re losing this story, Gannon. We need to break this thing wide open! They tell me you’re good, but I’m not seeing it.”

“I’m pushing my sources.”

“Push harder.”

Lisker ended the call.

Gannon exhaled.

I’m on the ropes here. He took a hit of coffee from his commuter mug and sent texts to Brad West, Adell Clark and Eugene Bennett.

He got out of his car and walked the block and a half to the pay phone.

There it was.

A pedestal style with a metal enclosure scarred and laced with graffiti.

Gannon confirmed the number and took stock of this section of the avenue: a mix of small businesses, a deli, a check-cashing store, a florist, a beer wholesaler, auto shop, electronics store, hair salon and farther down, an assortment of tired-looking postwar homes and small apartment buildings.

Gannon had done his homework. He knew buildings on the east side of the two-way street backed on to the Old Croton Aqueduct Trailway. It was a long narrow park. Due east of it was Pine Street, where David Berkowitz, the killer known as the Son of Sam, lived before he was arrested.

Welcome to the crime beat.

Gannon popped a stick of gum into his mouth to help him think. There was one very slim chance he’d get anywhere with this lead.

Security cameras.

Covering crime, he knew that most businesses invested in a good security system to reduce the risk of theft, vandalism, liability and to lower insurance rates. These days most systems were digital, making it easier to store video records indefinitely.

Standing at the pay phone, he turned three hundred and sixty degrees, eyeing all the stores, checking off those with a line-of-sight for cameras. He had the time of the last call he’d received from this phone. He had to determine which stores had cameras; if they were angled to capture enough of the street and the phone clearly; and if he could persuade them to check their archives for him.

Easy.

Yeah, right, he told himself.

In a city where everyone was suspicious of everyone, he knew it would be as easy as asking for someone’s wallet.

What did he have to lose?

The phone stood directly in front of the Big Smile Deli Mart.

Gannon would start there.

22

Yonkers, New York

The deli mart was a two-story weather-beaten redbrick building with a retracted roll-up steel door.

The store was open for business. Customers were coming and going.

Outside, it had two exterior stands. Fresh, terraced selections of tomatoes, peppers, onions, mushrooms, lettuce were on one side of the door. Apples, pears, oranges, bananas, lemons and grapefruit filled the other stand.