That was the only personal information Gannon’s caller had given him when she phoned him this morning.
She’d set their meeting for 4:30 p.m. at a McDonald’s in the Rego Park area of Queens. Gannon’s dashboard clock read 4:15 p.m. As he guided his Pontiac Vibe along Queens Boulevard, he estimated he was eight blocks away; glad to take Queens traffic over Manhattan’s nightmare.
He thought briefly of Katrina.
The fact she’d dumped him underscored the emptiness of his life. To hell with her, he thought as the golden arches came into view.
Concentrate on work.
He was onto something big here.
After parking and heading for the door, he checked out the news boxes on the street displaying the
He’d worked it, no doubt about it.
As he stood in line for a small coffee, he hoped that “Lisa” wouldn’t stand him up. He understood that she was nervous and that this was an audition of sorts for him. He’d done a few of these dances with sources in the past and usually they went well. Usually, he got the story.
But experience taught him to never, ever take anything for granted.
He found an empty booth and flipped through a copy of the
In their last call he’d started describing himself before she’d stopped him. “I know what you look like and you know what I look like. We met at Ramapo when I was with Morrow.”
Gannon kept a vigil on the after-school, after-work customers streaming into the restaurant. He studied the women who resembled Lisa before he spotted her entering the side door. She scanned the dining area and upon seeing him, she approached his table.
“Hi, I’m Lisa.” She had a nice smile, pretty eyes.
“Jack Gannon.” He stood, shook her hand.
“I’m sorry to have to meet here but we’ve got a lot on the go these days,” Lisa said. “I’m so thirsty. I just need to get a drink, can I get you anything?”
“No, let me get it for you.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Please, I need a fresh coffee. Have a seat. What would you like?”
“Okay, a small Diet Coke, thanks.”
When Gannon returned with the drinks, it became clear to him by the warm casual way Lisa carried herself, without pretense, that this was her McDonald’s, and he was a guest on her turf.
“Thanks for coming out to Queens,” she said.
“Thanks for agreeing to talk to me.”
“This is off the record, not for print, or whatever you guys say.”
“Yes,” he said. “So can you tell me a bit about yourself?”
Lisa glanced out the window then at her hands.
“My husband was killed two years ago. He was a mechanic. He stopped to help a stranger fix their car on the Grand Central Parkway when he was hit by a truck.”
This added a new dimension.
“I’m so sorry.”
Lisa’s eyes shone. “It’s been hard, but we take things day by day.”
“I understand,” Gannon said. “My parents died together in a car accident several years ago in Buffalo, where I grew up.”
“That’s sad,” Lisa said.
“I take it you live in Queens?”
“Yes.”
“Where do you work?”
“I’m a supermarket cashier.”
Gannon smiled.
“My mother was a waitress much of her life.”
As they talked he found a lot to like about Lisa, she was blue collar, working-class, just like him. They quickly grew comfortable with each other as Lisa told him how she’d grown up poor in Queens, forgoing college to work, getting married, having two kids and then facing her husband’s sudden death. To Gannon, she was getting on with her life as a single parent with a kind of heroic dignity. After some twenty minutes, Gannon figured it was time to get down to business.
“So you witnessed the agent’s murder?”
“Hold on. It’s just like we agreed, you can’t take notes and you can’t report anything until I agree to an interview later. That’s our deal.”
“All right, that’s our deal.”
“Give me your word.”
“I give you my word.”
“The FBI would go nuts if they knew I was talking to you. But I’m a witness, not a criminal. I’m free to find out what I need to know.”
“So what do you want from me?”
“Tell me about this case. You seem to have good sources. You seem to know everything.”
“Not as much as the FBI. Wouldn’t they keep you informed?”
“They’re guarded. After I helped them on this case, after they got what they needed, they seemed to have forgotten about me.”
“But they have victim witness programs.”
“They’ve got a process for keeping witnesses and victims informed after an arrest has been made. They’ll keep you updated on the status of a prosecution. But it’s different with a live investigation.”
Gannon nodded.
“They want it sealed so they can make arrests,” he said.
“Is this guy they got in Nebraska, this Rytter, is he the one who killed the FBI agent?”
“Why is that important?”
“I was on the floor next to the agent when it happened. Some of his blood splattered on me.”
“What?”
“Then the killer put his gun to my head. I begged for my life, he hesitated and one of the others pulled him away.”
Images swirled before Gannon. He was on the brink of a powerful story.
“And you helped ID the killer for the FBI?”
“I’m their key witness.”
