“How? What did you see that identified him?”
Lisa shook her head.
“I don’t think I should say.”
She glanced at her watch, then toward the play area, as if she was here with someone else. Gannon sensed his time was running out.
“Didn’t they put you in any kind of witness protection?” he asked.
“They offered, but their thinking was that since the killers did not know my identity, they wouldn’t look for me, or any of the victims. The killers took all our cell phones and burned them. The FBI said they would flee the area, and what happened in Nebraska convinces me that they were right about that.”
“So what happened immediately after the murders?”
“The FBI took me to a hotel and got a psychiatrist to help me with the trauma and to remember details of the agent’s death.”
“Did the psychiatrist hypnotize you or something?”
“Something like that. Then we had an FBI agent live with us in our home for a while, but we really didn’t like it. Before all this we were preparing to move across the country, to get on with our lives after my husband’s death. I had debts. I had to sell our cabin, our only asset. It’s been complicated and stressful.”
“I see.”
“So it would give me peace of mind to know that the bastard who killed the agent and almost killed me is dead. Can you help me with that?”
Gannon looked at Lisa.
“I’ll work on it. But I need you to promise me exclusivity. I want to tell your story.”
“You give me your word that you will keep me informed on everything. Then, once we know the FBI has this thing under control, I’ll give you your interview. I’ll tell you everything.”
“Deal. How can I keep in touch with you?”
“I’ll give you my new cell-phone number, but it might not work all the time.”
“What do you mean?”
“Before this happened, I had just sold our cabin upstate. We’re going up for one last visit to close it. The cell-phone service is not reliable up there and we don’t have a landline.”
Lisa’s attention shifted beyond Gannon to another part of the restaurant. She nodded to someone. Gannon turned to see a woman and two children coming to their table.
“Can we go now, Mom?” Ethan asked.
Smiling at Gannon, Lisa said, “This is my posse, Ethan and Taylor. And this is my friend Rita.”
Gannon shook hands with everyone.
“I have a niece and I’m guessing she’s about your age, Ethan.”
“Cool. What school does she go to?” he asked.
“I’m not sure, she lives in Arizona.”
“It doesn’t snow there,” Ethan said.
“Not too much.”
“Does Santa still go if there’s no snow?” Taylor asked.
“I’m pretty sure he does,” Gannon said, noticing Ethan’s pearl-handled penknife clipped to a small chain on his belt loop.
“I like your knife.”
“My dad gave it to me as a present before he died.”
“Oh, I see.”
“My brother lives in Buffalo.” Rita changed the subject for the kids. “I work with Lisa. Sorry, I looked you up on the internet, Jack. You used to write for the
“That’s right,” Gannon said and smiled at Taylor. “We get a lot of snow in Buffalo.”
“Do you have any kids, Jack?” Rita asked.
“No, no kids. I’m not married. Got a sister in Arizona and a niece.”
“Time to go, Mom?” Taylor asked.
“Time to go,” Lisa stood.
“Wait.” Gannon fished out a business card with all of his contact information and gave it to Lisa. “This is how you can reach me, or get word to me. There’s a toll-free number on there.”
“Could I have one? I collect cards,” Ethan asked.
“You collect sports cards.” Rita laughed.
“Sure, buddy.” Gannon stood and gave him one. “It might be worth something someday.”
Gannon sat down.
Watching Lisa leave with her children and her friend, he shook his head at what had just transpired, recalling when he first saw her at the Ramapo truck stop office, with her head on the desk, reenacting the shooting.
Now, seeing her walk across the McDonald’s parking lot, he was in awe of this young widow from Queens, who had just promised him an unbelievable story.
“I never saw her! I swear I never saw her!”
In the wake of the tragedy, the distraught driver of the B68 city bus had told police that he was northbound on Coney Island Avenue at Avenue Y when the woman appeared before him in the crosswalk.
“She was just there! She looked dazed. I couldn’t stop!”
The impact had hurled the woman some forty feet in the air to the hood of a cab. Blood gushed from her and she barely had a pulse when paramedics arrived and took her to Coney Island Hospital.
En route, she opened her eyes and asked for a priest.
The woman’s name was Gina Saldino.
Emergency staff first stabilized her then assessed her chances of surviving beyond twenty-four hours at less than ten percent. Gina was able to talk for short drug-hazed periods to Father Edwin Davis, the on-call priest who’d responded to her request. Once Davis understood what Gina was telling him, he’d summoned the two NYPD officers who were in the cafeteria completing paperwork on the incident. Gina Saldino was employed at American Centurion, the armored-car company.
“She says she has information about the heist,” the priest said.
The development set in motion a series of urgent cell-phone calls, emails and texts pinballing across the NYPD and the FBI’s New York Division.
Ninety minutes later, FBI special agent Frank Morrow and NYPD detective Al Dimarco arrived at Gina’s bedside, along with an agent who set up a video recorder. Her face was a net of abrasions, contusions. Her lip was split, her left eye was patched. Along with Davis, a doctor and nurse were present to monitor Gina’s vital signs as she struggled to unburden her conscience.
“My boyfriend is Tim Shepherd…ex-army…a private contractor for missions in Afghanistan…ghost work…Tim taken hostage with other soldiers for ransom…no government help…no one knows…secret mission was illegal…his friends showed me the video…horrible…going to decapitate him…they needed ransom money to save them…I gave them routes and schedules…to save them…his friends were going to take the money…American Centurion’s insured…no one would get hurt…no one would die…I’m so sorry…”
Her monitors beeped. The doctor grew concerned as she floated on clouds of grogginess. This was Morrow’s only chance and he pressed the doctor to let her continue.
“I took vacation,” Gina said. “Hid in an old friend’s apartment…Sheepshead Bay…tried to reach Raife…is Tim okay…? Raife didn’t answer emails…what happened…? Raife…no answer…I’m sorry for the guards…I knew them, Phil, Ross and Gary…the FBI agent, his poor wife, ohm God…my fault…can’t sleep…can’t think…I walk and walk…
