strong, wading through his endless reservoir of statistics when Varley cut him off and turned to me.
“Mr. Trevellyan, you recently infiltrated the criminal organization of the woman known to us, but not exactly loved, as Lesley?” he said. “Is that correct?”
“Yes,” I said. “She tried to recruit me.”
“And she raised the subject of Agent Raab’s death with you?”
“She did.”
“What did she say about it?”
“That one of her operatives had killed him.”
“The individual you brought here this morning?”
“You heard him say that for himself.”
“Did she say why they targeted an FBI agent?”
“She said they didn’t. They had intended to kill an ordinary vagrant, but her operative failed to establish Raab’s true identity before pulling the trigger. Which I guess you could take as a testimony to Raab’s skill in working undercover.”
“Why did they want to kill a vagrant? How was her operation linked to Raab’s case?”
“I don’t believe it was. I think she was involved with identity theft. It had nothing to do with the railroad killings.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because Agent Raab had a stolen Social Security card in his wallet when he was found, and I saw a similar card in someone’s possession at Lesley’s house. That can’t be a coincidence.”
“Maybe not. It’s an interesting angle. We should follow up on it. Make absolutely sure there’s no connection.”
“I’ll get right on it,” Schmidt said.
“Good,” Varley said. “Now, let’s recap. Based on Lesley’s conversation with Commander Trevellyan and the confession from her operative that I heard myself, we can be confident we know who killed Mike Raab. Anyone unhappy with that?”
No one responded.
“Agent Weston searched Lesley’s premises and found no evidence that Raab was deliberately targeted, or that the gang had been acting on information received from within the bureau. Anyone disagree?”
Silence.
“Lieutenant McBride has thoroughly analyzed all the available data, and has identified no pattern or trend consistent with the targeting of federal agents in New York. Anyone disagree?”
Silence.
“OK. That being the case, I conclude that Agent Raab simply fell victim to an unrelated criminal act perpetrated by Lesley’s organization, which we know to be both extensive and vicious. As, in a sense, did Commander Trevellyan. Anyone disagree, now’s the time.”
Again, no one spoke. Everyone was still except for Weston, who looked down at the floor.
“All right then. This is what we’re going to do. Kyle, now we know that Lesley’s involvement was only coincidental, I want you to get moving with the train thing again. Pick up where Raab left off. I don’t want any more bodies.”
“Sir,” Weston said.
“Ivan, work with Commander Trevellyan. Get an up-to-date description of Lesley and all her known associates. I want it with every field office and every PD nationwide before the end of the day. I don’t care that Mike was only caught in her crossfire. She’s still going to pay.”
“Sir,” the plump guy said.
“Brian, you’re on this new ID theft theory. I can’t see how it could be connected to Mike’s case, but it could still be significant. It should be followed up in its own right. Cooperate fully with D.C. And get help from Commander Trevellyan if you need more detail.”
“Yes, sir,” the coffee guy said.
“David, are you happy with that?”
“Not entirely,” I said. “I know it didn’t cause Agent Raab to be targeted, but you do still have a leak. So does the NYPD. People have been passing all kinds of information about me to Lesley, for example. Who knows what else they’re giving her?”
“You’re right. But don’t worry. We’re on it. Standard procedure is to bring in a team from another office to do a deep-dive investigation. They’re on their way. It’ll be a pain in the ass, but they’ll probably want to talk to you, if that’s OK?”
“Of course,” I said.
“Excellent. So, Ms. Wilson, Lieutenant, Detective, thank you for your time this afternoon. I appreciate your input and-”
Lieutenant McBride’s cell phone began to ring. He excused himself and answered the call.
“Sorry, guys,” he said, closing his phone after ninety seconds. “I asked my office to let me know if anything came up that might be related.”
“And was it?” Varley said.
“Don’t think so. Just another vagrant found dead this morning.”
“Not missing any more agents, I hope?” I said.
“Better not be,” Varley said.
“Well, if you are, remember I’ve been with you all day.”
“Don’t say that. You’re making me nervous. McBride, what do we know about this guy?”
“Don’t worry, you’re pretty safe,” McBride said. “The vic was seventy-six. Born in Brooklyn. Name of Charles Bromley. Died of blunt force trauma. Found by a jogger in Central Park. Oh, and he only had one arm.”
“Thank goodness,” Varley said. “All my guys have a full set.”
“What was his middle name?” I said. “The victim. Was it Paul?”
“Does it matter?” McBride said.
“It might.”
“Hold on then. I’ll check.”
“His middle name was, in fact, Paul,” McBride said after a moment on the phone. “How did you know?”
“And his Social Security number?” I said. “Was it 812-67-7478?”
McBride shrugged and made another call.
“You’ve got some explaining to do,” he said when he hung up.
“That’s the name and number I saw on the card at Lesley’s house, yesterday,” I said. “One of her thugs had it.”
“Not possible,” McBride said. “The ME was clear. Time of death was after midnight.”
“They must have already snatched the guy,” Weston said. “Took his card, and kept him holed up somewhere, like a room you never went in. Then brought him back to the city and killed him during the night.”
“That just about works,” Varley said.
“No,” the plump guy said. “It doesn’t. That’s not it at all.”
“Explain it, then,” Weston said.
“Something’s been bothering me ever since I heard a card was found on Raab’s body,” he said. “It didn’t make sense, killing him and leaving the card behind. But now I understand. They’re doing the opposite of what Mr. Trevellyan thought. They’re not stealing identities. They’re creating them.”
“You know, he might be right,” I said. “I’ve heard of something like this before. In Africa, or somewhere. It’s clever.”
“What is?” Varley said.
“It’s a Social Security scam,” the plump guy said. “Lesley must have a guy inside the department. What he does is create hundreds, maybe even thousands of dummy accounts. Then they skim off the payments for a bunch of people who don’t exist.”
“Thousands?” the coffee guy said. “Could be big money. How much do retired people get?”
“Don’t know,” the plump guy said, unclipping a PDA from a holster on his belt. “But I can find out. I’ll Google it, now. OK. Here we go. It’s taking me to the Social Security Administration Web site. It says the maximum
