“Taylor called them tough clients,” Lavine said. “Maybe he was right about that.”
“Otherwise, why bring the team home?” Weston said. “Why pay them off? Why not just kill them in Iraq?”
“That would be cheaper,” Lavine said. “Easier. Less risky.”
“Could make it look like another mob got them,” Weston said. “Or an ambush. Or friendly fire. No one would think twice. And there’s no one like us over there to sniff around.”
“Will you three stop speculating?” Tanya said. “You’re wasting time. Let’s just talk to this guy. We should get it from the horse’s mouth.”
“Which guy?” I said.
“From the original team,” Tanya said. “Five have gone overseas again, but one of them’s here in New York.”
“Didn’t we tell you?” Weston said. “I spoke to his wife before I called you. That’s how we knew about him working at the hospital.”
“So where is he?” I said. “Your office?”
“No,” Weston said. “At his job. He works construction, now.”
A framed, five-foot-square artist’s impression was attached to every panel of rough blue hoarding that separated the pedestrians on East Twenty-third Street from the spindly steel skeleton rising out of the narrow lot on the other side. There were eight pictures altogether. Each one gave a different vision of the finished building, from a grand marble-lined lobby to a serene Japanese roof garden, complete with tiny bronze sculptures.
Weston pulled up next to a designer couple power-snacking at a granite breakfast bar, and we had to walk past the view from one of the balconies to reach the foreman’s compound.
“How tall is this place going to be?” Tanya said, staring at the pictures.
“Not tall enough,” Weston said, hammering on the wooden gate. “Except for maybe the penthouse. Won’t see the Chrysler, lower down. The Met Life’s in the way.”
“And the Empire State’s not that high,” Lavine said.
“Shame,” Tanya said. “Three buildings, each the tallest in the world at one time, all from your living room window. What a view that would be.”
Eventually the foreman ambled across to talk to us.
“Yeah?” he said. “What? I’m busy here.”
“FBI,” Weston said. “Looking for Julio Arca.”
“Not here.”
“His wife said he was working today.”
“He is. Not back yet.”
“When do you expect him?”
“Don’t know.”
“Where did he go?”
“The park. ’Cross there. With the other guys.”
“His coworkers?”
“No. Guys in suits. Like you.”
“Like us? How many?”
“Two.”
“When did they go?”
“Don’t know. Ten minutes ago. Fifteen maybe?”
“What does he look like, this Julio?”
“Like a regular guy.”
“Age?”
“Thirties, I guess.”
“Height?”
“Five ten, maybe.”
“Hair?”
“Buzz cut. But he had a hard hat on.”
“Mustache? Beard?”
“No. Shaved.”
“Clothes?”
“Boots. Coveralls, like me. And a fluorescent vest.”
The little park was swarming with people. They were sitting on benches, sprawling next to statues, lying on the grass, walking their dogs, lining up to buy coffee from an outdoor cafe. Some were on their own. Others were in groups. Some were wearing suits. Several were in work clothes. But none matched the description we had for Arca.
The path from the gate at the southeast corner was one of six that radiated out from an ornamental fountain on the far side of the cafe. Another oval path crossed in front of us, a few yards in. Lavine paused when he reached it.
“Better split up,” he said. “I’ll go straight on. Kyle, you go left. Dave and Tanya, you go right. You on the air?”
Tanya patted her bag.
“Good,” he said. “RV at the fountain if you don’t find anything.”
Weston was the first to come through on the radio.
“On me,” he said. “Statue, southwest corner. Code blue.”
Lavine reached him just before us.
“What have you got?” he said.
“Found him. But there’s a problem. I think we’re too late.”
Weston led the way round the outer path until we reached another monument. From a distance it looked like a giant candlestick, but as we drew closer I saw it was actually a stout, white flagpole with a five-pointed star at the top. Seven people were gathered around its square stone base. A woman, eating sandwiches. Another listening to an MP3 player. Another on the phone. Three teenagers, sitting together at the far corner, talking. And one man. He was leaning back against a carved plaque. His hard hat was lying on the plinth next to him, upside down. Clumps of fresh mud had fallen from the cleats on his work boots and the leather on the toes was torn and scuffed. His yellow vest was rucked up under his arms as if he’d slumped down from a standing position. His neck was twisted sharply to the right. His eyes were shut. And his tongue was lolling out from his mouth like a giant pink slug.
“See what I mean?” Weston said.
“How did this happen?” Lavine said.
“Must have been the two guys he left his job with,” Weston said. “I already checked for them. No sign.”
“What about these people?” Tanya said. “Someone must have seen something.”
“Wouldn’t count on it,” I said.
“Kyle, call it in,” Lavine said. “I want the place sealed off. Nobody leaves. Everyone gets questioned. Twice. See if there’s any CCTV from the streets or the park. Or the construction site. Get forensics here. And the ME. Tell them to put a rush on it. We’ll make a start with these guys.”
“Hang on a second,” I said. “Who checked his vitals? Or are we just making assumptions, here?”
“Kyle?” Lavine said.
“No,” he said. “I pulled back and called you guys.”
“You don’t think…?” Tanya said.
I stepped forward and reached toward his neck with two fingers. But before I made contact the guy’s right arm whipped up and his fingers clamped tight around my wrist.
“Afternoon, Julio,” I said. “Or should we call you Lazarus?”
Lavine and Weston wanted to arrest the guy on the spot, but I persuaded them that a sandwich and a coffee at the park cafe would be a more productive option.
“OK, then,” Lavine said, after taking a swig of cappuccino and munching through a couple of biscotti. “I’m ready to talk. What was that about, back there, Julio? Are you a Boris Karloff fan or something?”
“Relax, man,” Arca said. “I was just checking you out.”
