“I don’t want due diligence,” Mauser said, seething. “I want them to pin Henry Parker to a wall. I want to look into his eyes as I put my gun under his chin. I want to see the fear in his eyes right before I blow due diligence out the back of his head.”
Mauser felt the plane shake and tilt starboard. He gripped the seat tighter and closed his eyes, wishing the liquor would just let them stay closed until landing.
“I want that as much as you do, Joe, trust me on that.”
Mauser, his eyes still closed, said, “I don’t think you do, Len.”
He opened his lids, looked at the younger man next to him. He could sense an anger boiling within Leonard Denton, but a quiet one. This anger lived within his blood, didn’t depend on heated circumstances to boil. That was the most dangerous kind.
“So why do you think Parker came back?” Denton asked. “Why risk returning to the scene of the crime? You think it might be the drugs, the package he stole from the Guzmans? Maybe he went back for it?”
“Honestly, Len?” Mauser said. “I don’t give a shit. I’m not gonna waste my breath on theories about why Parker did this or why Parker did that. That’s up to the courts, if he ever sees the inside of one. If we find the drugs, hoo-rah.”
“What about Shelton Barnes?”
Mauser detected a hint of fear in Denton’s voice. Was it possible the man was still alive? Joe was still in the dark as to how and why this dead man had ended up armed at the Davies residence in St. Louis.
Fuck it.
It didn’t matter. Nothing did. As long as he found Henry before the NYPD or Shelton Barnes. There were so many wild cards in the deck it was getting difficult to juggle. But it would all be worth it if he was granted just one second alone with Henry Parker.
“So what’s the plan then?” Denton asked.
“I’m willing to bet Parker’s still on the island. He wouldn’t have come back without a damn good reason. Maybe it was the drugs. I want the NYPD to question every doorman, tourist, subway station attendant and dog walker within a one-mile radius of that diner. But I don’t want Henry taken into custody before we get there. I have my agenda and it’s not changing.”
“We have the same agenda, Joe. Don’t forget that.” Mauser looked at Denton, the man’s eyes bright, a small spark behind the pupils. There was a tangible anger there, bolstered by fear, and it would have to be dealt with when this was over.
Joe lowered his voice, allowing the alcohol to temper his emotions.
“Len, I know you’re pissed you haven’t moved up in the department faster. But believe me when I say that half this job is luck. You get a good lead, a case breaks, and that’s your career right there. And as soon as we catch this soulless prick, everyone at the bureau will know I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“I appreciate that, Joe, I really do,” Denton said, a faraway look in his eye. “But sometimes you need to make your own luck.”
“Yeah,” Mauser said, relaxing into his seat as the plane righted itself. “Sometimes you do.”
36
I couldn’t stop shivering. I was pretty sure mys going numb. I wrapped my arm around Amanda’s waist as we walked downtown. Just another couple strolling at night on the clean-swept streets of Manhattan. Nothing to see here.
Jack O’Donnell’s voice sounded in my head like a church bell gone haywire. Those two words were beyond frightening, beyond rational thought, terrifying and inconceivable.
What had I gotten myself into?
Michael DiForio.
I knew that name, heard it bandied about the newsroom like an acid-coated breath mint. People stopped and stared when you said it, raised their eyebrows and listened closely for what they expected to be a gruesome tale. Only people like Jack O’Donnell stayed quiet. They were the ones who knew the most. Who knew the reality of the man’s savagery.
We’d all heard stories that could keep you up at night, make you tuck your children in a little more snugly, double-check the windows and bolt the doors. The breathless rumors of an army silently brewing beneath the city’s surface.
Now I knew why Luis Guzman was dressed up that night, why he looked like a man waiting for the executioner’s song. Luis Guzman was supposed to deliver something-drugs, arms, who knows-to John Fredrickson. This was the mysterious package everyone assumed I’d stolen. And somehow it was linked to the most dangerous man in the city.
Ten ex-convicts, all paying meager rent to live at 2937 Broadway, payments decreasing through the years. I tried to piece it together. It seemed like car insurance: if drivers stay accident-free, their rates decrease. These ex-convicts had done something to justify the decreases. And one option made perfect sense.
These men all worked as couriers for Michael DiForio. They’d all done time, and within weeks of their release were living at 2937 Broadway, paying well below market value in a building owned by a ruthless criminal. My guess was that after leaving prison, Michael DiForio contacted each of these men, offering them a sweet deal. In exchange for running errands, they would receive a large subsidy to live in his building. And to a man just paroled and making minimum wages, saying no wasn’t an option.
The offer was this: Live in our building. You’ll pay very little rent. You’ll have a chance to save money. You’ll have a chance to restart your life. But you must work for us. Don’t ask questions. If you’re caught, you don’t know us. You’ve seen Mission: Impossible, right? Disavow all knowledge. Otherwise we disavow you.
And in exchange for loyal service, their rent steadily dropped. Until, that is, they were caught or killed. Like the Guzmans would have been if I hadn’t knocked on their door.
I still didn’t know what John Fredrickson had come to collect that night, or what the man in black had followed me across the country for. That mysterious package held the key. And now I had to find it.
Sirens wailed in the distance, cutting through the humid air. The noise seemed to permeate my whole body, every molecule racked with pain and weariness. The last three days had taken their toll. My body ached, my eyelids drooped. Sleep would come in an instant if I let it. But if I welcomed sleep, I’d wake up in irons. Or a box.
I had one more phone call to make. This time, though, we couldn’t take the chance of being seen. The sirens were too close, and I had no more energy to run.
We entered the subway at 81st and Central Park West, right outside the Museum of Natural History, its oversized flags whipping in the wind.
I purchased a four-dollar MetroCard, led Amanda through the turnstiles and headed down to the grimy platform. Rats scuttled between the tracks, squirming in and out of the metal rails, sniffing crushed soda cans and bone-colored cigarette butts. Discarded on the platform was the latest issue of New York, sporting a headline which read Organized Crime: New York’s Comeback Kid.
I found a pay phone, dialed the main line at Columbia Presbyterian and asked for Luis Guzman’s room. A cop answered. I identified myself as a reporter for the Daily Bugle.
After a moment, Luis Guzman came on the line. His voice sounded stronger than the last time we’d spoken.
“Yeah, hello?”
“Luis?” I said, this time making no effort to disguise my voice.
“Yeah, hello? Who’s this?”
“Luis. It’s Henry Parker.”
“I’m sorry I don’t know no…holy shit.” He remembered. “What…how could you…”
“Listen, I don’t have much time. I know about Michael DiForio. I know about the deal he cut you. I know John Fredrickson was supposed to pick up a package from you the night he died and I know you didn’t have it. What I need to know, Luis, is what was in that package and where I can find it.”
“I…I never got it, I swear to God.”
