I asked him, 'Where is the videotape?'
He replied, 'The FBI has possession of it.'
'Has anyone from the FBI or the Terrorist Task Force mentioned to you any other attacks that may be linked to this suspect?' I asked him.
'No. Why?'
'Just wondering.' I advised him, 'I think you can assume that Asad Khalil is gone from your jurisdiction.'
'Do you think he was on that Citation jet?'
'Maybe. I told you-he used charter aircraft last time.'
'Okay. But Walsh seems to think he might still be here.'
'It's your call,' I said noncommittally. 'Anything else?'
'No. But I've also been advised that you are not the case agent and that I need to speak only to whoever is assigned to this case.'
'Okay. But let's stay in touch.'
'That's not what I just said.'
'You just called me,' I reminded him.
'This was a one-time courtesy.'
Right. Cop to cop. I said, 'Well, I hope the FBI extends you some courtesies.'
He didn't reply to that, but he did say, 'I have a half dozen FBI agents in my headquarters.'
I assured him, 'They're from the government and they're there to help you.' I reminded him, 'There are homeland security considerations with this case, so you may be asked to do or say-or not do or say-some things that you think you should be doing or saying.'
He did not reply.
I said, 'As a for instance, do you intend to interview the victim?'
Again, he didn't reply, and I knew that the FBI had already told him to forget about talking to Kate.
He did say, 'My new FBI friends in my office say they're moving your wife out of here tomorrow morning.'
That was news to me. Obviously, they wanted her out of the jurisdiction of the State Police and back in Manhattan where they could keep a tighter lid on the case and on the information leaks.
We seemed to have run out of things to speak about, so I said, 'I appreciate the call.'
'Let me know how this turns out.'
I couldn't promise that, but I said, 'If I find him, I'll let you know.'
Investigator Miller added, 'And if he finds you, I'll see it on the news.'
Not funny, Investigator Miller.
We hung up and I continued along the state highway, then exited onto the New York State Thruway, whose sign promised NEW YORK-50 MILES.
I turned on the radio and scanned a few local channels to see if the psychotic skydiver had made the news, but I didn't hear anything. The newscaster went on to national news, and I was certain now that the skydiving incident would not be mentioned on the news.
I tuned in to a New York City all-news station and listened for any mention of the Haytham murders or the murder of the livery driver, Charles Taylor, in Douglaston, Queens, or the Libyan taxi driver. I waited through the entire news cycle, but none of those murders were mentioned.
So the FBI and the Task Force had done half their job; they'd kept the press in the dark and fed the local police bullshit. Now the Feds could control the search for Khalil and decide for themselves what to do with him if they caught him.
The newspapers, with more space to fill, would have some ink on these murders, but I was pretty sure it would be straight reporting with no speculation and not a clue about any connections.
I crossed into New Jersey and instantly the drivers became insane, weaving in and out, hitting their brakes for no reason, and signaling the opposite of what they were going to do. You're supposed to let your mind wander when you drive in New Jersey, so I took my mind off the road and thought about what Vince Paresi was saying to me.
It occurred to me that this noon meeting in Walsh's office might actually be less about Asad Khalil and more about John Corey. Apparently I had become a problem.
I don't usually get paranoid about my career because, one, I'm good at what I do, and two, I don't need the job. My old bud, Dick Kearns, formerly of the NYPD, is now a private background investigator, a big growth business since 9/11, and he's offered me a partnership. 'Half the work, double the money, and no bosses and no bullshit.'
Sounds like a little bit of heaven. But for now, I really needed to stay with the Feds until Mr. Khalil and I interacted one last time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
As I approached the Holland Tunnel, I glanced at where the Towers once stood across the Hudson River. The geniuses involved with the World Trade Center reconstruction were still arguing about what to build there, and at the rate they were going, it would be two or three more years before the first I-beam was put in place. Meanwhile, the hole in the ground was a top tourist attraction, and a constant reminder of a very bad day.
As I waited in line at the toll booths, a young uniformed Port Authority cop stopped me and said, 'Just a security check, sir. Can I see your driver's license?'
Why me? Do I look suspicious? It must be my big blue eyes. Meanwhile, Abdul in front of me is driving an eighteen-wheeler through the frickin' tunnel, filled with God-knows-what, and all he gets is a wave.
'Sir?'
I showed him my NYPD shield and my Federal ID, and he said to me, 'Have a nice day, Detective.'
'Why me?'
'It's just random. Every sixth vehicle.'
'Would you play the horses that way?'
'I just do what I'm told. Have a nice day.'
I raised my window and moved into the tunnel. Well, I thought, don't just do what you're told. I don't. Show some initiative and common sense or you're going to lose that tunnel.
I exited the tunnel and made my way through the busy streets of Lower Manhattan. There were parking spaces reserved for official government business along Broadway, though no parking was allowed in front of 26 Fed since 9/11. But for some inexplicable reason, there was parking allowed in front of 290 Broadway, the government building next door-Official Government Business, No Terrorists, No Car Bombs. I found a nice space in front of 290 and parked.
While I was looking to see where Kate hid the parking permit-glove compartment? Under the driver's seat? Behind the sun visor? — a uniformed cop sauntered over and knocked on my window.
I rolled down my window, and he said to me, 'Official business only.'
'Right. I'm looking for my permit.' I handed him my Fed creds and flashed my NYPD detective shield while I rummaged under the passenger seat. Why the hell does she pick a different place every time?
The cop, whose name plate said 'Timmons,' handed me my creds and said, 'Thank you, Detective.'
He was about to move off, but I took a shot and asked him, 'Hey, do you know anything about the murder of a cab driver? Arab-American guy. Libyan. Happened… maybe yesterday.'
'Where?'
'I don't know. How many Arab cab drivers have been murdered recently?'
'One. Happened yesterday afternoon on Murray Street.' He let me know, 'We got a BOLO on the suspect.'
'You got a suspect?'
'Yeah. I got a photo in the car.'
