Outreach Program.'
I noticed another box marked 'Haytham-Personal' and opened it. There wasn't much in the box-mostly desk items and grooming aids-but I saw the Koran in Arabic, and also a book of Arab proverbs in English, with tabbed pages. I opened the book to a marked page and read an underlined sentence: 'Death is afraid of him, because he has the heart of a lion.'
I put the book back in the box and saw a framed photograph showing two smiling, attractive women who must have been Gabe's wife and daughter. I stared at the photo awhile, realizing that these two women were dead-murdered by Asad Khalil in cold blood. I could understand his motives and his sick rationale for the other murders, but even after a decade of homicide work, I was still shocked by motiveless murder-sport killing. And they wanted this guy taken alive?
I closed the box and went to Kate's desk. I took a red marker and wrote on her desk blotter: Welcome back, darling-Love, John.
I went to my desk and played my voice mails, skipping through most of them, listening for a message from Asad Khalil. I'd given him my office number three years ago, asking him to give me a call about getting together when he was in town again. Mr. Khalil had not called, but he had Kate's cell phone and Gabe's cell phone, so he now had all my phone numbers, and I was certain I'd hear from him.
I logged onto my computer, checked my e-mails, and printed out a few. I also printed out ten copies of the NYPD Be On The Lookout photo of Asad Khalil and put them in Gabe's Khalil folder.
People were starting to drift back in from lunch to see how the war on terrorism was going, and I didn't want to get involved in conversations with my colleagues, so I locked up and headed to the elevators.
I was supposed to go to the tech squad to pick up my tracking device and wire, but I forgot. I think I was also supposed to see Captain Paresi, but I was under a lot of stress, which made me forgetful.
Out on the street, I got into my Jeep and drove over to Murray Street to see the scene of what I hoped was Khalil's last crime.
I parked across the street from the IRS building and imagined this street on a Sunday afternoon. No one lived on this block, and the offices were closed, so it would be nearly deserted, and Asad Khalil did not pick this street at random. He had some knowledge of the area-either personal knowledge, or more likely someone here in New York had briefed him. What I was seeing with these murders was the end product of a fairly competent and well- informed group living and working in New York. Khalil was the celebrity killer; the others were his advance men, managers, and booking agents.
There were no signs left of a police crime scene investigation-not even a white chalk outline of where Amir had fallen dead in the street. But I pictured Amir getting out of his taxi, probably confused about the pain in his brain, and maybe staggering behind Khalil, who would be moving quickly toward Church Street, or the other way toward West Broadway-and if Khalil saw him, I wondered if he had a moment of fear, anxiety, or even remorse. I think not. The psychopathic killer mentally distances himself from the person whose life he just ended. I understood the head of a killer, but I could never understand the heart of a killer.
I left Murray Street and headed uptown, toward my apartment on East 72nd Street.
My apartment building is a 1980s high-rise, nondescript but fairly expensive, like most apartments on the Upper East Side. After 9/11, rental and sales prices tumbled in Manhattan as they tend to do in a war zone, but after about six months without an anthrax attack or a dirty nuke going off, prices got back to abnormally high.
I pulled into my underground garage and also pulled my Glock. I don't normally arrive at my assigned parking space with a gun in my hand-unless some asshole is pulling into my spot-but things have changed recently, and as an old patrol sergeant once said to me, 'The surest way to get your head blown off is to have it up your ass.'
I checked out my surroundings, parked, and walked toward the lobby elevator, my left hand holding my folder and my right hand in my pocket with the Glock.
I got off in the lobby and immediately noticed a guy sitting in a chair against the far wall. He was wearing jeans and an orange shirt that had a logo on it-deliveryman. In fact, there were two pizza boxes on the side table.
From where he was sitting, he could see the front doors, and the garage elevator, which went only to the lobby, and he could also see the door to the fire stairs, the freight elevator, and the apartment elevators-but where he was looking was at me.
Alfred, the doorman at the front desk, greeted me, but I ignored him and walked toward the delivery guy, who stood as I approached. Mario's Pizzeria-Best in NY. I was ninety-nine percent sure he was a cop, which is good odds for nearly everything in life, but not for things like maybe crossing a busy street, or trying to avoid getting whacked.
As I got closer to him-hand in my pocket-I asked, 'On the job?'
He nodded and asked me, 'Detective Corey?'
'That's right.'
He said, 'I'm Detective A. J. Nastasi, Special Operations.' He added, unnecessarily, 'I've been assigned to your protective detail.' He also reminded me, 'We've met a few times.'
'Right.' I know a lot of the Special Operations men and women, but they keep getting new people as the number of Muslim gents who need to be watched grows.
I asked Detective Nastasi, 'Do you know why I need protection?'
'I've been briefed.'
I took one of the Khalil photos from my folder and asked him, 'You know who this guy is?'
He replied, 'I have that photo.'
'Yeah, but do you know who he is?'
Nastasi replied, 'I was told that he's a professional hit man, foreign-born, armed and dangerous, and that he may be disguised.'
'That's mostly correct.' I also informed him, 'He's the baddest motherfucker on the planet.'
'Okay.'
'You got a vest?'
'Never leave home without it.'
'Good. You got real pizzas in those boxes?'
He smiled. 'No.'
This was not turning out to be my lucky day.
We chatted awhile about procedures, how many shifts there would be, the layout here, my anticipated comings and goings, and so forth. I advised him, 'Work with the doormen on duty-they know the residents and some of the usual visitors and deliverymen.'
'I'm on that.'
I asked him, 'Who are you supposed to notify when I leave the building?'
He replied, 'Actually, I have some written instructions and contact numbers for you.' He handed me a sealed envelope, which I put in my pocket.
I walked over to Alfred, who had remained behind his desk. He greeted me again and asked, 'Is there a problem, Mr. Corey?'
'What do you think, Alfred?'
'Well, sir… I'm not sure what's happening.'
'Well, then I'll tell you.' I asked him, 'You know of course that I don't work for the Environmental Protection Agency?'
'Yes, sir, I do know that.'
'And Mrs. Corey is not a cocktail waitress as she told you.'
He smiled tentatively and replied, 'I suspected she was making a joke.'
'Right. In fact, we are both with Federal law enforcement.'
'Yes, sir. I know that.'
In fact, on the morning of 9/12, Kate and I had arrived here separately, black with smoke and soot, and Alfred had been standing here with tears in his eyes.
Alfred is a good guy, and he likes me and Kate. He also liked my last wife, Robin, an overpaid criminal defense attorney whose apartment this had been. When Robin split, she gave me the seven-year lease, all the furniture, and some good advice. 'Sublease it furnished and you'll make money.'
