By Blood Written (47 page)

“Hello.”

“Taylor?”?

“Yes, Michael. I’m here.”?

“Have you had a chance to think about this?”?

“Yes, Michael. I’ll help you, on one condition.”?

“Yeah?”?

“You use the money to get as far away from here as you can.?

Don’t ever come back. Don’t ever let me see you again.”

“Don’t worry,” he said, his voice brightening. “I’m out of here.”

“Now,” Taylor said, “how much do you need?”

“I need at least a hundred thousand,” he said. “In small bills.”

Taylor looked up, her face tense. Hank nodded at her.

“Keep going,” he mouthed.

“That’s a lot of money. I’ll need some time to get it together. I can’t just run out to a cash machine.”

“How much time will you need?”

“The banks open at ten. I’ll have to move a little money around between accounts. Maybe a couple of hours.”

“That’s fine. Noon, then.”

“Where are we going to meet?” Taylor asked.

A few moments of scratchy silence followed. “I’ve always thought the easiest way to get lost was to wade into the middle of a crowd. Grand Central Station at lunchtime.”

“Grand Central’s a big place,” she said. “How will I find you?”

“Go to the kiosk, that place in the middle of the main concourse.”

“You mean the information booth? Under the big clock?”

“Yeah, that’s it. Put the money in a bag and go to the center of the main level there. Keep your cell phone close by.

I’ll call you.”

“And then what, Michael?”

“There’s a million places to hide in there. We’ll meet somewhere out of the way. You’ll give me the bag. If I’m lucky, you’ll kiss me good-bye. And that’ll be it. You’ll never see me again.”

“It’ll be over,” she said softly.?

“Yeah, over.”?

“Michael, where are you?”

“I’m in the city.”

“But where in the city? Have you got a place to sleep?

Have you eaten? Are you taking care of yourself?”

“Yeah, Taylor. I am. I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said.

Then she clicked off. Joyce Parelli smiled. “Nice touch.”

“What?” Taylor asked.

“That ‘Have you got a place to sleep?’ ‘Have you eaten?’

‘Are you taking care of yourself?’ Nice touch, make him think you still care.”

Taylor glared at her. “What makes you think I don’t?”

Hank Powell hoisted the handle of his heavy, industrial broom and maneuvered it around a series of metal wire wastebaskets that were in his way. The green coveralls he wore were thick and scratchy, much more uncomfortable than his usual work uniform of suit and tie. But the overalls were loose and rumpled, covering up the outline of the Glock 19 that was holstered under his left armpit.

Around him, the lunchtime crowd at Grand Central Terminal ebbed and flowed like a human river, the bodies moving in dozens of directions at once and, miraculously, somehow managing not to trip over one another.

The tiny earpiece wedged uncomfortably into his right ear crackled. “Six-Able,” a voice said. “In position. Nothing.”

“Roger,” Hank said, bending his head down as he spoke, as if to focus on his sweeping.

He looked over, across the main concourse at Grand Central Station, to the center kiosk. A herd of people milled around, the massive information booth with the famous four-sided clock almost a magnet for the crowd.

Hank had lost sight of her, but he knew that somewhere close around the information booth, Taylor Robinson was standing nervously, trying not to seem too obvious, holding a zippered canvas bag containing a small fortune.

“Three-Charlie,” the earpiece crackled again. “In position. Nothing.”

Around him, in civilian clothes, disguises, custodial uniforms—anything they could come up with—were two dozen NYPD detectives and FBI agents. Joyce Parelli was walking around with an armload of shopping bags, looking like a tired suburban housewife, frustrated because her train was late.

Suddenly the earpiece snapped again and he heard Taylor’s voice as she answered her cell phone. They’d wired her so at least they could hear her side of any phone conversations.

Outside the building, a crew manning scanners tied into the cell phone repeaters would tape the whole phone call.

“Yes,” Taylor said into the cell phone.

Hank continued slowly sweeping, resisting the urge to look up. He scrunched his shoulder to press the earpiece into his ear harder.

“Where? Track 42? And then—?”

There was a long pause. “Okay, the escalator up to the Forty-seventh and Madison exit. Right before the escalator

… You’ll be there … Yes, yes. I understand … Yes, this concourse. Okay, I’m on my way.”

Then there was a popping sound and everything went silent. Hank leaned down and spoke into the tiny microphone concealed behind the lapel of the coveralls. “It’s Track 42, main concourse, the escalator out to Madison. Beta Team, converge. Alpha Team, cover the outside entrance. Charlie Team, you’re backup. Let’s do it.”

Hank stood up straight and leaned the broom against a wall, then began walking toward the train tracks. As he wove his way through the crowd, he spotted Taylor off to his right, walking quickly, just ahead of him. He maneuvered his way across the concourse to a position directly behind her, perhaps twenty feet away. She walked quickly up the short flight of stairs to the long hallway with the track entrances on either side. Up ahead of them, Hank recognized two NYPD undercover cops standing against a wall, chatting like two old friends. They looked up and watched Taylor as she walked by, then moments later made eye contact with Hank. As Hank passed them, they casually split apart and began meandering down the hallway toward the escalators.

Hank’s pulse quickened as he felt the net tightening around Michael Schiftmann. The one thing he was afraid of was that something would go wrong and people—especially Taylor—might get hurt. But he also knew that his agents and the New York City police officers were as well-trained as they could be. They were ready.

Hank watched as Taylor’s pace accelerated. “Don’t run,”

he whispered out loud. “Slow down.”

The numbers above him grew. The track numbers were in the forties now. Ahead of them, the bank of escalators up to Madison Avenue were crowded but not packed.

Hank watched as a figure dressed in black crossed in front of Taylor. He strained to get a look. The figure stopped, reached out, said something to her, then grabbed the zippered bag and exploded away from her.

She screamed. Around her, a burst of noise erupted as a panic spread.

Hank ran, shoving people out of the way. “He’s got the bag!” Hank shouted into his lapel mike. “Go!”

He got to Taylor inside of three seconds. “You okay?” he shouted.

“Yes,” she gasped. “But—”

Another officer in jeans and a T-shirt ran up. “Stay with her,” Hank ordered. Hank turned from her and ran toward the escalator.

“Hank, wait!” Taylor shouted.

Hank hit the escalator and started up just as he saw a trio of undercover officers with a man jammed between them at the top of the down escalator. Hank rode up the escalator until he was almost even with them, then jumped to the other side. The man they held wore a satin black running suit, his head held down close to his chest. Hank grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head up.

It wasn’t him.

He looked up at the other officers. “Did you get the right guy?” he demanded.

“Yeah, who the fuck’d you think we got?” a voice shot out.

“It’s not him, damn it!” Hank yelled.

Hank turned. Taylor was at the bottom of the escalator. As they approached, Taylor stood there, her arms by her side, her fists balled.

“That’s what I was trying to tell you,” she yelled over the din around them. “It wasn’t him.”

They piled off the escalator, the scrum of bodies jamming into one another in the confusion and pandemonium. The cops and agents, with the guy in the running suit held tightly between them, pushed themselves off to one side. Hank grabbed the guy and pulled him toward him. He was about Schiftmann’s size, with black hair about as long as his. From a distance, it could have been him.

“All right,” Hank ordered, leaning down in the guy’s face.

“What the hell were you doing?”

Hank suddenly realized the guy was terrified. “Jesus,” he squealed in a high-pitched, nasally voice. “The guy didn’t say nothing about no cops.”

“What guy?” Hank yelled.

“I met a guy down in Union Square Park,” he piped. “He offered me five bills to get the bag from this lady and bring it to him. He said it was some shit he needed from his old lady but he was under a restraining order and couldn’t go near her. He didn’t say nothing about no cops.”

“Where is he?”

“He said we’d meet outside, on Madison.” Sweat poured down the guy’s face, his eyes wide in fright. “Honest, I didn’t know I was doing nothing wrong!”

“Five hundred bucks to pick up a bag and you thought this was a stand-up deal,” Hank spat. “What do you take me for?”

“Should we go after him?” one of the cops asked.

“Save your breath,” Hank said. “He’s gone.”

He keyed the lapel mike. “All teams, stand down. We missed him.”

The crowd around them was moving on now, life in Grand Central as back to normal as it ever gets.

“What’s next?” Joyce Parelli asked.

Hank shrugged. Suddenly Taylor’s cell phone went off.

Taylor almost jumped, then turned to Hank, imploring.

Hank, startled, nodded. “Go ahead,” he said softly.

Taylor punched the button to take the call and held the phone to her ear. Even over the ambient noise of the terminal, he heard a muffled voice coming over the phone sharp and hard. Hank leaned in as Taylor went gray, the color visibly draining from her face. She looked up at Hank, her eyes giving away a level of fear deeper than anything he’d ever seen. Then, dazed, she lowered her arm in front of her and flipped the phone shut.

“What?” Hank snapped. “Was it—”

Taylor Robinson swayed. For a moment, Hank thought she might faint. He stepped to her, put his hands on her arms to steady her.

“He said he’s going to kill me,” Taylor said, her voice so low he had to lean in to hear it. “He said I’ve betrayed him, and now he’s going to kill me. Just like the others.”

CHAPTER 38
?

Monday morning, Manhattan

Esmerelda Cardenas stepped off the bus at Twenty-third and Ninth Avenue and started up the block toward Twenty-fourth Street. The Monday morning Chelsea traffic was lighter than usual, she thought, as she adjusted the large tote bag on her shoulder so it wouldn’t pinch her weathered brown skin.

She turned left on Twenty-fourth and continued on down the half block to Senora Silverman’s house. Every Monday for the last nine years, she had taken a two-hour-long combination of subways and buses in from her apartment in Queens to clean the Senora’s brownstone. The commute was long, but compared to some of her other houses, the work wasn’t that hard. The Senora lived alone and had few visitors. She kept her house neat. It wasn’t a hard house to clean.

Esmerelda had let herself grow fonder of the Senora than she was of many of her customers. Five years earlier, Senora Silverman had given Esmerelda a key to the house so she wouldn’t have to come in so early. Now Esmerelda could sleep in until almost eight. The Senora was always at work by the time she got there. Esmerelda could take her time cleaning the house. The Senora had cable TV and let her make lunch. The Senora trusted her.

Esmerelda worried about her, though. She saw the enormous number of liquor and wine bottles that were thrown into the recycling bins. If the Senora lived alone and drank that much, she must be
borracha
every night.

Perhaps, Esmerelda often wondered, the Senora was lonely. Every woman, Esmerelda knew, needed a man.

She climbed the stairs to the front door and pulled a set of keys out of her tote bag. She unlocked the door and walked into the Senora’s house. To the right of the front door was a keypad for the burglar alarm. Esmerelda started to enter the code when she noticed the alarm wasn’t on.

Muy extrano
, she thought. She hoped the Senora wasn’t ill. She locked the front door behind her, then walked through the living room and into the kitchen. She set her tote bag on the floor and looked around. The sink was full of dirty dishes, with dried, crusty food left out on both the counter and the kitchen table.

Esmerelda’s brow furrowed. “Senora?” she called out.

“Senora Silverman?”

Esmerelda heard only silence. She left the kitchen and walked back down the hall into the living room. At the foot of the staircase, she stopped and looked upstairs.

“Senora Silverman?” she called out again.

Worried, Esmerelda slowly walked upstairs, the creaking of the wooden staircase the only break in the silence. She got to the top of the stairs and looked around.

Nothing.

“Senora,” she said, her voice softer. Esmerelda flicked the hall light switch and continued on, her footsteps muffled by the carpeted runner that ran the length of the hallway. The Senora’s bedroom door was closed at the end of the hall. She stopped, put her ear close to the doorway and listened.

She knocked gently on the door. “Senora?” she asked again. “Senora Silverman?”

Then she reached out, took the doorknob in hand and twisted it. The door was unlocked. She pushed the door open.

The first thing she saw was a large letter—N—smeared in red on the wall above the Senora’s bed. Then she saw what was below.

Esmerelda Cardenas started screaming. She didn’t stop for a long time.

“I can’t stay here much longer,” Taylor Robinson complained as Hank Powell held up the coffeepot, offering her another cup. “And I sure as hell can’t drink any more coffee.”

“You have to stay,” Hank said. “It’s too dangerous for you.”

Then he smiled. “But you don’t have to drink any more coffee.”

Taylor paced around the small center room in the hotel suite she’d been in since the debacle at Grand Central Station Friday afternoon. Hank had spirited her away to a midtown hotel right after Michael’s threatening phone call, where she’d been under constant guard ever since. A team of NYPD officers had been with her around the clock, with frequent checkins by Joyce Parelli’s team from the FBI Field Office.