Critical (27 page)

“Should I take the first exit?” Angelo asked frantically, suggesting he was rapidly approaching it.

“Have you looked at the goddamn map?”

“Of course.”

“Then take the first exit and come north, for chrissake. And hold on!” Franco leaned over toward his seatmate once again and asked if he knew what town they currently were in. Then Franco put his cell back to his ear. “The gentleman I'm sitting next to believes we've just entered Cliffside Park, so get your ass up in this neck of the woods.”

Franco's seatmate smiled cordially when Franco stole a glance in his direction, which made Franco nervous. He always wanted to keep his interaction with people to a minimum when on a job. When the man tried to start a friendly conversation, Franco was vague and ended it gracefully as soon as he could.

Ten minutes later, Franco's seatmate disturbed Franco by tapping him on the shoulder. “My stop is next,” he said, and motioned to stand up.

Franco got up to let the man pass. As the man reached the aisle, Franco asked what town it was.

“Ridgefield,” the man said indifferently.

Franco sat down and called Angelo to give him a quick update on his progress.

“That means I'm about fifteen to twenty minutes behind.”

As if answering a prayer, ten minutes later Amy stood up and the bus began to slow. Quickly, Franco pulled out his cell and leaned across the aisle and asked the woman passenger if she knew what town they were stopping in. She said she didn't know, but the man next to her said it was Palisades Park.

Franco hurriedly gave a call to Angelo. “It's Palisades Park.” Bending down as the bus came to a stop, he saw a street sign. “Broad Avenue, Palisades Park.”

“Got it,” Angelo said.

Franco moved forward. Other people got up as well, blocking Franco from Amy. By the time he got out onto the street, he panicked because he didn't see Amy in either direction. Momentarily confused, he ran to the end of the bus. Thankfully, he saw her on the other side of the street walking south. It was a commercial area with a medley of lighted shops and a number of people bustling in various directions. Franco hustled across the street and rapidly bore down on the unsuspecting Amy. After the sodden warmth of the bus, it seemed excessively cold, causing him to turn up his jacket lapels.

“Ms. Amy Lucas,” Franco called out a few steps behind the young woman. In Franco's estimate, there was just the right amount of passersby to keep Amy at relative ease.

Amy stopped and looked up into Franco's face. She took a wary step back as Franco approached to arm's length away from her.

“I'm sorry to bother you, ma'am,” Franco said, imitating a very old TV show he'd enjoyed. “But I need to ask you a few questions.”

“What about?” Amy asked. She looked from side to side nervously.

“Your boss, Paul Yang?”

Amy's demeanor changed from guarded to solicitous in a blink of an eye. “Is he all right? Where is he?”

“He's in federal custody, ma'am. He wanted us to contact you.”

Amy's expression now changed from solicitous to concerned. “Why is he in custody, and why did he want you to contact me? I don't know anything.”

“Excuse me, ma'am,” Franco said, low and authoritative. “I believe you do. There is the very serious issue of the eight-K, which I have been led to believe a copy of which is in your possession, either at your home, on your person, or in your desk at work.”

Amy's expression changed to something akin to a scared rabbit, but to her detriment, she didn't flee.

“I'm an SEC investigator, so I believe you can understand why we need to talk.”

“I guess so,” she said without enthusiasm.

“It is rather cold. Perhaps there is a public place where we can talk, and you will feel comfortable talking to a stranger.”

Amy glanced around the immediate area.

“How about a bar. It's a place people can talk more privately than most other places. It is our hope you are not pulled into this unfortunate serious legal problem.”

“There's Pete's across the street,” Amy said, pointing.

“Do you go there often?” Franco asked. From where they were standing, it looked like a local dive, just what he wanted, but not if she were a known customer.

“I never go there. It's considered to be kinda a rough hangout.”

“I think it will work fine. Let me call my partner, Investigator Facciolo.”

Franco pulled out his cell phone and connected to Angelo. “Agent Facciolo,” he said, trying to hold back a smile. “I have the witness in front of me. She's being cooperative. We are going into a bar to talk. The bar's name is Pete's on Broad Avenue, Palisades Park. The nearest cross street is…” Franco took the phone from his ear and asked Amy what the nearest cross street was.

Amy pointed a block ahead. “See those concrete balustrades on the sides of the road? That's route forty-six.”

Franco repeated the information to Angelo and then rang off. He pointed toward the bar, and he and Amy ran across the street.

From Franco's point of view the bar was perfect, despite its miasma of stale beer. The lighting was low and the music rather high as it pounded out mostly rap. The joint was not crowded, with only five people sitting at the bar nursing drinks and a dozen or so in the rear playing pool. To the right were a series of empty wooden booths. Franco guided Amy over to one booth, being careful not to touch her. He was pleased and amazed that she was being so cooperative. He couldn't help but think that basing the interview on her missing boss had been a stroke of genius.

Once they were seated across from each other, Franco put down his lapels. He rubbed his hands together rapidly. “It seems cold for this time of year.”

Amy merely nodded. She was terrified that she was about to be arrested, and angry at Paul for putting her in such a situation.

“I'm sure they aren't going to let us sit here without drinking something. What would you like? And I'll tell you what, I won't tell anybody if you won't. I'm not supposed to drink while on duty, but I'd love to have a cocktail.”

Amy was not a big drinker, but she did like vodka on occasion. It calmed her down, and if there was any time she needed to be calmed down, it was at that moment. “I guess I'll have a dirty vodka martini,” she said shyly.

“That sounds terrific,” Franco said, still rubbing his palms together to generate heat. “I think we have to order them from the bar. I don't think there's a waitress, so I'll be right back.”

At the bar, Franco ordered the martini, then a neat bourbon for himself. The burly, whiskered, and tattooed bartender gave Franco a good stare. “Nice duds,” he said, before mixing Amy's drink and then reaching for the bourbon to pour Franco's. While the bartender was so occupied, Franco surreptitiously dropped one of the date-rape pills into Amy's drink. He did it by palming the small white pill and then releasing it as he picked up the glass by its rim.

After the bartender filled Franco's glass, he asked if Franco wanted to run a tab. Franco responded by placing a twenty on the bar, which he had had in his other hand. “Keep the change,” he said.

Back at the table, he slid Amy's drink toward her and checked his watch. He wanted to see how long it was before the pill took effect. Despite the music, they could talk reasonably well, since the sides of the booth were shoulder height and shielded out some of the higher notes, although certainly not the jarring bass. The problem that Franco now had to face was thinking up enough things to talk about while, at the same time, bolstering his story that Paul Yang had been arrested and was being held incommunicado.

After about ten minutes, Franco was running out of innocuous questions. On the positive side, he began to sense that Amy's speech was becoming slurred, and her movements, when she picked up her drink, were becoming wobbly. Next, it appeared her eyelids were becoming heavy, requiring her to make an extra effort to keep them open.

“What about the eight-K?” Franco asked. In truth, he didn't have the slightest idea what an 8-K was despite having overheard Vinnie's talk with Paul the previous evening.

“What ablout it?” Amy questioned, inserting an inappropriate L into
about.
She took another sip from her cocktail, which she was certainly doing rapid justice to. After she put her drink down, Franco noticed her torso was now starting to wobble slightly, even when she was not moving her extremities. For all practical purposes, she was beginning to act as if she'd already had two or three drinks.

“Where is it?” Franco persisted.

“Right here in my trusty old purse,” Amy said, tapping her bag repeatedly.

“Why don't you give it to me!”

“Sure, why not,” Amy said. Her hand wandered in the air before she was able to seize the bag. With some difficulty, she got the inner zipped compartment open and then handed the USB storage device to Franco.

Franco turned the device over in his hand, then pulled it open. He'd never seen one.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Angelo come into the room. A few of the people at the bar turned and gaped at him. Angelo stared back with what Franco guessed was rising fury. Angelo had learned to deal with his facial deformity and the reaction it evoked but not with people he deemed to be the dregs of society, such as a handful of winos in a dumpy tavern.

Franco stood up, slipping the USB drive into his jacket pocket in the process. “Agent Facciolo, we're over here.” For a second, Franco feared he would have to step over and drag him back to the table, but Angelo finally broke off and approached the table on his own.

“Fucking scumbags,” Angelo voiced, looking back over his shoulder.

“Yeah, well, they're jealous of your Brioni jacket.”

“Yeah, sure!” Angelo growled.

“This is Amy Lucas,” Franco said, as he motioned toward Amy. Then he put his arms on Angelo's shoulders. “And this is Agent Facciolo, who I told you about.”

“Oh, dear!” Amy said with a wince while looking up at Angelo. “I'm so sorry you've burned your face.”

“Has she had one of Dr. Trevino's specials?”

“Just one, and only a little more than ten minutes ago.”

“Terrific,” Angelo said. “Let's give her another one. It looks like she's finished her drink.”

“If we give her another one, she might pass out.”

“Hey! Don't you remember, that was the idea. What is she drinking? I'll get it and we can blow this shithole. I want to finish this job. It's aggravating me.”

“Wait!” Franco said, restraining Angelo. “Let me get it. I don't want you shooting up this joint because of those drunks at the bar.”

“Fair enough,” Angelo said. “I'll stay here with this beautiful young lady.”

Franco pulled Angelo a step away from the table and, cupping his hand over his mouth, whispered, “We're SEC agents, so act according.”

“Yeah, sure,” Angelo said. He sat down next to Amy, and she moved in to accommodate him.

It was only fifteen minutes later when it was evident to Franco that Amy had had quite enough and was enjoying herself, perhaps even a little too much. Franco had seen the bartender look over on several occasions when she laughed. It was a high-pitched squeal.

Franco looked across at Angelo and motioned toward the door with his head, and Angelo nodded his.

“Where's the Black Beauty?” Franco asked.

“Just around the corner,” Angelo said. Then, to Amy, he said, “I'll be back in a moment, hon.”

Franco watched Amy sip her drink. “Why do you do that with your hair?”

Amy shrugged and then laughed. “It's fun. Before I did it, nobody noticed me.”

Franco stared across the table. Amy was now evincing slight intermittent jerky motions just to keep herself sitting upright.

A few minutes later, Angelo came back. “The car's right outside.”

“Come on, Amy,” Franco said, giving her arm a tug.

“I haven't finished my drink,” Amy said, with an exaggerated expression of sadness. She laughed.

“I think you've had enough,” Franco responded. He motioned to Angelo, and together they got her onto her wobbly feet. With both men supporting her, she walked out of the bar. With a little difficulty, they got her into the backseat.

“Sit with her,” Franco said. “If it looks like she's going to throw up, get her head out the window.”

As they positioned Amy in the backseat with her head in the far corner and with the window down, they didn't notice the man who came out of the bar. He was dressed in casual hip-hop gear with a long, ill-fitting sweatshirt and a Yankees baseball hat on backward. Without stopping to watch Franco and Angelo's antics, he walked north up Broad Avenue.

“Are you ready?” Franco asked, looking in the rearview mirror.

“All set,” Angelo said. Amy now had her seat belt on and her face practically out the window. Angelo was supporting her head with his outstretched hand. Amy herself was passed out cold.