Need You Now (21 page)

39

L
illy and I felt a blast of the cold winter night as Andie opened the door and left the Tearrific café. I watched through the plate glass window, and my gaze followed her across narrow Mott Street. She disappeared into the darkness, but I noticed the lighted red awning above the Fong Inn, which in bold white letters advertised P
UTO
and H
OT
T
AO
. Puto is a steamed rice cake, but under my rough understanding of Spanish slang and Chinese menus, linking it with “hot tao” created the literal multilingual equivalent of “way-hot male prostitute.” Talk about lost in translation.

“What are you looking at?” asked Lilly.

I didn’t even attempt an explanation. “Nothing,” I said. “What did you want to tell me?”

Lilly sat up straight, preparing her words. “You heard me tell Agent Henning that my source claims to be protecting me, but it goes further than that.”

“You mean all the lovesick remarks he makes?”

“No, not that. I think Henning’s take on that is probably right: he’s playing to a profile stereotype just to confuse me. What I mean is that he’s not just protecting me: he blames you—wants to blame you for everything that happened at the bank. And he cautions me to keep my distance from you so that the blame doesn’t spill over to me.”

“Strange as that sounds, the notion of putting distance between us actually jibes with the warning I got in the park. The guy who attacked me told me to stay away from you.”

“Basically he thinks that I got used. First by Gerry Collins. Then by you.”

It was awkward to be among the “users,” but it suddenly turned into one of those “lightbulb” moments. “Your source leaked the Treasury memo,” I said, energized by the realization.

“What?”

“Robledo had to have gotten that memo from someone in Treasury. Your source is a former government agent. He leaked the Treasury memo, and Robledo showed it to you. Your source is the one who put you on Robledo’s radar.”

“But if he’s the one who put me in danger, why would he be protecting me?”

“He’s got your back,” I said, as things suddenly came clear to me.

“What does that mean?”

“My bet is that he leaked the Treasury memo for some other purpose—to hurt somebody else. Putting you in danger wasn’t his intention. Protecting you is what he’s all about right now.”

“I don’t know.”

“Think about it. Clearly, he doesn’t believe the statement in the memo about your being the best lead on the Cushman money. He called Collins a user. Now your source thinks I know where the money is, and he says I’m using you to get there. In his eyes, I’m as bad as Gerry Collins.”

“I still don’t see how that adds up to his having my back.”

“He was an undercover agent who ended up shot. He got
used
on the front end of Operation BAQ, just like you did. He’s out to punish everyone who was behind Operation BAQ—the users. Leaking the Treasury memo was part of a bigger agenda. Putting you in danger wasn’t. Collins got his punishment. He’s here to make sure I get mine. He wants to make sure you don’t get used in the process. He’s not in love with you. He’s got your back.”

I could almost see her head spinning. “Give me that again,” she said. “You’re saying Collins was part of Operation BAQ?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

Her expression soured. “I knew Gerry. He was definitely not an FBI agent.”

“Of course not. He was a scumbag who fed billions of dollars to the biggest Ponzi scheme in history. I can easily see a situation where someone in the FBI or Treasury came to him and gave him the option of going to jail for the rest of his life or playing along with Operation BAQ—whatever it is.”

Lilly was suddenly with me. “That would be just like Gerry. Cut a deal, save himself.”

“Save himself in spades. I’m betting that the federal agent assigned to handle Collins was told to take the bullet himself before he let Collins go down—before he let Operation BAQ fail. Collins bought himself a human shield. And now that shield is a rogue agent who thinks that he got used by his own government, who thinks that
I’m
using you.”

Lilly’s expression went cold, but it wasn’t because she disagreed with me. “That’s why he said it’s up to me and him to decide . . .”

“Decide what?”

“Whether you live or die.”

“He actually used those words?”

Lilly nodded. She reached across the table and held my hand. “What are we going to do?”

I withdrew my hand and poured more tea. “Stay right here,” I said, “until I’m damn sure you’ve decided I should live.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

I breathed in the steam from my tea, catching her eye over the brim of my cup. “When did he tell you this?”

“Yesterday afternoon, when he listed all the lies you’d told me.”

“Alleged lies,” I said.

“Lies,” she said.

“Okay, lies. But, shit, Lilly. The guy says it’s up to you to decide if I live or die, and you’re telling me now?”

“It’s sounds horrible when you say it that way, but even as mad and hurt as I was, I literally was dialing your number when Barber pulled up in his limo and told me to get into the car. I was really scared, and in no position to call you. An hour later you were in his office, and he was telling us to look through each other’s files for the smoking gun. I don’t have to tell you everything that’s happened since then. It’s been crazy, and I’m sorry it’s taken us this long to have this conversation, but . . .”

“But what?”

“Up until we had this last conversation with Andie Henning, you were the only person sitting at this table who had an FBI agent looking out for you.”

“I’ve been trying to make that happen,” I said.

“I’ve been trying, too, damn it. But it’s been just
me
.”

I could see it in her eyes, hear it in her voice: she really had been trying. And she’d raised a valid point. I had Andie. I had Connie. I’d even had Evan for a while. Lilly had no one.

“Patrick, we can let this get ugly and turn against each other. But we’ve both made mistakes. Please, can we just move forward?”

I still wished that she had told me sooner, but it was a fair statement that we’d both made mistakes—and the real truth was, the only one who had affirmatively lied to the other was me.

“That sounds like an excellent idea,” I said.

“Really, Patrick. What are we going to do?”

The tea and our talk had cleared my thoughts. I took my phone from my pocket and removed the battery.

“What are you doing?” asked Lilly.

“Deactivating my phone to make sure I don’t use it before a tech expert can tell me what spyware is on it. I suggest you do the same with yours.”

“I suppose that’s a reasonable assumption—that it’s bugged.”

“Beyond reasonable,” I said. “Right here, right now, you and I are going to burn one indisputable fact into our brains: Evan Hunt was shot in the head fifteen minutes after he called and told me that he had cracked the code on an encrypted memorandum about BAQ.”

“Okay. And exactly what does that tell us?”

“It tells us somebody was listening to that conversation. It tells us that we need to figure out what Operation BAQ is, and not end up like Evan Hunt.”

“Does that mean we should take up Agent Henning on her offer to help us? You want to ‘get on board’ with her, as she put it?”

I leaned closer, hoping that it truly mattered what either one of us thought—wondering if either one of us had any real control.

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” I said.

40

O
n a quiet
cross street in lower Midtown, at the designated time and place, Andie Henning
waited on the salt-stained sidewalk beneath a burning streetlamp. A black
limousine stopped at the curb. The driver got out, closed his door, and walked
to the newsstand on the corner. The motor continued to run, exhaust swirling
from the tailpipe and blurring the orange glow of taillights. Dark-tinted
windows prevented Andie from seeing inside. The rear door on the passenger side
swung open. Andie slid onto the black leather seat and pulled the door shut.

By phone Andie had requested a face-to-face meeting
with Joe Barber, and he’d agreed to see her on his own terms. They sat facing
each other on bench-style seats. Andie flashed her credentials to confirm her
identity, but Barber waved them off.

“You’re alone; I’m alone,” he said. “Keep it
unofficial.”

She put her badge away. “Fine by me. Because it’s
clear now that, officially, you and I have been working at cross-purposes for
the past eight months. FBI going one way, Treasury going another.”

“You seem to forget that I’m no longer with
Treasury.”

“Fair enough. Up until your resignation, we were
working at cross-purposes. But we both ended up at the same place: BOS/Singapore
numbered account 507.625 RR.”

She waited for his reaction, but he showed none.
Finally, Barber said, “I told you on the phone that I would listen. I didn’t say
that I would talk.”

“You’ll talk,” she said. “Or you’ll go to
jail.”

His eyes narrowed, his tone suitable for a lord
speaking to a serf. “Just who do you think you’re talking to?”

“The former deputy secretary of the Treasury who
wrote an internal memorandum on Operation BAQ.”

“And exactly what do you know about that
memorandum?”

“I know that it was encrypted on a level that is
reserved only for matters of national security. I know that a quant named Evan
Hunt, who claimed to have cracked the code, ended up dead in a Dumpster. I know
that your memo named Lilly Scanlon as Treasury’s best lead to the whereabouts of
billions of dollars that disappeared in Abe Cushman’s Ponzi scheme. And after
months of investigating Lilly Scanlon on suspicion of laundering money for Abe
Cushman and Gerry Collins, I’ve come to the firm conclusion that she doesn’t
know anything about the location of those funds. In other words, I know that
what you wrote was a lie.”

“Government officials don’t go to jail for putting
inaccurate information in an internal memorandum.”

“They do if the misinformation gets people killed.
Especially innocent people who are used as bait.”

“That’s a very serious accusation, even for an
unofficial meeting.”

“I couldn’t be more serious about it. I don’t know
exactly what Operation BAQ is, but I do know it’s some kind of fishing
expedition. The catch of the day is a rather dodgy character named Manu
Robledo—or someone connected to him. Lilly Scanlon was the bait.”

“Am I supposed to be impressed?”

“No. Ashamed. It was former FBI agent Scully who
figured out most of everything I just told you. That’s why you forced him into
retirement.”

“You need to check your directory of government
employees, sweetheart. I was at Treasury, not the bureau.”

She paused before pushing beyond her sphere of
knowledge, but suddenly, it felt like more than a hunch. “Operation BAQ goes way
above your pay grade. Above Treasury. Above the FBI. Plenty high to send an
overly inquisitive special agent packing.”

Barber pulled his cell from his pocket, but he
didn’t dial. It was hard to tell in the dim light of the limo, but Andie was
quite sure there was a smirk that needed wiping from his face.

“You look too young to retire,” he said. “But with
one call, I can have you working at far less interesting places than the
FBI.”

“I don’t scare easily.”

“I don’t scare. Period.”

He pushed a speed-dial button. A moment later, the
door opened and the driver was at the curb.

He put his phone away. “Next time, I dial ‘M.’
”

“For murder? Are you actually threatening to kill
me?”

“No, sweetie. For meter maid. You’d make a good
one. Have a good evening, Agent Henning.”

Andie climbed out and stepped onto the sidewalk.
The driver went around to the other side and climbed inside. Andie watched the
limo pull away, and as the orange taillights merged into traffic, she was sure
of one thing: Operation BAQ did indeed reach higher than the former deputy
secretary of the Treasury.

The only question was how high.

Andie pulled her scarf up to her chin and headed
for the subway.

41

I
took a PATH train from Manhattan and was in New Jersey by dinnertime. Lilly came with me, which I took as a positive sign that I was indeed on her deserves-to-live list. Just as Lilly had wanted to talk to me before forming any alliance with Agent Henning, I also needed to speak to someone. I phoned Connie several times, but her machine picked up.

“Call me,” I said, keeping my message short.

Connie had given me a key to her apartment with a standing offer to stay there. Lilly still had a hotel room, but with Evan Hunt’s shooting, she didn’t feel safe going back there. My place wasn’t an option, either, since her last stay had ended with a phony deliveryman forcing her to escape out the window. After a three-minute walk from Journal Square Station, however, I was seriously wondering how she would feel safer in this part of Jersey City. Things changed block by block, and some streets were easily better than our old neighborhood in Queens. Some weren’t. Connie’s definitely wasn’t. I had never asked my sister how much the zoo paid her, but if it was more than minimum wage, she was socking away a fortune in what she saved on rent. It was no wonder that she leaped at every opportunity to sleep in a tent on scouting trips.

Connie’s building was like the others on her street. An old three-story unit in need of a paint job. No alley between neighbors. Sheets of plastic covered the windows for added insulation. The buildings were set back from the street, and once upon a time there had probably been a front lawn, but now there were only driveways. With cars parked side by side, two and three deep, it was a safe bet that more people lived in these one- and two-bedroom apartments than they were ever intended to house.

The sidewalk had not been shoveled, and the cold night air had turned the snow to a crusty ice that crunched beneath my shoes as I climbed the front steps. Lilly waited at the curb, her arms folded for warmth, her eyes darting left to right, as if she were expecting a drug deal to go down at any moment. I reached for the key but decided to knock first, just in case she was home.

To my surprise, the porch light switched on.

“Connie?” I called out.

The light switched off, leaving Lilly and me in the distant glow of the streetlamp on the corner.

“Probably a motion detector,” Lilly said. “Open up and let’s go in before we get mugged.”

I heard Connie call out, “Be there in a minute!”

She wasn’t right on the other side of the door; her voice was more removed, as if she were in another room, perhaps the bedroom. It made me wonder why she hadn’t been answering her telephone, but I gave her a minute. I heard a door slam and what sounded like someone running across a wood floor.

I leaned closer to the door. “Connie?”

“Just a second!”

The door opened, and Connie invited me inside. She seemed out of breath.

“Is everything okay?” I asked.

“Yeah, fine,” she said, though her voice cracked with nervousness. Lilly and I exchanged glances, clearly sharing the same impression that we’d caught Connie in a romp.

“Strong procreation gene,” I said, still looking at Lilly. “Runs in the family.”

Connie blushed. “Oh, you’re thinking that I was . . . No. It’s not that. There’s no one here. Just me, myself, and I.”

I heard a thud behind the closet door, followed by a ping and the sound of a penny rolling across a wood floor. I looked down and saw that it wasn’t a coin. I bent down and picked up the bullet that had rolled up against my heel. “What the heck is this?”

“Nine millimeter, hollow-point,” said Connie.

Either my hunch about sex had been dead wrong, or my sister was far kinkier than I had ever imagined. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

She drew a deep breath and then let it out, sighing. Slowly, with obvious reluctance, she turned the knob and opened the closet door. Wedged between an assortment of winter coats and camping gear, a man turned his head toward us and shot an awkward wave hello. The face was familiar, and when he stepped into the room where there was better lighting, I recognized him.

“Scully?”

I hadn’t seen Agent Scully since I was a teenager, but there are certain people, certain situations, that a person never forgets. Scully had served as the handler for our entire family when Dad turned against the Santucci family. As my father testified before a federal grand jury in lower Manhattan—literally, at that very moment—Agent Scully and my mother sat down with my sister and me at our dining room table in Queens and told us what a courageous thing our father was doing, how important it was to the fight against organized crime, and how, frankly, our young lives would never be the same.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“I heard about your father’s friend, Evan,” he said. “So I reached out to Connie.”

“He’s concerned for our safety,” said Connie.

“So he’s hiding in your closet?”

“I can explain that,” said Scully.

“No, let me,” said Connie. “Patrick, I know how you feel about guns. But your big sister is one of those people who believes that a guy like Evan Hunt might have had a fighting chance if he had kept a gun in his apartment. So when Scully called and asked if there was anything I needed . . .”

I looked at Scully. “You brought her a gun?”

Connie groaned. “See, that’s why I hid him in the closet when you came knocking. I knew you’d be against this.”

Scully reached into the closet, retrieved a canvas duffel bag, and laid it on the floor. It clanged like an armory. “I brought an assortment, actually.”

“What are we doing here, forming a militia?” I asked.

“We’re protecting ourselves,” Connie said.

“I haven’t picked up a gun since Mom died,” I said.

“You got pretty good,” said Scully. “Just basic self-defense was all I wanted to teach you.”

Connie reached inside the duffel bag, pulled out a Glock semi-automatic pistol, and shoved in the ammunition clip like a pro. “I stuck with it. You probably could use a refresher course.”

Lilly backed away nervously. “I don’t like this. Patrick, you need to regroup with Agent Henning and find a safe place for us to stay.”

Scully said, “I can stay here as long as you kids want, if you don’t feel safe.”

It was odd to be called “kids,” but things apparently hadn’t changed from Scully’s perspective, either.

“I can also teach you to use a gun, Lilly,” Scully said as he pulled another pistol from his bag. “Maybe you’d be more comfortable with the Sig Sauer.”

“Patrick, let’s go,” said Lilly.

The image of Evan, faceup in the Dumpster, ran through my mind, and the pain of each physical trauma my body had sustained over the past few days came roaring back—the gun to my head and powder burns to my neck in Times Square, the wire around my neck and my chin hitting the sidewalk in Battery Park, the knee I’d torn up chasing Evan in Central Park.

“Agent Henning has offered to help us, and that’s the way I’m leaning,” said Lilly.

She wasn’t being unreasonable, but I looked at Scully and suddenly felt as though I’d found an old friend.

“Grab Connie’s phone in the kitchen and let Henning know where we are, if that makes you feel better,” I said. “But take off your coat. We should stay awhile.”