Bad Guys (24 page)

“I don't have to realize anything. I don't care what Richie's doing.”

Tozzi stared at her hand and wondered if he should play the card he had in mind. At this point, there was nothing to lose. “Do you care what he wants to do to me? Do you care that he wants to kill me?”

She swiveled her chair sideways and took a slow drag off her cigarette. Her face was set off by the high-back wings of the leather chair. For some reason, Tozzi thought of the profile of Alfred Hitchcock at the beginning of the old TV show.

Her phone rang then—a twittering flutter, not an actual ring. She let it go for five rings before she decided to pick up.

“Yes?” she said, sounding weary. She was still in profile as she listened to whoever was on the other end. “All right. I'll take it.

“Hi, Dale. How are you?” Suddenly she was someone else, Ms. Varga, vp. Her tone wasn't friendly, it wasn't unfriendly. It was business cordial. Formal concern, interest, but no warmth.

“Yes, that's right. We can channel your data any way you choose, and of course, as we discussed, it can be tailored to fit your needs.”

Tozzi lay down on the sofa and put his heels up on the arm. It was very comfortable except that there were no pillows for his head. He crooked his forearm behind his head and watched Joanne work through heavy lids.

“We offer a basic hospital package that we've found works very well. Medical records can be kept separate from billing so that people in different departments can access only what data is pertinent to their positions. Executives are provided with pass codes that will open up the entire data source if needed. Payroll and personnel records can either be included in the package, or you can continue with your present service and leave that data separate. I believe I told you, though, that the cost of issuing biweekly paychecks goes down significantly if you shift personnel and payroll onto the total package service.”

Tozzi figured she was pitching additional data-processing services to some hospital who already used DataReach for their payroll. He was impressed with her rap. She wasn't hard-sell, just hard facts. He knew the technique. She'd lay it out so logically and so matter-of-factly that the guy on the other end would feel stupid if he didn't buy her package. It was the way smart cops got perps who were caught red-handed to turn on their buddies. Spell it all out for them nice and calm. Tell them what they can expect if they cooperate and what they can expect if they don't. Tell them exactly what information you want. Work it nice and easy like an optometrist testing for the right lenses. Work it down to two choices: Is this better? Or is this? If you can do it in the wee hours of the morning before a public defender can drag his ass down to the station, nine times out of ten the felon will opt for the logical choice and spill his guts all over the floor.

“Now you do know that as part of the package,” she continued, “we send out our auditors every six months to review your system. They check for inaccuracies, poor performance, overlapping services, and security leaks. If they discover any problems, we will either rectify the situation or recommend changes in your basic service that will accommodate your needs better.”

Tozzi shut his eyes. Just ten minutes. That would be so nice.

“Excellent,” she said into the phone. “I know you'll be glad you decided to go with the total package. Alan Lurie is the systems analyst here who handles our medical accounts. I'll have him call you today to set up an appointment so that you can review your needs with him, determine if any custom software will have to be written, and assess your existing hardware. Okay? . . . Fine. If you have any questions, give me a call. I'll be talking to you, Dale. Bye.”

Joanne swung around to face the telephone console. She pressed for a dial tone, then punched in four digits.

“Alan? Joanne. Queen of Peace Medical Center finally made up their minds. They're going with the whole package.”

There was a hint of triumph in her voice. About as much as a good businesswoman allowed herself, Tozzi guessed.

“The vp in charge of operations over there is Dale McIntee. I told him you'd give him a call today to make an appointment to get things rolling. Hold his hand and make him feel secure. I think he's still a little uncomfortable with the price. You know what to do.”

She listened for a minute, then suddenly she tilted her head back
and laughed. She looked like one of those people on the TV ads for Bell Telephone, getting a real kick out of calling some dear relative in the old country. Her office laugh was about as sincere as a commercial.

“You're right about that,” she said, abruptly curtailing her mirth. “Get back to me after you've talked to him.”

She hung up the phone and leaned back in her chair, smiling with satisfaction. It didn't seem to matter that Tozzi was sprawled out on her sofa, half-asleep.

“Big deal?” he asked.

“A very big deal,” she answered.

She didn't seem so pissed-off now. There must have been a lot of money riding on this hospital deal. Probably a sweet bonus for her, too.

“I guess I better get going,” he said, but he didn't make a move to get up. He was too comfortable.

She stood up and walked around her desk. When she sat down on the edge of the sofa where his legs were stretched out, the 9mm Beretta in his ankle holster dug into her back. She pulled away and glanced disparagingly at his leg.

“Are you really in trouble with Richie?” she asked.

“Not just Richie,” he said.

“If you level with me, I'll help you any way I can.”

Her tone seemed sincere now. Nothing like the woman he'd just listened to on the phone. “I'm an FBI special agent,” he said. “Used to be, actually. The Bureau doesn't sanction independent contractors.”

Joanne nodded. “I had a feeling,” she murmured. “But why? Why are you chasing Richie? Why are you working alone like this?”

“It's a very long story. Basically, Richie's a bad guy. The Bureau doesn't always see the bad guys right away. And sometimes they don't want to see them. My problem is that I see everything. I can't help it.”

“What can I do to help?”

He shook his head. “Nothing really. I just need to know you're going to be there for me, like a safety net if you know what I mean. I'm hanging out over the edge. I need to know I have someplace to fall if I slip up.”

She was rubbing his chest gently with the flat of her hand. She seemed to be unaware that she was doing it. “Do you need a place to stay? You can come to my place.”

He thought about it for a second and changed his mind. “No. It would be too risky for both of us. I'm sure Richie knows where you live.”

“Do you think he knows about us?”

“Anything's possible.”

She smiled sympathetically. “He isn't God, you know. He can't know everything.”

Tozzi stared into her eyes. He slipped his arm out from behind his head and pulled her down to him, kissing her tenderly. Her hair fell around his face, covering him like a tent. His tongue coaxed hers, and she forgot where she was, letting herself go. He didn't want to let her go. He felt warm and protected and satisfyingly horny under all that lush dark hair. He felt that maybe he and Gibbons could pull this off after all. He felt good about what he was doing, and he had a good feeling about Joanne. He felt a hell of a lot better than he did last night when he shut the door on the apartment that smelled of his aunt's gravy and anisette cookies, the apartment that was full of pictures of people he used to know a lot better. He felt rotten last night. But now he thought maybe it could be okay.

She rubbed the muscles inside his thighs and wondered how long it would be before Richie's men finally killed him. She gripped his balls and stabbed at his tongue with hers, secretly hoping it would be a little while longer.

The firing range was empty except for the two of them, all the lanes dark except for theirs. Kinney adjusted the headphone ear protectors, then clipped a fresh paper target to the run and sent it halfway down the length of the range on its motonzed track. He picked up the 12-gauge Remington 870 Police shotgun and held it in his left hand as he fed rounds into the magazine. FBI special agents are required to have above-average proficiency with three types of weapon: the .357 Magnum handgun, the automatic assault rifle, and the pump-action shotgun. They also have to be able to shoot ambidextrously. But Kinney wasn't here at the range to work on his left-handed shotgun technique.

He glanced over at Gibbons, who was in the next stall, taking target practice with that ancient Colt of his. He squeezed off shots evenly, emptying his weapon at the standard paper target—a drawing of a grizzly thug squinting down the barrel of a revolver. Gibbons started with his target at long range.

He's a cunning old bastard, Kinney thought. I underestimated him.

He raised the shotgun, peered down the barrel, and pulled the trigger all in one motion. The recoil jolted his shoulder. A ragged hole the size of a dinner plate separated the target's head from his body.

Gibbons was really something. He may look like a straight arrow, but there was more there than met the eye. Kinney could almost admire him. After all, most people wouldn't behave as coolly as he was, knowing what he knew. How many other agents would've invited him to come along to the NYPD's Pelham Bay firing range under the pretext of being able to discuss the “case” in the car on the way up, knowing
all along that he'd be riding with the Hun? If nothing else, Gibbons had balls.

He watched Gibbons reloading his gun, then looked at his own target. Abruptly he aimed, fired, and blew the paper thug's hands and handgun away.

All the way up here, Gibbons kept going on and on about Tozzi, his habits, his downfalls, how he hoped that Tozzi would get careless soon and leave them with a solid lead as to his whereabouts. Incredible. Gibbons knew that he was Steve Pagano. But that was about all he knew. Gibbons had no way of knowing about his connection to Lando, Blaney, and Novick. That wasn't in any file. He couldn't have found out that he was the killer, because he would've acted on it by now. No, he didn't know, and he wouldn't find out.

Kinney took aim with the shotgun and fired again. One of the paper thug's shoulders disappeared.

Being in cahoots with Tozzi makes him vulnerable, Kinney thought. I could turn him in right now. He could make counteraccusations, of course, but that's all they'd be. Empty accusations. He's got no evidence.

Gibbons had pulled his target in to close range and now he was practicing rapid discharge, emptying his load in less than three seconds. When he was through, there were five neat holes clustered around the target's heart.

Kinney glanced back at Barney, the range supervisor, who was leaving his booth again. Barney had prostate trouble—he told anyone who'd listen to him about it—and he was constantly running out to go to the john. It would be easy to get rid of Gibbons right here and now. He could say Gibbons went berserk, started threatening him with his gun. He could say he had no other choice but to use deadly force to save his own life.

But just then Barney came back in and returned to his booth. No, on second thought he couldn't kill Gibbons here. He'd need time to arrange it, make it look right. It was too risky here.

Gibbons was sending his target back again. It sailed down like a ghost and stopped between mid and long range. He took position, steadying the gun in both hands, and commenced firing, aiming each shot carefully. The paper thug took two shots in the torso. The third grazed his neck. The fourth got a shoulder. The fifth sank into the upper thigh. The sixth pierced the stomach. Gibbons wasn't a bad shot. Not great, but not bad.

Kinney raised the shotgun again and quickly pulled the trigger. This
time he hit paper but missed the thug. He pumped the gun and raised to firing position again, taking his time now. He aimed carefully, fired, and got the thug in the nuts.

Varga said he'd take care of the two of them, but he fucked up. Well, what the hell do you expect when you send a jerk like Feeney in to do the job? Now Gibbons is more cautious than ever, and Tozzi has disappeared completely. “You take care of Gibbons. We'll find Tozzi,” Varga said the other night. Fat bastard. He fucks things up and I'm supposed to clean up the mess all the time. The big cheese, he thinks he knows everything. Giving orders makes him feel powerful. Well, fuck him. I'll take care of Gibbons, and I'll do it right. Take my time so there won't be any loose ends they can hang me with later. Never leave any loose ends.

Gibbons was waving to him now, trying to get his attention. He pulled the ear protector off one ear. “Are you all through, Bert?”

“Yeah, I'm finished,” Gibbons said. “Take your time. I'll meet you downstairs.”

He watched Gibbons wave to Barney as he walked to the door. The heavy steel-reinforced door slammed shut behind him, and Barney went back to his newspaper.

Kinney exhaled deeply as he replaced the ear protectors. He reached for the toggle switch and brought his target in to close range. As he pressed the shotgun to his shoulder, he pictured the yellow school bus pulling up in front of his house that morning, and Greg and Bill Junior running across the sunny lawn to meet it. He squeezed the trigger then and blew the paper thug's head off.