Black Water Transit (35 page)

Greco, the hotshot U.S. attorney. She had made out like a bandit here, collected a massive seizure, had her name all over CNN, a case she could ride all the way to DC. And she had the contacts, the access to dirty cash, the organization. It was paranoid, maybe, but it was also possible. Here he was, on the run in a stolen U.S. marshals van, he’d crossed two states and so far no one was on his back. Was he lucky or just stupid enough to fall for it? Greco could make that happen. But why?

Why let him run loose? What advantage was there for her? She already had him by the throat, had him on the way to prison, his company assets frozen. Pike was not part of her plans, of that he could be damn certain, so Jack’s escape was a surprise to Greco. Had to be. Pike’s intervention at the Denny’s was the X factor, something she could never have planned for.

Yet here he was, still on the run and still no sign of a tail, of any kind of surveillance. None of this made any sense. There was only one way to work this out. Play it out. But his money was on Greco now. She was the main one.

It had to be her or someone in her organization.

When he reached the George Washington Bridge he worked out the odds that the ATF could pick up his cell phone transmissions and decided he had no choice. He’d have to take the chance. He used the Wal-Mart prepaid cellular phone to call Creek Johnson’s private cell phone number. It rang three times.

“Hello.”

“Creek.”

“Jackson! For Chrissakes! Where the hell are—never mind.”

“I’m okay. Are you alone?”

“Not for long. They’ve got U.S. marshals in the parking lot.”

“Where are you?”

“Where would I be? I’m in your office. I got the wagons circled. I called everybody, like you said. But things don’t look good. Flannery called. Greco’s got a court order to have me taken out by force. She’s got her order and she’s selling Black Water.”

“To who?”

“Whom, Jackson. Whom do you think? The seal-heads we met with at the Frontenac Hotel last Wednesday. Martin Glazer, the two bum boys, Bern and Kuhlman, from Galitzine Sheng and Munro. They tabled an offer this morning. Flannery says it’s a done deal. Glazer meets with Greco at her Water Street offices next Monday morning at ten. The escrow takes effect immediately. Soon as you’re convicted, or killed, Glazer gets the whole package.”

“Christ. Can’t Flannery do something?”

“He’s not trying real hard. Story on you is you’re a dead man if the ATF guys see you. And everybody around Albany thinks you’re guilty. Now that you’re running, they just see it as proof. Not a judge in the region thinks Greco’s anything but Joan of fucking Arc.”

“What’s the price?”

“Oh, you’ll love this. Twenty million for the whole package.”

“That’s insane. The physical plant alone is worth twice that. The
Agawa Canyon
is worth nine million at the dockside. She’s throwing the company away.”

“Yeah. But she gets twenty million in seized assets for her department, which bumps up her score in Washington, and Marty Glazer and his seal-heads get a two-hundred-million-dollar company for twenty million. A fire sale. Everybody wins but us. She’s even managed to
have my share of the assets frozen—get this—pending an IRS review of my finances. She’s gutting us both like trout.”

“What’s happening right now?”

“I’m about to be arrested for obstruction. They’re sending sheriffs in to have me … 
extracted
was the word. Like a tooth.”

Jack was silent for a long time. He could hear Creek’s heavy breathing and music playing in the background.

“Okay. Creek, you did what you could do. Don’t hang in there to get cuffed and slapped around. I need you on the outside.”

“Jack … on the news. They’re saying you killed those two marshals. The ones I met. The woman, that black guy.”

“I didn’t kill those guards. Earl Pike did.”

“Pike! Holy shit. Why?”

“For fun. For payback. Keep your cell on, okay?”

“I will, Jackson. What are you gonna do?”

“I’m going to find out who did this to me.”

“And then what?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay … right. Jackson, I talked to Carmine. He said if you got to call, use his cell number. It’s clear for now.”

“Can I trust Frank?”

“Can you trust Frank? I think so. But I wouldn’t bet on much in the way of help from him. He’s dying, and Carmine’s not real big on you. He figures you ignore Frank until you need him. Now you’re bringing in major heat, and Frank gets caught doing it, he’s gonna die in prison. You’re nothing to him. Carmine only cares about Frank.”

“Yeah. He made that real clear last week.”

“Money. Do you need money?”

“I have money. Creek?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks, Creek. For backing me. For everything.”

“Don’t thank me, Jackson.”

“You tried to warn me. I wish to God I’d listened to you.”

“Well … I’m no fucking hero here, Jackson.”

“No. Just a good friend. If I don’t get through this …”

“I don’t want to hear that shit. I got my cell on. Now go.”

Jack clicked off and drove in silence for another mile. Then he dialed the cell number Creek had given him. It rang several times and then the line picked up.

“Hello?”

“Carmine?”

“Jackie. What the fuck you want?”

“Is Frank there?”

“He’s asleep. I ain’t waking him for you.”

Jack heard a voice in the background, a woman’s voice. Claire Torinetti’s voice, and then the phone made a rustling sound and Claire was on the line.

“Jack, it’s Claire. Where are you?”

“I can’t tell you that. Is Frank there?”

“Frank had a spell just now. If he gets any worse, we’re taking him to the hospital. Jackie, he’s so sick.”

“I know, Claire. I’m sorry.”

“Carmine’s worried about Frank helping you.”

“I don’t blame him. I just need some advice. I don’t want to come live there. I need to talk to Carmine.”

“Carmine, Jack wants to … what?”

Jack heard a muffled exchange, and Claire came back.

“Carmine says he won’t talk on the phone. If you want, he’ll meet … no, he’ll send somebody.”

“Who?”

“Somebody you know.”

“Somebody I know … who?”

More hoarse whispering, then she was back.

“He says probably Fabrizio.”

“Christ. Fabrizio Senza? The drunk gatekeeper?”

That pushed Claire over the top.

“Jesus Christ, Jack! Who the fuck you want? De Niro? Pacino? We’re sending who we can. You got another plan?”

“Where to?”

“Carmine says … you remember where you and Frank used to go dig for clams, cook hot dogs?”

“Yeah. I do.”

“Go there. Wait.”

“Claire, can I trust Carmine?”

Another long breathing silence.

“I think so. Just be there, Jack. I have to go.”

And the line was dead. He drove a mile in silence, thinking about his options. He didn’t have any. After a while he saw the sign for Jerome Avenue southbound, which would take him to the Major Deegan, which connected with the Bruckner Expressway and led to the Triborough Bridge, which emptied itself into the blocks and parks and streets of Astoria, and finally right onto Astoria Boulevard itself. If he was going home to Astoria, this was his road. If he wasn’t going home, he was going to have to trust Carmine.

He passed the Jerome exit at fifty miles an hour and stayed on the Cross Bronx all the way to the Hutchinson River Parkway. From there, he went south through Flushing and Kew Gardens and Jamaica and from there he saw the signs for the Shore Parkway, and that took him to Flatbush Avenue and the toll bridge across Rockaway Inlet.

By four in the morning he was parked in an alleyway between two apartment blocks just off Breezy Point Boulevard, the booming sea in front of him and the run-down tenements of Far Rockaway all around him, the
sun cutting a razor-thin red slice out of the blue-black on the far horizon. The air was sharp and stinging. Jack rolled down the windows and let the sea wind flow through the truck. He leaned his head back in the seat, closed his eyes, and listened to the wind rushing and the waves boiling and crashing onto the sand. After a long while he slept.

The NYPD was going back home. Casey was at the wheel of the black Lincoln, running on cigarettes and black coffee and watching the interstate rolling toward her inside a long white tunnel, rolling up the same road that Jack Vermillion had taken only two hours before them. Nicky was staring out at the oncoming traffic in silence, the headlights playing across his face. Now and then Casey would look over and think about how strong his face was, hard-cut like white marble, and how much she liked to look at it. Yet he was a white man and she hated white men, had always hated white men.

Maybe she didn’t hate all white men.

Maybe just the white women.

Or perhaps just the one white woman actually in her life.

Nicky had found an FM radio station and was listening to something the announcer had called the duet from
Lakmé
. Casey had heard the music before, but this was the first time she’d felt the sadness and the beauty of it. This was making her afraid that she was in love with
Nicky Cicero, a situation she had no time for and no desire for. Like that was going to make any difference.

Dexter Zarnas was sound asleep in the backseat, a green plaid blanket pulled up over his chest, his feet propped up against the side window. They were a few miles out of Paterson and heading for Yonkers, heading for the Thunderbird to drop Nicky off, when the MDT—the mobile display terminal—flickered and a line of glowing yellow letters began to roll across the screen, a statewide alert. It was the print version of the same tape-recorded bulletin they had been hearing every half hour since they had left the Blue Mountains Bar and Grill just after midnight.

“Still looking for him,” said Nicky.

“Yeah. Think he’s gone to ground somewhere?”

“No idea. I were him, I’d ditch that van.”

“Then what? He’s got ground to cover.”

“What do you figure he’s going to do?”

Casey glanced over at Nicky, looked back at the road.

“You look beat.”

“I am.”

“So’s he.”

“Vermillion?”

“Yeah. He’s exhausted. People run one of two ways. They run anywhere, like bugs avoiding the light. Or they run somewhere. I’ve been thinking about this guy, and I think he’s been set up.”

“By whom?”

“No idea. But if I had been set up, if I were being played the way I think this guy has been played, I’d run somewhere. Not just anywhere. I’d go straight at the people I thought were fucking with me, and I’d start nailing body parts to a door until somebody talked. Three dead assholes in Hazleton would be happy to tell you he’s a guy you can’t fuck with and walk away. I think our boy Jack’s going home angry.”

Nicky was quiet for a long time, and Casey thought he might have fallen asleep. As they flew by the lights of Paterson and the glow of the city appeared above the eastern hills, Nicky spoke again.

“I think you’re right. And it explains something else.”

“What?”

“How many times have we heard that bulletin?”

“Every half hour.”

“All the way from the Pennsylvania state line.”

“Yep.”

“Pick up anything weird about it?”

Casey laughed.

“Yes. The white van part.”

Nicky smiled.

“Yeah. They’re still calling it a
white
marshals van. They gotta know damn well that Vermillion painted it green. Something else?”

“Yeah?”

“I think Derry Flynn was playing us. He was getting as much as he was giving. And he was holding something back. You see this switch here, beside the display screen? Know what that is?”

Casey gave him a look. It was a standard item for elite units.

“Of course I do. A global positioning system transponder.”

“Yeah.”

“So …?”

Nicky raised his eyebrows, waited.

Casey got it right away.

“Dammit! I remember you asked him how come he was so confident about finding Vermillion. He said they had ‘resources.’ So there’s a GPS transponder on the marshals van. Which means they know exactly where he is right now. They’ve been tracking him in that chopper. And the ATF bulletin is just a screen in case he’s picking it up too, on the radio in the marshals van, and if he is, he’s thinking they don’t know about the van being green.”

“Which means he feels safe in it, so he stays with it.”

“But Nicky, he’s a killer. If they were running a surveillance op on him when he killed those kids in Hazleton, they’re legally culpable. If the word got out that the van had a GPS transponder, the fallout from the lawsuits would make the sunsets glorious all over the world. They’d have to be crazy. Greco, her I’d buy, but Derry Flynn didn’t strike me as crazy.”

“Not if they didn’t really think he killed the guards. The fact that they were killed with a Smith points away from Vermillion. And they don’t give a rat’s ass about the three little pigs he canceled back in Hazleton. They figure nobody’s ever going to know about the GPS thing, which means nobody has to know they could have stopped the Hazleton shootings. They had him on a long leash, and things went totally bat shit, but now I’ll bet they’re up close and personal, with a sniper ready to drill him a third eye at the first flash of green.”