Critical (29 page)

"That won't bother me," Angelo said. "I have a nagging feeling about this hit."

"Oh, come on, you pessimist," Franco said. "Enjoy the challenge of it. By the way, where are the date-rape pills and the gas you got from old Doc Trevino?"

"The pills are in my pocket, and the ethylene is on the floor of the backseat along with the plastic bags. That stuff is unbelievable how fast it works. Two seconds, the person is out."

"Well, we sure can't use the gas here in broad daylight. Well, maybe it isn't so broad anymore."

"Of course not, but it might come in handy if she kicks up a fuss once we get her in the car. I don't want to be forced to shoot her in the car."

"Hell, no," Franco said. "Not on my upholstery. Let me see the pills."

Angelo reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a letter-sized envelope, which he handed to Franco. Franco squeezed the ends of the envelope together and looked in at the contents. There were ten small white pills nestled in the bottom crease.

"How many of these things do you have to use?" Franco asked.

"Doc said just one. All you have to do is plop it into a cocktail, and twenty minutes later you can pop it to her."

"How come he gave us so many?"

"Beats me. Maybe he thought we could have fun with the others."

Franco tipped the envelope and poured half of the pills into his hand. Then he dropped them into his jacket pocket and handed the envelope back to Angelo. "If we use one tonight and it works, maybe I'll give it a try."

"Sounds like it would be a great evening," Angelo said teasingly. "Viagra for you and Rohypnol for your honey."

Refusing to be baited, Franco said, "I think one of us should walk down there to the entrance and get a better look at each and every one coming out. There would be less chance of missing her."

"That's not a bad idea," Angelo agreed. "But what are we going to do when we see her? We can't strong-arm her with all these people around."

"What about your Ozone Park police badge? You've always said it works wonders."

"It does, but not always in a crowd. People are emboldened when other people are around. She could yell and scream, and there's lots of cops in the neighborhood."

"I've noticed. I'm amazed they haven't approached us to leave."

"You've spoken a bit too soon. Here comes one now."

Franco glanced back over his shoulder. A burly policeman with a strikingly large gut was heading toward them, carrying a pad of traffic tickets in his hand.

Franco looked at Angelo and back at the policeman. In ten seconds, the cop would be at the door.

"I'll jump out," Franco said. "You drive around the block!"

"Why don't I jump out?"

"Because I'm in charge," Franco said. "Make sure your cell phone is on. And most importantly, don't wreck my car."

Franco climbed out onto the sidewalk. "Good evening, officer," he said. The policeman arrived just as Franco reached full height.

"There's no parking or standing," the cop said, as he eyed Franco and then bent down to look in at Angelo.

"He's just dropping me off, officer," Franco said as he also bent down to wave good-bye to Angelo. Angelo had slid across the bench seat to be behind the wheel. Franco closed the door lovingly.

"Hey!" the officer called out suddenly as Angelo started to pull away. Angelo stopped with his heart racing. "Your seat belt!" the policeman yelled.

"Thank you, officer," Angelo said in a tense voice after putting down the window halfway.

Franco's heart had raced as well. With definite relief, he smiled at the policeman, then walked north toward the Trump Tower commercial entrance.

AMY LUCAS LOOKED over at the clock high on the wall across from her desk. With utter relief, she saw that it was finally five-thirty, her normal quitting time. The day had been a mixture of anxiety and tedium. The anxiety had been getting called into the CEO's office and being questioned about Paul. She'd never even met the CEO before, much less been called into her office. Although she suspected it would be about Paul, she wasn't entirely sure. There was always the concern about being fired, not that she'd done anything to deserve it but more because she couldn't afford to be fired. Financial need evoked a kind of paranoia, and her finances were being strained by her contribution toward keeping her mother in an assisted-living facility. Each month was a struggle to stay in the black.

Paul's absence had also been the source of anxiety. She'd been working for the man for about ten years and had moved with him from their previous job to Angels Healthcare about five years ago. When he'd not shown up by ten that morning, Amy feared something was wrong, because Paul Yang was generally very precise and methodical, like most accountants, unless he had been drinking. That was the worry. As the day wore on and he didn't appear or call, she came to believe he was on one of his binges, like he'd had before the move to Angels Healthcare, and it saddened her. Back then it had been difficult, because she'd had to make excuses for his absence on a regular basis, and even on one occasion rescue him from a fleabag motel.

After the motel incident, he'd seen the light, and overnight he became thankfully motivated to stay away from alcohol. Only Amy knew he'd gone to AA meetings and had kept it up for years now. She'd hoped he'd stay away from alcohol for good, but now, five-thirty in the afternoon, she was certain he'd relapsed.

If it was true, as she expected it was, that he'd gone back to alcohol, she blamed the stress he'd been under regarding the stupid 8-K form and the ballyhoo about whether or not to file it. She knew he was upset about it because he had specifically told her so, but he didn't tell her why he was so agitated. Amy wasn't an accountant, and had never even gone to secretarial school. She was pretty much self-taught, although she did take appropriate courses in high school and was exceptionally good with the computer.

Sometime after she had typed the 8-K on Paul's laptop, he had called her into his office, and then, as if there was a great conspiracy afoot, gave her a USB drive, which contained the 8-K file.

"I want you to keep this," he'd whispered. "Just put it someplace safe. On a separate file is the Securities and Exchange Commission's website."

"But why?" she'd asked.

"Don't ask! Just keep it unless something happens to me."

Amy could remember looking into his eyes. He was being so melodramatic that she'd thought he was joking with her, because he did have a sense of humor. But he apparently wasn't joking, because he dismissed her and never mentioned the USB drive again.

Now, as she was ready to leave for home, she opened her bar and took out the USB storage device and looked at it as if she expected it to communicate with her. She couldn't help but wonder if Paul's absence fulfilled his request for her to file the 8-K. When he'd given her the charge, he'd never described what he meant by "unless something happens to me." Certainly, going on a binge qualified as something happening to him, but Amy wasn't confident. She slipped the drive back into its side pocket and closed her purse. Her last thought before leaving was whether she should call his home. She'd considered doing it off and on all day but wasn't sure if she should. She'd even considered calling one of his old girlfriends, whose number she still had, but she decided not to do it since he'd had no contact with her for five years, as far as she knew. With a sigh, her indecision was such that she thought it better to do nothing than to do something that might make the situation worse. With that thought she turned off her desk lamp and left the office.

"WHAT THE HELL is going on?" Carlo said with a shake of his head. He was mystified.

"I haven't the slightest idea," Brennan said.

Carlo and Brennan were in Carlo's black GMC Denali, pulled over to the right side of Fifth Avenue at Grand Army Plaza. Just to their right was the Pulitzer fountain with the statue of a naked Abundance in all her glory.

Carlo and Brennan had picked up Franco and Angelo the moment they'd emerged from the Neapolitan Restaurant. At a safe distance in Johnny's parking lot, they had joked about the two Lucia enforcers, trying to decide which one was the weirdest-looking. To them, Franco looked like a hawk with his narrow, hatchet-like nose and beady eyes, while Angelo looked like someone from a horror movie with his extensive facial scarring.

"What a pair," Carlo had commented as he'd put his sub sandwich down on the center console and put his car in gear.

Tailing the two had been easy, since Franco's car stood out from the crowd with its erect tail fins and whiter-than-white sidewall tires. The only problem spot had been getting on the Queensboro Bridge, since they had missed a traffic light, and Franco's car had driven out of sight. After a short period of anxiety, they had been able to catch up to their quarry, thanks to the traffic light on the Manhattan side of the bridge. From there, they had proceeded to Fifth Avenue without a problem until Franco had suddenly pulled to the side a bit beyond the commercial entrance to the Trump Tower.

Franco's parking had been so precipitous that Carlo had had to drive by and make a right at 55th Street, and go around the block. That maneuver had also caused a bit of concern about losing them until they'd returned to Fifth Avenue and saw Franco's car still standing where it had been.

For the next thirty-five minutes, Carlo and Brennan had stayed where they were next to naked Abundance, alternately watching Franco's car with a pair of binoculars Brennan had thoughtfully brought along. They couldn't see much, just two silhouettes having an active conversation from the looks of their intermittent hand gestures. While they waited, they finished the sandwiches they'd gotten at Johnny's. Without knowing where they were going or how long it would take, they'd jumped at the chance to haw some food.

The stakeout had gradually become boring until both men sat up a little straighter when the NYPD officer had appeared and closed in on the car.

"What's going down?" Carlo had questioned. Brennan had the binoculars at the time.

"I don't know. They're just talking."

"Let me see!" Carlo said. He took the binoculars from his colleague, who was lower in the organizational hierarchy. Carlo and Brennan had known each other for years from living in the same neighborhood and attending the same high school.

"Franco's walking toward us," Carlo said as he continued watching through the binoculars.

"Uh-oh," Brennan said urgently. "Angelo is driving away! What should we do?"

"Let's stick with Franco," Carlo said. "He's stopped at the Trump Tower entrance. My guess is he's waiting for someone to come out of the building."

"What about Angelo? I could get out and stick with Franco while you tail Angelo."

Carlo shook his head. "My bet is Angelo's just going around the block. Let's stick where we are. I'm starting to think they're planning on snatching someone."

"That's crazy with all these people around, not to mention the cops."

"I can't argue with you there," Carlo said, and then quickly added, "I think he sees who he is after. He just tossed his cigarette into the gutter."

"Who is it, a man or a woman?" Brennan questioned. He eyed the binoculars and had to resist an urge to grab them away from Carlo. After all, he'd had the sense to bring them along.

"I think it must be that girl with the green coat. She's taking a cab, and he is, too. I bet he's pissed because Angelo's not in sight."

Carlo tossed the binoculars into Brennan's lap and put the Denali in gear.

"What are we going to do?" Brennan asked while searching for Franco and the girl. "God, the girl looks like she's twelve. What could Franco and Angelo be after her for?"

"It doesn't make much sense."

"Uh-oh! The girl's got a cab and is about to leave Franco high and dry. Should we try to follow her or stick with Franco?"

"We'll stick with Franco, you dope."

Brennan pulled his eyes from the binoculars and cast an angry look at Carlo. He didn't like being called a dope.

"Well, lucky for Franco. He's caught himself a cab as well. Hang on! We're off to the races."

"YOU MUST BE joking," the taxi driver said, twisting around to look at Franco sitting in the backseat."'Follow that cab!' That's the first time I've actually heard that outside of the movies. Are you for real, man, or is this a joke?"

"It's no joke," Franco said. "Keep that cab in sight and you got yourself a twenty-dollar tip."

The driver shrugged and turned back to drive. A twenty-dollar tip was well worth a little extra effort.

Franco bounced around in the backseat and had trouble handling his cell phone. Giving up for the moment, he struggled with the seat belt instead. Once he got that secured, he wasn't being thrown about quite as much, especially since the car had steadied to a degree once it had gotten up to speed. It was still relatively hard to dial the number, because the driver was weaving in and out of the lanes.

"Where are you?" Franco demanded the moment Angelo answered.

"I'm stuck in traffic on Sixth Avenue going north. Where are you?"

"In a cab heading south on Fifth. The bird has flown."