Spectrum (The Karen Vail Series) (24 page)

40

>103rd STREET

Harlem

Monday, August 6, 2001

Karen Vail turned to Special Agent Mike Hartman and showed him the
New York Times
headline as he negotiated the turn onto 103rd Street. “Ralph Nader drew 7,000 to a rally he held at the Rose Garden.”

“That guy is single-handedly responsible for putting Bush in the White House. How one man can alter world events is beyond my comprehension.”

“Oh come on, Mike. There are lots of examples throughout history. George Washington. Abraham Lincoln. Thomas Jefferson.”

“Positive impacts. All those people made our society a better place. You think we’re gonna say the same thing about George W. Bush twenty years from now?”

“Miracles have been known to happen.”

Vail and Hartman laughed.

“So where we meeting your CI?”

“Marcus Garvey Park.”

“You got your paperwork this time?”

“I’ve got it. And she’ll sign it, no problem.”

“Just making sure we’re clear on this. She wants to change the rules of engagement, you gotta have the paperwork filed.”

The Bureau’s procedure regarding confidential informants was strict and clear: your agreement with the CI was contractual. You agreed to pay a certain amount, and they had to countersign so that there were no misunderstandings—between you and your informant and between you and the Bureau.

They found a spot along Madison Avenue. Hartman waited in the car while Vail entered the park and walked along the adobe- and gray-colored brick pathway. She sat down on one of the benches and pulled out her copy of the
Times
.

After paging through the main section, she folded it in quarters as someone sat down beside her.

“Eugenia,” Vail said. “How are things?”

“You know, I had better days. My kid’s hangin’ out with the wrong crowd and I can’t seem to get him to listen to me. You gots the money?”

“I do.” She handed her the folded front section of the newspaper. “First sign the new agreement. Page nine.”

Eugenia took the pen that was clipped inside, signed the paperwork, and handed the
Times
back to Vail. Vail then handed over the sports pages, likewise doubled over into quarters. “It’s inside. Stick it in your pocket, count it later. You know the drill.” She glanced around and looked at Eugenia. Her face had more creases than the last time they had met. Worry wrinkles.

“I got you more money. That means you have to deliver more.”

“I knows it. And I gots something for you. A shipment of illegal guns about to be sold on the street. Comin’ in from Russia. Also a few dozen assault rifles. Some sniper rifles. Guy by the name of Sergei, goin’ down at a warehouse three blocks from here.”

Vail thought a moment. “Yeah, I know the place. When?”

“I heard midnight but I’m not sure if it’s the ninth or the nineteenth. S’posed to be shipped out the next day.”

“Where to?”

Eugenia shrugged. “Don’t know.”

“You hear anything else, ring me up.” Vail faced her and studied her eyes. “How’s your dad?”

“You know. Not so good.”

“He seeing a doctor?”

“No money for a doctor.”

“Take him. He needs to go.” Vail pulled out a pad and wrote down a name and number. “This doc won’t charge you. Just make sure you tell him I sent you.”

In truth, Vail would be paying the tab—but Eugenia didn’t need to know that or she might not go.

Eugenia took the paper. “Okay.”

Vail got up from the bench. “Talk to you soon. Be careful out there.” She gave her a wink, then turned and headed back to the car.

EUGENIA’S TIP PROVED fruitful. The buy, which took place on the nineteenth, allowed the FBI and Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms to get a lead on the supplier; they let the sale go through but maintained a vigilant watch on where the guns ended up. Three weeks later, they moved in and busted the operation in New Jersey.

Vail felt vindicated that Eugenia had come through; she had faced resistance from her boss, the assistant special agent in charge, about increasing the amount they paid the CI. But she insisted the informant was solid and worth taking a chance on. In this instance, Eugenia proved her worth.

Three weeks later, with the weather beginning to feel more like fall and the leaves starting to change, Vail blew on her hands as she unlocked the front door to her house with Jonathan in tow.

She stepped inside and found the place freezing—as well as Deacon asleep on the couch, a bottle of Ketel One vodka lying on its side.

“Oh Jesus.”

“Mommy, I’m hungry.” Jonathan grabbed onto Vail’s pant leg and swung back and forth. “I’m hungry.”

Deacon, what the hell? I thought we had this under control.

He had seen a psychiatrist and went for counseling, and was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. Once they found medication that worked for him and determined the correct dosage, the challenge—as predicted by the psychiatrist—would be ensuring that Deacon continued taking the pills. Many bipolar patients liked to feel a bit high, or hypomanic. Being “of normal mood” made them feel slow and inadequate. As a result, many stopped taking their medication. Deacon, however, promised her, and the doctor, that he would be compliant.
So much for that.

“Mommy, now.”

“Okay, baby. I’ll get you something.” She left Deacon on the couch and took Jonathan into the kitchen. “I’ll make dinner in a few minutes, sweetie.” As she unpeeled a banana, Jonathan’s face brightened. He took it and shoved a big bite into his mouth.

Vail unwrapped their new copy of
Dinosaurs
and put it in the DVD player in the small dining room. As the Disney logo filled the TV screen, she rejoined Deacon.

She sat down on the coffee table opposite the couch and looked at her husband, who was lying on his side, asleep. She reached over and gave his shoulder a shake. He opened his eyes slowly but his face showed no reaction. But that’s when she noticed the half-smoked marijuana joint in a dish on the floor, near Deacon’s head.

Shit.
“Deacon, what the— What are you doing?”

His eyes studied her face but he said nothing.

“Have you been taking your meds?”

“I’m hungry. Can you get me something to eat?”

“Answer my question. Have you been taking your meds?”

He looked at the ceiling. “I don’t like the way they make me feel.”

“We’ve been through this. You don’t have a choice. If you want to have a normal family life, if you want to keep your job, you have to take them.”

Deacon laughed, more of a pathetic moan. “That’s no longer a problem. They fired me this morning.”

Vail sat there, her mouth agape. She had warned him that he had better do everything possible to make his employer happy because keeping a job was a lot easier than finding another. Now that was a moot point.

“What happened?”

Deacon leaned back against the couch. “Accounting irregularities.”

“What does that mean? Sounds like a catchall bullshit term.”

“Things didn’t add up. The company had to restate earnings. CFO took the heat. I took the blame. So …” he sang, “Bye-bye Deacon.”

“Did you do anything wrong? Was it your fault?”

“Only thing I did wrong was being a CPA in the CFO’s office. And being the new guy on the block.”

“We should contact an attorney.” And then she realized that a lawsuit would expose Deacon’s bipolar condition and they would end up spending a lot of money on a case that might become so muddled that even if they ended up winning, the stress and time invested would make them losers in the end. And there was no way Deacon would get his job back.

“I’ll talk to some people at work who know about corporate politics and job hunting. I’ll see what they recommend about applying for a new job, what you should and shouldn’t say in an interview about getting fired.”

“Can I get something to eat?”

“I’m sure you can.”
But you’re gonna have to get it.
“I’m going to find your meds—and make sure you take them.”

Vail walked into the kitchen and checked on Jonathan, who was watching with fascination as the large egg made its journey from one dinosaur to another. She found Deacon’s pills on the counter, grabbed a cup of water, and found him asleep on the couch, curled into a ball.

“Mommy,” Jonathan called from the other room. “I’m still hungry!”

“Coming, sweetie.”

Vail gave Deacon a shove to wake him, then handed him the medication. As she watched him swallow it, she thought of something her mother had once told her: sometimes things have to get worse before they get better.

THE BLACKBERRY BUZZED as Vail stepped into the elevator for her morning appointment. She pulled it from its holster and recognized the number.

“Russo, you old dog. How’s it going?”

“I’m gonna ignore the ‘old’ reference because I’m such a nice guy. Do you want the bad news or the not-so-good news?”

“What’s the bad news?”

“We got another vic. Hades.”

“And the not-so-good news?”

“You ain’t here to work the case.”

“Yeah, well, I think the NYPD may consider that good news.”

“Any chance you can stop by before you start your work day?”

“Already started. Came in early today for an interview with a banker who was snagged in an insider trading sweep. He’s agreed to talk to us assuming I can win him over. I’ll drop by the crime scene after. Maybe a couple of hours? Three at the outside.”

“No good,” Russo said. “Max is on his way. He’ll be done with the body well before then. Probably be tagged and bagged, if not shipped out.”

Fresh body. Fresh crime scene. And I really want this bastard.

“On my way to the scene right now,” Russo said. “Tribeca, on Duane near Church.”

“Well, shit,” Vail said as the floor numbers on the elevator readout continued climbing. “That’s not far from here.”

“Can you postpone your meeting for an hour or two?”

Vail pushed the next floor button and got off. “Email me the address. I’ll see what I can do.” She hung up and called the witness and asked if she could reschedule their interview. He sounded relieved—and when she offered to take him to lunch instead, he was all too happy to make the change.

Vail got back into the elevator headed down. When she reached the ground floor, Russo’s email hit her inbox.

She walked into the apartment on the fifty-first floor of the high-rise building at 8:35, fifteen minutes after Russo’s call—not bad for the one mile rush hour commute in New York City’s financial district.

She badged the cop at the door to the apartment and stepped inside.

“What a view,” she said as she took in the large picture windows on the far side of the great room.

“Ain’t gonna do the woman of the house much good anymore.”

Vail turned to see Russo standing there, a pair of latex gloves on his thick hands. Vail spread her arms and he joined her at the door, then gave her a hug.

“You got a pair of booties?”

“Of course,” he said as he dug into his pocket. “See what happens? You no longer work important cases so you’ve got no need to carry ’em around anymore.”

“Nah, the FBI doesn’t get any important cases. Just busy work. All procedure and reports. Boring shit.”

“Yeah, like I believe
that
.” He gestured with a tilt of his head. “C’mon, she’s in the bedroom. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

I’ve got a feeling I know what this crime scene looks like without even seeing it.

She walked in and—although the victim was sitting on the bed, the large picture window drew her attention yet again. “Stunning.”

“We already went through that, didn’t we?”

“Sorry. I don’t have anything like this in Rosedale.” It was a spectacularly clear day and visibility was distant. Skyscrapers rose in all directions like a manmade mountain range. Most prominent was the view of the World Trade Center, the two towers pristine in their uniformity—and enormity. “That’s where my meeting was,” she said. “I made it up to the 88th floor when I got off and came here. I told the witness I was going to take him to lunch. But now I’m thinking I sold myself short. I’m sure his office has a view of the city that might just put this one to shame.”

“Windows on the World. Hundred seventh floor. Take him there for lunch. On the Bureau’s dime, of course.”

“Now you’re talking. See, you can still dish out some wisdom in your old age. Oh—sorry about the ‘old’ reference.”

“
Again
. You mean you’re sorry,
again
.”

“Yeah,” she said, preoccupied. She took one more look out the window, trying to avoid the matter at hand. Another mutilated victim. “Can you imagine waking up to a view like this every morning?”

“Yeah, well, our vic ain’t gonna be doin’ that no more.”

“Right.” Vail dropped her gaze to the adjacent queen bed, which sat parallel to the window. She moved to the foot of the mattress and studied the victim. “What’s her name?”

“Doris Vassos.”

“Vassos,” Vail said. She looked at Doris, trying to picture the woman’s face without the blood and protruding glass shard, then walked over to the side of the bed facing the window. “Greek?”

“That’d be my guess. I looked around a bit before you got here but didn’t find a whole lot. Pretty sure she’s single. I’m waiting for a call with some background on her. Found some letters in the desk, checking account and brokerage statements.”

“Do we know what she did? Professionally?”

“She had a position with the ad agency J. Thomas Walker. We’ll know more once I get that backgrounder. Whatever she did, she earned a very solid salary. To live here.”

“What about that drawing on the neck?”

“Figured I’d wait till CSU got here. I didn’t want to move the body till we got some shots. I asked for Chandler.”

Vail leaned in for a closer look at the wounds. “Who’s got the case now?”

“Since I’ve been involved from the beginning, Kearney asked me to work with Joe Slater, bring him up to speed. He’s on the way.”

She looked at the ceiling, searching her memory. “Joe Slater. Don’t think I know him. He good?”

“He was promoted in to replace Fonzarella after—well, after that Danzig debacle.”