I was going to make some crack about there always being a first time for everything, but I bit my tongue. I’d only just met this guy. I didn’t know his sense of humor or for that matter anything else about him. Except his size.
“So what line of work are you in, Nick?” he asked. Very cool and casual-like.
Uh-oh. Careful, now.
“I’m a writer,” I said.
“No kidding. What do you write?”
“Articles, mostly. I work for Citizen magazine. You heard of it?”
“Sure have. Is that why you’re here to see Derrick?” he asked. “To do an article?”
There was no outright concern in his voice, but I knew subtext when I heard it. No way he was asking just to make idle conversation in the hallway.
And I wasn’t about to give an answer that could get Phalen in any kind of trouble.
“No. Derrick’s actually helping me out with some background on a novel I’m writing,” I said. “Verisimilitude and all that.”
“No kidding. We help out on the Alex Cross books sometimes.”
“Never read them,” I said.
I watched closely as LaGrange nodded, relieved when he quickly changed the subject. He asked which restaurant we were going to.
“Actually, I don’t know,” I told him.
He seemed to believe me. And as far as I could tell, LaGrange didn’t know that I was lying about why I was in his building to see Phalen.
He had bought the novel line.
At least that’s what I thought.
Only it turned out Ian LaGrange knew exactly what I was up to. The real surprise, however, was how the big man knew.
As Phalen had said himself…
Holy shit.
And then some.
DERRICK PHALEN RETURNED to his office after lunch with Nick Daniels and did very little but stare up at the grid of white ceiling tiles above his desk. He stared at the ceiling for a good twenty minutes straight. The prosecutor had a lot to digest and it certainly wasn’t the pasta fagioli. It wasn’t even the very interesting story he’d just heard from Nick Daniels.
“Knock, knock,” came a voice at his door.
Instinctively Phalen looked to see who it was, but he really didn’t need to. He knew it was Ian LaGrange, and not because of his boss’s all-too-familiar baritone.
No, he expected the Godfather to be dropping by sooner or later. Probably sooner.
“Hey, Ian, what’s up?”
“Not much,” said LaGrange. “How was your lunch with the writer – the novelist?”
Phalen rolled his eyes up toward the ceiling tiles. “Don’t ask. All I can say is, that’s the last time I do a favor for a friend.”
“Why? What do you mean?”
“That guy I introduced you to at the elevator is a writer for Citizen magazine. As a favor to his editor I agreed to give him some research, a little help for a novel he’s working on. Only it turns out there’s no novel.”
“I don’t follow,” said LaGrange. “What was he here for, then?”
“It was a ruse,” said Phalen. “What the guy actually wanted to do was sell me on this crazy idea that it wasn’t Eddie Pinero who ordered the hit on Vincent Marcozza. What kind of bullshit is that?”
“You’re kidding me.”
“I wish I were. The guy’s a real conspiracy nut. It was like having lunch with Oliver Stone.”
LaGrange laughed. “So if Eddie Pinero didn’t order the hit on Marcozza, who did? In his opinion?”
“That’s the thing. He didn’t know.”
“Gee, and let me guess, he wanted your help in finding out.”
“Exactly,” said Phalen.
“So what did you tell him?”
“A polite version of Go sell your crazy somewhere else, you nutbag. What else could I do?”
“Thatta boy,” said LaGrange, tipping an imaginary cap at Phalen. “Keep your distance from the guy, okay? Writers like that, all they can spell is trouble for everybody concerned.”
“Consider it done.”
As LaGrange strolled off, Phalen leaned back in his chair, his eyes finding their way back up to the white ceiling tiles. Slowly, he exhaled.
He’d been holding his breath the entire time, hoping that LaGrange would believe him.
It hadn’t been easy.
Hell, no. Ian LaGrange – the Godfather – hadn’t gotten to where he was by being anybody’s fool. Bluffing him was like tap dancing to ZZ Top on a tightrope.
But it was nothing compared to what Phalen was going to do next.
Chapter 50
“I CAN’T FREAKIN’ believe I’m doing this,” Phalen muttered to himself as he slowly walked down the deserted and dark hallway of the OCTF offices at close to midnight that same evening.
But of course he could believe he was doing this. He even knew why.
If he’d learned anything in his nearly three years with the Task Force, it was that his family of fellow prosecutors actually shared one major similarity with the Mafia families they were trying to take down: the motto Never Trust Anyone.
Including the Godfather.
Granted, it was impossible to work for the OCTF without succumbing to a little paranoia. Phalen didn’t have to look any further than the standard-issue bulletproof vest.
But worrying about your enemies in the mob was one thing. Worrying about the people who worked for you – that they weren’t loyal or, worse, they were out to get you – was entirely another.
Enter: Ian LaGrange.
Were it not for a spilled cup of coffee, Phalen may never have found the bug planted beneath the enter key of his computer’s keyboard. When he did, though, he had no question who had planted it.
He just had no proof.
So he left the bug alone.
Phalen went about his business, knowing that LaGrange could hear everything in his office at any time. For others, that might have been an awful burden – always having to choose your words carefully, always acting like the good soldier.
For Phalen, however, it was like being given the answers to a test in advance.
He always knew the smart thing to say in every situation. He always had a heads-up.
Right up until that afternoon, when he had asked Nick Daniels if he liked pasta fagioli so they could get out of his office and talk in private.
That’s when the big surprise had come.
The six-foot-four Ian LaGrange had come bounding down the hallway from his office almost like a linebacker for the New York Giants. Right then and there Phalen had known this seemingly coincidental meeting at the elevator was no coincidence.
LaGrange was very interested in Nick Daniels and what he had to say about Eddie Pinero and Vincent Marcozza. A little too interested, in fact.
Something wasn’t right about this. It stunk to high heaven already.
That’s why Phalen was about to return the favor to LaGrange.
Patiently, he waited in his office until everyone else had gone home for the night. He even waited out the cleaning crew until they’d emptied every last can and mop pail.
Now it was just him and a little birdie.
A Flex-8 “F-Bird,” to be exact. The latest, most sophisticated digital recording device used by none other than the OCTF itself. Battery powered, smaller than a quarter, and on its way to a brand-new home.
The Godfather’s office.
Phalen slowly turned the doorknob at the end of the hall and stepped inside, quiet as a mouse.
Or a bug.
Here’s listening to you, Ian.
I HAD TO ADMIT, Derrick Phalen knew his pasta fagioli. It was good stuff, very good. Reminded me of my favorite Italian restaurant in the world, Il Cena’Colo, back in my home-town of Newburgh.
But even better than Phalen’s pasta fagioli was what came with it – and I’m not talking about a piece of Italian bread. It was my next move.