– House of Vaughan (p. 164)
10
OUT ON MAIN STREET, in front of the Smokehouse Tavern, with Frank Bishop standing next to her, Ellen finds the number and calls her contact in the NYPD. She lays it out for this guy, a homicide detective, just as she did for Bishop inside at the bar, but this time she does it faster, and almost in a sort of code, or shorthand. The contact listens, interjecting only once with a low whistle of disbelief. This is when she mentions that the Feds might already be involved. He says he’ll run it up the line and get right back to her.
Then Ellen suggests to Bishop that they return to Manhattan without delay. The shootings took place there, and if there’s going to be another one, or any development at all, that’s more than likely where it’ll happen. Any Atherton-based information about the Coadys they can get by phone or online.
Bishop is still in a state of shock, and Ellen has to prod him into a response. They eventually come to an arrangement-Ellen will drop her rental off locally, and then they’ll head back together in Bishop’s car. Ellen offers to drive, but Bishop says he’s fine, that it’ll be a distraction.
Within half an hour they’re on I-87.
Ellen isn’t great at making small talk, so she just fires questions at him as though it’s an interview. She can’t take notes-or at least can’t be too blatant about it, not in these circumstances-but if something significant comes up she can always use the phone in her hands to record the conversation.
Bishop is forthcoming on most things and speaks, in fact, as though he were being interviewed. It’s something Ellen has noticed before-how without declaring your hand up front you can establish a sort of determining rhythm to a conversation. In any case, she finds out quite a lot about him, and also about his daughter, Lizzie-whom Ellen pegs at once as a likely piece of collateral damage in all of this.
After about an hour on the road, they pull in at a rest stop to get some coffee. Ellen stays in the car and takes the opportunity to call Max Daitch. She exchanged a few texts with him back at the Smokehouse Tavern, during which they agreed that Ellen should call her NYPD contact ASAP. But with Bishop now occupied she’s able to explain in more detail what’s been happening.
“Why didn’t you tell me all of this before?” he says.
“Because I’ve only just put it together myself. What I told you yesterday was guesswork. It’s taken me until now to flesh it out.”
“Okay, okay.” He sighs. “Look, I’m trying to get clearance from legal to see what we can post online right now, if anything. Because by tomorrow morning, maybe even by tonight, this’ll be everywhere.”
“I know. My NYPD contact said he’d get back to me. I’ll text you as soon as he does.” She checks the time. “We should be back in the city by about seven. This guy here, the girlfriend’s father, I’m talking to him all the time, so at least we’re ahead on that angle if we need it.” She looks up. “Okay, I’ve got to go.”
Bishop gets back in the car, and they sip their coffees in silence for a while. It’s gray and murky out, and the relentless whipsaw of the passing traffic out on 87 is giving Ellen a headache.
Did she really use the word angle to Max just now? We’re ahead on that angle?
She fucking did, didn’t she?
That is where this is going, though-she knows that, they’re not carpooling here for convenience. She’s going to have to broach it with him, and it’ll depend on how things play out, but exclusive access is the prize.
It’s what she’s after.
She looks at her half-reflection in the windshield and rolls her eyes.
Then Bishop says, “This is going to be rough, isn’t it? If it’s true, I mean. If these… brothers, these pricks, if they’re the ones, and Lizzie’s with them, it’s going to mean a lot of attention, media attention, isn’t it? A lot of intrusion?”
Ellen turns and looks at him. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Frank, but what the fuck do you think I’m doing here?”
“Yeah.” He exhales and half-smiles. “I know. It just… doesn’t feel like that. Not yet, anyway.” He pauses. “And I meant it more from Lizzie’s point of view.”
“Well, if it is true, and let’s face it, that’s the way it’s looking, yeah, it is going to be rough. On her, on you, on her mom.” Ellen shifts in the seat and leans forward a bit. “So look, this is where I make a reasonable pitch for you to give me exclusive access, and in return I do my best to minimize your exposure, minimize the bullshit you have to put up with. Protect you.” She pauses. “But the thing is, Frank, there is no protect. There’s only exposure. And that’s a beast no one controls.” She clears her throat. “If you want my honest pitch, here it is. One way or another, I’ll be writing about this. It’s what I do. But I have a pretty decent reputation, so I won’t write anything that’s a lie, I won’t exaggerate, and I won’t withhold anything from you.” She pauses again. “That’s it.”
“Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“Okay. Presumably you know people. Cops. You have contacts. You can find out stuff. You understand the system. I’m going to need that.” He looks at her and waves a hand between them. “You know, give and take.”
She nods. “Yeah. Sure. Of course.”
He puts his coffee down and starts the car.
After about ten minutes back on the road, Ellen’s phone rings.
It’s her NYPD guy.
She sits in silence and listens. He explains that the situation has moved on somewhat. Those guys at Atherton this morning were indeed Feds, and right now in fact, together with members of the New York Joint Terrorism Task Force, they’re involved in a siege situation in an apartment on the Lower East Side of Manhattan with three suspects, two male, one female. The situation is extremely volatile, and there’s even a possibility that explosives might be involved. This news, he says, is barely fifteen minutes old. It hasn’t gotten out yet, and he’s only telling her now because the info she provided earlier gave his guys a little leverage with the Feds and the JTTF.
Ellen swallows. She wants to ask questions, she wants clarification, but not with Frank Bishop sitting next to her driving the fucking car.
She gets off the phone and starts texting.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
Look at her, withholding already. Didn’t take long.
She sends a quick text to Max Daitch and another one to Val Brady. There’s not much she can do, stuck here for the next two hours. Val might as well get a jump on things. Maybe relay some details to her later.
Give and take.
She leans back, takes a deep breath. She glances over at the shoulder.
Then she turns to Frank.
So she can tell him to pull in and stop the car.
“That’s a relief.”
Craig Howley looks up from his laptop.
“What is?”
Jessica is standing in the middle of the room, hand on hip. She nods at the TV. “That is. They’ve caught those guys.”
From his position on the couch, Howley looks at the screen for a moment-a tenement building downtown somewhere, police cars, armed officers-and then he reads the crawl. “They haven’t exactly caught them, though, have they?” he says. “A siege? What I’d be asking is how they let that happen.” He turns back to his laptop. “I thought they had these things down to a fine art.”