“I didn’t see anyone precede or follow you to the diner or to the gas station,” O’Clair said. “You?”
“I didn’t see a thing. But what if, at some point, a surveillant pulled up in a car across the street, offscreen?”
“That’s what I figured. So I duct-taped a second cig-cam inside a trash basket at the end of Prospect Street, the lens aimed out through the perforated metal.” O’Clair winced as he queued up the second video. “I’m afraid this makes the first tape look like an action flick.”
The camera provided clear panoramic video of a beauty shop, a fast-food restaurant, a ninety-nine-cent shop, and several empty storefronts across Prospect Street from the diner. A painted Singer sewing machine ad had mostly flaked or chipped off the brick wall of the block’s largest building, a vacant bank. The weekday traffic was sparse. The eatery and the Exxon station garnered all of the vehicles that stopped, save a van that parallel parked in front of the beauty parlor. The uniformed driver went into the beauty parlor; his features were mostly veiled by a baseball cap and sunglasses.
Stabbing at the van, whose logo matched the patches on the driver’s uniform, Thornton exclaimed, “AT&T.”
“What about it?”
“A Verizon van followed Catherine and me from Chinatown.”
“Telephone services vans aren’t exactly rare.” O’Clair dropped onto a stool.
“What do you know about F6?”
“I take it you don’t mean the function key on my computer.”
“It’s the code name for a CIA program, known by everyone involved as the Special Collection Service.”
“How do you know about it?”
“I probably shouldn’t, but a few years ago, I had a source who ran the New York bureau. The Special Collection Service’s sole responsibility is bugging places that are almost impossible to access. My source used to use telephone and utility company service vans for cover all the time.”
“So do other surveillants,” O’Clair said. “And, mostly, telephone and utility company employees. With respect to your source, nowadays those trucks are almost a cliché—anyone who’s ever seen a cop show would be wary. Our people pose as cable TV or Internet providers. Cut the service, the residents beg you to come in. Sometimes they go as a tree-trimming company: gets them access to high floors. Or plumbers or exterminators, which gets them access anywhere — people want those sort of problems taken care of stat.”
Thornton had figured as much. “The thing is, the same source invited me to a black-tie charity ball that’s this weekend. I’d been looking forward to not going.”
13
Traffic clogged the Jersey Turnpike. Hard rain and sleet hammered the Cadillac. As Musseridge drove, he grumbled about the latest round of nonessential home renovations that his wife considered vital. Next to him, Lamont couldn’t have been happier. Just three days after receiving the ad from the Au Bon Pain, Quantico had a result: COLD HIT. The blood matched nine of the thirteen chromosome locations, or loci, on an FBI database specimen from a white forty-one-year-old named Ralph Brackman. In 1996, the failed academic had served a month for cocaine possession and distribution. The Bureau put the odds of unrelated people sharing so many genetic markers at approximately one in 113 billion.
An hour later, Musseridge parked the Escalade across from Brackman’s house, a run-down 1960s ranch, similar to half of the homes on the suburban block in Teaneck, New Jersey. The rest of the houses were undergoing major renovations or had already been expanded into residences that dwarfed their tenth-of-an-acre lots. Brackman’s place sat between a three-story Tudor replete with turret and a sprawling yellow Mediterranean villa.
The backup team from the Newark field office radioed their readiness from a white cargo van parked at the far end of the block. Lamont received a similar message from one of the Teaneck PD patrol cars, the cops reporting that Brackman’s wife had left home an hour ago, driving the couple’s two young children to a local Catholic school, before proceeding to her secretarial job at a commercial construction company.
Getting out of the Cadillac, Lamont hoped the Teaneck PD also had eyes on Brackman, given the suspect’s skill as a marksman. Alleged skill. The record offered nothing to suggest he was a hit man. Ralph Gerard Brackman was the only surviving child of Arthur and Penny Flaherty Brackman, who had been lifelong residents of Brooklyn. After graduating from City College in 1994, Ralph Brackman bounced around the tristate area in a series of career false starts and extensive stretches of unemployment. Now he worked out of his house as an “Internet consultant.” There was no hint of criminal activity since the coke bust, no visits to pistol ranges, not even a parking ticket — though assassins took pains to avoid leaving such trails.
Lamont pressed the buzzer, and he and Musseridge waited on the stoop for twelve seconds, the average time span from ringing a bell to an open door. Converting his excitement into hyperawareness, Lamont noticed for the first time the cold drizzle, and, on the two neighboring houses, flames swaying in unison in lanterns suspended above the front doors. Then he heard hurried footfalls inside. Maybe the suspect had been in the can. Or readying a weapon. Lamont inched a hand closer to his holster.
Brackman cracked the front door. Unlike the shooter described by witnesses at the St. George Ferry Terminal, he was thin. Of course, he might have used padding as part of his disguise that night, or worn Kevlar. He also looked remarkably cheerfuclass="underline" His eyes sparkled, and his wide mouth seemed set in a smile, even as he peered out, circumspect, from beneath the bill of a Phillies cap. Rosy cheeks added to a youthfulness that made it easy to overlook the gray in his curly black hair. He wore only an undershirt, sweatpants, and socks. No sign of a concealed weapon.
“You guys from the FBI?” he asked.
If this surprised Musseridge, he didn’t show it. “You expecting the FBI?”
“No, but the local detectives don’t wear suits, and, all due respect, you guys look too old to be Mormon missionaries.”
“So you were expecting detectives?”
“I’m the only person in the neighborhood who’s been convicted of anything heavier than a DUI, so I get plenty of opportunities to ‘assist’ local law enforcement.” Brackman pulled open the door. “Why don’t you come in out of the rain? Tell me what I’ve done this time.”
He was too cool, thought Lamont, joining Musseridge in the small foyer. The space opened to a living room lined with stain-them-yourself wooden shelves filled with books. The combination of a futon, a pair of worn Naugahyde recliners, and a large TV suggested the room was the hub of Brackman family life. A sleek MacBook sat on a coffee table alongside a chess game in progress. Although cramped, the room had the ordered quality of a ship.
Brackman waved at the computer. “Please, have a seat in my office.” He sank onto the futon, the coffee table blocking the lower half of his body from the agents’ view. Lamont wondered if the maneuver had been the calculated action of a veteran suspect. FBI researchers estimated that two-thirds of human communication is nonverbal. When a subject shifts uncomfortably in his seat, for instance, it’s often an autonomic way of dissipating tension, indicative of deception. Ideally, your subject sits in a swivel chair that amplifies such behavior.
Musseridge smiled as he dropped into one of the recliners. “Phils fan, huh?” he asked Brackman.
It was a textbook opening to develop rapport. Musseridge could have gone straight for the jugular with, “Brackman, did you kill Catherine Peretti?” But casual conversation created a nonthreatening atmosphere. People tended to trust other people — law enforcement officers included — who were like them. And if you could get them going on neutral topics, like sports, kids, or yard care, it made it easier to tell when they began lying.