Morrow pulled her to him and she sobbed in his arms.
As he held her he realized he was still gripping the file for Donna Breen, Moe Malloy’s cousin, who’d informed them about Gina Saldino. A light flickered in a corner of his mind, something that Breen had told him about Saldino.
That she had a boyfriend who had been in Pakistan or someplace like that.
Could he be ex-military?
Could he be Erik Rytter?
41
New York City
Gannon’s 737 from Denver landed with a thud at La Guardia.
He took a cab directly to World Press Alliance headquarters.
As the car cut across Midtown Manhattan traffic, he consulted the checklist he’d started on the flight. His first priority was to learn all he could about Erik Rytter of Munich, the man FBI had identified as the dead suspect in Nebraska. Where did Rytter fit in with the heist, with American Centurion, with any part of the case? He’d search databases, records and archives. And although it might be prickly with some of them, he’d go back to all his sources for help.
Gene Bennett at the John Jay School of Criminal Justice was reluctant to talk to him, but Bennett had a line into the industry that reached inside American Centurion. He’d keep trying with him. Gannon would also sound out Brad West, with the New York State Police, and his wife, Anita, at Ramapo P.D.
It was 2:55 p.m., when he arrived at the WPA building.
In the elevator, he remembered Adell Clark.
He needed to thank her for tipping him off on Nebraska. Adell always came through. He’d go back to her, too, he thought as he hurried through the sixteenth-floor reception area. He had just made it to his desk and set down his bags when a news assistant trotted up to him.
“Hey, Jack, you’re supposed to join the editors in the story meeting now. They’re all in the conference room.”
The midafternoon story conference was in progress. Nearly a dozen senior editors were at the polished table in the glass-walled room with its panoramic view of Madison Square Garden and the Empire State Building. When Gannon entered and took a seat, attention shifted to him as if he’d been the subject of conversation.
“Welcome back,” Lisker said. “I was just telling Beland and everyone how we followed our hunch on that tip we had on the suspect out west.”
“Our hunch?” The tip “we had.” What? Did I fall down the rabbit hole? Lisker threatened to fire me and here he is taking credit—hell, stealing it—to cover his non-journalist ass. Look at him, attempting a smile as if smiling were the most unnatural thing for him.
A nod was all Gannon could manage.
“You knocked it out of the ballpark for us, Jack,” Beland Stone, the WPA’s executive editor, said. “A clean kill against our competitors. Your item from Nebraska was one of the finest examples of breaking-news feature writing I’ve seen in recent memory.”
“Thanks.”
“We got great pick-up,” Stone said. “And it got stronger in Europe after we updated with the German aspects. We need to keep in front.”
“We want you to continue being our lead reporter on the story,” Lisker added, still through his stupid grin.
“This is an important story,” Stone said. “We’ll keep hitting it from all angles. Where are the other suspects? Where’s the money? What did they want it for? Are they tied to other heists? What links this Erik Rytter, an ex-German soldier, has to the heist? How did they know to grab him?”
Gannon nodded respectfully to what was obvious.
“We’re putting everything we can on this story,” said Carter O’Neill, who ran the WPA’s domestic bureaus.
“All our bureaus in Germany are on it,” said George Wilson, who was in charge of WPA’s foreign bureaus. He leaned to a speaker. “Franz, can you update us?”
From Berlin, the voice of Franz Dalder, chief of the WPA’s German bureaus, echoed through the speaker.
“Yes, as I was telling you, our sources with the German national police inform us that they are helping the FBI with information on Rytter. He was a former soldier and then worked as a contractor in Afghanistan and Iraq. We are trying to confirm if he worked for a private security firm subcontracted for Black Ops for the CIA.”
“This adds a new dimension to the crime,” O’Neill said. “Was the heist an operation to raise funds for a bigger attack? Remember, the 9/11 guys spent a lot of time in Germany.”
“We will investigate all theories and work with Jack Gannon,” Dalder said.
Margot Cooke, the WPA’s features editor, leaned forward, tapping a pencil into the palm of her hand.
“Jack, we discussed this, you’ve reported that there’s a key eyewitness. We should try to give readers an anatomy of the heist, take readers inside, put them in that truck stop, provide a portrait of how everyday life can change in a heartbeat.”
Gannon nodded.
Having just stepped off an early-morning four-hour flight across the continent, he had a lot to take in. When the meeting ended, he returned to his desk, grappling with a mix of fatigue, adrenaline and stress. He turned on his computer, took a breath and began sorting out what he needed to do.
Sources. Right. Sources.
He started by putting out calls, sending texts and emails to all his sources. Then he sifted through his messages, notes and files. Was he forgetting anything? Was he overlooking any aspect of the story? He could go home, but why bother?
Nothing was waiting for him there but the furniture. Besides, he’d never get a seat on the train. It was practically rush hour.
His line rang. The number was blocked.
“Jack Gannon, WPA.”
“Hey there, so you’re back from the great plain.”
Recognizing the woman’s voice, Gannon rolled his eyes and tightened his grip on the phone as if stepping into battle.
“Hello, Katrina.”
“Congratulations on kicking everyone’s ass on the story.”
“What do you want?”
“Wow, you’re cold.”
“I’m sorry, how nice to hear your voice.”
“Now, now, Jack. Come on, be nice.”
“Why are you calling?”
“Well, I wanted to take you out to dinner.”
“The last time we went to dinner, things didn’t go so well.”
“Come on, Jack, can’t we be adults about things?”
“Why do you want to take me out to dinner?”
“Aren’t we still friends?”
“What?”
“I thought we could talk.”
“About what?”
“Look, I heard a couple of detectives paid you a visit, something about a crime scene in Yonkers, and I thought we could compare notes. You know, team up. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours kinda thing?”
One bitter second ticked by, then another and another before Gannon cursed under his breath, shook his head and stared across the newsroom at nothing.
“I don’t believe you,” he said. “You’re a real piece of work.”
“What do you mean?”
“You want to pump me as if I was one of your sources. You’re shameless, you know that. You’d probably sell your firstborn for a story.”
“Hey!”
“Goodbye, Katrina.”
Gannon thrust his face in his hands.
Katrina was getting close.
Those Yonkers cops who were pissed at him, what were their names? He searched his notes: Walsh and Mullen. Maybe they were her sources? Katrina could’ve called them, trolling for stories, and they tipped her to his work on Harlee Shaw?
One thing was certain: Katrina’s call was a double-barreled blast of reality. She was sniffing around on Harlee Shaw’s suicide, his mystery tip. She was breathing down his neck.