“Trooper saw the car here and ran the plate. There was an area-wide out after you guys found he was behind those earthquakes and murders on Saturday and Sunday.”
“Positive ID? It’s Shapiro?”
“Uh-huh. One of our tac people rappelled down. Did a field FR. It’s him. Prints were on file after an arrest at a protest rally a few years ago. Pretty crazy, faking earthquakes.”
She asked, “So how does the scene look?”
“Nothing says anything other than suicide. No wits. And he drove here from the city, so no tollbooths.”
All the bridges and tunnels were toll-free entering New Jersey. There was no toll-taker video of someone else driving Shapiro’s car, with the activist in the trunk, for instance. That was improbable, of course. No one would have a motive to kill him — except, she supposed, Unsub 47, if he’d decided to keep the diamonds for himself. But even then, why kill Shapiro, why not just take the diamonds and go back to Russia?
And if he’d truly wanted to murder Shapiro, he wouldn’t’ve staged it. He would simply have shot the man, at a time and place of his convenience. The Russian was clever but apparently cared little for nuance.
Sachs asked, “The evidence’s gone to Hamilton?”
The state police’s crime scene headquarters.
“That’s right. We’ll get you copies as soon as we can, autopsy too.”
Sachs and Pulaski watched the basket in which the body was strapped breach the top of the cliff. Two muscular firefighters, one a man, one a woman, pulled it closer, unhooked the cable and carried the body to a waiting ambulance.
The view of Manhattan from here was spectacular in clear weather. Now the haze made the place look dystopian. Not many lights shone through the gray fog, though you could see the outlines of buildings large and buildings small. It seemed like a ghost town.
“Let’s run his house,” Sachs said, “see what we can find.”
Chapter 49
The U.S. attorney’s office was quiet.
This was one of those moments — early evening, of a weeknight — that Henry Bishop liked. Much of the rest of the building was empty, most of the support staff gone.
But those who remained were loyal and diligent and blindingly focused.
The sort of person that the lean, admittedly tense prosecutor preferred.
This place was comforting to him in the way that the Upper West Side apartment where he’d been living by himself for the past thirteen and a half months was not.
Bishop looked out over the dark night, and in his thoughts were a dozen — no, two dozen — matters about the El Halcón case. Every case was important but this one was more important than others of late. The crimes the Mexican had committed — the assaults on federal officers and the local policemen — were all terrible. But the crimes the man would commit — if he went free to continue to expand his operation to the United States — required that he be stopped now.
It was an adage in this business that you can’t try someone for future crimes. But Hank Bishop felt that in one way you could: Try somebody for his present crime, put him away for as long as you can, and you’ve “solved” any future crimes that person might have committed.
Bishop was going make sure that El Halcón was out of commission for a long, long time. He would delay the Mexican cartel’s move into the United States for a significant period, severely limiting the river of drugs cascading into this country. And crimping too the enforcement murders, bystander killings, underage prostitution, arms dealing and money laundering that were subsidiary enterprises in the El Halcón empire.
Considering this goal, Bishop happened to think of the one sore spot for him in the whole prosecution: that he hadn’t been able to learn the identity of El Halcón’s American partner, the man who was going to be running his operation after the Mexican returned home. The man who was the ultimate owner of the warehouse (Chris Cody, the man killed in the shoot-out, was merely a front, Bishop knew).
How Henry Bishop wanted this co-conspirator too.
But at least putting El Halcón away would slow up the expansion of the Mexican OC operation into America.
A knock on his doorjamb.
Special Agent Fallow stood there.
“Come on in.”
The man strode into the room and sat stiffly in the chair across from Bishop’s large desk, which was covered with a hundred file folders.
“And?”
Fallow opened his own folder and looked at some notes. “I think we’re good. There’s a CI we’ve got in Mexico City. He knows one of the guys up here in the Carreras-López entourage.”
Bishop loved confidential informants — snitches. They were either cowards or without consciences. Either one made them extremely valuable.
The agent continued, “Apparently, it’s true, Lincoln Rhyme’s been hired to analyze our evidence and look for improprieties. The withdrawal from Chase? Was a down payment that’s in Rhyme’s possession now. And the bulk — a half million, if he gets results? It’ll be wire-transferred. He’s got Rhyme’s bank’s routing and account number. Oh, and he gets two hundred fifty K, even if he doesn’t find problems with our case.” The agent shrugged. “But there’s nothing he did illegal. I tried to find conflict of interest but he’s never had any connection with anybody on the prosecution or the agents involved. Nothing.”
Bishop sneered. “And what does he think he’ll find? We’re buttoned up, aren’t we? Completely buttoned up.”
Fallow said nothing, but nodded.
“Why would Rhyme undermine us? Doesn’t he know what kind of evil El Halcón represents?”
Okay, a little melodramatic. But Bishop often addressed people — and himself — as if he were making closing statements to a jury.
“Next steps, sir?”
“Did you find the uniform who raided the PERT office?”
“I did. He’s Ronald Pulaski. Technically Patrol Division but generally works Major Cases. No discipline issues. Citations for bravery.”
Under other circumstances, Henry Bishop would have had some qualms about putting a decorated officer in jail. But Pulaski’s collaboration with Rhyme was a clear crime — and a stupid one, to boot. He should’ve known better. Also, Pulaski was a male and — presumably — white. Safer to destroy the career of somebody like that.
“Charges for Pulaski?” Fallow said. “We need to hit them hard, I’d say. Shut them down.”
Shut them down? Odd choice of words. But in principle, Bishop agreed.
The agent continued, “Obstruction. Conspiracy.”
“Theft of government documents too.”
“Good.”
“There’re probably some NYPD confidentiality and protocol rules he’s tripped over. But that’s not our issue. We’ll let their Internal Affairs handle that. I’ll put him in federal prison. The state can do what they want after he’s out. In ten years. Warrant him — Pulaski. Pick him up ASAP.”
Before he and Rhyme found one of those improprieties they’d been hired to hunt down.
Fallow asked, “You’re just going to let Rhyme...” Apparently Fallow was going to say “walk,” but he changed his mind. “Let him go?”
“No. We’ll get him for receiving stolen government files. Is there any facility that can handle him?”
“Lockdown medical unit in detention.”
“Good.”
“He’s got a caregiver.”
“A what?”
“An aide. Somebody who takes care of him.”
Bishop scoffed. “Well, he’s not going in with him. There’ll be some orderly or nurses who can do what they have to.”
Fallow said, “I’ll let the medical unit know.”