Russian nightclubs start late, and I would have stayed with Kate until visiting hours were over, but she said she was tired-or tired of me-so I kissed her good-bye and said, "Try to get some rest."
"What else can I do here?"
"Think about what else Khalil might be up to."
"I'm thinking." She asked me, "Where are you going now?"
"The only place I'm allowed to go. Home."
"Good." She smiled and said, "Don't go out clubbing."
Funny you should say that.
"Be careful, John." She squeezed my hand and said, "I love you."
"Me too. See you tomorrow morning."
I left her room and chatted with Kate's NYPD guard, a lady named Mindy who assured me that she was aware that Kate's assailant was not a common dumb criminal, and she also assured me that not even Conan the Barbarian could get on this floor-but if he did, he wasn't getting past Mindy Jacobs.
I was not as concerned about Conan the Barbarian as I was about Asad the Asshole having himself delivered here in a crate of enemas or something.
I said good night to Mindy and walked through the ward, noting the closed and bolted room doors and the uniformed and armed men and women from the Department of Corrections.
If I were Asad Khalil, how would I get in here and get to Kate? Well, I'd start by getting myself thrown in jail, identity unknown, then faking a serious illness, which would get me sent to Bellevue, behind a bolted door. After that, Asad Khalil would have no difficulty getting out of that room and into Kate's room.
But I shouldn't give him supernatural powers. And he didn't even know that Kate was here.
I took the elevator down and met my escorts in the lobby-still Officers Ken Jackson and Ed Regan, who must be as tired of me as I was of them.
Within fifteen minutes, I was back at my apartment building on East 72nd Street.
There was a custodian in the lobby who looked very much like Detective Louis Ramos, the bagel deliveryman. I stopped and chatted with Ramos a moment, then went to the desk where Alfred was reading a newspaper.
He put down his newspaper-the Wall Street Journal; tips must be good-and inquired, "How is Mrs. Corey?"
"Much better, thank you." I said to Alfred, "I forgot to pick up my car keys."
"I have them right here." He opened a drawer and produced my keys.
I told him, "I need to get some things out of storage, so if you don't mind, I'll borrow the key for the freight elevator."
"Yes, sir." He retrieved the key to the freight elevator and put it on the desk, and I held it in my hand with my car keys in case Detective Ramos was watching. I wished Alfred a good evening and walked to the apartment elevators.
The other way out of here without going through the lobby was the fire stairs, but each staircase had surveillance cameras, and the monitor was sitting on the doorman's desk where Ramos or anyone could see who was on the staircase-or see the videotapes afterward. The freight elevator, however, was not monitored, and it went down to the garage where I would be going shortly.
I rode up to my apartment, where I'd already picked out my Russian nightclub outfit.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
I had laid out a dark gray suit and gray tie that I usually wear for weddings and funerals, plus a silk shirt and diamond cufflinks that my ex had given me. My shoes were real Italian Gravatis and my watch was a Rolex Oyster that an old girlfriend had bought on the street for forty bucks and might not be real. To complete my outfit, I slipped into my Kevlar vest, though this time I forgot my wire and tracking device. I finished dressing, not forgetting my Glock, and checked myself out in the mirror. Russian Mafia? Italian Mafia? Irish cop dressed funny?
I put one of the photos of Asad Khalil in my jacket pocket, left my apartment, and walked to the freight elevator located in a far corner of the 34th floor. The apartment elevators all stopped in the lobby, and you then needed to walk across the lobby to the garage elevator. But the freight elevator was sort of an express to the underground garage, and for security reasons you had to ask for the key, which I had done and which I now used to summon the elevator.
The detectives who would have cased this building before I arrived home must have figured out the freight elevator escape route, but even if they did, they weren't looking at me as a flight risk; I was a colleague who was under protection-not house arrest. Not yet, anyway.
The doors opened, and I got into the big, padded car and pushed the button for the garage level. The freight elevator bypassed the lobby and continued down to the parking garage, where truck deliveries were made.
The doors opened, and I stepped out of the elevator into the underground garage. So far so good.
Or was I now trapped in the garage whose entrance would be under surveillance by the Special Operations team on the street? Obviously, I couldn't walk up the parking ramp or drive my green Jeep out onto 72nd Street without getting busted. Actually, if I was running this job, I'd also have a surveillance guy down here. And maybe there was one, and I'd meet him in a minute. If not, then I'd found an easy way out of my building.
I walked over to the parking attendant's window, and there was an older gent in the small office who I didn't recognize. He was watching TV and I said, "Excuse me. I need a ride."
He looked away from the TV-Mets game-and asked me, "What's your number?"
"No," I explained, "I don't need my car. I need a ride."
"I think you got the wrong place, Bub."
"I'll give you fifty bucks to take me down to Sixty-eighth and Lex." I explained, "I have a proctologist appointment."
He looked at me and asked, "Why don't you walk?"
"Hemorrhoids. Come on-what's your name?"
"Irv." He advised me, "Call me Gomp."
"Why?"
"That's my name. Irv Gomprecht. People call me Gomp."
"Okay, Gomp. Sixty bucks."
"I don't have a car."
"You have two hundred cars. Pick one." I assured him, "You can listen to the game on the radio."
Gomp looked me over, silk shirt and all, and decided I was a man to be trusted-or Mafia-and he said, "Okay. But we gotta move fast."
I threw three twenties on the counter, and he snatched them up, then picked a key off the board, saying, "This guy ain't used his car in two months." He added, "Needs a run."
Anyway, within a few minutes I was in the passenger seat of a late-model Lexus sedan, and Gomp was driving up the ramp. He confessed, "I do this for the old people once in a while, but nobody never paid me sixty bucks."
"You're making me feel stupid, Gomp."
"Nah. I just meant I usually-hey, whaddaya doin'?"
"Tying my shoes."
"Oh…"
I stayed below the dashboard and felt the car turn right onto 72nd Street. I waited until we stopped at the light on Third Avenue before I sat up.
I looked in the sideview mirror and didn't see any of the usual makes or models that the Task Force used. It would be really funny if Lisa Sims was on this detail and she busted me. Maybe not so funny.
Gomp asked me, "You live in the building?"
"No." I volunteered, "I live on East Eighty-fourth." I put out my hand and said, "Tom Walsh."
Gomp took my hand and said, "Good to meet you, Tom."
"My friends call me tight-ass."
"Huh?"
God, I hope the FBI interviews this guy tonight.
With that in mind, I asked him, "Are you a surveillance cop? FBI?"
He thought that was funny and said, "No, I'm CIA."
Not funny, Gomp.
The light changed, and he continued on 72nd, while tuning in to the Mets game. He asked me, "Are you Mets or Yankees?"