Five minutes later there was a knock on the door and Karpankov called, “Come in.”
A large man with blond hair, thick and curly, and a square-jawed face stepped into the room and shook Karpankov’s hand. “Peter.” His eyes were confident and he glanced at Gabriela without curiosity or lust or condescension.
“This is Gabriela McNamara.”
“Joseph Astor.” The man’s face was a mask as he regarded her. He apparently didn’t know who she was, or care. That was good. Reputations were useless. Like praise and insults and high school sports trophies.
Hands were shaken. His skin was rough. She detected a faint scent she identified as shave cream, not aftershave. He sat in the other office chair. It groaned. Joseph wasn’t fat but he was solid, built like a supporting column.
“You go by ‘Gabriela’?”
“Yes, I hate nicknames.” To her, “Gabby” was a particular gnat. The only nickname she’d ever liked was her father’s. To him she was Mac. As he was the Professor to her.
“And,” Karpankov said, “I hate it when people call me ‘Pete.’ ”
The other of the triumvirate here said nothing but she sensed “Joe” was not a felicitous option.
The dark red needles tapped their dull tips. Karpankov explained the situation about Reardon to Joseph, much as he’d explained it to her. Then he added, “Gabriela is taking on the job of finding these men and eliminating them. She’s asked for an associate to help.”
Joseph said, “Sure. Whatever I can do.”
Silence, save for the clicking of the needles. Finally she said to Joseph, “What I’ll be doing is putting together a set. You know the word ‘set’?”
“Police talk for undercover operation. Like a play, sort of.”
“I still have to think out the details — I’ll do that over the next few hours. But in essence I’ll get some people at my regular job to put together an operation, a sting, to catch Reardon and his associates. It’ll seem like some police officers’re after me, so that Reardon’ll believe I’ve got access to a lot of money and some secrets or something like that. With the cops after me, he’ll be inclined to believe it’s legitimate. I can talk my captain into it, I’m sure.”
“Police?” Joseph said, confusion hazing his face. “Your captain?”
Gabriela said, “I’m a police officer.”
“You’re...”
“I’ll call and set up a meeting with them, my captain and a couple of other detectives in a few hours.”
“The police?” Joseph repeated, though with less uncertainty than before.
Karpankov filled in, “Gabriela’s a decorated NYPD detective. That job has been... helpful to us. As you can imagine.”
Joseph gave no reaction other than a time-delayed nod. He then lifted an eyebrow. “How did you happen to end up there?”
“My father was NYPD too,” she said calmly. “I followed in his footsteps. I was interested in photography—”
“She’s good,” Karpankov broke in. “Real good.” He gestured to a black-and-white landscape on his wall. “That’s one of hers.”
Joseph reviewed the image without reaction and looked back.
Gabriela continued. “I took a job with the Crime Scene unit as a photographer. One day we got a call in Queens. A shoot-out. Nobody checked my last name, and it turned out that my father was the victim.”
“Well.” Joseph’s brows dipped.
“There wasn’t any mystery; he was killed by friendly fire. Two junior detectives just emptied their guns at a kid they thought was an armed rapist — he wasn’t either of those, by the way. The investigators screwed up and had the wrong man. The supposed suspect was wounded superficially. My father — he was backing them up — was hit six times and died instantly.
“When the lead detective realized who I was they took me off the case — conflict of interest, of course — but I shot plenty of pictures anyway. I wanted to record who the killers were, his fellow cops.”
“They went to jail?” Joseph inquired.
“No. My father’s death was deemed accidental. They were suspended for two weeks — with pay. Then returned to duty. Like nothing had happened.”
“They’re still on the force?”
“They’re no longer with us,” she said quietly. Then she looked at Joseph. “But aren’t you really asking how I ended up here, working with Peter?”
“Yeah, I guess I am.”
“After Dad’s death, my mother fell apart. She was sick, emotionally sick, even before it happened. His death destroyed her. The department and the city didn’t do anything for her. It was like they couldn’t admit they’d screwed up. But Peter showed up on our doorstep. He saved her life, got her into a hospital. His wife took care of her too. It turned out that Dad had worked for Peter all along. I decided I was going to do the same.”
“I didn’t want her to at first,” Karpankov said. “But she was persistent. I’m glad she was. Ralph McNamara was helpful getting my organization inside information about investigations and the like. Gabriela’s been helpful with that... and with other skills.”
Gabriela didn’t tell Joseph that her father’s nature was ingrained within her. She could recall dozens of incidents at school where she’d ended up in the principal’s office, often along with security or even the police, after she’d lost it — madly attacking a girl or boy who’d bullied her or another student. The Professor’s status as a respected detective protected her from the juvenile system, and he helped her learn to control her urges toward violence.
But control only, never eliminate.
Now Gabriela disposed of family history with a click of knitting needles. “So, with Reardon, we’ll have the NYPD help us.” Ideas were continuing to come fast. This was how it always worked. The mind is an inventive and fertile creature. Some thoughts she discarded, some she wrestled into shape, some she let stand as perfectly formed components of her scheme. Her palms were damp with sweat and her heart beat a fast, visceral rhythm.
Joseph asked, “What can I do?”
“I’ll explain to my captain and the police that you’re a confidential informant working for me. That’ll let me keep you anonymous. We’ll use only your first name. I’ll be Gabriela... McKenzie.” Her eyes had taken in the brand name on the label of a bottle of whisky sitting on the credenza behind Karpankov. “Gabriela McKenzie, a businesswoman of some sort, and you’ll be extorting me for a lot of money.” A faint thud as an idea emerged. It was gold. “We’ll pretend you’ve kidnapped my daughter.”
“You have a daughter?”
“No. I don’t have any children. But you come up to me when I’m with Reardon and tell me that you’ve kidnapped her and you’ll kill Sarah if I don’t get you what you want.”
“Your daughter’s going to be Sarah?”
“That’s right. It’s the name of my horse. A filly I stable upstate and ride on weekends. But we’ll download some pictures of a six-year-old. Videos, too.”
Joseph nodded. “People’re idiots, how much they post online.”
“Isn’t that the truth.”
“What am I going to want from you that’s worth kidnapping a little girl?”
Another idea occurred. Sometimes they fell like snow. “A document. A secret list. Very valuable. A list that everybody wants — which means Reardon’ll want it too.”
“A MacGuffin,” Joseph said.
“What’s that?” Peter Karpankov asked.
Gabriela said, “Hitchcock.” She was surprised Joseph knew the term. Not because he seemed ignorant — just the opposite — but he was only in his forties and the film director had coined the term more than a half century ago. She explained to Peter Karpankov, “A MacGuffin’s a thing, an object that everybody’s chasing after in a suspense movie. The treasure of Sierra Madre, the lost ark, the NOC list of secret agents. Doesn’t matter that it doesn’t even exist. It’s what drives the story forward. I’ll come up with some bomb plot or something equally ridiculous. Blow up a bank or a stock market. The people on the list will stand to make a fortune from it.”