Then, thanks to the complications that had surrounded the case, the inevitable modifier, commencing with the sixth letter of the alphabet, now preceded the name. Cops. Naturally.
FCP Op...
Kepler continued, “It’s our investigation. We should be all over it like... like...” His voice faded.
“Couldn’t think of a good metaphor?” Surani offered.
Kepler rolled his eyes, grimacing. “They’re sure where Gabriela is?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Don’t worry. They’re tracking her.”
Wait, Kepler thought: Like beetles on shit, like frat boys on kegs, like frat boys on coeds...
But too late.
“Call Surveillance again. Make sure there’s a signal.”
Surani sighed. But he did as requested. Had a brief conversation. He disconnected and turned to Kepler. “Yeah, they have a good signal on her. A humongous signal. A hard-on of a signal. Is it okay if I say that, or do my people not refer to erections?”
Kepler didn’t even bother. “Where exactly? Do they know exactly?”
“Yes, they know ex-act-tily. Which is where, like I said before, ESU is staging. They’re ready to move in for the takedown as soon as we give the word.”
But, of course, it wasn’t we who would give the word; it was he. Captain Barkley.
Kepler grumbled, “I’d like to see pictures. I’d like to be on the ground. They have fucking cameras, ESU does. They should be beaming us pictures.”
“It’s been hard enough to track her—”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“—track her in the first place. You’re not going to get high-def video, for Christ’s sake. Oh, is it okay if someone of my persuasion says—”
“Enough with that.” Kepler noted the grimy windows, the clutter, the bile-green paint, the smelclass="underline" food once more. But, unlike earlier, this time he was anything but hungry.
Surani glanced down and brushed at his brown suit jacket, which, Kepler thought again, clashed badly with the man’s gray complexion. His own skin tone was a hard-earned tan, but his suit, unlike his partner’s, was wrinkled and — he now noticed — bore an embarrassing stain on the sleeve. In the shape of Mickey Mouse ears.
He sat forward in the truly uncomfortable orange fiberglass chair, and thought: So is this how it ends? I’m balls-deep in an operation where people may get dead and no one knows exactly what’s going on. And if it goes south, the brass’ll need a scapegoat. Hello, Detectives Surani and Kepler.
There are of course a thousand different ways an operation can go bad, but in the end you don’t need to worry about a thousand different ways because it only takes one to fuck everything up. And usually it’s the one you never see coming.
The two men didn’t jump to attention when Captain Paul Barkley strode into the room — NYPD detectives didn’t jump at much of anything. But Kepler lifted his feet off a neighboring chair and Surani put down the coffee he was loudly slurping. For detectives with the kinds of lives they had and the cases they ran, this was about all they could muster in terms of respect.
Especially today, in the throes of the FCP Op.
“You have her location?”
Surani said, “Yep. And she has no clue we’re on to her. ESU’s in position. They’re assessing risk exposure.”
The captain uttered a snort. “ ‘Risk exposure’? Forget bad cop movies — that sounds like something a banker’d say. Now, you seen the latest?” Barkley turned to a computer, logging in. “I saw it ten minutes ago. Jesus.”
What was the old man referring to? Kepler had enough miles to show impatience with his boss and he did so now, though silently and in the form of a frown, his tan brow V’ing severely.
Kepler thought an official document or report or surveillance CCTV video was going to appear. But what they were looking at on the screen was the New York Post online edition, updated recently. Kepler sighed as he read the story, a follow-up of an earlier one. The first headline had included the word “injured.” This one featured the verb “died.”
Both articles included this sentence: “Crushed beneath a delivery truck.”
Surani said, “It’s out of hand, I know.”
“And that’s not acceptable. I want to move in. I want perps being processed in Central Booking now. It could turn into a bloodbath if we don’t move fast.”
“It already is a bloodbath,” Surani muttered, looking at the photo of the body.
Gesturing angrily at the computer screen, Barkley muttered, “Look at the press. Fucking mobile phone cameras. That’s the problem nowadays. They’re everywhere. Assholes with a Samsung or iPhone are on the scene faster than first responders. Shit. Crime Scene’s on it?”
“Yeah, but they’re not getting much.”
They all stared at the screen. Blood’s pretty vivid in high definition.
“And Gabriela’s with that guy?”
Surani said, “Yeah.”
“That woman,” the captain intoned, “has a lot to answer for.” The comment, devoid of obscenity, seemed particularly ominous. Barkley debated, or at least he cocked his head as if he was debating, and stared out the window.
Bank, City Hall, pigeon shit.
“Okay, I’m making the call. Send ESU in. Now.”
“That could fuck everything up,” Kepler said. “I think we should wait, find out who the players are, what the risks are. What—”
“Send ESU in now,” Barkley growled, as if he wasn’t used to repeating himself. Which, Kepler knew, he was not. “We’re not waiting any longer. Whatever else she’s done in the last couple of days, if she ends up like”—a nod to the truck crush article—“it’s gonna be bad for a lot of people.”
Meaning him, meaning us, meaning the city.
Especially bad for Gabriela, too, Kepler wanted to say but refrained.
Surani snatched up the phone. He leaned forward, tense, as he said, “It’s Surani. Your teams’re green-lighted. You can—” His gray-brown face froze. “What? What?”
Kepler and Barkley stared at him. Barkley was hard to read, but undoubtedly what he felt was the same dismay Kepler was experiencing.
“What?”
The repetition was infuriating. If he said the word again, Kepler was going to grab him by the collar, take the phone away.
But Surani’s next words were, “Oh, shit.”
Kepler’s eyes went wide and he lifted his palms. Meaning: Tell us something fucking specific.
Surani was now nodding intensely. “Sure, I’ll put him on.”
“What?” Barkley asked, apparently not noticing he was echoing his detective.
Surani said, “The ESU tac op commander has somebody he thinks you should talk to.”
“Who?”
“A Department of Sanitation driver.”
Barkley gave his deepest frown so far today. “What the fuck does a garbageman have to do with the operation?”
“Here.” Surani handed him the phone as if it were a box of unstable ammunition.
The captain snatched the unit from his hand and spoke to the driver. He disconnected and sat back. Finally: “We’ve got a problem.”
Chapter 34
The Judas Pour
4:00 P.M., SUNDAY
1 HOUR, 50 MINUTES EARLIER
In the living room of the apartment Daniel Reardon made introductions. “This is Gabriela McKenzie.”
“Andrew Faraday,” said the older of the two who’d just entered. The other man offered, “Sam Easton.”