The foursome in the room glanced at one another. She said, “We have it. Somewhere safe.”
“Do you now? I hope so. Because, let me say this, I’m a very bad person to cheat. If you try to trick me, in any way, or you hold out on me, there’ll be consequences. I’m not going to threaten to kill your daughter because that wouldn’t be helpful for anybody. But fuck with me and I will make sure she disappears into the underground adoption circuit, and you’ll never see her again.”
“No!” she cried.
He continued, “And that’s not all, Ms. Gabriela. I have to say I find you quite attractive — sorry, J. P. Morgan. Don’t be jealous. She’s a good-looking woman, right? I know you agree.”
Daniel’s jaw clenched.
Joseph laughed, that giggling again. “If things don’t go just the way I want, I’ll find you and I’ll make sure we spend some quality time together. I have a house outside of the city. Very, very deserted. So, Gabriela, you understand what’s at stake here?”
She nodded desperately, then realized Joseph couldn’t hear her response. “Nobody’s going to cheat you! We’ll do just what you want, I promise!”
“All right, J. P. Morgan, there’s a place in SoHo... Elizabeth Street, two buildings north of Prince. On the east side of the street. A warehouse.” Joseph gave the address.
“I’ll be there at six. With an associate.”
“Who?”
“My insurance man.”
“Ah, that makes sense. But any heroics and you heard the consequences. Sarah ends up in a trailer in West Virginia with a born-again mommy and daddy, and Gabriela and I commence dating.”
Daniel seemed to be using all his willpower to control his voice. “Understood.”
The click of his disconnecting seemed like a gunshot.
Gabriela sank back on the couch. She looked too drained even to cry.
Andrew rose. “All right. Let’s get the money, Daniel. We don’t have much time. Sam, you stay with Gabriela.”
Sam Easton nodded. “Sure.”
Daniel turned to her and pulled her close. He whispered, “We’ll make it work, Mac. I promise.”
Then the two men were gone, the door closing with its distinctive two-note tone.
Chapter 35
Daniel’s Mausoleum
5:50 P.M., SUNDAY
40 MINUTES EARLIER
The warehouse was just as he’d left it on Friday, when he’d been here making preparations.
Damp, brick walls covered with scabby light green paint, redolent of cleanser fumes and oil and pesticide and rust, lit by unkind fluorescents. One began flickering and Joseph rose from the table where he’d been sitting, took a mop from the corner, the strands molded into a mass, sideways, like windswept hair, and with the tip of the handle shattered the offending tubular bulb. There was nothing sturdy enough to stand on to remove it. Shards fell, dust too. The crackle was satisfying.
This building was similar to the one where he’d done his little surgery last night, the warehouse west of Times Square. Here, in SoHo, there was a demand for industrial spaces to turn into private residences — at astronomical sums, of course. This particular building would probably never be converted. There were no windows. Bad for resale to chic-minded lawyers and brokers. Good for Joseph’s purposes, though. In fact, he could just make out a faint spatter of dark brown dots on the floor. Several months ago those discolorations had been bright red. The man had finally told Joseph what he wanted to know.
Solid brick walls. They absorbed the screams well.
Before returning to the chair, he walked to the heater panel, turned the unit up. Mold-scented air slipped out of the vents. Warmish. Still, he kept on his gloves — thin, flesh-colored cloth. Not for the comfort, though. Force of professional habit. Joseph recalled many times in the heat of summer when he’d worn gloves like these.
He sat once more, in the chair on whose back his leather jacket was draped. Pulling off his baseball cap and rubbing his thick golden ringlets, Joseph reached into the bag he’d brought with him and extracted the distinctive green box of Dom Pérignon champagne. He then removed from his pocket two mobile phones — his own iPhone, and the one lifted from the same apartment where he’d taken the boxed wine. His phone he set on the table. The other he scrolled through — clumsily because of the gloves — and noted the phone numbers and texts.
He set the Samsung down then stretched out his legs, checking the time. He wouldn’t have long to wait. That was good. He was tense. You always were on edge at times like this. You had to be. He’d known plenty of men who’d relaxed when they shouldn’t have. They were dead or changed for the worse, much worse.
But adrenaline got you only so far.
He glanced toward a door at the back of the warehouse, secured with a thick dead bolt. It led to a small storeroom. From beneath the door warm yellow light flowed. You could hear the Dora the Explorer DVD.
“Hey, Boots! Let’s go over there!”
Joseph looked once more at the box containing the champagne. It was marred with a bloodstain on the side. Six dots in a row, like part of the Morse code for S-O-S. He knew the prestige of Dom Pérignon, though he’d never had any. This reminded him that he had a thirst. He rose and, walking stiffly from the chill, went to a cupboard in the corner of the warehouse, where he’d stashed a bottle of his Special Brew. He twisted off the cap and thirstily drank down nearly half of the contents. Felt the rush, felt the comfort.
Slow down, he told himself.
But then slugged the rest.
He wiped his lips on his sleeve. He set the bottle on the table. He’d take it with him when he left, of course, after slicking the glass with his telltale DNA.
Settling his heavy form back in the chair, Joseph winced at a sharp pain in his hip. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and removed the Glock 9mm pistol, dropped the mag and reloaded, replacing the two bullets he’d fired not long ago. He recalled the eyes of the victim staring at him in shock — too numb even to be afraid. Always curious, those moments just before the gun fired. People behaved in all sorts of mad ways. Heroic, pathetic, even blasé. He could write a book.
Joseph set the gun on the table and fished out the Gemtech silencer, checked to see that it was clear and then screwed it into the muzzle. Slipped the weapon into his waistband.
He glanced at his watch. The deadline was two minutes away. He wondered if—
A firm knocking resonated from the medieval door.
A glance through the peephole he’d installed yesterday. Daniel Reardon and a distinguished-looking businessman. Joseph tapped the grip of the pistol, to remind himself exactly where it hugged his body. Then undid the latch.
Chapter 36
Sam’s Last Drink
6:30 P.M., SUNDAY
She stood at the window of the Manhattan apartment, peering through a slit in the drapes. Her hands trembled.
“Do you see anyone?” the man across the room asked, voice edgy.
“I’m not sure. Maybe.” Her body pitched forward, tense, Gabriela tugged the thick sheets of cloth closer together, as if someone was scanning the windows with binoculars. Or a sniper rifle. “Of course, I didn’t see anybody earlier today, either. Until it was too late.” She muttered fiercely, “I wish I had a gun now. I’d use it. If anybody’s there, I swear to God I’d use it.”
Sam Easton asked, “But who would it be?”
She turned to him, stepping away from the window fast. “Who? It could be anyone. Everybody in the world, it seems, wants the goddamn October List!”