And after Joseph shot Reardon dead, she’d go through a period of mourning.
Gabriela was good at what she did precisely because she tricked herself as smoothly as she did her victims.
She looked levelly at Joseph. “You understand?”
“Yes.”
“I need you to do the same thing.”
“I get it.” Joseph looked off for a moment. “You know, talking about acting. What do you think about this? I could be like that actor who died, the one in that Batman movie a few years ago. Heath Ledger, the Joker. Taunting, unpredictable, eerie.”
“I like that. And what was his philosophy?” she reflected, thinking back to the film. “The only good is what furthers his interest. That’ll be your driving force.”
Joseph cocked his head. “The only good is what furthers my interest. I’ll remember that. I like it.” Then he asked, “One question, at the kill zone? You’ll be there too?”
She considered this. “No, they won’t want me there. Reardon and one of the others will want to meet with you alone. They’ll leave me with a babysitter, probably Sam — a safe house somewhere.” A look at Karpankov. “Most likely the same place they took Carole, that apartment in Midtown, the one his company keeps.” Then she said to Joseph, “I’ll text you the exact location when I know.”
“You’ll have a weapon with you?” Joseph asked.
“No. I can’t. But I’m sure Sam will.” She thought back to Reardon’s pattern. “Reardon will probably be planning on coming back to the safe house after he cuts a deal with you — probably to finish me off himself. And, considering what he did to Carole, I imagine he and Sam may have other plans for me first. More rope and knots.
“So after you kill Reardon and Andrew, get the key to the safe house and come over there. If there’s a chain or security bar on the door, I’ll take it off. You text me when you’re close and I’ll distract Sam or Andrew or whoever my babysitter is. I’ll tell him I’ve figured out the mystery of the October List, or something like that. You let yourself in. Whoever’s there probably will think it’s the other two returning and not be too suspicious.
“But we should be careful. When I hear the door open I’ll say one of two things. If I say ‘Is my daughter all right?’ that’ll mean Sam doesn’t have a weapon out. He doesn’t suspect anything. It’s safe to just walk in and shoot him. But if I say, ‘Daniel, what happened?’ then that means he is suspicious and has his weapon. Get back into the hall. It’ll be a firefight. I’ll take cover and do what I can from inside.”
Joseph nodded. “ ‘Is my daughter all right’ means I’m green-lighted to shoot. ‘Daniel, what happened?’ means take cover.”
“That’s right.”
“Got it.”
“Good.” Gabriela slipped the yarn and the half-finished shawl back into her bag. She glanced affectionately at Gunther, who wagged his tail once more. She rose, shook Karpankov’s hand then Joseph’s. “So. Let’s get to work.”
Chapter 2
Gabriela
11:00 A.M., FRIDAY
1 HOUR, 20 MINUTES EARLIER
Brad Kepler and Naresh Surani waited in an NYPD conference room that featured a single speckled window, which overlooked a building that, Kepler believed, overlooked New York Harbor. This was as good as most views got — at least for detectives third — in One Police Plaza. At least when they were involved in an operation that had no name, that nobody knew about, and that therefore could presumably fuck a career as much as make one.
Kepler admired his arm, less muscular than when he’d joined the force but more robustly tanned. He then regarded Surani, who had a nearly gray complexion, which stayed gray no matter how much sun he got. Both men were more or less mid-thirties and more or less fit, though Kepler’s physique reflected the reality of life as a detective: sedentary, with walking the most strenuous exercise on the job. He’d chased somebody a month ago, and caught him, but his hip still hurt.
Fucker.
“This guy the shit he seems to be?” He tapped a file on the table in front of him.
“Dunno,” Surani answered his partner. “Never heard of him. What’s this room for? I didn’t know it was even here.”
The office, near their division, Major Cases, was scuffed and dim and populated with a lopsided table, six chairs, three of them unmatched, a filing cabinet and dozens of boxes labeled Discard.
And the fucking useless view. But at least it was a view, unlike his cubicle, five or six or a thousand floors away, where the only thing he could feast his eyes on was the ass of Detective Laikisha Towne. Which was a lot to see. And that image appealed not in the least.
Kepler now regarded the boxes and decided it was amusing, the labels. The boxes looked like they’d been here for months. So why hadn’t somebody just discarded them, per instructions?
Welcome to the NYPD.
The time was just after 11:00 a.m. You could smell old oil, garlic, fish — like you could in much of the building from time to time, depending on prevailing winds and humidity, given the proximity, and the relentless encroachment, of Chinatown. As for Little Italy: Arrivederci!
“I’m hungry,” Kepler said.
“I am too. But.”
“Where is everybody?”
Surani didn’t know. So they took phone calls, they made phone calls.
“Because,” said Kepler, on his Galaxy, explaining to a perp he’d busted, now out on bond, “they wouldn’t knock it down any farther. It’s the best they’ll do, which means it’s the best you can do. Eighteen months. You can serve that standing on your head.”
“Shit, man,” came Devon’s voice from the other end of the line.
“Okay. Gotta go.” Kepler disconnected, snuck a look at his warm brown arm once more. He didn’t tell anybody its source was the lamps of the Larchmont tanning salon, fifteen miles from home. He told people he jogged every day, he played golf, he swam.
“That was Devon?” Surani asked.
“Yeah.”
“Eighteen months? Standing on his head? No way. He’s fucked.”
“I know that. You know that. Devon will know it. Too bad but he shouldn’ta drove the getaway car.”
“Which it wasn’t,” Surani said.
“What?”
“The car. Nobody got away.”
Kepler gave a laugh. “Captain’s late. They’re both late. And I’m hungry. You fucking ruled at trial yesterday.”
Surani said with some modesty, “Yeah, that went good. I was happy. Good jury. I like good juries.”
The two detectives bickered more than they complimented each other, and were sometimes downright insulting — but all forms of repartee were based on a similar affection. “Infuriating” was a word that often arose.
He and Surani had been lovers for the past seven years, and partners — in the professional sense — for four. Someday soon, one or the other would propose marriage. Kepler was pretty close to popping the question.