“BIC is based in New York, but it has facilities in the D.C. area because it’s a government contractor. Sells intelligence services. Talked to some of my buddies on the inside. They say the BIC government contract is worth a gazillion dollars but they don’t know exactly what the company does for it. Apparently no one who will talk to me does. Highly classified.”
“Some do know what he does. Otherwise Uncle Sam wouldn’t cut that check.”
“So you do know about him?”
“I’d say it’s time we met.”
“Where?”
“I’m in New York.”
“I can come up there.”
Paul said, “Up? So you’re in D.C.?”
“When?”
“As soon as possible.”
“Do you have anything to tell me?” Sean asked.
“I wouldn’t waste your time otherwise. How did you get onto BIC?”
He said, “Just good old-fashioned detective work.”
“I think you rolled Dukes, somehow she got scared, and she led you to them. And the price she paid for being weak and stupid was her life.”
“Do you really think that’s why she was killed?” he asked.
“Not really, no. But I don’t want to speculate right now. Can you be in New York by this evening?”
“I can catch the next Acela. Be there by six.”
“There’s a little French restaurant on Eighty-Fifth.” She gave him the address. “Say seven o’clock?”
“See you then.”
She clicked off and set the phone back down on the desk. She rose and went to the window, pulled back the heavy drapes, and eyed Central Park across the street. The leaves were turning, the crowds were thinning, and the overcoats were getting heavier. The rain had started, just a drizzle, but the darkening skies promised more foul weather later. It was in this sort of weather that the city was at its most grimy. The black and dirt and filth were revealed in all their abundance.
But that’s my world too. Black, grimy, and full of filth.
Paul slipped on her raincoat, put up her hood, and set out on a stroll. She crossed Fifty-Ninth Street and passed down the line of horse-drawn carriages. She patted one horse on the snout and eyed the driver. They were all Irishmen. It was an old law, or an older tradition, Paul couldn’t exactly remember which.
“Hello, Shaunnie.” The man’s full name was Tom O’Shaunnessy, but she had always called him Shaunnie.
He continued to clean out some trash from his carriage and didn’t look at her. “Haven’t seen you for a while.”
“Haven’t been around for a while.”
“Heard you retired.”
“I unretired.”
He glanced at her with interest. “You can do that?”
“Is Kenny in the same spot?”
Shaunnie refilled the bucket of oats. “Where else would Kenny be?”
“All I needed to know.”
“So you’re back working?” he asked.
“For now.”
“You should have stayed retired, Kelly.”
“Why?”
“Live longer.”
“We all have to die sometime, Shaunnie. The lucky ones get to pick the time.”
“I don’t think I’m in that group.”
“You’re Irish, you have to be.”
“What about you?”
“I’m not that Irish,” said Paul.
The rain picked up as she eased her way through the park. She kept to the walking paths until she drew near to her destination. She had on waterproof boots that raised her considerable height another two inches. The old man was hunkered down on a bench behind a large rock outcrop. On sunny days people would drape over the stone, improving their tans. On this rain-drenched day, it was deserted.
Kenny sat with his back to her. At the sound of her approach, he turned. He was dressed only a notch above a street person. This was by design – less attention that way. His face and hands were clean, however, and his eyes were clear. He pulled his crumpled hat down farther on his head and studied her.
“Heard you were in town.”
She sat down next to him. He was small and seemed smaller still with her tall frame beside him.
“News travels uncomfortably fast these days.”
“Not that fast. Shaunnie called me on the cell just now. What do you need?”
“Two.”
“The usual?”
“Always worked for me.”
“How’s your trigger finger?”
“A bit stiff, actually. Maybe early arthritis.”
“I’ll factor that in. When?”
“Two hours. Here.”
He rose. “See you in two hours.”
She offered him cash.
“Later,” he said. “I trust you.”
“Don’t trust anybody, Kenny. Not in this business.”
She slowly made her way back to her hotel. The rain was coming down harder, but Paul was lost in thought and didn’t seem to notice. She had walked through many such rains in many different parts of the world. It seemed to help her think, her mind clearing even as the clouds above thickened. Light from darkness. Somehow.
Bunting. King. Her brother. The next move. It was all building. And when the pressure spiked it would burst out like a freed rocket. And that precise moment would decide the winners and the losers. It always did.
She hoped she was up to it, one more time.
CHAPTER 43
THE TRAIN PULLED OUT of Union Station in D.C. and accelerated on its way to New York. Sean sat back in his comfortable business class seat. At the rate they were racking up travel costs on this case, he might have to declare personal bankruptcy at the end of the month when his credit card bill came due.
A hundred and sixty minutes later the train pulled into New York’s Penn Station. Before leaving Virginia, Sean had gone to his apartment and packed a bag to bring back with him. He rolled it out of the station, grabbed a cab, and drove off. The weather was wet and chilly, and he was glad of his long trench coat and umbrella. With evening traffic the cab pulled to the curb on Eighty-Fifth Street at one minute past seven. He paid the cabbie and rolled his bag into the restaurant, which turned out to be small, quaint, and full of French-speaking waitresses and patrons.
In the back corner, behind a load-bearing wall that jutted out into the seating space like a wedge, he found Kelly Paul, her back to the mirrored wall. He took off his coat, rolled his bag into a sliver of corner next to the table, and sat down. Neither said anything for a few seconds. Finally, Paul spoke.
“Bad weather.”
“That time of year.”
“I wasn’t speaking of the rain.”
He settled back in his chair, stretched his long legs a bit. There wasn’t much room under the table for two tall people.
“Okay. Yeah, the weather sucks too.”
“How is Michelle?”
“Hanging tough, like always.”
“And Megan?”
“Frustrated. Can’t say I blame her.”
Paul glanced at her menu and said, “The scallops are very nice.”
Sean put down his menu. “Works for me.”
“Do you have a gun?”
He expressed surprise at the question. “No. I flew back into D.C. Didn’t want any problems at the airport.”
“You’ll have far worse problems if you need a weapon and don’t have one.” She patted her bag. “I have one here for you. Glock. I prefer the Twenty-One model.”
“The big bore .45? As American as apple pie or as close as an Austrian gun manufacturer can come to it.”
“I’ve always liked the thirteen-round mag. For me thirteen is a lucky number.”
“You needed thirteen shots?”
“Only if the other side had twelve. Do you want it?”
They exchanged a long stare.
“Yes.”
“After dinner, then.”
“BIC?”
She put down her menu. “Peter Bunting is an extremely well-respected player in the intelligence field. He started his own company at age twenty-six. He’s now forty-seven and has made a fortune selling to Uncle Sam. He owns homes here in New York and also in New Jersey. He’s married and has three children; the oldest is sixteen. His wife plays the social circuit well, has substantial charity involvement and part ownership in a trendy restaurant. The kids are by all accounts no more pampered and privileged than others of their ilk. From what I’ve heard they’re actually quite a nice family.”