Sachs was in a store once again, this time electronics, not buttons. It was located in downtown Manhattan, not far from Wall Street. Under cover of the window merchandise, she was eyeing the two individuals who were walking along the street. The bodyguard was six three or so and of Lyle Spencer’s side-of-beef build. His head was shaved, common among ex-military or ex-police security specialists.
She radioed, “Five Eight Eight Five to ESU Three. What do you see?”
The woman, Laticia Krueger, a sniper, was atop First Federal Bank, a five-story structure whose roof featured both a good view of the street and a perfect nest for a shooter and her spotter.
“Just the two, Detective. Subject and guard.”
“K. ESU, all units. I’m going to make the call.”
In total there were eight Emergency Service officers nearby.
Would they be needed?
Time to see.
She pulled out a mobile and placed a speed-dial call.
As she watched the pair approach, the security guard frowned and fished his own cell from his pocket. He glanced at the number and answered.
Sachs heard “Yo, Barney. We’re on Rector. We’ll be at the car in—”
“This is Detective Amelia Sachs, NYPD. I have Barney’s phone. Your associate’s in custody. Do not give a reaction to this call.”
“What—?”
“I said, no reaction.”
He fell silent.
“There’s a team about to move in and arrest your boss. We know you’re armed. You’re surrounded by a half-dozen tactical officers and a sniper has you in her sights. No, don’t look around. Just keep walking like nothing’s going on. Say, ‘That’s right,’ if you understand.”
“That’s right.”
“Now, you’re going to remove your weapon from the holster, thumb and index only, and drop it behind the standpipe you’re coming up to. Keep walking another twenty feet. Then you’ll stop and lie down face-first on the sidewalk. Do you understand?”
“Look, I—”
“Say, ‘Sure thing’ if you understand.”
A pause. “Sure thing.”
“Is your boss armed? And if you lie, it’ll be obstruction of justice.”
“No.”
“Do you have a second weapon?”
“No.”
“Any other associates in the area?”
“No.”
“You’re doing fine. You’re a great actor. Netflix quality. All right, almost there.”
Sachs stepped away from the window, then pushed outside. “Now,” she said into the phone and disconnected.
The guard tossed the gun exactly as directed and continued along the sidewalk. It appeared that he was counting the steps. When he hit twenty, he went down. Harder than he needed to. He winced.
Into the Motorola, Sachs said, “ESU, move in, move in, move in!”
The guard’s employer noted he’d lagged behind and turned to see him on the ground and stepped forward, alarmed, probably concerned he’d had a heart attack.
But then, with the officers moving in, it was clear what was going on. And concern morphed to disgust.
Sachs was about to call, “Raise your hands!”
But there was no need. Marie Leppert, the former federal prosecutor that she was, did so of her own accord.
77
Normally, a prisoner went to Central Booking.
In this case, however, because Lincoln Rhyme was involved, the prisoner had made a detour.
At the takedown, Sachs had apprised Marie Leppert of her rights and arrested her for homicide, reckless endangerment, terrorism and that wonderful catchall charge “conspiracy,” a spawn of the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations statute. Under RICO — hated by the mob and white-collar wrongdoers alike — Leppert and Charles Vespasian Hale actually counted as an organization.
Go figure...
Now, fully enwrapped in Fourth and Fifth Amendment protective armor, Leppert sat across from Lincoln Rhyme in the same chair that Hale had perched in not long before.
Sachs and Lon Sellitto were present too.
In a whiny voice like that of an accused child, Leppert said, “It’s not my fault.”
Rhyme cocked his head. “No?”
“I swear... Everything that happened, all the bad things. That was Hale. Not me.”
Sachs asked, “Where did you meet him? It was Texas, right?” She had largely recovered from the acid fumes, though her voice was still low and formidable.
Rhyme asked, “His Mexican projects?” Hale had business dealings down there years ago, perhaps thinking it would be a place to retire.
The candidate said, “That’s right. I did research into the cartels and local politicians in the north, Chihuahua mostly. Some people I talked to told me — almost reverently — about this American. He was like a consultant. He helped politicians get elected.”
Credible so far. Hale was more than a killer. Rhyme could see him doing oppo political work — though his schemes would probably involve far more than negative advertising and PR campaigns.
But was she feigning ignorance of this side of his “consultancy”?
Rhyme didn’t know. And his human polygraph, Lyle Spencer, wasn’t present.
She continued, “Who was he? I remember wondering.” Now her face grew earnest. “I saw prosecuting only as a stepping stone. I wanted to be in office. I left Justice and tried running for a seat in Houston. That didn’t work, not in a good old boy network like that. A New England girl didn’t stand a chance.” She offered a knowing glance to Sachs.
No sympathy was returned. His wife was not a woman to let any network of good — or bad — old boys divert her from whatever she set her sights on. Nor play any games to get there.
“I came back home here, worked on Wall Street for a few years and got donors for a PAC. I decided I wanted Cody’s seat. But as soon as I jumped into the campaign, I could see it wasn’t going to work out.”
Her thin lips grew thinner.
Rhyme finished, “So you pulled in favors in Texas and got a message to this... consultant. Hale.”
“I didn’t think I’d ever hear from him, but he contacted me right away.”
The woman leaned forward and Rhyme detected floral perfume or shampoo. The species of vegetation eluded him. “All I did was ask him to move the electoral needle in my favor. Oppo tactics, or whatever. Like candidates do all the time. He agreed and he got to work. He wanted to know about Cody’s background. When he learned he’d been a radical activist, and had actually done time in prison, he said he’d use that. And he went off on his own. Sabotaging cranes, the assassination plot? He never told me any of that. I swear to God.”
“You didn’t think it was a little suspicious that he wanted payment in untraceable diamonds?”
In Hale’s backpack was an envelope containing what was probably a half-million dollars’ worth of gems — this would be the purpose for the meeting in the garage just before Hale embarked on his birdwatching visit to Central Park to kill Rhyme.
“Well...” She was thinking quickly. “I thought it was a tax thing. But that was his business.”
Sellitto asked, “Were you going to deduct it as a business expense?”
“Uhm. Yes. Of course I was.”
Rhyme had learned over the years that some suspects — often former law enforcers and attorneys — invariably think they can talk their way out of trouble. Had he been her lawyer, he would have said: Shut up. Now.
He asked, “So you knew nothing about the illegal sides of his plan?”
“No!”
Sachs added, “None of them?”
“No, no, no! The cranes, the assassination thing? Hacking into the security company and uploading the forged emails? That was all his idea!”