Critical (26 page)

Carlo tossed the binoculars into Brennan's lap and put the Denali in gear.

“What are we going to do?” Brennan asked while searching for Franco and the girl. “God, the girl looks like she's twelve. What could Franco and Angelo be after her for?”

“It doesn't make much sense.”

“Uh-oh! The girl's got a cab and is about to leave Franco high and dry. Should we try to follow her or stick with Franco?”

“We'll stick with Franco, you dope.”

Brennan pulled his eyes from the binoculars and cast an angry look at Carlo. He didn't like being called a dope.

“Well, lucky for Franco. He's caught himself a cab as well. Hang on! We're off to the races.”

 

“YOU MUST BE
joking,” the taxi driver said, twisting around to look at Franco sitting in the backseat. “‘Follow that cab!' That's the first time I've actually heard that outside of the movies. Are you for real, man, or is this a joke?”

“It's no joke,” Franco said. “Keep that cab in sight and you got yourself a twenty-dollar tip.”

The driver shrugged and turned back to drive. A twenty-dollar tip was well worth a little extra effort.

Franco bounced around in the backseat and had trouble handling his cell phone. Giving up for the moment, he struggled with the seat belt instead. Once he got that secured, he wasn't being thrown about quite as much, especially since the car had steadied to a degree once it had gotten up to speed. It was still relatively hard to dial the number, because the driver was weaving in and out of the lanes.

“Where are you?” Franco demanded the moment Angelo answered.

“I'm stuck in traffic on Sixth Avenue going north. Where are you?”

“In a cab heading south on Fifth. The bird has flown.”

“Okay. As soon as I can, I'll head south.”

Franco flipped his phone closed. He was irritated at himself for two reasons: He should have had some sort of a plan when the girl or woman, whichever she was, appeared. More important, he should have insisted they take Angelo's humdrum Lincoln Town Car for their evening activities instead of his babied Cadillac. The idea of Angelo wrecking his car or even denting it in New York City's rush-hour traffic made him sick.

“We're coming up on the cab in question,” the driver said proudly. “Want me to pull up alongside?”

“No!” Franco said quickly. “Just stay behind.”

The two taxis made good progress down Fifth Avenue, catching the lights. Franco began to wonder if Paul Yang gave them the wrong information about her living in New Jersey, of if she did, whether she was going out on the town for the evening, which would complicate things.

Franco's fears were dispelled near the New York Public Library, when Amy's taxi suddenly braked and turned right. Franco relaxed a degree, sensing they were headed toward the Port Authority Bus Terminal.

Flipping open his phone, Franco called Angelo. “Where are you?” he demanded, as he'd done previously.

“I'm just turning south on Seventh Avenue,” Angelo said. “Where are you?”

“We're heading west. I'm pretty sure we're going to the bus terminal, but I'll know better once we hit Eighth Avenue.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don't know, especially not knowing if you are going to be in the area. I suppose I have to follow her into the terminal and get on the bus with her.”

“Yeah, well, lucky you.”

“Screw you,” Franco said. He regretted not thinking faster when the cop came up to the car. He should have had Angelo get out instead.

“If I don't hear from you sooner, I'll call you when I'm at the bus station.”

“Okay.”

“I hope this is worth it.”

“It's worth it,” Franco said. “There's millions at stake.”

Franco flipped his phone closed as they came to the traffic light at Eighth Avenue. As he expected, they turned right. A minute or so later, he tossed the fare plus some change and an extra twenty dollars through the opening in the Plexiglas divider and jumped out before the taxi had come to a complete stop. Amy was already entering the terminal.

As usual during rush hour, the terminal was a sea of people. Tailing Amy was easy in one respect and hard in another. The easy part was her strange hair color, which was like a neon light. The hard part was her height. If Franco didn't stay directly on her, she disappeared out of sight within seconds.

Suddenly, a problem reared its ugly head, one that Franco had failed to anticipate. Amy got into a line to purchase a ticket, but Franco had no idea where she was going. As the ticket line quickly moved forward, Franco panicked. He thought about pushing ahead and just standing to the side when she ordered her ticket so he could overhear where she was going. But he dismissed it out of hand. He didn't want to call attention to himself, because he didn't want her to recognize him later. Just another face in the crowd was not a problem, but doing something out of the ordinary right next to her was quite another story.

Franco was the fourth person behind Amy, and when it was her turn at the ticket window, he strained forward in an attempt to hear, but it was futile. As she retreated from the ticket window, she had her ticket in her hand, and she passed within several feet.

That was when Franco realized there was yet another problem. Amy was walking away, and there were three people in front of him. Panicking again, trying to keep Amy in sight, he pushed ahead, saying, “Excuse me, I'm going to miss my bus, do you mind?” Several of the people grudgingly let him pass. The third, however, stood his ground.

“I don't want to miss my bus neither, pal,” the man said. His face was coated in a fine white dust, suggesting he was a plasterer or a painter.

Unaccustomed to being opposed and worried about losing Amy, Franco felt a surge of anger well up inside him. Controlling himself with some difficulty, he said, “I can't miss my bus. My wife's having a baby.”

Without a word and with obvious irritation, the painter reluctantly stepped aside and motioned for Franco to go before him.

“Where you going, Dad?” the agent said, having overheard Franco's statement.

For a second, Franco froze. With everything going on, he hadn't thought about his needing a destination. Frantically, his mind tried to remember some place in New Jersey, any place, and luckily, Hackensack popped into his consciousness. He didn't know why Hackensack but was thankful nonetheless. He told the agent the name of the town, and while getting out a twenty-dollar bill, he glanced back over his shoulder. Amy was a distance away, being engulfed by a crowd at the base of an escalator. She disappeared quickly.

Franco paid, then ran for the escalator. When he got there, he pushed ahead using the same line that had worked so well at the ticket window. Once he got to the top, he frantically searched the area and was immediately relieved to see Amy waiting in line alongside a number 166 bus with her petite face buried in a
New York Daily News.

With a sense of relief on one hand and a new worry on the other, Franco went to the end of the line. The new problem was that his ticket wasn't for the number 166 bus.

Despite being out of breath, Franco called Angelo and found out that Angelo was just outside the bus terminal.

“I'll be on a one sixty-six bus,” Franco said, trying to cover the phone with his hand. “Find out the bus's route once it gets out of the Lincoln Tunnel, because I have no idea. Then drive over to Jersey yourself. I'll keep you posted where Amy and I are, and obviously when we get off. Try to get as close as possible so when we do get off, we can end this circus.”

“I'll give it my best shot. Meanwhile, you got any more pictures of Maria Provolone in this hog of yours to keep me company?”

“Up yours,” Franco said and flipped his phone closed. He didn't like Angelo razzing him about Maria, his one true love, who'd been shot and killed their senior year in high school by a rival gang.

At last, the line began to move. Franco wasn't as concerned about the ticket discrepancy as he'd been about having no ticket at all, and he was proved to be right. The bored driver making his umpteenth run just took the ticket without checking it, as he did with all the passengers. Franco moved down the center aisle. He saw Amy almost immediately. She'd taken a window seat in the middle of the bus and was back into her newspaper. By coincidence, the seat next to her was vacant. For a second, he thought about sitting next to her and engaging her in conversation, but he quickly nixed the idea. On this kind of job, surprise was critical. Instead, he took an aisle seat several rows behind her.

The bus didn't leave for another fifteen minutes, making Franco wish he'd had an opportunity to grab a paper himself. Instead, he had to just sit there. At least he had the opportunity to plan the rest of the evening. It wasn't easy, because what was to happen depended on what Amy Lucas did at the other end of her bus ride. He knew worst case would be if a companion picked her up. Ultimately, that could mean he and Angelo might have to ice two people, which doubled the opportunity for trouble.

When the bus finally closed its door and pulled away from the loading platform, it had to wend its way within the terminal until exiting onto a multistory-high ramp that dove down directly into the Lincoln Tunnel. The good part was that ramp avoided the clogged city streets; the bad part was that he was going to be significantly ahead of Angelo.

Thanks to the gentle rocking, the soothing drone of the engine, and the overheated bus interior, Franco was practically asleep by the time the bus burst forth into the glory of the New Jersey twilight. Rousing himself, he asked his seatmate where the bus went. The man gave Franco a confused questioning glare before asking, “You mean the end of the line?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Franco answered.

“I know it goes to Tenafly because my sister lives there. Ultimately, where it goes from there, I don't know.”

“How long does it take to get to Tenafly?”

“I'd guess a little over an hour.”

Franco thanked the man. He was hoping Amy wasn't going to Tenafly or beyond. The idea of spending that kind of time on the bus with fifty or so apparently depressed people smelling of wet wool was daunting. To keep himself occupied, he went back to musing about what would happen when Amy got off the bus. Somehow, he'd have to approach her and get her involved in a conversation, probably by talking to her about her boss. Since there had been nothing in the newspapers, his disappearance had gone essentially unnoticed and apparently unreported, except, of course, by the fish. Although he didn't have Angelo's police badge, he could pose as an authority, perhaps even someone from the SEC. He didn't know if the SEC had investigators like the police, but he assumed they'd have to. At least it was a plan. Giving credence to such a plan was that he and Angelo were dressed to the nines. Both appreciated elegant clothing almost to a competitive level. Both leaned toward Brioni and were that evening, as usual, decked out in their Brioni splendor. Franco couldn't help but believe that such attention to their appearance gave them an aura of credibility.

Mulling over confronting Amy made him think about calling Angelo, but he decided to wait. He didn't have anything to report, and Angelo was undoubtedly about to get into or was already inside the tunnel.

Going back to Amy again, he thought that the best thing he could do was talk her into entering a public place so they could talk more easily and wait for Angelo, and a bar fitted that description, with the added benefit of them being able to have a drink. Reflexively Franco slipped his hand into his pocket and reassured himself that the date-rape pills were where he put them. The question then arose if he should try to get one in Amy's drink before Angelo got there or after. There was no doubt in his mind that timing was paramount.

Glancing out the window, Franco noticed they had left the main highway leading from the Lincoln Tunnel and were now heading north on city streets. Franco reached for his cell phone.

“Where are you?”

“At the Twenty-one Club, having a nice dinner,” Angelo said sarcastically. “I'm stuck in traffic. I'm not even into the tunnel yet.”

“Good work!” Franco said, with equal sarcasm. “Did you find out where the number one sixty-six bus goes?”

“Not exactly. Someplace in Bergen County. That's up around the George Washington Bridge and beyond.”

“Call me when you are out of the tunnel!”

Franco replaced the phone in his inner jacket pocket and then tried again to settle back. The second he did, the bus made its first stop. Several people got off, but not Amy.

Franco sat up straighter, worried that if he did happen to fall asleep, he might miss Amy getting off, and all their effort would be for naught. If that were to happen, Franco could just hear Vinnie's reaction.

Twenty minutes later, Franco's phone shocked him into full wakefulness since it was on buzz mode and was against his chest in his jacket's inner pocket. It was Angelo, who'd finally made it into the tunnel and out the other side.