JM01 - Black Maps (36 page)

“I’ll talk to my management tonight. If they have no issues, I’ll arrange what we need tomorrow morning. Assuming these four guys are in the office, we can do it tomorrow afternoon,” Neary said.

I nodded. “The sooner the better.”

It had stopped raining by the time we stepped outside, but the air had turned colder and the wind had stiffened. The streets were empty. It took a while for Neary to find a cab, and I waited with him in silence. When one finally came, he gave me a small nod, got in, and rode away. I looked at my watch. Five minutes till Tuesday.

I was at once exhausted and wired, drained by a day that seemed five days long, excited and anxious about tomorrow, and jumpy from too much coffee. I walked home, through the wet, quiet streets. Overhead, the thick mantle of cloud that had covered the city all day had been shattered by the wind. Now the pieces slid rapidly across the sky, and high above them I saw a pale moon floating, amid paler stars.

Chapter Twenty-three

I got little sleep that night, and none of it was good. Despite the late hour, I’d called Mike Metz when I got home. I’d told him about the list of names Neary and I had come up with, and about our plan. He’d told me about Pierro.

“He’s on the ragged edge, John. If this doesn’t end soon, he’s going to come apart,” Mike said.

“Things broke our way with DiPaolo. That was a piece of good news,” I said.

“It helped. But he’s desperate to get this behind him. He’s got the money together already.”

“And if this payment isn’t the end of it—if it’s just the beginning? He’s flipping out after a few weeks. What’s going to happen six months from now, or a year? It’s not too late for him to go to the cops, or make a preemptive move with his management at French,” I said.

“I pointed all that out to him, as I have a dozen times before. He doesn’t want to hear it.”

“You tell him about Nassouli?” I asked.

“Only some of it. I don’t want to do anything to queer our deal with Shelly. But I told him that the feds had convinced us that Nassouli was not involved.”

“How did he take it?”

“It didn’t seem to register. He didn’t ask any questions, didn’t want to talk about it at all.” I’d thought about that for a while. Mike’s loud yawn had brought me back. “Call me when you confirm things with Neary,” he’d said, and hung up.

It’d been one-thirty when I eased myself into bed. I’d spent the next four and a half hours trying in vain to find a comfortable position, while jumbled fragments of the day’s events replayed themselves in my head. I awoke gritty-eyed and sore.

I took a long shower and shaved slowly. Then I wrapped up my ribs, and dressed in jeans and a black turtleneck. I went to the fridge and drank a quart of orange juice from the carton. I felt okay—clean, clear-headed, fit. But I was restless and impatient, anxious to hear from Neary, eager to get started. Tension hummed in the pit of my stomach. I kept moving back and forth in front of my windows.

The feeling of fitness, I knew, was illusory. I’d stiffen up again in an hour or so, and if I didn’t get some sleep, I’d be stupid and shaky by noon. The impatience was dangerous, and I needed to tamp it down. Today, if we were good and we got lucky, we’d grab hold of something more than smoke and shadow. It was not a day to get edgy or overeager. It was a day to keep my head in the game. What I needed was a long run, but breakfast and a walk would have to suffice. After that, maybe, I could catch some decent sleep.

I forwarded my calls to my cell phone. I was putting on my jacket when I heard a familiar noise from upstairs.
Thump, thump—whump.
I hunted around my kitchen counter for the business card I knew was there. Her home number was on the back.

“Let me buy you breakfast,” I said, when Jane Lu picked up, a little out of breath. There was a long moment of silence before she answered.

“I’ll meet you downstairs in twenty minutes,” she said.

Exactly twenty minutes later, Jane strode off the elevator. Her cropped black hair was still damp. She was wearing a silky purple turtleneck, well-cut black trousers, and black wing tip shoes. She had a long black coat on her arm and a black leather knapsack slung on her shoulder.

We walked around the corner to Rose Darling, a cozy, chintz-heavy place that stirs a mean bowl of oatmeal. We sat at a table near the front, in a large rectangle of sunlight. I ordered the oatmeal and a coffee. Jane ordered a muffin and tea. The waitress left, and we looked at each other for a while.

“No new injuries?” Jane asked.

I shook my head. “Same old ones, but they’re more colorful now.” She smiled a little, and asked how my case was going. I told her about it, omitting all the revealing specifics. She listened intently.

“With some luck, today could be the day,” I said.

“With some luck, you won’t collect any more bruises.” The waitress brought our drinks, and we sipped at them.

“Except for my sister reading me your résumé, I don’t know much about you,” I said.

The little smile again, then she nodded. “Let’s see. . . . My parents came over from the mainland in the sixties. They were out west for a while, then they moved to Boston. My dad’s a computer scientist, my mom’s an M.D. I’ve got a sister, Barbara, and a brother, Joe—both older. She’s in the math department at MIT, he does software. We were all born and raised in Cambridge. Just your typical overachieving Chinese family.”

“Lauren tells me you’re some kind of genius. I think that was the word she used.”

She made a small, dismissive gesture with her hand. “That’s a pretty strong word. But I am good at what I do.”

“How’d you end up in the CEO-for-hire business?”

She chuckled. “It was one of those right-place-at-the-right-time things. I was a management consultant, working on a job for a company that makes lasers. They were foundering and wanted someone to tell them what to do. It was obvious to me what their problems were, and what they had to do to fix them. But the partner I was working for didn’t see things the same way—and not for the first time. In fact, about the only thing we ever agreed on was that we couldn’t stand the sight of one another. So when he ordered me not to discuss my assessment with the client, I quit. Then I went to the company’s chairman and gave him my findings and my recommendations. And then I went home and started looking into Ph.D. programs. Two days later the chairman called me and made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. The rest is history.”

“Why do you like it?”

“I was in consulting, and before that in banking, and in both those fields I found that, despite the happy talk about diversity and meritocracy, it pays to be a white guy—especially if you’ve got your eye on the executive suite. This work is different. The companies I deal with are going under for the third time—usually bleeding cash, customers, and employees. By then, their boards don’t give a damn about your pedigree, or whether or not you pee standing up or if you have two heads. They’re not looking for love; they’re looking for results. I like that kind of challenge. And I like being in charge.” She drank some tea and grinned. “Of course, the money doesn’t suck.”

Our food came. I added sugar and milk to my oatmeal. Jane broke her muffin into large pieces. We ate.

“What else can I tell you?” she asked. I was quiet for a moment.

“That phone call you got, on Thanksgiving, as we were getting out of the cab—what was that about?” Jane’s cheeks reddened, and she made a face somewhere between a smile and a wince.

“Would you believe that was my father? It must’ve been the tenth time he’d called, that week alone, to ask why I wasn’t joining the family for Thanksgiving. What’s worse is that he was still calling me about it on Sunday.”

“Why such a big deal?” I asked. Jane toyed absently with the two studs in her right ear.

“It’s a Chinese thing,” she said. “My parents are very . . . traditional in certain ways. It doesn’t matter to them that I’m thirty-one years old, or that I’m running my fourth company—it wouldn’t matter if I were president of the United States. What they know is that I’m their youngest, a daughter, and unmarried—and by all rights I should still be living under their watchful eyes.” She laughed a little, mostly to herself.

“The last company I ran was a little biotech up in Cambridge, and I bet I was the only CEO in town who was living in the same room she had in high school.” Jane read the surprise in my face. “Like I said, it’s a Chinese thing.”

“All that . . . intrusion—it doesn’t drive you crazy?” She shrugged.

“Less than it used to, but—sure—it makes me nuts sometimes. It’s a lot of overhead. But it’s what they need to do, and it’s never kept me from doing what I’ve had to—so what the hell?” She smiled slyly. “Besides, I’ve been operating on a need-to-know basis since I was sixteen.” She drank more of her tea. “More questions?” she asked.

“You haven’t said anything about significant others.”

“Nothing much to say.”

“Nothing now, or nothing ever?”

“Nothing now.”

“And before?”

She chuckled. “I guess history has proven them to be not so significant.” Then her smile faded. For the first time since I’d known her, I saw a tentative look on her face. “And you? Anyone significant since . . . ?” I shook my head. She looked at me for a while, expressionless.

“Lauren says you spend a lot of time alone,” she said.

“Lauren says quite a lot, apparently. Don’t you ever need her to shut up and do some work?” Jane smiled a little, waiting for more of an answer. “It’s something I know how to do,” I said. “It works for me.” Jane was silent, but she did small things with the curve of her mouth and the arch of her brow that managed to convey both deep skepticism and a little sadness. Her huge, black eyes held mine for what seemed a long time. Then her phone rang. Jane flipped it open and listened.

“Shit,” she said after a while. “The meeting’s not till tomorrow— what the hell is he doing here now?” She listened again. “I don’t care what he’s asking for—give him some coffee, put him in the conference room, tell him I’ll be there in twenty minutes, and shut the door.” She closed her phone. “Shit,” she said softly.

“Not your father this time?” I asked. Her smile was tight and not happy. She shook her head.

“One of my board members, and biggest investors—but not my biggest fan. The board is meeting tomorrow, but he seems to want to get a head start on something.” Her smile softened. “I’ve got to go,” she said. She stood. “I’m sorry to run off. I liked this. Call me when you get your case wrapped up; I’ll buy you dinner.” She put on her coat and fiddled with the buttons and paused. Then she put her small, warm hand gently against the side of my face. And then she kissed me. “I hope you have some luck today,” she said softly, and then she was gone.

I sat there, motionless, the blood rushing in my ears, the heat slowly fading on my lips. When my pulse was under 120 again, and I felt like I’d regained some control over my limbs, I gestured to the waitress for the check.

I was walking home when Neary called. We were on.

Chapter Twenty-four

My alarm went off at twelve-thirty. I had slept deeply and without dreaming for four hours. I splashed water on my face and ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and drank coffee while I watched the Weather Channel. The forecast called for temperatures to drop into the twenties that evening, and for snow to fall by dark. I didn’t doubt it, judging from the heavy, pewter clouds that had moved in while I’d slept. I dug out a pair of flannel-lined jeans and some wool socks. I put on one of my miracle-fiber running shirts and pulled a black turtleneck over it. I checked my cell phone battery—fully charged. I checked the Glock— cleaned and loaded. I pulled on my black leather jacket and stuffed a pair of gloves into the pocket, and I was good to go.

I waited for Neary on the corner of Seventh Avenue and Sixteenth Street. At precisely two o’clock he rolled up, sitting in the passenger seat of a gray van. He looked tired, and so did his ride. It had dented fenders, a bad case of body rust, and some scarred black lettering on the driver’s door that read “L&H Painting 1227–29 Myrtle Ave.” The long side windows were thick with dirt, and the ones in the rear were even worse. But they were made of one-way glass. A rear door popped open, and I climbed inside. We pulled away, headed downtown.

There were two guys in the van with Neary. The driver was wiry, with unruly salt-and-pepper hair and a day’s growth on his narrow face. His eyes were deep-set and pale blue. He wore a gray down jacket, and his hands were strong looking, with prominent veins. He had a small gold hoop in his right ear. He might have been thirty or fifty or anything in between.

“Eddie Sikes,” he said in a scratchy whisper, as he eyed me in the rearview mirror. I nodded.

The guy in back with me was black, around my age and height, but bulkier. He had very short hair and an open, amiable face, with high cheekbones, a square chin, and a wide mouth that seemed on the verge of laughing. He wore horn-rimmed glasses and was dressed out of the Paul Stuart window: a brown checked blazer, brown woolen trousers, a blue button-down shirt, and a paisley tie. A brown topcoat was across his lap. He looked like a successful advertising executive, until you noticed the thin scar that ran from his left temple all the way down the side of his neck, and his enlarged, calloused knuckles, and his eyes—as warm and friendly as a pair of bullets. Of course, the matte black grip of a big automatic, visible on his hip where his jacket fell away, was also a good clue.