Mortal Bonds (26 page)

L
awyers are like parachutes—when you’re shopping for one, price should not be your main concern. I had a very good criminal attorney—he had negotiated two years of jail time for me when I should have served a full nickel. Still, it took him three hours to extricate me from the clutches of the NYPD.

The cops took me to the 24th Precinct on 100th Street, and almost immediately two detectives turned me around and gave me the ride of my life downtown to police headquarters, squad cars ahead and behind, lights flashing, sirens screaming.

Homicide and Major Crimes haggled over me. Major Crimes won the coin toss. The lawyer told me later that Anti-Terrorism and Organized Crime had put in bids, but had to settle for “advisory” status. It wasn’t every day that five people were shot on Manhattan’s “Yuppie” West Side with one wounded, four dead, one a minor celebrity, another a known Albanian gunman from Pelham Gardens, and the other three all familiar to the Narcotics Division. It was a career-making three-ring circus.

The lawyer let me tell my story twice and then insisted we were done. There were some holes in the story, I had to admit—I kept Vinny’s assistance to myself—but I gave up Castillo’s name in the first thirty seconds. Gladly.

The cops wanted a paraffin test. Had I fired a gun? Had I hired these mercenaries to kill my ex-wife? I had just returned from Europe—had I transported any controlled substances?

We agreed to the paraffin test—no gunpowder residue was found on my hands—and then the lawyer drew the line. Five minutes later, we shook hands on the street and I jumped into a cab back uptown.

Immediately the flat-screen television came alive. I leaned forward to hit the off button but held up when I saw the breaking news. Angie’s face—a much younger Angie—filled the screen, and a series of talking heads opined on her connection to European and Central American drug cartels. A paucity of facts shouldn’t hold up a good news story.

I dug out my cell phone and turned it back on. There were people who would need to hear my voice—to know that I was okay, the Kid safe. And I needed to call Angie’s mother.

The phone came alive in my hand and immediately informed me that I had twenty-three messages. I deleted all the ones that looked like they came from the media and started dialing.

Skeli answered on the first ring. “Oh my god. Jason, are you all right? It’s all over the news here. How’s the Kid?”

“Hey,” I said. Call-waiting started beeping. I tried to ignore it. “I’m okay. Christ, Angie and I fought every time we were in the same space for more than three minutes, but I’m gutted. The only reason I’m not sitting in a lump and sobbing is that I just don’t have the time.”

“And the Kid?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure he understands what happened. But he’s safe. Not hurt. I’ve been with the police for the last few hours, but I’ll be home in a few minutes. Heather’s with him, but she took it hard. I don’t know if she’s going to hold up.”

“Oh my god! Her mother. Oh, Jason, it’s all over every station. She’ll be crushed.”

“The police got hold of Tino at his store before it hit the cable news stations. I’ll call when I get a chance.”

The beeping would not let up. I checked the screen. My father.

“Skeli, I’ve got to go. It’s Pop on the other line. I love you. Try not to worry. I’ll get you back.”

“Go. Go. I love you, too.”

I hit the flash button.

“Pop? We’re both okay.”

“I just spoke to Heather.”

“What’d she say?” I asked.

“She sounded shaky.”

“But the Kid’s all right, isn’t he?”

The call-waiting began to flash again. Blocked this time.

“He was taking a bath—his second.” I could hear my father smiling.

“That’s my water baby,” I said. “Pop. Let me go. We’ll talk later.”

“I love you, son.”

“Thanks. I love you, too.”

It could have been a reporter on the other line. I debated just hanging up and making my next call. Screw it; I chanced it and answered.

“Who is this?” I said in as neutral a voice as I could manage.

“Jason?” It was the first time FBI Agent Marcus Brady had called me by my given name.

“Agent Brady,” I replied, keeping a professional distance.

“I think it’s time to bring you in—get you into witness protection.”

“You’re late.” And Angie was dead. And if I hadn’t been playing superhero, it wouldn’t have happened. The same loop kept grinding through my brain—over and over.

“There was nothing I could do,” he said. “Now I can. Let us help you.”

“You want to help me now? Great. My terms.”

There were probably some very good reasons for taking Brady’s offer. But a lot more against. I would never see Skeli again. Nor my father. The Kid would lose his whole support system and who knows if I would be able to re-create anything like it. But, mostly, I didn’t believe the FBI could keep us safe. Only I could do that.

He chuckled. “We both know that’s not going to work. Come on. This is something we do well.”

“Let’s see. I come in, bring the Kid. We live on takeout in some god-awful motel in Jersey while you spend eighteen months building a case. When the trial is over, the Kid and I get to move to Prescott, Arizona, and pretend we’re some other people and everything is fine—unless, of course, they find us again. It’ll be just like prison, but the bad guys will have guns instead of homemade knives.”

“You’ll have immunity.”

“From what? I haven’t done anything.”

“I heard from Interpol.”

“And? There was nothing there and no proof that there ever was anything there, and so you’ve got squat. Nada! Nihil! Zip! Or for those who speak Esperanto—
Nenio!
You know, Brady, you never could bluff.”

I had pissed him off. “I don’t need a charge to bring you in.”

“Brilliant. Can I quote you on that when I call my lawyer?”

“Jason,” his tone softened again. “Are you in a cab?”

“What?”

“Tell your driver he’s better off staying on Eighth Avenue than trying to fight the traffic over by the Javits Center.”

“You’re tracking my phone!”

“Just making a point.”

“Isn’t that already violating my rights?”

“As a matter of fact, no.”

“It should be.”

“Get over it. It’s an
app
! Anyone can do this. You are not safe.”

“Okay,” I said. “But I have to make some arrangements. It’ll take me an hour or two. Then I’ll come in.”

“I can have our people there in ten minutes.”

“No. One hour. Meet us in the lobby. And you have to be there. I’m not going to trust a couple of guys in suits flashing toy badges. I want you there.”

“Fine. I can do that. You’re doing the right thing.”

“I see it now,” I said. “You’re right. One hour.”

“One hour.”

I hung up and called to the cabbie, “There’s a twenty-dollar tip if you get me home in under ten minutes.” I had a one-hour head start.

R
aoul swung the door open as he saw me approach. “Lots of excitement heah today, Mr. Staffud.”

Lots more where I came from.

“What’s that?” I said.

“The police just left. They asked a lot of questions about those guys you had watching your boy.”

I’ll bet they did. “What’d you tell them?”

He shrugged. “What do I know?”

“Exactly. Listen, I need you to cover my butt for the next half-hour.”

“No problem.”

“If anyone asks, I’m not home yet.”

“That’s it?”

“No matter who asks. I don’t care if it’s the cops, the mob, or the Pope. No one knows I’m here.”

He looked a bit uncomfortable at my inclusion of the Pope. “For half an hour?”

“That’s it.”

He nodded. I rushed inside.

•   •   •

I STEPPED INTO
my apartment, and for a moment froze at the utter normality of the scene in front of me. The Kid was clean, his hair still damp from the bath, and he was dressed in his favorite ninja pajamas and sitting on the couch. Heather had been straightening up in the kitchen—the aroma of grilled cheese hung in the air—but she turned when I entered. It was the same picture that greeted me every day at this time.

But everything was different. Tears were streaming down Heather’s face.

“I can’t do this, Mr. Stafford,” she said. “I don’t want to be around guns and bodyguards and people being killed.” Her face was flushed in irate splotches, and even from across the room I could smell her fear.

The Kid was flipping pages in one of his car books. Flipping with a vengeance. He wasn’t looking at the pages, just flipping them. I thought about attempting an intervention before the book ripped—which would definitely set off a meltdown—but realized that the intervention was as likely to lead to a meltdown.

“Heather, I am going to fix this.” I needed her. So did the Kid. It was hard to say who needed her more. “And the first thing is safety. I want to get the Kid—and you—away. No one is coming after you, but they could easily make another try for him. Stick with me. He needs you.”

“I’m a . . . fraid.” Her voice cracked mid-word, but she forced out the last syllable.

I didn’t have the time to reassure her; I didn’t know if it was possible. “I know. So am I. Soon this will be over. Believe me, please. But for right now, I have to move. Very quickly. Can I count on you?”

She wiped her face. “What do you want me to do?”

“Where’s Tom?” I asked.

“He left when the front desk called and said the police were on their way up.”

I looked around. The canvas tote bag was leaning against the side of the couch, hidden in plain sight.

I gestured toward the Kid. “I’m taking him to the safest place I know. Help me get him packed.”

She got out beige shorts and shirt for Saturday. Red shorts, white shirt for Sunday.

“Take a blue outfit for Monday, just in case,” I said. Everything went into a pillowcase—the Kid didn’t own matched luggage. “What cars should we take?” They covered two shelves.

“These.” She quickly picked through, choosing ten or twelve. “Books,” she said.

Books. Car books. Storybooks. Into the pillowcase.

“Damn it!” Where was the elephant book? I dashed back into the living room. It was on top of the empty television stand. Exactly where I had left it. “Toothbrush!” What else could the Kid not do without?

Wham! The book he had been playing with went flying across the room, hit the childproof railing on the window with a solid crash, and fell to the floor.

The Kid may have had trouble reading emotional signs in others, but he had no problem picking up on my anxiety.

“Sorry, Kid,” I called. “I’m in a hurry, but I’m going to be okay. We’re going on a trip.”

He threw himself back onto the couch, wrapped his arms around his elbows and squeezed.

“Very good, little soldier. Maintain. Maintain.” Heather handed me one of the Kid’s smooth towels—he said nappy felt like fire—and a plastic bag filled with his favorite toothpaste, soap, shampoo, and his toothbrush. “Thank you.”

She nodded distractedly.

“Heather? Five minutes.”

She had a sad faraway look in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I just keep seeing her lying in the street like that.”

“Believe me, I understand. If this is all too much, just say so. But right now I really don’t have time to stop and talk about it.”

“Fruit Roll-Ups,” she said.

“Thank you.” I dashed to the refrigerator. I had never seen the Kid actually eat a Fruit Roll-Up, but if Heather or I left one by him while he was listening to music or arranging his cars, it would disappear, the only evidence of its erstwhile existence the wrapper and the Kid’s pink lips.

“Kid!” I called. “We’re out of here. Get your shoes on.”

“Bedtime,” he said.

“Yeah, but not today. Today is special. Shoes on.”

I was still wearing the same underwear, socks, and shirt I had put on when I landed in Zurich. Forty hours and counting. There was no time for a shower. I changed into a pair of khakis and stuffed some other clean clothes into the pillowcase.

“Heather?” She was gapping again, her eyes slightly unfocused. “Help him with his shoes? I’ve got to make another couple of calls.”

She nodded. I dialed.

“Roger, what are you doing?”

“What do you think I’m doing?”

I could hear the bar crowd in the background. “I need you. Can you be at the corner of West End and Seventy-second in ten minutes? I’ll pick you up.”

“I heard about your ex—” he began in a sympathetic voice.

“Can you be there?” I broke in.

He heard my frustration—desperation. “On my way.”

Now for the long shot. I dialed Tom.

“Are you okay?” I started.

“Ja.”

“Thanks for your help.” There was no answer. “You need a place to lay low. I need your help. Let’s trade.”

He quickly agreed. “I have friend with me.”

“The more the merrier,” I said. “Can you get to the number-one train?”

“Ja.”

“I’ll be at the corner of Broadway and Two-hundred-thirtieth Street in twenty minutes. Maybe twenty-five. If I’m not there in half an hour, make other plans.” I hung up. “Folks? We’re out of here.”

Minutes later we were riding down in the elevator—the Kid rocking back and forth on his heels to set the little blue and red lights flickering. Heather was staring at nothing again. I needed her, but I could see she needed something else.

“You’re not going with us, are you?”

She looked up at me as though about to say something, then shook her head and looked away.

“Thank you for getting us this far.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out my clip full of bills—not many, and most of them Swiss francs—did a quick count, and peeled off two fifties and a twenty.

“Take this,” I said. “There’s a twenty to get home and enough for pizza and diet soda to get you through the weekend. I’ll be in touch.”

She gave a brave grin. “I think I may switch to a big bottle of Yellow Tail.”

“Red or white?”

“Red. I won’t have to waste time chilling it.”

“Have Raoul put you in the cab.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“There is nothing to be sorry about, Heather. These are not normal times. I’ll call you on Monday. See where things stand.”

The doors opened on the lobby, and she stepped out.

“Wait,” I said. “One more thing.” I dug out my cell phone. If I turned it off, the Feds would pounce immediately. They might already be waiting outside. “Take my phone. Leave it in the cab when you get out. Drop it on the floor or tuck it down behind the seat.”

Heather gave a conspiratorial smile. “Good luck.”

“Bedtime,” the Kid said as the elevator doors slid closed.

“Not yet,” I said, hitting the button for the basement garage.

Mr. Samuels, the garage attendant, loaded the trunk of the rental car with our baggage—a stuffed pillowcase and the Swiss International tote bag. He and the Kid were old friends—they both liked cars.

“Just a minute, Mr. Stafford,” Samuels said. “There’s no seat for the boy.”

The Kid hated car seats, but that wasn’t why it had slipped my mind. I was stretched a bit thin at that point—with too many thoughts vying for center stage. I was a lot more concerned about machine guns than car seats.

“Uhhh, well, uh . . .” The adrenaline that was keeping me going didn’t allow for side trips. “This is an emergency.”

“Should have said so,” Mr. Samuels said. “I keep one in the office for emergencies.”

Samuels and I managed the Kid and the seat. The Kid was too exhausted to fight me. I checked my remaining cash. A ten-dollar bill and a handful of Swiss francs. I offered Samuels the ten.

“No, thank you, Mr. Stafford. The boy’s a friend.”

I was learning to take the time to recognize kindness—it’s too rare to be ignored. “So are you, Mr. Samuels. Thank you.” I hopped in and began to pull out. “Mr. Samuels?” I called.

“Mr. Stafford?”

“We were never here.”

He gave a big grin and waved. “So be it.” I pulled out and headed for West End Avenue.

Roger was waiting at the next corner. He jumped into the front seat and wrestled with the seat belt.

“So, ya gonna tell me where we’re going?”

I smelled cognac, but by his standards he was cold sober.

“Sure. My Pop’s place out in Queens.”

“How nice. I finally get to meet him. If you’d invited me a little earlier, I coulda brought a house gift. Or some pastries.”

I turned onto the West Side Highway heading north.

Roger raised an eyebrow. “Have they moved Queens to Riverdale?”

Even in my befogged condition, I could compute half a dozen routes to College Point. The one I had chosen wasn’t the most direct. I just hoped it was the best for shaking off anyone following us.

“We’re picking up a friend,” I said.

He looked in the backseat. “Hey, Kid.”

The Kid was asleep.

“You better fill me in,” Roger continued. “All I know is what’s been on the news.”

I gave him the highlights of the preceding forty-eight hours.

“So, you’re telling me,” he said when I finished, “we’ve got a billion dollars or so in the trunk and we might have some crazed Honduran gunmen following us, and there’s also maybe some other scary people involved, but not to worry because Interpol and the FBI are ready to pounce on us as well. The only part I don’t get is why you invited me along. I thought we were friends.”

“The first thing you can do is watch for cars following us.”

The West Side Highway traffic was rolling along at a sedate twenty-five miles per hour—typical for early evening on a Friday night the first week of the summer, slowing still further as we passed the volleyball courts, where lean, muscular women in bikini tops were in serious competition.

“This is a nice place for a drive,” Roger said.

“Watch behind us,” I said.

I could see an unbroken line of flashing brake lights extending up toward the GW Bridge. While no one was going to come up on us fast, anyone following us would have no problem keeping up.

Roger looked out the rear window. “Everybody’s following us. Where else are they gonna go?”

To our right, the windows on Riverside Drive began to glow red with the reflected sunset over the Palisades.

“Look at that,” I said. “Beautiful.”

“Yeah,” Roger said. “I love getting out in nature.”

I saw a break in the left-hand lane as a church van with large Korean lettering failed to keep up with a momentary surge in the traffic—I took it.

“Watch. See if anyone tries the same maneuver.”

The grille of the van filled my rearview mirror. Jerk.

“Nobody yet. So far you’re the only one cutting people off.”

Traffic slowed again. The van backed off. We were coming up on Riverbank Park. Only another mile to the bridge. I checked my watch. We were running a little behind.

“What are you going to do when you get to your Pop’s place?”

“I’m working on a plan.”

“That’s comforting.”

“A plan that keeps the Kid safe. And me. And you.”

“It’s nice to be included.”

“Keep an eye out back there. We’re going to be through this in just a minute.” All lanes were merging onto the ramp for I-95 on the right. Very little of the traffic was continuing north. “If anyone’s following us, we’ll see them here.”

The highway opened in front of me. I punched it. The car gave a surprising leap forward. We raced under the bridge and up toward upper Manhattan and Riverdale. I checked the rearview mirror.

“Who’s coming?”

Roger shook his head. “Nothing obvious. No one exactly racing to catch us.”

Because they knew there were only two exits before the toll bridge at the Spuyten Duyvil. “I want to see if I can shake them out.”

Roger looked at me skeptically. “Who are you? Steve McQueen?”

I floored it, ripped past the Cloisters exit, then hit the brakes and pulled all the way to the right at the Dyckman Street ramp.

“Shit,” Roger said. “There he fucking is.”

I checked the mirror. A big white SUV was switching lanes precariously, trying to mimic my move. I hit the gas again and bypassed the exit.

“Talk to me, Roger. What’s he doing?”

“He’s hanging back. He knows he blew it, but he’s hoping we’re as dumb as he is.”

“Let’s hope we’re not.”

The tollbooth appeared ahead at the top of a rise. I slowed and eased into the first E-ZPass lane. Three cars back, the SUV did the same. Halfway through the toll, the light flashed red.
E-ZPASS NOT ACCEPTED.
The rental had no device. Just what I had planned. I hit the brake and stopped, blocking the lane. An alarm was sounding. An MTA cop in a blaze orange vest came walking toward us. Behind me a black Porsche gave an angry blare on the horn. The cop waved him on to the next lane. I looked in the mirror and saw a hand with a raised middle finger. I waved back.

“Where are they, Roger?”

“Two back. Behind the church van. Who is it?”

The Porsche and the minivan were angling slowly into the next lane.

“I don’t want to find out, but I’m pretty sure they stole my briefcase.”