A Bridge to Treachery From Extortion to Terror (38 page)

They drove across the Hudson on the upper level of the bridge. There was absolutely no river traffic below, but the lights were bright on both sides of the water all the way down to the Battery. They turned north on 9W, cruising on top of the Palisades.

“Who’d you vote for, Syd?” he asked.

“Voting was not on my mind this year, sweetheart.”

“Flick on the radio,” Lou said.

“Screw that, this isn’t a picnic,” Stanfield growled.

Lou tried to relax his hands; stretched out his fingers and tried to keep them from trembling. His palms were sweaty. His knuckles were sore from unconsciously clenching his fist.

“How about this: you run me out to Glen Rock. Nobody has anything on me. I’ll just blend into the landscape.”

“That’s not happening.”

“I’d have split for Zanzibar, if I were you,” Sydney said.

The car raced on in the darkness, and all three of them settled into the seats in silence.

“Copeland will be bringing your suit, Einstein,” Stanfield said.

“That’s good of him.”

“Shut up.”

“The mouth of the operation. No brains. What happens to you when the brain decides you know too much?”

“Nobody makes unilateral decisions.”

“Joined at the hip.”

“Shut up,” Stanfield said.

Chapter Forty-One

Lou saw the lone high-rise building, a circular shaft of illuminated glass, from a long way off. Sydney maneuvered the car through the twists and turns of Fort Lee’s streets until they came to a stop at the base of the thirty-story tower. It was a ridiculous place to pull off a murder: a thousand gravel roads led into the woods, a hundred dirt paths into the meadowlands. Yet, they had chosen this place?

He stared up at the building from the side window. All of the apartment windows were dark. What he had seen from the distance were the hall lights that glowed with the same low-watt intensity on every floor to the top. The wind blew steadily with clawing fingers. A whole page of newspaper tumbled across the blacktop parking lot, got entangled beneath a car. Lou was alert despite the lack of real sleep he’d been able to snatch over the past two days. The palms of his hands were moist. He felt a steady thumping in his chest.

Sydney seemed to know the way and led the parade. Lou followed her across the lot, in and out of the darkness between the overhead lamps, cringing against the bullet he expected to pierce his skull at any moment. The wind blew directly into his face, burning his cheeks.

Sydney walked quickly and confidently to the glass entry door, never looking back at him or glancing to the side. Lou followed. He had a chance to run for it. Stanfield would probably never hit him if he broke and ran and dived into the shadows. But it was no good. In the woods, when the shock of the firefight still enveloped him, when he was still operating on the adrenalin of the survival instinct—yes. But this had been his plan after all: to lure Stanfield and Copeland to a place and time of his choosing—the perfect time to play the video card and record the smoking gun conversation.

If it hadn’t been for Kilmartin’s agents and his plan, Lou might’ve succeeded in surprising Stanfield when he first showed up at the Battery. Then it would’ve been Stanfield stumbling around in the dark, not him. Might have. There was nothing to do now but play it out to the end, whatever it would bring.

They entered the elevator together and stood silently with Sydney at the door. It stopped at the twenty-fourth floor.

“If either of you do anything foolish, it’ll be your last,” Stanfield said, unlocking the door.

“They’ve got it stocked with booze and beer, Lou. Which do you want?” Sydney asked, unbuttoning her coat and striding for the wet bar across the room. She flipped the tan raincoat onto a chair.

“Bourbon and water,” he said.

From the window, he could see the lights of Bergen County sprawling out to the west, and in the other direction, neon across the river. He stood and stared at the blackness outside. He imagined he could see Glen Rock out there and his own stucco cape with a light burning on the front

Chapter Forty-Two

As soon as she closed the door behind Kilmartin, Maggie strode into the kitchen, took out the tape, capped the ice cream, and threw it back into the freezer. She hurried to the living room.

“Boys, listen to grandma, okay? I’m going outside. I’ll be back in a minute. Stay in this room. Did you hear me? What did I say, Jory?”

“Stay in this room, grandma,” Jory said.

She slid the tape into the slot on the top deck VCR, hit Rewind, pushed a blank tape into the bottom deck, and then pressed the Copy button.

She scurried to the back door, trotted across the back yard. If they saw her, so be it. She was at Hazel Compton’s kitchen door in less than thirty seconds, and so was Hazel, her bronze face lined with worry.

“Maggie, what’s wrong. You look stricken. Come in.”

“We’re in very deep trouble, Hazel. And I need your help. I’m sorry to do this to you.”

“Don’t be silly. You know I’d do anything for you guys. Sit down. Have a cup of coffee. You’re frantic.”

“I don’t have time for anything, Hazel. I want you to take the boys. I want you to keep them here until you hear from me. It may be hours, days, I don’t know.”

“Of course. Bring them over.”

“No. It has to be done in a certain way. I’m sorry. Just listen to me.”

“My God, Maggie, what in the world happened?”

“Listen to me! I’ll call you from the house, as if I hadn’t told you this. I’ll ask you to take the boys. You’ll say yes and come to the back door to get them. Understand? Now, I need to use your telephone.”

“Right here,” Hazel said, wide eyed.

“Hello? Virg? This is Maggie. Hi... I’m fine. But never mind that, just listen. I’m sorry, Virg. Shut up and listen! I have to insult you by shouting this way for a good reason, my dearest friend. Lou and I are in deep, deep trouble and I need your help. Just listen. Listen! This is literally life and death. It sounds theatrical and phony, but it’s not. I need you to carry out an assignment. I need you to act as if we’re both characters in a cop series. Don’t laugh, Virg. Don’t fail me, please. Tonight, eight o’clock. Go to the Elks Club, to the auction. I’ll be there. You don’t recognize me. You don’t know me. Work the hall, check out the antiques, blend in. At exactly eight twenty-eight, go into the ladies’ room. It’s in the front, to the side of the stage. At eight thirty, I’ll come in. I’ll have something to give you, some instructions, either written or verbal— I don’t know right now. It has to do with your newspaper training, Virg. I know I can count on you. Please play the role as if you’d been there a hundred times in the past. Goodbye Virg.”

Maggie ran out of Hazel Compton’s kitchen, across the back yard, and through the open kitchen door. The doorbell was ringing.

“Mrs. Christopher, I’m officer Riegelhaupt. I’ve been assigned to stay with you for your protection twenty-four hours a day.”

Chapter Forty-Three

Sydney came up behind him and spoke softly: “Pretty view, isn’t it?”

Stanfield was right behind her; and when he had the two of them together at the window, he handed Lou a pair of handcuffs and stepped back, revolver in hand. “Joined at the wrists. Do it, bright boy.”

Lou turned and took the tumbler she held out to him. He let a swallow scratch his throat on the way down, and then locked himself and Sydney into the cuffs, one hand free.

“They have everything up here, even fixings for a sandwich,” she said.

“I could eat a cow.”

“Would you settle for a ham and cheese?”

They walked together to the kitchenette, Sydney with long, sure strides. Lou took another long pull on the Wild Turkey. It tasted raw and strong, but he liked it this time. At the counter, he let his right hand be pulled along by her left as she threw together a stack of ham and cheese sandwiches. The last gulp went down easily. He led the way to the bar and fixed himself another, while Sydney waited at his side with the pile of sandwiches.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“I’ve learned to like Johnny Walker Red,” she said.

“Okay, Stanfield. You’re the boss. What are we doing here?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Stanfield said from his seat at the window.

Lou and Sydney sat together on the sofa facing Stanfield. Lou killed the Wild Turkey before he took his first bite of sandwich. He was pleased with the sudden, slight dizziness that washed over him.

“I might just grab one more of these,” he said, standing.

“I had you figured for a control freak,” she said. “You’re shooting your image all to hell.”

They went together to the bar again. He watched Stanfield through sagging eyelids. Her steps went one before the other in a straight line, her skirt swishing around her knees, her free arm swinging in a wide arc. She splashed a couple of fingers of Wild Turkey into the glass on top of the ice cubes and sloshed some water on top of that, mixing it with her finger. Back at the couch, Lou reached into his pocket for the Toshiba—the pocket tape recorder he’d purchased earlier—as he sat. He pushed the toggle to record and then discretely dropped the compact device into the vase on the side table.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

“We’re in it together,” she said, tilting the glass of Red.

“You’re lying.”

“Okay. I’m lying.”

“Why then?”

“Fuck you.”

“Thought I was just going to run up and grab you in the station, right? Fall all over myself...”

“I wasn’t betting on it. Think of it my way, commander. I’m screwed, coming and going. If I don’t pay back what I owe, I wind up in a Dempsey Dumpster somewhere in Newark. If I don’t go to the end of the line with these guys, I wind up dead in the Meadowlands somewhere. I’m one of those women who can’t seem to get out of the way.”

“So you do what they say. Good story. But so ordinary. Couldn’t it have been a little more creative?”

“Fuck you again.”

The door opened suddenly and noiselessly, and Copeland quickly entered the room. The surprise of his sudden entrance seemed like a ploy to prevent anyone hiding behind the door from ambushing him. He went straight to the window and looked down into the parking lot. Then he walked slowly across the darkness and slouched in the chair across from them.

“Unhook them,” he said to Stanfield.

Stanfield flipped the key in the general direction of the couch. Sydney snagged it with her right hand and freed them.

Copeland pulled out a cigarette. He used his fingernail to flick a match, and then cupped the flame against some imaginary wind, letting smoke dribble slowly from his nose as he gently shook the match until the flame died. He dropped the dead match into the brass ashtray next to the sandwiches.

“I just came from a meeting.” His voice was low, soft, and eerily calm. “You two were the subject.”

Sydney almost involuntarily inched closer to Lou on the couch.

“The rats are jumping overboard. Peter Jennings is already predicting a landslide loss for Bliss. For you, win or lose is immaterial. Us, we don’t want any loose ends hanging around. You’re loose ends.”

Stanfield dropped some ice cubes in a glass and clinked the neck of the scotch bottle against the glass, breaking the tension.

“How about something over here?” Standfield said.

Copeland wagged his smoking ember. “We want you out of the way.”

Neither of them said anything or moved. Copeland continued in a low, soft monotone.