F Train (19 page)

“National…”

“…Security. Otherwise, we'd be committing treason. That's not my take, not my
conclusion—that's
theirs. That's Washington.” Cecil King's expression was resigned, his eyes deep pools of anger.

2:50
P.M.

In her office, Flo watched CNN online, and the latest news shattered what few hopes she had left.

Again, the mayor of New York City appeared with his stone-faced police commissioner, but this time no Howard Gerald, PhD.

The mayor intoned…“With the full cooperation of the Chinese government, we've learned that the lone suspect in the horrific slaughter on the F train—the man taken into custody by my police commissioner's homicide experts and arraigned earlier today—is a fugitive from Chinese justice wanted for the murders of over twenty people in his own homeland. He was tried and convicted in absentia for these killings over there and sentenced to death. The Chinese authorities have informed the president that Xi Ze Wong, also known as Lee Ho Fook, will be executed within twenty-four hours of his arrival in China. And so to spare the families of the deceased here in New York any further suffering, the president has ordered the immediate extradition of the accused killer back to China. His attorney has agreed to this, as has the defendant himself. Not that he has much choice, I can assure you. In giving the order, the president is exercising his powers under the emergency authority granted to our commander in chief to wage this nation's war on terror. And this killer is nothing if not a terrorist. We fully support this act of the president's as being in the very best interests of the people of the city of New York and for our nation's security. We are deeply gratified. And greatly relieved. Justice is ours. We have every reason to believe the F train tragedy was an execution aimed at only one of the seven victims, convicted felon Sidney R. Davidov, a killing designed to send a message of such brutal proportions so as to terrorize…not us, not our police force—but Davidov's criminal associates, most of whom my police commissioner's forces now have in custody on serious narcotics and money laundering charges. In perpetrating this appalling, cowardly act of horror in our subway, the killer inflicted terror on the subway riders of our great city. But no longer. Full justice, I can assure you, is now being done. We have nothing to fear from this killer any longer.”

Full justice
…

If the phrase rang hollow to Flo's ears, if it disgusted her, she dreaded to think what a widow in Bay Ridge was thinking, her husband's death unnoted, forever unexplained to her, as lost between the cracks of history as secrets classified forever. If the Bureau owed anyone big-time, they owed the widow and the children of John James Reilly. And Marie Priester's fiancé and her mother and her unborn child.

After the news broadcast, Flo called the number in Bay Ridge. “I'd like to see you again.”

“What for? On TV, they just said it's all over. What do you want from me? I've got nothing more to give. I'm talked out, Lieutenant, don't you understand? Don't you people ever stop?”

“I'm not asking for more. I'm saying your husband was on duty that night. Ms. Priester was a business contact from a law firm and he was just seeing her home, as he had before, since her fiancé was—”

But Flo never got the chance to finish her attempt at explanation, and at a cover-up for a guy who probably was tomcatting around, but who was out for justice nonetheless. Her guess at what might make amends to the widow in Bay Ridge was left unsaid.

Arlene Reilly hung up, and the line to the house in Bay Ridge went dead.

3:11
P.M.

Flo refused a call to her office from the
Post
reporter Terry Dangler, again.

After Lee Ho Fook's arrest, Flo had no time to talk to the media, certainly not to Dangler, who seemed to call every ten minutes after the special arraignment.
New York Post
, essence of push.

Let him talk to the mayor
, that was her feeling.

And now after the extradition deal, and any talking to the media forbidden, the F train massacre was a national security case, and Flo lacked clearance to know any further facts. Soon enough she'd find out what was it like for a cop to go home after an unpopular outcome—
Mass Killing Suspect Walks, Back to China
—that was in no way her fault. It was nothing new, it happened before, and more than once. One deal in particular stuck in the craw of New York prosecutors and homicide detectives and the FBI. In 1999, President Bill Clinton commuted the prison sentences of sixteen FALN
members—Fuerzas
Armadas de Liberación Nacional—the violent Puerto Rican terrorist group that set off 120 bombs, mostly in New York and Chicago. More than a few called Clinton's act a political deal for votes in the following year's New York Senate election. But no one knew for sure. The police and federal investigators and the families of the guiltless dead and wounded were furious. A New York cop lost five fingers and was blinded by a FALN bomb. Flo wondered if someone would always be looking over her shoulder the way they looked over their shoulders. It was only human. She was angry, and anger was human, too, wasn't it? And while these questions mattered, she knew no simple answers, no clichéd solutions that tied it all together neatly, no fake satisfactions to comfort her or her colleagues or the bereaved families. If the past was any guide, they would learn nothing now.

And all in the name of national security.

3:16
P.M.

Flo took a phone call from attorney William Eng, Esq.

“I got tapped for a job,” he said. “The Chinese consulate here in New York, they wanted me to represent a Chinese citizen. I believe you know who I mean. I would like to meet you, Lieutenant Ott, I owe it to you, personally, to explain exactly what happened.”

…
exactly what happened.
Not quite what Flo expected to learn. Perversely relishing a smidgen of irony, she arranged to meet the Wall Street
attorney—hardly
an average criminal defense lawyer type—at the Lemon Grass restaurant on Smith Street, as close to the scene of the slaughter as she could manage.

4:12
P.M.

Over snacks and tea, William Eng made an attempt at explicating, his former self-confidence and calm demeanor less in evidence now, replaced by an ineffable sadness that Flo found as surprising as it was disarming.

“When I met the Chinese consul,” he said, “I was informed—not consulted, simply told—that my client, who wasn't yet officially my client, was being extradited at China's request, and my client wasn't contesting this action. The matter is considered one of mutual national security and, as such, is being settled through diplomatic channels. A fait accompli. I'm simply an attorney of record. For the sake of appearance.”

If he was bitter or surprised or disappointed by this resolution, Eng's tone offered no clear indication. The compulsion, his real reason for speaking to Flo, remained between the lines.

She stayed silent and concentrated on her seaweed and crab cakes.

“Lieutenant, I don't want you to feel you failed,” he said. “Because you didn't. Marie's memory has been served well by you. Reilly's, too. He thought he was always doing his job, even when he really wasn't. And believe me, please, I appreciate everything you and your partners have done. And so does Marie's mother. Sister Julia is praying for you. But it's out of our hands now and in the hands of destiny. We Chinese have considerable respect for destiny. Almost as much as we do for our government.” He smiled weakly. “My advice, Lieutenant, is let it all rest. Consider the case closed. Your job was a success. You caught him. You got the right man. You won. And I don't mean to sound patronizing or condescending or anything like that. I mean this sincerely.”

Just how sincerely, Flo knew she'd never be able to measure.

Outside on Smith Street, Eng said goodbye. “I'm going back to China next week. I'm setting up my own practice in Shanghai. For good.” He laughed, a harsh cough, and then grimaced, his expression one of impatience. “Because the way I always see it, Lieutenant, it's all in that hand of fate anyway.”

He raised his hand, a gold cuff link reflecting a dazzle of setting sun, as a passing subway train on the elevated tracks a few blocks behind him, framed by his spread fingers, seemed to weave a long funereal black ribbon, finger after finger.

“Destiny, Lieutenant Ott. It's inevitable. We have to accept it. Why not let this rest now, move on and maybe just forget it?”

“I can't.”

A car service cab arrived for Flo and pulled up to the curb, and she walked away from William Eng, Esq. She left him standing there on Smith Street, waiting for a livery service SUV to return him to his law office on Wall Street in Manhattan.

“Sheepshead Bay,” she told the cab driver and she didn't look back. What better prospect to consider now than sitting quietly beside Eddie? Both of them watching the fishing boats in the harbor under brightening Atlantic skies, and waiting for spring and Easter Sunday to arrive.

In Flames

F Train

Fanatics
(coming soon)

R
ICHARD
H
ILARY
W
EBER
is a native
Brooklynite—Park
Slope born and bred—and a Columbia grad. He's been a scriptwriter for French and Swedish filmmakers and now lives in Provence, France. In 2015–16, he has plays being produced in London and New York.
F Train
is his second novel for Alibi, following his thriller
In Flames.
His next Brooklyn Crimes novel is
Fanatics
.

www.richardhilaryweber.com

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