F Train (6 page)

12:30
P.M.

Farrell's.

Retired FBI special agent Raymond O'Hara agreed to meet Flo Ott and Howard Gerald, PhD, at Farrell's bar.

Flo's idea was Raymond O'Hara would retrace the hours he knew by heart. Offer his hypotheses and subject his credibility to Dr. Gerald's professional scrutiny. Be a cooperative witness. A reliable source. And above all, he would keep the mayor off Brooklyn homicide's backs by placating the mayor's man.

Dr. Gerald wasn't pleased about the idea of meeting his informant in a saloon, but Raymond O'Hara had insisted. His home was out-of-bounds—after all his years with the Bureau, Mary Margaret deserved her peace.

Even more to the point, Flo Ott was loath to have Howard Gerald, PhD, nosing around her office again, much less risk letting him learn anything about John James Reilly's widow and her late husband's occupation.

Flo had phoned ex–special agent O'Hara in advance of their meeting in the saloon.

“The victim on his knees, Raymond?”

“Reilly.”

“You were right about the weapon. Bureau issued.”

Silence.

“But he was off-duty, Raymond.”

“I got the gun right. Maybe the rest will fall into place.”

“Raymond, the gun is for us. Not for Dr. Howard.”

“Even better.”

Midday and Flo sat at the bar with Howard Gerald in Farrell's, each nursing a glass of ginger ale, waiting for retired special agent Raymond O'Hara.

The psychologist cast an assessing glance down the bar. “All these places stink of stale beer, stale sweat, stale dreams,” he said. “The atmosphere is so absurdly bathetic, always. And you know, Florence, I really believe I've got our informant here typed quite well now, not to put too fine a point on it, certainly after this. If this is where he spends his spare time hanging out…” Dr. Gerald eyed the only two other patrons, solitary drinkers, sitting a few stools apart.

“They remind me of my father,” he whispered. “Worthless. Yes, I think I've got a good idea of what we have to dismiss here. And what we keep and what we add. We can't afford to be dependent on a solitary witness, not if he's the type I think he is. A rumdum. We have to find reliability elsewhere. We can't wait till this gets to court and a barfly is all we come up with. Forget what he used to do, it's what he does now, wasting his time, pissing away his life in bars.”

Flo looked at her watch, drummed her fingers, stifled a yawn. She gazed at the front window, out at the empty gray street, at the red-brick Holy Name Church on the corner, at the liquor store across the way, the sort of place that used to showcase signs like
Yes, we have the 'Bird on ice. What's the price? 70 twice!
…and where a window banner now announced
Russian River
Chardonnay—Organic—No
Sulfites—Discount
by the case
.

She regarded the bartender at the far end of the bar, a wiry little man reading the
Daily News
and chewing Tums. The tabloid's front-page headline unavoidable: F TRAIN MASSACRE BAFFLES COPS. Subheads:
Slaughter Victims Pages 3, 4, 5
…
Secret Witnesses?
And a photo of the glowering mayor and his mackerel-eyed police commissioner.

Nothing reassuring there.

“But,” the psychologist said, “I'll still have O'Hara fill out my questionnaire. You know how it is, Florence, private consultants like me, we're responsible for our own living nowadays. Finally on our own two feet. No more handouts. A boon for entrepreneurs like me.”

Howard Gerald, PhD, smiled his tombstone smile and again that smell, like a grave open too long, assaulted Flo's nostrils, penetrating the atmosphere of stale beer and old sweat.

He was unstoppable. “I enhance my consultancy with added value. The G.A.S.P. test, as I call it, is worth every cent I charge. The
Gerald Advanced Semiotics Predictor
. Fall-on-your-sword loyalty…fall-on-your-knees
reliability…total
allegiance…these
are qualities my clients prize.”

He didn't have to spell out the rest for Flo. She imagined the worst qualities were independence, skepticism, a sense of irony, all those other extremes were the utterly undesirable.

“The Gerald Advanced Semiotics Predictor tests for the signs. Good and bad. No loopholes. G.A.S.P. pins down exactly what my clients are on the lookout for. And what we should be, too. The most reliable witness in the world. So far, the mayor and the commissioner, they've been very pleased. I'm one of only ten people in this country qualified to identify the desired traits,
plus
spot all the chaff. Indispensable, especially when you're stuck with only one lousy witness. One witness still alive and he came on the platform after the fact of death. The living passengers on that train aren't witnesses, they were only bystanders who didn't see a thing. They're useless. But for us, forewarned is forearmed. We don't want to disappoint the mayor and the commissioner, not this time around, not with something as big as this baby. Seven bodies? The subway? You don't get any closer to real New Yorkers than the subway, right? So while I've already got a very strong theory—
eine Anschauung
, shall we say—I just want to get it all down on paper, what this witness O'Hara is actually made of. Sometimes people, when they retire, they let themselves go, they lose something, no matter how good their training used to be. Know what I mean, Florence?”

“I'll have to take your word for it, Howie. I'm a long way from retirement.”

Flo waved to Raymond O'Hara as he entered. “What'll it be, Ray?” she said. “Dr. Howard here wants you to take a test.”

“A what?” He motioned to the bartender for a draft Guinness. “What kind of test?”

“The G.A.S.P.” A distinct note of pride enlivened the psychologist's voice. “Gerald Advanced Semiotics Predictor. A questionnaire you have to fill out. It only takes a few hours. Tell us about yourself. Who you are and so on. The usual. The mayor swears by it, Raymond, and he's my client, he's our boss.”

“I'll tell you what, Howie.” Raymond O'Hara squinted at the psychologist. “You take your questionnaire, your G.A.S.P.? You take it, and you take your billable hours, and you take your degrees, and you stuff the whole enchilada, okay, pal. You and the mayor.”

Flo touched his arm. “Relax, Ray.”

“I'm relaxed, Lieutenant. I'm retired. You want to test me, Howie? You can test my eyes, that's it. I already told the police what I saw. And what I think about it now on reflection, my hypothesizing, that's a whole other matter between me and Lieutenant Ott here. She can assess for herself the value of what I think, wouldn't you agree? What the hell are they doing now anyway? Privatizing homicide
investigations?
Howie, you ever see that movie
Capote
? Terrific movie, Howie. Hell of a book,
In Cold Blood
. And you remind me a little of him, pal, that whiny little snob midget out to cash in on a mass killing.”

“I resent that. It offends me.”

“Glad to hear. Except you don't have that guy's brains. Or sense of humor. Or talent. Your kind of bullshit, Dr. Gerald, is exactly what's wrong now. You belong on TV and nowhere else. You have no authority. Guys like you, you're so twisted, you swallow a dime, and you'll crap a corkscrew. Tell me something, if I pull your chain now, will you flush?”

Howie Gerald's actions were quick and precise, exhibiting considerable pique, practice, and a noteworthy economy of movement. He packed his briefcase with his notes, questionnaire, digital Dictaphone, and marched out of Farrell's, his parting bark: “The commissioner will receive my report.”

The door closed behind him and Flo couldn't help laughing. “The commissioner. That's a hot one. Raymond, you're incorrigible. Hands down, a troublemaker, in a class all your own. This might cost me my job, you know that? Although I got to admit, you put on a hell of a performance. Did you behave like that at the Bureau?”

“I wish.” He appeared content with the results now, Dr. Gerald out the door.

“I like your attitude, Raymond, if only I had some of it myself. Simple,
straightforward,
no nonsense. But I've got a strong distaste for creating problems and obstacles that might otherwise not exist. I like most people, Raymond, and most people seem to like me. That one there, that jerk who just stomped out, he's a glaring exception, I got to admit, but I can't afford to make him my enemy. I still have too many years to go before retirement. And a family to support. Enemies in the commissioner's office, Ray, even worse an enemy with the mayor's ear, that much trouble I don't need. Even if I do understand how you feel. It's so insulting, it's demeaning and patronizing. Only thing is, rubbing it in like you just did, Ray, doesn't help me much. Won't help the DA either.”

“I'm sorry, Lieutenant.” He appeared genuinely apologetic, conscious of the damage he caused. “I owe you big-time. But you know, when I was with the Bureau, I actually had an uncomplicated outlook, you could say that. Only now when I run into an idiot like this guy, this boneless wonder with delusions of mediocrity, I don't have to take it anymore, know what I mean? Wait till you're retired, you'll understand what I'm driving at. Things change.”

She regarded Raymond O'Hara with a mixture of curiosity and appraisal. Several opportunities presented themselves in the person of the retired FBI special agent, and questions came to mind. She put away her notes and closed her briefcase, readjusting her face, aiming for an expression of patience and acceptance.

“Ray, I understand, a guy like Howie Gerald can be pretty unbearable. And there's one thing maybe you can help me with. Which would really be great.”

“Sure, go ahead.”

“At the Bureau, you still have friends there, people you can talk to?”

No reaction. Only a blank, cautious stare into his glass. He sipped his beer in silence, and after a moment Flo took a gamble and expanded the question.

“Anyone who could tell you something about John James Reilly?”

His head tilted, side to side, as if weighing the consequences of an answer.

“Could be.”

Flo felt she should wait.

With an air of careful contemplation, Raymond finished his Guinness and called for another. “Lieutenant, you got a liaison at the Bureau for this case, right?”

“Maureen Canane.”

“Don't know her. But she's got her job to do. And what you really want to know, in my opinion, is about that woman he was with, right, not about him so much. It's her. You want to know about Marie Priester, the mystery lady. She's key.”

“Her, yes. But anything, Raymond, anything at all…like what kept Reilly away from his family most of the time, if it wasn't Marie Priester? Was he on to something, on to someone in his work? He was assigned to UN delegations. Were there threats against any of those diplomats? Was there someone who may have wanted him out of the way? Was he a threat?”

“Right. Or was he simply unlucky, like everyone else in that subway car? You know, that's probably your safest bet, the one right under your nose. Unlucky, all of them. It just wasn't their night.”

“Their night? Maybe not. But that leaves me not only with who, Raymond, but also why. Why kill at random? What's the point? All that effort, all that risk, and for what? So I want to make absolutely sure I can omit Reilly before we go down that madman route.”

“Right, before you go stalking off in the dark.”

“Exactly, off into fog. Where no one will want to believe us. Insanity is usually seen as a copout, either a faker's defense or a screen for incompetent police work.”

“Let me think about it, Flo. I promise I'll get back to you, one way or the other. Want another ginger ale?”

“I got to get back to the office.”

“Lucky you. And I mean it.”

1:40
P.M.

Misery, again…

Stepping out from Farrell's, Flo Ott walked straight into an icy blast of wind, a squall lashing needle-sharp sleet in her face. Crouching, breathing hard, she turned up the parka on her goose-down coat and picked her way across a treacherously slick sidewalk to the curb.

Slowly, a dark vehicular shape moved forward and stopped in front of her. The driver's window lowered. “Jump in,” Frank Murphy said.

Relieved, she settled into the backseat of the unmarked police car and stretched out. “If it's like this all winter, Frank, I'm getting a job in the Virgin Islands.”

“You'd be bored out of your skull, Flo, you know that. All that sunshine—day in, day out? Predictable. Tedious. Dull. Leave Brooklyn and die.” He placed a rock hand on his heart—“That's my motto”—then quickly gripped the wheel again and with both hands steered in and out of a skid.

The wipers beat a steady tattoo on the windshield, sleet blasting glass, as the car moved out into traffic at a tentative fifteen miles an hour.

“Sit back, Flo, relax. Marie Priester's mother is waiting for us.”

“How far?”

“Today? Maybe like here to the Yukon. And contemplate this one. I got a call a little while ago from the lab. Marie Priester was pregnant. And the fetus, around four, five weeks old, isn't related to John James Reilly. Not according to the DNA tests. Now, guess what Marie Priester's mother, the good lady we're going to see, does for a living?”

“Don't tell me. She works for Planned Parenthood.”

“Not quite. She's a faith healer, Flo. Goes by the name of Sister Julia. She's all yours.”

“Play it by ear. If that's her business, she's probably got good instincts. Maybe she even knew all along what was going on. Certainly she can tell us more about her daughter than we could ever hope to tell her.”

“She hasn't told us diddly yet. Hasn't even called to find out anything we know, it's almost like she doesn't care about her own flesh and blood or she's too ashamed or something.”