Beyond Blue (22 page)

“That's good,” Stone said, passing behind Steele to leave. “If we see them again, they'll have to die.”

“But that shouldn't be a problem, now should it?” Steele asked, also turning to go. “You don't need bully boys anymore, because you're out of the organized crime protection business, right?”

Jerome nodded again, and slumped back into his chair when they were gone. He was drained and not certain what he would do next. He reached for the telephone but stopped before lifting the receiver. Warning any of his clients could sound like threatening to them, like a subtle warning of what he could do to hurt them. Besides, these two were dangerous and hard men, but they were out there alone. They might go out on a limb to protect a stray, like his ex-receptionist, but they'd never have the stones to go up against any of the organizations he worked for.

Jerome was already regaining his cockiness, but he would have to wait a few more seconds before his hand was steady enough to pick up his coffee.

Once on the street, Steele turned up Fifth Avenue, leading Stone toward his SUV.

“So, what do you think?”

“He's not stopping,” Stone said. “I could see it in his eyes. In an hour he'll be back to thinking he's invincible.”

“It was worth a shot,” Steele said, unlocking the doors of the Hyundai, “but some guys are too stupid to take a hint. So now what?”

“Now we go to plan B,” Stone said as he settled into the passenger seat.

“Wait a minute. Your plan B or my plan B?”

“Aw, your plan B sucks,” Stone said.

Steele grinned. “Sherry liked it.”

“Sherry's not a cop. That's why it'll be my plan B, which
means we need to visit that friend of yours at the radio station. Then I need a lift to the body shop to see if they're going to be able to save my poor old Grand Am.”

“Sure thing,” Steele said, pulling out into the morning traffic. He drove without speaking for the better part of a block. Just when Mason thought he might stay quiet, he said, “You know, we could try them both. Mine first and if it doesn't work, we've still got yours.”

Mason considered this long enough for Steele to yell at the woman in front of him who caused him to get stuck behind the same red light twice. “I suppose we could try it that way, since you're dealing with all the frustration of driving for both of us for a couple of days.”

Stone slammed on the brakes again, barely avoiding the same woman's bumper and jerked his SUV around a corner to get away from her. “You know, I hate to step out of character or anything, but considering both these ideas will require us to sort of wander off the reservation a bit, do you think we ought to call in?”

“No point,” Stone replied. “When I talked to Gorman last night I found out there won't be anybody in the office this morning.”

New York, like most major cities, is dotted with police stations and precinct houses where the business of law enforcement takes place. The locations are open to the public because citizens need to know where to go or call for assistance. The people who protect and serve work out of these centers.

The city also maintains a number of administrative sites. These are offices like any others where the administrative side of law enforcement is done. These locations are less public, generally known only to government officials and selected officers of the courts. The people who work there keep the machinery running that allows the real police work to get done.

Finally, there are a few locations maintained by the New York police that are neither known nor open to the public. These are the places from which special task forces operate. Control units direct undercover operations from these sites. In order to conduct their business with reasonable security, these operations are often conducted out of apartment buildings or, in some cases, residential homes. A very small number of workers come and go on a daily basis, often through concealed entrances. Rarely does anyone actually walk up to the front door.

It was at exactly one such residence on a quiet street in Brooklyn that Paul Gorman walked up and rang the doorbell at one minute after nine on Monday morning. The lawn was well kept, the hedges trimmed to mechanical precision, and the small flowerbeds obsessively weeded.

Paul had tried harder than usual to tame his lion's mane of thick black hair this morning, but the autumn wind had brought it back to life during his walk from the bus stop. His heavy houndstooth overcoat should have taken him out of the salesman class. His well-shined black shoes were solid, not flashy, as was the style. His big hands, neither in gloves nor in his pockets, might hint at a military background.

Could the observer see the frustration in the creases of his face? Gorman had gotten up early that morning and left the house before his beloved Patsy even stirred. He chose to ride the bus so that he could work undisturbed. Work in this case meant pencil work on a yellow pad, continually reconfiguring the snippets of data he had gathered from his agents in the previous forty-eight hours. He was not liking the configuration of the cases they were running. Most importantly, he didn't like the fact that all of them seemed to be coming to a head on the same day. He wanted to coordinate his resources better, perhaps defuse some and delay others, so that the cases could be wound up in a more orderly manner. Sadly, the world was rarely as orderly as Paul Gorman thought it should be. That was
why he had walked the neighborhood for nearly thirty minutes, pushing people around in his head like the multicolored squares on a Rubik's Cube until a pattern emerged that he could live with.

Gorman allowed one minute to pass after ringing the bell, then pressed the button again. Nearly a minute later he heard a chain slide out of its place, and two bolts getting thrown. A young blond woman in jeans and a halter top opened the door and smiled up at him.

“Can I help you?”

“They let you come to work like that?” Gorman asked. “Oh, of course they do. Paul Gorman to see Mr. - or is it Captain? - Victor Warner.”

“Gee, I'm sorry, I think you've got the wrong address,” the woman said. “I'm just the babysitter, but this is the Winters residence.”

“Uh-huh. Look, you'd be better calling yourself the au pair in this neighborhood. Go tell Warner that I'm here about Lorenzo Lucania, and that my next stop is the mayor's office. Make sure he gets my name too, okay? Paul Gorman.”

“I think you'd better go, Mister,” the girl said, affecting a passable degree of discomfort. She closed the door and Gorman waited. He waited two long minutes and was just contemplating the long bus ride to City Hall when the door opened again. The man in the doorway had a great hawk nose and small, dangerous eyes. He reminded Gorman of the picture on the front of old paperback novels of The Shadow except that, instead of a black mantle he wore a gray wool suit cut sharp as a razor. After a few seconds of appraisal he flashed a shark's grin.

“You're him?” he asked in an old school Brooklyn accent.

“I'm me,” Gorman said. “Presumably, you are you, and would be Mr. Victor Warner. Or…”

“Captain,” Warner said. “But you can call me Vic.”

“Then I'll be Paul. May I come in?”

Warner waved Gorman into a medium sized living room that was furnished for comfort and showed signs of being dusted and vacuumed every day. Warner stepped past him and headed for the kitchen.

“The operation is downstairs. You want coffee?”

Gorman nodded, and Warner poured into two big black mugs. His assumption that Gorman wanted no cream or sugar implied either great confidence in his own judgment or deep research into Gorman's habits. The coffee was strong and hot and Gorman was content to learn more about Warner's motivations later.

They proceeded down a narrow flight of stairs to what the people there probably called the nerve center when they spoke to less elite officers. The large finished basement had been divided up into a prairie dog city of cubicles. The hum of electronics and the banks of flashing lights and screens made Gorman wonder if he was at risk from the massive electromagnetic field that this place must generate. He had visited NASA once, and this place rivaled anything he saw there. It made him realize just how low tech his own operation remained.

“People!” Warner called out, and a dozen faces spun to focus on him. “I know you're all working hard, but I wanted you to know that you're in the presence of a legend. This is Paul Gorman. After a brilliant Army career in the military police he retired and created a second brilliant career in civilian law enforcement. He ran at least three major metropolitan police forces and was consulted by just about every police chief or commissioner in the country. And today…” Warner stopped and turned to Gorman as if he expected him to address the group of younger officers. Instead he spoke directly to Warner.

“Today I'm a private consultant, and manage a local detective agency. Guess that makes me semi-retired,” he said with a self-deprecating smile.

“Yes, well we are humbled by your presence,” Warner said, razor wire smile in place. “Please join me in my
office.” Warner turned and marched up the stairs. Gorman nodded to the group and followed.

Three bedrooms and a bathroom filled the second floor of the house. The master bedroom had been converted into Warner's office, which provided enough space for a large desk, two chairs, a bench and a row of filing cabinets that Gorman would have thought unnecessary in this electronic age. Either Warner, like Gorman, had trouble letting go of the old ways, or he was a fanatic who needed double redundancy to feel comfortable. This time, Gorman was pretty sure which it was.

Warner parked in his big wooden rolling chair and clasped his hands on the desk. The posture reminded Gorman of a vulture bending over a tree limb, watching his prey walk into range. Gorman settled into a chair directly in front of him. He noticed that his chair was lower than Warner's, forcing Gorman to look up.

“So, what does the legend want with me?”

Gorman hoped Warner didn't think he was the first arrogant asshole Gorman ever had to deal with. Gorman kept his soft smile in place and stepped confidently into range.

“You embarrass me, Vic. I'm not here as a legend, for God's sake, but as a friend of the force who might be able to help a little.”

“I see,” Warner said. “And just what is it that I might need help with?”

“Through an odd set of coincidences, my people have encountered one of your people in one of our investigations. Lorenzo Lucania. As I understand it, a good man in a tough spot.”

“He's up to the challenge,” Warner said. “Trained him myself.”

Of course, Gorman thought. People close to the edge sometimes reveal more than they might be expected to. “It has come to my attention that Lucania has been under for you for six years. I'll bet you don't drive the same car that
long.”

“Tell me, Paul, why didn't you ever go into politics?”

“That lifestyle just didn't appeal to me. Now, about Lucania?”

Was it any of this clown's business that Gorman had refused the Republicans' overtures because he was busy trying to salvage his failing first marriage? It was a cruel irony that the woman died just when they were on the verge of reconciliation.

“How long an operative on this task force stays in place is my decision,” Warner said, maintaining a fierce eye contact.

Gorman sipped his coffee and listened to the ceiling fan spin for a moment before responding. “You're right of course. It's your call. And that decision can be influenced by a number of factors, especially if you've got a man who's getting very close to the target of a really important investigation. But ultimately, the case can't become more important than the man, can it?”

“You think Lucania's at risk of flipping?”

“I'm just a concerned citizen,” Paul said. “You've got to agree that six years is, well, a little unusual.”

“It's an unusually good chance to bring down a major crime family,” Warner countered.

“I'm sure, but I think we'd both hate to see a good officer cross the line and find he can't get back.”

Warner sat up straighter and squared his shoulders. He unfolded his hands and placed his palms flat on the desk. If this were the Old West, Gorman would expect Warner to go for his gun right about….now.

“Now, you listen to me, Paul,” Warner began. “I know all about Beyond Blue Investigations. I know most cops don't unless they've been a client of yours, but my people talk to me and I keep my ear to the ground. I figure the only way you can know about Lucania is if he sent up a cry for help. See, you represent a dangerous thing here. A lifeline people can reach for. Now, Lucania's a little nervous so he
calls out. When he sees that he can't just walk off the case, he'll buckle down and get the job done.”

It was time for Gorman's nonsequitor. “This is the career maker, isn't it, Vic?”

“This is an important potential breakthrough for the City of New York.”

“This is the one that can get the mayor's attention,” Gorman said, standing and placing his coffee on Warner's desk. “This is the one that will propel you into the political arena, and you'll walk on a good man's grave if necessary to get there.”

Warner also stood, and the two men faced each other, both with their hands on the desk.

“I will not have some has-been coming in here telling me how to run an operation I've been heading up for seven successful years.”

“I will not see a good cop destroyed by your blind ambition. You find a way to bring Lucania in today, before you lose control.” Gorman backed off a step, giving Warner room to make the decision on his own. Warner maintained his position.

“Thank you for stopping by, but I believe this interview is over. Good day, Mister Gorman.”

Dr. Benson heard his receptionist squeal in protest just before the Asian woman burst into his Park Avenue office. He had been going over his notes in preparation for his nine-thirty appointment. Now he had some petty functionary shoving a badge into his face and demanding information.