City Of Lies (57 page)

The task force is set on standby. No clearance is given for any sharpshooters to attempt a strike. Enough innocent people have been killed already.

It is ten-o-seven by the time the awkward huddle of people reaches the rendezvous with Wheland. Only one hostage goes in the car with them, one hostage and something in the region of six hundred thousand dollars. Such scenes are replicated at two other locations – West Twelfth, as Victor Klein, Larry Benedict and Leo Petri make their way from the rear of East Coast Mercantile & Savings, again with hostages – three of them – and start running over Greenwich to the corner of Perry; also at West Broadway where Charlie Beck, Sol Neumann and Lewis Parselle start away from Associated Union Finance towards the corner of Spring and Thompson, five hostages gathered around them, where Ron Dearing waits patiently in the vehicle, his nerves taut, his mouth dry, his face drenched with sweat.

All four crews, carrying with them an estimated three million,
two hundred and five thousand dollars, are expected back at the lock-up across from Pier 46 by twenty-two minutes after ten.

The West Broadway crew – Charlie Beck, Lewis Parselle, Sol Neumann, and Ron Dearing – are stopped dead in their tracks by a tirespike across Sullivan Street. In an attempt to run from the car, Sol Neumann is killed by a single shot to the head. Beck, Dearing and Parselle attempt to make it down MacDougal, but the weight of their burdens, the fact that their greed has outweighed their native instinct to survive, means that they get no more than two hundred yards before black and whites cut off the road and a dozen or more armed police officers stand between them and the way home.

They were last seen – all three of them – by another news station helicopter, this one from Channel Six, as they were spreadeagled on the road, faces down, hands out ahead of them, ankles crossed.

By the time Frank Duchaunak understood what was happening he knew that Walter Freiberg was not at the West Twelfth site. At ten-o-two he’d shown his ID to a stationed Federal Agent, a man called Liam Shaner, and Shaner had explained that they were covering four attempted robberies. Duchaunak had asked whether or not there was any indication that one of the four crews had a girl within its ranks. Shaner seemed surprised, smiled in a strange kind of way, and then said, ‘She was the first one we took out.’

‘Took out? Where?’

‘Bethune and Greenwich, American Investment & Loan.’

Duchaunak did not respond. He merely thanked the agent for his help and turned away. He’d asked after Cathy Hollander because he felt certain that wherever she was, there he would find Freiberg.

He reached the junction at the end of the street and started running. Bethune was no more than five blocks away.

By the time the secondary rendezvous time had arrived only two crews remained. The West Ninth and Washington four – Joe Koenig, Albert Reiff, Ricky Wheland and Karl Merrett – had been roadblocked at the end of Cornelia Street by three black and whites. Joe Koenig and Albert Reiff were both shot, Reiff fatally,
Koenig merely wounded, as they ran from the abandoned vehicle.

Arriving at Pier 46 were the two remaining crews – those led by Klein and Freiberg respectively. Few words passed between them. They understood that nothing had succeeded the way it had been planned. From the moment they had invaded their target sites the game had been over. Between them they carried a little more than two point three million dollars. There were seven men in all – Klein, Freiberg, Maurice Rydell, Larry Benedict, Leo Petri, Henry Kossoff and Ray Dietz.

‘The girl?’ Klein asked Freiberg.

Freiberg raised his hand and drew his index finger across his neck.

‘Shame,’ Klein said, but there was no emotion in his voice.

‘We use all four cars,’ Freiberg said. ‘Split the money. There’s eight bags, put two in each car, everyone goes different ways, into the city, right into the middle of the city and gets lost like we planned. We’ll speak and co-ordinate what the fuck we’re going to do in a few days, okay?’

‘Done,’ Klein said.

Larry Benedict and Henry Kossoff divided the bags between the vehicles.

‘We’re gone,’ Walt Freiberg said, and within moments, less than a minute perhaps, four bright yellow Medallion cabs hurtled away from Pier 46. Freiberg went alone, the others in twos – Klein and Kossoff, Benedict and Petri, Dietz and Rydell. They went different ways, out along West Street, hurtling away into silence as the first of the squad cars came from Perry and West Eleventh.

Behind them, standing in the road, terror-stricken, tear-streaked faces, hands shaking, nerves shredded, were the hostages they had taken – people who could never have imagined how this day was going to go. And now it had gone, all of it, and as uniforms surrounded them, as helicopters broke the sky into pieces over their heads, they wondered if such a thing as this could ever be let go of, or if such a thing would haunt them for the rest of their lives.

Better haunted than dead, one of them thought – a young woman of twenty-three called Faith Duggan. She’d been there
when Ray Dietz had broken a security guard’s neck with no greater ceremony than a wishbone. Such things as this had always been part of other people’s lives. Now, on Christmas Eve of all days, those people had included herself.

By the time Frank Duchaunak – breathless, drenched in sweat – reached Bethune and Greenwich the party was over.

He was immediately stopped by a Federal Agent who asked for his ID. When Duchaunak showed it the agent told him to stand right where he was, to not move, and then he took a radio from his belt and called someone.

‘We have him,’ the agent said, and Duchaunak – confused, unaware of what was happening – merely scanned the street for any kind of reference point.

The agent put away his radio. ‘You are armed, Detective?’ he asked.

Duchaunak nodded absent-mindedly.

‘I must ask you to relinquish your weapon,’ the agent said.

Duchaunak turned and looked at him.

‘Your weapon sir . . . I need your weapon.’

‘The fuck you do—’ Duchaunak started, and then another man came hurrying towards him, an older man, dressed immaculately.

‘Detective Duchaunak,’ the second man said. ‘My name is Robert Hennessy. I am responsible for co-ordination between the Federal presence here and the local police. I have spoken with Captain McLuhan—’

‘He’s here?’ Duchaunak asked. The first agent stepped back, the weapon forgotten.

Hennessy shook his head and smiled. ‘No Detective, he’s not here.’

‘What happened to the girl?’ Duchaunak asked. ‘I heard that the girl had been taken out.’

Hennessy frowned. ‘Girl?’

‘Hollander . . . Cathy Hollander . . . the girl who was with Freiberg—’

‘Right, right, yes of course. Cathy Hollander.’

‘She’s dead? And Freiberg? Is he dead too?’

‘Freiberg . . . no Detective, he’s not dead. Right now we are still pursuing seven of the original felons.’

‘But the girl . . . you got the girl?’

‘Calm down, Detective. The girl is quite alright. She’s being taken care of as we speak.’

‘Alright?’ Duchaunak shook his head. He was still looking down the street, over his shoulder, every once in a while upwards as the sound of a helicopter caught his attention. ‘What d’you mean, she’s alright? Someone shot her. One of your people took her out, didn’t they?’

‘Cathy Hollander is one of us, Detective. Her name isn’t Cathy Hollander, never has been. She is a Federal Agent. It was she who provided all the information regarding the robberies that were planned today . . . she is the reason we were here, Detective—’

‘What?’ Duchaunak asked. ‘She’s what? What the fuck are you talking about? The girl has a police record going back fifteen years. She has aliases, names she’s used in other states—’

Hennessy was smiling. ‘She has a fabricated police record Detective. She has a fictional history. Cathy Holl— her name is actually Ruth Delaney, but as Cathy Hollander she was put inside the Marcus camp a long time ago to break the back of this New York situation.’

‘But she was shot. One of your people told me she’d been shot.’

‘She was shot intentionally, Detective. She made herself visible to one of our sharpshooters on purpose. She wore a bulletproof vest and she was shot with a rubber bullet. It was a simple procedure to have the remainder of her crew leave her behind. These people do not take their dead along with them, not when they could be carrying money instead.’

‘I don’t understand—’

‘It’s okay, Detective. Come with me. We’re going back to see Captain McLuhan and there we can get you updated on what is happening with the remainder of the people involved.’ Hennessy reached out his hand to guide Duchaunak away from the sidewalk and towards a waiting vehicle.

‘And Freiberg?’ Duchaunak asked as he walked.

‘Who knows?’ Hennessy said. ‘He’s out there somewhere,
doing his very best to evade capture. I’m sure we will have him in custody within the hour.’

Duchaunak stopped suddenly. ‘And you know about John Harper?’

Hennessy smiled once more, an expression that made Duchaunak feel small and insignificant. ‘Of course we know about John Harper. We’ve been keeping a very close eye on Mr Harper to ensure that he doesn’t get himself into any serious difficulties. We even had people in Miami telling Marcus’s people just enough to keep them wondering about him. We wanted to ensure that he did not become involved in what was happening today, at least not directly.’

‘And now?’ Duchaunak asked. ‘Where is he now?’

Hennessy shook his head. ‘He was last seen leaving the vicinity of West Twelfth. I would’ve had someone go after him but he was safe and we have no reason to upset him further. I’m sure he will make his way back to his hotel and we will speak with him later.’

‘I need to see him,’ Duchaunak said. ‘I need to see John Harper.’

‘Later,’ Hennessy said. ‘First we’ll speak with Captain McLuhan, and then you can see Mr Harper.’

Duchaunak shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I want to see him now. I’m going over to the hotel. I want to speak with him, and then I’ll go and see McLuhan.’

Hennessy shook his head. ‘I cannot force you, Detective. I would much prefer it if you would come with me and see Captain McLuhan—’

Duchaunak smiled at Hennessy. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘The kid must be scared out of his fucking wits. He helped us, you know? He was the one who met with Ben Marcus. He told me about West Twelfth. That’s the only reason I knew to come here. Let me go speak with him. Let me go give him some kind of an idea of what’s happening here. Tell McLuhan I’ll be at the precinct no later than noon.’

Hennessy hesitated.

‘Am I under arrest for something?’ Duchaunak asked. ‘Jesus, I just want to go see the guy and make sure he’s okay.’

‘Okay,’ Hennessy said. ‘But go see your precinct Captain at noon like you said, okay?’

‘I will, I will . . . don’t worry.’

‘And I’ll have one of my people drive you over to see Harper.’

‘Thank you,’ Duchaunak said.

Eighteen minutes later Frank Duchaunak walked through the front door of the American Regent Hotel. He glanced over his shoulder at the Federal Agent seated in a car against the sidewalk. He hurried past the reception desk, along a corridor that ran adjacent to the restaurant, took a back stairway down to the lower kitchens and hurried between racks of pans and cooking utensils to the rear service doors. He flashed his ID at one of the staff and told her he needed to leave by the rear exit. The girl obliged, opened the door for Duchaunak, and then watched him as he hurried up the concrete incline of the delivery entrance towards the street behind the hotel.

Duchaunak knew that John Harper would not be in his hotel room. Truth be known he could have been anywhere in the city, but Duchaunak doubted it. He had an idea, just an idea, that John Harper might have gone home.

The man’s hand was steady, remained so even when John Harper appeared in the kitchen doorway. The gun seemed too small to do any real damage, but nevertheless it was a .38, a caliber sufficient to keep Walt Freiberg right where he was.

Evelyn Sawyer smiled. ‘John,’ she said softly. ‘It’s good to see you.’ She glanced towards the man standing in the corner of the room, the one who held the gun on Freiberg.

‘I’d like you to meet someone,’ she said. ‘This is Thomas McCaffrey . . . he’s been staying with me for a few days.’

Harper looked at McCaffrey, then turned and looked at Freiberg. Freiberg was seated in a straight-backed chair against the wall, his hands on his knees, at his feet two dark canvas bags.

‘Sonny,’ Walt said.

‘Don’t call me that, Walt,’ Harper said. ‘Please don’t call me that any more.’

‘Pay no mind to him, John,’ Evelyn said. ‘Walt has been busy this morning . . . busy doing the things that Walt does. Figured he could come over here and finish his outstanding business before he left New York for good. Right, Walter?’ Evelyn smiled. ‘He thought that he could come over here and charm me, didn’t you Walter?’

Freiberg shook his head. ‘Evelyn—’

‘Don’t say anything else,’ Evelyn said. ‘I’ve heard enough out of you for a lifetime. You don’t have anything to say to me . . . it’s John that you need to be explaining things to.’ She turned and glanced at Harper. ‘You come on in and sit by me and Thomas . . . come and listen to what Walter has to say.’

‘I’m going to stay right where I am,’ Harper said. ‘I want to know what the hell is going on here. Who
is
this guy?’

‘Thomas?’ Evelyn said. ‘Why, he’s the man who shot your father—’

‘What the fu—’

‘Don’t lose it on me now, John,’ Evelyn said, her voice almost sympathetic. ‘Thomas was paid a great deal of money to shoot your father. How much was it?’

‘A hundred thousand dollars,’ McCaffrey said.

‘But Thomas only got half of that . . . half before and half after, that was the arrangement he made with Ben Marcus. Thomas did exactly what he was asked. He was there in the liquor store when your father arrived. He shot him. Meant to kill him, but hell, these things have a way of going wrong, eh?’ Evelyn smiled, shook her head. ‘But Thomas wasn’t to know. He didn’t know Edward was going to wind up in St Vincent’s.’