The King of Fear: A Garrett Reilly Thriller (23 page)

N
EWARK
, N
EW
J
ERSEY
, J
UNE
23, 10:15 P.M.

D
eep disappointment washed over Agent Chaudry as she stood in the dark of the concrete plaza in downtown Newark. She had failed to grab Garrett Reilly, yet again, and this time she had been so certain she would find him. Everything had lined up for her—she’d had the DIA on her side, links from Captain Truffant’s phone and from her e-mail, as well as receipts for plane tickets and rental cars over the last week. General Kline had ordered his subordinate to open all her books and records to the FBI, and the information had led them to the seventh floor of the half-finished office tower on Raymond and Market.

Only they were gone.

Garrett Reilly and Ascendant had fled before Chaudry and the Bureau got there. Another missed chance. And the pressure was mounting. The Bureau was on war footing: from the murder of a federal official to a domestic terror bombing, the case was now on the front page of every newspaper in the country. The director of the FBI himself had called her that morning, his voice brimming with impatience, explaining that the president’s chief of staff had called
him
only ten minutes earlier, wanting to know what the hell was going on. They had put three separate teams on the bombing in DC, with a liaison to coordinate their efforts with hers. They had given her two dozen extra agents in Manhattan, as well as a new forensics team from the NYPD.

And still she wasn’t getting the job done. Standing at the base of the building where Reilly had recently hidden himself, she could only scrape her heels
against the cement and wonder where he had gone. She was trying so goddamned hard.

In order to think like Reilly, Chaudry had immersed herself in the world of patterns: for the last twenty-four hours, anywhere she could possibly find a pattern, she sought it out, wrote it down, studied and analyzed it.

For instance, seventeen field agents worked in the Manhattan FBI office; thirteen were men, and four were women. But the men were, on average, seven years older than the women, and of the last four hires, two were female, and two male. When she looked up the average retirement age of an FBI agent—fifty-eight—she realized that at the current distribution of hiring, women would outnumber men in the Manhattan office in nine years.

That revelation made her exceedingly happy. Score one for patterns.

She categorized the last four digits of phone numbers in her contact list, but found nothing there, so she turned to spending data from the receipts she found at the bottom of her purse. A nice pattern emerged from those pieces of paper: she spent around seven bucks in the morning—on coffee and snacks—then averaged twenty-three in the afternoon, before dropping back down to eight-fifty when she stopped at the Korean deli near her house. She liked that information as well and made a note to be more careful with her credit card in the middle of the day.

All in all, she enjoyed seeing the world through numbers; she’d always been good at math, and it felt right to her, even if that put her squarely in the cliché of the Indian girl who was a numbers geek. So be it.

Yet it hadn’t paid off. Reilly’s friendship with Michaela Rodriguez had no pattern. His relationship to Ascendant had no pattern. His running to New Jersey had no pattern. And the part that killed her was that the Newark PD had raided that very same office three days earlier. They had been spoofed, had kicked down the door, guns at the ready, had seen every member of Ascendant—and had walked away. How could they have been so blind?

She knew how. If you weren’t actively looking for a suspect, that person could be right in front of your face and you wouldn’t notice him or her. The Newark PD was not in the Garrett Reilly business, so he had escaped their grasp. And truth be told, when she read the report of the spoofing, nobody mentioned an office worker who bore any resemblance to Reilly. Perhaps he had fled the premises before they got there.

But all of this raised another question: Who had spoofed those offices in the first place? Was it this Ilya Markov that Captain Truffant had gone on about? There was no evidence that he had anything to do with the bombing at the Arlington Best Buy, or the shooting of the Fed president. Yet Truffant seemed convinced he was behind all of it. Was Truffant paranoid? She didn’t seem like the type, but she was an intelligence officer, and they were, by nature, afraid of their own shadows.

It was all maddeningly complex, an opaque mystery, the veil of which Chaudry was not penetrating. How could this possibly be? She was a master criminal hunter. She did not fail.
Ever.

Agent Murray walked out of the lobby of the building shaking his head, followed by a phalanx of other agents. “Nothing in any of the other offices. We checked every one.” He stopped a few feet from Chaudry and eyed her expectantly. She was still the boss, but her position was becoming tenuous. The director of the Manhattan field office might decide to replace her at any moment; and if that happened, Murray might well step into her shoes. “So, what next?”

Chaudry clenched her jaw, her eyes sweeping over the landscape of Newark and New Jersey beyond. A soccer stadium was lit up in the distance.

“Head back to Manhattan. We’ll review what we’ve got.”

Murray nodded faithfully, following orders, but Chaudry could see the beginning of a gleam in his eye. She was giving up for the day, stifled, and that meant he was one step closer to taking over the case. She didn’t blame him for his eagerness; he had every right to be as ambitious as she was.

They got in the white Chevy Malibu and drove east, onto Route 9 toward New York, along the elevated highway, past the smokestacks and rotting swamp piers. Chaudry watched the passing scenery with disgust: she hated New Jersey, hated being there, hated being
from
there.

“We’ll get ’em tomorrow,” Murray said, as they entered the Holland Tunnel. “Never give up, right?”

She looked over at her partner, his hands gripping the wheel of the car, eyes forward. Would he do a better job than she would? Perhaps she had gotten too mired in the weeds of the case—maybe it needed a fresh set of eyes.

“Yeah, tomorrow,” she said halfheartedly.

They came out of the tunnel into the artificial night of Manhattan and inched through traffic on Canal Street. Murray turned right on Broadway and headed south toward the Federal Building and the FBI field offices.

Chaudry’s phone chimed, a text coming in. She checked it.

Where are you?

She tapped out a reply.
Who is this?

Your bud Garrett.

She glanced over at Murray to see if he was watching her, but his eyes were glued to the street. She typed,
How did you get this number?

You gave it to me. In an e-mail. Remember?

Yes, she did remember. Of course. But why the hell was he texting her now?

Where are you?
he wrote again.
I thought we had a thing.

Chaudry tensed. Was he playing with her? Or actually reaching out to her, as she had predicted he would? She couldn’t let him slip away, not this time. Her heart raced as she tried to figure out how to play the situation. She needed to keep him on the line.

Driving back to the office. Where are you?

The response was immediate.
What kind of car?

White Chevy Malibu,
she wrote. She paused, then typed,
In the market for a new ride?

She pressed her lips together, her body tense with expectation. Was that the right tone to take? She should tell Murray to call the office and dispatch agents to triangulate Reilly’s cell phone, but Reilly would be expecting that; he was smarter than that. She needed to move their relationship to the next level. She needed to—

“Holy shit,” Murray screamed suddenly, slamming on the brakes. Chaudry’s head snapped forward, her seat belt locking, her chest and shoulders pressing hard against the strap.

Thump
. Someone had slammed their hands onto the hood of the car. Chaudry looked up in surprise, her hand instinctively going for the grip of the Glock in her holster.

But there, staring through the front windshield of the Malibu, a trace of a smile on his lips, hands on the hood, was Garrett Reilly. The look on his face was one of utter casualness, as if this were all going according to plan, and he had a fun little bit of mischief in mind. Mischief that he couldn’t wait to share with Chaudry.

“I surrender,” Garrett Reilly said. “Arrest me.”

PART 3

D
OWNTOWN
M
ANHATTAN
, J
UNE
24, 7:53 A.M.

A
nthony Marsh had been manager of the D’Agostino’s supermarket on Third Avenue and Twenty-Sixth Street for three years. Before that, he had been an assistant manager at the same store, and before that, produce manager for the D’Ag in Greenwich Village—the one all the way over on the West Side. Marsh, thirty-seven years old, with a closely cropped mustache and a taste for bow ties, liked the work. It was challenging, but not overly so, and required his organizational as well as his people skills. He liked the hours, his coworkers, even his bosses—the D’Agostino family—who dropped in to see how the store was being run every other week or so. But mostly he loved his customers: neighborhood types who came in to grab a six-pack of beer, a box of cinnamon-raisin cereal, or a package of trimmed pork chops.

Shoppers loved coming to his store, and Marsh loved them for being happy. It was a mutually beneficial relationship.

But today . . . today made him question everything. Today was a disaster, and rather than getting better, it was getting considerably worse by the minute.

His shift started badly with the news that the store’s credit-card processing was off-line. That had happened, briefly, in the past, but this outage seemed to be more serious—and was taking longer to fix. Normally, the store’s backup plan was to shift all credit processing to another company, but that backup company seemed to have been knocked off-line as well.

“Not a problem,” Marsh had told his cashiers. “We’ll do it the old-fashioned
way. By hand. Write down the credit-card numbers for processing later in the day.”

The cashiers weren’t happy about that, but they didn’t have a lot of choice, and pens and notebooks were brought to each checkout line. But it slowed checkout times considerably, and customers got cranky when they had to wait in line to pay and get their groceries. But as Marsh tried to calm nerves at the checkout counters, he learned that his customers had another reason to be cranky that morning.

“Goddamned ATMs aren’t working,” a young man grumbled as he paid for his milk and ground coffee with his last $20 bill. “All over Manhattan. Nobody’s getting cash.”

An older man on the same checkout line said he’d heard on the radio that ATMs in Brooklyn were spitting out other people’s money, and that some bank customers’ accounts had been zeroed out.

Marsh had to scratch his head at that one. Credit-card processing was down at the same moment that ATMs were on the blink? What were the chances of that happening? That had to be like a meteor strike in its rarity. He told his cashiers to let some customers—ones the cashiers recognized—pay on credit, writing down their names, addresses, and phone numbers. He figured most of them would be good for the money, and at this moment of crisis the idea would probably buy the supermarket some goodwill. But he hadn’t planned on other customers, ones the cashiers didn’t know, demanding the same treatment, and getting testy when they were denied the opportunity to pay later as well.

“You let white people pay later,” an elderly African-American woman hissed at him in the bread aisle. “But black folk gotta pay cash.”

“No, no, no,” Marsh tried to explain. “That’s not it at all. It’s just that we know those people. They’re from the neighborhood. And a lot of them happen to be Anglo. No, what I mean is . . .” He stuttered to a stop, sensing that his words weren’t helping matters, and the elderly woman shoved past him with her grocery cart.

He shelved the whole concept thirty minutes after he’d okayed it, but the damage had been done, and he heard a number of people in the aisles griping about the store’s discriminatory management. Then Marsh realized the bread shelves were only half-stocked, and he hurried to the cramped storeroom at the
back of the store to find out why. Marsh found his three stock boys drinking coffee and talking about the dates they’d been on last night.

“Guys? What the hell? Why is the bread aisle half-empty?” Marsh grabbed the stock list and scanned the room for delivery pallets.

Juan, the oldest of the three, shook his head sadly. “No deliveries, boss. Nothing since yesterday.”

“Not possible.” Marsh checked the delivery schedule. “We’ve got five different setups for this morning. Did you call?”

“Nah, man,” Juan said. “Figured you would.”

Marsh grunted in exasperation: the stockroom boys were the yawning abyss of his job. “You gotta tell me if we’re short so I can call. Otherwise, how am I supposed to know?”

“It’s just—you been kinda busy this morning, boss.” Alberto and Michael, the other two stock boys, nodded rapidly in agreement. “What with the bank riots and all.”

“Bank riots?”

“That’s what I heard,” Juan said. “Maybe just a rumor. But—crazy out there.”

Marsh suddenly felt as if he was having trouble breathing. “Just—clean up or something.”

The stock boys scattered to opposite ends of the storage room.

Marsh grabbed the landline and looked up the numbers for the delivery companies that were on today’s schedule. He tried the first, CR Logistics, but got a busy signal, which was strange. Their line was never busy. That was the whole point of being a shipping company—your customers could reach you 24-7. He tried the next shipper, but their line was busy as well, and the third, Brown & Franklin Freight Lines, was completely out of order. Baffled, he tried going online to contact the supply-chain management offices of each of the companies, but the D’Agostino Internet server was down.

“What is going on?” Marsh said to himself, his heart now beginning to pound. Before he had time to investigate, a female voice, edged with hysteria, crackled over the store’s PA system.

“Manager to dairy! Manager to dairy!”

That was probably Rosario at the front. If there was a true emergency—a fire or a bomb threat—they had codes, red and blue, to yell over the PA, and
Marsh had drummed those codes into the employees for years. Just saying
Manager to dairy
didn’t mean much, but the tone of her voice, the cracking of her vocal cords, made Marsh jump from his seat and scramble back into the store.

He jogged past the produce section, breaking into a run by the time he passed the potatoes, and noticed that they were short on bananas and berries. He wanted to stop to check the rest of the produce, but a crowd of people had gathered around the apples and the peaches, blocking his path back into the area. The aisles at the D’Agostino were narrow, and the store, like all Manhattan groceries, was cramped. Why were there crowds in produce? Were they short on everything?

“Manager to dairy!” Rosario’s voice rang out again, and Marsh forgot produce and ran, full tilt, for the dairy section. He skidded around the shelves stocked with tortillas—also low, he noticed—to find half a dozen customers and three D’Agostino employees gathered in a scrum around the milk section. A middle-aged woman in jeans and a sweatshirt was clutching four half gallons of milk in her arms, and a second shopper—a young woman in shorts and a tank top—was trying to pry them loose. An older man and a teenaged boy were on either side of the wrestling women, reaching into the center of the battle and either trying to dislodge the milk or break up the fight—Marsh couldn’t tell which. Two other shoppers, both women, were being restrained by two of Marsh’s employees, Jerome from the deli section and Suzie, a part-time bagger. The third D’Ag employee, Alicia from the back office, was dancing around the scrum, desperately trying to push people apart, but having little luck with that.

They were all talking over each other, not loudly—Marsh guessed because they were putting their energies into grappling with each other—but fast enough that Marsh couldn’t make out what they were arguing about. He hesitated for a moment, then grabbed the woman in a tank top by the shoulder and started to haul her backward.

“Hey! Hey! People! Come on, let go. Let go.” Marsh pulled hard at the woman in the tank top, but she had a lock grip on the milk-carrying woman’s forearm, and she wasn’t about to release her.

“She’s taking all the milk,” the woman in the tank top grunted. She turned toward Marsh and snapped her teeth at his hand, barely missing him.

“Jesus Christ,” Marsh yelled, pulling his hand away. “There’s no reason to fight over the milk. We’ll have more milk brought in this afternoon.”

“No, you won’t,” the woman clutching the half gallons said. “No one’s got any milk left in the whole city. I’ve got three kids!”

“I’ve got kids too,” the tank-top woman shrieked back. “You fucking bitch! Give us some of that goddamned milk!”

“Hey, there’s no need for that.” Marsh stood slightly back from the scrum now and clutched at the hand that had almost been bitten. The whole thing reminded him of separating fighting dogs, which he’d tried once, when a German shepherd and a pit bull were scrapping in a dog run in Riverside Park, and he’d almost lost a finger. “There’s no need to use that language.”

“Fuck you!” the woman in the tank top said, much louder now, so that people in other aisles could hear her. Marsh noticed that shoppers were gathering at both ends of the dairy section, craning their heads to watch the scuffle.

“We’re good,” Marsh said to the knots of shoppers. “We’re fine. Please clear the area.”

But nobody moved. A pair of teenaged boys got closer, and an older man grabbed an armful of cottage-cheese containers. “There’s no food anywhere on Third Avenue,” the old man said. “I’ve been to three stores. The whole city is out of food.”

“That’s not true,” Marsh said. “The Gristedes is open. And I’m sure the Whole Foods has plenty of milk.”

But the old man’s words seemed to energize the crowd, and before Marsh could turn around, a dozen more shoppers were charging into the dairy section. Men and women of all ages grabbed at containers of whatever they could reach: cream cheese, Greek yogurt, tubs of margarine, and plastic bags of shredded mozzarella. The first thing that came to Marsh’s mind was that none of these shoppers would be able to pay for the food they were grabbing. What they were doing was as good as looting.

“Stop it! Everybody, calm down!” Marsh yelled. He shoved at a man in a Mets jersey, but the man hissed at him, yelling, “Don’t touch me, douche bag,” then threw a punch at Marsh’s face.

Marsh’s head snapped back, and the room tilted on its axis. Marsh actually saw stars—flashes of gold and white in front of his eyes—but only for a mo
ment; then he grabbed at Jerome’s shoulder to steady himself. He felt that he was about to collapse.

“I got you, boss,” Jerome said, holding Marsh under his arm and trying to pull him away from the fight.

“Gotta stop them,” Marsh said, but the room was still spinning, and the side of his head was beginning to ache.

“We can’t,” Jerome said. “They’ve gone crazy.”

Marsh threw his arm around Jerome’s neck. Jerome was a teenager, not more than seventeen, tall and scrawny, and Marsh pulled him close, half because he wanted to make Jerome understand, and half because he didn’t seem to be completely in control of his own arms and legs. “Jerome. We have to call the police. Call them right away.”

“Already did,” Jerome yelled. He tugged Marsh farther down the aisle, away from the fight, but more and more shoppers were pouring into the dairy section, clogging the escape route.

“When are they coming?”

“Ain’t coming,” Jerome said.

“Why not?” Marsh shoved away from Jerome, his balance returning. But he knew immediately why the police weren’t coming: if this was happening in his D’Agostino, it was probably happening in supermarkets all across the city. As if to confirm that thought, a large woman pushing an empty shopping cart bore down on him, not seeming to care that he was directly in her path, and he screamed in fright as she crashed into his knees, sending him sprawling to the floor.

Then, the customers that he had loved so much began to run right over him, kicking at his arms and midsection, and Marsh thought to himself, Why are you doing this to me? But he knew the answer to this question as well.

His customers were scared. And they were hungry.