The October List Page 10

  Then his thoughts segued to Gabriela's friend, Frank Walsh, whom he did not know, but had only followed around and, of course, datamined. Joseph always did his homework before he went out to ply his craft.

  Pudgy Frank Walsh. Nerdy Frank Walsh.

  Joseph didn't have any particular dislike for Mr. Walsh; he considered him to be a rather stupid, naive man. Pathetic.

  He reflected that it was a shame Frank was going to spend his last night on earth with his mother, and not getting laid. At least, Joseph thought, sipping the sweet drink, he assumed not. Ick.

  The September cold seeped in and, even though he had plenty of natural insulation on him, he shivered. Joseph was eager to get this part of the job over with and return home to Queens, where several new Netflix movies awaited, snug in their little red envelopes. Most people would probably be surprised that a man like him, who had killed twenty-two people in his life--men, women and, though only out of necessity or accidentally, children--would enjoy movies. And yet, why not? Killers were people too. In fact, he'd learned some things about his line of work from movies and TV.

  The Long Good Friday, The Professional, Eastern Promises, others. The Sopranos not so much. Although he liked the acting, he wasn't quite sure why Tony and the crew--none of them particularly clever--hadn't been arrested and thrown in the slammer halfway through the first season.

  Luck, he guessed.

  No, scriptwriters.

  He turned his jacket collar up and contemplated, with pleasure, returning home, sitting in front of the Sony by himself, well, with his Maine coon cat, Antonioni, and watching the latest disks. He wondered if he should take the tenderloin with him for dinner.

  No, he'd do a Lean Cuisine tonight. Save the calories.

  Joseph glanced at his watch. He took the CVS bag, stepped outside and locked the warehouse door.

  CHAPTER 16

  4:50 P.M., SATURDAY

  40 MINUTES EARLIER

  I NEVER THOUGHT WE'D FIND IT," Gabriela said breathlessly. "The October List."

  They were on Third Avenue, walking fast away from the office building.

  Daniel Reardon said, "I didn't get a look at it. What could you tell?"

  "I just glanced at the first page. Names and places and numbers. Maybe accounts, maybe dollar amounts. I don't know what they mean. And I didn't recognize anybody."

  They continued in silence for a few minutes before he said, "In the list, did you see anything about 'October'?"

  "No."

  "I wonder what it means. An anagram, a name?"

  "Maybe," Gabriela suggested, "it means something's going to happen next month. Something really bad." She sighed, as if feeling all the more guilty about not turning the list in.

  "How long?" she asked. "Until Joseph's deadline?"

  A pause, and Daniel said, "About an hour and ten minutes."

  "No! It's that late?" Gabriela tugged her jacket closer. The wind was brisk and filled with autumn chill. "There's no way we can find the money in time! We don't have any leads."

  Daniel agreed. "I don't see how."

  "We have the list, though!"

  He hesitated then said, "That's not what he wanted by six. He wanted the money."

  "But it's the most important thing to him. Didn't you get that impression? If he's reasonable, he'll take it and let Sarah go."

  "I'm sorry, Gabriela, but I don't think he is a very reasonable man."

  She stared at him and there was hysteria in her voice. "But it's all I've got!"

  "Still," he persisted, "we've got to try to find his money. Or at least a place where it might be, so we can tell him we're getting close. That could be enough--if we can give him something specific--to buy more time."

  Her shoulders slumped and she nodded back at the building. "If there's nothing in the office, then I don't know where else we could find any clues to--" She abruptly stopped speaking.

  "What?"

  Frowning, Gabriela said, "Last night, when I met you?"

  He smiled. "I remember."

  "I'd left work early for that meeting about negotiating the warehouse lease in Bankers' Square? The rush job? I had some files with me."

  "Right. I was thinking you were quite the workaholic. What's in them?"

  "Open items for the accountant. Some business, but some personal of Charles's. If I find something in them, we can at least tell Joseph we've got a lead."

  "Then let's get to your place. Fast. We don't have much time."

  They hurried toward the uptown street, to catch a cab.

  Daniel was lifting his arm to flag one down when a voice from behind them barked, "Hold it right there."

  They stopped, exchanged surprised glances, then turned around.

  Gabriela blinked and looked at the two detectives with unbridled anger. She whispered to Daniel, "No, we can't wait! We have to get to my place now!"

  She turned to the cops. "Detective Kepler and..." She looked toward the other one, smaller, his complexion grayish.

  "Surani."

  Kepler gestured the cab to keep going.

  "No!" Gabriela barked.

  The driver hesitated and then, responding to the detective's angry glare, sped off to pick up another fare.

  Surani asked, "Have you heard from your boss?"

  "No. I don't know anything more about where he's gone. I would've called you if I found out anything."

  "Would you?" Kepler asked. "You weren't too busy?"

  "What's that supposed to mean?" Her voice was flint.

  "Hanging out in your apartment, watching TV?" the detective shot back. "Who knows what you've been up to?"

  She asked, "How did you find me here? You've been following me?"

  "We were at Prescott Investments. Someone fitting your description was spotted walking away from the place. We thought we'd take a stroll around this beautiful neighborhood. And see if you happened to be here. After committing a felony."

  The more relaxed of the two, Surani, said, "There was a report that somebody maybe broke into the Prescott office just now."

  "What?" she asked, frowning.

  Kepler regarded her closely--and cynically. "Was it you?"

  "I--"

  "Don't lie."

  "No," Daniel said firmly.

  Gabriela turned to look at Daniel, who was easing forward to the officer. "Gabriela wanted some personal items. But we saw there was a police seal, so we left."

  "Yeah?" Kepler asked.

  "That's right," Gabriela said, looking around, as if Joseph was nearby, coolly observing this conversation.

  Oh, and by the way, somebody'll be watching you. Every minute...

  "Look, we have to go. I don't have time for this."

  Kepler continued, paying no attention to her protest, "There was an officer in front of the building. Why didn't he see you go into the lobby?"

  "I don't know," Gabriela said stiffly. "If he was supposed to be guarding the place, ask him."

  Kepler snapped, "What the hell were you looking for?"

  "Some personal things. You heard that. A checkbook, some bank statements of mine. Nothing you'd be interested in. Nothing having to do with Charles."

  "And you didn't break the crime scene seal?"

  "Of course not."

  "It's a crime, you know," Surani said.

  "I assumed so. That's why we left."

  Kepler said ominously, "I've got an officer going through the place now. Just to see if anything's missing."

  Daniel said, "This's been a tough time for her. Couldn't you just give her a break?"

  Kepler seemed to be practicing his skills at ignoring people. He looked Daniel up and down with what appeared to be contempt, then moved away, pulled out his cell phone and made and received several calls.

  Surani stood nearby, less hostile, but at attention as if to grab them if they tried to escape.

  She glanced at her watch. Daniel too looked down at it. "The time," she whispered. "The deadline..." Her jaw was trembling. "We have
to get those files in my apartment!"

  The deadline was forty-five minutes away.

  "We really have to go!"

  Kepler disconnected. "Glad we ran into you," he said, not sounding particularly glad at all. He nodded to his phone. "The FBI's just found out something else. Those clients I was telling you about earlier today? A number of them are in the financial services area--the U.S., Europe and the Far East. Brazil, too. A lot of stock and bond traders. But at least one was a known arms dealer, specializing in explosives and chemical weapons. He's the only one we've been able to identify. Gunther. Probably that European guy you mentioned, in St. Thomas. Thanks for that by the way. Don't know the first name. From Frankfurt originally. We think he has a safe house somewhere on the Upper East Side. That name ring any bells?"

  "No. Charles never had a client named Gunther."

  "Well, he did," Kepler snapped. "I just told you that."

  "What I mean is I never heard of him."

  Suddenly Kepler glanced down at her purse and saw the corner of an envelope protruding. "What's that?"

  She eased away. "Nothing."

  "Nothing? I'll bet it's more than nothing."

  "Just personal things."

  "What?"

  "I'm not answering that. If you want 'em, get a fucking warrant."

  Kepler looked at Surani and said, "What'd we learn in detective school?"

  His partner said, "Which part?"

  "About when there's been suspicion of a felony--say, breaking and entering."

  "Oh, breaking and entering an office building?"

  "Yeah, exactly. That means that we can search a suspect without a warrant, right? The Constitution lets us do that."

  Surani said, "It encourages us to do that."

  "Don'tcha just love that Constitution?" Kepler mused, ripping the bag from her hands and lifting out the envelope.

  CHAPTER 15

  3:15 P.M., SATURDAY

  1 HOUR, 35 MINUTES EARLIER

  MOVING CAUTIOUSLY, the couple continued down the damp, tree-lined street of Midtown in silence. Cautious of necessity. They knew the police had to be watching the Prescott office.

  Gabriela eyed cars speeding along the cross street. Dark cars, pale cars, taxis, limos, trucks. Vehicles, as much as pedestrians, were part of the tapestry of Manhattan. But she noted nothing out of the ordinary, nobody paying particular attention to them.

  Though seeing the unmarked police car at the curb, they paused near a ginkgo tree encircled by a low, wrought-iron fence to keep marking dogs from the trunk. "That's it," she whispered, indicating a six-story office building about fifty feet east, on the same side of the street where they stood. On a sign beside the front door a half-dozen businesses were listed--therapists, a chiropractor, a graphic design company.

  At the top: Prescott Investments, LLC.

  "How're you holding up?" Daniel asked.

  "I'm fine." Dismissing the question.

  Gabriela recalled that when she was a teen the Professor often comforted her by asking the very same or a similar question. "You okay?" "All right?" He'd sit close and look her over. She could smell tobacco and aftershave. She'd initially reply that she was fine, in this same tone as now, but he'd smile and persist. And he'd finally work out of her that she was sad or angry about some incident at school or because somebody had laughed at her (even at thirteen she was tall and skinny as a post) or simply because the day was cold and overcast.

  Gabriela had had mood problems all her life.

  The Professor could usually trick the sadness away, for a time at least.

  This memory she put away. With difficulty.

  "There she is," Gabriela said, nodding in the direction of her attractive Latina co-worker, Elena Rodriguez, across the street. The woman was walking toward the building from the opposite direction, her eyes down, face grim.

  Elena Rodriguez looked up and saw them, then started across the street. Her gaze swiveled to the unmarked police car parked in front of the office building, manned by a single officer. She hesitated in the street, as if trying to avoid being seen, and stepped back. When a truck passed, she hurried across after it--straight toward an oncoming taxi. There came a wrenching scream and the screech of tires like a bird of prey's cry, followed by a loud thud. Daniel's and Gabriela's view was obscured but an instant later they saw Elena spiral to the curb.

  "God," Daniel whispered.

  Immediately the officer sitting in the police car leapt out and ran to her aid. The cop looked around once then bent down toward the woman and pulled out his radio. The cabbie raced up, gesturing frantically with his hands.

  "Jesus," Daniel muttered. "Is she all right?"

  It did look bad, Gabriela realized, but she whispered, "We can't worry about her. Let's go."

  She gripped Daniel's arm and pulled him forward. Taking her keys from her pocket, she hurried to the office building. As the cop was bending down over Elena and making a call they stepped into the lobby. Gabriela slipped the key into the inner door lock and in less than a minute they were on the second floor, at the door marked with another brass plaque: Prescott Investments, LLC.

  The door was sealed with a yellow adhesive marker. Crime Scene Do Not Enter. The phone number to call in case one wished to access the office was at the bottom.

  Daniel hesitated but Gabriela opened the door of the office and pushed inside, tearing the NYPD notice neatly in half with a loud, ripping sound.

  Closing the door after them, she stopped, blinking, and looked around. "My God, they took everything! The computers, shredders, hard drives, file cabinets, credenzas. They must've brought moving trucks!"

  Daniel too examined the rooms, then glanced from the window. "I can't tell how Elena is. The trees are blocking the view. I think she's still on the ground."

  "We can't worry about her. We have to search! The money and the October List. We need them!"

  Her head swiveled as she regarded what few objects were inside. Some bad artwork, photographs and diplomas and certificates up on the walls. Also, vases of fake flowers, office supplies, cups, mugs, wilted flowers, pictures of family, bottles of wine, boxes of coffee and snacks. On two coffee tables were professional journals, recent editions of the New York Times and Wall Street Journal, several books: Debt Markets in BRIC Countries, Accounting Procedures and Tax Treatment of Oil and Gas Leasing Partnerships.

  In a corner were some storage boxes, missing lids but filled with papers.

  Gabriela dropped to her knees and prowled through the cartons.

  "Helpful?" Daniel asked as he began looking through drawers, which all appeared to be empty, except for office supplies.

  She read through them quickly. "No. These're just real estate records about the building. Nothing to do with Charles's business."

  She began rifling drawers and looking through closets while Daniel was prying up carpet and knocking on walls, searching, apparently, for hidden compartments.

  A man's approach, Gabriela thought. Not necessarily a bad one.

  They continued the search. But twenty minutes later Gabriela stood, stiffly, and looked around. She said in despair, "Nothing." She closed her eyes and sighed. Then she looked mournfully at the clock on the wall. "He kept his own watch fast, ten minutes, Charles did, so he'd never be late, never miss an appointment or conference call." Her eyes still on the timepiece, she said, "We have two hours. Oh, Sarah." She choked a sob. "What're we going to do?"

  Daniel peered out the window again, carefully. "The cop's on the radio, looking at the building. He seems suspicious. Oh, hell."

  "What?"

  "Somebody just came out of the building. Some woman. The cop called her over." Daniel stepped back fast. "He's looking up again. I think he's suspicious. We better get out."

  Which was when Gabriela cocked her head. "Oil and gas."

  "What?"

  She pointed to the reception area coffee table. "That book?"

  It was a textbook, thick and intimidating. Tax Treatment of
Oil and Gas Leasing Partnerships.

  She said, "We've never done any of that kind of work." She picked up the tome. Flipped through it. "Daniel, look." The first hundred pages were dense text about accounting and tax procedures. In the middle, though, were a dozen pages bound into the book that had nothing to do with partnerships.

  On the top of the first page were the words: October List.

  Gabriela laughed. "Yes!"

  "He hid it in plain sight."

  "Smart of him. The list's actually bound in, like any other pages, so it doesn't bulge suspiciously. No one would think twice about it; and there wasn't much chance of anyone stealing a boring textbook on leases."

  Gabriela carefully tore the list out. "Let's copy it." She looked around. "Wait. The copier's gone. The police took it. Why?"

  Daniel shrugged. "Maybe the memory chip. Fingerprints, I don't know."

  Gabriela glanced out the window. "Shit." She stepped aside fast. "Stay back."

  "What? The police?"

  "No. Somebody else. I saw a man in the alley across the street, looking up at the window. It might've been Joseph. A dark coat, like his. I couldn't really tell."

  "How could he've followed us here? Why would he want to?"

  "He said he'd be checking out if we went to the cops." Gabriela glanced carefully out the window again. "I don't see anyone. I'm probably being paranoid."

  Daniel said, "Maybe not. We don't exactly know what's in the list, but something tells me Joseph won't be the only one who wants it."

  She looked again out the window. "The cop? He's on his radio. He knows something's up."

  "We have to get out of here."

  "This is the only copy of the list. We can't risk Joseph or the police or whoever's out there"--a nod at the street--"stealing it. It's my only bargaining chip to get Sarah back."

  She examined the room fast and spotted on a credenza the bottles of wine. "Gifts from clients," she said. She nodded at a dark green box of Dom Perignon champagne. "Could you open that up?"

  Daniel undid the clasp and lifted the top. She folded the pages of the October List very tightly and, when he lifted the bottle, slipped them under it. He sealed the box back up and put it into a plastic bag. With a black marker she wrote a note on a Post-it and added that to the bag.

  "What are you doing with it?" Daniel asked.

  "I'm going to have it delivered to my friend Frank."

  "Frank Walsh, Mr. Complication," Daniel said with a dry smile.

  "Yeah. But a trustworthy complication." She glanced at the window. "What's the cop doing?"