Angel Face (14 page)

‘Until now.'

‘Until now.'

‘Gimme the address.'

Chin passes over a folded piece of paper containing an address in Woodhaven, Queens, not twenty minutes from where they sit, along with a single photograph. The photo was taken shortly after Carter entered the military. It depicts him in full uniform, his expression earnest, his mouth tight, his chin outthrust, more boy than man.

‘You think he looks like that now?'

‘Probably not, but every other photo was purged when he entered Delta Force.' Chin clears his throat. ‘I know it's not my business . . .'

‘You're right, it's not.'

‘But if you're planning to . . . to take Carter on . . .'

Again, Bobby interrupts. ‘What's my option? To sit on my hands and hope he goes away?'

‘No, to hire me.'

‘You?'

‘A few minutes ago, I told you that my past was irrelevant to our business. No more. I've been where Carter's been. I've walked in his shoes. I know how he thinks.'

Bobby's first impulse is to send the little fuck on his way. He's not forgetting the Blade's fantasy about snatching Carter and the whore off the street. But there's this deal coming up fast that needs all his attention. Bobby Ditto's not only risking his entire stake, he's accepting front money from people who won't sit still if he loses their investment.

‘How much?'

‘Fifteen.'

‘How will I know you pulled it off?'

‘What if I bring you his head?'

‘That'd do.'

SIXTEEN

C
arter doesn't waste time. Ten minutes after Angel leaves their apartment on Manhattan's Lower East Side, he's in her bedroom, searching through her belongings. When he discovers a .45 caliber Ruger beneath a stack of her panties, he smiles. The weapon is way too heavy for Angel, the likelihood of her striking a target more than three feet away remote. Nevertheless, Carter fetches a tool kit and removes the gun's firing pin. Then he wipes the revolver down and puts it back where he found it.

At this point, Carter should continue his search. At another time, he almost certainly would. But now he merely rummages through the drawers in the bureau before pausing to consider two possibilities.

First, are Angel's intentions proactive? Without doubt, she's driven by a need to accumulate money – her every ambition involves money, and lots of it. But Angel's far from stupid and the consequences of double-crossing Leonard Carter are obvious enough. She'd have to kill him or be afraid for the rest of her life. Does she have the balls to murder a man?

Again, Carter smiles. He's gotten his anatomy confused. And, yes, Angel definitely has nerve, purchasing a gun big enough to knock down a grizzly bear being proof enough. Still, it seems more likely that the prize is hiding behind door number two. Carter's too dangerous, too unpredictable, and once he gets his hands on the money, he'll have no further need of her. In fact, he has no further need of her right now. So why not invest in a little protection, a little insurance? If things go wrong, at least she'll have a fighting chance.

Carter walks through the apartment, to the window in the living room. He cranes his neck to stare over the building across the street at a gloomy sky. The weather's important to him because he intends to pass the morning and early afternoon squatting on a warehouse roof three blocks from Janie's apartment. Just two years ago, the warehouse was packed with furniture, a bustling enterprise that could only be approached after the doors were locked at night. Now it's empty, another victim of the ongoing economic troubles. Bad news for the workers, good news for Carter. From the roof, he'll have an excellent view of the surrounding blocks.

This morning, when Carter accessed his email account, he found a message from the super at Janie's apartment building, Miguel Romero. The message was succinct: a man, an Asian, had come around asking if Carter lived in the building. Romero's known Carter since Carter was a little boy and they've come to an understanding. If a snooper turns up, Miguel's to cooperate, tell the truth, take any money offered. Then let Carter know.

Meanwhile, there's still the cop. Carter and Solly Epstein are due to meet in an hour.

Carter takes a thin poncho from a closet shelf and slips it into a backpack. He adds two bananas and a thermos filled with coffee, then eases the backpack on to his shoulders. Briefly, he considers and rejects taking a weapon other than the knife strapped to his calf. Suppose the snoop is a cop? True, he identified himself as a private investigator when he braced Miguel, but there's still the chance.

Cautious by nature, trained to caution by the military, Leonard Carter avoids making decisions on the fly. He wants to know who this man is, why he's asking questions about Leonard Carter and who hired him, assuming he's really a private investigator. And Carter wants to accomplish each of these objectives without confronting the man on the street. Not that Carter doesn't have a handy suspect, a likely betrayer, a man he never trusted but always liked.

Carter closes and locks the door behind him. He takes the elevator down six flights and walks out into the damp spring morning. Tulips bloom in a pair of window boxes to his right and the air is faintly scented by a small lilac bush in a townhouse garden across the street. Carter looks up at a sky the color of a prison blanket. He's thinking that he woke up healthy this morning and he's going to spend the night with Angel Tamanaka. Given the life he's lived, as boy and man, he can hardly expect more.

Louis Chin's been sitting in his rented Camry for three hours, feeling more and more uneasy about the silenced Glock stashed under the seat. Louis's always been a good salesman, but what he sold Bobby Ditto was a bill of goods, at least when it came to his own background. Louis Chin's never walked in Carter's shoes. He led a company, sure, and he was assigned to Intel for a year, which is where he made his contacts. But the military he served was a blunt instrument, whereas Carter's military was finely tuned. No way could Louis Chin operate fifty miles into Pakistan. Or Yemen or Somalia or Syria, for that matter. No way could he execute his mission – which for Carter meant executing human beings – and make it out alive.

Chin taps the steering wheel. The business of being a civilian has turned out to be a constant challenge. As he understands it now, the top-down military model suited him far better than the anarchy of the civilian world, every day beginning with new decisions, new consequences. Following orders was a lot simpler.

Of course, as a front-line Marine in Afghanistan, his life was at risk every day. That was why he quit. And now here he is risking his life again. Nevertheless, he's certain that he has the element of surprise on his side. Even if Carter's a paranoid type, he'll be looking for Italian gangsters, not a well-dressed Asian.

Chin steps out of the Camry and into a light drizzle. He retreats to the shelter of a storefront canopy where he stretches, leaning to his left, then his right, in a vain attempt to loosen the muscles of his lower back. As he does, he glances up at a three-story building, a warehouse of some sort, located on a neighboring block, Myrtle Avenue. If he can get up on the roof, he'll have an unobstructed view, both of the windows fronting Carter's apartment and the main entrance to the building itself. Chin estimates the distance between the warehouse and the apartment building to be a mere two hundred yards. Maybe he isn't the greatest marksman ever to enlist in the Marines, but armed with a rangefinder and a decent rifle, he won't have any problem hitting something as large as a man.

Chin enters the little grocery store to find an Arab running the show. Two Arabs, actually, one by the cash register, a second behind the deli counter. That's another thing about civilian life. Half the little grocery stores in New York are owned by Arabs. When had that come about? Why hadn't anyone told him the hajis were taking over?

When no ready answer to either question comes to mind, Chin picks up an orange soda and a small packet of ibuprofen tablets before heading back to the car. Seated again, he chases the tablets with the first two inches of his soda and settles down. Back when he signed his discharge papers, he'd imagined a warm welcome from the many private security agencies owned by ex-Marines. And he'd gotten a warm welcome –
Semper Fi, BooYah
– but they were laying people off, not hiring. Now . . .

Chin stiffens when he picks up movement in the rear-view mirror. The man approaching the Camry on the street side of the vehicle is ten years older than Leonard Carter, with bull shoulders, a bald head and a cheap suit that has to belong to a cop. This is not good news, not with an illegal pistol under the seat. The silencer, all by itself, could put him in a federal prison for the next five years.

Sure enough, the man raises an open billfold as he comes up to the window, revealing a detective's gold shield and an ID card. The billfold snaps shut before Chin can read a word.

‘Lieutenant Epstein,' the cop says. ‘May I see your driver's license and registration?'

‘Am I doing something wrong, detective?'

‘Yeah, you're not complying with a lawful order. Show me your driver's license and registration.'

With no real choice in the matter, Chin produces the documents. ‘The car's a rental,' he explains.

Epstein slides a pair of reading glasses on to his nose before scrutinizing Chin's license and the rental agreement. He takes a spiral notebook from his pocket and writes down Chin's name, address and driver's license ID number.

‘Mr Chin, will you tell me what you're doing here? You've been parked for the last two hours.'

Chin has the right to refuse and he knows it. He's in a legal parking space and he's not committing a criminal act. But then the cop smiles apologetically.

‘I'm not tryin' to harass ya. I got a good reason.'

‘I'm a private investigator, detective. I'm on a case.'

Epstein's eyes widen. ‘Yeah? A private eye?'

‘That's right.'

‘And you're licensed, right?'

‘Right.'

‘Can I see your license?' When Chin complies, Epstein examines the license, then says, ‘Mr Chin, do me a favor. Step out of the car and take a look around. Please.'

Epstein's tone is so reasonable, the expression on his face so mild, that Chin simply exits the Camry to stand in a heavy mist that instantly coats his face. He looks around, as asked, discovering a single pedestrian, a massive black man in a red football jersey walking a dog that can't weigh more than two pounds.

‘I don't see anything.'

‘Ah.' Epstein raises a finger. ‘See, that's the whole point. We're lookin' for a serial rapist and we've got this whole area under surveillance. But you don't see anything out of place because the whole point is to stay invisible until the mutt shows up.'

Chin looks at the ground for a moment. He's thinking any port in a storm, any excuse to get himself and the gun out of Dodge. ‘You're telling me that I'm messing up your operation and I need to leave?'

‘You're definitely conspicuous. I mean, who sits in a car for two hours? People walkin' the street see you, they're gonna make you for a cop. Definitely. Now, I can't order you to leave. You're a private investigator, licensed by the NYPD, and you're goin' about your regular business. But I'd really appreciate your cooperation. We'll be outta here by tomorrow morning, one way or the other. You can always come back.'

Chin accepts with a nod. Of course, he'll cooperate. When Epstein hands over his paperwork, he slides into the Camry, starts the car and drives off. The relief that follows proves nearly overwhelming. Only at the last minute does he notice a stop sign at the end of the block.

Chin comes to a halt in the crosswalk, blocking the path of an elderly woman crossing the street. With the window still open, he listens to the tap of her cane on the pavement as she works her way around the car. Chin's not resentful when she pauses long enough to favor him with a raised middle finger, not at all. He thinks he deserves the salute.

SEVENTEEN

A
ngel arrives at the Rubin Museum of Himalayan Art ninety minutes before her appointment with Vincent Graham. A dedicated multitasker, she's combining business with business, the first order of the day to choose a painting. Angel has a paper due for her last Art History class at Brooklyn College, a final thesis. She's decided to compare storytelling traditions in Christian and Tibetan art, and to connect both traditions to the illiteracy prevailing in those cultures.

The paper, Angel's certain, will be easy to write, its essential point beyond dispute, yet at the same time original because no one else in the class will think of it. In medieval religious art, candles symbolized holy illumination, flames the fires of hell. The lamb substituted for Jesus, the iris for the Virgin and the dove for the Holy Spirit, while eggs indicated the fertility of nature and chains symbolized slavery. Each of these symbols, and many more, would have been recognized and understood by the general population, just as today we instantly associate the golden arches with McDonald's, or the swoosh with Nike.

Angel works her way up three levels before she comes upon a painting that nicely illustrates her main argument, a
bhavacakra
or Wheel of Life. There's a printed explanation of the painting's symbolism mounted on the wall beside the work, an explanation the work's intended audience would neither require, nor understand, even if written in the Tibetan language. Prepared as always, Angel removes a pad and a pen from her purse, then fills a page with notes before turning her attention to the painting.