Dark City (Repairman Jack - Early Years 02) (12 page)

After dark? Shit. He’d been hoping to get a break from this bird-dog detail. Looked like the whole rest of the day was going to be more of the same.

He looked at the travel agent, then scanned her desk. He saw a photo of a little boy and a girl at a park tacked to a corkboard. He popped it off and showed it to her.

“Your kids?”

She swallowed and nodded.

“Cute,” he said, folding it. “You want them to stay that way, you won’t tell anybody we were here.”

Another swallow, another nod.

He shoved the photo into his pocket and walked out. People with kids were so
easy
.

The big question now: What did Drexler and al-Thani have planned for this Shalabi after dark?

3

Neil waited until midmorning to place the call. Didn’t want to make it too early because a lot of these old broads slept late. Didn’t want to wait until noon because a lot of them went out to lunch.

“Allo?”
Definitely an old lady’s voice.

“Is this Mrs. Michelina Filardo?”

“Yes. Who’s a-calling?”
she said with a prominent Italian accent.
“If you gonna ask me for money, you can a-just go to hell. I—”

Feisty old bag.

“No-no. Nothing like that, Mrs. Filardo. My name is Nathan Munden and I’m with the New York State Banking Department.”

“Oh, no, you don’t! You think I’m a-born yesterday? Next you be wanting my a-Social Security number!”

“Please, Mrs. Filardo. I already know your Social Security number. And this isn’t a scam. There’s nothing wrong with your account. We simply need your help with a problem at your bank branch. Can I come over and speak to you about it?”

“I’m a-no sure…”

“I’ve got a badge and an official identification card, if that will make you more comfortable.”

He’d found it best not to mention right off that his card identified him as a member of the Banking Department’s fraud investigation unit. At least not over the phone. The word “fraud” tended to get old folks worked up, and he could better finesse her in person.

“Badge? You gonna arrest me?”

He forced a laugh. “No-no-no! None of this involves you and you don’t have to be involved if you don’t want to, but I’m hoping you’ll be a good citizen and help us catch a thief.”

“Someone a-steal from me?”

“No.” Didn’t the old girl listen? “As I told you, this does
not
involve your account. I repeat: This does
not
involve your account. I can explain everything better in person. May I come over?”

“Now?”

“Before lunch or after lunch, whichever is more convenient.”

He didn’t want to give her too long. The longer the lag, the greater the chance she’d blab to someone.

“You come now. I’m a-wanna hear this.”

She bit! He pumped a fist. Now he had to move in close and set the hook. Once that was done, all he had to do was reel her in.

“Excellent. I can be there in half an hour.”

“This better not be a-bullshit. I can smell a-bullshit a mile away.”

“None of that stuff, I assure you, Mrs. Filardo. This is the real deal. See you soon.”

Christ! he thought as he hung up. This old broad was a bitch on wheels. No surprise she wouldn’t front her grandson’s business, harebrained or not. Still, she was going to let him through the door. That was the biggest hurdle. Once he sat her down and exposed her to the full intensity of the magical Zalesky charm, she’d be putty in his hands.

4

Jack sat in his usual spot by the window of the used bookstore/coffee shop and pretended to read while keeping an eye on Zalesky’s place across the street. He’d decided to extend the rental on the Chrysler New Yorker—the only functioning wheels he had at the moment—and had left it parked down the street.

Around quarter to eleven, a guy stepped out of the doorway next to the Italian bakery: Zalesky, wearing a fedora and dressed in a dark suit with a white shirt and a red-and-blue-striped tie.

Right away Jack was up and moving. This was not going-to-the-sports-bar attire. This was the same outfit he’d worn when Jack and Julio had tailed him to a meeting with another of his marks.

Jack followed him just far enough to make sure he was heading for his car, then doubled back to the Chrysler. He started rolling toward the Bruckner. If Zalesky was heading for the Filardo place, Jack didn’t need to follow. He knew the address. If he had another destination in mind, it didn’t concern Jack.

Jack let Zalesky pass him on the Bruckner and then trailed him south to the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. As they crawled along, he crept to within one car length of Zalesky’s Dodge. On the off chance the hijo de puta was talking to himself, he turned on his receiver. Instead of Zalesky, he heard a scratchy voice talking about the Knicks. Zalesky was listening to WFAN.

Okay, the good news was the hidden microphone was working beautifully. The bad news was the radio was activating the transmitter, and that would shorten the battery life. Well, Zalesky didn’t seem to use the car much. Jack could only keep his fingers crossed.

The slow traffic left plenty of time to take in the ugliness of the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center to his right across the East River, dominating and ruining the skyline of Manhattan’s lower end; on the left they passed Brooklyn Heights, Cobble Hill, and then finally Carroll Gardens where Zalesky made his exit.

No question: He’d made contact with Michelina Filardo.

Yes!

5

Neil stepped out of his car and glanced up and down the tree-lined street. Probably nice and shady when the leaves were out. He turned his attention to the house—a neat three-story brownstone with wrought-iron railings. Living in a place like this wouldn’t be hard to take. Not hard at all.

He glanced down as he took the ten steps up to the front door. Looked like it had a basement apartment, or a least room for one. According to the printout Melinda had given him, Michelina Filardo was sixty-one years old. The grandson had said she lived alone. He had a feeling he was going to have to bring his A game with this broad. She knew enough not to fund her grandson’s half-ass scheme about fiber optics or whatever bullshit he’d been spouting back at the Event. Would she swallow Neil’s line?

Of course she would.

A little lady looking older than sixty-one opened the inner door. Her grandson hadn’t been kidding: Michelina Filardo was old-country Italian, right down to the widow’s black and graying hair pulled back into a bun.

“Hi, Mrs. Filardo. I’m Nathan Munden with the New York State Banking Department. I called you a short while ago.”

“I remember. I’m a-no
stupida
. Show me you badge.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

No problem. He had impressive ID, and had added a little something extra, just for her. He pulled out his badge, his ID card in its leather folder, and his calling card. Both the latter said he was a member of the State Banking Department’s fraud investigation unit.

She opened the glass storm door a couple of inches and he passed them all through.

As she was inspecting them he said, “Turn over my card.”

She did so, stared at it a moment, then looked up at him. “What’s this?”

He gave her his sincerest smile. “Your Social Security number. On the phone you seemed worried that I was going to try to trick you out of it. I just wrote that there so you’d know I’m not trying to trick you—I already have it.”

“How you get it?”

It had been included on the printout Melinda had provided, but she didn’t need to know that.

He shrugged. “State Banking Department, remember? We tend to know these things.”

Well, that was the clincher. She pushed open the door. True to his gentlemanly civil servant image, he removed his hat as he stepped through.

In!

She was staring at his card again, the front now.

“What’s a-this ‘fraud’?”

“I investigate people trying to cheat the banks, and someone’s doing just that not ten blocks from here at your Chase branch.”

“No!”

“Yes! They’re using the computer system to shift funds to a private offshore account when one of the depositors makes a large cash withdrawal. They think they’re getting away with it, but we’re on to them.”

“Then a-you should arrest them!”

“We will. Oh, believe me, we will. But the trouble is, we don’t know who is doing it. We know it’s happening but we can’t identify the hacker—that’s the term for someone who illegally enters a computer system. We do know he or she is operating out of the branch at Hamilton and Summit, but we don’t know who.”

“What you want a-from me?”

“We need a regular depositor at the branch to make a large withdrawal while we’re watching the computers. We’ll know which terminal was used to run the hack and when we find out who was at that terminal at the time, we’ll swoop in and nab him.”

Her eyes narrowed. “And why you a-come to me?”

“Because you’re a longtime depositor. Who would expect you of being an undercover agent working with the Banking Department’s fraud investigation unit?”

Now her eyes widened. “Me? Undercover?”

That word got them every time. Well, almost every time. The ones who had a sense of civic duty were the best marks for this game, which was why Neil favored the old ones—the older the better. Anywhere in the seventh decade was good.

Forget about trying the “civic duty” hook on anyone much younger:
You’re from the Banking Department? Fix your own problems, asshole.

But these old folks were a different breed. If the mark was male, World War Two or Korea vets were the easiest. They’d fought for their country in wartime and were more likely to be willing to help out the government. For the women, anyone who’d lived through the Depression and had seen banks fail had feelings for their fellow depositors, even if savings were insured these days.

But then add “undercover” and that usually clinched it. He’d seen it in their eyes time and time again:
I’m going to be an undercover agent for the government … me.

“Yes, but don’t worry. There’s no danger to you or your money. This is strictly white-collar crime. No guns, no violence, this person is stealing simply by fooling the bank’s computers.”

“They steal a-my money?”

“Yours and your neighbors’.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s very complicated, and I’m not sure I understand it completely myself. But we know it’s happening. And your end is very simple. This Saturday I’ll pick you up and drive you the ten blocks to your local branch where—”

“Why on Saturday?”

Neil hid a smile because he knew then he had her. He had already stopped asking
if
she was going to do it and switched to
when
they were going to do it, and she was still on board.

“Because our crook”—no accident in using
our
—“only does his dirty work on Saturdays when the bank’s computer centers are understaffed. However, we’ll make sure they’re fully staffed when we know our undercover agent Michelina Filardo is on the job and setting the trap.”

He was laying it on thick, he knew, but he sensed this lady needed an extra dose of the Zalesky charm and silver tongue to get her fired up and all gung-ho to trap this thief.

He waited for some sort of positive response, but she was holding back. Okay, time to hit her with one of his closers—again, playing it as if her participation was all settled and done, with only the details remaining.

“Now, one thing we need to be very clear on: You cannot mention this to anyone—
anyone.
And there’s a very good reason for that. You know and I know that most people are
blabbermouths
. Am I right? I bet you can think of a couple of your neighbors right off who, if you told them how you’re going to help the government catch a thief on Saturday, they’d be right down at the bank yakking about it. Am I right? Am I right?”

She was nodding now. “Mrs. Naccari. What a
boccalone
!”

Neil had no idea what that meant, but was pretty sure Mrs. Naccari couldn’t be trusted with a secret.

“Right. And I’m sure you know plenty more like her. Remember: loose lips sink ships, and telling the wrong person will sink our chances of nailing this creep who’s stealing honest, working folks’ hard-earned money.”

She kept nodding. Good. Her head was going in the right direction. Up and down was good.

“So, I’ll pick you up after lunch on Saturday, say around one thirty or so, and we’ll drive down to the branch to make your withdrawal.”

“How much?”

“The withdrawal? I think twenty thousand will do it.”

She gasped. “What? No! That’s a-too much!”

He shrugged. “We need a sizable amount to tempt the creep. And don’t worry: It won’t be out of the bank vault more than an hour or so. You take it out, the computer boys identify the creep, and we redeposit it. Easy as pie. No one will know that you helped us catch a thief.”

She was shaking her head. “Twenty thousand…”

“But what you need to do is notify the bank ahead of time that you’re going to make the withdrawal and to have the cash ready for you.”

He always had the marks set up the withdrawal a couple of days ahead of time. It avoided so many hassles, especially suspicions about a possible hostage situation. The withdrawal wasn’t coming out of the blue. This was no emergency. It all had been arranged days in advance. The cash would be waiting.

“I know this is a lot to throw at you at once, so here’s what I’ll do: I’ll come back tomorrow afternoon and walk you through arranging the withdrawal.”

She still looked uncertain about the amount. Time to back off and give her breathing room.

“You have a lovely home, by the way.”

“I have lived here many years.”

Probably bought it for a song too. From the look of the place and the size of her account, she could afford to lose twenty grand—twice that—and not squawk.