The Dark Tide Free for a Limited Time (21 page)

One Police Plaza was the home of the NYPD’s administrative offices in lower Manhattan, as well as of the Joint Inter-Agency Task Force that oversaw the city’s security.

Hauck waited in the courtyard in front of the building, looking out over Frankfort Street, which led onto the Brooklyn Bridge. It was a warm May afternoon. Strollers and bikers were crossing the steel gray span, office workers in shirtsleeves and light dresses on their lunchtime stroll. A few years back, Hauck used to work out of this building. He hadn’t been down here in years.

A slightly built, balding man in a navy police sweater waved to a coworker and came up to him, his police ID fastened to his chest.

“New York’s Finest.” The man winked, standing in front of Hauck. He sat down beside him and gave him a tap of the fist.

“Go, blue!” Hauck grinned back.

Lieutenant Joe Velko had been a young head of detectives in the 105th Precinct, and had gone on to receive a master’s degree from NYU in computer forensics. For years he and Hauck had been teammates on the department’s hockey team, Hauck a crease-clearing defenseman with gimpy knees, Joe a gritty forward who learned to use a stick on the streets of Elmhurst, Queens. Joe’s wife, Marilyn, had been a secretary at Cantor Fitzgerald and had died on 9/11. Back then it was Hauck who had organized a benefit game for Joe’s kids. Captain Joe Velko now ran one of the most important departments in the entire NYPD.

Watchdog was a state-of-the-art computer software program developed by the NCSA, powered by nine supercomputers at an underground command center across the river in Brooklyn. Basically what Watchdog did was monitor billions of bits of data over the Internet for random connections that could prove useful for security purposes. Blogs, e-mail messages, Web sites, MySpace pages—billions of bits of Internet traffic. It sought out any unusual relationships between names, dates, scheduled public events, even repeated colloquial phrases, and spit them out at the command center in daily “alerts,” whereupon a staff of analysts pored over them, deciding if they were important enough to act on or to pass along to other security teams. A couple of years back, a plot to bomb the Citigroup Center by an antiglobalization group was uncovered by Watchdog, simply because it connected the same seemingly innocent but repeated phrase, “renewing our driver’s license,” to a random date, June 24, the day of an event there highlighted by a visit from the head of the World Bank. The connection was traced to someone on the catering team, who was an accomplice on the inside.

“So what do I owe this visit to?” Velko turned to Hauck. “I know this isn’t exactly your favorite place.”

“I need to ask you a favor, Joe.”

A seasoned cop, Velko seemed to see something in Hauck’s face that made him pause.

“I’m trying to locate someone,” Hauck explained. He removed a thin manila envelope from under his sport jacket. “I have no idea where he is. Or even what name he might be using. He’s most likely out of the country as well.” He put the envelope on Velko’s lap.

“I thought you were going to give me a challenge.” The security man chuckled, unfastening the clasp.

He slid out the contents: a copy of Charles Friedman’s passport photo, together with some things Karen had supplied him. The phrases “1966 Emberglow Mustang. GT. Pony interior. Greenwich, Connecticut.” Some place called Ragtops, in Florida, where Charles had purchased it. The Greenwich Concours Rallye, where he sometimes showcased his car. A few of what Karen remembered as Charlie’s favorite car sites. And finally a few favorite expressions he might use, like, “Lights out.” Or “It’s a home run, baby.”

“You must think just because you elbowed a few firemen out of the crease who were trying to knock the shit out of me I really owe you, huh?”

“It was more than a few, Joe.” Hauck smiled.

“A ’66 Mustang. Pony interior. Can’t you just log onto eBay for one of these things, Ty?” Velko grinned.

“Yeah, but this is far sexier,” Hauck replied. “Look, the guy may be in the Caribbean, or maybe Central America. And Joe…this is gonna come out in your search, so I might as well tell you up front now—the person I’m looking for is supposedly dead. In the Grand Central bombing.”

“
Supposedly
dead? As opposed to really dead?”

“Don’t make me go into it, partner. I’m just trying to find him for a friend.”

Velko slid the paper back inside the envelope. “Three hundred billion bits of data crossing the Internet every day, the city’s se
curity squarely in our hands, and I’m looking at an Amber Alert for a dead guy’s ’66 Mustang.”

“Thank you, guy. I appreciate whatever turns up.”

“A wide goddamn hole in the Patriot Act”—Velko cleared his throat—“That’s what the hell’s going to turn up. We’re not exactly a missing-persons search system here.” He looked at Hauck, reacting to the marks on his face and neck and the stiffness in his reach.

“You still skating?”

Hauck nodded. “Local team up there. Over-forty league now. Mostly a bunch of Wall Street types and mortgage salesmen.
You?
”

“No.” Velko tapped his head. “They won’t let me anymore. They seem to think my brain is good for something other than getting knocked around. Too risky on the new job. Michelle is, though. You should see her. She’s a goddamn little bruiser. She plays on the boys’ team for her school.”

“I’d like to,” Hauck said with a fond smile. When Marilyn died, Michelle had been nine and Bonnie six. Hauck had organized a benefit game for them against a team of local celebrities. Afterward Joe’s family came onto the ice and received a team jersey signed by the Rangers and the Islanders.

“I know I’ve said this, Ty, but I always appreciated just what you did.”

Hauck shot Joe a wink.

“Anyway, I better get on these, right? Top secret—specialized and classified. Joe stood up. “Is everything okay?”

Hauck nodded. His side still ached like hell. “Everything’s okay.”

“Whatever turns up,” Joe said, “I can still find you up at your office in Greenwich?”

Hauck shook his head. “I’m taking a little time. My cell number’s in the package. And Joe…I’d appreciate it if you kept this entirely between us.”

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about
that.
” Joe raised the envelope and rolled his eyes. “Taking a little time…” As Velko backed away toward the police building, he cocked Ty a wary smile.

“What the hell are you getting yourself involved in, Ty?”

After his meeting with Velko, Hauck went to the office of Media Publishing, located on the thirtieth floor of a tall glass building at Forty-sixth Street and Third Avenue.

The publishers of
Mustang World.

It took Hauck’s flashing his badge first to the receptionist and then to a couple of junior marketing people to finally get him to the right person. He had no authority here. The last thing he wanted was to have to call in yet another old friend from the NYPD. Fortunately, the marketing guy he finally got him in front of seemed eager to help and didn’t ask him to come back with a warrant.

“We’ve got two hundred and thirty-two thousand subscribers,” the manager said, as if overwhelmed. “Any chance you can narrow it down?”

“I only need a list of those who’ve come aboard within the past year,” Hauck told him.

He gave the guy a card. The manager promised he’d get to it as soon as he could and e-mail the results to Hauck’s departmental address.

On the ride back home, Hauck mapped out what he would do. Hopefully, this Mustang search would yield something. If not, he still had the leads he’d taken from Dietz’s office.

The Major Deegan Expressway was slow, and Hauck caught some tie-up near Yankee Stadium.

On a hunch he fumbled in his pocket for the number of the Caribbean bank he’d found at Dietz’s. On St. Kitts. As he punched in the overseas number on his cell, he wasn’t sure just how smart this was. The guy could be on Dietz’s payroll for all he knew. But as long as he was playing long shots…

After a delay a sharp ring came on. “First Caribbean,” answered a woman with a heavy island accent.

“Thomas Smith?” Hauck requested.

“Please hold da line.”

After a short pause, a man’s voice answered, “This is Thomas Smith.”

“My name is Hauck,” Hauck said. “I’m a police detective with the Greenwich police force, in Greenwich, Connecticut. In the States.”

“I know Greenwich,” the man responded brightly. “I went to college nearby at the University of Bridgeport. How can I help you, Detective?”

“I’m trying to find someone,” Hauck explained. “He’s a U.S. citizen. The only name I have for him is Charles Friedman. He may have an account on record there.”

“I’m not familiar with anyone by the name of Charles Friedman having an account here,” the bank manager replied.

“Look, I know this is a bit unorthodox. He’s about five-ten. Brown hair. Medium stature. Wears glasses. It’s possible he’s transferred money into your bank from a corresponding bank in Tortola. It’s possible that Friedman is not even the name he’s currently using now.”

“As I said, sir, there is no account holder on record here by that name. And I haven’t seen anybody who might fit that de
scription. Nevis is a small island. And you can understand why I would be reluctant to give you that information even if I did.”

“I understand perfectly, Mr. Smith. But it is a police matter. If you would maybe ask around and check…”

“I don’t need to check,” the manager answered. “I have already.” What he told Hauck made him flinch. “You are the second person from the States who’s been looking for this man in the past week.”

Michel Issa squinted through the lens over the glittering stone. It was a real beauty. A brilliant canary yellow, wonderful luminescence, easily a C rating. It had been part of a larger lot he’d bought and was the pick of the litter. Hovering over the loupe, Michel knew it would fetch a real price from the right buyer.

His specialty.

Issa’s family had been in the diamond business for over fifty years, emigrating to the Caribbean from Belgium and opening the store on Mast Street, on the Dutch side of St. Maarten when Michel was young. For decades Issa et Fils had bought high-quality stones direct from Antwerp and a few “gray” markets. People came to them from around the world—and not just couples off the cruise ships looking to get engaged, though they catered to that, too, to keep up the storefront. But important people, people with things to hide. In the trade, Michel Issa was known, as his father and grandfather had been before him, as the kind of
négociant
who could keep his mouth shut, who had the discretion to handle a private transaction, no matter what its magnitude.

With the money trail between banks so transparent after 9/11, shifting assets into something tangible—and transportable—was a booming business these days. Especially if one had something to hide.

Michel put down the lens and transferred the premier stone back into the tray with the other stones. He placed them in his drawer and twisted the lock. The clock read 7:00
P.M.
Time to close for the day. His wife, Marte, had an old-style Belgian meal of sausage and cabbage prepared for him. Later, on Tuesday nights, they played euchre with a couple of English friends.

Michel heard the outside door chime. He sighed. Too late. He had just sent his sales staff home. He didn’t flinch. There was no crime here on the island. Not this kind of crime. Everyone knew him, and, more to the point, they were on an island, surrounded by water. There was absolutely nowhere to go. Still, he reproved himself for having to be rude. He should have locked the door.

“Monsieur Issa?”

“I’ll be with you in a moment,” Michel called. He glanced through the window into the showroom and saw a stocky, mustached man in sunglasses waiting by the door.

He twisted the lock of the security drawer a second time. When he went around into the shop, there were two men. The man who called out, sort of a circumspect smile in his dark features, stepped up to the counter. The other, tall in a beach shirt and a baseball cap, standing by the door.

“I’m Issa,” Michel said. “What can I do for you?” He placed his left foot near the alarm behind the counter, noticing the taller man still hovering suspiciously by the door.

“I’d like you to take a look at something, Monsieur Issa,” the mustached man said. He reached inside his shirt pocket.

“Stones?” Issa sighed. “This late? I was just preparing to leave. Is it possible we can reschedule for tomorrow?”

“Not stones.” The mustached man shook his head. “Photographs.”

Photographs.
Issa squinted at him. The mustached man placed a snapshot of a man in business attire on the counter. Short, gray-flecked hair. Glasses. The photo looked like it had been cut out of some corporate brochure.

Issa put on his wire reading glasses and stared. “No.”

The man leaned forward. “This was taken some time ago. He may look different today. His hair may be shorter. He may not wear glasses anymore. I have a suspicion he may have come through here at some point, seeking to make a transaction. This transaction you would remember, Monsieur Issa, I’m sure. It would have been a large sale.”

Michel didn’t answer right away. He was trying to gauge who his questioners were. He tried to brush it off with a modest smile.

The mustached man smiled knowingly at him. But there was something behind it that Issa didn’t like.

“Police?”
he questioned. He had arrangements with most of them. The local ones, even Interpol. They left him alone. But these men didn’t look the type.

“No, not police.” The man smiled coolly.
“Private.
A personal affair.”

“I’m sorry.” Michel shrugged his shoulders. “I have not seen him here.”

“You’re quite sure? He would have paid in cash. Or perhaps with a wire transfer from the First Caribbean Bank or the MaartensBank here on the island. Say, five, six months ago. Who knows, he may even have come back.”

“I’m sorry,” Michel said again, the specifics starting to alarm him, “I don’t recognize him. And I would if he had been here, of course. Now, if you don’t mind, I have to—”

“Let me show you this one, then,” the mustached man said, firmer. “Another photo. You know how these things sometimes work. It may freshen everything up again.”

The man pulled a second photo out of his breast pocket and laid it on the counter next to the first.

Michel froze. His mouth went dry.

This second photo was of his own daughter.

Juliette, who lived in the States. In D.C. She had married a professor at George Washington University. They’d just had a baby, Danielle, Issa’s granddaughter, his first.

The man watched Issa’s composure begin to waver. He seemed to be enjoying it.

“I was wondering if that refreshed your memory.” He grinned. “If you knew this man now. She’s a pretty woman, your daughter. My friends tell me there’s a new baby, too. This is a cause for celebration, Monsieur Issa. No reason they should ever be involved in nasty business like this, if you know what I mean.”

Issa felt his stomach knot. He knew precisely what the man meant. Their eyes locked, Michel sinking back on his stool, the color gone from his face.

He nodded.

“He’s American.” Michel looked down, and wet his lips. “As you said, he doesn’t look the same now. His hair is closely shaved to his head. You know, the way young people wear it today. He wore sunglasses, no spectacles. He came here twice—both times with local bank contacts. As you said, maybe six or seven months ago.”

“And what was the nature of the business, Monsieur Issa?” the mustached man asked.

“He bought stones, high quality—both times. He seemed interested in converting cash into something more transportable. Large amounts, as you say. I don’t know where he is now. Or how to reach him. He called me on his cell phone once. I didn’t take an address. I think he mentioned a boat he was living on. It was just those two times.” Michel looked at him. “I’ve never seen him again.”

“Name?”
the mustached man demanded, his dark pupils urgent and smiling at the same time.

“I don’t ask for names,” Michel said back.

“His name?”
the man said again. This time his hand applied pressure to Michel’s forearm. “He had a bank check. It had to be made to someone. You did a large transaction. You had to have a record of it.”

Michel Issa shut his eyes. He didn’t like doing this. It violated every rule he lived by. Fifty years. He could see who these people were and what they wanted. And he could see, by the intensity in this man’s gaze, what was coming next.
What choice did he have?

“Hanson.”
Issa moistened his lips again and exhaled. “Steven Hanson, something like that.”

“
Something
like that?” The man now wrapped his stocky fingers around Issa’s fist and squeezed. He was starting to hurt him. For the first time, Michel actually felt afraid.

“That’s what it is.” Michel looked at him. “
Hanson.
I don’t know how to contact him, I swear. I think he was living off his boat. I could look up the date. There must be a record of it at the harbor.”

The mustached man glanced back around to his friend. He winked, as if satisfied. “That would be good,” he said.

“So that makes everything okay, yes?” Michel asked nervously. “No reason to bother us again. Or my daughter?”

“Why would we want to do that?” The mustached man grinned to his partner. “All we came for was a name.”

S
TILL SHAKING,
M
ICHEL
closed up his shop and left shortly after. He locked the rear entrance to the store. That’s where he kept his small Renault, in a little private lot.

He opened the car door. He didn’t like what he’d just done. These rules had kept his family in business for generations. He had broken them. If word got out, everything they’d worked for all these years was shot.

As he stepped into the car and was about to shut the door,
Michel felt a powerful force push at him from behind. He was thrown into the passenger seat. A strong hand pressed his face sharply into the leather.

“I gave you his name,” Michel whimpered, heart racing. “I told you what you wanted to know. You said you wouldn’t bother me anymore.”

A hard metal object pressed to the back of Issa’s head. The merchant heard the double click of a gun being cocked, and in his panic, his thoughts flashed to Marte, waiting for him at dinner. He shut his eyes.

“Please, I beg you, no….”

“Sorry, old man.” The pop of the gun going off was muffled by the Renault’s chugging engine. “Changed our minds.”