T
wo days later, at a few minutes after five in the morning, Danny was awakened by the triumphal tritone plink of a secure text message on his iPhone. Lucy stirred in her sleep, mumbled, “What?”
“Sorry,” he whispered.
He grabbed the iPhone from the bedside table. He slid it unlocked, saw that the message was from AnonText007.
MEET 9AM 75 WEST BROADWAY, SOUTH BOSTON. TAKE T.
Another meeting? He’d thought he was done with them. Now what was the problem?
The T was, in Boston slang, the subway. For some reason they didn’t want him to drive. What was that about?
He was too keyed up to go back to sleep, so he went into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee.
By the time Abby awoke, he was wide awake and jittery.
She sat in silence in the front seat during most of the ride to school. Every half a minute or so, she’d change radio stations, dissatisfied with all of them. Her favorite hip-hop station was all talk. When she wasn’t changing radio stations, she was busy texting.
Ever since she’d become a teenager, Danny had given up trying to read her moods in the morning. She could be pouting or seething, or she could be just fine. She wasn’t a morning person. Anyway, sixteen-year-olds weren’t biologically programmed to get up at six thirty. He’d read that somewhere.
She hadn’t said another word about the Boston College medal she’d found in his jeans. Of course not. What had struck such fear in Danny’s heart was just one more minor scuffle between Abby and Dad, another one thrown on the pile, already forgotten.
“I hate this!” Abby said suddenly.
“What do you hate?”
The length of the drop-off line at school they’d just pulled into?
“This . . . stupid piece-of-shit flip phone!”
“Hey. Language.”
“Sorry. Piece of crap. It’s so hard to text on this thing. How come I can’t get an iPhone?”
“You want a Mercedes-Benz with that?”
“No, I’m serious. I hate it! None of my friends have flip phones anymore.”
“I know, life can be so cruel. First there’s that genocide in Darfur, then there’s the famine in Somalia, and then, worst of all, Abby Goodman is forced to use a last-year’s-model LG flip phone.”
Abby smoldered and didn’t reply. Too easy, Danny thought. Shooting fish in a barrel.
A car pulled up in the line behind him. Galvin’s chauffeured Maybach. Tom Galvin sat in the front seat, talking on his BlackBerry.
“We must be right on time,” Danny said. “We’re ahead of the Galvins.”
Abby turned, saw Jenna, waved.
“That’s not Esteban,” she said.
Danny glanced in the rearview mirror. “You’re right.”
“Maybe Esteban is sick. He must get sick sometimes.”
“Sure.”
When they pulled up to the front entrance of Lyman Academy, Abby allowed herself to be kissed, though on the top of the head, not offering a cheek.
“Have fun, Boogie.”
“How could I not,” she replied drily.
She pulled open the door and slinked out.
The high beams on Galvin’s car pulsed on, then off. “Danny,” called a man’s voice. Abby slammed the car door and scampered over to Jenna.
Danny turned to his right, then turned around, and saw Galvin’s hand out the window of his limo, waving at him.
“Got a sec?” Galvin called.
Danny pulled forward into the short-term parking area, off to one side, and the Maybach pulled alongside.
Danny got out, tense and smiling. His mouth was dry.
The driver had gotten out and come around to open the passenger’s-side door for Galvin. It definitely wasn’t Esteban. This one wore the same uniform, the billed cap and black suit and tie, but it fit him awkwardly, like something he’d taken off the rack at a uniform shop. He was around the same height and breadth as Esteban, but his build seemed more exaggerated: arms like ham hocks, a torso that tapered sharply. He looked brutish, like a wrestler or maybe a boxer who’d spent too much time in the ring. He had a small, sloped head atop a neck that was as wide as the head it supported, thinning black hair, deeply inset raisin eyes. His face was spiderwebbed with broken capillaries. His lips were purplish and fat, like two slabs of liver, and seemed permanently parted even when his teeth were clenched.
Galvin got out, nodding at his bodyguard.
He looked terrible. His eyes were bloodshot, with deep circles underneath and lines on his forehead Danny hadn’t noticed before. Galvin, who normally looked so polished and serene, looked like he’d been up all night.
He shook Danny’s hand.
Danny felt fear wriggle in his belly.
“Danny, I’d like you to meet Diego, my new driver. Diego, this is Mr. Goodman. He’s a friend of mine and, more important, the father of Abby, Jenna’s best friend. Danny and his daughter are very important people in our lives.” His left eye twitched almost imperceptibly.
Diego bowed his head and smiled somberly, exposing the glint of gold molars, then returned to the driver’s seat.
“Gotta make sure the new guy knows the key players in my life,” Galvin said.
“What happened to Esteban?”
Galvin’s left eye twitched again, very slightly. If you didn’t know him, you might not have noticed it. He seemed to have developed a tic. He sighed. “Esteban had to go back home to his family in Mexico. Not a good time to break in a new driver, but there’s probably no convenient time.”
“That’s a bummer.”
“Didn’t you say you play squash?”
“Well, I haven’t played in a while.”
“That’s okay. My squash partner canceled on me, and I need the workout. Would you be free for a game after work today?”
“I’m not a great player.”
“Neither am I. It’s just for fun.”
“I’ve got to do an interview this afternoon,” Danny lied. “Maybe some other time.”
He was almost positive he’d never told Galvin he played squash.
T
he location for the meet with the DEA guys was a diner in South Boston that looked like an authentic old diner out of the 1950s. Its exterior was shiny diamond-plate metal siding. A neon sign said
MUL’S.
Inside, it looked even more authentic, with red leatherette booths and stools, Formica-topped tables, and white-tiled walls. Behind a long counter edged with ribbed aluminum, a couple of line cooks were frying eggs and turning pancakes the size of dinner plates. Everything smelled like bacon and coffee and maple syrup.
Glenn Yeager was seated at one of the corner booths, facing the entrance, chowing down on a huge breakfast. Next to him was an open laptop, a black Toshiba. The booth looked to be strategically located. No other tables were close. They could talk openly.
“Where’s Bad Cop?” Danny asked.
Yeager replied through a mouthful of egg, “Change of plans.”
Danny sat down at the booth as a waitress appeared with a menu and a glass carafe of coffee and filled a chunky white mug. “Change?”
Yeager gulped down a few swallows of orange juice. Cleared his throat. He closed the laptop. “Phil’s checking out a lead. He might join us later.”
Danny shrugged. He wasn’t going to complain about Slocum not being there.
The waitress, copper-haired and big-busted, said, “Know what you want, honey?”
“I’m all set with just the coffee,” Danny said.
“Come on, Daniel, order something. Best breakfast in town.”
Danny shook his head and waited until the waitress gave up and left. “What’s this about? I thought I was done with you guys.”
“We’ve got a problem. We’re not picking up a signal.”
“The transmitter?”
Yeager nodded solemnly.
“That’s not my problem. I did everything right, on my end.”
“Unfortunately, it’s very much your problem. Until we get what we need on him, you belong to us.”
And here, Danny thought, was the flaw in their arrangement. He had no way of knowing whether they were telling him the truth. Maybe the bug in the dummy Boston College medal was working just fine but they wanted him to keep planting surveillance devices on Galvin. More and more of them, more brazenly, until he got caught.
Unless he’d already been caught. That thought had lodged in his head like a half-chewed bite of steak stuck in your craw. What if Galvin knew?
“Isn’t the thing voice-activated?”
Yeager nodded again.
“Maybe it’s not transmitting because he hasn’t been talking in his office recently.”
“But he has.” Yeager sounded almost mournful. “We’re picking up signal traffic on his home-office landline. Encrypted, so we don’t know what he’s saying, but we know he’s made several calls.”
Danny shrugged, shook his head. “I don’t know what to tell you. I did my job.”
“Maybe you mishandled it. These little pieces of electronics can be delicate.”
“I didn’t even open the thing.” Slocum had opened the dummy medal for him and showed him the component inside. But he hadn’t shown Danny how to open it himself, since he didn’t need to.
“I believe you. Maybe it got jiggled. These things happen. Point is, it’s not transmitting.”
“Well, no way am I going back to his study,” Danny said. “He caught me in there—he came home unexpectedly when I was placing it, and . . . What if he figured out what I was doing? What if he opened the medal or just destroyed it, or . . . ?”
Yeager blinked a few times but said nothing. He looked at Danny with dead eyes.
“Is it possible he discovered the bug?” Danny asked.
Yeager watched him a little longer. “You’re alive, aren’t you?”
“Jesus.”
“Maybe his security people did a sweep.” He shrugged. “The fact that you’re alive indicates they don’t know you’re the one who planted it.”
“Well, I’m not going back into his study and planting something else. Absolutely not. I can’t.”
Yeager pointed with his fork to a reddish hillock on his plate. “They make the best corned beef hash here. Big chunks of brisket. Not that stuff that tastes like cat food you get everywhere else.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You want to try something that’ll take the top of your head off, get the homemade cinnamon bun muffin and ask them to grill it for you. I mean, it’s life-transforming.”
The waitress topped off his mug of coffee, even though he’d maybe taken two sips.
“He has a new driver,” Danny said.
“There you go.” Yeager shrugged and gave him another dead-eyed look. “The driver took the fall for you. He probably goes into Galvin’s office from time to time to get things for his boss, drive them into town. He’s a logical suspect.”
“So Galvin didn’t know it was me.”
“Clearly. Nothing was wrong with the transmitter. Safe guess his security people found it in a routine sweep.”
“And this poor guy gets killed.”
“Collateral damage. Better him than you, right?”
“Great,” Danny said, unable to muster much enthusiasm.
Yeager pulled a small black nylon Nike gym bag from the floor and set it on the table. He unzipped it partway and shoved it toward Danny.
He looked inside. There was a gadget inside not much bigger than an iPhone. He looked at Yeager. “Now what?”
“That little doohickey is called a MobilXtract. It’s made by an Israeli company for law enforcement and intelligence agencies, and it costs a buttload of money. Handle with care.”
“What does this have to do with me?”
“It’s the only move we have left. We tried downloading a software agent to his BlackBerry, but no luck. This way is far more likely to succeed. All you have to do is plug it into Galvin’s BlackBerry and touch a few screen prompts, and in three or four minutes it’ll download everything. E-mails, text messages, contacts, you name it. Idiotproof.”
“
All
I have to do?”
“We get the information on his BlackBerry, we’ve got the case against him nailed down.”
“That thing never leaves his hands.”
“I doubt that.”
“I’m supposed to just grab it from him and start downloading . . . ? This is insane.”
“It’s easy. All you need is the right opportunity.”
“No such thing. Look, it’s not my fault that your transmitter was discovered. I did my part. I don’t see why I have to risk my neck again because your plan didn’t take into account the possibility that Galvin’s security people would do a sweep.”
Yeager shrugged and took a heaping forkful of hash. He chewed for a few seconds and then said, through a mouthful of food, “You get points for trying. But until we have enough on him to justify an arrest warrant, you’re still on the hook.”
“Why did you want me to take the T here anyway? Why not my car?”
“Security.”
“Like I might be followed?”
“Or there’s a tracker on your car. It’s all possible.”
“If there’s a tracker on my car, that means they suspect me,” he reasoned. “Right?”
Yeager shrugged. “Maybe they’re doing their due diligence. Watching you, seeing who you meet with. Making sure you’re not working for the DEA.”
“And if they find out I am?”
“That’s why we’re taking measures to protect you.”
“What happens if they find out I’m meeting with the DEA?” Danny persisted.
“Why do you keep obsessing about this? You’re, like, picking a scab. Don’t keep thinking worst-case scenario, or you’ll be too scared to function effectively.”
“Yeah, well, he invited me to play squash with him.”
“You see? He definitely trusts you. That’s a great opportunity. Please tell me you said yes. I’m thinking he’s not going to be bringing his BlackBerry onto the squash court. Your opportunity has just presented itself.”
“I said no. Anyway, that’s not my point. He said I told him I played squash. I never told him that.”
“So?”
“How would he know I play squash? I don’t even know where my racquet is anymore.”
“Isn’t that an Ivy League kind of sport? You went to Columbia. That’s an Ivy League school, last I heard. He just figured.”
“Listen to me—”
The waitress appeared again to top off his coffee mug. “You sure you’re not going to have breakfast, sweetie?”
“I’m good,” Danny said.
The waitress looked disappointed, but she smiled and sidled away.
“He knows things about me I never told him,” Danny said. “It’s like he’s had me checked out. Like he’s been briefed about me. That thing about the squash, that was a slip.”
“And that surprises you? Your daughter spends a lot of time with his daughter, he lets you into his house, into his family’s life—you think he’s not going to be careful? He’s not going to have a backgrounder done on you? This is not a guy who trusts a lot of people. In his position, he can’t.”
Danny exhaled slowly through his nostrils. “Maybe that’s all it is.”
“That’s all it is,” Yeager said. He turned his head and smiled. “There’s your buddy.”
Danny turned and saw Phil Slocum approaching the booth, a beat-up leather portfolio in one hand. He looked grim, even grimmer than usual. He sank into the booth next to Yeager without even giving Danny a glance.
“You look like someone stole your lunch money,” Yeager said.
Slocum unzipped the leather portfolio, took out a brown file folder, and handed it to Yeager. “The body checked out.”
Yeager’s smile faded. He pulled out several 8 x 10 glossy photographs. “Dear God in heaven,” he said. “Goddamned animals.”
He handed one of the photos to Danny. “I would say they discovered the bug.”
It was a photo of a body so disfigured, the carnage so gruesome, that at first glance it didn’t even look like a human being.
Only when he saw the mole in the shape of Australia on the right side of what remained of the neck did he recognize Galvin’s driver.