Once a Killer (19 page)

“We don’t have to go in there, do we?”

“Just you.”

Bull Neck paled. “I’m not—”

“I’m shitting you. Don’t worry; it’s all taken care of.” Glass Eye pointed to the Minolta camera at Bull Neck’s feet. “You just need to make sure you get everything, especially when he leaves the club later on.”

Bull Neck pointed out of the window. “Is that him?”

Glass Eye wiped the mist off the inside of the windshield with his fingers and operated the wipers. “Yeah. That’s him.” He started the car.

Across the street, Crouten opened a golf umbrella as he came down the steps of his apartment block before standing at the side of the road.

“What’s he doing?”

“He’ll be looking for a cab.”

“Shall we offer him a ride?” Bull Neck said, grinning.

Glass Eye turned off the radio. “That’s funny.”

“How do you know for sure where he’s going?”

“He goes to the same club every Friday. You just worry about the camera, Testino. I’ll take care of the details.”

Bull Neck looked confused. “Who the hell is Testino?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Meanwhile, Crouten managed to flag down a yellow cab, and it headed south after he jumped in. The Escalade began following at a safe distance while Glass Eye rubbed at the glass again before turning on the aircon.

“I told you to leave the windows open,” Bull Neck said.

“It’s not a problem. I know where he’s going anyway.”

Fifteen minutes later, the cab pulled up in front of the Pink Flamingo club in Soho, and Crouten stepped out.

Bull Neck lowered his window and stared at the people filing into the club. “Jeez! I’ve never seen so many piercings. I bet these guys have fun clearing airport security.”

“Make sure you get some of him going in,” said Glass Eye, parking the car across the street.

Bull Neck focused the telephoto lens, by leaning it against the doorframe, and captured a burst of shots of Crouten entering the nightclub. “Not sure many of these will be any good. They don’t prove much.”

“You need to get the name of the building with Crouten in the shot.”

After Crouten disappeared from view, Glass Eye fired up another cigarette and turned the radio back on.

Bull Neck returned the camera to the footwell. “And now what do we do?”

Glass Eye shrugged his shoulders.

“Can we at least go eat?”

“Nope. We wait right here.”

“For what? To get more photos of him leaving?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What’s the point? I don’t see what they’ll add.”

“You think too much. Who’s running this operation? You, or me?”

“I guess that would be you,” said Bull Neck, cracking his knuckles.

“So don’t keep asking stupid questions. It’s all been thought through.”

Bull Neck sighed, reclined his seat, and settled back for a long wait. “We could be here hours. Did you bring anything to eat?”

“Just be grateful I don’t make you follow him in there.”

Bull Neck shook his head. “Turns my stomach. The thought of it.”

The rain stopped around midnight, and it was just after one thirty when Glass Eye’s cell phone rang.

“Yeah,” he said, taking the call. “Okay, five minutes.” He finished the call then shook Bull Neck’s shoulder, waking him up. “He’s on his way.”

Bull Neck yawned before grabbing the camera.

Glass Eye started the engine and pointed across the street. “That’s him now.”

Crouten staggered out of the club entrance with his arm around a young man. Both of them looked as though they’d had too much to drink, stumbling along the sidewalk.

Bull Neck took more shots. “Who’s that with him?”

“Don’t worry.” Glass Eye looked up and down the street. “He works for us. Make sure you get some of both of them together.”

“He works for us?” Bull Neck grimaced as he clicked away.

Crouten and the young man held hands, standing in line for a cab.

“I sure hope you’re paying our guy a lot of money for this,” Bull Neck said, screwing his face again as their targets began kissing and groping each other.

When they climbed into a taxi, Glass Eye tailed it at a safe distance back to Crouten’s apartment block. Through the car’s rear window, they watched as Crouten slobbered over the young man sitting next to him.

“Don’t they ever come up for air?” Bull Neck said as they parked.

“I hope not. This is costing us plenty.”

“Fat boy won’t leave him alone. It’s disgusting.”

Crouten and the young man disappeared into the building, and Bull Neck put down the camera.

Glass Eye pulled the Escalade into the road. “We’re done here. What are the pictures like?”

Bull Neck used his fat thumb to scroll through the images on the Minolta’s screen and smiled. “Real cute.” He stopped and frowned when he reached one of the close-up shots. “Exactly how old is the young one?” He held up the screen for Glass Eye to see.

Glass Eye took his eye off the road for a second. “Nice work. That one alone ought to do it.”

Chapter 25

T
OWERS
S
PENT
T
HE
W
EEKEND
at his parents’ house in Jamestown, Rhode Island, celebrating their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. His mom, who’d spent many years as an amateur actress, treated the family to a performance and dinner at the Newport Playhouse, where they mingled with her actor friends once the show was over. She kept introducing him to everyone with, “This is my son, Glen. He’s a lawyer at one of the top firms in New York.”

Sunday morning, after a family breakfast at his dad’s favorite greasy spoon on Newport’s Thames Street, Towers set off for his drive back to New York. There was work to be done, preparing for his meeting with Michael tomorrow on one of their new deals from Corton Zander. So far, Towers was satisfied he’d made a good impression at the firm, and Michael seemed pleased with the quality of his work. But the annual cull of first-year associates was fast approaching, so it was important he didn’t drop the ball now.

He figured the drive would take him around three and a half hours, as it was normally a clear run on a weekend. The route out of town took him over the Newport Bridge back to Jamestown. When he paid the four-dollar toll, Towers thought it was cheap for the wonderful views over Newport Harbor from the top of the suspension bridge. There were two huge cruise liners moored along the front, and he could make out people walking along the top deck of one of them. It was a perfect, clear day and, once he reached the high point, he could see way beyond the coast toward Block Island, where he’d spent many summer vacations as a child. At the far end of the bridge, he pulled his Mazda MX-5 Miata to the side of the road and hit the button to close its retractable hard top.

Half an hour later, he was on I-95 South heading toward Westerly, where his mother came from and where his parents had lived just after they were married. From here, the journey would become less interesting, as it was freeway along the length of Connecticut, all the way to the outskirts of Manhattan. Towers cranked up the radio and switched on the cruise control. The Mazda had been a gift from his parents when he qualified as a lawyer and won the job as a first-year associate at Dudek, Collins, & Hamilton. His father, who was also an attorney, had been so proud of his son picking up a coveted position with such a prestigious New York firm.

Towers hardly noticed the first hour and a half on the freeway. The music was good, and the vehicle’s closed hood cocooned him in a warm embrace. The first time he noticed a problem was when the flashing light of the patrol car appeared in his rearview mirror. Out of instinct, he hit the brakes and watched as the patrol car overtook him. He couldn’t have been speeding. The cruise control had been set to sixty, as he knew some stretches of the Connecticut Turnpike were still limited to fifty-five. As instructed, Towers stopped the Mazda at the side of the freeway behind the patrol car, and an officer walked over to him.

“License, please,” said the officer. His tone made it clear it was more an order than a request.

Towers reached for his wallet. “Is there a problem, Officer?”

“Not yet.” He took the license, looked at Towers, and compared him to the photo. “Stay here,” he said before returning to his patrol car.

Towers watched the officer through the rear window of the police vehicle. He appeared to be having a long conversation on his radio. A few minutes later, he returned to the Mazda’s open window.

The policeman handed the license back to Towers. “I want you to follow me off the freeway. We can’t deal with this here.”

“Is this really necessary?” Towers fought the urge to say: “You do know I’m a lawyer.” He’d once seen his father pull the same trick and remembered how it hadn’t gone quite according to his father’s plan. He never tried it again.

Towers bit his tongue and followed the patrol car off the freeway at exit fifty-one just before New Haven. They drove along Woodward Avenue where, to the right, a large park opened up, with the ocean beyond.

“Where’s he taking me?” Towers said out loud. “There are plenty of places to stop along here.”

Seconds later, the patrol car indicated right. Towers looked at the sign as he followed. It said:
US Coast Guard Station
. The police vehicle pulled up outside a square, nondescript red brick building. There were only a couple of other cars sitting in the reserved spots outside. Towers parked the Mazda next to a black SUV and got out.

“I’d like to know what’s going on,” he said to the officer approaching him. “Am I under arrest?”

“Just follow me. I’ll explain everything inside.” He pointed to the building.

Although the building looked quiet, the front door had been left open, but no one was sitting at the reception on the right as they walked in.

“This way,” said the officer, passing the reception counter and increasing his pace along the narrow corridor.

When they reached the last room, the policeman opened the door and walked right in. He turned to Towers and pointed at a plastic chair at the end of a small, oblong table. “Sit there. I’ll be back in a moment,” he said before leaving and pulling the door closed behind him.

Towers looked round the room. There were no clues as to what the office was used for. The walls were blank, and the furniture was cheap and dirty. There were sticky coffee rings at various spots on the plastic table top. Through the window, he could see a large inlet of water and what must have been West Haven on the other side of it.

Every instinct told him to get up and leave. This didn’t feel right; something very strange was going on. The police officer seemed much more aggressive than a regular traffic cop, and why would he need to be taken to a coast guard station for a minor offense? Not that he thought he’d committed any offense. He stood up, walked toward the door, and then stopped when he heard voices approaching the room.

Two men in suits thundered in. “Sit,” said the older one, pointing Towers to the chair he’d just vacated. There was something slightly familiar about him.

Towers remained on his feet. “Unless I’m under arrest, I’m not staying.”

“You’re not under arrest, yet,” said the younger and much heavier man, taking a seat. “But you’ll want to hear this.”

“Where’s the police officer who brought me here?”

“He’s gone,” the older suit said. “Take a seat.”

Towers did what he was told. “This had better be good.” With his tone Towers attempted to hide his fear and sound authoritative, but failed miserably on both counts.

“My name is Assistant Director Caravini, and this is Agent Crouten.” Caravini took a seat at the opposite end of the table so he could face Towers.

Towers angled his head, processing the information. “Where are you from?”

Caravini glared. “FBI.”

Towers flinched.

“Financial crimes unit,” Crouten added slowly for emphasis.

“What’s the FBI got to do with me?” Towers sat on his hands and shifted his weight on the sticky plastic chair. Inside his shirt, he could feel a trickle of moisture running from one of his armpits. “There must be some sort of mistake. I’m here for a traffic violation, I think.”