A shout came over the radio. "I think we've got a fix on them." It was the open line to the mayor's crisis center. A black Bronco had been spotted turning off Tenth Avenue
, feeding into the entrance for the Lincoln Tunnel, heading to New Jersey.
"We've got the entrance covered," the voice from the crisis center declared. "Port Authority's got SWAT in place there."
Through the phone lines, we were able to patch in a video feed from the crisis center. Above us, one of the monitors began showing a wide sweep from a camera overlooking the tunnel. The black Bronco was about tenth in line. "There it is!" All of a sudden the camera zoomed in tighter. The traffic was funneling into two lanes.
I held my side, but I wasn't going anywhere right now. I could make out the black Bronco. The same one? It sure looked like it.
"Suspect vehicle has Jersey plates. EVX-three-six-nine," a voice announced over the radio.
For a second I was caught up like everyone else, just hoping we had managed to land on the right vehicle. Then a thought flashed through my mind. I grabbed a microphone off the table.
"This is Special Agent Pellisante. These people likely have automatic weapons and explosives. The car could be booby-trapped. Cavello might not even be in there anymore. The SWAT teams should do their best to isolate the vehicle."
My wound was history now. I moved closer to the screen and watched the Port Authority team start circling in, surrounding the vehicle from a distance, letting others pass. It was a tricky assault. There were lots of innocent people around. Hundreds of them.
Black, helmeted figures began to creep into the wide-angled camera view. The Bronco was four rows from feeding into the tunnel entrance. I could see the police teams narrowing in, arms drawn. The Bronco's windows were tinted black. If someone in there was looking out, they had to see the assault force coming.
The Bronco inched up to the first row. A police car suddenly sped up, blocking the entrance to the tunnel.
SWAT personnel were all over the place, crouched low, closing in.
I could see exactly what was happening. The Bronco was surrounded by at least twenty heavily armed policemen.
The Bronco's front doors swung open. I stepped closer to the screen. "Be him," I said, balling my fists. "Be him."
People were coming out of the Bronco, hands in the air. A male dressed all in black. Then a woman, wearing a floppy hat. A small boy. The boy was crying; he grabbed the woman.
"Son of a bitch!" I heard someone say over the radio. The picture didn't need any words or captions, though.
It was the wrong car. We'd lost Dominic Cavello.
Chapter 70
I STAYED IN THE COURTHOUSE security room until the EMS people wouldn't let me be there any longer. A couple of young med techs did their best to treat me, but I wasn't going anywhere until I saw the videotape. The tape of the man in the elevator-- the one who had sprung Cavello.
I watched it at least a dozen times.
He was medium height, not especially well built. I couldn't really tell if he was young or old. I looked for any distinguishing marks. He had a beard, which I figured for a fake. Short dark hair, glasses. But this guy knew precisely what he was doing. He never hesitated, not for a second. He was a pro, not just some hired gun. He caught us off guard, even with New York's finest and two dozen FBI agents all around the courthouse.
"Can you zoom in on the face for me?" I asked the security tech manning the video machine.
"Right." A touch of a button, and the camera panned in.
I stood up, moving myself closer to the screen. The film got grainy. It narrowed in to a close-up of the steely, professional eyes as the killer himself stepped on the elevator. Steady and businesslike, efficient. I burned those eyes into my mind. The security tech slowly advanced the film, frame by frame. Suddenly there were gunshots. The two marshals went down.
"Get this over the wires to the NYPD and the crisis control room," Mike Doud directed the techie. "I want this picture out to every bridge and tunnel and every cop on the street."
"It's a waste of time," I said, sagging back against the table. "He doesn't look like that anymore."
Doud snapped at me, obviously frustrated. "You got a better idea?"
"I might. Compare it to the film from Cavello's first trial. Go day by day if you have to. Eliminate the beard and the glasses. I'll bet he was there."
The medical people were literally dragging me away now. They had a van waiting. I looked up at the face on the screen one last time. I wanted to make sure I recognized it when I saw him again.
I was sure I was looking at the man who blew up the juror bus and murdered all those people.
Chapter 71
WHEN THE CALL CAME IN I was in the back of an EMS van, rushing me to Bellevue Hospital.
I was stripped to my waist and had an IV in my arm and EKG sensors attached to my chest. The sirens were blaring as we zigzagged through traffic up the lower East Side. I asked for the cell phone in my jacket.
"I just heard," Andie said. Her voice was cracking with disbelief and sadness. "Oh, God, Nick, I just saw it at a coffee shop. It's all over the news."
"I'm sorry, Andie." But I was more than sorry. How many times could I say those words to her?
"Goddamnit, Nick, every cop in New York was down there."
"I know." I sucked in a breath. One of the EMS people tried to take away the phone, but I brushed him aside. The flesh wound in my side wasn't hurting so much now. Nothing cut deeper than the anger and disappointment building inside me.
"The bastard killed my son, and now he's free."
"He's not free," I said. "We'll get him. I know how that sounds, but we'll get him." The hospital was only blocks away. "I'll get him."
For a second Andie didn't answer. I didn't know if she believed me, and in that moment, I didn't care. Because I meant it.
I'll get him.
I felt as if I might be passing out as I disconnected from Andie with a mumbled "Bye." The van was stopping at the emergency entrance.
I never even told her that I'd been shot.
Chapter 72
RICHARD NORDESHENKO SHIFTED the silver Voyager into the entrance lanes for the George Washington Bridge. The tie-up was massive, and Nordeshenko wasn't surprised. He scanned the radio news channels-- they were already all over the story.
Flashing police lights were everywhere. Every single vehicle was being checked, trunks opened. Trucks and vans were being pulled aside, their cargoes searched. Nordeshenko looked up into the sky. Above him, he heard the whip-whip-whip from a police helicopter circling above. This wasn't good.
They had already changed cars twice. He had removed the beard and eyeglasses he'd worn in the courthouse. There was nothing to worry over, right? Just be calm. Cavello was safely hidden in a hollowed-out compartment under the rear seat. Even if the Bronco had been located by now, what did it matter? Everything was in order. No one could connect him to the vehicle he was driving now. Unless they found Cavello.
The tall steel towers of the bridge loomed about a quarter mile ahead. Police on foot were making their way back toward their car. It was a typical code-red response. SWAT teams and bomb-sniffing dogs. Well-trained perhaps, but with no practical experience.
"What's the delay?" the gruff voice said from the back. "How does it look up there? Is everything okay?"
"Relax, you should be honored. This is all for you."
"It's cramped in here. And hot. It's been over an hour already."
"Not as cramped as the isolation unit of a federal prison, yes? Now be quiet, please. There is one last checkpoint to pass through."
Two policemen wearing armored vests and carrying automatic rifles were coming up to the Voyager. One of them tapped on the window with the barrel of his gun. "License and registration, please. And open the back."
Nordeshenko handed the officer his documents, which showed he was a resident of 11 Barrow Street
in Bayonne-- and that the van was reg
istered to the Lucky George Maintenance Service in Jersey City.
"Any word?" Nordeshenko asked him. "I heard what happened. It's all over the news."
The officer checking his documents didn't answer. The other flung open the hatch to the back and peered in. All that was visible back there was an industrial-sized vacuum cleaner, a rug-cleaning machine, and some cleaning agents in a plastic tray. Still, Nordeshenko held his breath as the policeman poked around.
Nordeshenko had a pistol strapped to his ankle. On a dry run the day before, he had decided what he would do. Take out the officers. Run back against traffic to the other lane, where cars were still moving. Pull a driver out of any vehicle and get out of there. Cavello was on his own.
"What's that?" one of the policemen barked. He pushed aside the machinery and pried open a compartment.
Nordeshenko nearly reached for his ankle, but didn't. Not yet. His heart stood still. Take out both of them. And run.
"There's supposed to be a spare in here," the officer said, "by law. What if this old piece of junk breaks down?" He re-covered the compartment.
"You're right, Officer." Nordeshenko slowly relaxed. "I will tell it to my boss. I'll tell him we owe you a free rug cleaning."
The policeman handed Nordeshenko back his license as the cop in back slammed shut the doors. "You don't owe me shit," he said. "Get a spare tire in here, pronto."
"Consider it done. I hope you catch him," Nordeshenko said. He raised the window and started to drive away. Minutes later, as he cleared the security area, traffic picked up pace. They crossed over the bridge. As soon as he saw the sign separating New York from New Jersey, his heart started to slow down.
"Congratulations. We're golden," he called back. "By this time tomorrow you'll be out of the country."
"Good." Cavello lifted himself out of the compartment. "In the meantime, there's been a change of plans. There's something I have to take care of first. A debt I have to pay."
Chapter 73
THEY DROVE WEST to Paterson, New Jersey, on Cavello's instructions-- a tree-lined neighborhood of middle-class homes. Nordeshenko pulled up in front of a modest, pleasant, gray-and-white Victorian. It was April, but a Nativity scene was still there from Christmas, center stage in the small front yard.
"Wait in the car," Cavello said, tucking the handgun he had taken from Nordeshenko into his belt.
"This isn't what you're paying me for," the Israeli said. "This is the kind of thing that can get us killed."
"In that case," said Cavello, opening the door and turning up his collar, "think of it as on the house."
He went around the side and pushed open a metal chain-link fence leading to the backyard. He was excited now.
He kept his promises. That's what made him who he was. People knew, when the Electrician promised to do something, it always got done. Especially this promise.
He walked up close to the house until he came to a porch in back, screened in by wire mesh. Then he stopped. He heard the sound of a TV inside. A children's channel. He listened to the singsong voices and some happy clapping. He saw the back of a woman's head. She was sitting in a chair.
Cavello climbed the porch steps and opened the screen door. He had to laugh. Nobody needed alarms in this neighborhood, right? It was protected. It was protected by him! You pull something in this neck of the woods, you might as well keep on running for the rest of your life.
"Rosie, how do you like your tea?" a woman's voice called from inside.
"A little lemon," the woman in the chair said back. "There should be some in the fridge." Then, "Hey, look at the little lamby, little Stephie. What does a little lamby say? Baaah . . . Baaah."
Cavello stepped in from the porch. When the woman in the chair saw who it was, her face turned chalk white. "Dom!"
She was bouncing a baby girl, no more than a year old, on her lap.
"Hi, Rosie," Dominic Cavello said, and smiled.
Panic crept over the woman's face. She was in her early fifties, in a floral shift, with her hair up in a bun, a St. Christopher medal around her neck. She wrapped her arms around the child. "They said you'd escaped. What are you doing here, Dom?"
"I promised Ralphie something, Rosie. I always keep my promises. You know that."
There was a noise from behind them, and a woman walked in carrying a tray with tea on it. Cavello reached out his hand and shot her with the silenced gun, the wound opening where her right eye had been.
The woman fell over, and the tray hit the floor with a loud crash and clatter.
"Mary, Mother of God." Ralph Denunziatta's sister gasped. She hugged the child close to her breast.
"That's one cute kid there, Rosie. I think I see a little of Ralphie, with those fat little cheeks."
"It's my granddaughter, Dom." Rosie Scalpia's eyes were flushed with panic. She glanced at her friend lying on the carpet, a red ooze trickling out of her eye. "She's only one year old. Do what you came here to do, just don't hurt her, Dom. She's Simone's daughter, not Ralphie's. Please, do what you have to do. Just leave my granddaughter alone."
"Why would I want to hurt your little nipotina, Rosie?" Cavello stepped closer. "It's just that I owe your little prick-faced brother a favor. And there's nothing we can do about that."
"Dom, please." The woman looked terrified. "Please!"
"The problem is, Rosie, even though I wish your little granddaughter here a long and healthy life, after I square things a little." He leveled the gun in the woman's face. "Truth is, hon, you just never know."
He pulled the trigger, and the top of Rosie's forehead blew out, sending a spatter of tapioca-like bone and brain over the drapes.
Ralph Denunziatta's little grandniece started to cry.
Cavello knelt down and stuck his finger into the baby's belly. "Don't cry. You're a cute one, aren't you, honey?" He heard the teakettle whistling on the stove. "Water's ready, huh? C'mere." He lifted the child up out of her dead grandmother's arms. She stopped crying. "Thatta girl." He stroked her back. "Come, let's take a little stroll with your Uncle Dom."
Chapter 74
THEY RELEASED ME from the hospital at my own request later that day, with a large bandage over my ribs, a vial of Vicodin, and the doctor's order to go right home and rest.
Truth is, I was lucky as hell. The bullet had barely grazed me. But I still had one hell of a rug burn on my side.
Two agents from Internal Affairs debriefed me after I was treated. They drilled me over and over about the events at the courthouse, from the moment I had seen what was taking place on the security screens to my run out to the lobby. I had discharged my gun. One of Cavello's men was dead. And what was making it particularly ugly was that I wasn't on active duty.
But what was hurting me a lot more than my side was that it had been more than five hours now and there was no sign of Cavello or the black Bronco. We had the escape routes blocked as well as we could. We had Cavello's known contacts blanketed. But somehow, even with the tightest security ever for a trial, the sonovabitch had gotten away.
Against my protests, a nurse had wheeled me down to the lobby at Bellevue, and I stiffly climbed into a waiting cab.
"West Forty-ninth and Ninth," I said, exhaling, resting my head against the seat and shutting my eyes. Over and over I saw the black Bronco speeding away, disappearing into traffic. And me, unable to do a thing. How the hell had they pulled this off? Who was the gunman in the elevator? How, under all that security, had they been able to get a gun inside?
I slammed the heel of my hand into the driver's barrier so hard I thought I broke my wrist.
The driver turned-- a Sikh in a turban. "Please, sir, this is not my cab."
"Sorry . . ."
But I wasn't completely sorry. I felt packed in a pressure cooker. My blood surged with this restless, clawing energy, about to explode. We had turned on Forty-fifth, heading crosstown. I realized what was really scaring me. Going back to my apartment, shutting the door, facing the empty rooms-- the use
less stacks of evidence, just worthless paper now. Alone.
I was about to blow. I honestly felt like I could.
We turned onto Ninth. From the corner I could already see my brownstone. This nervous, tightening rush swelled in my chest.
I rapped on the glass. "I changed my mind," I said. "Keep driving."
"Okay." The driver shrugged. "Where to now?"
"West One eighty-third, the Bronx."
Chapter 75
I RANG THE BUZZER repeatedly-- three, four times, and I knocked on the door.
Finally I heard a woman's voice. "Just a minute. Coming . . . just a second."
Andie opened the door. She was wearing a robe with a pink ribbed cotton tank underneath, her hair still loose and damp, presumably from the shower. She stared at me, surprised.
My left arm hung limply at my side. My clothes were rumpled. I probably had a wild, crazed look in my eyes.
"Jesus, Nick, are you okay?"
I never answered because I really couldn't at that moment. Instead, I backed Andie inside and pressed her against the wall. Then I kissed her as hard as I could. Whatever came of it, well--
Suddenly, she was kissing me back just as feverishly. I tugged the robe off her shoulders, ran a hand underneath the ribbed tank, hearing her soft moans. She had a sweet, citrusy, just-out-of-the-shower scent that I inhaled deeply.
"Jesus, Pellisante." She sucked in a breath. Her eyes were as wide and flaming as torches. "You don't even give a girl time to breathe. I kind of like that."
She started to pull my shirt out of my trousers. Then she went to unbuckle my belt.
That's when I winced-- in pain. It felt like sandpaper raking across my side.
"Jesus, Nick, what's wrong?"
I swung away from her, propping myself against the wall. "Something ran into me today . . . at the courtroom."
Andie gently raised my shirt and came upon the large bandage. Her eyes went wide. "What happened to you?"
"A bullet happened." I sniffed, letting out a frustrated groan.