Ten minutes passed, then fifteen. Each time an elevator door opened, Joey tensed slightly. He kept the newspaper low, on his knees, so that he could appear to be reading while the camera had a clear shot at the target.
A bell, the door to the elevator on the left opened, and Bennie the Handler was there all by himself in a long gray trench coat. The composite of his face was remarkably accurate - slick bald head, a few strands of black hair greased down about the ears, long narrow nose, square jaw, heavy eyebrows over dark eyes. Joey swallowed hard, his head down, and squeezed the "on" button in his left hand. For eight steps, Bennie walked directly toward him, then veered with the marble walkway toward the front door and was gone. Joey twisted his upper body slightly so the camera could follow, then he switched it off, breathed deeply, and became engrossed in his newspaper. He looked up each time the elevator opened, and after ten long minutes stood and walked back to the men's room. After lingering for half an hour, he feigned frustration with his tardy friend upstairs and stomped out of the hotel. No one followed.
Joey plunged into the Saturday night chaos of lower Manhattan, strolling aimlessly with the thick foot traffic, window-shopping, ducking into music stores and coffee shops. He was convinced he'd lost his tail two hours earlier, but he took no chances. He hurried around corners and cut through narrow streets. At a used bookshop he'd scoped out late in the afternoon, he locked himself in the tiny toilet and washed his hair with a cleansing rinse that took out much of the gray. What was left was covered with a black Steelers cap. He dropped the fake eyeglasses in the wastebasket. The video recorder was stuck deep in his right front pocket.
KYLE WAITED nervously at the bar in the Gotham Bar and Grill on Twelfth Street. He sipped a glass of white wine and chatted occasionally with the bartender. Their reservation was for 9:00 p.m.
The worst-case scenario, indeed the only way they could screw up the operation, was for Bennie to recognize Joey and confront him in the lobby of the Wooster Hotel. It was a long shot, though. Bennie knew Joey was in the city, but he would not recognize him in disguise, nor would he expect him to be anywhere near the hotel. Kyle was assuming that since it was Saturday night, and since he had done little if anything in two months to arouse suspicions, Bennie would be traveling light with a skeleton crew on the streets.
Joey arrived promptly at nine. His hair was almost natural; in fact, as he walked through the front door, Kyle could not see a hint of gray. He had somehow exchanged the well-used brown corduroy jacket for a more stylish black one. His smile told the story. "Got him," he said as he took a stool and began looking for a drink.
"So?" Kyle said softly as he watched the door for anything suspicious.
"Double Absolut on the rocks," Joey said to the bartender. Then to Kyle, much lower, he said, "I think I nailed him. He waited sixteen minutes, used the elevator, and I shot him for at least five seconds before he passed by me."
"Did he look at you?"
"I don't know. I was reading the newspaper. No eye contact, remember. But he never slowed down."
"No trouble recognizing him?"
"No. Your composite is terrific."
They drank for a few moments as Kyle continued to watch the front door and as much of the sidewalk as he could see without being obvious. The maitre d' fetched them and led them to a table in the rear of the restaurant. After the menus were presented, Joey handed over the camera. "When can we see it?" he asked.
"A few days. I'll use a computer at the office."
"Don't e-mail me the video," Joey said.
"Don't worry. I'll make a copy and send it snail mail."
"Now what?"
"Good work, pal. Now we enjoy a fine meal, with wine, as you'll notice - "
"Proud of you."
"And tomorrow we watch the Steelers kill the Jets."
They clinked glasses and savored their triumph.
BENNIE YELLED at the three operatives who'd lost Joey after his arrival in the city. They had first lost him late in the afternoon, not long after he had checked in at the Mercer and hit the streets. They'd found him in the Village before dark, then lost him again. Now he was having dinner with Kyle at the Gotham Bar and Grill, but that was exactly where he was supposed to be. The operatives swore he moved as if he knew he was being followed. He had deliberately tried to shake them. "And did a damned fine job, didn't he?" Bennie yelled.
Two straight football games, one in Pittsburgh, now one in New York. More e-mail chatter between the two. Joey was the only friend from college Kyle was now regularly in touch with. The warning signs were there. Something was being planned.
Bennie decided to beef up surveillance on Mr. Joey Bernardo.
They were also watching Baxter Tate and his remarkable transformation.
Chapter 26
At 4:30 on Monday morning, Kyle hurried off the elevator, alone, on the thirty-third floor and walked to his cube. As usual, lights were on, doors were open, coffee was brewed, someone was working. Someone was always working, regardless of the day or hour. The receptionists, secretaries, and clerks weren't due until 9:00, but then they only worked a forty-hour week. The partners averaged around seventy. It was not unusual for an associate occasionally to hit a hundred.
"Good morning, Mr. McAvoy." It was Alfredo, one of the plainclothes security agents who roamed the hallways during the weird hours.
"Good morning, Alfredo," Kyle said as he wadded his trench coat and tossed it in a corner, next to his sleeping bag.
"How 'bout those Jets?" Alfredo asked.
"I'd rather not discuss it," Kyle shot back. Twelve hours earlier, the Jets had drubbed the Steelers by three touchdowns in heavy rain.
"Have a nice day," Alfredo said happily as he walked away, his day obviously made better because his team had slaughtered the Steelers and, more important, he'd found a place to rub it in. New York sports fans, Kyle mumbled as he unlocked his drawer and pulled out his laptop. As he waited for it to power up, he glanced around to make sure he was alone. Dale refused to punch in before 6:00. Tim Reynolds hated mornings and preferred to arrive around 8:00 and make up for it at midnight. Poor Tabor. The gunner had flunked the bar exam and had not been seen since. He'd called in sick last Friday, the day after the results were published, and evidently his sickness had continued throughout the weekend. But there was no time to worry about Tabor. He could take care of himself.
Working quickly, Kyle slid the tiny T-Klip from the video camera into an adapter, which he plugged into his laptop. He waited a few seconds, clicked twice, then froze as the image appeared: Bennie in perfect color, standing at the elevator door, waiting patiently for it to open completely, then walking forward, the steady, confident walk of a man with no fears, no hurries, four steps over the marble floor, then a long glance down at Joey but no connection; five more steps and he disappeared from view. Screen blank. Rewind, watch it again and again, slower and slower. After the fourth step, when Bennie looked casually at Joey, Kyle stopped the action and studied Bennie's face. The shot was clear, the best of the video. He clicked on "print" and quickly made five copies.
He had his man, at least on tape. How about this little video, Bennie? Guess you're not the only one who can play games with hidden cameras. Kyle quickly fetched the copies from the printer beside Sandra's desk. All printing was supposed to be logged in and charged to a client, but no questions were asked by the secretary if a few pages were used for personal reasons. Kyle held the five copies and patted himself on the back. He stared at the face of his tormentor, his blackmailer, the rotten little son of a bitch who was currently in charge of his life.