Peter Spiegelman - Black Maps

Pierro smiled. “Not typically, no. But Gerry wasn’t just the treasurer. He was MWB’s head guy here-their main relationship guy with other banks, customers, regulators, you name it. So it was the kind of thing he did. And he loved it.”

I had no more questions for the moment, and I told Pierro so.

“This was great, John,” Pierro said, smiling. “Thanks for coming by. And thanks for your help on this.” He was looking encouraged again.

“I haven’t done much yet, and, as I keep telling you, there may not be much I can do,” I said. “I’ll poke around MWB, and try to stay away from the feds while I do it. And I’ll try to get a line on Burrows. But our best bet may be to wait until someone contacts you again, and hope that gives us a little more to work with.” Pierro nodded his agreement, but he still looked altogether too optimistic. He walked me to the elevator.

“I hear you, John, and I appreciate the straight talk. But I know if there’s anything that can be done, you’ll do it. I know you’ll look out for us.” He said good-bye as the door slid closed.

I thought about him on the ride down. He had seemed forthcoming in his answers, and sincere in his desire to help, but I knew that appearing guileless was his strong suit, and I was still uneasy. Pierro had come a very long way since night school, and I had no doubt that the distance was much on his mind.

It was colder outside but still clear. The low afternoon sun lit the east side of Park in a rich orange light, and cast the west side into shadow. I was in those shadows, looking for a cab downtown, when I saw Helene Pierro across the street, headed home with her three children. The girls had their mother’s glossy hair, tied back in dark bows. They wore matching navy overcoats, and dark tights on their legs. Alex was still in his stroller, shrieking in delight each time his sister, walking beside him, pulled his knit cap over his eyes. The eldest daughter walked with Helene, who pushed the stroller. She was talking earnestly and at length to her mother, who listened and nodded gravely.

The day had dwindled to cold, blue twilight by the time I got home. There were no moving vans out front or boxes in the hallways, no rumble of freight being hauled across the floor upstairs. I emptied my pockets of the contraband I’d taken off the kids in the park, flushing the drugs and tossing the knives in a drawer with my loose change. Then I checked my messages. There were two. One was from Clare. She’d called in the morning to say she couldn’t make it, but would see me next week. She spoke hurriedly, and there was traffic noise in the background. Well, I hadn’t exactly planned my day around her, either.

My older sister, Liz, had also phoned, to invite me to Thanksgiving with the family. She and Lauren had a good cop-bad cop thing going, and Liz was definitely the bad cop. The thrust of her argument, delivered in her tight-jawed, nasal drawl, was that if I didn’t come I’d be running true to my usual asshole form, so why didn’t I just surprise everyone and show up. She added at the end of her message that it had been too long since she’d seen me. That last bit must have been an effort for her. Liz is many things-smart, tough, acerbic-but nice is not one of them.

I had no call back from Tom Neary, so I left another message on his voice mail and went for a workout-a five-mile run and some weights at the gym on Fourteenth Street. I was back in less than two hours, just in time to miss Neary’s call. He was having dinner at an Indian restaurant downtown at seven, his message said; I could join him there if I wanted. I showered, dressed, and walked to the subway.

Taking Tiger Mountain is a few blocks from city hall, and close to the Brill offices. It’s a small, dimly lit place, with walls the color of paprika, and chairs and tables the color of saffron. I got there just after seven and it was still pretty empty, but even if it had been packed, it would have been hard to miss Tom Neary.

Neary is big-around six foot four and two hundred fifty poundslike a refrigerator in a dark suit and tie. The feds who’d worked with him in Utica had called him Clark Kent. When I’d first heard it, I figured it was because of his looks-the dark, wavy hair, the chiseled features, the horn-rimmed specs-and the earnest, Eagle Scout quality he projects. As I’d gotten to know Neary better, I’d seen the subversive secret identity behind the mild exterior-the ironic sense of humor, the independent streak, the disdain for pompous authority-and I’d thought the nickname even more apt. That independence, along with his smarts and his basic sense of fairness, had made it hard for him to find much peace with the FBI. I’d seen that firsthand, upstate. He had treated me decently at a time when it would’ve been easier for him not to, and he’d caught hell as a result.

In some respects I knew Neary well, but there was a lot I still didn’t know. I knew he was married, but I didn’t know his wife’s name. I knew he had kids, but not how many, or how old, or what kind. I knew he lived in Jersey, but I didn’t know the town. One thing I did know, from years back, was that he loved good food-foreign food especially. And after years in the culinary wilderness of Utica, Neary had come to the Promised Land.

He was sitting alone at a table for four, poring over the menu like it was a holy text. His suit jacket was on the back of his chair, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up over his big forearms. I took the seat across from him. He gave me a hand like a porterhouse and we shook. The waiter took my order for a cranberry juice. Neary was working on a ginger ale and ordered a backup.

“Cheap dates, huh?” he said, smiling. “But you’re still living healthy, that’s good.”

“Have you ordered yet?” I asked.

“Just bread.” He pointed to a basket of naan, plates of stuffed roti and puri and small bowls of various chutneys. “I’m thinking about a tandoori,” he said.

I took a piece of naan from the basket where it lay wrapped in a white cloth napkin, and bit into it. It was warm and a little spicy. Delicious. The warm bread and the riot of cooking smells coming from the kitchen spoke to my stomach, and my stomach answered back. I scanned the menu.

The waiter returned with our drinks and we ordered, then Neary sighed and turned his attention to me.

“Life still good in the private sector?” I asked.

“Life is busier than hell. It seems like every client I’ve got wants their security procedures overhauled, or their management vetted, or needs a few dozen investigators to help out on their shareholder lawsuits. Even with all the cops and feds jumping ship, I’ve still got more gigs than I’ve got people to fill ’em. But the money’s good-we must be the only growth industry left these days. That’s the upside,” Neary said.

“And the downside?” I asked. He thought about it for a while.

“The gray areas are bigger, I guess, and there are more of them. The bureau was a political swamp, no question, and it had more than its share of professional assholes. But you always knew that you were one of the good guys, or that you were supposed to be. In the private sector, what you know mainly is who’s paying the bill. For some people, that’s enough. Me, I worry a little more. Must be the Jesuit schooling.” He took a bite of potato-stuffed puri.

“You keeping busy?” he asked. I nodded, and we were quiet for a bit. Time to get to the point.

“I can count the number of times I’ve called you when I wasn’t looking for a favor,” I said.

“So can I. My tally is zero. Don’t tell me you’re going to screw up your stats now,” Neary said, deadpan.

“No, I wouldn’t disappoint you. I’m looking for a favor. But maybe I can do something for you, too.” He raised his eyebrows, waiting.