Peter Spiegelman - Black Maps

“Something’s sure as hell bugging her,” Neary said. “And I’d like to know who the fuck she’s calling.” His voice was tight with frustration. He shook his head. “It’s getting late; let’s move on. Where are Desai and Mills?”

“Keep an eye on her, Lenny,” Sikes said into the radio. “We’re moving to the fourth floor now. Unit One to Unit Three, where are your guys?” Sanchez’s voice came over the radio, telling us that Mills and Desai were in their respective offices.

“Desai first,” Neary said. Sikes nodded and picked up the radio.

“Unit One to Unit Three. We’re going with Desai. Tell me what you see, Sanchez.”

Sanchez’s voice came back quickly. “I’m looking at him now, Eddie. He’s working at his desk.” Neary gave Sikes the nod, and Sikes notified all units that we were live with Desai. Neary looked at me. I picked up the cell phone and did my thing.

“What? Who… who is this?” Vijay Desai said. “Who are you calling for? Is this some kind of sales thing?”

“Ten minutes, Desai,” I said.

“Ten minutes for what? Who is this?”

I hung up. I looked at Neary and shook my head.

“Either a great actor or completely clueless. My vote is clueless,” I said.

Sikes got on the radio. “What’s the haps, Sanchez?”

“He’s just sitting there. Looks kind of confused.”

“Give him ten,” Neary said, but before Sikes could get back on the radio, Pressman’s voice cut in.

“Unit Two to Unit One. Vetter is moving. He’s got his coat on, headed for the elevators.” He sounded out of breath.

Sikes spoke quickly. “Unit One to Unit Six. You hear that, Juan?”

“I heard,” Pritchard said. “I’m by the doors. What’s he wearing, Lenny?”

“Tan pants, brown leather coat, thigh length, blue-and-red-striped scarf,” Pressman answered quickly.

“I’ll let you know when I pick him up,” Pritchard said. While we waited, Sikes spoke to Sanchez. Desai was apparently back at work. After a few minutes, Pritchard came back.

“Got him. He’s headed up Water, toward William Street. I’m half a block back,” Pritchard said. “Victor, you close by? Can you flank him?”

“Can do. I’m at Broad and Pearl, heading up Pearl to William,” Victor said.

“Stay with him,” Sikes said. The minutes passed slowly. It was nearly four-thirty, and night had all but fallen. The crowds were thicker on the sidewalks and the traffic heavier. It was going to be harder and harder to keep a tail. “Talk to me, Juan,” Sikes said.

“Turning up William Street, now. It’s getting crowded out here, Eddie,” Pritchard said. Neary checked his watch. Desai’s time was up. It was Mills’s turn. Neary gave Sikes the nod.

“Sanchez, where’s Mills?” Sikes asked.

“At his desk. I’m looking at him now.” I flicked on the voice box, but before Sikes could notify the units, Pressman broke in again, breathless.

“Shit, Eddie, I lost her. I lost Compton. Goddamn, her coat’s gone. Eddie, she’s off the floor. She may be headed out. Shit.” He was short of breath and sounded scared. Sikes’s face furrowed in dismay. Neary let out a huge, disgusted breath.

“Un-fucking-believable,” he said in a harsh whisper. He took the radio from Sikes. When he spoke, his voice was calm and level.

“Take it easy, Len. Check with the uniform at the desk. Lorna, you hearing this?”

The woman from the Chrysler answered. From the background noise, she was on the street. “Copy that. I’m headed toward the building now.” Then Pressman came back.

“She signed out five minutes ago, boss. Shit.” Lenny was not having a good day. I moved around the back of the van, peering out at the crowds streaming by. Neary stayed calm. He spoke into the radio.

“Lorna, keep your eyes open. She could be on the street, headed toward you. What’s she wearing, Len?”

“Gray pants, some kind of parka, light gray and blue,” Pressman answered. I looked out the rear windows. I caught a glimpse of a blue and gray jacket and a head of thick, brown hair.

“Got her!” I said. “On Water, headed toward Whitehall. Must’ve just passed us by.” Neary got on the radio again.

“Where are you, Lorna?”

“I’m at the bank, boss. You guys are closer,” she answered. Neary thought about it for a second, then reached into the back and came up with a tiny radio. He stuffed it in his pocket and plugged an earpiece in his ear. He handed Sikes the big radio.

“Eddie, you coordinate. Make sure everybody stays in touch. And keep that dork Pressman away from any sharp objects. I’ll take Cheryl,” Neary said. He looked at me. “You and Eddie do Mills. Fucking Murphy’s Law.” He smiled ironically, shook his head, and was gone. Sikes and I looked at each other.

“Call the ball, chief,” he said. I nodded. He called Sanchez.

“Mills just went to the can, Eddie. I’ll squawk you when he’s back,” Sanchez said. We waited and listened to the jumpy chatter on the radio. Pritchard and Victor were still on Vetter, in Hanover Square. Neary was on Compton, who’d turned up Whitehall. DiLillo was running up Broad Street, as best she could in the evening crush, trying to cut over to Whitehall and pick up Compton. Sanchez came on again, telling us Mills was back. I punched the number, and Mills picked up right away. I flicked on the voice box and spoke.

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. Then silence. Then he hung up.

“What’s up, Sanchez?” Sikes asked.

“You freaked him out. The guy is sitting there, white as a sheet, running his fingers through his hair.” Sanchez paused. “He’s got his cell phone out. He’s getting up, now. Shit. He shut the office door, Eddie.”

“Keep on him, Sanchez.” We waited. Sikes checked status with the foot patrol. Pritchard and Victor were watching Vetter have coffee at a place off Hanover Square. They thought he might be waiting for someone. Neary was a block behind Compton, approaching Broadway. DiLillo was a block ahead of her. Sanchez cut in.

“He’s leaving, Eddie. Repeat, Mills is leaving. Wearing black pants and a dark gray overcoat. Got a black leather briefcase on a shoulder strap. Guy doesn’t look happy, Eddie.” Sikes looked at me.

“Give me a radio,” I said. Sikes reached around and grabbed one. I plugged the earpiece in and flicked the switch. Nothing. “Dead.” I tossed it in his lap.

He swore colorfully. “That’s the last one.”

“You’d think an outfit like Brill could afford batteries,” I said, laughing. “I’ll use my phone.” I climbed out of the van.

It was almost five, and the sidewalks were jammed. I nearly missed Mills as he came out of the building. He was walking quickly, but his gait was stiff. His long blond hair looked greasy, and his complexion was gray, though it could’ve been the streetlights. He was stabbing at his cell phone. He headed up Broad Street. I let him get a half block ahead of me before I followed. In these crowds, I was going to stay close. Mills turned on Water and passed the van without a glance. He took a right on Whitehall, headed toward Bowling Green. I followed, struggling through the crowd. So far, it was the same route Cheryl Compton had taken.

It was much colder now, and the air felt like snow. The clouds, lit from below by the city, were heavy with it. Mills was still fiddling with his phone. The crowds grew thicker as we approached Bowling Green. The stream of people became a river, with tributaries and crosscurrents. One branch flowed north, up Broadway, another to the west, into the Bowling Green subway station, and there was a heavy press southbound, to the ferry terminal. People were bundled against the cold, and lost in the automatic routines of commuting. We were at the bottom of Bowling Green, just opposite the Custom House. Mills crossed Whitehall and headed for the subway. I was right behind him.