James Grippando - Need You Now

He didn’t finish, leaving it to Andie to fill in the blank. “Tony would take the rap.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Tony was terminally ill with cancer.”

“I understand that it might be easier for a man to agree to prison for the rest of his life if he knows it means three years instead of thirty years. But why would Treasury ask Tony to make that promise as part of their deal with him?”

“Clearly, it was important to Treasury that Manu Robledo not land in jail.”

“Why?”

“Pretty obvious, don’t you think?”

“Not to me,” said Andie.

“How could Operation BAQ work if Manu Robledo was behind bars for the murder of Gerry Collins?”

“I can’t answer that,” said Andie. “I have no idea what Operation BAQ is.”

Scully looked at her. “Neither do I.”

“I’m not sure I believe you.”

“Oh, you can believe me on that one,” he said with a mirthless chuckle. “I tried to find out. That got me nowhere… except a ticket to early retirement.”

It smacked of politics and cover-up, and nothing offended Andie more than a good agent getting a raw deal. “Where would someone start if she was interested in picking up where you left off?”

“You really don’t want to do that.”

Andie leaned closer, meeting his stare. “Try me,” she said.

L illy and I hoofed it from Puffy’s Tavern, through Chinatown, to Evan’s apartment. The restaurant on the first floor of the old brick building was gearing up for the dinner crowd. Even with the door closed and windows shut, the noise of a busy kitchen spilled into the alley, and enough heat radiated through the walls to melt away the snow along the building’s curtilage. The entrance to the back stairway was unlocked, and as we climbed to the second story, Lilly realized that she had actually eaten at the restaurant below.

“Dim Some Lose Some,” she said. “I love this place.”

The news from Evan-that he’d cracked the code-had us feeling upbeat. I led her past the small window at the top of the stairs, which looked out over the Dumpster. A light was on in the hallway, and the chain-link gate that Evan had installed for added security was unlocked. It was hard for me to imagine Evan-a guy with two peepholes on his front door-leaving anything unlocked. But he was expecting us. I pushed the gate open, and Lilly followed me to the end of the hallway, where I stopped and knocked firmly on the black metal door to his apartment.

“Evan, it’s me, Patrick,” I said.

No one answered.

“Maybe he went out for dim sum,” said Lilly.

“I’m pretty sure quants only eat millennium problems for lunch. More likely he’s in a trance, staring at his computer screen.” I knocked harder. “Evan, please open up.”

I waited, even put my ear to the door, but there was only silence.

Lilly asked, “Are you sure he was calling from his apartment?”

“Yes. I told him we were on our way.”

“Try the door.”

I did, expecting the knob not to turn. But it wasn’t locked. I paused, the knob still in my hand, but I hesitated to push the door open.

“Evan?” I called.

I gave him a moment, and when no response came, Lilly and I exchanged glances of concern. I pushed the door, this time expecting the deadbolt or chain to stop me. The door swung all the way open. I stood at the threshold and called into the dark apartment. “Evan, if this is your idea of a joke, it’s not funny.”

Silence.

“Let’s leave,” said Lilly.

“I just talked to him on the phone fifteen minutes ago. Something’s wrong.”

“Like I said: let’s leave.”

“He could be hurt.”

“We could be next.”

I took one step inside and flipped the wall switch. A ceiling light brightened the apartment, and our shadows stretched from one end of the room to the other. Lilly was peering around my shoulder. I’d told her about the flowcharts on Evan’s walls, but she still seemed taken aback.

“Don’t be alarmed. The place always looks like this.” I left the door open and entered the room. Lilly came with me, and we stopped in the middle of the room.

“He lives here?” she said. “How bizarre.”

My gaze swept the room, though my focus was not on the boxes, arrows, and photographs that had drawn Lilly’s attention to the 360-degree flowchart on the walls. There was no sign of Evan; however, the curtain that separated the main living area from the kitchenette was drawn shut. Lilly clung to my arm as I approached, and I feared the worst as I flung it open.

There was nothing askew, no body on the linoleum floor.

“Patrick, I really want to go,” she said.

“Let me check the bathroom real quick.”

“I don’t like this at all. Can’t you put in a call to the FBI agent you’ve been working with?”

I could have, I supposed. But if Evan had wanted the FBI to see his prize project, he would have shown it to them long before now. I crossed the room, peered into the bathroom, and switched on the light. The brightness against white tiles assaulted my eyes. But again, there was nothing out of the ordinary, no sign of Evan. I turned, took another survey of the room, and then stopped.

“His computer’s gone,” I said.

“What?”

I went to the center of the room, where Evan had kept his desktop computer, next to the television.

“It was right here,” I said. “Now it’s gone.”

“Is that the computer that had all the encrypted files on it?”

“Yes.”

“Would that include the BAQ file?” she asked, with even more trepidation.

“That would be correct,” I said, equally concerned. “Probably right along with whatever decryption algorithms he created.”

A shrill scream from the alley gave me a jolt. Lilly and I ran from the apartment, out the open door, and through the gate. I looked out the small window that was at the top of the stairs, down toward the alley below, where several people had gathered around the Dumpster. Earlier, when Lilly and I had arrived, the lid had been closed, but someone from the kitchen had flipped it open to dump the trash. Two men dressed like waiters were consoling the young woman who’d made the discovery. Inside the Dumpster, atop heaps of trash, a man’s body lay faceup.

Even from the top of the stairs, dusk settling in, I knew that orange dress shirt and Mickey Mouse tie.

I knew it was Evan Hunt.

B y nightfall Evan’s apartment and most of the narrow alley behind Dim Sum Lose Some was a busy crime scene.

My first move had been to phone Andie Henning. I was able to answer her first question-“Are you sure he’s dead?”-simply by looking into the open Dumpster. The crimson hole between his eyes, where the bullet had entered Evan’s amazing brain, was confirmation enough. Andie had told me to touch nothing and to stay put until she got there, which had taken about ten minutes.

An hour later, Lilly and I were among the onlookers on the sidewalk, standing at the yellow police tape, beyond the outermost perimeter of crowd control. I counted eleven police officers, their uniforms transitioning from dark blue to shades of orange in the swirl of police lights. Portable vapor lights from NYPD turned the buzz of investigative work behind the restaurant into a glowing hive of activity. A second perimeter of yellow tape surrounded the Dumpster, where the medical examiner’s van waited to receive Evan’s body. Two male officers stood guard at the foot of the stairway that led up to the apartment. They looked formidable even from a distance. If ever they lost their jobs with the NYPD, they could easily have found work as bodyguards for rappers.