Andrew Grant - Even

The woman’s purse had rolled a few feet away across the sidewalk so I retrieved it, scooped up her briefcase, and tossed both bags back into the car. I took the keys from the ignition and found the button to lock the doors. Then I dropped my shoulder and waded into the gawking crowd.

“Let me through,” I said. “I’m a medic. Out of the way.”

“Don’t touch him, man,” one of the onlookers said. “He’ll sue you.”

“He won’t,” I said.

“Is he dead?” the driver said. “Have I killed him? I didn’t see him. He came out of nowhere. Just stepped out…”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “He’s not hurt at all. Not yet, anyway.”

I took hold of the guy’s fake Armani lapels and hauled him up until he was slumped on his back across the Audi’s hood.

“Stop,” the same onlooker said. “You can’t move him. He might have a neck injury.”

“He might now,” I said, leaning down and pressing the point of my elbow into the guy’s throat, just above his collarbone.

“The hell are you doing? How’s this going to help him?”

“It’s a new resuscitation technique, from England. Twenty seconds. Thirty max, and he’ll be awake. Trust me.”

It actually took fifteen. The guy started to twitch. Then wriggle. Then thrash about, clawing at my arm and trying to wrench it free. I let him squirm for another moment then took hold of his right hand, locked his wrist, and flipped him over onto his front.

“See?” I said, handing the keys back to the driver. “It was a scam. This guy, to make you stop. His buddy back there to grab your stuff.”

“Well, I’ll be…” the onlooker said.

“I don’t believe it,” the driver said. “I was so worried. The assholes.”

“Want to stick one on him?” I said. “I’ll hold him.”

A phone started to ring. I realized it was mine.

“Excuse me a moment,” I said, pulling the phone out left-handed.

It was Weston.

“Got a breakthrough,” he said. “Where are you?”

“Shopping,” I said. “I need clean clothes.”

“Time for that later. We need to move. Where can we collect you?”

“Back where you dropped me. In five.”

“Be there,” Weston said, hanging up.

I put the phone away.

“Feeling better?” I said to the driver. “OK then. Time to call 911. These guys have done this before. They need to be stopped. Now that’s up to you.”

Weston’s Ford was already waiting at the side of the street when I got back. Tanya was in the backseat. She looked a little confused.

“I don’t see it,” she said. “That doesn’t prove anything, either way.”

“What doesn’t?” I said, getting in.

“Tungsten made another set of payoffs,” Weston said. “A year ago. To another team of six guys.”

“How do you know?” I said.

“Our forensic accountants found it. They started digging this morning. Got an early break. But listen to this. The other team-it was also assigned to the hospital right before getting fired.”

“So the hospital is the link.”

“No. It can’t be.”

“Why not?”

“Because none of the six we just found out about are dead.”

“So?”

“If the hospital was the link, they’d have been killed, too.”

“No. That’s backward. If the payoff money was the link, they’d have been killed.”

“See?” Tanya said. “It’s totally inconclusive. The hospital and the money are both common factors. And at this moment, there’s just no evidence to place one above the other.”

“Has any money been taken from the current six?” I said.

“Not from two of them,” Lavine said. “We’re still checking the others.”

“Not very convincing,” I said. “Whereas both teams were definitely working at the hospital. That’s the clincher. Something about the place got them fired. Has to be.”

“Right,” Weston said. “They were fired because of the hospital. But not killed because of it. It has to be two separate things.”

“Taylor called them tough clients,” Lavine said. “Maybe he was right about that.”

“Otherwise, why bring the team home?” Weston said. “Why pay them off? Why not just kill them in Iraq?”

“That would be cheaper,” Lavine said. “Easier. Less risky.”

“Could make it look like another mob got them,” Weston said. “Or an ambush. Or friendly fire. No one would think twice. And there’s no one like us over there to sniff around.”

“Will you three stop speculating?” Tanya said. “You’re wasting time. Let’s just talk to this guy. We should get it from the horse’s mouth.”

“Which guy?” I said.

“From the original team,” Tanya said. “Five have gone overseas again, but one of them’s here in New York.”

“Didn’t we tell you?” Weston said. “I spoke to his wife before I called you. That’s how we knew about him working at the hospital.”

“So where is he?” I said. “Your office?”

“No,” Weston said. “At his job. He works construction, now.”

A framed, five-foot-square artist’s impression was attached to every panel of rough blue hoarding that separated the pedestrians on East Twenty-third Street from the spindly steel skeleton rising out of the narrow lot on the other side. There were eight pictures altogether. Each one gave a different vision of the finished building, from a grand marble-lined lobby to a serene Japanese roof garden, complete with tiny bronze sculptures.

Weston pulled up next to a designer couple power-snacking at a granite breakfast bar, and we had to walk past the view from one of the balconies to reach the foreman’s compound.

“How tall is this place going to be?” Tanya said, staring at the pictures.

“Not tall enough,” Weston said, hammering on the wooden gate. “Except for maybe the penthouse. Won’t see the Chrysler, lower down. The Met Life’s in the way.”

“And the Empire State’s not that high,” Lavine said.

“Shame,” Tanya said. “Three buildings, each the tallest in the world at one time, all from your living room window. What a view that would be.”

Eventually the foreman ambled across to talk to us.

“Yeah?” he said. “What? I’m busy here.”

“FBI,” Weston said. “Looking for Julio Arca.”

“Not here.”

“His wife said he was working today.”

“He is. Not back yet.”

“When do you expect him?”

“Don’t know.”

“Where did he go?”

“The park. ’Cross there. With the other guys.”

“His coworkers?”

“No. Guys in suits. Like you.”

“Like us? How many?”

“Two.”

“When did they go?”

“Don’t know. Ten minutes ago. Fifteen maybe?”

“What does he look like, this Julio?”

“Like a regular guy.”

“Age?”

“Thirties, I guess.”

“Height?”

“Five ten, maybe.”

“Hair?”

“Buzz cut. But he had a hard hat on.”

“Mustache? Beard?”

“No. Shaved.”

“Clothes?”

“Boots. Coveralls, like me. And a fluorescent vest.”

The little park was swarming with people. They were sitting on benches, sprawling next to statues, lying on the grass, walking their dogs, lining up to buy coffee from an outdoor cafe. Some were on their own. Others were in groups. Some were wearing suits. Several were in work clothes. But none matched the description we had for Arca.

The path from the gate at the southeast corner was one of six that radiated out from an ornamental fountain on the far side of the cafe. Another oval path crossed in front of us, a few yards in. Lavine paused when he reached it.

“Better split up,” he said. “I’ll go straight on. Kyle, you go left. Dave and Tanya, you go right. You on the air?”