James Patterson - Don’t Blink

But worrying about your enemies in the mob was one thing. Worrying about the people who worked for you – that they weren’t loyal or, worse, they were out to get you – was entirely another.

Enter: Ian LaGrange.

Were it not for a spilled cup of coffee, Phalen may never have found the bug planted beneath the enter key of his computer’s keyboard. When he did, though, he had no question who had planted it.

He just had no proof.

So he left the bug alone.

Phalen went about his business, knowing that LaGrange could hear everything in his office at any time. For others, that might have been an awful burden – always having to choose your words carefully, always acting like the good soldier.

For Phalen, however, it was like being given the answers to a test in advance.

He always knew the smart thing to say in every situation. He always had a heads-up.

Right up until that afternoon, when he had asked Nick Daniels if he liked pasta fagioli so they could get out of his office and talk in private.

That’s when the big surprise had come.

The six-foot-four Ian LaGrange had come bounding down the hallway from his office almost like a linebacker for the New York Giants. Right then and there Phalen had known this seemingly coincidental meeting at the elevator was no coincidence.

LaGrange was very interested in Nick Daniels and what he had to say about Eddie Pinero and Vincent Marcozza. A little too interested, in fact.

Something wasn’t right about this. It stunk to high heaven already.

That’s why Phalen was about to return the favor to LaGrange.

Patiently, he waited in his office until everyone else had gone home for the night. He even waited out the cleaning crew until they’d emptied every last can and mop pail.

Now it was just him and a little birdie.

A Flex-8 “F-Bird,” to be exact. The latest, most sophisticated digital recording device used by none other than the OCTF itself. Battery powered, smaller than a quarter, and on its way to a brand-new home.

The Godfather’s office.

Phalen slowly turned the doorknob at the end of the hall and stepped inside, quiet as a mouse.

Or a bug.

Here’s listening to you, Ian.

I HAD TO ADMIT, Derrick Phalen knew his pasta fagioli. It was good stuff, very good. Reminded me of my favorite Italian restaurant in the world, Il Cena’Colo, back in my home-town of Newburgh.

But even better than Phalen’s pasta fagioli was what came with it – and I’m not talking about a piece of Italian bread. It was my next move.

Thanks for the jump start, Courtney.

Phalen had listened calmly to everything I said at lunch, asking a logical question here and there, but mostly listening. He wasn’t about to print up any “Free Eddie Pinero” T-shirts, but he didn’t look at me as if I were crazy, either.

What he did do was take a pen from his pocket and write a phone number on a napkin.

“I know a guy out in Greenwich who might be able to help you,” he said, pushing the napkin toward me. “Call him and make an appointment.”

“What’s his name?” I asked.

“Hoodie Brown.”

“Hoodie?”

“You’ll see when you meet him. Tell him you’re a friend of mine. That’s all.”

“What does he do?”

“You’ll see,” Phalen said again.

I shrugged my shoulders. Okeydokey.

The following afternoon I was on a Metro-North train out to Greenwich, Connecticut, for a two o’clock appointment with someone named Hoodie Brown. When I’d told him on the phone “Derrick Phalen sent me,” it was as if I’d delivered the secret password at the door of an underground nightclub. I was in.

“Follow me,” said the receptionist at his office.

Greenwich was the capital of the hedge fund world, but what I was doing in the lobby of one such company I had no idea. D.A.C. Investments? Why would Phalen send me to a trader?

He hadn’t. The receptionist, a tall, slender brunette who looked as if she’d stepped off the set of a Vogue magazine shoot, led me past a long, bustling trading floor to a quiet office tucked away in the back of the building. That’s where I met Hoodie Brown.

The name made sense immediately.

Not only was the man who shook my hand wearing a hooded sweatshirt – gray, with the Caltech insignia – he actually had the hood pulled over his head à la the Unabomber. Hell, this guy even looked a little like the Unabomber.

“So, who’s the P.I.Q.?” he asked, settling in behind his desk. I noticed there was no place for me to sit. No chair, no couch. Nada for visitors.

“P.I.Q.?” I asked.

“Person in question,” he explained. “Who are we investigating?”

Oh. “Dwayne Robinson,” I said. “The pitcher for -”

“I know who he is,” said Hoodie. “Or was.”

“Specifically, I’m looking to see if he has any ties to organized crime,” I added.

Hoodie nodded and began tapping away on one of the three keyboards lined up on his desk. At least twice as many computer screens stared back at him.

“Are you a private investigator?” I asked.

He didn’t answer. He didn’t even acknowledge that I’d asked him a question.

“We’ll pull up all domestic bank statements and any police records to start,” he said barely above a whisper. “Then we’ll see if he has an FBI file. It shouldn’t take too long.”

My jaw literally dropped. An FBI file? It shouldn’t take too long?

“How are you able to do this?” I asked incredulously.

“One-hundred-and-twenty-gigabyte fiber-optic connection speeds,” he answered.

“No, I mean -”

“I know what you meant, friend. The answer is, you don’t want to know. You may think you do, but trust me, you don’t.”

If you say so, Hoodie… whoever you are.

I suddenly felt like a little kid swimming into the deep end for the very first time. Maybe I’d be fine.

Or maybe I was in way, way over my head.

And to be honest, I knew the answer to that one. Worse, I still wasn’t wearing a bulletproof vest like Derrick Phalen had.

I STOOD THERE quietly in Hoodie Brown’s office, watching and waiting, respectful. Nearly shivering, too. The damn room felt like a meat locker, it was kept so cold. Hoodie, of course, was dressed appropriately. I sure wasn’t.

Thankfully, the guy was right and the wait wasn’t too long. After another few minutes, Hoodie looked up from his slew of computers for the first time.

“Do you know a Sam Tagaletto?” he asked.

The name didn’t mean anything to me. “No,” I said. “Never heard of him.”

“Apparently Dwayne Robinson did. About a month ago, he wrote him two checks over the span of a week. Both were for fifty grand.”

“I didn’t think Dwayne had that kind of money anymore. I’m almost sure of it.”

“He didn’t,” said Hoodie. “Both checks bounced.”

Red flag, anyone?

“So who’s Sam Tagaletto?” I asked.

“Definitely not a Boy Scout, that’s for sure. He’s been arrested twice for illegal bookmaking, among other things, once in Florida and most recently here in New York,” he said.

“How recent?”

“A year ago. He got six months’ probation.”

“Anything about his having ties to the mob?” I asked. Hoodie cocked his head in my direction. “You mean other than his being a bookie?”

“Yeah, I know, but I’m looking for actual names. Maybe somebody I have heard of.”

“Give me another minute on that,” said Hoodie.

He went back to the keyboard, his fingers tapping away almost as fast as my mind was racing.

Think, Nick. What does all this mean? What could it mean?

Dwayne Robinson had owed a bookie a big chunk of change and couldn’t pay it off. He hadn’t bounced just one check to this guy, Sam Tagaletto, he’d bounced two.