Robin Cook - Critical

Franco's heart had raced as well. With definite relief, he smiled at the policeman, then walked north toward the Trump Tower commercial entrance.

AMY LUCAS LOOKED over at the clock high on the wall across from her desk. With utter relief, she saw that it was finally five-thirty, her normal quitting time. The day had been a mixture of anxiety and tedium. The anxiety had been getting called into the CEO's office and being questioned about Paul. She'd never even met the CEO before, much less been called into her office. Although she suspected it would be about Paul, she wasn't entirely sure. There was always the concern about being fired, not that she'd done anything to deserve it but more because she couldn't afford to be fired. Financial need evoked a kind of paranoia, and her finances were being strained by her contribution toward keeping her mother in an assisted-living facility. Each month was a struggle to stay in the black.

Paul's absence had also been the source of anxiety. She'd been working for the man for about ten years and had moved with him from their previous job to Angels Healthcare about five years ago. When he'd not shown up by ten that morning, Amy feared something was wrong, because Paul Yang was generally very precise and methodical, like most accountants, unless he had been drinking. That was the worry. As the day wore on and he didn't appear or call, she came to believe he was on one of his binges, like he'd had before the move to Angels Healthcare, and it saddened her. Back then it had been difficult, because she'd had to make excuses for his absence on a regular basis, and even on one occasion rescue him from a fleabag motel.

After the motel incident, he'd seen the light, and overnight he became thankfully motivated to stay away from alcohol. Only Amy knew he'd gone to AA meetings and had kept it up for years now. She'd hoped he'd stay away from alcohol for good, but now, five-thirty in the afternoon, she was certain he'd relapsed.

If it was true, as she expected it was, that he'd gone back to alcohol, she blamed the stress he'd been under regarding the stupid 8-K form and the ballyhoo about whether or not to file it. She knew he was upset about it because he had specifically told her so, but he didn't tell her why he was so agitated. Amy wasn't an accountant, and had never even gone to secretarial school. She was pretty much self-taught, although she did take appropriate courses in high school and was exceptionally good with the computer.

Sometime after she had typed the 8-K on Paul's laptop, he had called her into his office, and then, as if there was a great conspiracy afoot, gave her a USB drive, which contained the 8-K file.

"I want you to keep this," he'd whispered. "Just put it someplace safe. On a separate file is the Securities and Exchange Commission's website."

"But why?" she'd asked.

"Don't ask! Just keep it unless something happens to me."

Amy could remember looking into his eyes. He was being so melodramatic that she'd thought he was joking with her, because he did have a sense of humor. But he apparently wasn't joking, because he dismissed her and never mentioned the USB drive again.

Now, as she was ready to leave for home, she opened her bar and took out the USB storage device and looked at it as if she expected it to communicate with her. She couldn't help but wonder if Paul's absence fulfilled his request for her to file the 8-K. When he'd given her the charge, he'd never described what he meant by "unless something happens to me." Certainly, going on a binge qualified as something happening to him, but Amy wasn't confident. She slipped the drive back into its side pocket and closed her purse. Her last thought before leaving was whether she should call his home. She'd considered doing it off and on all day but wasn't sure if she should. She'd even considered calling one of his old girlfriends, whose number she still had, but she decided not to do it since he'd had no contact with her for five years, as far as she knew. With a sigh, her indecision was such that she thought it better to do nothing than to do something that might make the situation worse. With that thought she turned off her desk lamp and left the office.

"WHAT THE HELL is going on?" Carlo said with a shake of his head. He was mystified.

"I haven't the slightest idea," Brennan said.

Carlo and Brennan were in Carlo's black GMC Denali, pulled over to the right side of Fifth Avenue at Grand Army Plaza. Just to their right was the Pulitzer fountain with the statue of a naked Abundance in all her glory.

Carlo and Brennan had picked up Franco and Angelo the moment they'd emerged from the Neapolitan Restaurant. At a safe distance in Johnny's parking lot, they had joked about the two Lucia enforcers, trying to decide which one was the weirdest-looking. To them, Franco looked like a hawk with his narrow, hatchet-like nose and beady eyes, while Angelo looked like someone from a horror movie with his extensive facial scarring.

"What a pair," Carlo had commented as he'd put his sub sandwich down on the center console and put his car in gear.

Tailing the two had been easy, since Franco's car stood out from the crowd with its erect tail fins and whiter-than-white sidewall tires. The only problem spot had been getting on the Queensboro Bridge, since they had missed a traffic light, and Franco's car had driven out of sight. After a short period of anxiety, they had been able to catch up to their quarry, thanks to the traffic light on the Manhattan side of the bridge. From there, they had proceeded to Fifth Avenue without a problem until Franco had suddenly pulled to the side a bit beyond the commercial entrance to the Trump Tower.

Franco's parking had been so precipitous that Carlo had had to drive by and make a right at 55th Street, and go around the block. That maneuver had also caused a bit of concern about losing them until they'd returned to Fifth Avenue and saw Franco's car still standing where it had been.

For the next thirty-five minutes, Carlo and Brennan had stayed where they were next to naked Abundance, alternately watching Franco's car with a pair of binoculars Brennan had thoughtfully brought along. They couldn't see much, just two silhouettes having an active conversation from the looks of their intermittent hand gestures. While they waited, they finished the sandwiches they'd gotten at Johnny's. Without knowing where they were going or how long it would take, they'd jumped at the chance to haw some food.

The stakeout had gradually become boring until both men sat up a little straighter when the NYPD officer had appeared and closed in on the car.

"What's going down?" Carlo had questioned. Brennan had the binoculars at the time.

"I don't know. They're just talking."

"Let me see!" Carlo said. He took the binoculars from his colleague, who was lower in the organizational hierarchy. Carlo and Brennan had known each other for years from living in the same neighborhood and attending the same high school.

"Franco's walking toward us," Carlo said as he continued watching through the binoculars.

"Uh-oh," Brennan said urgently. "Angelo is driving away! What should we do?"

"Let's stick with Franco," Carlo said. "He's stopped at the Trump Tower entrance. My guess is he's waiting for someone to come out of the building."

"What about Angelo? I could get out and stick with Franco while you tail Angelo."

Carlo shook his head. "My bet is Angelo's just going around the block. Let's stick where we are. I'm starting to think they're planning on snatching someone."

"That's crazy with all these people around, not to mention the cops."

"I can't argue with you there," Carlo said, and then quickly added, "I think he sees who he is after. He just tossed his cigarette into the gutter."

"Who is it, a man or a woman?" Brennan questioned. He eyed the binoculars and had to resist an urge to grab them away from Carlo. After all, he'd had the sense to bring them along.