Andrew Gross - The Blue Zone

“Drinking alone?”

The man turned. “Not sure. Brad and Angelina are supposed to drop in any minute now.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Fuck it.” He sighed. Alton Booth removed the newspaper from the stool beside him. “I have this feeling I’m being stood up.”

Cavetti sat down. “I’ll have what he’s having,” he instructed the muscular, ponytailed man behind the bar, sleeves of colorful tattoos running up and down his arms.

“Shirley Temple!” the barman called loudly. A few people turned away from their match to look.

“He knows I’m a cop, right?” Cavetti snorted in an amused sort of way.

“Everyone in here does. You sat next to me.”

The barman brought Cavetti a Killian’s, with a smirk that let him know he’d had him made as soon as he walked in. Cavetti took a swig of his beer. “So you got me here, Al. I’m kinda thinking it wasn’t for the charm.”

“Sorry.” The FBI man shrugged sheepishly. He slid a manila envelope across. Cavetti unfastened the clasp and pulled out what was inside.

Photos.

He laughed. “Couldn’t help yourself, huh?”

“What’s the joke?”

“Kate Raab said that to me. Every time I see her, I bring out pictures.”

“Wait till she gets a load of these.”

Cavetti slid out the contents. There was a cover sheet marked CRIMINAL EVIDENCE, from the Seattle office of the FBI. The top sheet read PIKE’S MARKET. HOMICIDE OF SHARON RAAB, A/K/A SHARON GELLER.

“A team of agents on our field staff were following up on the crime scene,” Booth explained. “These were taken by a security camera in a garage a block from the hotel. The agent in charge, ambitious up-and-comer that he was, ran the plates of all vehicles leaving area garages within a few minutes after the attack.”

“Thorough.” Cavetti nodded, leafing through the photos, impressed.

They were all of the rear of a single car. A Chrysler Le Baron. Years before, Cavetti used to drive one. This one was newer. Michigan plates-EV6 7490.

“Rental,” the FBI man said, anticipating the next question. “Two days before. It was turned back in the day after at the Sacramento airport.”

Cavetti looked at him impatiently. “Do I have to order another beer, Al, or are you going to give me a name?”

“Skinner.”

Cavetti’s eyes widened. “Fuckin’ A…”

“Kenneth John Skinner” was one of the licenses they’d traced to Benjamin Raab.

So it wasn’t Mercado after all. It was only made to look that way. Raab was behind it, even if he hadn’t pulled the trigger.

The son of a bitch had murdered his own wife.

“Does this photo come with an understanding of what’s going on?”

“I understand we’ve got four agents dead, Phil. And that Oscar Mercado is missing. I understand that we’re dealing with a man we’ve greatly underestimated. Problem is, Assistant Director Cummings is starting to understand that, too.”

“Cummings?”

“The AD wants this over, Phil. They want Raab, Mercado-this whole thing put under wraps. No more pissing around your little Blue Zone. His directive is, ‘By whatever means…’”

“Whoever it puts at risk.” Cavetti nodded. “Whoever happens to get in the way.”

Booth shrugged again. “Your boys are squaring off against each other, Phil.” He signaled for another beer. “Either that, or this is one fucking elaborate scheme to get out of paying alimony.”

“You’re right.” Cavetti took a final swig and stood up, patting Booth on the back. “His daughter’s not going to be thrilled about this at all.”

He looked at Booth, then glanced around the dingy bar. “What is it you like about this place, Al?” he asked, reaching into his pocket for a bill.

Booth stopped him. “I was on Westies patrol when I was cutting my bones back in the seventies.” The Westies were the bloody Hell’s Kitchen gang whose members were always used as muscle for the mob. “This was the local HQ. I was outside this place so many times on surveillance, one day the manager came out and brought me a beer. Haven’t paid since.”

Cavetti laughed. He had a few of those stories himself.

But he wasn’t happy. He had spoken with Kate Raab yesterday. He was certain she hadn’t been truthful with him when he asked about her father.

Now he felt doubly scared for her.

Kate stayed on the train for what seemed like hours. She rode it all the way downtown to 59th Street, then wandered through the crowded station in a daze and took the Broadway line all the way back uptown.

Her world had just been cracked in two.

She had seen her mother killed. Her closest friend shot and in a coma. Her father go from the person she loved and admired most in the world to someone whose very voice now riddled her with doubt and fear.

Yet with all that had happened, she had never felt alone. Because she’d always had Greg. She knew she could always come back to him. He made her feel whole.

Until now.

Now she didn’t know where to go. To the police? Cavetti? Tell them everything. Her father’s connection to Mercado. That he had set up his own arrest. That he was after his own brother. That she had spoken with him.

That her own husband might be part of it, too.

The rattling rhythm of the train soothed her. She rode it all the way back uptown, past 168th Street. She didn’t know where to go. Only that soon she’d have to make a decision. She couldn’t go home. That was where Greg would be. She couldn’t face him. Not now.

That was when the PA announced: “ Dyckman Street -next stop.”

It was like something out of a dream. That was the answer. At least for a while. Kate got off there. She ran down the stairs and headed toward the river.

The boathouse was only a short walk away.

In the cold of the November afternoon, Kate leaned against the pier. Only a few staunch rowers were braving the bitter chill out there today. A club-team eight was powering out by the big Columbia C. Kate could hear the coxswain: “Stroke…stroke…” She huddled in her sweatshirt, the wet breeze whipping her face and hair.

Had it always been arranged? Had Greg always been part of this? Meeting, falling in love, every time they laughed, danced, talked about their lives, found things for their apartment. Every time they’d made love.

Had it all been part of the same plan?

The nausea came back, the sweeping violent, unstoppable surge. When it subsided, a numbed feeling took its place, like she’d been battered, every bone broken. Enervated.

They’ve won. They’ve beaten you, Kate. Give up. Don’t try to figure it out any longer. Just find Cavetti. Tell him everything. Who are you protecting now? Why can’t you just do the one smart thing?

Let it out. There’s nothing to keep inside. She pressed her palms against her eyes and started to cry. They had won. Beaten her. She had nothing left. She had no one to trust anymore.

Her phone vibrated again. It was Greg-he’d been leaving frantic messages-for maybe the fifteenth time. “ Kate, pick up, please… ”

This time she flipped it open. She didn’t know why. A bitter anger was clawing its way through every aching pore.

“ Kate! ” Greg shouted when he heard her pick up. “Please let me explain.”

“Explain.” Her voice was a dull, derisive snort. She’d scream at him if only she had the strength for rage. “Why don’t you start with who you are, Greg? Who am I suddenly married to? Or what your name is really? My name! Why don’t you start with that? You want to explain, Greg? Explain what I’ve been feeling for the past four years. Who I’m sleeping next to. Start with how you found me?”