Nelson Demille - The Lion's Game

"I thought you weren't working this case."

"I'm not directly. But it's a big case. White folks, you know?"

"I know. Well, they can't pin this one on you."

He laughed again. "Tell you what-give me a few hours-"

"An hour, tops, Cal. There are other guys out there who need to be covered. We're probably too late for some of them already."

"Yeah, okay. I've got to get hold of the guys working the case, and I'll go over to the victim's house myself and call you from there. Okay?"

"I appreciate it." I gave him Kate's cell phone number and added, "Keep this to yourself."

He said, "You owe me."

"I already paid. Asad Khalil. That's your killer."

"It better be, buddy. I'm sticking my ass out with this."

"I'll cover you."

"Yeah. The FBI always covers the cops."

"I'm still a cop."

"You better be." He hung up. I put the cell phone down on my desk.

Kate looked up from her computer and said, "I heard all of that."

"Well, for the record, you didn't."

"It's okay. I think you're within bounds on that."

"That's a first."

"Don't get paranoid. You're allowed to explore all legitimate avenues of investigation."

"Even top secret stuff?"

"No. But it appears that the perpetrator has this information, and therefore it's already compromised."

"Are you sure?"

"Trust me. I'm a lawyer."

We both smiled. I guess we were pals again.

We had a sort of tenuous conversation, the kind that lovers have after a little misunderstanding about one of the parties not getting rid of someone that he or she was screwing. We segued from that issue to business.

Kate said, "If we can get those names and maybe addresses from your friend before Mrs. Hambrecht turns them over, or before the Air Force or DoD finds them, then we have a better shot at continuing to work this case." She added, "As opposed to Counterterrorism in Washington getting the names."

I looked at her. Clearly, Ms. Mayfield, team player, was re-thinking how the game should be played.

We made eye contact, and she smiled.

I said, "Yeah. I hate it when people take things from me that are mine."

She nodded, then said, "You're actually quite clever. I never thought to call D.C. Homicide."

"I'm a homicide cop. This is cop-to-cop. We do it all the time. Gabe just did it." I added, "You were the one who thought to request Colonel Hambrecht's file. See? We work well together. FBI, cops, synergy. It works really well. What a concept. Why didn't I get into this outfit ten years ago? When I think of all the time I wasted on the police force-"

"John, cool it."

"Yes, ma'am."

"I'm ordering lunch. What would you like?"

"Truffles on rye with béarnaise sauce, and pickles."

"How'd you like my fist down your throat?"

My goodness. I stood and stretched. "Let me take you out for lunch."

"Well… I don't-"

"Come on. I need to get out of here. We have beepers." I put Kate's cell phone in my pocket.

"All right." She stood and went over to the duty desk and told the woman there we'd be out and close by.

We exited the ICC and within a few minutes we were down on Broadway.

It was still a nice, sunny day and the sidewalks were crowded with lunch hour people, mostly government workers eating from vending carts or brown bags to save a few bucks. Cops aren't exactly overpaid, but we know how to treat ourselves well. When you're on the job, you never know what the future may bring, so you eat, drink, and make merry.

I didn't want to get too far from the Ministry of Truth, so I walked two blocks south to Chambers Street near City Hall.

As we walked, Kate said, "I'm sorry if I seemed a little… upset before. That's not like me." "Forget it. The first few days can be tough." "Exactly." It doesn't get appreciably better, but why mention that and spoil the moment?

I directed Ms. Mayfield to a place called Ecco, and we entered. This is a sort of cozy place with the flavor of old New York, except for the prices. Ex and I used to come here since we both worked in the area, but I didn't mention that to Ms. Mayfield.

I was greeted by name by the maitre d', which never fails to impress one's dining companions. The place was crowded, but we were escorted to a nice table for two near the front window. NYPD guys wearing suits and guns are treated well in New York restaurants, and I guess it's the same all over the world. Yet, I'd have no problem giving up the perks and status for a nice retirement someplace in Florida. Right?

Anyway, the place was full of politicos from City Hall and other city agencies. This is sort of a power place for the municipal elite on fat expense accounts; a place where the city's sales tax is recycled back into the private sector, momentarily, then cycled back to the city. It works really well. Kate and I ordered glasses of eight-dollar wine from the proprietor, whose name was Enrico. White for the lady, red for the gentleman.

After Enrico left, Kate said, "You don't have to buy me an expensive lunch."

Of course I did. I said, however, "I really owe you a good lunch after that breakfast."

She laughed. The wine came, and I said to Enrico, "I might need to receive a fax here. Can you give me your number?"

"Of course, Mr. Corey." Whereupon he wrote the fax number on a cocktail napkin and left.

Kate and I touched glasses, and I said, "Slainte."

"What's that mean?"

"To your health. It's Gaelic. I'm half Irish."

"Which half?"

"The left side."

"I mean, mother or father?"

"Mother. Pop is mostly English. What a marriage that is. They send each other letter bombs."

She laughed and observed, "New Yorkers are so concerned with national origins. You don't see that all over the country."

"Really? That's boring."

"Like that joke you told about Italians and Jehovah's Witnesses. It took me a few seconds to get it."

"I have to introduce you to my ex-partner, Dom Fanelli. He's funnier than me."

And so forth. I've been here before, but this time it was different for some reason.

We studied the menus, as they say, me studying the right side, Kate studying the left side. The right side was a little steeper than I'd remembered it, but I was saved by the ringing cell phone. I took it out of my pocket and said, "Corey."

Calvin Childers' voice said, "Okay, I'm in the deceased's den, and there's a photograph here of eight guys in front of a jet lighter that someone tells me is an F-111. The date on the photo is April thirteen, and the year is nineteen eighty-seven, not eighty-six."

"Yeah… well, this was sort of a secret mission, so maybe-"

"Yeah. I got it. Okay, but none of the guys in the photo is ID'ed by name."

"Damn-"

"Hold on, sport. Calvin is on the case. So, then I find this big black-and-white photo labeled Forty-eighth Tactical Fighter Wing, Royal Air Force Station Lakenheath. And there's about fifty, sixty guys in the photo. And it's captioned with names, like first row, second row, and standing. So I put the magnifying glass to these faces, and I come up with the matches to the eight guys in the F-lll photo. Then I go back to the big photo and get the names of those eight guys from the caption. Seven guys-I already know what Waycliff looks like. Okay, then I go into the deceased's personal phone book, and I get seven addresses and phone numbers."

I let out a deep breath and said, "Excellent. You want to fax those names and numbers to me?"

"What's in it for me?"

"Lunch in the White House. A medal. Whatever."

"Yeah. Probably time in Leavenworth. Okay, there's a fax machine here in the deceased's office. Give me your fax number."

I gave him the restaurant fax and said, "Thanks, buddy. Good job."

"Where do you think this guy Khalil is?"