David Baldacci - Daylight

“So a drug dealer, maybe. Why haven’t I heard anything about that?”

“Why would you?”

“So Grandpa has kept it out of the courts and the news?”

“Like I said, I don’t know about the drug-dealing part. But Jeff has a lot of wealthy and well-connected friends at Ivy League colleges who could be customers of his.”

“So a network of elite drug users? And what have you done about it?”

“I’m his godmother, which is usually an honorary rank. I knew his mother, Jennifer. She died when Jeff was eight. It was a big blow to him. His father is a hedge fund guy. He works and lives in New York. After Jennifer died, he married a much younger woman. They have two little kids. He’s written Jeff off. I tried to step into the breach, so I’ve spent a lot of time with Jeff over the years. Not as a second mom, or anything, but just as a friend, someone to talk to.”

“Jeff have any other siblings?”

“No.”

“And what does he tell you when you two talk about his issues?”

“I’ve confronted him a number of times. He tells me that things are fine. He had a problem but has it no longer. And that anything else I’ve heard about him is just wrong.”

“Did he look like he was using?”

“Not when he was with me.”

“And did you tell my brother this?”

“Yes.”

“How did he even come to contact you? Were you friends? You didn’t say.”

“No. I knew of him. But he told me he had never heard of me. He said it had to do with the results of an algorithm he had come up with for the purposes of your investigation.”

Puller cracked a smile. “An algorithm? Now that sounds like Bobby, all right. Are you sure Driscoll knows about his grandson’s wayward ways?”

“I know he does. I told him, numerous times.”

“And what did he do?”

“He said he would handle it.”

“And did he?”

“I doubt I would be here talking to you if he had.”

“When was the last time you spoke with Jeff?”

“About two weeks ago.”

“Did he ever mention a man named Tony Vincenzo?”

“No, not to me. I would have remembered that.”

“How about a penthouse on Billionaires’ Row in Manhattan?” Puller gave her the street address.

Miles looked puzzled. “You know, I think I dropped him off there once when we were in New York together. This was about a month ago. He said there was going to be a party. I remember telling him that he needed to be careful. And I also remarked that he must have some really, really rich friends. Do you know who owns the place?”

“We tried to track it and failed, which means it might be a global criminal enterprise with mega-deep pockets.”

“Oh my God. Who the hell is he mixed up with?”

“I intend to find out. But I need to talk to your godson, ASAP.”

“Do you want me to reach out to him and arrange something?”

“No, that won’t work.”

“Why?”

“Because he’ll either disappear or someone will be sent to kill me. And since that’s already happened once very recently, I’d like to avoid it again if possible.”

Miles had turned pale as he was speaking. “Then what do you want me to do?” she said in barely above a whisper.

“Send me his contact info and a picture. I’ll take it from there.”

“And what should I do in the meantime?”

“Do not contact him. Go back to Norfolk, keep your head down, and when your ship is commissioned, get on it and don’t look back.”

“You’re really scaring me, John.”

“Then my mission is accomplished.”

“Are you working this case all alone?”

Puller took out his phone. “No. I’ve got a partner who I’m just about to call.”

“I hope this person is good.”

“She’s far better than good.”

CHAPTER

41

THE NEXT EVENING Pine met Puller outside the Eighth Avenue exit from Penn Station in New York City. He had ridden an Amtrak regional train up from DC, arriving in about three hours. The weather was overcast and chilly as they walked along the street, Puller’s small duffel slung over his shoulder. His dress blues had been exchanged for jeans, a sweater, and a dark blue blazer. As they walked they filled each other in on their respective developments, including Robert Puller’s algorithm netting them Gloria Miles and through her, Jeff Sands.

“So have you told Lineberry that Linda Holden-Bryant was his mole all those years ago?” asked Puller.

“I should, but I haven’t. I’m not exactly sure how to go about it. Plus, he’s still recovering from being shot.”

They grabbed a cab that took them up the West Side to a condo building in the Eighties, near Riverside Drive.

As they passed the top-hatted and uniformed doorman and walked into the soaring marble-and-chrome lobby Puller asked, “What are we doing here?”

“This is where we’re staying. Carol is in the condo now making dinner.”

“Whose condo is it? I usually crash on a friend’s couch when I’m in New York. The CID’s per diem for lodging doesn’t cover anything in the city lodging arena, and that includes sleeping in your car in a parking garage.”

Puller eyed the smiling concierge seated behind a desk that would not have looked out of place at Versailles and added, “And I don’t have to be the world’s greatest detective to deduce that this is also out of the Bureau’s lodging per diem.”

Pine looked uncomfortable. “This . . . this is Jack Lineberry’s pied-à-terre. He generously allowed us to stay here.”

“Weren’t you staying at a hotel in Trenton?”

Pine thumbed the button for the elevator and said, “He called yesterday. I told him I was in New York and he insisted that we stay here.”

“Was this before or after you spoke with his old flame?”

“After. But I didn’t tell him that. He was just being kind.”

They rode the car up to the tenth floor and she led him down a wide, luxuriously carpeted hallway lined with stout wooden doors and paintings that looked original. She used her passkey to enter the apartment. Puller followed, set down his duffel, and looked around.

“Wow, Lineberry is really loaded.”

“Yes. He has his own jet, a mansion in rural Georgia, a penthouse in Atlanta.”

“And this place,” added Puller. “And he’s your father.”

“He’s my biological father, but Tim Pine raised me,” she retorted. “As far as I’m concerned, he’s my father.”

“I get that. But does Lineberry have any other kids?”

“No, he never married. He had me and . . . Mercy.”

“Well, don’t be surprised if he leaves all of this to you.”

Pine looked surprised. “I never even thought about that. And I don’t want it!”

“But he can still leave it to you. And you can do with it what you want.”

“I’ll worry about that if and when it turns out I have to.”

A moment later Blum walked into the room wearing an apron and a smudge of flour on her cheek. She was rubbing her hands on a cloth.

“I thought I heard you come in. This place is deceptively large, and very quiet. I hope you’re hungry. Dinner will be ready in about ten minutes.”

“I am,” said Puller. “It was slim pickings on the train.”

“Let me show you to your room,” said Pine.

She led him down a hall to the last door and opened it. She stepped in and looked around at what was clearly a high-dollar, professionally decorated space, just like the rest of the apartment.

“Lineberry has good taste, or hired someone who has good taste,” remarked Puller as he set his duffel on the four-poster bed.

Pine sat in a chair in front of a reproduction desk all primed with stationery and pen and a large, leather-handled magnifying glass.