the voice said.
"Fulton, it's Waring. The killer turned up again. He just ducked into the Metro station at L'Enfant Plaza. There's got to be a way to shut it down before he gets away."
"Hold on and let me find out." There was a click, and then a moment later he was back. "Elizabeth?"
"I'm still here."
"L'Enfant Plaza is the perfect station for him and the worst for us. He can get on the blue, orange, green, or yellow lines in either direction—every line but one—and in two stops he could get on the red line too. Keeping all the trains from leaving would shut down the whole system at rush hour. We'd have a panic. Even if capturing him wouldn't involve shooting, it's still too risky."
"But we'd have him."
"All we'd be doing is handing this guy five hundred hostages."
"I guess it was too much to hope he'd made that kind of mistake."
There was a pause. "Elizabeth?"
"What?"
"This brings up something that I think you need to know."
"What is it?"
"I'm taking a risk to say this."
"Then don't. At least don't say it on the phone. I ... uh, forgot something at the office, so I've got to go back in anyway. I'll be there in ten minutes."
It was fifteen minutes before she walked back into the office. She went directly to Fulton's office and knocked.
"Come in."
She entered, closed the door, and sat down in front of Fulton's desk. "Tell me."
He looked at her, then at the desk, where his fingers were fiddling with his pencil. "You've given me some breaks and helped me out a number of times. Still, I almost called you back to ask you not to come in."
"It's that bad?"
"Bad enough. While you were suspended, he had a couple of his assistants search your office."
"Which he had a perfect right and excuse to do, of course. I'll admit I was surprised when I came back and saw everything in my in-box was missing."
"Did you get it back?"
"I'm pretty sure I got it all."
"Then they haven't found anything that will make you look bad."
"Is he really trying to do that? He's been friendly today. He came this close to admitting he was wrong about trying to keep Tosca under surveillance. If he had simply let my arrangement with the FBI stand, we would have kept three men alive and possibly caught the Butcher's Boy, and he knows it."
"He's not your friend. There was an upper-level staff meeting Friday. 'Why does this professional killer know Waring? Why does he come to her after twenty years and ask for information? Why would she give it to him? How does he know where she lives?' And he's looked into the conviction of Carlo Balacontano twenty years ago. He says he's got a nose for things that don't smell right. Why would the head of one of the five New York families bury the head and hands of a Las Vegas businessman on his own horse farm in Saratoga? If he did that, then who knew about it and called in a tip to tell the FBI where to look? Why did the Justice Department buy into that?"
"It's ironic," she said. "That's exactly what I said twenty years ago. I said it over and over, but everybody said, 'That just shows how arrogant Carl Bala is.' And I kept insisting, until finally John Connor, the deputy assistant AG at the time, pressured me into taking a long vacation out of the country. If I hadn't agreed, it was pretty clear I was going to be out."
"I don't suppose anybody at the time wrote anything down about your objections."
"Of course not. At least not that I've ever seen. What Connor did was put a notation in my personnel file that said the long vacation in Europe was 'health-related.' For the next ten or twelve years I had to explain that to my new bosses during every annual evaluation and every promotion committee. I would say it was a great opportunity, and they took it to mean I was attached to some foreign police force."
"He knows about that too," said Fulton. "He thinks you had a mental breakdown and they saved your career by covering it up."
She shrugged. "What else could it be? And I must be having another one
"Fulton, it's Waring. The killer turned up again. He just ducked into the Metro station at L'Enfant Plaza. There's got to be a way to shut it down before he gets away."
"Hold on and let me find out." There was a click, and then a moment later he was back. "Elizabeth?"
"I'm still here."
"L'Enfant Plaza is the perfect station for him and the worst for us. He can get on the blue, orange, green, or yellow lines in either direction—every line but one—and in two stops he could get on the red line too. Keeping all the trains from leaving would shut down the whole system at rush hour. We'd have a panic. Even if capturing him wouldn't involve shooting, it's still too risky."
"But we'd have him."
"All we'd be doing is handing this guy five hundred hostages."
"I guess it was too much to hope he'd made that kind of mistake."
There was a pause. "Elizabeth?"
"What?"
"This brings up something that I think you need to know."
"What is it?"
"I'm taking a risk to say this."
"Then don't. At least don't say it on the phone. I ... uh, forgot something at the office, so I've got to go back in anyway. I'll be there in ten minutes."
It was fifteen minutes before she walked back into the office. She went directly to Fulton's office and knocked.
"Come in."
She entered, closed the door, and sat down in front of Fulton's desk. "Tell me."
He looked at her, then at the desk, where his fingers were fiddling with his pencil. "You've given me some breaks and helped me out a number of times. Still, I almost called you back to ask you not to come in."
"It's that bad?"
"Bad enough. While you were suspended, he had a couple of his assistants search your office."
"Which he had a perfect right and excuse to do, of course. I'll admit I was surprised when I came back and saw everything in my in-box was missing."
"Did you get it back?"
"I'm pretty sure I got it all."
"Then they haven't found anything that will make you look bad."
"Is he really trying to do that? He's been friendly today. He came this close to admitting he was wrong about trying to keep Tosca under surveillance. If he had simply let my arrangement with the FBI stand, we would have kept three men alive and possibly caught the Butcher's Boy, and he knows it."
"He's not your friend. There was an upper-level staff meeting Friday. 'Why does this professional killer know Waring? Why does he come to her after twenty years and ask for information? Why would she give it to him? How does he know where she lives?' And he's looked into the conviction of Carlo Balacontano twenty years ago. He says he's got a nose for things that don't smell right. Why would the head of one of the five New York families bury the head and hands of a Las Vegas businessman on his own horse farm in Saratoga? If he did that, then who knew about it and called in a tip to tell the FBI where to look? Why did the Justice Department buy into that?"
"It's ironic," she said. "That's exactly what I said twenty years ago. I said it over and over, but everybody said, 'That just shows how arrogant Carl Bala is.' And I kept insisting, until finally John Connor, the deputy assistant AG at the time, pressured me into taking a long vacation out of the country. If I hadn't agreed, it was pretty clear I was going to be out."
"I don't suppose anybody at the time wrote anything down about your objections."
"Of course not. At least not that I've ever seen. What Connor did was put a notation in my personnel file that said the long vacation in Europe was 'health-related.' For the next ten or twelve years I had to explain that to my new bosses during every annual evaluation and every promotion committee. I would say it was a great opportunity, and they took it to mean I was attached to some foreign police force."
"He knows about that too," said Fulton. "He thinks you had a mental breakdown and they saved your career by covering it up."
She shrugged. "What else could it be? And I must be having another one
Similar Books
