The guy blinked. “The Feds. Wow. This must be a big deal.”
“What’s your name?” Patrick asked.
“Jason. Jason Franklin. I live in that apartment over there.” He leaned over and pointed past the canopied overhang on Avenue B to one of the apartment buildings down the street.
“And what information do you think you have for us, Jason?”
“Maybe nothing. But I was out walking Rocco last night—” Jason indicated his dog “—and there was a big silver pickup truck blocking the sidewalk right where I’m standing now. There’s construction being done in the area, so I figured that’s why the truck was there—either to load or unload. Or maybe it had broken down, because there was no one in it. Either way, I didn’t give it much thought. Then I read about the body they found in this alley and I decided I should tell someone what I saw. I planned on calling the cops right after I walked Rocco. But now I’m telling you in person.” He looked at them. “Do you think the truck was here to dump the body?”
“I don’t know,” Hutch replied, pulling out his iPhone, ready to type in the information. “But you did the right thing, telling us what you saw. Do you remember anything about the truck, other than the fact that it was silver? A make? Model? License plate number?”
The guy shook his head. “I take the subway. I don’t know anything about cars or trucks. So I’m the wrong person to ask about specifics. The only reason I noticed the truck at all was because Rocco and I had to squeeze by it to take our walk.”
“Understood.” Hutch’s finger was poised over his phone’s touch screen. “Give me your address and phone number, Jason. That way a detective can contact you and ask any further questions.”
“Sure.” Jason provided the details they needed. “It’s creepy to have something like this happen in my own neighborhood. I hope you find the psycho soon.”
“We intend to.”
* * *
At seven o’clock that evening, Ryan’s basement lair became a flurry of activity.
Having set up his audio equipment, Ryan planted himself at his desk, swiveled his chair around and played back the voice recordings of each and every customer who’d been at the meat market that day. Leilah perched on the edge of the desk beside him, listening carefully to every verbal exchange. With each new customer, she indicated with a thumbs-up or a thumbs-down whether or not the customer was engaged in illegal money transfers using hawala—an international operation often used for money laundering. Ryan made copies of the thumbs-up recordings, along with the date/time stamp, and skipped over the others.
His work was meticulous, and not only for FI’s purposes. When this case was over, his intention was for the FBI’s New York field office to receive an anonymous email containing the audio files and a suggestion that they investigate the meat market on West 116th Street. That would take care of the illegal activities going on there.
Once in a while, as the tapes played, Leilah would throw back her head and laugh aloud in reaction to what she was hearing. Ryan would cock his own head in puzzlement, and wait for her to explain. She responded by translating. Twice, the exchanges involved cranky men, complaining about their wives—annoyed that they were asked to pick up meat for dinner when they already had enough on their agenda. One of those men confided in the butcher that the contents of the meat case were more lively than his wife in bed.
On the flip side were the wives who’d argue about who had the worst husband. One woman asked the other if she had a recipe that would insure that her husband choked on the meat she was buying.
That one even made Ryan chuckle.
Overall, the work was long and tedious. It was 10:00 p.m. before they reached the last few recordings of the day. Partway through, Claire walked in, giving Ryan an update on the police reports.
She hesitated in the doorway when she saw what was going on. “I’m sorry. I seem to be making a habit of interrupting you.” This time her voice was sincere. She’d come to grips with her infantile emotions. Ryan and Leilah were working. If they were doing more than that on their own time, that was none of her business, and she was just going to have to deal with it in a gracious way. “I just wanted to give Ryan a police update. But there are no major details. So it can wait.” She turned to go.
Before Ryan could respond, the day’s last verbal interaction at the meat market began playing on the tape—a woman’s soft voice, speaking English.
Claire stopped in her tracks, veering around to face them.
“What’s that you’re listening to?” she asked, pointing at the equipment.
“Voice recordings of everyone our bug picked up in the meat store today.” Ryan was taken aback by the intensity of Claire’s tone. “Why?”
“Because that voice—it belongs to Suzanne Fisher.”
Ryan shot straight up in his chair. “Are you sure?”
“Without a doubt,” Claire replied. “I was with Casey and Marc when we questioned her. We talked at length. I remember her voice. I’m positive that’s her. What’s she doing in the meat market?”
“Let’s find out.” Ryan rewound the tape and played it from the start of the conversation.
Suzanne Fisher was counting out five thousand dollars in cash, plus an additional five hundred for the transaction fee, and tendering it to the owner. “Would you please send that to my husband’s nephew in Brooklyn?” she requested.
“Of course,” the heavily accented owner replied. “It will be ready for him tomorrow morning.”
“Shit!” Ryan exclaimed. “She’s sending money to Glen Fisher’s dead nephew?”