Lewis said, “We need to meet. Today.”
I thought about explaining that I was off duty, but I could tell by the tone of his voice he needed to see me. We picked a diner we both knew on the West Side.
I said, “What do you got? Did you find Temir Marat?”
“No. But I know where he’ll be tonight.”
Chapter 25
Lewis Vineyard had hooked me. I wanted to meet with him right away, but he said he couldn’t. He had other commitments. And it would look suspicious if he slipped away right now. He met me four hours later, at a diner near West End Avenue. I knew that meant he was serious. He didn’t want to risk any of his Russian friends in Brooklyn seeing us together. I was in the booth waiting for him thirty minutes early. I never did that. It took me a moment to notice Lewis coming down the street toward the front door. I craned my neck to look out the window at my overly tan informant wearing a nice button-down shirt and jeans. He almost looked respectable. He was dark, but not leathery; he hadn’t started spending all his time in the sun until the last few years.
As soon as he plopped into the booth
across from me I said, “It’s not cool to tease me with important information, then not meet me immediately.”
He held up his hands to calm me down and said, “No way around it. I called you as soon as I had the information, but things got hopping around the bar and I couldn’t just leave. And there was no way I could have you show up there.”
“I believe that the information you have is good, otherwise you wouldn’t come all the way up here to see me.”
Lewis said, “It’s nice to see how the other half lives. Just walking down the street, I’d say you guys live pretty good up here. I prefer Brighton Beach. But that’s just me.”
I couldn’t wait any longer. “If you’re done with your monologues about New York City, can you tell me where Marat will be tonight?”
“It’s not quite that easy. This is worth a lot.”
I said, “What about the time there was a hit on you and I stopped the hitter in Brooklyn Heights? What was that worth?” I just stared at him and waited for an answer.
“You have a point. You’ve never screwed me, and you help me out. So I’m going to give you this information—if you tell me you’ll make the FBI pay. This is so big the NYPD won’t have the cash.”
“I doubt that.”
His smile told me he had some good info. Finally, I nodded and said, “If it’s good information, I’ll do everything I can to get you paid. That’s the best I can promise.”
Lewis Vineyard said, “That’s good enough for me.” Now he took a moment to gather his thoughts and glanced around the diner to make sure no one was close enough to hear us speak.
Lewis said, “Your man, Marat, will be at the Harbor House, down by Battery Park, at eight p.m. tonight. He may be meeting someone there. A couple members of the Russian mob are going to intercept him.”
“How do you know that information so precisely?”
Lewis perked up and said, “I sold them the guns. Two SIG P220s. It’s a shame they’ll probably toss them in the river after the hit. They’re some nice guns just to use one time.”
I looked down at my watch and realized I didn’t have much time. I didn’t have time to verify the information or even scope out the restaurant. But that’s how things with informants usually worked.
Chapter 26
I raced south on West End Avenue until I could slip onto the Joe DiMaggio Highway. It was too late to call in the troops and plan anything worthwhile. Besides, this could still all be bullshit. I’d know soon enough.
I had to catch myself when I realized I was driving like a lunatic. My driving was the reason people always cursed at New Yorkers. I cut off a UPS truck and tried to wave my apology to a heavyset driver who was not happy.
I’d zipped past all the Trump buildings, some with plywood hiding his name. The vents for the Lincoln and Holland tunnels barely registered on my right.
I tried calling Darya, just so someone knew what was happening. No answer. I didn’t leave a message.
Now I started to consider the questions that were popping into my head. Why would someone pay the mob to kill a terrorist? Who gained from his death? Were the local Russians worried about backlash? Did they really love America that much, or was it their bottom line? All the same questions any homicide detective would ask.
I didn’t know the answer to any of them.
I didn’t call Harry Grissom. There was no need to put him in the trick bag if I screwed this up. I had to let things unfold.