“My brother flew Thunderbolts in Iraq.”
“Tough gig,” I said. “Got to get in low.”
“Yeah. He had some close calls,” Rick replied. “You ever hear of the Ninety-nine before?”
I shook my head.
“Were you and Mr. Parker close?”
“He was one of my flight instructors,” I said. “We became friends after he left the Corps, but then we kind of lost touch.”
“Any idea why he contacted you after all this time?” Rick asked as we reached the security door that led to central booking.
“None,” I replied. “But my guess is he was going to tell me about whatever it was that got him killed.”
Rick swiped a card reader and opened the door. “Thanks for your help, Mr. Morgan. Here’s my number in case there’s anything else you can think of.” He handed me his card.
“Thanks,” I said, and I shook his hand before stepping into the busy hall that was packed with cops, suspects and lawyers. I immediately saw two people I recognized and they hurried toward me.
Jessie Fleming was the 34-year-old former FBI agent I’d hired to run Private New York. She wore jeans and a baggy hooded top, but even her loose-fitting casual clothes couldn’t hide her toned figure. Prior to joining the Bureau, she’d been a gymnast and brought the same dedication that saw her take a World Championship podium bronze in the uneven bars to everything she did. She’d been running Private’s New York office for three years, ever since I’d recruited her out of the Counterintelligence Division, where she’d been on her way to becoming section chief in the New York field office. Under Jessie’s deft leadership, Private New York had grown to become one of our largest operations, with a team of more than sixty investigators and support staff. Sometimes it was hard to believe I’d built this international empire, and I occasionally wondered how my life would have turned out if my dad hadn’t left me the money to give Private the kick-start it needed.
Jessie’s companion was Rafael Lucas, a Spaniard who worked for one of the world’s largest law firms. He’d come to the US on secondment and had married a wealthy Manhattan socialite, which had come as no surprise. He was an elegant, handsome man from an old aristocratic Calabrian family. There was a hint of the 1930s in the way Rafael dressed, and even now he was in a topcoat, tailored suit and waistcoat with shirt and tie. He and Jessie were at opposite ends of the sartorial spectrum, but both wore the same expression of concern.
“You OK?” Jessie asked.
I nodded. “Thanks for coming down.”
“I’m sorry about Karl Parker,” Rafael said.
Rafael was Private New York’s go-to lawyer and he and Jessie both knew why I was in town. We had been supposed to sit down tomorrow to run through open investigations and talk about other issues that needed to be addressed for the New York business.
“It was a professional hit,” I said. “I’m not sure I buy the political motivation.”
“Me neither,” Jessie remarked. “Political groups usually announce themselves with something small, not a prime-time killing. It just doesn’t feel like their first outing.”
I nodded. Jessie’s instincts were usually on the money. “I chased the shooter to the Manhattan Heliport. He had a chopper waiting. Too slick for a radical group. At least that’s what my gut says. Jessie, I want you to call Justine, Sci and Mo-bot and ask them to catch the early-morning flight.”
“No need,” Jessie said. “They’re booked on the red-eye. They called me the moment the story broke.”
I was touched that their immediate instinct had been to help. I hadn’t spoken much about Karl, but they all knew I wouldn’t have been half the pilot I was without his help and insight. Justine was the only one who was aware of just how close Karl and I had been for a while. She knew how personally I’d take his death. I’d watched him get shot and hadn’t been able to do a damned thing to stop it. All my training and years of experience and I’d been of no more use than a child. Justine and I had a complicated history, and we were going through an off patch, but there was nothing more I wanted right now than to hold her. I needed to be close to someone who mattered.
‘“They’ll be here first thing in the morning,’” Jessie told me.
“That’s good,” I replied. “We should get in contact with Victoria Parker when she’s released from interview. I want to find out what Karl was into. See if you can make an appointment for us to visit the house tomorrow.”
“Her attorney called me fifteen minutes ago,” Rafael said. “She’s already been released. She’s on her way to Forty-one Madison right now.”
CHAPTER 11
I SHOULD HAVE been toasting Karl’s magnificent achievement on his beachfront terrace in Long Island. Instead, I was in the passenger seat of Jessie’s car, watching the frozen city roll by. Even with winter at its worst, a few unfortunate souls were doomed to face the brutal chill of New York huddled in sleeping bags in the doorways of stores and churches. The city’s bleak indifference to their suffering was one of many things I’d experienced over the years that had taught me justice wasn’t given, it had to be fought for. And I was going to do whatever it took to ensure I got justice for my old friend.
Jessie drove us north, and after ten minutes in the midday traffic, we pulled into the parking lot beneath Forty One Madison, a thirty-six-story black glass and steel skyscraper that stood on the corner of Madison Avenue and East 26th Street, overlooking Madison Park. Private New York was headquartered on the thirty-fifth and thirty-sixth floors. I’d chosen a midtown location to put Private New York at the heart of the action. Federal Plaza, Wall Street and NYPD Headquarters were a short drive away, and Grand Central and the city’s key residential neighborhoods were a brief cab ride uptown.
We took the stairs to the lobby and found a security guard and a janitor chatting by the front desk. Six elevators were all open and docked on the first floor and we went through the security barriers and took one up to Private’s New York HQ. When we stepped into the lobby, I saw signs of activity all over the place.
“I tasked some of the team to get a head start on the investigation,” Jessie said.
I followed her through a set of glass security doors into an open-plan office where a dozen investigators, administrators and analysts traded information on the Exchange shooting. Some of them stiffened when they saw me. It was a reaction I was used to. Even today, when I was probably at my most vulnerable, they wouldn’t see a grieving human being, they’d see a boss, capable of making or breaking careers. Or so they thought. In truth, life at Private was entirely in their hands. If they cleared their cases, their rise up the ranks would be almost inevitable.