“I don’t know. But listen, is there anyone you can think of who might have done this—or who might at least know where they’re headed?”
There was an unusually long silence. Samantha took the phone away from her ear to check in case the connection had been lost, but she could see the seconds still ticking off on the screen, indicating the call was still in progress. Then she heard Donna’s voice.
“Samantha, I borrowed Michael’s cell phone while we were at Alex’s wake. I planted a GPS tracker in it. Let me get on my computer and see if it’s working.”
“Donna, oh my God, that’s … crazy … but that might be the best news I could have. Whatever you do, hurry. I don’t think there’s much time from the look of those guys.”
“Okay, just hold on while I go to my computer.”
“Please, Donna, hurry.”
“I’ve got it open, and I’m putting in my password to the GPS site.” After a short pause, she continued. “We’re in!”
Samantha’s mind was racing between her astonishment at Donna’s nerve in placing the GPS tracker on Michael and her fear that it either wasn’t working or that his phone had been thrown away.
“Now let me get to the right screens … Samantha, we’re in luck! Holy shit, I’m looking at a street map of Queens—actually, Flushing and Willets Point.”
Samantha wanted to scream. “Donna, keep going, hurry.”
“I see the red symbol for the ‘subject,’ which I pray is Michael’s location. They’re clearly in Flushing and heading to Willets Point.”
“That’s a start; can you zero in closer? Will it give you a street or anything?”
“I’m trying. Hold on, Samantha, I may have an even more exact location. I don’t know for sure, but there’s a good chance this is where he is.”
“Oh my God, Donna, where?”
“It looks like they just got off the Whitestone Expressway at the Thirty-First Street exit, and they’re now on Willets Point Boulevard.”
“That’s terrific, Donna—”
“Maybe not,” Donna quickly interrupted.
“Why? What’s wrong?” Samantha’s heart dropped.
“They’re only two blocks now from the water.”
Samantha rushed to the NYPD detective who was standing several feet away. “Officer, I think I know where they may be!” Samantha repeated the location she had just received from Donna. She watched as the detective called the information into his police radio. She could hear the positive response from what sounded like a dispatcher.
The detective’s voice was reassuring as he said, “We’ll have units and a helicopter there in just a few minutes, maybe less, Mrs. Nicholas.” But then he came closer. She noticed his expression change to one of confusion or, she thought, skepticism. “But, I have to ask you, how did you get this?”
“It’s a long story, but I’d like to introduce you to my sister-in-law,” she said as she handed the phone over to the detective. “She’s tracking my husband from his phone.”
After several minutes, Samantha approached the detective, who appeared to have finally put down his radio receiver. He handed back Samantha’s cell phone.
“Is there any news? Have they found him?” she asked, trying not to be hysterical.
“We’re close, ma’am. We’ve got several units now flooding the entire area, including the specific location we got from your sister-in-law.”
Her cell phone rang. It was Fletcher again.
“Samantha, I’ve been trying to reach you. I pulled some strings with my old friends, and I’m in a NYPD helicopter. I understand you’ve got some GPS lead that he’s in Willets Point near the water.”
“Yes, my sister-in-law Donna—I know this is odd—has a GPS attached to Michael’s cell phone.”
“Why would she have that?” Fletcher asked.
“Fletcher, I don’t have a clue. She said she’d explain it all later. You know, with all this stuff that Michael has gotten involved with, the world has become just terrifying. Fletcher, should I try calling Michael’s cell?”
“No, whatever you do, don’t do it now. If this GPS thing is real, we don’t want them to throw the phone out the window or something.”
Although Michael was from Queens, he wasn’t familiar with the exact area he and his captors were speeding through. He knew he wasn’t in a great area of Flushing as he saw the small, old, deteriorating factories and buildings, many of them abandoned. Morty, Lump, and Nicky Bats had also turned strangely silent.
Michael wondered whether they were beginning the detachment process, making it easier for even hard-core psychopaths to kill their prey. He knew his only hope was that their car would somehow be pulled over by an unsuspecting cop for speeding. It seemed highly unlikely, especially since he hadn’t even seen a single police car since leaving the Triborough Bridge. His mind raced through all the possible escape strategies, none of which seemed to hold the slightest chance of success. Only sheer luck or complete stupidity would save him.
Morty, Lump, and Nicky Bats each seemed capable of the stupidity, except this was a task they likely performed without even having to think, like a plumber fixing a drain. They had done it so many times before, it was a routine, mindless, mechanical process.
Michael thought that he should at least try to keep them talking. “So, what do you guys think about the Yankees this year?” he asked no one in particular.
“Shut the fuck up,” Morty said.
Michael could see that his ride was nearing an end. Willets Point was dark and deserted at this hour of the night. There was no reason for anyone to be here unless they were up to something sinister. He was torn between trying to mentally prepare for the end of his life and still trying to look for any chance of escape. The latter seemed more hopeless with each passing block and with each step closer to the approaching pier or boat or whatever was to be the method of dumping him in the water. He wondered how long it would take to drown.
The car began to slow down. Michael could hardly see anything through his window. Still, no one spoke. As the car came to a stop, Michael could see a simple iron lamppost, curved downward at the very top, an ordinary lightbulb appearing to be the only illumination in the area. It cast an ominous glow over what looked like an old-fashioned wooden pier. It reminded him of an Edward Hopper painting. There were no boats, just the pier, which seemed to go out to nowhere. Without any light other than the one at the foot of the pier, the water was invisible. But Michael knew it was there, and he knew he would feel it soon enough.
Morty, Lump, and Nicky Bats opened their car doors almost simultaneously. Morty left the car engine running, an indication, Michael thought, that this wasn’t going to take long, at least for them. He came around and opened Michael’s door from the outside. As Michael was helped out of his seat, Lump and Nicky Bats grabbed the cement block holding Michael’s feet. Michael looked out toward the pier and could now see that the length of the pier was no more than ninety feet.
The distance from home to first in baseball,
he thought. This would be his last at-bat.
Chapter 47
Willets Point, Queens, New York
7:15 p.m.
T
he view from the helicopter was breathtaking. Fletcher could see the New York Mets Citi Field and the Triborough, Whitestone, and Throgs Neck bridges, all close by around him. In the near horizon was the majestic skyline of Manhattan. The night was dark, but the city’s lights glittered everywhere on this cold evening. Directly below, however, there was little light. These Queens streets were not part of the great, powerful metropolis. They hid more than they revealed.
The NYPD Harbor Scuba Team was an elite corps of police divers trained to deploy into any New York City waterway within six minutes. Detective Eddie Nardelli headed the team of two divers riding in the NYPD Aviation Unit helicopter for tonight’s rescue mission. Nardelli and his partner, fellow detective Kenny Rivera, were both in their black wetsuits, their scuba tanks already strapped on their backs. They were each armed with Smith & Wesson semiautomatic 9mm handguns with fluted firing pins capable of firing even after being submerged in the water, and they were ready to jump from the helicopter into the black murky waters around Flushing.
“Fletcher,” Nardelli asked, “who is this guy?”
“He’s a good friend from Westport. He’s helped us out in the past. His brother was murdered by some hit guy a few weeks ago in Whitestone. I think the same people have got him now.”
“Is he clean?” It was hard to hear over the whirring of the helicopter.
“I think so. He’s a good guy. His brother may have been into some gambling stuff, but nothing serious.”
Fletcher stared down at the local streets, which fanned out from the major arteries toward the surrounding body of water. “What is all this, just commercial stuff? What about the docks?”
Detective Nardelli waved his arm, motioning out to the streets directly below them. “This area is dead at night. It’s almost dead even during the day. Just old abandoned factories and piers. The water’s cold, dirty, and deep. If someone gets dumped down in these waters, unless he floats back up or you know the exact spot, you’ll never find him. Divers with searchlights can only see a foot in front of them, even during the day. The water’s probably close to freezing. Even if this guy’s not tied up or anything and able to swim, once he hits the water, he’ll be dead in two minutes.”
“We’re coming right over the Whitestone Expressway right over there,” the pilot shouted. “I’m going to come in real low. We’ll be right over Willets Point Boulevard. There’s 119th Street, where they radioed these guys might be. Fortunately, there aren’t too many cars this time of night. I see some of our guys approaching the area.”
Fletcher could see the area the pilot was pointing out and the several flashing red lights from the patrol cars heading toward the water. “We have to find that car before they get to the pier,” Fletcher shouted. His eyes strained as he tried to focus and interpret what he saw.
“Get the big spotlight right over there,” Fletcher said, pointing to a spot where a solitary car with its lights on stood right next to the edge of the water. A single streetlight dimly illuminated the scene. There were people running, carrying something.
Morty looked at Michael as if he was one of the caskets he transported to the cemeteries in Brooklyn. During the night, his “packages” were not as neatly encased as the ones he moved during the day. He also missed the police escorts that accompanied the big daytime funeral processions. They helped him steer through the busy New York streets. At night, his “deliveries” tended to be to lonely, deserted parts of the city, so the police escort wasn’t needed—not to mention that the cops wouldn’t look favorably upon Morty’s night work.
“Hey, Lump,” he said, “where we goin’ to dinner?” Morty figured they would be sitting down to either a thick T-bone or a bowl of spaghetti and hot Italian sausage in less than fifteen minutes.
Morty remembered the sound of approaching helicopters from his service during the first Gulf War. He had heard that sound in the distance again just a minute ago but put it out of his mind. Now it was louder. LaGuardia Airport was nearby, but helicopters here were pretty much only for rush-hour traffic reporters. It was too long into the night for that.
The chopper was coming closer; it was too low. And now sirens. They too were getting louder and closer. There was no way anyone could have followed them here, he thought. This had never happened before. Something was wrong. He felt a rush of energy, not fear but some strange excitement he hadn’t felt in a long time. He looked at Lump and Nicky. They were still clueless. But suddenly, Nicky Bats looked at Lump; then they both looked right at Morty. The edge of the pier was less than twenty feet away.
Morty began to weigh the options in his mind. They could still dump Michael before anyone was going to get to them. But what if they were caught before they could get away? Kidnapping versus murder. Neither was good. How close were the cops? If they didn’t finish the job, Mr. Sharkey would be very upset.
Morty saw the spotlight from the helicopter first. It caught the three of them carting the bound-and-concrete-anchored Michael. “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Morty commanded. They dropped Michael hard on the ground and ran toward their car. Before they could enter, however, police cars appeared everywhere around them, blocking the car and even their own escape by foot.
The helicopter searchlight moved between Michael, helpless but alive on the pier and the three perps. Cops were getting out of their cars, guns drawn, shouting, “
Get on the ground, get on the ground!
”
Lump turned to Morty and said, “We should have dumped him. Mr. Sharkey’s going to be pissed.”
“That’s the least of our fuckin’ problems,” replied Morty. And then he remembered the cassette still sitting in the car—and all the other recordings on it he had sworn to Mr. Sharkey that he had erased.
Chapter 48
Westport, Connecticut
December 12, 2009
M
ichael had spent most of the day speaking with the police and trying to juggle his responsibilities at Gibraltar. He had informed Richard Perkins and the security services at Gibraltar Financial about last night’s terrifying events. Everyone assumed this might be somehow connected to the murder of Michael’s brother. Fortunately, there seemed to be no suspicion that Michael’s life had now become completely intertwined with his brother’s.
Michael knew that once that connection was even suspected, his legitimate business career would end abruptly. Just juggling the two businesses would be a herculean task. Michael knew he couldn’t do both for too long. Karen was already doing a great job covering for him.
Now, alone in the silence and subdued lighting of his library, Michael opened up Alex’s laptop and once more visited with his brother. After the usual preliminaries of user name and password, Alex appeared on the screen.
“Alex, it’s Michael.”
“How are you, Michael?”
“I’m great. I’ve acquired a taste for chloroform.” He then described the kidnapping in detail to Alex. “The police are looking for Sharkey. It’s just a matter of time until they find him. They want him for at least three other murders that were identified on the cassette tapes found in Morty’s car.”