Cold Vengeance - Lincoln Child [115]
“Pendergast.” His voice remained reasonable. “All I want from you, Mr. Lowe, is some information about that yacht, the crew, their comings and goings. To be kept specifically between ourselves. Because I can see you’re a friendly man who likes to assist law enforcement.”
“If this is what you call intimidation, it isn’t working. My job is to protect the privacy of the clients who patronize this marina, and that’s what I intend to do. If you want to come back with a warrant, fine. If the NYPD comes, fine. Then I’ll cooperate. But not with an FBI agent waving some tin on his off hours. Now get lost.”
“When we do investigate this crime, my colleagues—and NYPD homicide—will want to know why you took money from the people on that yacht.”
A flicker passed across the man’s face. “A gratuity is a normal part of this business. I’m like a cabbie—tips are standard here. Nothing wrong with that.”
“Naturally—until the ‘tip’ reaches a certain size. Then it becomes a payment. Perhaps even a bribe. And when said bribe is made for the purposes of buying pushback should law enforcement come by asking questions, well, Mr. Lowe, that does in fact make you an accessory. Especially when it becomes known that you not only threatened to kill me if I did not leave the premises, but also insulted New York’s finest with vulgar language.”
“What the hell? I never threatened you or the cops.”
“Your exact words were: I’ve got friends who’ll put a bullet in your brain if you don’t get the hell out of here. And that goes for the NYPD pigs, too.”
“I said nothing of the sort, you lying bastard!”
“That is correct. But only you and I know that. Everyone else will think I’m telling the truth.”
“You’d never get away with that! You’re bluffing!”
“I am a desperate man, Mr. Lowe, and I am operating beyond the rules. I will do anything—lie, coerce, and deceive—to force you to cooperate.” He removed his cell. “Now: I’m about to dial an emergency FBI number to report your threats and request backup. When I do that, your life will change—forever. Or…?” He raised one eyebrow along with the phone.
Lowe stared at him, quivering with rage. “You son of a bitch.”
“I’ll take that as a yes. Shall we retire to your office? There’s rather a nasty wind coming off the Hudson.”
CHAPTER 66
THE BUILDING ON EAST END AVENUE could not be dignified by the name brownstone. It was brick, not stone; it was narrow; and it rose only three stories. A more dismal and down-at-the-heels structure could not be found on the Upper East Side, Corrie decided as she lounged against a ginkgo tree on the opposite side of the street, drinking coffee and pretending once again to read a book.
The windows had firmly drawn shades that looked like they had been yellowing for decades. The windows themselves were filthy, covered with bars, and sporting lead alarm tape. The stoop was cracked, and trash had collected in the basement entrance. Despite the shabby appearance, however, the building seemed buttoned up pretty tight, with gleaming new locks on the front door. And the bars on the windows didn’t look old, either.
She finished her coffee, put away her book, and strolled down the street. The neighborhood, once German, had become facetiously known as the “girl ghetto,” the preferred neighborhood for recent college graduates, mostly women, newly arrived in Manhattan and looking for a safe place to live. The neighborhood was quiet, orderly, and undeniably safe. The streets thronged with attractive, preppy young women, most of whom looked like they worked on Wall Street or in one of the Park Avenue law firms.
Corrie wrinkled her nose and continued to the end of the block. Betterton had said he’d seen someone leave the building, but it didn’t look like anyone had been there in ages.
She turned around and strolled back down the block, feeling dissatisfied. The building was part of a long row of real brownstones, and no doubt each one had a small garden or patio in the rear. If she could get a look at the back of the building, she’d be able to check things out a