Collateral Damage - Marc Cerasini [68]
This broken-down neighborhood had been a thriving area once, housing union workers for the nearby industrial section of the city. But the industries were long gone now, along with the well-paid jobs. The buildings around him appeared abandoned, too; but Tony knew, from the amount of discarded hypodermic needles and heroin wrappers scattered around, there had to be a shooting gallery somewhere on this block.
Ahead, in the darkness, he sensed movement — a figure stepped out of a doorway, walked toward him.
"Well, Almeida?" whispered a woman's voice. "Get anything?"
Judith Foy was still wearing her tracksuit and ball cap. She'd been hiding in the alley, staying out of sight while Tony conducted a quiet discussion with an old, white-haired priest.
Tony rubbed his soul patch. "Yeah," he said. "I got something. An address."
He'd been looking for intel on the Thirteen Gang. CTU had nothing in their database, but apparently they were still active here in Newark. And since Tony couldn't simply go to the Newark Police, flash his CTU ID, and ask for a file, he set out to do his own legwork.
He'd noticed fishes painted on the sides of buildings, like graffiti, with Spanish words scrawled inside, and he knew these were markers, leading illegal aliens to a Catholic rescue mission, where they could get help if they were in trouble with authorities, the law, or anyone else.
It was late, but Tony figured an underground rescue mission would have someone guarding the door 24/7. Sure enough, after only two sharp knocks, the heavy, battered door had cracked open.
He'd spoken to the priest in street Spanish, telling him he was trying to help his girlfriend, whose son had gotten involved with a gang. "Please, I have to find him. He may be in danger of overdosing on drugs. Can you tell me where the Thirteen Gang hangs out in this area?"
The priest was quiet for a long minute, just staring at Tony. Finally, he said, "I don't believe your story."
The priest said he'd heard enough confessions to hear in man's voice when he was lying. But he said that he felt in Tony's spirit and saw in his eyes that he was not an evil man.
Tony assured the priest that what he was doing was for the good of many — and he wouldn't reveal where he'd learned the information. The priest gave him the address, and they'd bid each other good night.
"Sounds like you're pretty familiar with life on the streets," Foy observed.
"Yeah, well... talking the talk helps."
Tony had steered clear of gangs and drugs while growing up on Chicago's South Side, mostly because his eyes were always fixed on a career in the Marine Corps. But he'd still lived on the streets — and if you wanted to keep on living, you knew whom to trust, whom to avoid, and whom to go to for information without fear of reprisals.
"So what did the man tell you?" Judith asked.
"That the Thirteen Gang has a crib on Crampton Street, three blocks away. An old brick house with a steel door painted red, all the windows boarded up so it looks abandoned."
Foy nodded. "I remember that location. We passed it half an hour ago. Come on, I know the way..."
* * *
11:49:56 P.M. EDT
The BeresfieId Apartments
Central Park West
New York, New York
Jack Bauer stood on the corner of West Sixty-fourth and Central Park West, staring at the eighth floor of the Beresfield Apartments. The landmark building sat across the street from Central Park, and beside the New York Society for Ethical Culture.
The ornate, terra-cotta trimmed structure had been constructed in the 1930s, according to the bronze plaque set above the cornerstone. The plaque also stated that the Beresfield was the home of the wealthy and influential, but Jack Bauer was interested in only one of the building's occupants: Erno Tobias, an executive for Rogan Pharmaceuticals.
Jack needed to surprise Tobias if the man was home, or thoroughly search the Albino's apartment if he wasn't. But getting inside wasn't going to be easy. It was close to midnight, but many of the apartments were still brightly lit. The Beresfield