Cross Fire - James Patterson [64]
Zachary pushed his pretentious horn-rims a little higher on his nose. “Just… focus on the material,” he said.
It would have been nice to go upside this guy’s head one time. Nothing major, just enough to put some kind of expression on his face. Any expression at all would be a big improvement.
But this was no time to start coloring outside the lines. So Denny kept his mouth shut and took a couple of minutes to absorb the information. Then he slid the manila folder into the seat pocket and sat back again.
This part was all rote by now. Zachary reached over the seat, took the canvas pouch from Mr. Personality in the front, and put it on the armrest. Denny picked it up.
Right away, he could feel it was light.
“What the hell is this?” he said, and dropped it back on the armrest between them.
“That,” Zachary said, “is one-third. You’ll get the rest afterward. We’re doing things a little differently this time.”
“The hell we are!” he said, and just like that, the driver was up and over the seat with a fat .45 shoved halfway up Denny’s nose. He could even smell traces of gunpowder. The weapon had been used recently.
“Now listen to me,” Zachary said. More like purred. “You’re going to be paid in full. The only change here is our terms of delivery.”
“This is bullshit!” Denny said. “You shouldn’t be messing around with me now.”
“Just listen,” Zachary told him. “Your incompetence up in New Jersey was not appreciated, Steven. Now that the authorities know who you are, this is just good business practice. So, are we going to have a smooth finish to this thing or not?”
It wasn’t a real question, and Denny didn’t answer. What he did was reach down and take back the canvas pouch. That spoke for itself. The .45 was dislodged from his face and the driver pulled back, although he didn’t turn around.
“Did you see the car parked behind us?” Zachary asked softly, as if they’d been sitting here having a friendly chat the whole time.
And, yes, Denny had seen it, an old blue Subaru wagon with Virginia plates. His spotter’s radar wasn’t something he turned on and off.
“What about it?” he said.
“You need to get out of the city. We’ve got too much exposure here. Take Mitch and go somewhere discreet — West Virginia, or whatever you think is best.”
“Just like that? What am I supposed to tell Mitch?” Denny said. “He’s already asking too many questions.”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something to handle him. And take this.” Zachary handed over a silver Nokia phone, presumably encrypted. “Keep it off, but check it at least every six hours. And be ready to go when we tell you.”
“Just out of curiosity,” Denny said, “what’s this ‘we’ shit anyway? Do you even know who you’re working for?”
Zachary reached across and opened the door to the sidewalk for him. They were done here.
“This one’s your big payout, Denny,” he said. “Don’t blow it. Don’t make any more mistakes either.”
Chapter 84
FOR THE SECOND DAY of canvassing at homeless shelters, I did what I already should have and pulled in more of my team, including Sampson. I even called in that favor with Max Siegel, to see if he could spare any warm bodies.
Max surprised me by showing up himself, along with two eager young assistants. We split up the list and agreed to come together at the end of the day to check out mealtime and evening sign-in at one of the larger facilities.
At five o’clock that afternoon, we were all at Lindholm Family Services when they opened their doors for dinner. The shelter served more than a thousand meals a day, to a clientele that was everything you might expect, and some things you might not.
There were families with kids, and people who talked to themselves, and folks who looked like they just came from an office somewhere, all eating shoulder to shoulder at long cafeteria tables.
For the first hour or so, it was a frustrating repeat of the day before. None of the people who were willing to talk to me recognized Mitch’s picture or the old file photo I’d pulled of Steven Hennessey, aka Denny.