The Midnight Club_ A Novel - James Patterson [54]
In theory at least, the Atlantic City stakeout was a dream come true for the police. It was as if the situation had been set up for them, just for the purpose of listening in at the very top of the criminal underworld.
In a way, it was too good, and that worried Stefanovitch. It concerned David Wilkes of the FBI, too. It probably disturbed every tuned-in agent or officer in the surveillance room.
The Midnight Club was meeting across Texas Avenue. They were eighty, maybe a hundred yards away. It was almost as if it had been set up for the police to come and listen. Why, though? It didn’t track.
Stefanovitch listened with his eyes shut. There was the sound of all these strange, guttural voices drifting over to him. Weird.
Finally, he pulled the earphones off, letting them rest around his neck.
Something was bothering him a lot. He couldn’t figure out what. Something about the setup in Atlantic City didn’t feel right to him.
Maybe because it seemed like such a perfect setup. The thing with Nicky Wilson at Danbury? It was too good, too neat, like prearranged fighting in a police academy class.
And then Stefanovitch realized when he had felt something like this before. Just one time. The same uncomfortable intuitions—with his pulse seeming to beat right through his skin.
He had felt almost exactly like this. That freezing March night at Long Beach, minutes before the ambush.
52
Sarah McGinniss; The Tropicana
SARAH RODE BY herself in the lumpy backseat of a police department sedan. The car was a light blue Buick, and it was transporting her from Manhattan down to Atlantic City. She had to see the end, to witness Appalachia II, as the operation was called at Police Plaza.
Around ten-thirty P.M., the sedan entered the boardwalk area of Atlantic City. The car headed up glittery Pacific Avenue.
There was a quick turnoff past Brighton; then the sedan maneuvered around concrete pillars at very close quarters. It stopped at a littered, dingy service and delivery entrance behind the Tropicana.
One of the detectives in the front seat jumped out. He dashed around to open the door for Sarah. Chivalry was still alive in the N.Y.P.D.
“I’m really sorry about this unnecessary bullshit. The service entrance.” He shrugged and shook his head. “They’re afraid somebody might recognize you.”
“I understand, Frank,” she said. “This isn’t the first time I’ve used the service entrance at a hotel. It probably won’t be the last. Thanks for the ride, and the company.”
Sarah was hurried upstairs in a service elevator. She didn’t mind bypassing the potted palm trees and artificial blue waterfall in the lobby of the Tropicana. Maybe some other visit.
David Wilkes left a clique of gray-suits to greet her as she entered the surveillance suite. As she shook hands with the FBI man, Sarah spotted Stefanovitch.
He was wearing a set of black earphones, watching Trump’s like a knowledgeable player at the racetrack. He really looked in his element.
Sarah had met David Wilkes twice before, while she was researching The Club. She’d written two chapters about his Crimes Committee, and she liked Wilkes. He had absolutely no bullshit about him.
As she talked to Wilkes, Sarah checked out the scene. Across the street, inside Trump’s, she could make out movement. It was almost as if the two groups were preparing to meet for some as yet unexplained reason.
“The windows are made of reflective glass in the suites here. That’s one reason we picked this place. They can’t see us. We’re using high-powered directional mikes, so they won’t find any bugs over there either. So far, so good.”
“It’s eerie being allowed to watch something you know you shouldn’t be watching.”
“So far, everything’s working out better than I would have expected. We were able to get the best listening equipment.