Page 59 of Crosshairs
“That’s not gonna fly, because every analyst in this room just saw you walk in and talk to me. But we’re just catching up. Two old friends. I remember when I was at Penn, I had an ethics class. Thank God I slept through most of it.”
“You don’t have to give me evidence, just tell me what happened so I understand.”
“Okay. We did receive a complaint that Thomas Bannon had downloaded child pornography. Apparently, an administrator who was at the fire station observed it. To avoid a conflict of interest, the NYPD referred it to the FBI. All I know is there was some issue with the chain of custody of the evidence and they cut a quick deal for no prosecution if Bannon retired immediately. His paperwork was in when he was shot. That’s all I know.”
“While I have you in the right frame of mind, let me ask you about the first victim of the sniper. She worked for the Housing Authority.”
Before I could say anything else, Neil asked, “Marie Ballard?”
I stared at my friend. Just by coming up with the answer without knowing the exact question told me everything I needed to know.
I said, “Were there allegations against her?”
“We got a referral from the Housing Authority inspector general. She’d used over a hundred thousand dollars in city money to pay personal expenses. This was over the course of at least nine years.”
“And nobody caught it until recently?”
Neil just shrugged. “We referred that one to the FBI as well. That’s how I knew her name so quickly. I heard that the mayor had called the FBI directly to keep it quiet. She was on a repayment plan to keep from going to trial.” Neil was now speaking in a very low tone. Almost like we were in church. But he was smart enough to know he had pointed me in a new direction in the case. I’d finally found a link between all four victims. They had each committed crimes for which they weren’t being prosecuted.
And Rob Trilling would have had access to all those reports while he was at the FBI.
CHAPTER 72
ROB TRILLING HAD to do something to get his mind off his worries. He didn’t think it was right to go visit his family up in Putnam County. They shouldn’t have to be around someone who felt as low as he did. He didn’t even want to think what his negative vibes might do to his niece and nephew. He needed to get out and do something useful, maybe volunteer for a few hours. Usually food banks and soup kitchens posted when they needed people, but Trilling decided to help the community in another way.
He looked down at his phone. There was a text from Juliana Bennett, asking if he was okay. He messaged her back, saying,As good as can be expected. Hope to be able to talk to you about it soon.He didn’t risk saying anything else. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt a young woman who’d been nothing but nice to him. Trilling didn’t have any idea what her father wassaying about him. It didn’t matter. He intended to keep on doing the right thing.
He slipped out of the apartment with the idea to look for his fugitive, Lou Pershing. Trilling had searched internet forums having to do with mercenaries and off-the-grid nut jobs. Even if they called themselves “military consultants.” Although there was a lot of extraneous crap on the internet, Trilling was able to find a few mentions of Pershing. A few new mentions of Marisol Alba had popped up too, a woman with a phone number that had been linked to Pershing when Trilling was still at the FBI. Intel had said she could be his current girlfriend and she lived in a rented brownstone apartment in Brooklyn. Maybe Pershing would be there too.
Trilling rode the F train into Brooklyn and got out at Carroll Street, then walked south toward the area called Red Hook. He liked not worrying about a car and where to park, though he didn’t particularly care for walking. Not that he minded the exercise; it just felt boring to him. He found himself looking at the address about forty minutes after he got off the train.
There was a vacant house a few doors down and across the street. Trilling found a comfortable place on the porch to sit where no one could see him from the street and he could watch the house where he thought Lou Pershing might be living. He appreciated parents walking children home from school and joggers hustling along the sidewalks under the canopy of trees. Somehow this didn’t feel like the kind of place a guy like Lou Pershing would live.
Not long after nightfall, Trilling noticed a single light in the upstairs of the house. The way it moved told him it was a flashlight. That looked like someone trying to keep a low profile.Maybe Pershing and his girlfriend had turned off the electricity so people would think they’d moved away.
Having scouted the area, Trilling was able to walk unseen across the street and down to Pershing’s building. He slipped into the building’s entryway. It took only a little effort with his pocketknife to slide the single lock from the doorframe.
He creeped through the ground floor and made his way upstairs without making any noise. He paused at the top of the staircase near where he’d seen the light and lowered to a crouch to listen for sounds within the apartment. His plan was simple: grab Pershing and leave him tied up in front of the nearest precinct. He didn’t care about getting credit for an arrest. He just wanted to get an asshole like Pershing off the street before he hurt anyone.
Trilling realized he was in the weeds on this one. But if he was already going insane, one more crazy act wouldn’t mean much. He stood up and heard his knee pop. When he stepped around the corner, he froze.
The point of a knife pressed against his throat.
CHAPTER 73
IT WAS AFTER dark by the time I arrived at my apartment on the Upper West Side. I had been so busy all day that I’d lost track of life in general. I’d skipped lunch; I hadn’t checked in at home like I usually do; I’d jumped from interview to interview. And as soon as I walked through the door, it all hit me at once. I thought I might collapse. But something wasn’t right. Some vibe in the apartment felt off.
I stepped through the foyer and still didn’t see anyone. I heard some movement in the living room, but no one had come to greet me. That was unusual. One of the big advantages of having ten kids is that there is always someone interested in meeting you at the door.
When I came through the dining room and into the living room, I had to stop and take in the scene. Mary Catherine sat on the couch, propped up on a mountain of pillows. Her feet restedon an ottoman. A TV table was positioned in front of her. All the kids—and I mean every one of them—turned and faced me, grinning like they were posing for a photograph.
I couldn’t keep a smile from spreading over my face. “What’s this all about?”
Chrissy stepped forward. “We decided it was International Mary Catherine Day. We want to show her how much we love her. And how happy we are about trying to have a baby.”
I was speechless. A tear ran down Mary Catherine’s left cheek. We really had raised these kids the right way.
I said, “Ricky, does this mean you’re making something extra special for dinner?”