I find myself believing him.
I suppose we'll find out, won't we?
1
A CHANCE COLLISION
JAKOB
Pigeons swarm and flutter, coo and strut. The pistol is a heavy, cold, unfamiliar presence at the small of my back—I have never much cared for firearms. They are a necessary tool, at times, but I dislike them as a general rule. They are impersonal. Any idiot with a finger can use a gun; it takes intent, training, and determination to kill someone with a more…shall we say, personal…method.
I reach for my mobile, and for the umpteenth time in the last hour, I am annoyed to remember I do not have it. I curl my hand into a fist and let out a long sigh.
My contact is late.
I scan Central Park again, and see only the expected: couples canoodling on blankets, pairs and trios and quartets of women in Lululemon leggings and Patagonia crossbody slings power-strolling along the path, runners puffing, dogs chasing balls and frisbees, kids shrieking.
While my attention is fixed on a pair of older men walking together without talking, I feel the bench shift as someone sits beside me.
She's the female version of a Gray Man: absolutely forgettable, intentionally so. Dishwater blond hair in a ponytail,dressed in jeans, sneakers, and a plain T-shirt. Average features. Neither beautiful nor ugly. Just…a woman. Middle-aged, maybe, although she could be younger than she appears…or older. She could be from nearly anywhere there are white people. Her bag rests on her thighs, a large leather tote, the kind of thing a soccer mom would carry. She reaches into the bag and produces an insulated lunch bag, unzips it, and withdraws a clementine, which she begins peeling in a single careful spiral.
"Roberto Pugli was last seen on CCTV footage in Rochester, New York." She says this in a low, conversational tone, without looking at me.
"What is he doing there?" I ask.
"Not within the purview," she says, setting the peel aside and popping an orange wedge into her mouth.
"Right. Of course. When was this?"
"Seventeen hours ago."
"Was he alone?"
"Yes."
I sigh, grinding my molars in irritation—with these intelligentsia types, you have to ask very specific questions, and you only receive answers to those specific questions. "Did you learn anything else about the target that you can share with me?" I swear, it's like dealing with a djinn from 1001 Nights.
The phrasing of my questions gets me a twitch of her lipstick-free lips—a slight smirk of amusement. "He made several phone calls to a burner phone. I was able to ping the burner off of a tower in Queens." A pause, as she places another wedge in her mouth. "Also, you're being followed."
Fuck. I thought I saw a face more than once. "You're certain?"
"About the calls, the cell tower in Queens, or your rather clumsy tail?"
"Yes."
A snort. "Yes, I'm certain. There were three calls over twenty-four hours, but only one lasted long enough to get a ping. After that last call, the phone was ditched." She eats another wedge. "After I leave, wait ten minutes. Exit the park, cross the street, and go into the bodega next to the cellular shop. Buy a burner and some minutes. When you exit, you'll see a man across the street pretending to buy food from the street vendor. He's short and chunky, has a big bald spot, and he's wearing a black track suit with yellow stripes."
"And then?"
A shrug. "And then nothing, as far as I'm concerned. We're even—I don't owe you anything anymore, after this. Don't ever contact me again."
She produces a felt-tip pen and writes something on the inside of the orange peel, which she then discards on the ground as she stands and walks away, taking the rest of her clementine with her.
Within seconds, she's gone as abruptly as she appeared. With another annoyed sigh, I retrieve the peel. Stand up and head for a nearby waste bin, glancing at the inside of the peel—she had written down a set of coordinates. How helpful.
I tear away the section with the coordinates, surreptitiously tuck it into the hip pocket of my suit trousers, and discard the rest. I sit on the bench again and make a long, slow production of eating the gyro I purchased from the street vendor on the way here; fifteen or so minutes later, I'm ambling out of the park and across the street to the cellular store, where I buy a mobile and a minutes card. The cellular device has a GPS app, which is important, as coordinates don't do much good without a way to pinpoint where they lead.
I exit the store, inserting the disposable SIM card. While I'm powering on the phone, I cast a glance across the street: exactly as she indicated, there's a short, stout man in a black tracksuitstanding in line near a street vendor. He's pretending to read the menu while watching me.
