“Park near the café. Get out and walk up to the circle.”
The circle, I knew, was Margaret Corbin Circle. When I reached the clearing, the first thing I spotted, even in the dark, was the bright colors of the children’s playground near Fort Washington Avenue at 190th Street. The colors still leapt out. I’d always liked this playground, but tonight the yellows and blues taunted me. I thought of myself as a city boy. When I lived near here, I’d imagined staying in this neighborhood—too sophisticated was I for the vanilla suburbs—and of course, that meant that I would bring my children to this very park. I took that as an omen, but I didn’t know of what.
The phone squawked. “There’s a subway station on the left.”
“Okay.”
“Take the stairs down toward the elevator.”
I might have suspected this. He would put me on the elevator and then on the A train. It would be difficult, if not impossible, for Rachel to follow me.
“Are you on the stairs?”
“Yes.”
“At the bottom, you’ll see a gate on the right.”
I knew where it was. It led to a smaller park and was locked except for weekends. It had been set aside as something of a small picnic area. There were Ping-Pong tables, though you had to bring your own net and paddles to play. There were benches and eating areas. Kids used it for birthday parties.
The wrought-iron gate, I remember, was always locked.
“I’m there,” I said.
“Make sure no one sees you. Push open the gate. Slip through and quickly close it.”
I peered inside. The park was black. Distant streetlights reached out and gave the area no more than a dull glow. The duffel bag felt heavy. I adjusted it up my shoulder. I looked behind me now. No one. I looked to my left. The subway elevators were still. I put my hand on the gate door. The padlock had been cut. I gave the area one more quick glance because that was what the robotic voice had told me to do.
No sign of Rachel.
The gate creaked when I pushed it open. The echo ripped through the still night. I slipped through the opening and let the dark swallow me whole.
Rachel felt the car rock as Marc got out.
She made herself wait a full minute, which felt like two hours. When she thought that it was probably safe, Rachel lifted the trunk an inch and peeked out.
She saw no one.
Rachel had a gun with her, a fed-issue Glock .22 40-caliber semiautomatic, and she carried her night-vision goggles, Rigel 3501 military-grade Gen. 2+. The Palm Pilot that could read the Q-Logger transmitter was in her pocket.
She doubted that anyone would see her, but she still only opened the trunk wide enough so she could roll out. She huddled down low. Her hand reached back and grabbed the semiautomatic and night-vision goggles. Then she quietly closed the trunk.
Field operations had always been her favorite—or at least, the training for them. There had been very few missions that required this sort of cloak-and-dagger reconnaissance. For the most part, stakeouts were high-tech. You had vans and spy planes and fiber-optics. You rarely found yourself crawling through the night in black clothes and greasepaint.
She made herself small against the back tire. In the distance, she saw Marc heading up the drive. She put the gun in its holster and strapped the night-vision goggles to her belt. Keeping low, Rachel moved up the grass to higher ground. There was still enough light. She didn’t need the goggles yet.
A sliver of moon sliced through the sky. There were no stars tonight. Up ahead, she could see that Marc had the cell phone near his ear. The duffel bag was on his shoulder. Rachel looked around, saw no one. Would the drop take place here? It wasn’t a bad place, if you had a planned escape route. She started to think about the possibilities.
Fort Tryon was hilly. The secret would be to try to get higher. She started climbing and was just about to settle in when Marc exited the park.
Damn. She’d have to move again.
Rachel commando-crawled down the hill. The grass was prickly and smelled like hay, the cause being, she assumed, the recent water shortage. She tried to keep her eyes on Marc, but she lost him when he left the park grounds. She took a risk and moved quicker. At the park gate, she ducked behind a stone pillar.
Marc was there. But not for very long.
With the phone back to his ear, Marc veered to the left and vanished down the steps leading to the A train.
Up ahead, Rachel saw a man and a woman walking a dog. They could be part of this—or they could be a man and a woman walking a dog. Marc was still out of sight. No time for debate now. She ducked low at a stone wall.
Leaning her back against it, Rachel made her way toward the stairs.
Tickner thought that Edgar Portman looked like something out of a Noël Coward production. He wore silk pajamas under a red robe that appeared to have been tied with great care. There were velvet slippers on his feet. His brother, Carson, on the other hand, looked properly ruffled. His pajamas were askew. His hair was all over the place. His eyes were bloodshot.
Neither Portman could take his eyes off the photographs from the CD.
“Edgar,” Carson said, “let’s not jump to conclusions.”
“Not jump . . . ?” Edgar turned to Tickner. “I gave him money.”
“Yes, sir,” Tickner said. “A year and a half ago. We know about that.”
“No.” Edgar tried to make the word snap with impatience, but he didn’t have the strength. “I mean, recently. Today, in fact.”
Tickner sat up. “How much?”
“Two million dollars. There was another ransom demand.”
“Why didn’t you contact us?”
“Oh sure.” Edgar made a sound that was half chortle, half sneer. “You all did such a wonderful job last time.”
Tickner felt the tick in his blood. “Are you saying that you gave your son-in-law an additional two million dollars?”
“That is precisely what I’m saying.”
Carson Portman was still staring at the photographs. Edgar glanced at his brother, then back at Tickner. “Did Marc Seidman kill my daughter?”
Carson stood up. “You know better.”
“I’m not asking you, Carson.”
Both men looked at Tickner now. Tickner was not having any of it. “You said you met with your son-in-law today?”
If Edgar was upset about his question being ignored, he did not show it. “Early this morning,” he said. “At Memorial Park.”
“That woman in the pictures.” Tickner gestured toward them. “Was she with him?”