Vahanian seemed stunned as he stared at Veil, his mouth slightly open, his breathing rapid and shallow. "You got anything here to drink?" he said at last.
"Scotch or bourbon?"
"Bourbon."
"Water? Ice?"
"Neat. A big one, if you don't mind."
Veil went into the kitchen, removed a bottle of bourbon from a cabinet, and poured a heavy tumbler half full. When he returned to the other room, he found Vahanian sitting on the floor, back braced against one of the support pillars that ran down the center of the loft.
"Cheers, Lieutenant," Veil said as he handed the drink to the detective. "You'll excuse me if I don't join you. It's still early, and I've got things to do."
Vahanian downed the drink in three quick swallows, then set the glass down on the polished hardwood floor. "I'm with the New York State Police, Kendry, on special assignment to the NYPD. I've been investigating Nagle for close to a year, and I only know maybe half of what you just told me."
"So the NYPD is on to Nagle?"
Vahanian nodded. "They've suspected for some time, especially since the last big problem he had. But it's tough to nail him down. He's very good at what he does, Kendry, and he covers his tracks well."
"Oh, he has great technique. It's called terror."
"Are you sure of your information?"
"Yes."
Vahanian studied Veil for a few moments, then nodded. "I can see that you are. Will you give me the name of your informant?"
"No. I won't even confirm that I got the information through an informant."
Vahanian sighed with resignation. "One of the biggest problems we've been having is getting anyone to testify against him. Terror isn't the word for what Nagle instills in his victims—and we suspect there are a lot of them. Do you know of anyone who might be willing to come forward?"
"I might. But I wouldn't even think of mentioning this person's name until you have Nagle nailed down tight. Sorry, Lieutenant, but Nagle's your problem."
Vahanian rose to his feet, straightened his sport jacket. "Judging from the presence of those bodyguards downstairs, I'd say he's also your problem."
"I don't think of Nagle as a problem."
"You know, the attitude of the police department in this city toward you is very ambivalent."
"I don't consider that a problem, either."
"May I ask what your interest in this matter is?"
"I don't really have an interest. I'm just a friend of Reyna Alexander's."
Vahanian grunted with disbelief, then headed toward the door. "Thanks for the drink."
"Lieutenant?"
The detective turned, raised his thick eyebrows slightly. "What is it, Kendry?" "Information for information? Now I'd like to ask you a question."
"Let's hear the question," Vahanian replied with a thin smile.
"I know that Nagle was ordered to execute Vito Ricci, because it was Ricci who was responsible for trying to squeeze the Nal-toon through an otherwise secure smuggling pipeline. Do you know why Ricci did it?"
Vahanian shook his head. "Not really."
"Not really?"
"No. To tell you the truth, we—or I, at least—don't really care what Ricci was up to. My assignment is to help the NYPD get Nagle. As far as the city and state are concerned, we'd just as soon all those Mafia bastards shot each other out of existence. Still, for what it's worth, Intelligence did pick up rumors that the heads of the other five families were planning to shut him down—forcibly retire him, you might say. Hell, he was pushing ninety. Maybe he went senile."
"Thanks, Vahanian."
The detective hesitated a moment, then came back across the loft and extended his hand to Veil, who gripped it. "You watch your ass, Kendry."
"I have some very skilled friends watching my ass for me, Lieutenant. You're the one riding the back of the tiger. You watch your ass."
"I will. See you."
"See you."
"Veil!"
Veil turned off his flashlight, crossed the width of the empty boxcar in two long strides, and leapt through the open door. He hit the ground in full stride, darted between two uncoupled cars, and ran toward the sound of Reyna's voice. He rounded a car, slowed when he saw that Reyna was not in danger.
Reyna was thirty yards farther down a stretch of empty track, crouched down beside the rails and staring at something on the ground. Veil jogged down the tracks, squatted beside Reyna—and winced.
Two broken teeth jutted from the middle of a pool of dried vomit that was marbled with streaks of blood. More blood had stained the surrounding gravel a dull brown.
"Toby's sick," Reyna said, her voice catching. "And he's hurt."
"Take it easy," Veil whispered, taking Reyna into his arms. "We don't know for sure that it's Toby's."
"It's Toby's," Reyna said, her voice thick with grief and anxiety. "I know it's his. It's on the route." She drew a deep, shuddering breath. "The vomit isn't that old. Toby was here."
Veil led Reyna a few yards away from the spot, then held her until she stopped trembling. He gently sat her down on a rail, then slowly walked up and down the tracks, studying the ground. Fifteen yards to the right of the vomit he found wood splinters and a streak of white powder.
"Reyna," Veil said evenly, "please come here."
Reyna rose and walked unsteadily to Veil, who handed her a few of the wood splinters. "What do you think?" he continued. "Could these be from the Nal-toon?"
Reyna studied the splinters, turning them in her fingers, •smelling them. "Three of them are," she said tightly. "You can still smell the campfire smoke, and they're bleached from heat, sand, and wind. The other two aren't."
Veil wet the tip of his index finger, touched it to the white powder, then put his finger to his tongue. Instantly the tip of his tongue went numb, and the back of his throat was filled with a bitter, medicinal taste. "Well, I'll tell you what this is," he said, spitting out the taste. "It's pure heroin—top-quality white stuff, not the Mexican brown." When Reyna didn't respond, Veil turned and looked up at her. The woman was standing very straight, eyes closed, hands curled into fists at her sides. "Reyna?"
"What?" the woman responded through clenched teeth.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes," she said, turning away.
Veil rose and brushed off his jeans. "Vito Ricci's old-age pension award to himself," he said absently. "This certainly shows the old man wasn't senile. He wasn't about to be dependent upon the kindness of strangers—or his former business partners. He was just a little bit stupid and a big bit unlucky."
"What are you talking about?" Reyna asked in a subdued voice.
"Vito Ricci is the man who tried to slip the Nal-toon through the Mafia's smuggling pipeline."
"Because of the heroin inside." Reyna's voice now sounded haunted.
"Of course. He cared nothing for the idol; in fact, he probably didn't even know what it was. What he did care about was the fact that he was being pushed out of the organization. These people eat their own. Ricci was justifiably afraid of not only losing everything he had, but also of being killed in the bargain. So he made a private deal—a huge one—on his own, enough in itself to get him killed if it were found out. Ironically, whoever was handling things for him on the other end must have thought that a statue like the Nal-toon was a perfect item in which to send the heroin to Ricci; after all, the Nal-toon was just another piece of primitive art. Who would even notice it, much less bother to try to trace it? Just hollow out the statue, fill the space with a few million dollars' worth of pure heroin, drop it in the pipeline as a 'personal' item for Ricci, and forget about it."