“Gina?” Morrow asked.
“Gina Saldino.”
Dimarco flipped through his notes and found a question mark by her name. No one had interviewed Gina Saldino, an office worker.
“She’s on vacation,” Donna said. “She left about a week ago.”
“What can you tell us about her?”
“Very quiet, shy. I think she broke up with her boyfriend. He could’ve been in Pakistan or someplace like that. She only mentioned it once when I saw her crying at her desk. She never talked about it again. She was sad and private, almost mousy, but good at her job. She never made any mistakes.”
“What was her job?”
“She helped Moe and Butch Tucker finalize the routes, the schedules, the size of deliveries. I mean, Moe and Butch controlled the info, Gina put it on a spreadsheet and gave it to the crews, and input the data later.”
Morrow threw a silent question to Dimarco.
How did we miss this?
31
Yonkers, New York
Thirty miles north of JFK, Gannon stared at Falco’s “surveillance” photo of the man using the pay phone.
This is my caller.
Gannon’s pulse quickened as once more he checked the time and date of the picture with the time and date of the last call from his tipster.
Oh, yeah, it’s him. No doubt about it.
But Gannon’s elation began evaporating soon after he’d thrust the three hundred bucks into Jerry Falco’s hand and asked him if he’d recognized the man in the photo.
“I’ve never seen that guy before, nope.”
Gannon left Falco’s building and went across the street to the Big Smile Deli Mart where he showed the eight-by-eleven color shot to the manager and his family. Still wary of Gannon, they gave it a cursory glance.
“No, we don’t know him,” the old man said.
“He never comes here, this one,” the woman added.
Gannon had to believe them; he had no choice. But before leaving the store, he bought an issue of Sports Illustrated magazine and tucked the photo inside to protect it. He then showed the picture to people at neighboring businesses: the florist, the check-cashing office, the electronics store, then to the bartender at the Dented Tin Can.
Nothing.
He soon realized that he was facing a needle-in-a-haystack search and all he had was a picture of the needle. But it did not diminish what he felt in his gut. There’s something to this. Don’t give up. He was determined to take his search beyond the immediate area, when his phone rang.
It was Lisker.
“Did you arrive at American Centurion yet?”
“No.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m in Yonkers.”
“Yonkers? You’re still poking around there? What’s going on?”
A long moment passed.
“Gannon?”
You’re going to have to play a card here. You’ve invested a lot of time chasing this hunch. You’re getting somewhere, but there’s no guarantee it will pay off. You can’t give up on it and you can’t give it up to Lisker. Not yet. Lisker’s not a journalist. He doesn’t understand a gut feeling when a frightened source calls. Don’t blow this.
“I’m pursuing a difficult angle, one I think is tied to the heist.”
“What? You know I like all leads outlined to me first?”
“Well, I don’t work that way. I’m a reporter, not a bureaucrat. I follow my instincts, not a template. Do you want memos, or exclusives?”
Lisker said nothing and Gannon filled the silence.
“Let me follow this my way and see where it goes.”
A long stretch of tension crackled between them before Lisker said, “You’ve got until four this afternoon. Then I want your ass in my office.”
Gannon headed down Warburton Avenue, walking a tightrope between Lisker’s wrath and a story that may not exist.
What if I’m dead wrong and wasting time?
He had to stop thinking about it, tend to his business and keep digging. It’s what he did best. So he kept pushing it, block after block, visiting pizza shops, pawnshops, barbershops, a porn shop, a jeweler’s, a liquor store, a pet store. He asked bus drivers stopped at red lights, a cabdriver waiting on fares, two NYPD cops who’d pulled over for coffee from a pastry shop.
As time ticked by, Gannon slipped further and further down the rope of futility. He must’ve walked twenty blocks by the time he entered Big Picture Used Movies and Rentals. Next to it was a tanning salon and a Greek take-out place. Leaning on the counter, waiting for the clerk to finish a phone call, Gannon was thinking of packing it in soon, getting a cab back to his car and bracing for a showdown with Lisker.
“Can I help you find something?” The clerk was tall with oily hair, a bad case of acne. He could stand to eat a sandwich or two.
“I need your help.” Gannon opened the magazine to the photo, which was getting creased from so many showings. “I need to locate this man. Does he live around here?”
The clerk held the sheet three inches from his nose. Gannon anticipated the usual head shake, but this guy—Oren, according to his name tag—blinked a few times.
“Yes, I think so.”
Gannon’s heart skipped a beat.
“You’re sure?”
“This looks like a police surveillance photo,” Oren said. “Are you a cop? Do you have identification? What does this concern?”
Oren seemed sharp enough to trust. Gannon reached for his wallet, showed him his World Press Alliance ID and dropped his voice.
“I’m a reporter with the wire service. I won’t tell you where I got the picture, but I can tell you that it is extremely important that I locate this man. We were supposed to meet a few days ago, but he vanished and he never gave me his name. Naturally, I’m concerned. He may be tied to something bad. If you help me locate him confidentially, I will share all the information I can.”
Oren weighed Gannon’s request, excused himself, then went to a female clerk organizing DVDs in the horror-supernatural section, showing her Gannon’s photo. They both shot looks at him before she came to the counter. Her name was Greta. She stood about five-three, had pierced eyebrows and a black Cleopatra-helmet of hair.
“Is this matter connected to our store in any way?” Greta asked.
“Not at all, I’m just trying to locate him.”
“And what does it concern?”
“He’s vanished. He was supposed to meet me, but never gave me his name or address. He had information on something very important. It’s not a police matter.”
“How come you don’t have his address?”
“Because he indicated he was hiding. I’m a reporter and he called me for help anonymously. Now I need your help.”
“How did you get this picture?” Greta asked, handing it back.
“Look, no one needs to know how I found him. I’ve come this far to you, and you don’t know who has helped me along the way. I will keep it that way. I protect sources.”
She moved to the keyboard and started typing, staring at her monitor.
“You’ll keep the store’s name out of any stories?” Greta asked.
“Yes. I need to find him.”
While looking at her monitor, Greta tapped her fingers on the counter. Gannon noticed she had little flowers painted on her red-glossed nails. She tapped for several moments before coming to a decision.
“His name is Harlee Shaw,” she said.
“Harlee Shaw, okay.”
“He likes classic war and Westerns.” She consulted her monitor. “He’s got The Searchers and The Dirty Dozen out and both are overdue.”