“Depends on a lot of factors,” Uzi said. “That sounds about right. So what?”
“So he’s got no idea what’s in the safe deposit boxes — it’s a wild card. Could be some diamond rings, but maybe not.”
“Unless they knew what was in there,” Uzi said. “They knew someone who banked there and had a box.”
Fahad twirled his glass. “First thing to follow up on tomorrow, when the bank’s open.”
“Would you like to put a print with a name?” Uzi said with a grin. “Our upstanding citizen is — or was—Haddad Sadeq.”
Vail gestured at Fahad. “Mean anything to you?”
He thought a moment, then sighed in resignation. “No.”
Uzi glanced at Fahad, then said, “Sadeq was an operative for al Humat.”
“Where’d you get that?” Fahad asked.
Uzi hesitated, then said, “Not important.”
Fahad pushed his chair back and faced Uzi full-on. “Bullshit. It is important.”
“A reliable source.”
“We’re a team, right? Why won’t you tell me?”
“Do you reveal all your confidential sources?”
“Of course not. But with this group, we’ve got to trust one another completely, or it won’t work.”
Uzi stared hard at Fahad. Vail sensed there was something he wanted to say, but couldn’t. Why?
“Boychick, Mo’s right.”
Uzi clenched his jaw, then said, “Mossad. A guy I know. That’s all I can say.”
Fahad absorbed this information without any outward reaction.
Vail examined her glass, took a sip. “We’re missing an important point. We’ve got a group of bank robbers that hit a local thrift, the target being its safe deposit boxes. They get jewelry, cash, other shit. But does that make sense?”
“No,” Uzi said.
“No. It doesn’t. Sadeq was a known operative of al Humat, and al Humat is a terror organization. They’re not into robbing banks. It’s not their MO. Islamic State, yeah. But not Hamas. Not al Humat. They get their funding other ways.”
“Your point?” Fahad asked.
Vail spread her hands. “So there had to be something in that vault that they were really going after. They knew it was there — and I’m willing to bet they got what they came for.”
Johnson returned to the table tugging on his belt, readjusting his trousers.
“I’ll get the next round,” DeSantos said, then went to the bar to get another pitcher.
“You have a list of the victims?” Vail asked, thumbing through the file. “The ones who lost stuff in the theft?”
“I got some. FBI took the lead on all follow-up. There should be something in there,” he said, wiggling an index finger at the file. “But safe deposit boxes aren’t insurable, and the bank doesn’t cover those losses. Most people don’t know that. They think it’s the safest place they can keep shit, but it’s not. I mean, if someone breaks in, there’s nothing protecting them.”
“So there might not be incentive for someone to report their losses,” Vail said.
Johnson thought about that. “Yeah, I guess. But if we’re asking them what was stolen, why wouldn’t they tell the truth?” Almost as if he realized the answer before he finished asking the question, he said, “Oh.”
Yeah, if they’ve got something illegal in the box, they’re certainly not going to tell the police when it’s stolen.
DeSantos returned to the table with the pitcher, then filled everyone’s glass.
“This case you’re working,” Johnson said. “Sounds big. Like it’s got nothing to do with bank robbery.”
Vail raised her glass and clinked it against Johnson’s. “Detective, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
20
The following morning, they met Agent Patrick Tarkenton at the FBI field office at Federal Plaza. Vail had considered Russo’s offer to stay at his place in midtown, but the thought of spending any time with Sofia, his wife, made her graciously decline. Instead, she bunked with the rest of the group at a cheap motel in Flushing, near Citi Field and just outside Manhattan.
When they met in the lobby, they had a message from Fahad stating that he would not be joining them but would touch base later.
“That’s weird,” DeSantos said.
“Maybe he’s following up on something. Or maybe he had something to deal with on a case.”
Uzi frowned. “Or maybe it’s something else.”
“Give it a rest,” DeSantos said. “You gotta let it go.”
They rode the subway into the city and spent half an hour walking through the case with Agent Tarkenton. He retrieved the file and handed it to Vail, who began reading through it.
Tarkenton explained that he did not have much information to offer — nothing more than Johnson had given them — and said that because the reported losses totaled only about $11,500, with no repeat or prior heists matching the robbers’ MO, investigation of the theft dropped on their list of priorities.
“Since there are three of you asking questions about a cold case robbery, I assume there’s more to it than that. Have they hit another bank?”
“Something a hell of a lot more serious,” Uzi said. “The bombing at Eastern Market in DC? We found one of the bombers’ fingers there. Print matches the latent you pulled from the bank’s vault. Our suspect isn’t a bank employee and we doubt he was one of the safe deposit box holders.”
Tarkenton absorbed this, then his eyes widened slightly. “You’re saying our bank robber is your suicide bomber?”
“Right.”
Tarkenton sat back from the conference room table and appraised his colleagues. “Hey, I worked up the case, gave it the attention it deserved at the time. I did my due diligence and I filed my paperwork with headquarters. My squad supervisor signed off.”
“And yet,” DeSantos said, “here we sit.”
Vail closed the file Tarkenton had given her. “Name’s Haddad Sadeq, an operative with al Humat.”
“You’re shitting me.” He studied their faces a moment. “I had — I mean, how was I supposed to know?”
Vail pushed the folder across the table toward Tarkenton. “We’ll need a full list of the victims, the people whose boxes were broken into.”
“Isn’t there one in here?” He grabbed the file and started rifling through it. “Must be on the server. I’ll get you a printout before you leave.”
Twenty minutes later, they were sitting in the Pershing Square Central Café, across from Grand Central Station. The increased police presence, a result of the elevated terror alert, was evident with Hercules teams — specially trained Emergency Service Unit cops outfitted in helmets, Kevlar vests, and submachine guns — and critical response vehicles traversing the city’s streets.
Vail had eaten in the restaurant a few times, but it had been many years. Nevertheless, the area was filled with memories of the time she spent patrolling New York City streets as a cop, then as a detective … and then as a green FBI agent.
A few blocks away sat Bryant Park, where the Hades serial killer had left a victim four years ago. The image of the body — of that case as a whole, which consumed nearly twenty years of her career as a law enforcement officer — still bothered her.
Although the café was wedged beneath the Park Avenue viaduct, it was bright and cheery inside because it had a wall of windows looking out onto Park. At 7:30 AM, the place was buzzing with diners and waiters rushing from table to table, bumping into customers, spilling a bit of milk off a tray, or almost toppling a nearby platter. This morning the restaurant lived up to its motto: “The busiest and best breakfast in New York.”