“When was he here?”
“Yesterday afternoon. Late.”
“What did he want?”
“He asked to see Davey’s picture like you, but I didn’t want to let him keep it. Then he put it in his pocket and gave me a funny look, and I was afraid to ask him for it back. I didn’t like looking at his eyes. But he was polite and he had the right credentials. Asked the same questions as you. You know him, Mr. Bane?”
“I might.”
“Well, it’s good to have important people looking out for you.” Mrs. Martini hesitated and then took a deep breath. “You’ll find Davey for me, won’t you, Mr. Bane?”
Bane nodded slowly, and Mrs. Martini seemed to relax for the first time but only briefly.
“You know, Mr. Bane,” she said softly, “the city tells you to love them — but not too much. And to care for them — but not to get too close. Well, me and my husband Big Joe, can’t abide that, especially with a boy like Davey. He’s something special. His grandparents ought to have their heads examined for not taking him in permanent, if you know what I mean.”
“Can I keep this picture?” Bane asked her, still gazing at it.
“If it’ll help you bring him back.” Mrs. Martini’s lips quivered. Her eyes grew watery. “Bring him back to me, Mr. Bane, just bring him back to me,” she pleaded.
But Bane barely heard her because his mind was elsewhere working together all the variables. Davey Phelps, the boy from Rockefeller Center who reminded him so much of his stepson, had been a passenger on the disappearing 727 and now he was running from something. Why else wouldn’t he have come home? Trench was in New York, as an operative for some government group, looking for him. Of course, it would have taken a pro like Trench to dispose of Jake Del Gennio so cleanly. But why was he now searching for a fifteen-year-old boy? And who was he working for?
COBRA, Bane thought, it had to be. Everything came back to them. They had delayed Flight 22 in San Diego and certainly qualified as a government agency with enough clout to have Trench’s name removed from the active list if he was working for them. And if that were so, then COBRA was behind Jake’s death and now they were after Davey Phelps.
Bane figured Trench was still looking for the boy; otherwise he wouldn’t have bothered with a visit to the Martinis, a move hardly in keeping with his style. The problem was to get to Davey Phelps first and Bane thought he might have a lead. Davey hadn’t called home in five days. A fifteen-year-old boy, scared and alone, would sooner or later use a phone, which was exactly what Bane did in a booth just down the street from the Martinis’.
“Manhattan South,” a receptionist’s voice told him.
“Lieutenant Dirkin please.”
“One minute.”
“Dirkin,” a raspy voice announced twenty seconds later.
“Lou — Joshua Bane.”
“Hey Bane,” Dirkin shot out, “long time no hear. How goes the battle?”
“Surviving, I guess.”
“Well, that’s more than I can say for most. What can I do for you?”
“I need a favor. How soon can I see you?”
“An hour from now at the Bagel Nosh near the precinct. You’re buying.”
“Deal.”
Lou Dirkin was a barrel-chested man who stood barely five-and-a-half feet tall. He had done two tours in Nam and still limped a little on rainy days. Bane had worked with him once in the jungles and somehow had stayed in contact.
Dirkin was already seated at a center table when Bane arrived. A plate containing a bagel and cream cheese had just been placed in front of him.
“Love these things,” he said, rising to take Bane’s hand. “What can I do for you, Josh?” Dirkin sat back down. “Damnit, they put butter on this thing.” And he went to work with a napkin swabbing the bagel clean.
“I need a trace put on a line. Think you can handle it?”
Dirkin regarded him with interest. “Depends. Where’s the line?”
“Brooklyn Heights.”
“No problem. Should be able to ease it right through.”
“Time’s a factor.”
“That’s a problem. How soon?”
“Immediately.”
Dirkin frowned, started painting his bagel with cream cheese. “The impossible takes a little longer than that, buddy boy.”
“I’ve got faith in you, Lou.”
“I figure you wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important. You must be active again which means the streets are gonna be even less safe than usual. You working for Uncle Sam?”
“Right now I’m working for myself. Personal, not business.”
“Yeah, well this ain’t Nam, Josh. If you’re gonna litter the streets with bodies, do it in somebody else’s precinct.” Dirkin paused. “So what’s the machine?”
“I need a trace on all incomings and lots of updates.”
“You’re asking a lot of the old computer, Josh.”
“Think you can swing it?”
Dirkin took a bite of his bagel. “Hell, with the new equipment we’ve got, we can have a line traced in five seconds. I’ll just have to keep it secret from the captain or he’ll have my ass.”
“Not if you’re still running the precinct, he won’t.”
Dirkin winked, started another mouthful. “What he don’t know, won’t hurt him. What number you want watched, Josh?”
Bane gave it to him.
Chilgers made the phone call from his private jet en route back to San Diego.
“I’ll be arriving in New York tomorrow evening,” Scalia told him.
“Your work will begin immediately. There’s some cleaning up to do.”
“How many targets?”
“One primarily.”
“My price is a half million. Usual procedures. Who is the primary target?”
“Joshua Bane.”
Scalia paused. “The price for that will be a million and a half.”
Chilgers knew there was no sense in arguing. “Very well,” he said. “Other services may be required.”
“We’ll negotiate when the time comes. You know where to reach me.”
“Things might get messy.”
“You’ve come to the right place.”
Harry Bannister lived in a nice enough building on East Sixty-ninth Street refurbished by a compassionate architect with the handicapped in mind. The halls were wide and the elevators deep. And the main front entrance wasn’t through a revolving door.
“Welcome to my humble abode, Winter Man,” Harry greeted and wheeled himself forward.
Josh closed the door behind him. Everything in the apartment seemed to be made of wood. Harry prided himself on traditional furniture, loathing modern plastics, metals, and glass that laid to waste aesthetic design.
“Pour yourself a drink, Josh. This is a day for celebration. I’ve finally got the bastard. After all these years, I’ve finally got him.”
Bane stopped halfway to the wood-finished wet bar. “You found out who Trench was working for?”
“It took some arm twisting.”
“Mind if I venture a guess?”
“Be my guest.”
“COBRA.”
The Bat’s features sank a bit. “Shit, Josh, you really know how to spoil a poor cripple’s surprise. How’d you figure it out?”
“You go first.”
“Lots of people owe me favors, Josh, but not nearly as many anymore. They didn’t want to talk, but living in this chair does have its advantages. People don’t refuse you much if you know how to ask for what you want.”
“You could have asked before. Anytime.”
“Except I never had the specifics before. You gave them to me this morning. Besides, running into you in the park the other day made me realize maybe I haven’t changed so much after all.”