The Prince of Risk A Novel(44)

She left the bedroom and headed to her own room. The guest bedroom merited a glance along the way. Bobby had slept there for two years before the divorce. The marriage had ended the day he left their bedroom. It seemed so obvious now.

Inside her bathroom, she undressed, throwing her blouse and slacks into the dry-cleaning pile. She started the shower while her mind continued on its tour of her failings. Wife, mother, and now, the role she would never admit to anyone else that she held most dear, FBI agent.

Windermere had been her fault. Malloy’s death her fault. Mara’s death, too, and DiRienzo’s. Time and again she ran over her preparations for the job. She had followed procedure to the letter, but procedure wasn’t enough. It never was. Instinct won the day and she’d failed to obey her own. Never again.

Two days on the bricks.

The idea angered Alex, and as she stepped into the shower and let the hot water wash over her, her anger hardened into resolve.

Two days on the bricks.

Not a chance.

She had failed as a wife. She was a lousy mother. The job was all she had left.

She already knew her next move, and the next move was tonight.





29




Astor walked tiredly down the street toward Battery Park. A hot, humid breeze skipped off the East River, snapping his cheeks. The wind smelled oily and foul, and he hated it, hated the day, hated his predicament. He checked over his shoulder and watched as Sully drove away. At some point on the ride back into town, he had told the former detective about his gaffe inside Evans’s home.

“It’ll take ’em a day to dust the place for prints and another day to start feeding what they got into the system,” Sullivan had explained. “And that’s with all the heat this case is going to get, and believe you me, it will get plenty. The FBI will be out there and so will the Secret Service. They’ll go slow and methodical. Even so, I wouldn’t bank on them IDing you. Who knows how many people visited that house? There could be a hundred different prints on that door. All depends on what they’re able to lift. This is real life, not some TV show. You’re lucky if you get one perfect print.”

“I put my hand flat on the door,” said Astor.

“We already established you’re a numskull. Let’s not belabor the point.”

“How long before we know?” Astor had asked.

“You got forty-eight hours until you have to start worrying,” said Sullivan. “Then it’s a crapshoot. You feelin’ lucky?”

Astor kept his answer to himself.

That was an hour ago.

He had forty-seven to go.

Assured of his privacy, Astor jogged across the pavement, loosening a button on his shirt as he cursed the heat. He’d told Sullivan he needed some space, a little time to think things through. There were some things best kept private.

Reaching Battery Park, he continued to the tourist telescopes. He paused, looking up and down for a lean, compact man, always impeccably dressed. There was no one who matched the description. Astor glanced at his watch, then stepped closer to the railing.



“Hey.”

A hand tapped him on the shoulder, and Astor jumped out of his shoes.

“Take it easy,” said the sandpaper voice.

Astor spun and looked into Michael Grillo’s wizened brown eyes. “You scared the crap out of me.”

“I told you I’d meet you here.”

“I expected you in front of me. Not sneaking up on me like a…a…”

“A spook?” Grillo tightened his lips, which was what passed for a smile. “Habit. Too many years making sure I saw people before they saw me.”

Astor shook Grillo’s hand. “Good to see you, Mike.”

“Likewise.” Michael Grillo was small and leathery, a retired jockey in a $3,000 suit. His hair was gray and close-cropped, his skin taut, craggy, tanned a permanent brown by the sun of hellholes the world over. He had the usual résumé: Army Ranger, Delta Force, tours in Iraq (both wars) and Afghanistan. He also had a Wharton MBA. That was not so usual. He called himself a “corporate security analyst.” No company. Just a crisp linen-stock business card with a single phone number, a promise of utmost secrecy, and an unrivaled skill set he brought from his former profession. Mike Grillo got things done. Astor knew better than to ask how, but the size of his fees suggested some shadowy dealings. Shadowy, as in dark black.

“You look like shit,” said Grillo.

“Tough day.”

Grillo took this in. He was a man who knew when to ask questions and when not to. “This about your dad?”

“Good guess.”

Grillo lit a slim black cigarette. He was the last man in Manhattan to smoke Nat Sherman 100s. “What can I do for you?”