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  It was just a few minutes later that he saw the e-mail.

  The meeting was held at the FBI offices in the Federal Plaza Building in Manhattan.

  Captain Bradley and Nate were ushered into the office of Wilson Metcalf, who introduced himself as the special agent in charge. Also there was Dan Congers, who had come in from the task force offices in Newark. Metcalf described himself as being in charge of the case. Nate and Bradley, to that point, hadn’t even realized there was a case, at least not as far as the FBI was concerned.

  After the brief introductions, Metcalf said, “Gentlemen, we are joined electronically for this meeting by Assistant Director Peter Cantrell and some of his colleagues in Washington. So please remember to smile for the cameras. Now let’s get right to it.”

  The lights in the room dimmed slightly as one of the agents in the rear of the room fiddled with some buttons. A large screen seemed to come out of the wall, and on it was the e-mail that Nate had found in his inbox when he came home from the hospital. The only words typed in the body of it were “Nate, run this ASAP.”

  “Lieutenant Alvarez, please tell us whatever you can about this e-mail. Leave nothing out.”

  Nate shrugged. “Not much to tell. It was sent to me by my partner, Doug Brock. It was sent about an hour before he got shot, but I didn’t see it until much later that night.”

  Metcalf asked Nate to describe the chain of events, starting with the phone call and ending in the hospital. Nate was sure that the agent already knew all of it; he was either simply getting the story on some record, or going through it for the benefit of the unseen viewers in Washington.

  The first question he asked when Nate was finished was, “Did he give you any indication at all why he suggested you call in the FBI, as well as Lieutenant Congers?”

  “No. He didn’t get a chance to. All he said was ‘I got him.’ Haven’t you heard the tape?” Nate asked, knowing that he must have.

  Metcalf ignored the question. “Do you know who he was referring to when he said, ‘I got him’?”

  “I can’t say for sure, but my assumption was Nicholas Bennett. You’re familiar with him?”

  “Of course,” Metcalf said. “Why did you make that assumption?”

  “Because Doug has been after him for two years, and his people killed a teenager that Doug was really close to.”

  “So why is he walking the streets?” Metcalf asked.

  “Doug was trying to change that,” Nate said, and Bradley added, “We’ve had something of an evidentiary problem. Witnesses, when they exist, seem to prefer living to talking. But we’re making progress.”

  “What did you do when you got the call?”

  “I called an officer named Jessie Allen; she’s in our tech division, and I asked her to run a GPS location check on Doug’s phone. Before we got the response, she called to tell me Doug had been shot.”

  Next Metcalf turned to Lieutenant Dan Congers. State police forces, and most big-city ones as well, have people in their organization assigned to the JTTF, the Joint Terrorism Task Force. Congers was one of those handling that assignment for the Jersey State Police.

  One of his functions was to deal with both the state police and the task force, to make sure that each side knew what the other was doing. But he got his daily marching orders from the task force, and that’s where he spent most of his time. It required an ability to manage the egos of both the Feds and the state police, who had a natural distrust of each other.

  “Any idea why Brock wanted Lieutenant Alvarez to find you?”

  Congers had gone over this with Bradley, and was sure the information had previously been conveyed to Metcalf, but he repeated it. “Not really. He had called me a couple of times the week before. He wanted to know if Bennett had any involvement in international arms smuggling.”

  “How did you answer that?”

  “First I advised him to be careful; that he was on suspension and could be making his situation worse. Then I told him I had no information about Bennett being involved in that world. I have since checked deeper, and that answer holds. But I couldn’t do anything other than speculate as to why he wanted to reach me the day he was shot, and it would be uninformed speculation at best.”

  “Speculate away,” Metcalf directed. “We can assign it the proper weight.”

  “Okay,” Congers said. “Before I joined the task force, I was a thorn in Bennett’s side, and that’s putting it mildly. I spent a lot of time trying to put him away, so I know a lot about how he operates. So with whatever he learned, or thought he learned, about Bennett, he might have thought I could be helpful.”

  Metcalf nodded to the man working the computer, and the cursor on the large screen clicked on the “attachment” icon on Nate’s e-mail. A photograph of a man appeared. It was very dark, most likely taken at night, and a little blurry, but the man’s face was recognizable. “This was attached to the e-mail,” Metcalf said, a statement more than a question.

  Nate nodded. “Yeah, it was obvious that the photo was what Doug wanted me to run, so as soon as I saw it, I put it into the national database.”

  “And then?”

  “And then we wound up sitting here, answering a thousand questions. Who is this guy?”

  Metcalf avoided the question, and instead asked another of his own, this time directed at Bradley. “Brock was conducting this investigation on his own?”

  An annoyed Nate spoke up before Bradley could answer. “You know, this is feeling like a one-way street. How about you answer my question? Who is the guy in the picture?”

  Metcalf ignored him and kept his focus on Bradley. “Captain?”

  “It seems like a reasonable question,” Bradley said, sticking up for Nate. “Who is he?”

  Metcalf paused for a moment, then seemed to relent and said, “His name is Ahmat Gharsi. Born in Yemen, but based wherever there are people that he feels deserve killing. He has very strong connections throughout the Middle East.”

  “He’s a terrorist?” Nate asked, an obvious question that he regretted as soon as he asked it.

  “He literally wrote the book. Is Brock being properly guarded in the hospital?”

  Bradley nodded. “We have two officers there, twenty-four/seven.”

  “Good. Now, was Brock conducting this investigation on his own?”

  “Lieutenant Brock was on suspension. He was certainly not doing anything authorized by our department, nor was he consulting with me.”

  Metcalf turned to Nate, who shrugged. “Me neither. But just to be clear, Doug is right about Bennett.”

  Metcalf referred back to the image of Gharsi on the screen. “Based on the background or anything else you see, can you tell where this photograph was taken?”

  “What background? It’s all dark. Can you enhance it better?”

  “This is already enhanced,” he said. “Our experts say that it was likely taken through a glass window.”

  “Sorry, I wish I could help, but I have no idea where that was taken.”

  “We need to find Gharsi,” said Metcalf. “And just as importantly, we need to know why he is in this country.”

  “I’ll bet Doug knows,” Nate said. “But unfortunately, right now, he’s not talking.”

  “The doctor said there’s a good chance he won’t remember what happened,” Nate said.

  He was having lunch with Jessie, fulfilling a promise to keep her updated on what was happening with Doug’s condition. Nate was talking with his mouth half-stuffed with a meatball hero; Jessie was occasionally poking with little interest at a salad.

  “Permanently?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “I don’t know, and I don’t think the doctor does either. But the FBI is putting pressure on him to bring Doug out of the coma.”

  “Why the FBI?”

  Nate was under strict instructions not to reveal what he’d learned in the meeting with the Feds. “I can’t say, Jess.”

  “Doug’s not in any trouble, is he?”
<
br />   “You mean besides being in a coma?”

  “You know what I mean, Nate.”

  “Yeah, sorry. I don’t think he’s in trouble, but it all depends on what he says if he wakes up.” He quickly corrected himself. “When he wakes up.”

  Nate looked down at his empty plate and frowned. “You think another meatball hero would be bad for my diet?”

  “Probably,” she said.

  “Maybe there’s another way to get thinner besides losing weight. Maybe I can get taller.”

  She smiled. “Good idea.” Then, “What’s the doctor going to do?”

  “Nothing. Not until he’s ready. He says he’ll do what’s best for Doug, and he doesn’t give a shit what the FBI wants. I like his style.”

  “Did he say how Doug is doing?” she asked.

  Nate nodded. “Yeah, he still says he’s pleased with the progress. Swelling is way down, and he thinks he actually might cut off the drugs that are inducing the coma. But he wanted me to know the FBI pressure has nothing to do with it.”

  “And then Doug will wake up?”

  “Not necessarily, but he might. The doctor wasn’t sure; he keeps saying ‘We’ll know when we know.’ But if I know Doug, he’ll stay asleep, just to piss us off.”

  “Any progress on the investigation?”

  “Not so far; but I’m not on it, Jerry Bettis is lead detective. The room was registered under a fake name, and nobody admits to seeing anyone or remembering anything.”

  “Because they’re afraid of Bennett?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “That’s a safe bet. I’ll ask him about it when I see him.”

  “When are you going to see Bennett?”

  He looked at his cell phone, which three years prior replaced his watch. “In about forty-five minutes. When we put out the word we wanted to talk to him, he offered to come in. A goddamn model citizen.”

  “Why is he doing that?”

  “Probably would rather deal with us than the Feds.”

  “The Feds are actively involved with the investigation of the shooting at the motel?” she asked.

  “I’m sure they must be, but they haven’t interfered with us yet. I expect them to move in at any time.”

  “But you can’t tell me why.”

  Nate could see that while she may have understood his promise to keep the confidence, she was also slightly offended that she, as a cop herself, was not being trusted with this information. “Sorry, Jess. I can’t. If it’s any consolation, I don’t know a hell of a lot. The Feds really aren’t much into sharing.”

  Nate and Jessie went back to the state police barracks, and he stopped in at his office before going into the interview room. There was a message from the hospital that the doctor was in fact going to stop the drugs that were inducing Doug’s coma at five o’clock that afternoon. Left unsaid was what Nate already knew, that there was no telling what might happen after that.

  Nicholas Bennett and his attorney, Richard Mayweather, showed up precisely on time, and were led into the interview room where Captain Bradley and Nate were waiting for them. Someone not familiar with them could never have known which was the lawyer and which was the criminal. Both were dressed and groomed impeccably, which Bennett had long been known for.

  Bennett’s appearance was particularly deceiving. He was fifty-three years old, graying, tall and thin. He looked more like a refined patron of the arts than a person who had clawed his way up the criminal ladder in northern New Jersey. And ironically, he was in fact a patron of the arts, as well as a contributor to many charitable causes.

  As age, disloyalty, and especially the justice system had wreaked havoc on the dominant old-time crime families in New Jersey, a vacuum was created. Bennett was one of a number of people attempting to fill that vacuum, and while he may not have been the favorite on the morning line, he was the one who was ultimately successful, the last man standing.

  That success came from his possessing three major assets. First was money: Bennett came from a wealthy family and was a successful businessman in his own right. He owned a large number of apartment buildings in New York and New Jersey that were cash cows. Second, he had an understanding of organizational structure, an underrated factor in criminal enterprises. Third, he was totally and utterly ruthless; to mess with Nicholas Bennett was to die a certain and very unpleasant death.

  Various competitors possessed some of these assets, but none had all three, and therefore they dropped away one by one, until Bennett finally prevailed more than six years ago. He had spent the time since consolidating his power and reputation; not an easy thing to do.

  If Bennett were a sports fan, he might liken his position to that of a defending Super Bowl champion. Everybody tries to knock the champ off of the pedestal, and though Bennett was at the top of the organized crime heap, none of his competitors were willing to cede him the position for life.

  So they’d come after him, and he’d used up men and resources to fight them off. Money had become a particular problem of late. Like the employees of any legitimate company, Bennett’s people expected to be paid for their loyalty. It was an expensive proposition.

  Neither Bradley nor Nate expected this interview to be at all productive; Bennett was far too smart to incriminate himself in any way. Typical of his self-protectiveness was his insistence that the interview be recorded, so nothing he said could be misrepresented at a later time. Bradley had readily agreed to the condition in advance, but Bennett, not taking any chances, had Mayweather operate his own recorder as well.

  “I just want you to know,” Bennett said, “that my thoughts and prayers are with Lieutenant Brock. I understand that he was grievously injured.”

  “He’ll be touched by your concern,” Nate said.

  Bennett smiled. “I’m not sure the recording devices can successfully convey the sarcasm in your tone, Lieutenant Alvarez, so allow me to note it. Even though Lieutenant Brock has for some reason conducted something of a vendetta against me, I bear him no ill will.”

  The interview did not go downhill from there; it just went nowhere. Bennett said that he had no idea who was responsible for the shooting, and had ten witnesses who would testify that he was nowhere near that motel at the time.

  Bradley and Nate had known that they would accomplish very little, and they were right.

  They never laid a glove on him.

  I am in a hospital; that much I’m pretty sure of.

  There are tubes in my arms, and one in my nose, which I imagine is to help me breathe. The room is filled with machines, displaying numbers that must be my vital signs and other statistics that doctors are accumulating about me. They’re blinking and beeping a lot, which doesn’t tell me anything. I can’t tell the difference between good beeping and bad beeping.

  I don’t know what hospital I am in, or why I am in one at all. Something must have happened on the job, but it is almost physically painful to try and remember what that might have been. I feel like I am covered with gauze; there’s a general haze over me that I can’t seem to push through.

  Maybe I am drugged.

  Maybe it’s not a hospital at all.

  I hear someone coming, but I can’t turn to see who it is. I think there may be bandages on my head, but I don’t know if that is why I can’t turn. It could be that I just don’t have the energy.

  “Hello, Doug. How are you feeling?”

  He looks like a doctor, and he knows my name. I didn’t see him come in, but then again, I don’t even know where the door is. I don’t answer him, because it seems like it will take too much energy to summon my voice. I also don’t know what I would say, because I really have no idea how I am feeling.

  Except for tired. I’m quite sure that I am very, very tired.

  Behind the doctor are three other people. I don’t know if they are also doctors, or nurses, or whatever. They’re all dressed in white; I am surrounded by a world of white. Each of them looks concerned, and they’re all wearing smiles that seem to
be forced for my benefit.

  “My name is Dr. Carmody. You’re in Hackensack Hospital; do you know why you’re here?”

  I don’t know why I’m here, but I don’t seem to have any desire to tell him that. Maybe I won’t have to; maybe he’ll just tell me.

  “You were hurt, so you had an operation, but you’re much better now.” He smiles. “And you’re going to be just fine.”

  Everyone behind him is still smiling and nodding and looking sincere. I’ve never seen any of them before, so I don’t know if I can believe them. Whatever happened to me must have been very bad if that many people are crowded into this room. I want to know how long I’ve been here, but I just can’t seem to will myself to speak.

  “We’re just going to poke and prod you a little, Doug. It’s nothing that will hurt. And then you can sleep some more. Will that be okay?”

  He must take my silence as a yes, because he comes over and presses some parts of my body, and then shines a light into my eyes. It seems really bright in my right eye, but much less so in the left one. I should tell him that, but I don’t.

  I feel something on my arm, like from a blood pressure machine, though I didn’t see or feel them wrap it around me. Maybe it was already there. When it’s finished squeezing, I don’t feel them removing it. There also seems to be padding of some kind on my legs, and they must be attached to a machine, because they squeeze my legs at odd intervals.

  “Very good,” the doctor says, apparently pleased with whatever he’s learned. “Doug, there’s a button here, right next to your arm. If you need anything, or if you feel anything unusual or painful, just press that button, okay? Someone will come help you.”

  Okay, I think in silence.

  He smiles again. “Now we’ll let you get some rest. You’re tired.”

  Yes. I am.

  Ahmat Gharsi did not trust Nicholas Bennett.

  That in itself was a cause for neither surprise nor concern; Gharsi could not remember the last time he trusted anyone. He was quite certain that if he had, he would have been dead long ago. In his business, you simply did not trust anyone except yourself.