Manhasset, NY

 

     Sheets of rain swept the gray sky, deluging the streets, creating a fitting environment for tragedy.

     Denny Pogue was in too much of a hurry that morning. He had asked his wife to take the kids to school because he was running late. Usually, he left for work early and stayed over an hour or two after office hours, not out of duty but out of fear. Denny Pogue had an abiding sense of dread. His life was gray, his future grayer, something dark ahead just waiting to happen.

     He was nervous about losing his job, so he usually made sure he didn’t run late. Today, however, he had dallied with the garage door a little too long. Damn thing was sticking, rollers off the track, and he thought he’d be able to pull it back on track before he left. No luck. Now he would have to wait for the weekend to fix the thing, and they would have to keep parking outside the garage.

     He slid on the walk, which was slick from the rain. Tall and gangly, long-haired and a little on the geeky side, Pogue had taken to wearing slip-ons for comfort, had worn them so much the soles were smooth. He hadn’t taken the time to grab an umbrella from the front closet, and drops were pelting him wet already. His oak tree by the walk dripped on his head as he climbed in the Corolla. He brushed the droplets off, turned on the talk radio station and pulled out a little too fast, his rear tire thumping over the curb at the end of the drive. Checking the clock on the dash out of habit, for the hundredth time he realized it was frozen, had stopped months ago. He checked the clock on his cell phone instead and saw he’d miss the 8:05 out of the Manhasset Station. Damn!

     Racing for the Park-n-Ride near the station, he wheeled around the corner at the intersection and skidded. A blur— only a blur! He felt the lurch, heard the whine of metal crunching under the tires. Kid on a bike! In the corner of his eye he’d caught a glimpse of a kid on a bike! Boy had swerved right in front of him!

      He was shaking when he jumped out, his face blanched. Quickly, he hit 911 on his cell even as he rushed to the boy. Human limbs and bike steel were all twisted into each other; the boy wasn’t moving, didn’t seem to be breathing, his face streaked with blood, his schoolbooks scattered all over the street.

       Pogue squatted over the kid and called out to him. He tried to pry him out of the bike.

       “Leave him till the EMS gets here,” said another driver who had just pulled up. “You could hurt him you move him.”

       Numbly, Pogue responded with a nod.

       Two patrol cars, an ambulance and a fire truck pulled up in minutes. A policeman took Pogue aside and asked a series of questions as they stood in the rain, which was falling now in large drops. Paramedics sloshed around in the puddles at the accident scene to examine the small body in the twisted wreckage.

       Shaken, Pogue mumbled his responses listlessly. “How is the boy?” he added, a tremble in his voice. “Is he going to live?”

     “We’ll find out soon enough. I need your contact information.”

     Once the patrolman finished the interview, he joined another patrolman at the crash site. “We ran a check on the name off one of the vic’s schoolbooks,” said the second patrolman. “You’ll never guess who it is.”

     The first looked at him questioningly.

     “Jimmy Morretti’s kid,” continued the second. “Riding his bike to school. They live just around the corner.”

     “Here? I thought they were over in Howard Beach or Brooklyn someplace.”

     “That was years ago. They’re just a couple of blocks over.”

     “Big house?”

     “Nah. Not too different from the rest around here.”

     “Not even a long driveway?”

     "Fairly long, I guess. Real wiseguys don’t generally show off their houses like Tony Soprano or Don Corleone. They hide all their fancy shit inside—flat-screen TVs and gold faucets and all.”

      “I interviewed the driver. He’s rattled.”

      “He should be. I called the mom. Tough thing to tell a mom, no matter who she is.”

      “What do you mean? Tell her what?”

      “The photographer’s here.”

      Nodding, the first cop fell silent. He knew what that meant—photographers only came out for fatalities.

 

      Maria Morretti arrived crying. Pushing her way through the cops and EMTs, she screamed when she saw her son on the stretcher. “Rudi! Rudi!”

      Rushing to her son’s side, she wailed, clutching him. Officers had to pull her away. “What happened? Who did this?”

      Pogue stepped through the crowd. “Is this your boy? I’m so sorry.”

      “You did this? You fucking did this to my boy? You bastard! Look at him! Look what you did, you bastard!” Officers restrained her as she tried to pull free.

      Other cops restrained Pogue, too, as the shaken man tried to approach the distraught mother. “I want to tell her I’m sorry.”

      “Not a good idea right now, sir,” said one of the cops. “We’re going to take you over here, wait till we look at everything. Pending any charges…”

      “What charges?”

      “We have to assess fault here.”

      “The kid came out of nowhere.”

      “I understand, but we’ve got to sort all this out. If everything is all right, you can pick up your car later.”

      “I’ve never, I’ve never hit a person before. Is he going to be all right?”

      “Sir, I’m sorry. He didn’t make it.”

      Pogue bent his head and began to sob.

One of the cops looked at another. “I’d be crying, too,” he whispered. “If I’d run over someone from that family.”

      He motioned with his head for the other cop to cart Pogue out of there.

 

      Late that night, Jimmy and Maria Morretti stepped into their son’s room to stare at their son’s Little League and swim trophies, and they wept. She held herself accountable: “I shoulda taken him. He wanted to ride his bike, and I shoulda said no.”

      “You can’t blame yourself. He was riding his bike through the freakin’ neighborhood, Maria! Come on—this ain’t your fault!”

      After a while, his eyes red, he left her in the room and stumbled to his study, softly closing the door. He picked up the phone and made a call, whispering: “My wife’s been up all night crying.”

      “I’m sorry, Jim,” came the reply on the other end of the line.

      “You know who did this to my boy?”

      “Lives right down your street. Some long-hair teaches in the city. Listen, Boss, it looks like an accident.”

      “I don’t give a fuck it was an accident! This asshole was negligent!”

      “You’re a lawyer now! What are you saying?”

      “What do you think?” Eyes flashing white-hot, Morretti slammed down the phone.

 

Denny Pogue’s Office—Downtown Manhattan

New York, NY

 

      Professor Pogue finished scanning the last blue book, scribbling in the margins with a red pen. Closing the paper booklet, he tossed it on the stack of other blue books. Yawning, he grabbed his briefcase, pulling out a couple of files. As usual, no one walked the halls, no one passed by his door. Almost every evening of the week, he was the last one in the building. Teaching remedial English here at the CCNY campus near the Flatiron Building off 23^rd, he worked this night class to add to his income from NYU, just down the street, where he taught English lit during the day. He had moved up to NYU from a community college over a year ago, which gained him more prestige than pay.

      That morning, he’d arrived in a downpour, his hair and jacket drenched when he’d walked, dripping, into the classroom. He’d barely acknowledged the students. Since the horrible accident, he’d felt as if in a trance. A dark shroud of depression and guilt had settled in on him. He was just going through the motions in his lecture, laid out a quiz for the class just so he wouldn’t have to talk. It didn’t help to hear, on the 7 o’clock news, the identity of his young victim. Now he added fear to the grief and shock he carried.

      His phone rang on the desk—his wife. “Are you coming home soon?” she asked.

      “Yeah.”

      “I’m just worried, honey. Checking to see if you’re okay.”

      “I’m not okay! I killed somebody! I killed a kid. You understand? He’ll never feel anything again, do anything again. He’s gone. Because of me!”

      “I know. I know. I just want you to come home. Okay? You’ve got a court date in the morning. Come home early. Spend time with the girls before they go to bed.”

      “All right. I’ve got a quick meet with an ADHD kid who just found out he’s got ADHD, then a white paper to wrap for an article due tomorrow, and I’ll be out of here.”

      “Hurry up! And be careful.”

      He thought he detected a catch in her voice—a sob.

“I will,” he replied.

Hanging up, he heard tapping at the window and glanced over. Droplets coursed down the glass. He sighed. He would have to walk through some drizzle to get to the subway entrance.

He was done by 8:30. Hurriedly stuffing books and papers into his case, he rushed out the door. Splashing through puddles in the EZ Park lot, he spotted the orange halogen lights of Madison Square Park a block over, beyond the row of buildings across the street. He headed that direction. Only two cars were left in the lot at this hour, a Chrysler New Yorker with peeling paint and rust patches and a Honda further away. He paid more attention to such details now.   

      As he headed for the subway staircase just beyond the next intersection, he heard a single footfall behind him. Turned. Two guys, one tall and thick-shouldered, one short, wiry, baldheaded. They’d been so quiet he hadn’t noticed. They began to run for him.

      “No! Please, no!” he cried. He started to run for the intersection. Slogging through a puddle, he slid, nearly falling. “It was an accident! I didn’t mean to do it! Please!”

      The old, peeling New Yorker he’d seen a moment ago now skidded around the corner toward him. Pogue couldn’t see the driver because of the tinted windows. The car clipped him in the side, cracking his right side and arm. He fell, scraping across the wet asphalt. The car screeched to a stop, hauled in reverse toward his head, skidded to a stop inches from his face. Hands caught his feet, his shoulders—trunk popping open—and threw him in the trunk. Swinging a crowbar, the huge thug pounded his shoulder, his upraised hands. He felt fingers snap. His forearm shuddered under a blow and snapped. He screamed in pain. Then the blows landed on his skull. His head swimming, he drifted off, barely conscious of the trunk slamming, shutting him off in darkness.

 

      He didn’t know how long he’d been out. Stirring, emerging from the deep, he felt the rocking of the car, the vibration of the road in the tires. His feet kicked some tools, scraped through some old newspapers, and he tried to roll over to no avail. He was crammed into the trunk.

His face ached fiercely; he felt warmth running down from his scalp and over his cheek. He touched the warmth—a viscous liquid glob—and realized it was his blood. His nose was crumpled, so that he wheezed with each breath, broken arm and fingers on fire with pain. Heart pounding, mind reeling in a heavy fog, he knew he was finished. When this realization hit him, he right away thought of his two girls, his wife he’d never see again—memories beginning to pile up, the combined psychic weight bearing down on him at once—their faces, moments, tender words. Some flashes of the future crackled all at once, too: Chelsea with an open house at her school tomorrow, Lindsay with her Little League game Saturday, the agony of these more excruciating than his injuries.

 

     An NYPD patrol unit pulled up into the EZ Park next to the CCNY building. The two officers from the car trotted up the steps into the building, where the chief of the cleaning crew waited on the first floor. One of the Hispanic girls on his crew had happened to glance out a window and witness a beating going on across the street. The officers interviewed the girl to learn the details, both officers being Hispanics themselves and knowing Spanish. Her story was clipped, her voice racked with emotion, but she got it out: two men had thrown another man in a car trunk and had then beaten him. They had closed the trunk and driven off. One of the assailants was big, one short. Their car—purple or dark red, old and big like a boat. The two cops laughed at this. She didn’t know the make nor the model, which was not much help.

     Nonetheless, one of the patrolmen clicked on the radio and had dispatch deliver a BOLO on the car. Nothing came of it.

 

     The trunk popped open. Pogue was very dazed, disoriented. He blinked from the brightness, overhead fluorescents lighting a garage of racks, car parts, oil drains, hoses and upright tool chests.      The room was jammed full of trucks and cars in various states of repair.

     Both thugs stood over him, the short one screwing something onto a pistol—a cylinder, silencer!

     Pogue cringed, his mind clearing quickly now, another gear kicking in, his survival gear. “It was an accident. I swear. I’ve been torn up about it! Can’t eat or sleep! I wish I could take it back! I wish I could go back and change it! Would to God I could go back and change it!”

     Pogue tried to climb out, thrashing, but his arm flopped, the pain searing along the length of it. He couldn’t even get his legs to move. Placing a restraining hand on Pogue’s shoulder, the short man was gentle: “I know. We know it was an accident. Okay?”

     “I have a wife. Two kids! Please! If you know it was an accident, please think of them.”

     The short man removed his hand from Pogue and finished screwing on the cylinder. “We understand. Okay? My boss feels their loss will balance out his. See? Everything evens out.”

     “Don’t!”

     The short man placed the tip of the silencer up against Pogue’s forehead. Pogue closed his eyes, sobbed. The short man pulled the trigger, the shot punching a hole in Pogue’s forehead, blasting out the back of the skull. Shutting the trunk, the short man turned to the taller. “Take it to the Shark’s shop. Chop the car. Staten-Island the body.”

     Running up, the driver—an older man with bent knees and hobbling gait—hollered in a theatrical whisper, “Get the fuck outta here!”

     Irritated, the short man turned on him. “We’re taking care of it Spikes! Shit!”

     “I’ll get it bagged for pick-up,” added the taller man. “No problem. I’ll get Manny to do an extra trash run in the morning.”

     “You do that,” replied the shorter man. “It’s what I like about you: good at makin’ it happen!”

     “Fuck you, too!”

 

     In his study, Morretti was poring over the electric bill, silently cursing, when he got the call. It was his trigger, Nichols—plump, very short but dependably ruthless. The job was done—no specifics, no names, all code talk.

     “Good,” muttered Morretti, hanging up and returning to his statements.

 

Main Justice

9^th and Constitution

Washington, DC

 

     Standing at his desk, Attorney General Lewis Greene, white-haired, thin and a little stooped, opened up the blinds for a look out at Constitution Avenue. A light fall mist drifted over the street, lamplights forming halos in the fog.

     With a sigh, thinking about the dinner he’d missed—oak table seating his daughter and two sons, his wife setting out the platter of roast and potatoes, another meal turned cold—he turned to his desk. Carefully, methodically, he stacked the relevant folders, the one-page briefs, the stacks of files, and carried them out the door.

     Fifth-floor corner conference room—he stood at the window overlooking the Hoover Building across Pennsylvania Avenue, a monolithic 70s-style architectural monstrosity, fitting, in his opinion, the monstrous bureaucracy it housed. He thought it fitting to hold his meeting with the FBI HQ in view.

     Greene was a war-beaten veteran of a tumultuous administration. The previous president had gone through three AGs. Greene had lasted longer with this chief exec than any of his predecessors had with theirs. However, like his president, he was tired, consumed by contradictory currents and divisiveness, torn by an unpopular foreign policy and the resultant clamor for change. Starting with a series of speeches during the election campaign, his president began throwing out trial balloons about putting significant curbs on spending for counter-terrorism, and his efforts fueled a firestorm in the media and academia, which then swept Congress and the courts, really intensifying after he won the election. Public polls were overwhelming in calling for drastic curbs on spending for counter-terrorism, and on spending for the military and law enforcement in general, and Greene was sensing a seismic shift—the end of the War on Terror.

     Personally, he was worried about this shift, that the president’s ideas could end up spelling disaster. However, being in the new president’s administration meant he had to follow the policies as best he could and try to contain any damage caused.

     He looked down at the files in his hand. Besides losing focus on counter-terrorism, his administration was ignoring something else nearly as grave: reports on the upsurge of organized crime. The Morretti empire, a revitalization of the Gambino family, looked to be dwarfing rival families in extortion, truck hijacks, fences, numbers, gambling, bribery and prostitution, not to mention murder. His administration, caving to pressure from the media, was underfunding the Bureau across the board, specifically stipulating less attention be paid to the mob, though not as less as to terrorists. Somehow he had to come up with a plan for seeming to obey those stipulations without sacrificing those areas of concern. He thought he had the answer: pull in the contractors.

     Greene slipped into a chair, fanning out the folders before him. Assistant Attorney General R. Daniel Singer soon joined him with a folder of his own.

     Singer nodded to his boss. “Hey, Lew.”

     “Dan, why don’t you have a seat? Let’s take a look at what you’ve got. Tell me what you think.”

     Singer handed over his folder to Greene. “Despite some of this man’s history, I think he’s the guy we need.”

     Greene opened it and glanced at the short bio in question.

 

Benjamin Wilford Hawkins

 * Former head of recently-created FBI Fugitive Program

* Good relationship with state and local law enforcement

* Considered “lion” to state troopers, city and muni cops because:

–        Intense, focused

–        Relentless in pursuit

–        “Any means necessary,” incl. working with state/local

–        Unsurpassed collar ratio

* Not well-liked throughout much of Bureau

* Drummed out of service

 

     “All right,” said Greene, glancing through the folder. “I had heard of him. Now I see the bio, the guy’s employment record, such as it is. He’s got a past, definitely. Besides that, I’ve got some questions, after talking to a few people on my own. First question: why do you want him?”

     “When he gets after someone, he’s like a dog with a bone. The kind of attitude we need around there.”

     “But heading up an organized crime unit?”

     “He’s butted heads with the mob before.”

     “As I said, I read the file. You think we should choose him over a Bureau man or woman?”

     “We don’t have as many Bureau men or women, not after the cutbacks.” Singer was referring to a spate of layoffs at the FBI, DEA, ATF and even the CIA and NSA—administration policy becoming all-too real. “Anyway, I’m just doing what you told me.”

     “I know. Just asking. It’s always a little problematic dealing with a contractor.”

     “A contractor who’s been hunting fugitives with more fervor than most special agents on the task.”

     “Hope you’re right. If contractors are going to help us through this dark period, they’ll have to have a little fervor. One problem: in this situation, he wouldn’t have the range of opportunity or the authority a special agent would have.”

     “So, we give him that range. All federal authority requisite in the execution of a special agent’s job. To him, as contractor.”

     Greene looked up sharply. “A DOJ-819. You don’t think he can do the work without that?”

     Such an authorization, though provided within DOJ administrative guidelines, was seldom approved. Most attorneys general tried to limit its use, believing it to diminish the necessary line between the civilian world and the realm of law enforcement. After all, bounty hunters were legal, even a fixture in the nation’s history and imagination, but that didn’t make them palatable.

“It’s the price we’re going to have to pay, I’m afraid, to make your idea work,” replied Singer, with some emphasis. “Remember, he’d have Bureau oversight.”

     “Another problem is this guy’s firing and what precipitated it.”

     “I understand he’s doing something about that.”

     Greene stared at Singer. “I’ll need to see some evidence of that, of course. Rehab, I guess. Something substantial.”

     Singer nodded. “I understand. We’ve been looking into it. What questions do you have other than that?”

     “Okay, he’s a maverick, and that’s from Hendricks.” Greene was referring to Stan Hendricks, FBI director. “Hendricks says he goes out of control. Not a team player.”

     “Some might call that initiative.”

     Unfazed by Singer’s argument, Greene glanced over the report. “Seems like a lot of special agents just don’t like him. You gotta wonder why. I guess it has to do with his special problem.”

     “Some of it, maybe. But you hear that kind of thing when people are jealous. He’s obsessive, okay? People don’t always like that. Hell, I’m not sure I like it, but it works.” Singer looked at Greene hopefully.

     The attorney general stepped up to the window. Outside, it had started to drizzle, the rain pattering against the window glass. “I agree. But there’s one more thing that’s a little troubling. His religion. Wears it on his sleeve, they say. Interferes with his judgment, they say. Hypocrite, they say. He says one thing, does another.”

     Singer stood by him at the window. “He has a weakness, Lew. He got fired because of it, and he would be the first to tell you he needed to change. But I tell you, he’s the best for this job. He steps on toes, all right? I’d hope he would, given the FBI’s usual response time. He prays! Okay, hell, I’ve considered that myself on occasion lately. And if his prayers get answered, or at least he thinks they are, what does that hurt?”

     Greene shook his head and ran a hand through his hair along the side of his head, a sign of tiredness and indecision. Singer made as if to say something else, and Greene held up a hand to silence him. Finally, Greene slapped the folders down on the table. “Okay.”

     “Okay what?”

     “You got him.”

     “Including the 819?”

     “I guess.”

     “How long?”

     Greene walked to the door. He shrugged. “As long as you need him. I want Special Agent Don Campbell involved in oversight, though, despite their past history. This is ultimately in the Bureau’s purview.”

     Singer nodded. “All right. One other thing, Lew.”

     Greene looked at him expectantly.

     Singer sighed. “He smokes.”

     “Who?”

     “Hawkins.” Singer said it as if to say, “Who else?”

     Greene shook his head: just one more thing to complicate the matter at hand. He couldn’t suppress a laugh. “What, a pack a day or something?”

     “Cigars. He thinks they give him less nicotine.”

     “They have more, not less. So, does he smoke in the office?”

     Singer shook his head.

     “Then it’s not to worry about.” Greene walked out.

 

Bethesda, MD

 

     Hawkins slammed his big fist into the side of the bag, driving it back and up. When it swung back down, he pounded it with his other fist. He blasted it with a flurry of combinations. With satisfaction, he felt his fists plunge into the vinyl, the force of the blows radiating up his arms, muscles straining, sweat dripping.

     He threw a pile driver that rocked the bag on its chain.

But the thing he had done displeased the Lord.

     This was Ben Hawkins’s first thought when he had read the police report on Denny Pogue. The man had flat disappeared; surely it had everything to do with to the death of the Morretti boy.

     Hawkins had just that morning gotten fresh access to all Bureau alerts, when, as if on cue, he saw the alert to the Pogue disappearance—generated when Pogue’s wife put a desperate call into NYPD—flash across the network. He then read up on police reports to get the back story. Right away, he knew—Morretti! Bastard had the teacher clipped.

     Hawkins battered the heavy bag with another flurry of fist combinations.

But the thing he had done displeased the Lord.

     What Morretti had done to Pogue was all fury and arrogance.

     So, Pogue had killed Rudi M orretti by accident. Pogue then had disappeared. As Hawkins liked to tell his pard Tim Whitis, “It don’t take a genius.” Good thing in Whitis’ case.

     Hawkins smashed, pounded, rocking the bag.

     The quote burning in his mind came from an ancient story about a flippant, cold-blooded ruler who had sex with the wife of one of his subordinates and then had the hapless man killed. Much like a mob boss, the ruler went on with his life, free as a lark, sipping wine and luxuriating in the cool breezes rustling through his palace. Brazenly, he even married the grieving widow. Life was good.

     Only problem was he had displeased the Lord, and, doing so, got him some payback. This ruler—who happened to be the beloved psalmist and Bible hero King David—saw the death of three sons and his kingdom torn apart.

     If one needed a further example from the good Word, yet another story came to mind—one from the beginning of time, Cain murdering his brother and feigning ignorance.

     “Where is your brother?” the Lord asked.

     “Am I my brother’s keeper?” retorted Cain.

      Hawkins slammed his fists across the speed bag. He was gulping for breath, heat coursing through his face, his arms and thighs straining, burning. He felt the pop of the bag against his padded knuckles, as his thoughts dwelled on the story that seemed so particularly apt.

Why did insolence so often accompany the misdeeds of criminals? Insolence and the pretense of innocence. Lack of conscience.

     Right now, justice hadn’t caught up with the culprit in the Pogue case. This was still, technically, a missing person’s case, but the Pogue “disappearance” was fooling no one, least of all NYPD, Manhasset PD or the FBI. Everyone knew Pogue was gone, dead. Manhasset PD detectives and Bureau special agents had already been out to the Morretti house (the FBI didn’t have far to go since they already had a surveillance team across the street). They’d interviewed the “distraught” mom and dad. They talked to neighbors, none of whom particularly cared for the gangster couple, and heard that, when getting her hair done at the local salon, Mrs. M had cursed a blue streak about the bastard who’d “murdered” her son. Well, if what one said revealed what was in the heart, she’d revealed plenty there.

     The detectives and special agents had no hard evidence of Pogue’s murder: no corpse, no shell casings, no crime scene. From the building where Pogue worked, someone had seen an abduction. That had gone into a police report. No other evidence. It was as if Denny Pogue had vaporized.

With no witnesses, Manhasset PD would keep the case open a few months, maybe a year, and then quietly relegate it to the dusty archives, the cold case files. Morretti would go on with his so-called enterprises, free and clear.

     Hawkins was determined not to let that happen. If he couldn’t get Morretti for this one, he’d damn well nail him for another. But he’d nail him. It was his specialty.

Just a month before, he and his long-time partner Tim Whitis had returned from Minneapolis, after answering a tip on a two-man robbery team holing up in a furnished apartment near the Mall of America. That tip had come after Hawkins had queried his old network of local law enforcement sources and snitches, probably the best in the Bureau, which he’d developed back when he’d been a special agent.

     He and Whitis, who had once worked together as special agents and now partnered as freelancers, had flown into Minneapolis during the night. They slept a few hours at the Embassy Suites near the mall before hitting the robbers’ apartment at four the next morning, the best hour to take down fugitives because they usually were asleep and grew disoriented when awakened.

     Whitis had easily planted his man face-first in the carpet, cuffing the man’s wrists behind him in seconds. Hawkins had a tougher time. His man, stringy-haired and shirtless, had sprung from the ratty couch with a switchblade in hand. He had taken a couple of swipes at Hawkins before Hawkins got in a quick blow. Good with a punching bag and also a lifter who could bench 300 on a good day, Hawkins threw a first punch hard enough to double up the man. Hawkins’ next blow clocked the man in the side of the head. His third dropped the man to the carpet.

     He and Whitis were back in their temporary cubicles at Hoover by late afternoon that day. It took them longer to fill out the IR-76 incident reports and ER-54s for expenses than it did to apprehend the fugitives in the first place.

 

     Their successful Minneapolis gig had caught the attention of big shots in the Justice Department. Just this morning, Hawkins had taken the all-important call from Special Agent Campbell, bringing with it a second chance. For Campbell had told him he was head of the new Organized Crime Task Force—OCTF for short. In a few days, Hawkins was to report to the FBI office at 26 Fed in New York to begin drawing together the task force from various law enforcement agencies, which he would coordinate out of that office. Though his ostensible supervisor, Campbell wouldn’t be able to meet with him till later in the week, probably, which was all right with him. He and Campbell had a history, and it wasn’t the warmest.

     Toweling off his face, he trudged up the stairs from the basement. Vanessa was waiting at the top.

     “You feeling better?” she asked, grinning.

     “Pretty much, I guess. Much as you can feel better after a bout of agonizing torture.”

     “Hah. You have to do it, and you know it! Least, you let off a little steam down there so maybe you won’t be beating suspects tomorrow, your new job. Very constructive.”

     He gave her a cold stare. “Look, I don’t beat suspects—unless they call for it.”

     She laughed at him as he headed for the shower, the whole exchange being what often passed for conversations between them.

     After a quick shower, he kissed Vanessa goodbye and headed for New York early. He wanted to be ahead of schedule. Get the “lay of the land,” he liked to call it.