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Spencer Boston, of the impressive white mane and more impressive track record as a spy, sipped more tea. The straw eased farther through the plastic lid and gave a faint vibration like a bow on a viola string. "Don't worry, Shreve. I'll find him. Or her."
"Thanks, Spencer. Anytime. Day or night. Call me, what you find out."
The man rose, buttoned his ill-tailored suit.
When he was gone Metzger heard his magic red phone trill with a text from his surveillance and datamining crowd in the basement.
Identified Nance Laurel as lead prosecutor. IDs of the NYPD investigators to follow soon.
The Smoke diminished considerably at reading this.
At last. A place to start.
CHAPTER 12
JACOB SWANN APPROACHED HIS CAR in the lot of the Marine Air Terminal at LaGuardia airport.
He set his suitcase into the trunk of his Nissan sedan carefully--his knives were inside. No carry-on with them, of course. He dropped heavily into the front seat and stretched, breathing deeply.
Swann was tired. He had left his Brooklyn apartment for the Bahamas nearly twenty-four hours ago and had had only three or so hours' sleep in that time--most while in transit.
His session with Annette had gone more quickly than he'd expected. But, after he'd disposed of the body, finding an abandoned trash fire to burn the evidence of his visit last week had taken some time. Then he'd had to take care of some other housekeeping, including a visit to Annette's apartment and a risky but ultimately successful trip back to the site of Moreno's shooting itself: the South Cove Inn.
He'd then had to get off the island the same way he had last week: from a dock near Millars Sound, where he knew some of the men who clustered daily to work the ships or smoke Camels or ganja and drink Sands, Kalik or, more likely, Triple B malt. They would also handle various odd jobs. Efficiently and discreetly. They'd hurried him via small boat to one of the innumerable islands near Freeport, then there'd been the helicopter ride to a field south of Miami.
That was the thing about the Caribbean. There was Customs and there was custom. And the lower-case version allowed for people like Jacob Swann, with a bankroll of money--his employer had plenty, of course--to get where he needed to be, unnoticed.
After the scoring with the blade, after the blood, he was convinced that Annette had not told anyone about him, about the questions he'd casually asked her a week ago regarding the South Cove Inn, suite 1200, Moreno's bodyguard and Moreno himself. All those facts could be bundled together, resulting in some very compromising conclusions.
He'd only used the Kai Shun a few times, slice, slice...It probably hadn't been necessary, she was so frightened. But Jacob Swann was a very meticulous man. You could ruin a delicate sauce simply by too quickly adding hot liquid to the sizzling flour-and-butter roux. And once you'd done that there was no correction. A matter of a few degrees and few seconds. Besides, you should never miss an opportunity to hone your skills. So to speak.
He now pulled to the airport parking lot's exit kiosk, paid cash then drove a mile on the Grand Central before pulling over and swapping license plates. He then continued on to his house in Brooklyn.
Annette...
Bad luck for the poor prostitute that they'd run into each other when he'd been planning the job at the South Cove. He'd been conducting surveillance when he'd spotted Moreno's guard, Simon Flores, talking and flirting with the woman. Clearly they'd just come out of a room together and he understood from their body language and banter what they'd been doing.
Ah, a working girl. Perfect.
He waited an hour or two and then circled the grounds casually until he found her in the bar, where she was buying herself watered-down drinks and dangling like bait on a hook for another customer.
Swann, armed with a thousand dollars in untraceable cash, had been happy to swim toward her.
After the good sex and over the better stew he'd learned a great deal of solid information for the assignment. But he'd never anticipated that there'd be an investigation, so he hadn't cleaned up as completely as he probably should have. Hence, his trip back to the island.
Successful. And satisfying.
He now returned to his town house in the Heights, off Henry Street, and parked in the garage in the alley. He dropped his bag in the front hall, then shed his clothes and took a shower.
The living room and two bedrooms were modestly furnished, inexpensive antiques mostly, a few Ikea pieces. It looked like the digs of any bachelor in New York City, except for two aspects: the massive green gun safe, in a closet, which held his rifles and pistols, and the kitchen. Which a professional chef might have envied.
It was to this room that he walked after toweling off and pulling on a terry-cloth robe and slippers. Viking, Miele, KitchenAid, Sub-Zero, separate freezer, wine cooler, radiant bulb cookers--his own making. Stainless steel and oak. Pots and implements sat in glass-doored cabinets along one entire wall. (Those ceiling racks are showy, but why have to wash something before you cook in it?)
Swann now made French press coffee. He debated what to make for breakfast, sipping the strong brew, which he drank black.
For the meal he decided on hash. Swann loved challenges in the kitchen and had made recipes that coul
d have been formulated by greats like Heston Blumenthal or Gordon Ramsey. But he knew too that food need not be fancy. When he was in the service he would come back from a mission and in his quarters outside Baghdad whip up meals for his fellow soldiers, using military rations, combined with foods he'd bought at an Arabic market. No one joshed with him about his prissy, sanctimonious approach to cooking. For one thing, the meals were always excellent. For another, they knew Swann had very possibly spent the morning peeling some knuckle skin from a screaming insurgent to find out where a missing shipment of weapons might be.
