Daylight (Atlee Pine #3)(65)

“I should, but I haven’t. I’m not exactly sure how to go about it. Plus, he’s still recovering from being shot.”

They grabbed a cab that took them up the West Side to a condo building in the Eighties, near Riverside Drive.

As they passed the top-hatted and uniformed doorman and walked into the soaring marble-and-chrome lobby Puller asked, “What are we doing here?”

“This is where we’re staying. Carol is in the condo now making dinner.”

“Whose condo is it? I usually crash on a friend’s couch when I’m in New York. The CID’s per diem for lodging doesn’t cover anything in the city lodging arena, and that includes sleeping in your car in a parking garage.”

Puller eyed the smiling concierge seated behind a desk that would not have looked out of place at Versailles and added, “And I don’t have to be the world’s greatest detective to deduce that this is also out of the Bureau’s lodging per diem.”

Pine looked uncomfortable. “This . . . this is Jack Lineberry’s pied-à-terre. He generously allowed us to stay here.”

“Weren’t you staying at a hotel in Trenton?”

Pine thumbed the button for the elevator and said, “He called yesterday. I told him I was in New York and he insisted that we stay here.”

“Was this before or after you spoke with his old flame?”

“After. But I didn’t tell him that. He was just being kind.”

They rode the car up to the tenth floor and she led him down a wide, luxuriously carpeted hallway lined with stout wooden doors and paintings that looked original. She used her passkey to enter the apartment. Puller followed, set down his duffel, and looked around.

“Wow, Lineberry is really loaded.”

“Yes. He has his own jet, a mansion in rural Georgia, a penthouse in Atlanta.”

“And this place,” added Puller. “And he’s your father.”

“He’s my biological father, but Tim Pine raised me,” she retorted. “As far as I’m concerned, he’s my father.”

“I get that. But does Lineberry have any other kids?”

“No, he never married. He had me and . . . Mercy.”

“Well, don’t be surprised if he leaves all of this to you.”

Pine looked surprised. “I never even thought about that. And I don’t want it!”

“But he can still leave it to you. And you can do with it what you want.”

“I’ll worry about that if and when it turns out I have to.”

A moment later Blum walked into the room wearing an apron and a smudge of flour on her cheek. She was rubbing her hands on a cloth.

“I thought I heard you come in. This place is deceptively large, and very quiet. I hope you’re hungry. Dinner will be ready in about ten minutes.”

“I am,” said Puller. “It was slim pickings on the train.”

“Let me show you to your room,” said Pine.

She led him down a hall to the last door and opened it. She stepped in and looked around at what was clearly a high-dollar, professionally decorated space, just like the rest of the apartment.

“Lineberry has good taste, or hired someone who has good taste,” remarked Puller as he set his duffel on the four-poster bed.

Pine sat in a chair in front of a reproduction desk all primed with stationery and pen and a large, leather-handled magnifying glass.

“So, Jeff Sands?”

Puller nodded and sat on the bed. “His grandfather is one of the most powerful men in the country. But his son-in-law has apparently written Jeff off and has a new family to focus on.”

“So he might be a drug dealer in addition to being a user? How has that not hit the news?”

“I did some research on it. Sands is one of sixteen grandchildren and he has a different last name. And from what I could gather, not many people are in the loop on this. And maybe folks don’t consider it newsworthy. I mean, Sands’s dad was the absent parent. I can’t believe many people will ding Peter Driscoll because one of his many grandchildren turned out bad. He raised his own kids and they all seemed to have turned out okay. It’s not exactly his responsibility to look after another generation.”

“Okay, that certainly makes sense. So what do we do?”

“I’ve got Sands’s address. We set up surveillance and see what we see.”

“And why not go directly to question him?”

“No. I want to reconnoiter this sucker a little bit first.”

“The federal government and the Trenton police have come down on us like a ton of bricks. I can’t see how Jeff Sands could have made that happen. But I can see someone like Peter Driscoll having a hand in that.”

“I can’t answer that one way or another. I hope to be able to shortly.”

“But people have been killed. Sheila Weathers and Jerome Blake and Ed McElroy. Call me hopelessly na?ve, but I also can’t believe that a U.S. senator would be involved in that.” When he didn’t answer she said, “Puller?”

“I’m trying to decide if you’re hopelessly na?ve or I’m a confirmed cynic.”

“But you think it’s possible he’s involved somehow?”

“I think there’s so much money in politics today that anything is possible. Guys like Driscoll are a hot commodity, Atlee. They can be worth billions or even trillions of dollars to certain folks.” He paused. “What do you think someone would do for a trillion bucks?”