Killer Instinct (Instinct #2)(28)

The mayor squinted. He was nearsighted, albeit not politically. “I don’t know. Is that what he gave you?”

Elizabeth stared, incredulous. “You don’t even know?”

“No, and I don’t want to.”

“Why not?”

Deacon pointed at the chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat, Needham.”

“I’d prefer to stand.”

“Duly noted. Now sit the fuck down.”

Elizabeth sat down. Edso Deacon was still the mayor of the largest city in the country, after all. He giveth and could taketh away. Namely, Elizabeth’s job.

Meanwhile, Livingston was about to make his usual walk to the couch by the window, where he always sat during his boss’s meetings.

“Actually, Beau,” said Deacon, “give us a couple of minutes alone, will you?”

Livingston tried his best to hide his surprise, but his smile was as fake as a street-corner Rolex. “Of course,” he said, and out he went.

“Was that for my benefit or yours?” asked Elizabeth once he was gone.

“More yours,” said the mayor. “Call it a goodwill gesture, proof that you earned your promotion and that every conversation with me doesn’t need a buffer.”

Elizabeth appreciated the sentiment but still hadn’t forgotten how she’d ended up in his office. “Why the cloak-and-dagger?” she asked. “Better yet, why not pass along any info you have directly to the FBI?”

“Because it’s not my info.”

“Whose is it?” But no sooner had she asked than she realized the answer. “You can’t tell me. You can’t tell anyone.”

Deacon nodded. “Now you’ve got it.”

Yes, she did. The mayor had an intel source he could never reveal—not only to protect the source but to protect himself. Suffice it to say, whoever the guy was who’d approached her at Starbucks, he wasn’t a Boy Scout.

Still, “How do I know this is for real?” she asked, holding up the photo.

“The short answer is you don’t,” said Deacon. “That’s why you’ll check it out on your own first. Something tells me, though, it’s legit.”

Elizabeth stood. “I won’t be able to update you directly,” she said. “You realize that, right?”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Deacon leaned back in his chair, stretching his long frame. “You know, there’s a perverse irony to all this. When it comes to street crime and the murder rate, it’s always the mayor’s fault. But, God forbid, a terrorist attack? Not only is it not my fault, I become the great unifier.”

“That’s not perverse. It’s just human nature,” said Elizabeth.

“Believe me,” said Deacon. “There’s no difference.”





CHAPTER 37


A HALF hour out of Manhattan, Elizabeth pulled up slowly to the address in Pelham she’d been given for the young man named Gorgin. She was driving a Honda Pilot from the JTTF lot. Honda Pilots don’t say gun-toting special agent. They say soccer mom.

There were two possibilities when no one answered her knocking on the door. Either no one was home or someone was choosing not to answer. Before she could settle on the latter, she had to wait out the former. Parking a few houses down the street with an eye on Gorgin’s driveway, Elizabeth settled in.

As towns go, Pelham and the word ritzy were never going to be used in the same sentence unless that sentence happened to be that Pelham was far from ritzy. Compared to Jersey City, however, it was a major step up. Gorgin’s house, a small, vinyl-sided colonial, might as well have been a mansion compared to the shit shack she had descended upon with Pritchard and company. A good sign, thought Elizabeth.

Better still was the black BMW that pulled into the driveway less than an hour later. In terms of wait time, she’d hit the stakeout jackpot. Even from fifty yards away, there was no doubt that the guy who got out from behind the wheel and headed into the house was Gorgin. He was alone.

Not for long. Elizabeth sprinted as soon as the front door closed behind him. He barely had time to put down his car keys before she was knocking again.

“Who is it?” he asked from behind the door. There was no peephole.

“My name is Agent Needham from the JTTF,” said Elizabeth, standing off to the side with her back to the vinyl siding. “I’m looking for Gorgin.”

She had one hand alongside her holster. With the other she reached for her badge, the ink on her new ID barely dry.

She fully expected Gorgin to ask what the JTTF was. But, nope, he was apparently familiar with the Joint Terrorism Task Force. That may or may not have been a good sign.

He opened the door.

Elizabeth remained off to the side, waiting for him to poke his head out to look for her. Instead he came all the way out, stepping onto the small landing at the top of the steps. She could see both his hands as he turned to her. They were empty.

“Are you Gorgin?” she asked.

“Yes, that’s me,” he said.

Elizabeth flashed her badge even though he didn’t ask to see it. “Do you have a couple of minutes? I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Sure,” he answered. He didn’t hesitate. He also didn’t move. It was as if he were blocking the door.