you out to dinner.”
“You mean you want to use me as a decoy to see whether they’re watching me or following you? “
Gage nodded, and then smiled back. “I think I like you, too.”
CHAPTER 11
I t’s me. I’m outside Hennessy’s house,” private investigator Tony Gilbert said in a call to Kenyon Arndt as he watched Gage walk back down the steps. Gilbert was annoyed at having to report in to a lawyer as naïve as Arndt, whom he pictured as a clueless Ivy League grad who’d probably spent his weekends playing squash or lacrosse or maybe field hockey with the girls. Wycovsky was a different story. That was a guy he wouldn’t mind sharing a Humvee or a beer with. “
Have you figured out who the man is?” Arndt asked. “
Not yet. We’ll probably know by tonight. But that’s not why I called—hold on.”
Gilbert reached for another cell phone and switched to direct connect mode.
“Get ready,” Gilbert told the two men parked a few blocks away. “He’s getting into his car. He’ll be coming your way. Four-door. Dark blue. Headlights on.”
Then back to Arndt.
“Hennessy’s wife gave him something. Looked like an envelope. Maybe it’s something we missed.”
“What do you mean missed?”
“Hold on.”
“He’s almost to the corner,” Gilbert told the surveillance team. “He’s got his left turn signal on, so he’s probably heading back toward downtown.
“You still there?” he asked Arndt.
“Yes.”
“We searched the place after the FBI got done.”
Gilbert smiled to himself.
Let’s see if Mr. Ivy League learned a lesson from having his hand slapped by Wycovsky after objecting to the tracking device they’d placed on Milton Abrams’s Town Car.
After a long silence, Arndt said, “I see.”
Putz. He should’ve accused us of incompetence for missing whatever it was that Elaine Hennessy had put into the envelope.
“Does that mean you have to go in again?” Arndt asked.
“It’s probably too late. But we’ll find out where he works or lays his head and take back whatever it is.”
“You don’t mean—“
“What do you care what I mean.”
You fucking punk asshole.
“I mean what I mean.
Capisci?
“
Gilbert didn’t wait for an answer. He just disconnected and tossed the phone onto the seat next to him.
Mystery Man may be our only lead to Ibrahim, and Ivy League thinks we’re gonna kill him? What kind of shit has this guy been watching on TV?
Gilbert watched the car turn onto Madison Avenue two blocks away and head downtown. He then turned his ignition and pulled away from the curb.
“What’s he doing?” Gilbert said into the other cell phone.
The man on the other end laughed. “Driving like an old lady.”
“He’s an amateur, that’s for sure. He didn’t check the street when he came out of the house.” A laugh. “And kind of a doofus. He even forgot the papers he came for and had to go back to get them.”
“How do you want to handle it?”
“I don’t know yet. Let’s give him some rope and maybe he’ll trip on it all on his own.” Gilbert paused as a sliver of a memory gave him an idea. “You still in contact with … with … what’s that guy’s name, the one who did time for that two-bit robbery by the statehouse?”
“Strubb.”
“Yeah, Strubb. Is he out?” “I’ll check.”
The other man called back a few minutes later. “He’s back in town. Working for a bail bondsman as a sort of unlicensed bounty hunter.”
“Give him my number and have him call me.”
“Why are we looking for this Ibrahim guy anyway?”
“Why do you think? So I can make the payments on my ocean-view condo in Mazatlan.”
The other man laughed. “Which means you don’t know either.”
“Don’t know. Don’t care—just show … me … the money.”
CHAPTER 12
N othing like tear gas to change the subject,
Milton Abrams thought after the attendees gathered again in the ballroom and after the Econometrics Society president completed the
“You mean you want to use me as a decoy to see whether they’re watching me or following you? “
Gage nodded, and then smiled back. “I think I like you, too.”
CHAPTER 11
I t’s me. I’m outside Hennessy’s house,” private investigator Tony Gilbert said in a call to Kenyon Arndt as he watched Gage walk back down the steps. Gilbert was annoyed at having to report in to a lawyer as naïve as Arndt, whom he pictured as a clueless Ivy League grad who’d probably spent his weekends playing squash or lacrosse or maybe field hockey with the girls. Wycovsky was a different story. That was a guy he wouldn’t mind sharing a Humvee or a beer with. “
Have you figured out who the man is?” Arndt asked. “
Not yet. We’ll probably know by tonight. But that’s not why I called—hold on.”
Gilbert reached for another cell phone and switched to direct connect mode.
“Get ready,” Gilbert told the two men parked a few blocks away. “He’s getting into his car. He’ll be coming your way. Four-door. Dark blue. Headlights on.”
Then back to Arndt.
“Hennessy’s wife gave him something. Looked like an envelope. Maybe it’s something we missed.”
“What do you mean missed?”
“Hold on.”
“He’s almost to the corner,” Gilbert told the surveillance team. “He’s got his left turn signal on, so he’s probably heading back toward downtown.
“You still there?” he asked Arndt.
“Yes.”
“We searched the place after the FBI got done.”
Gilbert smiled to himself.
Let’s see if Mr. Ivy League learned a lesson from having his hand slapped by Wycovsky after objecting to the tracking device they’d placed on Milton Abrams’s Town Car.
After a long silence, Arndt said, “I see.”
Putz. He should’ve accused us of incompetence for missing whatever it was that Elaine Hennessy had put into the envelope.
“Does that mean you have to go in again?” Arndt asked.
“It’s probably too late. But we’ll find out where he works or lays his head and take back whatever it is.”
“You don’t mean—“
“What do you care what I mean.”
You fucking punk asshole.
“I mean what I mean.
Capisci?
“
Gilbert didn’t wait for an answer. He just disconnected and tossed the phone onto the seat next to him.
Mystery Man may be our only lead to Ibrahim, and Ivy League thinks we’re gonna kill him? What kind of shit has this guy been watching on TV?
Gilbert watched the car turn onto Madison Avenue two blocks away and head downtown. He then turned his ignition and pulled away from the curb.
“What’s he doing?” Gilbert said into the other cell phone.
The man on the other end laughed. “Driving like an old lady.”
“He’s an amateur, that’s for sure. He didn’t check the street when he came out of the house.” A laugh. “And kind of a doofus. He even forgot the papers he came for and had to go back to get them.”
“How do you want to handle it?”
“I don’t know yet. Let’s give him some rope and maybe he’ll trip on it all on his own.” Gilbert paused as a sliver of a memory gave him an idea. “You still in contact with … with … what’s that guy’s name, the one who did time for that two-bit robbery by the statehouse?”
“Strubb.”
“Yeah, Strubb. Is he out?” “I’ll check.”
The other man called back a few minutes later. “He’s back in town. Working for a bail bondsman as a sort of unlicensed bounty hunter.”
“Give him my number and have him call me.”
“Why are we looking for this Ibrahim guy anyway?”
“Why do you think? So I can make the payments on my ocean-view condo in Mazatlan.”
The other man laughed. “Which means you don’t know either.”
“Don’t know. Don’t care—just show … me … the money.”
CHAPTER 12
N othing like tear gas to change the subject,
Milton Abrams thought after the attendees gathered again in the ballroom and after the Econometrics Society president completed the
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