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Authors: Stefanie Pintoff
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eyes narrowed suspiciously.
That was true. Eli wouldn’t have lasted a month in a regular Bureau job—even if anybody was willing to give him one. The bureaucratic machine at 26 Federal Plaza would almost certainly have chewed him up and spit him out. He needed the freedom—what fancier people called carte blanche—that the Vidocq Unit had given him.
“Good thing the NYPD doesn’t require annual requalifications,” Meaghan remarked, “or my ex would be screwed. Is that why you got fired?”
“I never said I was fired,” he protested stiffly.
His eyes scanned the room.
Where is John?
“But you’re unemployed. Is it some kind of suspension?”
Meaghan meant it as a challenge to Eli, but she hadn’t counted on Lori’s interest. “Like your ex?” Lori placed a sympathetic arm around Meaghan’s shoulder. The blast of jasmine perfume nearly made Eli sneeze.
“Internal Affairs is still investigating.” For Eli’s benefit, Meaghan added, “They think he stole from the evidence locker.”
“What do
you
think?” Lori demanded.
Eli watched Meaghan take a moment to answer. When she did, she stumbled. “Yes. No. I don’t know.”
“Maybe the secret agent here could help,” Lori said sarcastically.
All eyes turned to Eli.
He was used to being made fun of, so he struck a reasonable tone. “Not like that. I told you my job: I tracked down money. Unraveled finances.”
Meaghan shook her head. “Internal Affairs can take their time. I can’t. For God’s sake, he has my daughter every week.”
“Does
she
think her father did it?” the curly-haired woman asked.
“I won’t poison her relationship with him by asking that. But I need to know, all the same. I don’t know who he is—not anymore.” She drained her glass, then explained. “Last year, he was coming off a double shift. Tired and distracted. His car struck a pedestrian crossing the street. He wasn’t charged with a crime. He was sober and she was crossing against the light. But the man who left me to go to work and the man who came home that night weren’t the same.”
No one said anything. There was nothing to say.
Meaghan wanted someone to tell her whether her ex-husband was still a responsible father. The problem was: Nobody was in a position to do that.
Eli could sense the sadness as Meaghan stared off into some place he couldn’t see.
“Don’t you at least have a contact who might help?” Lori asked Eli.
Eli shook his head. He was disappointing all of them.
Lori jumped in. “I know you!” Her mouth hung open and her eyes were wide.
Eli put down his drink. It was time to leave.
“I recognize you,” she insisted. “From the papers. White-collar crime. Money laundering. Tax evasion.”
They were all staring at him with a mix of holier-than-thou attitudes and pity.
“I remember now,” the brunette piped up. “They covered your trial on the front page of
Newsday
for weeks!”
The crowd around him was growing. “Deck the Halls” had finished. John was rushing toward him from the other side of the room.
“The headlines said they’d locked you up and thrown away the key,” someone contributed. “How the hell did you get out?”
Eli just stood there, clutching his chest. A worthless schmuck. “You’re right. I was in jail. But I
did
work for the FBI.”
Then John reached him and hustled him away.
—
That morning, lying in bed, Eli was still running through all the things he wished he’d said. Different choices that might have led to a less disastrous night.
He had nothing: No job. No self-respect. And after last night, probably no boyfriend.
That’s when his phone rang and everything changed all over again.
VIDOCQ FILE #A30888
Current status: INACTIVE
Eli Cohen
Age: 46
Race/Ethnicity: Caucasian
Height: 5’8”
Weight: 237 lbs.
Eyes: Hazel
Hair: Red
Current Address: 123 Orchard Street (Lower East Side).
Criminal Record: Multiple felony counts for embezzlement, tax evasion, and money
That was true. Eli wouldn’t have lasted a month in a regular Bureau job—even if anybody was willing to give him one. The bureaucratic machine at 26 Federal Plaza would almost certainly have chewed him up and spit him out. He needed the freedom—what fancier people called carte blanche—that the Vidocq Unit had given him.
“Good thing the NYPD doesn’t require annual requalifications,” Meaghan remarked, “or my ex would be screwed. Is that why you got fired?”
“I never said I was fired,” he protested stiffly.
His eyes scanned the room.
Where is John?
“But you’re unemployed. Is it some kind of suspension?”
Meaghan meant it as a challenge to Eli, but she hadn’t counted on Lori’s interest. “Like your ex?” Lori placed a sympathetic arm around Meaghan’s shoulder. The blast of jasmine perfume nearly made Eli sneeze.
“Internal Affairs is still investigating.” For Eli’s benefit, Meaghan added, “They think he stole from the evidence locker.”
“What do
you
think?” Lori demanded.
Eli watched Meaghan take a moment to answer. When she did, she stumbled. “Yes. No. I don’t know.”
“Maybe the secret agent here could help,” Lori said sarcastically.
All eyes turned to Eli.
He was used to being made fun of, so he struck a reasonable tone. “Not like that. I told you my job: I tracked down money. Unraveled finances.”
Meaghan shook her head. “Internal Affairs can take their time. I can’t. For God’s sake, he has my daughter every week.”
“Does
she
think her father did it?” the curly-haired woman asked.
“I won’t poison her relationship with him by asking that. But I need to know, all the same. I don’t know who he is—not anymore.” She drained her glass, then explained. “Last year, he was coming off a double shift. Tired and distracted. His car struck a pedestrian crossing the street. He wasn’t charged with a crime. He was sober and she was crossing against the light. But the man who left me to go to work and the man who came home that night weren’t the same.”
No one said anything. There was nothing to say.
Meaghan wanted someone to tell her whether her ex-husband was still a responsible father. The problem was: Nobody was in a position to do that.
Eli could sense the sadness as Meaghan stared off into some place he couldn’t see.
“Don’t you at least have a contact who might help?” Lori asked Eli.
Eli shook his head. He was disappointing all of them.
Lori jumped in. “I know you!” Her mouth hung open and her eyes were wide.
Eli put down his drink. It was time to leave.
“I recognize you,” she insisted. “From the papers. White-collar crime. Money laundering. Tax evasion.”
They were all staring at him with a mix of holier-than-thou attitudes and pity.
“I remember now,” the brunette piped up. “They covered your trial on the front page of
Newsday
for weeks!”
The crowd around him was growing. “Deck the Halls” had finished. John was rushing toward him from the other side of the room.
“The headlines said they’d locked you up and thrown away the key,” someone contributed. “How the hell did you get out?”
Eli just stood there, clutching his chest. A worthless schmuck. “You’re right. I was in jail. But I
did
work for the FBI.”
Then John reached him and hustled him away.
—
That morning, lying in bed, Eli was still running through all the things he wished he’d said. Different choices that might have led to a less disastrous night.
He had nothing: No job. No self-respect. And after last night, probably no boyfriend.
That’s when his phone rang and everything changed all over again.
VIDOCQ FILE #A30888
Current status: INACTIVE
Eli Cohen
Age: 46
Race/Ethnicity: Caucasian
Height: 5’8”
Weight: 237 lbs.
Eyes: Hazel
Hair: Red
Current Address: 123 Orchard Street (Lower East Side).
Criminal Record: Multiple felony counts for embezzlement, tax evasion, and money
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