concierge was still at his post.
DeMarco told the cabbie to take him to JFK. There wasn’t anything else for him to do in New York and if the traffic wasn’t too bad, he might be able to catch the next shuttle to D.C.
Tony had struck out finding anyone who remembered seeing Sandra Whitmore at the Hyatt. He did, however, give DeMarco all the information the hotel had on Crosby. Tony said he’d keep looking for somebody who had seen Whitmore, but told DeMarco not to get his hopes up.
DeMarco’s parting words to the concierge had been, “No witness, no five-hundred-buck bonus. Keep looking.” Tony assured him he would, but DeMarco had a feeling that he just might have to make that anonymous phone call to the CIA and inform them that one of their employees had been in New York just before Whitmore’s article appeared—and let the boys from Langley take it from there.
He cursed when he saw the traffic jammed up in the Midtown Tunnel; he wasn’t going to make the next shuttle. He wondered how many poor slobs had died in this city because they had the misfortune to have a heart attack during rush hour—which these days lasted from two until seven. Having nothing better to do, he pulled out his cell phone and called a sly fellow he knew named Neil.
Neil called himself an “information broker.” What this meant was that he had a vast array of contacts in places that warehoused information on American citizens: Google, credit card companies, the IRS, et cetera—and if his paid informants couldn’t tell him what he wanted to know, Neil had a small staff with the talent to hack into computers or simply spy on people if that’s what a paying client required.The most terrifying thing about Neil was that while half his clients were people in the private sector—often lobbyists—the other half were folk in the American government, people who were disinclined to get the necessary warrants or just wanted a leg up on the competition. Washington was a very scary place, and Neil was one of its dark denizens.
DeMarco gave Neil the information he had on Derek Crosby, told Neil what he wanted to know, and an hour later—just as DeMarco was trying to get his shoes back on after passing through security at the airport—Neil called him back. Neil confirmed that Mr. Crosby of Fairfax, Virginia, per his tax returns, was indeed an employee of the Central Intelligence Agency, a lowly GS-12, meaning that he was not a power player. He had used his Visa card to pay for a round-trip flight from D.C. to New York and for a one-night stay at the Hyatt. He had also charged a staggering bar bill to his card on the date Whitmore said she met with Crosby, and his beverages were purchased in the Hyatt’s bar. Great. That was all DeMarco needed to know.
He thanked Neil and promised he would mail his fee to him tomorrow.
Mail cash
, Neil said.
DeMarco checked his watch; his plane didn’t board for half an hour. He decided he wanted to know one more thing about Mr. Crosby: he wanted to know exactly what he did at the CIA. Since LaFountaine had polygraphed everyone at Langley who knew about Diller’s trip to Iran, how did he miss Crosby? He could have asked Neil to find out Crosby’s job at the agency but he knew another person who could get what he needed to know and do so without hacking into a classified computer network.
Emma had worked for the DIA, the Defense Intelligence Agency, a group of Pentagon spies. Although she was now retired—or so she claimed—she knew a lot of people who worked at the CIA. She helped DeMarco occasionally on his cases because he’d once saved her life— a deed that occurred more by accident than an act of bravery on his part. She was older than he was, considerably smarter, and her attitudetoward him was usually that of an impatient, somewhat intolerant big sister. She despised John Mahoney.
Asking for her help, however, was going to be different than dealing with Neil. Neil had helped because
DeMarco told the cabbie to take him to JFK. There wasn’t anything else for him to do in New York and if the traffic wasn’t too bad, he might be able to catch the next shuttle to D.C.
Tony had struck out finding anyone who remembered seeing Sandra Whitmore at the Hyatt. He did, however, give DeMarco all the information the hotel had on Crosby. Tony said he’d keep looking for somebody who had seen Whitmore, but told DeMarco not to get his hopes up.
DeMarco’s parting words to the concierge had been, “No witness, no five-hundred-buck bonus. Keep looking.” Tony assured him he would, but DeMarco had a feeling that he just might have to make that anonymous phone call to the CIA and inform them that one of their employees had been in New York just before Whitmore’s article appeared—and let the boys from Langley take it from there.
He cursed when he saw the traffic jammed up in the Midtown Tunnel; he wasn’t going to make the next shuttle. He wondered how many poor slobs had died in this city because they had the misfortune to have a heart attack during rush hour—which these days lasted from two until seven. Having nothing better to do, he pulled out his cell phone and called a sly fellow he knew named Neil.
Neil called himself an “information broker.” What this meant was that he had a vast array of contacts in places that warehoused information on American citizens: Google, credit card companies, the IRS, et cetera—and if his paid informants couldn’t tell him what he wanted to know, Neil had a small staff with the talent to hack into computers or simply spy on people if that’s what a paying client required.The most terrifying thing about Neil was that while half his clients were people in the private sector—often lobbyists—the other half were folk in the American government, people who were disinclined to get the necessary warrants or just wanted a leg up on the competition. Washington was a very scary place, and Neil was one of its dark denizens.
DeMarco gave Neil the information he had on Derek Crosby, told Neil what he wanted to know, and an hour later—just as DeMarco was trying to get his shoes back on after passing through security at the airport—Neil called him back. Neil confirmed that Mr. Crosby of Fairfax, Virginia, per his tax returns, was indeed an employee of the Central Intelligence Agency, a lowly GS-12, meaning that he was not a power player. He had used his Visa card to pay for a round-trip flight from D.C. to New York and for a one-night stay at the Hyatt. He had also charged a staggering bar bill to his card on the date Whitmore said she met with Crosby, and his beverages were purchased in the Hyatt’s bar. Great. That was all DeMarco needed to know.
He thanked Neil and promised he would mail his fee to him tomorrow.
Mail cash
, Neil said.
DeMarco checked his watch; his plane didn’t board for half an hour. He decided he wanted to know one more thing about Mr. Crosby: he wanted to know exactly what he did at the CIA. Since LaFountaine had polygraphed everyone at Langley who knew about Diller’s trip to Iran, how did he miss Crosby? He could have asked Neil to find out Crosby’s job at the agency but he knew another person who could get what he needed to know and do so without hacking into a classified computer network.
Emma had worked for the DIA, the Defense Intelligence Agency, a group of Pentagon spies. Although she was now retired—or so she claimed—she knew a lot of people who worked at the CIA. She helped DeMarco occasionally on his cases because he’d once saved her life— a deed that occurred more by accident than an act of bravery on his part. She was older than he was, considerably smarter, and her attitudetoward him was usually that of an impatient, somewhat intolerant big sister. She despised John Mahoney.
Asking for her help, however, was going to be different than dealing with Neil. Neil had helped because
Similar Books
