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Authors: Nelson DeMille
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thought,
a day of long gray shadows
.
9
Tony Abrams crossed the large, beige-toned reception area and saw Randolph Carbury approaching the elevator bank, pulling on a tan raincoat.
Abrams took his own coat from the closet, descended the sweeping circular staircase in the center of the reception floor, and walked to the elevators on the lower floor of the law offices. He pushed the button and waited. The elevator doors opened, and Abrams stepped in beside Carbury. They rode down to the street level.
He followed Carbury through the long, shop-lined concourse and exited with him from the east end of the RCA Building, into the damp, chilly air.
Abrams established an interval of ten yards and followed Carbury around the skating rink, through the promenade, and onto Fifth Avenue, where Carbury turned north.
As he walked, Abrams considered that he was following a man he didn’t know for a purpose he couldn’t begin to fathom. At forty-three years of age he was doing what he’d done at thirty-three as a New York City undercover cop. At least then he knew the whys and wherefores of his assignments. Now he knew very little about the tasks he was asked to perform for the firm of O’Brien, Kimberly and Rose. Such as agreeing to go to the Russian estate on Monday, Memorial Day. But Patrick O’Brien had assured him he’d be fully briefed before he went. O’Brien’s idea of fully briefed, he suspected, did not coincide with his own.
Carbury stopped now and then, ostensibly to take in the sights. Abrams’ instincts told him that the man was a pro, a fact Katherine Kimberly had failed to mention.
Abrams stopped and looked into a bookstore window as Carbury waited for a light. Whenever he followed someone, Abrams was reminded of his mother’s sage advice: “Get an inside job.” In the Bensonhurst section of Brooklyn where he’d grown up, the world was neatly divided into outside and inside jobs. Outside jobs meant pneumonia, heat stroke, and unspeakable accidents. Inside jobs of the tie-and-jacket variety were safe. Notwithstanding that admonition, he became a cop. A little inside, a little outside, once in a while a tie. His mother wasn’t altogether pleased. She’d tell her friends, “He’s a detective. An inside job. He wears a suit.”
He had graduated at the top of his class from John Jay College of Criminal Justice, then entered Fordham Law School. It was then that he’d had an occasion to see the O’Brien firm in action. He had been observing a stock-fraud case for a law class, and it seemed that the defendant had more lawyers than the district attorney had pages in his indictment. The assistant DA trying the case had been dazzled—intimidated, actually. Abrams had been impressed, both as a cop and as a law student, and some weeks later he had applied for and gotten a part-time process server job with the O’Brien firm. Then, a year ago, Patrick O’Brien offered him a full-time position and full tuition reimbursement. At the time, it seemed apparent that they wanted a house dick, someone with special police knowledge and without the encumbrances of being a sworn peace officer. Since his May Day conversation with O’Brien, he wasn’t certain anymore of what they wanted of him.
Randolph Carbury crossed the street and stopped again to watch a well-attended sidewalk game of three-card monte. Abrams suspected that Carbury was trying to determine if he had a tail. If so, he’d try to shake the tail. And in a one-on-one situation, that wouldn’t be difficult. Abrams considered the unhappy prospect of going back to Katherine Kimberly empty-handed. But he also considered that he was unhappy with the way he was usually kept guessing about these assignments.
There was something decidedly non-kosher about the prestigious firm of O’Brien, Kimberly and Rose, and Abrams had one clue: Like the law firm of the late General William Donovan, which was located a few floors below, O’Brien’s firm had national
a day of long gray shadows
.
9
Tony Abrams crossed the large, beige-toned reception area and saw Randolph Carbury approaching the elevator bank, pulling on a tan raincoat.
Abrams took his own coat from the closet, descended the sweeping circular staircase in the center of the reception floor, and walked to the elevators on the lower floor of the law offices. He pushed the button and waited. The elevator doors opened, and Abrams stepped in beside Carbury. They rode down to the street level.
He followed Carbury through the long, shop-lined concourse and exited with him from the east end of the RCA Building, into the damp, chilly air.
Abrams established an interval of ten yards and followed Carbury around the skating rink, through the promenade, and onto Fifth Avenue, where Carbury turned north.
As he walked, Abrams considered that he was following a man he didn’t know for a purpose he couldn’t begin to fathom. At forty-three years of age he was doing what he’d done at thirty-three as a New York City undercover cop. At least then he knew the whys and wherefores of his assignments. Now he knew very little about the tasks he was asked to perform for the firm of O’Brien, Kimberly and Rose. Such as agreeing to go to the Russian estate on Monday, Memorial Day. But Patrick O’Brien had assured him he’d be fully briefed before he went. O’Brien’s idea of fully briefed, he suspected, did not coincide with his own.
Carbury stopped now and then, ostensibly to take in the sights. Abrams’ instincts told him that the man was a pro, a fact Katherine Kimberly had failed to mention.
Abrams stopped and looked into a bookstore window as Carbury waited for a light. Whenever he followed someone, Abrams was reminded of his mother’s sage advice: “Get an inside job.” In the Bensonhurst section of Brooklyn where he’d grown up, the world was neatly divided into outside and inside jobs. Outside jobs meant pneumonia, heat stroke, and unspeakable accidents. Inside jobs of the tie-and-jacket variety were safe. Notwithstanding that admonition, he became a cop. A little inside, a little outside, once in a while a tie. His mother wasn’t altogether pleased. She’d tell her friends, “He’s a detective. An inside job. He wears a suit.”
He had graduated at the top of his class from John Jay College of Criminal Justice, then entered Fordham Law School. It was then that he’d had an occasion to see the O’Brien firm in action. He had been observing a stock-fraud case for a law class, and it seemed that the defendant had more lawyers than the district attorney had pages in his indictment. The assistant DA trying the case had been dazzled—intimidated, actually. Abrams had been impressed, both as a cop and as a law student, and some weeks later he had applied for and gotten a part-time process server job with the O’Brien firm. Then, a year ago, Patrick O’Brien offered him a full-time position and full tuition reimbursement. At the time, it seemed apparent that they wanted a house dick, someone with special police knowledge and without the encumbrances of being a sworn peace officer. Since his May Day conversation with O’Brien, he wasn’t certain anymore of what they wanted of him.
Randolph Carbury crossed the street and stopped again to watch a well-attended sidewalk game of three-card monte. Abrams suspected that Carbury was trying to determine if he had a tail. If so, he’d try to shake the tail. And in a one-on-one situation, that wouldn’t be difficult. Abrams considered the unhappy prospect of going back to Katherine Kimberly empty-handed. But he also considered that he was unhappy with the way he was usually kept guessing about these assignments.
There was something decidedly non-kosher about the prestigious firm of O’Brien, Kimberly and Rose, and Abrams had one clue: Like the law firm of the late General William Donovan, which was located a few floors below, O’Brien’s firm had national
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