The general had made it clear to both parties that, going forward, special circumstances could warrant a loftier price tag. New York congressman Henry Townsend was a good example. Due to the high-profile nature of the subject, and the urgency with which the job had to be handled, the price was $250,000.
Every job would start like this: A call was made to a particular encrypted mobile phone in the killers’ possession, which was never used for any other purpose. No one else had this number. The caller would describe the job and all pertinent details. The service providers would evaluate the task and respond with a price. There was never any negotiation.
Both sides of the transaction had a simple understanding: if the employer was not comfortable with the price, the call would be terminated, as would the relationship. The same would be true for any failure on the contractors’ part. There was no room for error in this line of work. Failure was simply not an option.
For this evening’s efforts, they had quoted their standard rate of $50,000, even though there was a strong likelihood of multiple subjects being involved. The pair kept the price to their minimum because they felt they’d recently pushed their employers a bit too far by pricing the New York congressman at a quarter of a million dollars. Yes, they had their client over a barrel. Yes, there really wasn’t anyone else their patron could have turned to in that moment. But even killers knew not to get greedy. There were at least half a dozen other teams operating in this part of the world, and they didn’t want to ruin a good thing. They only had one employer. It was all they needed. The pair wanted to keep this client, whoever it was, happy. So they priced tonight’s work at base level, which was correctly viewed as a giveback and immediately accepted.
Caitlin watched real-time satellite views on her numerous computer screens. One showed the Harmony House grounds and surrounding vicinity. A vehicle had stopped on the side of the road one hundred yards from the facility entrance. The driver had popped the hood of his sky-blue Jeep Wagoneer and appeared to be checking the engine. As Caitlin zoomed in her view, the Philadelphia Phillies cap of the driver became visible. The resolution was astonishing. She could even make out some sort of player’s signature on the brim. It looked like the last name was Nola, but she couldn’t be sure. Baseball had never interested her much. She told the man, “You should receive confirmation from your bank any second.”
On-screen, Giles checked his regular cell phone, an iPhone 8. He had just received a message from his Swiss bank, Banque Pasche, confirming that his account had received a wire originating from the United States for $25,000. “Good to go.” He hung up, then called his partner, who was parked outside Gloria Pruitt’s modest but well-kept home. Caitlin did not have nearly as clear a view of him, because of the dense trees around Gloria’s house, but she knew he was there. His Mets cap had been momentarily visible when he got out of his car.
Jason Greers poked his head inside Caitlin’s office. “Show about to start?”
“Not until tonight. Giles is outside Harmony House, just in case. Murphy is scoping out Gloria Pruitt’s house, doing recon.” She pointed to the screens with the various views.
“Where do you think Barnes will make his move?”
“Inside her home. No question.”
“Why do you think?”
“He’ll want to send a message that the gloves are off. Inside, they’ll have more privacy.” She said it without emotion. Because she told herself it was just business. How long she could keep telling herself that was a matter of conjecture.
Jason nodded. “Absolutely. No question.” She was smart, and he wanted to make sure she knew he appreciated it. “You going to tell them that?” He smiled ever so slightly.
She smiled right back. “I thought I’d leave that suggestion to you.” Tell two of the world’s best assassins how to do their job. Yeah, right.
CHAPTER 42
Ninetieth Avenue, Queens, New York City, May 27, 1:45 p.m.
Detective Butler McHenry gripped the wheel tightly, repeatedly glancing in his rearview mirror to make sure they were not being followed. Eddie stared out his window at the row of dilapidated, old houses that were once fine middle-class homes.
The area was ripe for gentrification. Developers were just waiting for the elderly owners to kick the bucket so they could swoop the properties up from the heirs. Detective McHenry would eventually be one of those former owners, but he hoped it wouldn’t be anytime soon.
Eddie noticed a dead bug on the rear passenger’s window of McHenry’s Tahoe. He tried to clean it off, only to smear its entrails, making it worse. He rolled down the window, and decided the button was far more interesting than the urban squalor around them. Up, down. Up, down. He’d stick his head out the window, then pull it back in. Out, then in. The difference in sound would be striking to anyone. To Eddie, it was like two different worlds.
The detective glanced at Eddie, struggling to get a handle on the adult who was acting like a preschooler in his back seat. “You mind if I ask how old you are?”
“Twenty-seven years, three months, twenty-five days, and what time is it?”
Butler glanced at his watch. “About one fifty.”
“And five hours and fifty minutes, approximately. How old are you, Detective?”
“Thirty-eight and change.”
“What kind of change?”
“I meant a little older than thirty-eight.”
“Why didn’t you say that?”
McHenry shook his head, reminded why he didn’t like kids—and liked adults who acted like them even less. He vowed to talk to Eddie as little as possible.
Skylar turned back to her patient as he continued sticking his head out the window. “Eddie, please don’t do that.”
“I like the way it feels on my face.”
“It isn’t safe.”
“Why isn’t it safe?”
She decided not to mention that there were highly trained members of Harmony House’s security staff out there looking for them. “You could accidentally press the button the wrong way, and your head could get stuck.”
“What would happen if my head got stuck?”
“It would hurt a lot. And I don’t want that to happen.”
“I don’t, either.” He rolled up the window.
Skylar stared out her window at the well-worn neighborhood. “Detective McHenry, where are we going?”
“To get his graham crackers, so we can get to the station.”
“And then we’re going to Philadelphia, right?” Eddie leaned over the front seat between them.
Skylar answered, “Not just yet, Eddie. But soon.”
“How soon?”
“I’ll be able to give you a specific answer as soon as I have a private conversation with Detective McHenry.”
“Because it involves the mystery man, and he is none of my concern?”
“Yes, Eddie. For the time being.”
The detective was curious. “What’s in Philly?”
“He wants to hear his mother sing.”
McHenry nodded, adding it to the list of things he would be asking her as he pulled into the narrow driveway of his own mother’s house.
“Is this your place?” Skylar asked.
“Do I look like I would have graham crackers in my cupboard?”
“Right next to the Budweiser.”
In the back seat, Eddie began humming the brand’s old jingle.
“It’s my mother’s house.”
“This is where you grew up?” said Skylar.
Butler nodded. “We’re only staying here long enough to get him his crackers.” He got out and walked briskly toward the house, only to realize Eddie was not following. He was standing still in the driveway, doing his usual head rotation with his eyes closed. Wind WHISTLED through the branches of a dying elm tree. An old swing set that had been rusting for thirty years SQUEAKED lightly in the yard. Traffic could be heard all around them, including a lot of big rigs. The Cross Island Parkway was only a few blocks away.
McHenry was becoming annoyed. “He does realize we’re in a hurry, doesn’t he?”
Skylar explained, “He has to familiarize himself with every new environment.”