prefer that, but—”
“I work alone,” Alex said sharply, “or I don’t work at all.”
Shaw’s mouth thinned but he didn’t protest.
“And I have carte blanche. I’ll do whatever it takes to safeguard this witness without interference or second-guessing from you or anybody else.”
Shaw nodded again. “Done.”
“Tell me the basics.”
“The witness lives in New York City.”
“Married? Single? How old is he?”
“Single. Mid-twenties. And it’s a ‘she,’ not a ‘he.’”
A woman. That only complicated things. Women were invariably more difficult to handle. They were emotional, hormonal…
“The witness’s connection to the Gennaros?”
Shaw’s lips curved in a cold smile. “She was Anthony Gennaro’s mistress.”
No wonder she was important to the feds. And hostile. This particular lady would know a lot, including just how vicious Tony Gennaro could be.
The director handed Alex a large manila envelope. “That’s everything we have.”
Alex opened the folder and took out a photo. Gennaro had good taste in women. Excellent taste.
“Her name is Cara Prescott,” Shaw said. “She lived with Gennaro until recently.” He smiled coldly. “She worked for him.”
Alex turned the photo over. All the details were there. Name, DOB, last known address. Hair: brown. Eyes: brown. And yet, the photo told him the words were meaningless.
Cara Prescott’s hair would be the color of ripe chestnuts; her eyes would be flecked with gold, and her mouth would be a tender pink.
She had a look that could only be called delicate, even fragile. He knew it was only that, a look, but scum like Gennaro would have been drawn to it like the proverbial moth to the flame.
He looked up. Shaw was watching him with a little smile on his thin lips.
“Beautiful woman, don’t you think?”
“You said she was Gennaro’s mistress,” Alex said, ignoring the question. “Now you say she worked for him. Which is it?”
“Both.” The little smile twisted. “Then Gennaro took a more personal interest in her.”
“And now she’s going to testify against him?” Alex glanced at the photo again. “Why?”
“Because it’s her civic duty.”
“Can the crap, Shaw. Why has she agreed to testify?”
The director plucked a bit of lint from his dark gray suit coat. “Perhaps the thought of prison doesn’t appeal to the lady.”
“Federal prison isn’t a day in the park but it’s a hell of a lot safer than turning against the Gennaro family.”
Shaw was still smiling, but his eyes were icy. “Perhaps someone told her she might not go to a federal prison. That New York might charge her with a felony, unless she cooperates.”
“Did she commit a felony?”
“Anything is possible, Alex. Surely you know that.”
Yes. Oh, yes. He did. And, the truth was, it didn’t matter. In the dark world of the Agency, the end always justified the means.
“What else?”
For the first time, the director looked uncomfortable. “I may have understated her hostility.”
“Meaning?”
“She’s not just a hostile witness, she’s hostile to accepting the government’s protection. She may, ah, she may object.”
Alex narrowed his eyes. “And if she does?”
“If she does, your job is to change her mind. Any way you see fit. Do you understand?”
Now Alex knew why the Agency had been called in. The feds wouldn’t do anything that smacked of subterfuge or, even worse, coercion.
The Agency would. He would. Even now, doing things that danced on the edge of the law was Risk Management Specialists’ bread and butter.
“Well,” Shaw said briskly, “now to the details. You’re flying the noon shuttle to New York. There’ll be a car waiting in your name at Hertz, and a reservation at the Marriott on—”
“Tell your secretary I won’t be needing any of that.”
“I don’t think you understand, Knight. This is our operation.”
“I don’t think you understand, Shaw.” Alex took a step forward, until the men were only inches apart. “I’ll run this my way. I don’t want anything from you or this office, not until and if I ask for it. You got that?”
There was a long silence. Then the director nodded.
“Yes,” he said stiffly. “I understand perfectly.”
For the first time, Alex smiled. “Good.”
Then he turned on his heel and walked out.
CHAPTER TWO
BY THE time the shuttle landed at LaGuardia, Alex had come up with a plan.
Before he made any kind of move on Cara Prescott, he wanted to check her out. The drab bureaucratese of the file Shaw had handed him didn’t give him a feel for the woman.
He wanted to see Tony G’s former mistress with his own eyes. Find out how she spent her time. Walk around in her space.
Then, only then, he’d decide what to do next.
Until recently, the lady had lived in Gennaro’s sprawling mansion on Long Island’s North Shore.
Now, she lived in a loft in lower Manhattan, one of those neighborhoods identified not by a name but by an acronym nobody understood. Shaw said the feds had found her without any sweat. They’d been surveilling her, he said, but he’d seen to it they were pulled off.
At least, that was what he claimed.
Another reason to take his time and check things out, Alex thought as he headed for a car-rental counter. He’d said he wanted no interference on this job and he meant it.
When he was ready, not before, he’d introduce himself to the Prescott woman.
“Introducing himself” was probably a nice way of putting it, he thought as he handed the rental clerk his charge card. Assuming the lady was as hostile as Shaw said, it wouldn’t be a very polite meeting, but he’d worry about that when the time came.
He drove away from LaGuardia in a nondescript black minivan. Stopped at a mall and bought a black leather jacket, a black T-shirt, black sneakers and black jeans. He already had his cell phone with him. Then he went into a camping-goods store and added a gym bag, a flashlight, a thermos, binoculars, a nightscope and a palm-sized digital camera.
You never knew when gadgets like those would come in handy.
He checked into a big, impersonal hotel, put on the black clothes, packed the gear in the gym bag and made a phone call.
Within the hour, an old friend who asked no questions provided him with a loaded 9mm pistol and an extra clip. He shoved the pistol into the small of his back and the full clip into his sock.
He was as ready as he’d ever be.
By midnight, he was parked across from Prescott’s apartment building. It was on a street Manhattan realtors loved, a commercial slum just waiting to turn into a yuppie haven.
No self-respecting New