Page 53 of Paranoia

As soon as I got the call from Walter, I used the radio to contact Terri Hernandez. Within about thirty seconds, I spotted a helicopter overhead, at a very high altitude. Given the number of helicopters that flew across the city on a daily basis, you would’ve had to really be paying attention—like I was—to notice this one.

Almost immediately, Hernandez came on the radio and said, “The target is moving north on Greene Street.”

I didn’t even have to coordinate with Trilling. We were on parallel streets with our eyes open for counter-surveillance.

Then Hernandez again came on the radio. “The target just turned east on Houston Street.”

So far, even in the heavy traffic, this was a much easier surveillance. We didn’t have use of a helicopter often. At least not for surveillance. I wasn’t sure how long we could use this one. I told Hernandez once we had him at a location we could cut the flight crew loose. Trilling and I would see what we could find out from there.

Hernandez guided us north on First Avenue, then notified us that Deason had parked the Porsche near Bellevue Hospital and was on foot walking west on 26th Street. One minute later,Trilling came on the radio. “He just walked into an Italian restaurant on Second Avenue. It’s called Rocco’s Hideaway. He didn’t meet anyone out front.”

Hernandez told us to stand by. She was getting dropped at the Bellevue helicopter pad and would be there in a few minutes.

Trilling and I set up to observe the restaurant from different points on Second Avenue. I could see it was upscale and fairly small. Deason sat at a table near the back, talking with a tall, well-dressed Black man I couldn’t see clearly. I tried to get a better view from a couple of angles. Because of the late-afternoon hour, they looked like the only customers. That also made it tougher to do any kind of surveillance, especially since Deason had seen me and Trilling when we tried to interview him, so neither of us could just walk in and expect not to be recognized.

Then Hernandez showed up. She handed me a little backpack.

“What’s this?” I said as I took it.

“It’s my NYPD raid jacket that I was wearing in the helicopter, along with a hairbrush and a few other items I used to freshen up after my wild ride over the city.” She shook her hair out, then looked at me. “I’m assuming you want me to go into the restaurant. Since I was the only one smart enough not to identify myself to him.”

All I could do was smile.

Hernandez walked in and sat at the table closest to the front window. After a few minutes, I got a text from her saying that Deason and his dining partner were chatting too quietly in the corner for her to overhear what they were saying.

After almost an hour and a half, Deason and his companion came out of the restaurant. Hernandez stayed at her table near the front door. I decided to take another risk. After we let Deasonwalk away, I rushed inside. Hernandez didn’t acknowledge me or give away her identity.

I wasn’t sure what I was hoping to find. Maybe the name of Deason’s dining partner on a credit card slip. I introduced myself and showed my ID to the waiter. He clearly didn’t want to be involved with the police. He led me down a narrow corridor to an office in the back.

The manager was a petite Italian woman named Mari. Unlike the waiter, her immediate smile when she heard I was with the NYPD told me this might work out.

Mari said, “My brother’s a cop on Staten Island. He’s only been with the NYPD two years.”

We chatted about her brother and how the two of them grew up in Brooklyn, then I asked her if I could see the credit card receipts for a customer who’d just left the restaurant.

The manager led me back out into the dining area. As we were talking, Hernandez cleared her throat and then coughed loudly. It made me look up.

That’s when I saw Antonio Deason stick his head in the front door.

He looked at me, smiled, and said, “You’re gonna have to do better than that.”

I had no idea how this asshole was a step ahead of us on everything we did. But this was going to change starting right now.

CHAPTER 77

KEVIN DOYLE HAD been keeping tabs on both Michael Bennett and Rob Trilling. This was not an assignment he would appreciate if he was told to move forward. But he had to be prepared. Clearly, Bennett had years of experience on the streets of New York. Trilling was young and in shape. Either would be a challenge. Plus, he’d have to get out of New York immediately. Although the general public tended to accept active-duty police fatalities with just a shrug, the cops would be relentless looking for him. It was the same in every country.

Doyle was once contracted to kill a police captain in Beirut. The captain had been on the take and was allowing shipments of supplies for refugees to be pillaged before being sent on to Syria and elsewhere—places that desperately needed them in order to see another sunrise. To Doyle, this was the worst kind of criminal—a corrupt cop taking food and supplies from people who need them.

It had been a fairly simple job. Doyle made certain not to do anything that this jerk’s family might see. His kids didn’t need to be traumatized. He simply took a long shot with a scoped rifle and hit the police captain as he came out of his office.

Doyle had wasted no time employing his escape plan. Even with his resources and experience it was a tighter escape than he would’ve liked. The cops contacted the military and were able to close off Beirut in less than twenty minutes.

Luckily for Doyle, who was traveling with an Irish passport, the cops were certain the assassination was the work of a local terrorist group loosely affiliated with some of the larger, better-known groups. Doyle was allowed to pass through their perimeter, and he was out of the country a few hours later.

Doyle later heard from some of his associates that the cops hadn’t let up the pressure for nearly three weeks after the police captain’s assassination.

Now, on the streets of Manhattan, he watched as Bennett and Trilling both pulled up to their office building in unfamiliar cars. Bennett was in a Cadillac and Trilling drove a blue Ford Explorer. Doyle figured they’d been out on surveillance again. They were definitely poking around the same people as Doyle.

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