Page 33 of The Watchmaker's Hand

They got a booth and Sellitto pulled off his wrinkled brown raincoat, revealing a wrinkled brown suit.

Pulaski couldn’t help but think of the fine suit—pressed flat as a tabletop—that stock trader Fletcher Dalton had died in.

And where the hell was the green-eyed, red-headed bomb maker who had ended his life?

A shitload of red cars in Jersey …

The beige-uniformed waitress approached.

“Lon, Ron. It’s the younger -on and the older -on. See, I said older. Not old, Lon.”

“You’re a dear, Tally.”

Forever armed with a coffeepot, she poured two mugs without their asking. If you didn’t drink coffee, you didn’t come to Maggie’s.

“Anything else?”

Muffin for older -on. Younger picked a grilled cheese sandwich.

“So, you do trivia. What does phalanxreallymean?”

“No clue. So.” Sellitto lifted a palm. “Good job with the lead to Tarr. They’re over the moon about it, the task force. Which, by the way, is something else I don’t get.Over the moon, I mean.”

A massive corn muffin arrived. Pulaski recalled Sellitto had said that corn muffins weren’t as bad for you because they didn’t have the sugar that blueberry had. And corn was nutritious. Pulaski didn’t know enough to dispute or agree. And why do so anyway? Everybody loved corn muffins.

The sandwich landed too. A lot of cheese. Pulaski took a bite.

Sellitto asked, “How’d you do it? With Tarr? I never heard.”

Pulaski explained about the blue fiber and the DAS footage.

“Damn.” Sellitto laughed out loud.

The younger officer frowned. “I keep checking the intel sheet for IED chatter or jobs in New York. Threat assessment’s the same as it’s been all month.”

“You’re on intel? You got clearance?”

“Yeah.”

“When?” Sellitto was impressed.

“I don’t know,” Pulaski replied after another bite of the imposing sandwich. “Six, eight months ago. Was a hassle. Man, they look into everything. Talk to your friends, family. Polygraph. Thought they were going to ask me if I was a Yankees fan. And the truth’d come out. I’d be busted.”

The detective laughed.

Odd, Pulaski was thinking: It seemed Sellitto’d been paying close attention to him. Really close. Studying him, sort of. This wasn’t uncomfortable, but was on the line.

The younger officer continued, “I checked some folks who might be Tarr’s potential customers. There’s that militia outfit. Those assholes from Westchester? They don’t like the governor. So maybe they hired him.”

Sellitto was now concentrating. “I don’t know about that one. How can they afford Tarr? I hear he’s expensive as hell.”

“Right, makes me think it’s not them. They’re strip mall, and Tarr is galleria.” A shrug. “There’s talk of a turf war, M-42s against that Jamaican crew, in Spanish Harlem.”

“Naw, they shoot, they don’t blow up.”

Pulaski considered this. “I guess so. I talked to ATF and they’re looking into chatter. Might be hard to find anything, though. At his level, you know. He’s careful.”

With all the data snooping nowadays, the smart bad guys were increasingly using handwritten notes and in-person meetings to communicate and pay for services. That philosophy extended bin Laden’s life for over a decade. And wire transfers, crypto and even cash were out—too traceable. Diamonds and gold were becoming the preferred form of wages.

---