breath steamed, fogging a big heart-shaped diamond in a platinum setting with emerald baguettes.
Out of street smarts she turned her ring inward to conceal the stones. She walked as fast as she could, planting her high-heeled shoes carefully on the ice-slicked sidewalk.
The incline was slight, but the ice and gusty wind made it like climbing a ski jump. Her feet slipped as she reached the corner. To break the fall she threw her hand out in front of her when, out of nowhere, someone hit her broadside and knocked her to the sidewalk.
She was facedown, sliding then bouncing down concrete steps, bearing the weight of whoever had slammed into her. They landed with a thud at the base of the steps in the pitch-dark bowels of a restaurant delivery pit, somewhere below street level. A gloved hand muted her scream as she stared up in fright at the man in a ski mask.
Kneeling beside her, he grabbed her by the hair, 56
James Grippando
snapped her head forward and back, slamming it against the concrete. He watched the eyes roll up into her head, then rifled through her purse. A nice wad of bills—a couple hundreds and some crisp fifties.
“Rich bitch,” he mumbled.
He pitched the empty purse aside and took her hand, which she’d clenched into a fist. He pried her pudgy fingers open to reveal the heart-shaped diamond cupped in her hand, like an oyster housing its pearl. He tugged at the ring, but it wouldn’t budge. Another tug, but it was stuck on her knuckle.
“Come on, fatso.”
He twisted it, even spit on her finger to help it slide off.
No dice.
Quickly, he unzipped his leather jacket and pulled a diving knife from its sheath, exposing an eight-inch blade with a serrated edge. Then, just for an instant, he pressed the flat side of the shiny steel blade against her lips. It steamed. She was breathing, still alive. His eyes lit, as if he preferred it that way.
Like a butcher with his block, he flattened her hand on the bottom step, palm down, spreading the digits to isolate the ring. He positioned the blade directly on her knuckle, got up on his haunches and came down with all his weight. The bone cracked like a frozen twig, and the blade broke through to the icy concrete. He slid the ring off the bloody stub and gave the stones a closer look, smirking with satisfaction. A diamond and emeralds.
He stuffed the prize in his pocket and clutched the wad of cash. “California, here I come,” he said quietly, then peeled off into the night.
57
Chapter 8
v ictoria wasn’t invited to the meeting in Miami with Aaron Fields. The Special Agent in Charge of the Miami Field Office attended, accompanied by David Shapiro, chief of the Child Abduction and Serial Killer Unit in Quantico. Not every payment to an informant was handled at this level, but the Tribune ’s proposal was a bit unusual. Victoria heard about it that same evening, when she checked in with Shapiro for a routine status report. The decision, she was told, was flatly no.
The FBI headquarters was in the J. Edgar Hoover Building, but no one had ever called it that, even before the cross-dressing allegations. Most simply called it “ugly.”
The unsymmetrical tetrahedron covered an entire city block between Ninth and Tenth streets on Pennsylvania Avenue, seven stories high in the front and eleven in the rear, giving the impression that it was about to fall over backward. The exterior walls were unfinished concrete, punctuated with pock marks that
58
James Grippando
looked like machine-gun fire. Victoria entered through the employee entrance on Pennsylvania at 9:00 A.M. and went directly to the office of Tom Dougherty, assistant director of the FBI’s Criminal Investigative Division.
Dougherty was several levels of authority above her, outside her normal chain of command. His division directed the work of nearly eighty percent of the Bureau’s agents, and he personally reviewed the undercover review board operation minutes to determine whether every
Out of street smarts she turned her ring inward to conceal the stones. She walked as fast as she could, planting her high-heeled shoes carefully on the ice-slicked sidewalk.
The incline was slight, but the ice and gusty wind made it like climbing a ski jump. Her feet slipped as she reached the corner. To break the fall she threw her hand out in front of her when, out of nowhere, someone hit her broadside and knocked her to the sidewalk.
She was facedown, sliding then bouncing down concrete steps, bearing the weight of whoever had slammed into her. They landed with a thud at the base of the steps in the pitch-dark bowels of a restaurant delivery pit, somewhere below street level. A gloved hand muted her scream as she stared up in fright at the man in a ski mask.
Kneeling beside her, he grabbed her by the hair, 56
James Grippando
snapped her head forward and back, slamming it against the concrete. He watched the eyes roll up into her head, then rifled through her purse. A nice wad of bills—a couple hundreds and some crisp fifties.
“Rich bitch,” he mumbled.
He pitched the empty purse aside and took her hand, which she’d clenched into a fist. He pried her pudgy fingers open to reveal the heart-shaped diamond cupped in her hand, like an oyster housing its pearl. He tugged at the ring, but it wouldn’t budge. Another tug, but it was stuck on her knuckle.
“Come on, fatso.”
He twisted it, even spit on her finger to help it slide off.
No dice.
Quickly, he unzipped his leather jacket and pulled a diving knife from its sheath, exposing an eight-inch blade with a serrated edge. Then, just for an instant, he pressed the flat side of the shiny steel blade against her lips. It steamed. She was breathing, still alive. His eyes lit, as if he preferred it that way.
Like a butcher with his block, he flattened her hand on the bottom step, palm down, spreading the digits to isolate the ring. He positioned the blade directly on her knuckle, got up on his haunches and came down with all his weight. The bone cracked like a frozen twig, and the blade broke through to the icy concrete. He slid the ring off the bloody stub and gave the stones a closer look, smirking with satisfaction. A diamond and emeralds.
He stuffed the prize in his pocket and clutched the wad of cash. “California, here I come,” he said quietly, then peeled off into the night.
57
Chapter 8
v ictoria wasn’t invited to the meeting in Miami with Aaron Fields. The Special Agent in Charge of the Miami Field Office attended, accompanied by David Shapiro, chief of the Child Abduction and Serial Killer Unit in Quantico. Not every payment to an informant was handled at this level, but the Tribune ’s proposal was a bit unusual. Victoria heard about it that same evening, when she checked in with Shapiro for a routine status report. The decision, she was told, was flatly no.
The FBI headquarters was in the J. Edgar Hoover Building, but no one had ever called it that, even before the cross-dressing allegations. Most simply called it “ugly.”
The unsymmetrical tetrahedron covered an entire city block between Ninth and Tenth streets on Pennsylvania Avenue, seven stories high in the front and eleven in the rear, giving the impression that it was about to fall over backward. The exterior walls were unfinished concrete, punctuated with pock marks that
58
James Grippando
looked like machine-gun fire. Victoria entered through the employee entrance on Pennsylvania at 9:00 A.M. and went directly to the office of Tom Dougherty, assistant director of the FBI’s Criminal Investigative Division.
Dougherty was several levels of authority above her, outside her normal chain of command. His division directed the work of nearly eighty percent of the Bureau’s agents, and he personally reviewed the undercover review board operation minutes to determine whether every
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