struggle. The wheezing told him that her throat was crushed, and she wasn’t getting enough air.
“He said . . . his name . . . Peter,” she said, her eyes closing.
“Peter what?”
She didn’t answer, but he was determined to get it, even if he had to shake it out of her. “Peter what ?” he said, prying her eyes open.
“Mandretti,” she said.
Her voice was little more than a whisper, and he might not have caught it if he hadn’t heard that surname before.
“Like Tony Mandretti?” he asked, but she didn’t answer. Her shoulders slumped, and her chin hit her chest.
Peter Mandretti. Tony Mandretti’s son. It made perfect sense to him. It was as he had suspected: the son was driving the car, but the father was navigating him down the road to Cushman’s money.
He allowed the deadweight of her torso to slide to the right, and her body became a heap of collateral damage on the bathroom floor.
The interrogation was over, successful beyond his wildest dreams.
14
I woke in a strange bed with side railings, a white fluorescent ceiling light assaulting my eyes. An angled mattress had me somewhere between the upright position and flat on my back. Squinting, I propped myself up further on one elbow and peered through a crack in the white curtain before me. It wasn’t a window curtain. It was a room divider that separated my private cubicle from the busy common area beyond, where nurses and doctors wearing green hospital scrubs darted about. I was alone and still in my street clothes, no shoes. I had no memory of coming to the emergency room, but my mind was clear enough to recall a conversation with a park ranger before blacking out a second time.
She must have brought me here.
Details of that conversation suddenly came flooding back— “My name is Peter Mandretti”— and in a moment of panic, I checked the hospital ID bracelet on my wrist.
P ATRICK L LOYD, it read.
I breathed a sigh of relief. The park ranger had apparently dismissed my “Peter Mandretti” slip of the tongue as the incoherent ramblings of an assault victim. Presumably, the hospital had checked my driver’s license upon admission.
My BlackBerry rang, but it wasn’t in my pocket. I was still gathering my wits and adjusting to my surroundings, and I was having trouble locating the phone. I sat up and listened more intently, but by the time I focused on the bag of personal belongings hanging from the bed railing, the ringing had stopped.
I checked the phone. It was 8:35 A.M . The call was from my team leader at BOS, and the history told me that I’d slept right through four earlier calls from him. I suddenly recalled that the first thing on the day’s agenda had been a 7:30 breakfast meeting with a client who was wealthy even by BOS standards, and it was my job to recommend changes to his portfolio.
The ringing resumed—call number six in the last twenty minutes. With a sense of dread I answered, only to get an earful.
“Where the hell are you, Patrick?”
“I’m sorry. I—”
“I don’t want to hear your excuse. Unless you’re dead or dying, there is none.”
How about under threat of death? I decided not to go there. “I’ll grab a cab and be there in—”
“Forget it,” he said. “I was able to wing it this time. But if you ever do that to me again, I will fire your ass. Period. Do you hear me?”
He hung up before I could answer. Jay was my best friend when things were going well, my worst nightmare if I screwed up. The harsh tone was a stark reminder that there was plenty to lose even if I didn’t lose my head—literally. Not that it would have helped to explain things to him or to anyone else at the bank. A gun to my head, a cord around my neck, threats with tentacles reaching back to Abe Cushman—all brought about by my decision to become the eyes and ears of the FBI inside the very bank that employed me. Even I was having trouble comprehending it.
The curtain parted, then closed, giving me a
“He said . . . his name . . . Peter,” she said, her eyes closing.
“Peter what?”
She didn’t answer, but he was determined to get it, even if he had to shake it out of her. “Peter what ?” he said, prying her eyes open.
“Mandretti,” she said.
Her voice was little more than a whisper, and he might not have caught it if he hadn’t heard that surname before.
“Like Tony Mandretti?” he asked, but she didn’t answer. Her shoulders slumped, and her chin hit her chest.
Peter Mandretti. Tony Mandretti’s son. It made perfect sense to him. It was as he had suspected: the son was driving the car, but the father was navigating him down the road to Cushman’s money.
He allowed the deadweight of her torso to slide to the right, and her body became a heap of collateral damage on the bathroom floor.
The interrogation was over, successful beyond his wildest dreams.
14
I woke in a strange bed with side railings, a white fluorescent ceiling light assaulting my eyes. An angled mattress had me somewhere between the upright position and flat on my back. Squinting, I propped myself up further on one elbow and peered through a crack in the white curtain before me. It wasn’t a window curtain. It was a room divider that separated my private cubicle from the busy common area beyond, where nurses and doctors wearing green hospital scrubs darted about. I was alone and still in my street clothes, no shoes. I had no memory of coming to the emergency room, but my mind was clear enough to recall a conversation with a park ranger before blacking out a second time.
She must have brought me here.
Details of that conversation suddenly came flooding back— “My name is Peter Mandretti”— and in a moment of panic, I checked the hospital ID bracelet on my wrist.
P ATRICK L LOYD, it read.
I breathed a sigh of relief. The park ranger had apparently dismissed my “Peter Mandretti” slip of the tongue as the incoherent ramblings of an assault victim. Presumably, the hospital had checked my driver’s license upon admission.
My BlackBerry rang, but it wasn’t in my pocket. I was still gathering my wits and adjusting to my surroundings, and I was having trouble locating the phone. I sat up and listened more intently, but by the time I focused on the bag of personal belongings hanging from the bed railing, the ringing had stopped.
I checked the phone. It was 8:35 A.M . The call was from my team leader at BOS, and the history told me that I’d slept right through four earlier calls from him. I suddenly recalled that the first thing on the day’s agenda had been a 7:30 breakfast meeting with a client who was wealthy even by BOS standards, and it was my job to recommend changes to his portfolio.
The ringing resumed—call number six in the last twenty minutes. With a sense of dread I answered, only to get an earful.
“Where the hell are you, Patrick?”
“I’m sorry. I—”
“I don’t want to hear your excuse. Unless you’re dead or dying, there is none.”
How about under threat of death? I decided not to go there. “I’ll grab a cab and be there in—”
“Forget it,” he said. “I was able to wing it this time. But if you ever do that to me again, I will fire your ass. Period. Do you hear me?”
He hung up before I could answer. Jay was my best friend when things were going well, my worst nightmare if I screwed up. The harsh tone was a stark reminder that there was plenty to lose even if I didn’t lose my head—literally. Not that it would have helped to explain things to him or to anyone else at the bank. A gun to my head, a cord around my neck, threats with tentacles reaching back to Abe Cushman—all brought about by my decision to become the eyes and ears of the FBI inside the very bank that employed me. Even I was having trouble comprehending it.
The curtain parted, then closed, giving me a
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