Page 70 of Nobody's Hero

‘We’d sit in a bar that was set the last time. Someone would come by our booth and drop us a note telling us where the new bar was.’

‘Why the subterfuge?’

‘We were cops, they were contract killers. I assume they wanted to make sure it wasn’t a trap.’

Koenig nodded. Hobbs and Nash were right to be cautious. Corrupt cops couldn’t be trusted. It was kind of the point.

‘But?’ Koenig said.

‘But what?’

‘The East Coast Sweeney operated for years without anyone knowing they existed. You were bad fiction.’

‘Yet here I am.’

‘You got greedy,’ Koenig said. ‘Saw an easy payday and moved before you’d done your research. Most of the time you’d have been even more careful than Hobbs and Nash. And that means, despite what they thought, you were controlling the meeting, not them. You might not have known which bar it was going to be in, but that didn’t matter, did it?’

Cunningham shook her head.

‘Because you knew where they lived. People like you don’t take chances. You can’t risk it being a setup. At the very first meeting you’ll have followed them home. Had them checked out. Maybe even surveilled them for a while. Made sure they were who they claimed to be. That about right?’

‘Who the hell are you?’

‘Answer the question,’ the AG said.

‘We followed them home,’ Cunningham admitted. ‘Watched them for a few weeks. Saw him walking that cat of his.’

‘He has a cat?’

Cunningham nodded. ‘One of those creepy-ass breeds. Bald as an egg. More wrinkles than Yoda. He follows it around the block on a leash. Looks like he’s taking his balls for a walk.’

‘Where do they live?’ Draper asked.

Cunningham told them.

‘Well, isn’t that handy,’ Koenig said.

Chapter 74

Koenig enjoyed stakeouts. Always had. Which was just as well as he’d been on thousands. He’d always considered a good stakeout mentality to be the single most important attribute an SOG marshal could have. The kind of perps they’d hunted were rarely at home waiting to be arrested. They dodged and they dived and they hid. But, with few exceptions, they eventually visited their old haunts. Their mom, their girlfriend or boyfriend, wife or husband. The family dog. Their bookie or their local bar. Koenig had even staked out one guy’s favourite wet-shave joint. Waited for him to tire of his stubble. Which he did. Still had shaving cream on his face when Koenig had led him out in cuffs. Stakeouts took patience. They took discipline. Getting bored doing something boring wasn’t an option. Falling asleep wasn’t an option. Drinking so much coffee you constantly needed the bathroom wasn’t an option.

But Koenig enjoyed them. He’d found a way to concentrate while his mind wandered. He’d pondered the big things in life. Like how much honey would cost if bees were paid minimum wage – 190,000 bucks a jar the last time he’d checked. Or what he’d wear on HD 189733 b, an exoplanet that rained molten glass. Probably a thick overcoat. Maybe a hat.

And he could let his mind wander like this while he was in a freezing loft, rats crawling over his feet and legs, with his eyes fixed to a pair of tactical binoculars.

Zen.

He wasn’t going to enjoy this stakeout, though.

Not one bit. Surveillance was a team effort. Had to be. It could go on for weeks or months. Years even. But there was no team here. Just the four of them. And they didn’t know what Hobbs and Nash looked like. All they had were the descriptions Cunningham had given them. Nash had a birthmark on her face and tattoos on her arms. There was nothing distinctive about Hobbs. Cunningham had pressed that point. Like his anonymity was remarkable.

To make matters worse, the address Cunningham had given them was a converted warehouse on the intersection of the Lower East Side, Chinatown and SoHo. It was a busy, bustling part of New York. Packed sidewalks during the day. Bars and restaurants and bodegas after lights out.

There was nowhere to set up indoor surveillance. Not without being noticed. Not without people talking. Talk that Hobbs and Nash would no doubt be tuned in to.

That leftoutdoorsurveillance. In New York that meant hiding in plain sight. To stay near the target building they needed a reason to be on the sidewalk for extended periods of time. A plausible one. To be a rock in the river of commuters. In this part of the Lower East Side there wasn’t a lot of choice. The homeless and professional-beggar guises, both of which Koenig had used in the past, wouldn’t work in this neighbourhood. The NYPD moved them on. Handing out flyers for the nearby clubs and bars would work, but only at night. They needed to be on the sidewalk at all hours.

‘You’re still set against bringing in Smerconish?’ Draper had said. ‘We could have eyes and ears inside their apartment within two hours. Commandeer every camera in a ten-block radius.’