Paranoia (Michael Bennett #17)

CHAPTER 76

WE FINALLY CAUGHT a break, as far as resources. Terri Hernandez knew of a few NYPD helicopter pilots who were testing a new helicopter with no markings on it later in the day. She had enough leverage on the pilot to get him to take her up. She told him what we were doing as far as surveillance and how we’d been burned a couple of times. The pilot’s biggest concern was flight paths over the city, but he thought he could work it out.

Now I was driving a seized Cadillac that the narcotics team let me borrow. Trilling was in an unmarked Ford Explorer he’d borrowed from the Harbor Unit. Like Hernandez, he knew one of the young officers on the unit and had somehow talked him into letting us use the Explorer for a few hours.

We knew better than to set up right at Antonio Deason’s building again. That approach hadn’t worked out well for us before. We had the perfect answer to our problem: Walter Jackson. Although it was a simple, safe assignment, I could never tell Harry Grissom that I used a criminal intelligence analyst in this way—there were strict rules about not putting them out on the street.

In any case, all I asked Walter to do was go window-shopping down one side of the street and up the other. He had his cell phone with him and was to call me once he identified the Porsche Taycan on the street. Then he could continue taking his time strolling along until he saw Deason come out of his building and hop into the car.

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 Deason walk 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.