in the five boroughs of New York City. By 2010, there were only 26.’
He paused, sipping his coffee again. Archer listened closely, intrigued.
‘Any bank robbery in the Unites States is classed as a Federal crime, which means we automatically get involved and take over jurisdiction,’ Gerrard said. ‘We normally work together with local law enforcement and put together a team of FBI agents and local P.D in each town and city. We had the same thing going here, but things were going so well that the NYPD decided to pull their guys from the Task Force. We were six-and-six, half cops, half FBI. Well, the cops pulled their six guys from the detail, leaving our six FBI agents to handle the caseload themselves. They claimed that the crimes would continue to dwindle and that surely the FBI could handle the reduced number of heists alone.’
‘Getting out when the going’s good,’ Archer said.
Gerrard nodded. ‘Exactly. They jumped ship. And since then, pretty much everything that could go wrong has gone wrong. It’s just been one thing after another. We’re in some seriously deep shit and it’s rising every day. The thefts are back on the rise, all over the city. And the people pulling the jobs are getting smarter. Even the idiots now know what to look for. Things got so bad last year that the Bureau pulled me from Washington and sent me up here to take over the Task Force and boost the clearance rate. Start catching these guys instead of constantly chasing after them.’
‘So have you?’ Archer asked.
Gerrard sighed and shook his head.
‘We’re down to 34 per cent, Sam. Thirty. Four. A third of our case load. It’s shameful. That’s an all-time low. Every other city across the United States looks to us to set an example. The Bureau has to publish a report to the public every quarter. The reports give exact details on all bank robbery crimes and statistics for each city in the country. Ours are the first people look at. And right now, those numbers are dismal. It’s causing a stir within the entire organisation, a black-eye on the face of the FBI. My team and I are catching hell for it. Soon people are going to start getting fired.’
He drained the rest of his coffee, shaking his head.
‘And there’s one crew that’s causing me all this grief.’
‘Who?’
Gerrard didn’t reply.
He just slid the yellow folder across the table instead.
Archer looked down at it.
‘Take a look,’ Gerrard said, lowering his voice. ‘They’re killing me, Sam. Every job they pull knocks us down a rung, in the reports and in the public’s estimation. They’re humiliating me, my team and the entire Bureau. We can’t get close to them. They’re taking New York City for millions.’
Archer looked at him for a moment, then lifted open the yellow folder. A series of paper-clipped files were inside, five separate documents, pulled or photocopied from police and Bureau department files. He thumbed through them and saw each separately-stapled stack had a mug-shot stuck to the top right corner of the page. Five separate profiles and rap-sheets.
Returning to the first page, Archer looked down at the first photo.
It was a man. He looked tough and mean, a flattened nose and uncompromising dark eyes over a stubbled jaw-line and a mouth that showed not even a hint of a smile. He had a closely shaved head and a hard face that looked pissed off that he had to stand there and have his mug-shot taken. The black and white height-chart behind him said he was six-two. Archer shifted his gaze, looking at the name on the file printed in a box on the left.
Sean Farrell.
‘You want to talk me through them?’ he asked, looking down at the file.
Gerrard nodded.
‘That’s Sean Farrell, the leader of the bunch. Rough piece of work. He did eight years on Riker’s for murder. He was convicted a month before his eighteenth birthday, so he escaped the electric chair.’
‘Who did he kill?’
‘Another kid his age. Walked up behind him on a basketball court and blew his head off with a shotgun, point blank from behind. Sound familiar?’
Archer looked up at him sharply.
Now Gerry had his attention.
‘Motive?’
‘The guy slept with his ex-girlfriend. Farrell didn’t like it and decided to let the guy know how he felt.’
Archer dropped his gaze back to the sheet, looking at the man’s list of convictions. It was long.
‘He was an up and coming boxer once, hence the nose that looks like a pancake. He