blame on the Bureau. Thirty-four per cent isn’t going to cut it.’
‘But why would they kill him? They wouldn’t have any idea who he was.’
Gerrard shook his head.
‘After he died, I learned that he’d been investigating them too, by way of association.’ He paused, looking Archer in the eye. ‘I think he found something, Sam. Something that could close this case, and bring them all down. And I think somebody killed him before he could tell anyone what it was.’
Archer thought for a moment.
‘Any proof?’ he asked.
‘The method of execution. This crew, they only ever use sawn-off shotguns. It’s their signature, their calling-card, their bread and butter. Shotguns are a nightmare for ballistics fingerprinting. The buckshot scatters everywhere when you pull the trigger, so it’s impossible to get a sample and match it to a particular weapon. Our only hope would be if they racked the pump and left a shell behind, but they haven’t had to fire the weapons on a job yet. There’s a saying in the Bureau that every bullet is another piece of evidence to convict you. But whoever killed Jimmy didn’t reload. The empty cartridge stayed in the weapon. And he took it, point-blank, when his back was turned. Farrell did eight years for killing a guy the exact same way. Shotgun, point-blank, back of the head. Tell me there isn’t a pattern and a correlation there.’
Archer thought hard, picturing the scenario. He shook his head.
‘I know my dad. Or, knew him,’ he corrected. ‘He wouldn’t turn his back on Farrell or anyone on his team. Especially if he had something that could close this case and bring him in. And why would he meet with him if he had the evidence?’
‘Maybe he got the drop on him,’ Gerrard answered. ‘Maybe Jimmy was meeting someone else and Farrell ambushed him.’
‘That’s a lot of maybes.’
Gerrard pointed at the file. ‘That’s a lot of motive.’
Archer didn’t respond.
He glanced down at the guy’s photograph again, memorising his features.
The hard, tough jaw-line.
The pudgy, flat nose.
Sean Farrell.
He pictured him with a sawn-off shotgun in his hands. Stalking up behind his father or ambushing him, ordering his hands in the air and for him to turn. The barrel of the shotgun nestling into the back of James Archer’s head.
And Farrell pulling the trigger.
He felt his mood darken.
‘OK. Suppose it’s the way you say it is. I’m out of my jurisdiction Gerry. I’m UK police, not NYPD. I can’t go after these people.’
‘I’m not asking you to.’ Gerrard looked at him for a long moment. ‘But I am asking you for something else.’
‘What?’
‘My team and I have conducted raids,’ Gerrard said. ‘Made arrests. Brought each one of these assholes in for questioning. They know exactly what each and every agent in my team looks like. They even know our names.’
He paused.
‘But they don’t know you.’
Archer picked up where this was going straight away. He leaned back in his seat and shook his head.
‘No way. Absolutely no way. It won’t work,’ he said. ‘They’re planning to pull the Madison Square Garden job a week from today. That’s seven days from now. I’m good but I’m not that good, Gerry. I’ll never get near them.’
Gerry leaned forward, pressing him.
‘I’m not asking you to. But you’ll be in Astoria anyway, clearing out your Dad’s place. All I’m asking for is another set of eyes on them in their neighbourhood. There’s a pub called McCann’s, on Ditmars Boulevard. They are in there basically every night. Get inside and grab a beer. If you make contact, try to strike up a conversation with Farrell. Get him to trust you. They’re getting their money out and cleaning it, and we have no idea how they’re doing it. It’s untraceable and it’s been baffling me for months. I need to find out how they manage it, or at least get something that could give me a goddamned break in this case. I’m out of solutions, kid. I need your help.’
He paused.
‘We’ve made armed arrests. Unlike them, we don’t wear disguises. They know what every member of my team looks like, and they’ll be expecting NYPD attention. They’d sniff out an undercover cop or Fed a mile off. But they’ll never guess who you are. Your accent, your cover story. You don’t even look like Jimmy, so they won’t realise the two of you are related. It all checks out.’
Archer looked back out the window, shaking his head. Gerrard pressed forward.
‘I need you, Sam. They’re killing me and my team.