Page 87 of Above ’N’ Beyond

“He wasn’t wearing his ankle bracelet.” Jenkins paused—for effect, no doubt. “After the team found Sala’s body, I contacted the Italian National Police and requested they do a routine check at Bonaventura’s house on some pretext. At first, his wife said he was in the house, but he wasn’t. His ankle bracelet was.”

“How did he get it off?” Those bracelets were designed to be tamper resistant. If the battery failed, or if the fiber optics inside were broken or bent, an alarm was triggered. “Somehow they must have hacked it,” Jamie said, stating the obvious, “making it look as if the bracelet had never been removed and Bonaventura was still sitting at home.” Then something else occurred to him. “What about the wife? What’s to keep her from squealing to her husband that the police know he’s gone?”

“They took her in for making a false statement,” Jenkins said. “Don’t know how long they can hold her without letting her make a phone call.”

“Great.” Jamie dragged a hand down his face. “I think it’s safe to assume that as soon as you send agents to find the other three men whose passports were used, you’ll find three more bodies.”

“Probably,” Jenkins agreed.

Jamie’s phone vibrated with another call. Tony. “Gotta go.”

“Wait!” Jenkins shouted. “There’s something else you need to know. That informant I told you about, the one on the fringes of the Mancuso operation… She’s dead. Strangled.”

Just like the real Tommaso Sala.

“Whatever you do,” Jenkins warned, “make sure you get into that banquet room the night of the event. I’m working on the ops plan. We’ll be there Monday to take this thing down.”

“I’m counting on that.” He ended the call with Jenkins and took Tony’s. “What’s up, T?”

“Get your ass to the Bistro at four o’clock, and don’t be late,” Tony ordered. Every muscle in Jamie’s body tightened. Did they somehow know Ianetti was in FBI custody? “You know that thing planned for Monday night? It just got moved up. It’s tomorrow.”

When Tony hung up, Jamie stared at the phone. He didn’t know whether to be relieved Tony didn’t seem to know about Marco or worry his nuts off that the case timeline had just been fast-tracked by three days, and the FBI wouldn’t be prepared.

The sun shone brightly in the clear, blue sky, but the doom clinging in the air was so real Jamie could taste it.

Whatever went down tomorrow night might be the last thing he ever did on this earth. In the event it was, he had to see his dad in person. One last time.

For the first time in his undercover career, he was going to trash his ironclad rule and break cover. It was a risk, but he had to do it.

He shoved his cell phone into his pocket, then he and Jax took off running.

…

Jamie gunned the Tahoe into the Otisville Correctional Facility visitor’s parking lot. He left the SUV running with the AC on for Jax, then jogged to the reception building.

It was nearly one thirty. He barely had enough time to see his dad, then make it back to the Bistro for Tony’s meeting.

Inside the lobby, a few people waited in plastic chairs lining the wall. Jamie went to the front desk where he signed the logbook and was handed a visitor’s pass. Knowing the drill, he locked up his cell phone, keys, ballcap, and sunglasses in a lockbox. After going through security screening, his contact—a captain assigned by the warden himself to escort Jamie to the hospital—was already waiting for him.

“Jimmy Santoro?” the captain asked.

“Yes, sir,” Jamie answered.

“Follow me.” The captain led him through a maze of locked gates and hallways.

Visits for hospitalized inmates were limited to immediate family members, but Jamie’s real ID was locked in a safe in the shack in Manasquan. Having been a corrections officer at this facility before joining the Port Authority, Captain Washington had pulled some major strings and managed a special “exigent circumstances” visit by Jamie using his undercover ID. That wasn’t the only call Jamie had made during the hour-and-fifteen-minute drive to Otisville.

He’d also spoken with Jenkins about the takedown being moved up by three days. Jenkins’s response had been short and sweet. He’d send it up the chain.

Minutes later, Jamie’s escort stopped in front of a door marked Health Services. “I’ll wait out here for you.”

Jamie nodded a curt thanks, then pushed open the door. Immediately, he was hit with the smell of antiseptic and bleach. The small reception area had white walls and gray vinyl flooring. A nurse looked up from a desk.

“I’m Jimmy Santoro. I’m here to see Michael Pataglio.”

The nurse smiled briefly. “We’ve been expecting you.” She rose from behind the desk, then showed him into a side room with several curtained-off areas and stainless-steel beds. All but one of the beds was empty.

“I don’t know any Jimmy Santoro,” the man in the farthest bed said to another nurse.