“Whichever one, it’s keeping him on the hook,” said Frankel.
Grant moved his fingers again.
A poor choice of words.
Another response shot right back.
To say the least.
My apologies, Grant quickly wrote—and sent.
“Good idea,” Frankel told him. “Placing him in the superior position.”
Haven’t you punished enough people for their sins?
This elicited another quick answer.
You don’t believe in what I’m doing, Commander.
Frankel and Rachel continued to be spellbound by the chat between the killer and the Scotland Yard Commander, which continued as fast they could both type.
I’m not talking about me, Prior. We’re discussing you.
Now you’re humoring me.
That doesn’t mean you can’t stop.
But I’m not finished yet.
Frankel could have sworn a chill had just swept through the room. But he knew it was just an icy threat put before them in the black and white of a text from a dead man’s phone.
Grant’s response was to hit the intercom button and then redial. “How’s that trace coming, Mr. Morrow?”
The tech’s voice came back over the phone. “Looks like it’s emanating from the East End. We have it triangulated between three towers but it’s a lot of ground to cover.”
“Keep at it,” Grant told him, then returned to his daughter’s phone. When he resumed typing, Frankel could feel the fury flying off the man’s fingers.
Did you kill Hawley because of me?
The sergeant was a little too smart for his own good.
Meaning?
I didn’t anticipate someone getting there that quickly. You taught him well.
Frankel and Rachel watched Grant’s fingers hover over the iPhone. But before he could continue typing, another message appeared.
You might like to know I got Fleming to confess to killing his partner on the Thames. I told Hawley that right before I slit his throat.
All three of them visibly reacted. Particularly Grant. He angrily typed a response and sent it.
So this really is all about me.
With no taking it back, they all waited for an answer.
Of course.
Because I put you in prison twenty years ago? You deserved it.
There was a long pause. Frankel wondered if by lashing out Grant had scared the killer away. But then the ellipsis started back up.
I’m not going to debate that. Or stick around long enough for you to trace this further.
“Damn it!” Frankel exclaimed.
You’ll hear from me right after the holiday. Happy Xmas!
“What is that supposed to mean?” asked Rachel.
“Nothing good, that’s for sure,” answered Frankel.
Meanwhile, Grant had continued to type in the message box.
Prior? Still there?
“Bloody hell!” Grant cried out.
Prior!?
He only stopped when the intercom on his phone buzzed.
“We lost him,” said Morrow over the speaker. “He’s switched off the iPhone.”
“How close were you able to get?” asked Grant.
“Maybe a ten-block radius in the East End. But that’s thousands of people.”
“Put together what you’ve got and we’ll go over it in a few moments.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Morrow said.
“You did your best, Mr. Morrow. Thank you.” Grant clicked off.
“Isn’t the East End where Prior Silver lives?” asked Rachel.
“Yes, but with men all over his flat, I suspect he’s not going back there,” replied Grant.
“That might not stop him from hiding in his own neighborhood,” said Frankel.
“We’ll definitely bolster up our surveillance of the area,” agreed Grant.
“Would it be helpful for me to continue looking through Sergeant Hawley’s computer and notebooks?” asked Rachel.
“It couldn’t hurt.” Grant turned toward Frankel. “And we should get you situated somewhere to work out of.”
“Anywhere with a phone, desk, and computer will do,” the detective responded.
“We can manage that. Then we’ll have to bring Stebbins up to date and figure out a plan.”
Frankel realized Grant might only have a week left in his command, but he was by no means shirking his duty. If anything, a steel-like determination had settled in on the Scotland Yard man since returning to Mother England.
It only took a few minutes for Grant to locate a proper office for Frankel to operate from.
Frankel felt a bit guilty upon entering it. The room was three times the size of the cubby hole they’d given Grant at the precinct. It afforded a view of the Thames below, courtesy of the building being on the Victoria Embankment.
“Hope this will suffice,” Grant said.
“It’s great. Thank you, Austin.”
Frankel motioned back toward the commander’s office.
“You did well keeping him going as long as you did.”
“I could’ve handled it better. I sort of lost my temper there.”
“It could have gone a whole lot worse.”
“I suppose,” said Grant, who didn’t seem to believe it.
“At least we know who we’re dealing with now.”
“It appears so.” Grant remained in the doorway, glancing around. He seemed to be mulling something over in his head.
“I notice that you’re not wearing your wedding ring.”
Frankel was so shocked that he went a bit weak in the knees. And quickly tried to fashion some sort of explanation. “I ended up leaving it back home in Manhattan. Figured it was long overdue.”
Grant nodded.
Frankel inwardly sighed with relief, thinking that might have been it.
Then Grant spoke again.
“Tread carefully, Detective. If she gets hurt, there will be hell to pay.”
Before he could respond, Grant turned and left the room.
That was when John Frankel realized Prior Silver wasn’t the only person in London whom the Scotland Yard Commander was on to.
22
The phone conversation hadn’t gone quite the way Prior Silver had expected.
Somehow, he’d lost control of the situation and had to struggle to get it back on track. He had decided it was best to cut the exchange short and vowed to be better prepared the next time. There was definitely going to be a next time.
Prior kneaded the wooden cross between his hands like rosary beads while stealing an occasional glance at the Bible that was never too far from his heart.
He glanced over the railing at Marble Arch, the white stone monument on the northeast corner of Hyde Park.
“The triumphal arch was designed in 1827 by John Nash to be the state entrance to Buckingham Palace” came a voice through the tiny speaker by Prior’s knee. His eyes drifted from Nash’s masterpiece to the upper level of the London red bus he was riding on. There were less than a half-dozen passengers up top with him, as most tourists chose to stay below this time of year, watching London’s famous sites move past huge windows that also provided protection on such a cold wintry day.
But Prior found the fresh air invigorating, bolstering his spirit and encouraging him to forge ahead with his plans.
He got off in Marylebone, bringing his collar up to obstruct a full view of his face and slinging his cap a little further down over his eyes. Not that anyone was paying attention to him—they were too busy checking out Madame Tussauds, the famous house of wax, across the street.
Prior ducked inside Saint Cyprian’s Church near the southwest corner of Regent Park. Being a Monday morning, it was fairly empty. But the clergy and altar boys were busy preparing the sanctuary for Christmas Eve mass the following night. He walked down the center aisle, glancing up at the white-gold trellis, a crucifixion statue, and the ten magnificent panels of stained glass h
anging above the altar. He did the sign of the cross, then moved toward the confessional.
Soon, he was waiting inside, still holding the small wooden cross.
A couple of minutes passed and beads of sweat began to dot his brow. He contemplated taking his leave and was just rising when the panel on the confessional slid open, revealing the shadow of the on-duty priest.
The clergyman began with a prayer. Prior knew it and mumbled along. He thought the priest seemed young but it could’ve just been the high tone of his voice. The prayer concluded, and the priest continued the ritual.
“Now, let us bring into light anything for which you want to ask God’s mercy.”
Prior made the sign of the cross again, then recited the string of words he’d uttered more than any in recent years. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”
“How long has it been since your last confession?” asked the priest.
“Just over a week,” Prior answered.
It had been back in New York City, on the day that he’d arrived. Prior had meant to return to confession sooner, but so much had happened. As a result, he had a lot to get off his chest with the man from Saint Cyprian’s.
When Prior finished, he wondered if the shadowed figure on the other side of the scrim would refuse to absolve him.
But there was only a slight pause before he heard the familiar words.
“You may go in peace, my son—all your sins have been forgiven.”
It’s nice to know there are some things you can count on never changing.
He had just begun to stand up when the priest cleared his throat. “Forgive me for asking, but have you been to confession before at Saint Cyprian’s?”
Prior was taken aback by the question. Maybe he had laid so much on the young priest that he had caused some sort of suspicion.
“No, Father,” Prior finally answered. “They’re renovating my parish, so I’ve been going wherever and whenever I can elsewhere.”
The truth was that Saint Anne’s in Limehouse, only a few blocks from his Stepney flat, was totally open for business. But with constables watching his place and the surrounding neighborhood, Prior thought it best not to take the risk.
“You should know that Saint Cyprian’s welcomes one and all.”
Prior suppressed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Father.”
“Go in peace, my son.”
Double the blessing, thought Prior. I’ll take it.
Not long after, he ducked into the Marylebone tube station and stopped at a coffee cart for a double espresso. He downed it in a few sips, immediately feeling the caffeine rush that he desperately needed to keep himself going.
The question was where?
He wasn’t sure but thought he might start by taking the District Line west. Staying away from the East End seemed like a good idea for now. Somewhere near Wimbledon possibly.
He was just about to head through the turnstile when he caught sight of the television screen above a small newsstand.
Prior’s very own face was staring back at him.
It was in the upper right corner of the screen, one of the inmate photos from back at Hatfield.
The blond news anchor sat front and center reading copy behind her desk. The sound was muted but Prior didn’t need (or dare) to ask them to turn it up.
He pretty much got the gist from the huge red-and-white chyron on the bottom third of the screen.
SUSPECT IN COMMANDMENT KILLINGS
Prior took a couple steps backward and stood behind a column.
How could this be happening?
He peeked around the column to risk one more look.
This time, his image was filling up the whole screen.
Prior ducked back. Then he lowered his head and pulled his cap down as far as it could go and made for the exit.
He had been right earlier. There was definitely going to be another conversation.
Even sooner than he thought.
23
“I’m afraid he’s on to us.”
At first, Rachel had no idea what John was talking about.
Wasn’t it the other way around? That they were on to Prior Silver?
She said as much to John. That was when he told her about his brief but pointed conversation with her father.
“And you’re just telling me this now?”
“Well, this way I figured you couldn’t run off somewhere and we’d have to talk about it.”
She looked out the glass window and down at nighttime London spread out hundreds of feet below. City lights flickered as they floated up in a glass-enclosed bubble car on the London Eye Ferris wheel.
“Oh, I see. You thought, I’ll take her to highest point in London, drop this little bombshell and go—‘oh, sorry, hold on to your seat—down we go!’”
“It’s a Ferris wheel, not a roller coaster. It doesn’t plummet,” he informed her. “It just sort of floats down.”
“I know what a Ferris wheel does,” she said, trying to avoid a smile.
There was something quite charming in the matter-of-fact way he went about things that she couldn’t help falling for—even delivering not-so-great news.
“Besides, it’s not like we had a lot of time to ourselves today,” he added.
She had spent the better part of it going through Sergeant Hawley’s computer and desk with the utmost thoroughness but had come up with nothing to help get a further line on Prior Silver.
She did find a small notepad filled with the doodles Hawley must have squiggled during phone interviews. What gave her a moment’s pause were the lopsided stars and curlicues he’d scrawled around the word Esher, followed by question marks. Rachel imagined the idea fomenting in Hawley’s brain that had resulted in his tragic side trip on the way home.
In the meantime, John and her father had brought Commissioner Stebbins up to date. The three of them repeatedly went over the chat transcript between Grant and (presumably) Prior Silver that had alternated between Rachel’s cell and the dead Hawley’s phone—looking for any clue to Silver’s whereabouts.
This yielded the same results as Rachel’s search—absolutely nothing.
A lengthy discussion between the three men ensued again as whether or not to release Prior Silver’s name to the public. This time Frankel and her father convinced Stebbins it was a good idea, stressing it would make it more difficult for the born-again mechanic to hide. The clincher was getting the deputy commander to imagine what might occur should Silver kill again before such a statement was released. The Yard would be excoriated by reporters like Monte Ferguson and a terrified public for holding on to information that might have prevented it.
As a result, the media outlets were given Silver’s name and a photo from his time up at Hatfield prison. Over the next few hours, Rachel watched in amazement as Silver’s face and vitals blanketed the UK and beyond.
Almost immediately, the Yard was besieged with calls from people who thought they’d spotted Silver, had a run-in with the man, or barely escaped for their lives when he came after them with a piano wire. One woman claimed to have had a lovely five-course meal with him at Claridge’s, then headed upstairs for a matinee.
Naturally, all of these turned out to be blatantly untrue.
“Some people just want their names in the paper,” said Grant.
As the sun set over an increasingly fretful London, Grant had urged the two of them to head home.
“We have plenty of people here well-equipped to deal with these calls and even more on the streets looking for Silver.”
Rachel had suggested her father call it a day as well, but Grant said he needed time preparing for Hawley’s funeral the next day. There were calls to be made, arrangements to finalize—not to mention the eulogy Grant was delivering.
“I’ve never taken a shine to public speaking,” he had told John; something Rachel was well aware of. “But it’s the least I can do for poor Stanford.”
“Is there anything I can do to help, Dad?�
��
“I think this is something I have to do myself,” he’d replied, waving a pen over a notepad with more crossed-out words than not. “You two enjoy your evening.”
Now, looking back, Rachel thought what she’d taken to be a polite good night might have been a not-so-subtle “I-know-what-you-two-are-up-to” shout-out.
If so, she had totally missed it and told John this on the Eye.
“I don’t think so,” he said. “He was pretty direct with me about it.”
The glass enclosed car continued to rise toward the top of the Ferris wheel.
“And he figured that you’d end up telling me.”
“I took it as him giving me fair warning. But it did cross my mind that I was glad the cops over here don’t carry loaded guns.”
John grinned. Rachel couldn’t help laughing.
“Lucky for you.”
The two of them had left the Yard and discussed getting a bite. Stepping out of the building onto the Victoria Embankment, their eyes took in the London Eye and all its multicolored flickering neon glory across the Thames.
“That wasn’t here when I came with my college buddies,” John said. “They might have been building it, but we were on an endless pub crawl.”
“It went up back when I was in secondary school,” Rachel had said.
“Ever been on it?”
Rachel shook her head. “I never could get my father to take me.”
“Party pooper.”
“He’s afraid of heights, actually.” Rachel had noticed him raise an eyebrow. “Don’t tell him I told you.”
“You can totally count on that.” He pointed again at the Eye. “You could have gone with someone else.”
“I never got around to it. It’s one of those things you never end up doing because it’s a tourist attraction in the city where you live.”
“So, what are we waiting for?”
“Seriously?”
“Well, there was this Jack the Ripper walking tour through Whitechapel I read about on the plane—but given how we’ve been occupying our days, this seems like a much better idea.”
Her mind drifted back to the view from his car on the New Jersey ridge.
“I guess you showed me yours the other morning. Since we’re here, I might as well show you mine.”
The Last Commandment Page 20