“What would you have done if your husband had asked you for help in ridding the world of a witch?” Kieran asked.
Amy Nicholson shook her head, and her headful of soft white-and-platinum hair shook around her face. She let out a long sigh of exasperation and weary patience.
“You’re just not listening to me. He wouldn’t have asked me. It wasn’t my calling. It was his. Would I kill anyone, or would I help in what you see as a murder? No. I have my place here on earth. I am to nurture another generation. I can’t do that behind bars. I don’t even think my husband is crazy. But if it will help his circumstances in the future, I will refuse to testify to my beliefs. I’m trying to help you now because I want my husband to live. If some of you people find him...well, I believe a lot of officers would love an excuse to shoot him. Even in prison, he could help others. Even in a mental facility, he could teach the goodness of the great provider...teach how our lives must be worthy.”
Egan was watching Amy with steady eyes, giving no clue to his thoughts or opinions. It was one of the man’s great strengths; he never gave anything away.
“Mrs. Nicholson—” Kieran began.
“Amy, please, just call me Amy. Raoul told me you were a good person. I’d like you to call me by my given name.”
“Fine, and I’m just Kieran.”
Amy leaned forward. “Kieran, Raoul didn’t tell me he had a plan to escape. He did say he had talked to you. He believed you might even understand.”
“I’m trying to understand his state of mind. But you must realize something, as well. The people he killed had loved ones.”
Amy shrugged. “I’m sorry for that. Sorry for anyone in pain. Mr. Watkins—our attorney—is the one fighting for him, you know. Raoul didn’t really care what he was charged with. He was ready to answer to the State of New York. Wherever they chose to send him, he was ready to accept it even if the federal government stepped in to make it a capital crime. He is truly a believer, ready to die to obey commands from above. And, by the way, Raoul is worried for you, I know.”
Kieran smiled, though she was determined not to let this turn around. “Right now, I’m very worried about Raoul. Who do you think helped him?”
“Helped him?” Amy asked, sitting back.
“I think he had help. He saw both of us and his attorney...and gave nothing away. I can’t tell you how difficult it was for him to manage that escape. Someone helped him.”
Amy smiled, looking up toward the ceiling. “Divine power!” she said.
“Oh, in human form, I’m pretty sure,” Kieran said. “Amy, I’m sorry to ask this, but of course, I must. Was he seeing...someone else?”
“What?” Amy demanded, shocked.
“I’m sorry. Another...a secret companion. Perhaps not loved as you are loved, and therefore someone he might be willing to turn to for help.”
“No.”
“Please think.”
The woman was irate and indignant. “He was not seeing another woman! My husband loves me. He cleaves to me, as ordained,” Amy said.
“I wasn’t necessarily suggesting a woman,” Kieran said softly, surprised she had touched a nerve.
“What were you suggesting?”
“Perhaps a man.”
That was too much for Amy. “Oh, no—no, no, no, no. A thousand times no!”
“Anyone might—”
“No! Oh, I’m sure you have lots of friends of a different persuasion—”
“I do. My higher power is all about love and caring,” Kieran said. “Any gender expression, any sexual persuasion, any color, ethnicity...you name it.”
“No wonder Raoul is so worried about you!”
“His escape was a very tricky accomplishment,” Kieran said.
“No one helped him—no one, but his higher power,” Amy said. “Listen to me and listen well. My husband loves me, he wasn’t seeing anyone else during any time of our marriage, and it was his voice—the same voice that had led him all along—that led him to freedom!”
“You’re sure of that?” Kieran asked very softly.
“Sure. Certain. Absolutely, positively certain,” Amy said.
Kieran nodded. “Well, if you think of anything, you must tell us, and—since you want your husband to live—if you know of his whereabouts, if you have any clue as to where he might be, you have to tell us. Because we don’t want him shot down by a nervous officer who might just come upon him.”
“I want him to live,” Amy whispered.
“Of course,” Kieran said. She smiled then, abruptly changing her line of questioning. “What about your sons, Amy? Is there a wedding on the horizon? Grandchildren someday?”
Something changed again in the woman’s mind. She had come in with a great deal of confidence; Kieran had shaken that.
Amy was finding it again.
“Not soon. They have been tainted. We should have moved years ago, out to the country somewhere, where sin and evil aren’t available at every corner and midblock, too. But I know my boys. They’ll come around. They will live the True Life.”
“The True Life? Is that your...church?”
Amy looked away. “We are small, special. We don’t need a building filled with craven images. We are the true chosen ones.”
“Do others among you hear voices?” Kieran asked.
“Only Raoul—because he is truly special.”
“But your children have strayed from the faith?”
“Yes. And children may stray, but they’ll come back to the fold, for our children are as we are—chosen. We stayed here, thinking we might do the most good. I’m afraid it was at the peril of our sons’ souls. But I know, as my husband knows, there is no greater glory than in the True Life. And my boys will come back, and I will do what is my mission—molding the next generation, letting them see. My calling, you see, just as my husband was moved to do what was his calling.”
“I see,” Kieran said.
“If only you did,” Amy murmured.
“As I said, I’m trying very hard,” Kieran assured her. “And, please, I have to ask this one more time, because you could be the key to saving his life. Think back. You had no clue—until he was caught—he was killing witches. No clue at all, no suspicion he was killing? He must have smelled like gasoline or smoke at times.”
“It is not a wife’s position to question her husband.”
“No matter what he’s doing?”
Amy leaned forward. “If he is a good man. My husband is a good man. How many times must I say it? You can’t see it, because you are not a believer. You’re kind, Kieran—but so naive! I am sorry for you. You are susceptible to the evil that lurks in the world. You must always be on the lookout.”
“That is rather what we do here,” Egan said lowly, evidently unable to keep silent any longer. “We are the FBI.”
“Initials on a badge mean nothing,” Amy said.
Egan stood. “Mrs. Nicholson, I’ll have an agent drive you home. Thank you so much for coming in. We appreciate the cooperation you’ve given us.”
Amy Nicholson stood. She looked from Egan to Kieran. “If I knew something,” she said passionately, “I would tell you. I love my husband. And I believe he can still do good in the world. Wherever he may wind up, as long as he’s alive. I will call if I think of anything. Yes, it’s frustrating to attempt to explain what others can’t understand. You are good people. Perhaps somewhere along the way, you’ll realize that isn’t enough, and you’ll come to the True Life.”
“Well, thank you again for your cooperation,” Egan said. He smiled. It was a plastic smile; he still seemed to be in amazement that anyone could seem as passionate as she was in the position she was in. His smile slipped, but he still spoke in an even tone when he said, “We’re the FBI, Mrs. Nicholson. We serve everyone—Christians, Buddhists, Muslims, those of the J
ewish faith...atheists, and even Wiccans and more. Everyone.” He didn’t want an answer; he was already on his feet.
“An agent will take you home now,” Egan told Amy Nicholson firmly.
“Thank you,” she said, smiling and nodding in his direction. She looked at Kieran and offered her hand again.
She gave her a very strong shake and said ardently, “Be well, Miss Finnegan. Raoul said you were good. Be well and protect yourself from evil.”
“I will do that. Thank you,” Kieran told her, extricating her hand.
Egan walked Amy Nicholson to the door. Once the woman was out of earshot, he turned back to Kieran. “I’m sorry. I asked you to speak with her. I should have left the room. I couldn’t listen to any more. I might have kept you from discovering if there was anything to discover. I don’t usually interfere when I’ve specifically asked for someone to take on a task.”
“I don’t think we would have found out anything other than what we did,” Kieran said.
“What did we find out?”
Kieran was thoughtful. “I don’t think she did know anything about her husband’s plan to escape, and I don’t think he’s seen her. I’m pretty sure the escape took her entirely by surprise. And she does have a weakness.”
“What is that?”
“Jealousy. She didn’t want there to have been anyone involved, anyone helping him. Especially if it might be another woman.”
“Do you think she has had a communication with him since he’s escaped?”
“No, I don’t think so, and that bothers her. She doesn’t want him to die, but I’m not so sure she minded him being locked up. It made her something of a martyr to her cause. These are my impressions. All the training in the world will never make anyone completely understand the working of another person’s mind.”
“Of course. But I’ve seen you be right on many occasions,” Egan told her. “Well, then, want to go get that puppy you seem to be adopting?”
“Fostering,” Kieran told him. She followed him down the hallway to Craig’s small office.
Before they reached the office, Egan’s phone rang, and he paused to answer it. After saying “yes” a number of times, he paused. “I need to see Nicholson’s attorney for just a minute,” he told Kieran.
He headed down to the floor’s reception area. Kieran tagged along. Egan didn’t object.
Cliff Watkins was standing waiting with a young female agent.
“Mr. Watkins. What can I do for you?” Egan asked him.
“I hear you were interrogating Amy Nicholson,” Watkins said.
The man didn’t appear to be angry, just tired.
“We weren’t interrogating her.”
“You should have asked me to come, too,” Watkins said.
“Mrs. Nicholson wasn’t under arrest, and she wasn’t being interrogated. We were asking for her help.”
“You have Miss Finnegan here,” Watkins noted, nodding Kieran’s way. “You were obviously trying to get something out of her.”
“Yes,” Kieran said, “we’re hoping to get Mr. Nicholson back into custody before he kills again—or gets himself into trouble.” She hesitated. “In a confrontation with officers or agents.”
She wondered about the lawyer, and what it was like to defend a man who had admitted to such heinous crimes. She wondered why his firm had decided this was a case to take on pro bono—unless they wanted the media attention it drew.
Except Watkins seemed to try to avoid the press.
But everyone accused of a crime deserved a defense. And Watkins hadn’t tried to say his client was innocent—a difficult task, certainly, when Nicholson had been caught just about red-handed and had confessed.
Watkins looked older than his years, and exhausted. His suit—usually impeccable—seemed a bit rumpled, and his head could have used a shave. Little sprouts were appearing on his customarily bald pate. Maybe it was just getting to be too much for the man.
It had probably been hell for him since Nicholson had escaped.
Watkins shook his head and let out a long sigh. He looked around. “Off the record, they’re crazy people. I mean, I’m begging him—and the courts—to force the mental health issue. Thing is, Amy is...well, she isn’t a killer, but she’s got a lot of issues, and I don’t want...”
“We’re not out to hurt your client. I have no problem believing he’s delusional,” Egan said. “We need him locked up. And we need to know if he killed again.”
Watkins nodded. “If you need to speak to her again, I ask the courtesy of being present. And I’m to be informed immediately when you do find my client. At the moment—other than the fact he’s on the loose—you have no evidence that suggests he killed again.”
“Other than the method,” Egan said softly.
“You need more than—” Watkins broke off, waving a hand in the air. “You already have him on enough. But I wouldn’t guarantee it’s the same man. Copycats are always out there. Look, I can’t force anything legally, but...someone like Amy...who knows what she’ll say? She needs an attorney.”
Egan was noncommittal. He smiled and offered Watkins his hand. “We’ll all hope Nicholson is apprehended as quickly as possible,” he said.
“Thank you,” Watkins said. He nodded to Kieran and she nodded in return. They waited as he headed back to the elevator.
Egan didn’t speak again until he was gone.
“Good lord! Let’s get the dog and get out of here!”
The dog had been very good; there were no messes.
“Leash is on the desk,” Egan said.
She nodded, collecting the leash. “Nothing else for him, huh? No food, toys, or anything?”
“No, Craig just had the dog, said he couldn’t figure out anything more expedient than to take him and... I think he just liked the dog.”
“I see.”
She attached the leash to Ruff’s collar. As she stood, a thought occurred to her. “Craig and Mike are at the building where Mayhew was murdered, looking for Ruff’s owner, Mr. Blom, right?”
“Yes,” Egan said.
“I was just thinking...if there is a way to find Blom, Ruff just might be able to help. Who better to sniff out where his master went?”
“You might be right. Okay, Special Agent Jimenez planned on driving us on over to Finnegan’s. We’ll make a big detour and head to the Upper East Side, see if the dog does have anything to show us,” Egan agreed.
Kieran scooped up the dog and they headed out. Jimenez—Jimmy Jimenez, a fairly new recruit, young, polite, and likeable—was waiting for them. Kieran knew him because Craig and Mike had brought him by Finnegan’s a few times.
He greeted her warmly and listened to Egan’s new directions, nodding at his new assignment. “Hopefully, traffic won’t be too bad. Saturday afternoon isn’t nearly so horrible as Friday.”
Ruff gave a little yelp, as if he were in complete agreement.
On the way, she realized this was a case Egan was interested in, and he hadn’t been to the building yet either. He was in his position because he was good at assigning the right men and women to their cases. He wasn’t a micromanager, but this was a high-profile case. The building looked to Kieran to be about 1890s, well-maintained, with handsome architectural features with molding and brick.
A doorman—or security guard—met them at the door. Egan showed his credentials, asking for the whereabouts of his agents. They were brought to another man, Simon Wrigley, older and warier than the guard who had first greeted them. He called a third man he introduced as Joey Catalano, who had now been working nearly twenty-four hours, but was staying on because he had been on duty the night before, when Mayhew had been murdered.
At last the man named Catalano brought them to a door, unlocked it with a master key, and showed them the way down to the basement.
The first t
hing Kieran noticed was that Craig and Mike had both taken off their jackets. They were hanging over the rail at the foot of the stairway. But she didn’t see either man.
Egan called out for them over the mechanical hum of the air heating and cooling system.
Mike came from one direction, Craig from another. They had their sleeves rolled up as well, as if they had been working for a long time.
Craig didn’t appear at all pleased to see them, but as he got closer, Ruff let out an excited sound. Kieran set him down. The dog raced toward Craig.
“We thought the dog might help pick up a trail,” Egan said.
Craig stooped down, apparently certain the dog was coming to him.
But Ruff didn’t go to Craig. He rushed past him, barking excitedly. Kieran couldn’t see where he went because he raced behind a section of wall.
“What...” Craig muttered, following the dog.
Everyone trailed behind Craig.
Ruff had paused, as if confused, beyond the area where the massive heating and cooling system sat, in a middle area with a clean floor and space to see stacks of tools and products neatly kept against the walls.
One section of boxes had been completely shifted. It looked like someone was in the middle of reorganizing and the boxes might eventually be returned to a position against the wall, Kieran thought.
Ruff began to race in circles.
Barking.
“What is with him?” Egan asked. “Craig, maybe you’d better...”
“Sir, I think we should leave him be,” Craig said. He approached the dog, hunkering down next to it, not trying to stop him when he ran in a circle again.
“What is it, boy?” Craig asked.
Ruff left the clear area where he’d been running in his circles; he darted to the piles that had evidently been recently moved.
He sniffed there for a minute and started barking again.
Craig followed the dog, frowning.
“Ruff, there’s nothing there. I know that for certain.”
Kieran wondered if the pup wasn’t just looking for a place to lift his leg.
The Final Deception Page 9