The Final Deception

by Heather Graham

  “She does get into enough trouble on her own,” Fuller murmured, winking at Kieran. Miro didn’t see the wink.

  “Bentley!” she chastised. “We might have put her into danger.”

  Kieran inhaled on a deep breath. “I’m not in any danger. Nicholson said as much. And you know Craig. I came up here with an FBI escort.”

  “Yes, well, we knew you would be with your family or Craig over the weekend, but then...oh, actually, he must have been quite busy,” Miro said.

  “You know, Nicholson pulled off that escape not more than three hours after we left,” Fuller noted.

  “Yes,” Kieran said.

  “And murdered again,” Miro murmured.

  Kieran paused for a moment and then said quietly, “No, I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t? But I understand the method of Charles Mayhew’s murder was Raoul Nicholson’s method...exactly,” Fuller said. “I spoke to Assistant Director Egan yesterday.”

  “And I’m sure he told you another man was also killed,” Kieran reminded him.

  Fuller and Miro exchanged significant glances. “We did have you speak with Mr. Nicholson because, quite frankly, for all our experience, neither of us was sure we’d read him well enough. He seems so real, so passionate. But I have seen psychotics who can pull off amazing acts, and sociopaths who have learned to pretend they have emotion. They can even fake regret. With Nicholson...”

  “I am ninety percent sure he really hears a voice. I asked him about that voice...” They both looked at her, waiting. She plunged in. “It’s just a theory,” she said, and they both nodded. “Law enforcement thinks he had help—with knowledge of the guards, the layout of the prison, and other factors—to escape. A voice in his head? Maybe. But maybe a real voice. Mayhew’s apartment was impossible to get into, but the killer there used another resident to get into the building initially. He killed that resident he had made use of and got in with his key card, and probably used that man’s friendship or acquaintance to get Mayhew to bring him to his apartment level. I believe there is another killer—someone who wanted Mayhew dead, and wanted Raoul Nicholson blamed for the murder. Maybe that same person has been Nicholson’s ‘voice.’”

  “Then you’re talking about someone Nicholson was close to before his arrest,” Fuller said. He looked at Kieran. “You’ve given Craig this theory, right?”

  “Yes, more or less. He questions it all himself. And he is very thorough.”

  Fuller looked at his watch. “I have to be in court. The Bellamy case. Thankfully, that little girl is going to live. Her mother is one of the most blaring cases of Munchausen’s syndrome by proxy I have ever seen. I’m afraid the girl will be looking for foster care. The father isn’t in the picture. I hope they find the right someone for that child. She’s going to need a lot of help. Kieran, can you...?”

  “She’s adorable, and it broke my heart to find out she was being continually poisoned by her own mother,” Kieran said softly. “I do very well with her. I’m happy to give her all the time we can, and work with trying to find her the right fit while her mom...winds up wherever she’s going to wind up.”

  “I have to be at the local precinct,” Miro murmured. “Kieran, you have Lynda Semple in about thirty minutes, and right after lunch, the Nottingham teenager, Shelly. You’re...all right?”

  Kieran smiled. “I am just fine, thank you,” she said. She gave them a firm smile. “Go—go forth and conquer. I have Jake and an FBI agent here with me. I’m in good hands.”

  She had barely taken a seat in her own office before her phone rang. It was Egan, just checking to see if she was comfortable, if Special Agent Milo DeLuca was discreet enough for her to function well.

  “He’s great,” Kieran assured him. “Though, I admit, I feel quite guilty, you putting a man on duty to protect me.”

  “Don’t feel guilty. He’s not just protecting you,” Egan said.

  “Oh?”

  “If Nicholson did like you, you’re a person he might try to contact.”

  “Oh. Well, then...anyway, thanks. You have work. I have work...”

  “Hanging up now,” Egan said, and the call cut off.

  Kieran set her phone down and logged on to her computer, glancing at the clock. Her first appointment that day was a young woman named Lynda Semple. She had been the victim of an abusive husband, and the police had been called regarding their arguments several times.

  She had refused to press charges, as so many women did.

  But eventually the husband attacked their young son. Lynda had pressed charges, and she was now going through intense therapy. Prosecutors feared she would recant; there were other witnesses, but it was important Lynda not hesitate on the stand—for herself and for her child. Kieran believed she was getting stronger each time they had a session. As always, she could only hope she was right. Lynda wouldn’t be alone; she was being given protection by the NYPD. She had a restraining order against her husband, though he was out on bail.

  Kieran had thirty minutes, though, before Lynda arrived. She found herself looking up killers who heard voices, along with fanatics who had killed by inciting mass suicide. Certainly, the worst case seemed to have been Jim Jones, who had ordered the suicide of 909 of his followers in Guyana and the shooting death of Congressman Leo Ryan as well as others when they had tried to defect. He’d killed himself, too, but...

  She thought of the babies and little children, given cyanide by their own parents.

  Survivors and those who had managed to escape Jones’s hold at various times claimed it was not any god he had worshipped—it was power.

  She shook her head. Nicholson wasn’t about power.

  He was an earnest man, an everyman, not particularly charming, like a Ted Bundy who had smiled and coerced his victims into his clutches, claiming injury with a sweet smile. He hadn’t slowly lured them into his hold like a Jim Jones, preaching to his flock.

  He had simply watched them and taken them by surprise, strangling them until they were dead, removing their eyes and tongue and then burning them, but at least killing them before the torture of mauling and burning their bodies.

  But Olav Blom had somehow been talked into going to the basement of his building, possibly even by crawling down an old ice delivery system.

  His killer had known about the building—down to looking through old blueprints until he had found the one chink in the armor, the old ice chute that had just been drywalled and plastered over.

  She shook her head. That just wasn’t Raoul Nicholson’s MO. His learning had to do with the oldest and most severe religious texts he had come across. He knew how to design furniture that was unique and gave him a survival income while he created his True Life religion.

  Kieran sat back, thinking, idly thumping a pencil on her desk. So far, the one kind of witness they had really needed had eluded them.

  Nicholson hadn’t given away any members of his True Life flock.

  Amy Nicholson had told Dr. Fuller after their first interview she didn’t know the names of the church members. They were like an AA club and only first names were given, not for anonymity, but because that was all that was needed. They were chosen, one true family, and if they had a surname, that name would be Chosen.

  Raoul Nicholson had been ready to pay his dues. His “higher power” would have rewarded him for eternity.

  She jumped when her intercom went off. It was Jake in reception. Her first appointment had arrived.

  “Send her back, please,” Kieran said.

  She slammed her computer closed, decided not to think of anything but the person she was charged to help at this moment. She loved what she did, which was usually helping people get by tough times in their lives, helping with the legal system at the same time. She wasn’t an agent; Craig was the agent. These hours, she owed to her work.

  But later she’d g
et back on it. Because pieces were coming together. It didn’t look like it, but there was something there, something she was just missing in her thoughts.

  And she knew she had to figure out what it was, agent or not, for her own peace of mind.

  * * *

  Mark Givens had a headful of graying hear and was almost as lean as Bart Washington, evidently a man accustomed to moving all day, to working manually and enjoying it.

  When they met, just inside Mona’s Deli and Café on Canal Street, he was wearing an apron, though the café had yet to open. Mark Givens might have constructed furniture before, but apparently he was already manager of the café, and it was no problem for him to sit with them at the back of the café to talk.

  He shook hands with them and didn’t seem to begrudge them his time, though like Washington, he let Craig and Mike know he’d talked to police and agents already.

  “Raoul was pretty good to us, except when it came to a holiday. He didn’t believe in holidays. Only the legal status of holidays allowed for me and Bart to keep our jobs, and celebrate like the rest of the country. He didn’t like to micromanage. He’d give us his designs and orders, and expect Bart and me to get it all done. He worked himself—all day in the office. He did the billing, he acquired our supplies. He was regular about everything—even brought in muffins or special doughnuts or whatever from that place he went to every morning. He was polite, decent, all that stuff. I know Bart was surprised when he was arrested. I’m not so sure that I was. I mean, looking back on the guy, he’d sit in his office and seem to be working, but sometimes I’d see him looking up. He didn’t drop down on his knees or anything, but...it was like he was talking to someone. Or listening. Imaginary friend, you know. But I guess his imaginary friend was telling him who to kill when. I mean, I don’t get it. He was a family man, always heading home to his wife and, in the past few years, really bummed out his kids had moved on. Me, if my kids didn’t want anything to do with me at all anymore, and they weren’t junkies or criminals, but cool college types, I’d have taken a step back to worry about what I was doing that caused the situation. Never got to go to college myself, but the guy didn’t help those two out. They did it on their own. Seems like his kids are okay.”

  “Did you have any communication with him after he went to jail?” Craig asked.

  “No, just his attorney, that Cliff Watkins. Decent guy, trying to do what was right for Amy and for us. He got a good deal on the business for Amy and severance pay for me and Bart. Bart was ready to quit. I couldn’t quite go that route yet. I live in the Bronx. Life is not cheap. And honestly? I like working, like meeting people, like keeping busy and...well, frankly, the few weeks I was home with my wife, we kind of drove one another crazy. Working is good.”

  “Let’s ask you this, though. I mean, Nicholson isn’t a stupid guy, but did you think he was a particularly smart guy, like one who might know all about buildings or the way that jails work?” Mike asked.

  “He was a smart enough guy where figures were concerned,” Givens said. “He knew what we were going to make on every piece we worked on. He knew his overhead, that’s for sure. But I remember one day he got his key stuck in the lock. He called me, frustrated, thinking he was going to have to pay a locksmith. But I’d phoned to tell him I was going to be a few minutes late—there was a problem with the A-train. I told him just to go have a cup of coffee or something and wait. I’d get a pincer and we’d get his key unstuck. It was easy enough. Ran into the little hardware store near the shop, bought a five-dollar tool, and got the door open, and we were good to go. I guess, after that, it is a little mind-boggling to think the guy got himself out of jail and off the island.”

  “He hasn’t tried to contact you? He hasn’t come in here?” Craig asked.

  Givens shook his head. “No. I don’t think I’d be the one he’d try to contact. I am careful when I leave here, though. And you’ll never guess what I got the day the man was arrested.”

  “A large dog?” Mike suggested.

  Givens nodded gravely. “Damn straight. Older guy. He’d worked a K-9 unit, and his owner had passed away. He was up for adoption. Massive shepherd. Love the guy. No one is coming near my place without me knowing it. And here’s the thing. I don’t think Nicholson is a brave guy. He went after three young women and then that fashion designer, a little guy, maybe five-five and a hundred twenty pounds, and then from what I read, the accountant he killed was pretty small, too. Larry Armistice. I remember his name, because I thought, what a bitch. The guy was due to retire from his firm in less than a month. His golden years were just starting, and they were cut short before they started. But looked like he was a small guy. I mean, maybe some higher power was telling Nicholson who to kill, but he sure wasn’t told to kill anyone who might have fought back. No big, tall women, no bulky males, no one he couldn’t take. Like I said, the guy wouldn’t call on me as a friend, and I stand a good six-three, spend a few nights a week at the gym, and now I have a big dog.”

  “Can you think of anyone who might help us figure out who did help him?” Mike asked.

  Givens frowned. “You believe someone helped him?”

  “You just said it yourself. He couldn’t get a broken key out of a lock,” Craig reminded him.

  Givens paused thoughtfully. “I know he loved his wife, and he was estranged from his sons. I never heard about him being social or anything. He wasn’t the kind of guy who was going to meet friends on a Saturday to tour the Met. Nor did he ever mention saving up to go to the theater. The only thing he did that was remotely social, that I know about, was stop by the coffee shop every morning. I guess he liked someone there, the wait staff, regular customers—I don’t know. He’d bring things in now and then, and he often made comments like, ‘That Annie. She knows how to run a good business and have plenty of good customer service. That’s what we’re aiming for boys, a tightly run ship, good service, and customers who come back for more.’”

  “We’ve stopped by Annie’s. Haven’t found anyone yet who knew him, but we’ve talked to you and Bart now, and between you, all we’ve got is the coffee shop. So we’ll head in for some breakfast nice and early tomorrow,” Mike said, rising.

  “Breakfast!” Givens said. “How rude of me. Can I offer you anything? On the house?”

  “Thank you, but we have to get moving,” Craig said. As usual, he handed out a card. “If you think of anything, if you suspect you might be in any danger—”

  “I’ll call you.”

  “Well, if you’re in immediate danger, dial 911. But if you think you’re being watched, or he’s been by this place or your home, call us,” Craig said. They headed out.

  “You know, we could have paused long enough for lunch,” Mike said.

  “Yeah, I know—we’ll go through some lousy drive-through on the way down to Princeton. You made sure we’re going down there for a reason, right?

  “I didn’t really want John Nicholson to know we’re coming, but I called the school and got through to a counselor. He should be in class until six this evening. We’ll catch him coming out.”

  Mike glanced at his watch. “We could have had lunch,” he said.

  Craig grinned and glanced his way. “Not to worry. Tonight, for sure, we’ll head straight to the pub. There’s plenty of good food there.”

  “Yeah... I’m already tasting the bangers and mash. Or maybe corned beef or...” He broke off and looked at Craig, pained. “We are going to have to get something, though. Promises just aren’t going to work for my stomach right now. You might have noticed—it is lunchtime.”

  “We’ll hit a drive-through as soon as we see one. Will that do?”

  Mike nodded. Craig thought that he was thinking about food.

  He wasn’t.

  “Nicholson didn’t kill Charles Mayhew or Olav Blom,” Mike said. “Mayhew was a pretty big man. And Blom was no small fry, either. Not tha
t you can fight back much once your throat is slashed, but...” He turned and stared at Craig. “I am thinking, more and more, we are looking at two killers.”

  “Yeah. And one of them knows locks, keys, jails, and buildings,” Craig said. “We still have to get Nicholson. If we can get him, well, then, we just might have our ticket to finding his accomplice—Mayhew’s killer.”

  * * *

  It was a long day but a good one. Kieran had given her attention to Lynda Semple and then Shelly Nottingham. She really liked them both. Despite the hardships life had cast their way, both realized there were good things out there to be had as well, and were slowly gaining the strength to know they deserved them too.

  Lynda had been a hard sell at first. She had long ago accepted her role as a punching bag; her husband had been the one who supported the family. That had, in her mind, made her a servant.

  Lynda had joined a support group at Kieran’s suggestion. She was now amazed at herself, and not just willing to testify against her husband, but anxious to do so—and to see him locked up and herself divorced.

  Of course, Kieran reflected, closing her files for the day, it wasn’t just women or children who might wind up abused. It was less common, but she had dealt with a few men during her time with Drs. Fuller and Miro, and some of them had accepted their fates, as well. Today, though, work-wise, had been productive, and she felt good when she walked out to the reception area.

  Special Agent Milo DeLuca was waiting for her, serenely playing a game on his phone.

  “Ready to go home?”

  “To the pub. Craig is meeting me there. We’ll head home together after, and you’ll be off for the night, right?”

  He smiled. “I’m off when the new agent replaces me at eight,” he said. “This is an assignment I’m not minding at all.” Despite the time and the Monday traffic, the ride went quickly. The good thing was there was more traffic heading north out of downtown than there was traffic heading south.