The Final Deception

by Heather Graham

  “Blake Hunter, waiter and actor,” Kieran told Milo.

  “Great, thank you,” Milo said. They sat and he said glumly, “Not that Blake probably isn’t a bad waiter, but...”

  “Ah, but he’s not Annie!” Kieran said.

  “No. He’s not Annie,” Milo said.

  “That’s all right. We’ll just ask for her,” Kieran told him.

  Blake was soon back at their table, delivering water, coffee, and menus. Kieran thanked him and then asked about Annie.

  “She hasn’t come in yet,” Blake said.

  “Is she due anytime soon?” Milo asked.

  “To be honest, she’s never this late. But she is the boss, a great boss. I mean, we all know what to do and our head cook is always the first one in. He’s here by 5:00 a.m. like clockwork. Rita there runs the counter, so we’re good. And Annie is the boss. Gets to be late, I guess.”

  “But,” Milo said, “she should be in soon.”

  “I expect her to come walking through that door at any time.”

  “Thanks,” Kieran said.

  They ordered the special omelets of the day, a mix of cheeses and veggies.

  When Blake had gone, Milo said, “Go figure. Wrigley gets attacked, but never saw his attacker. You saw Nicholson with Wrigley, but you don’t believe that Nicholson attacked him.”

  “You didn’t see Nicholson in the alley?” Kieran asked.

  “I didn’t see anyone but you. I guess both of them, Nicholson and the possible other guy, disappeared down the subway. Or blended in with a crowd. In the subway you move fast, you get low, and even if cops and agents were right there, it would have only taken a matter of minutes to get down to the trains.”

  Kieran hesitated. She had looked to see if Nicholson had been watching her building again last night.

  She had not seen him.

  Maybe he had given up on trying to reach her alone.

  “Yeah, it would have been easy for them to run around the corner—and to the subway—in just a matter of minutes.”

  Milo was looking at the door.

  He frowned suddenly and cleared his throat. “Kieran?”

  “What?”

  “I’m worried.”

  “Well, the whole thing is worrisome, but—”

  “No. About Annie.”

  “Milo, I don’t think that she’s that late.”

  “Can we at least get someone to call her—check up on her?”

  “Well, I can suggest it—”

  “Do that.”

  Milo was truly worried. Kieran wondered if she should be, too. She stood and walked over to the counter and asked the woman called Rita if it was possible to call Annie and find out if she was coming in soon.

  “Honey,” the woman said. “You don’t think that I haven’t already called her? This isn’t like her, not at all. She bought this place from her uncle and she is one hard worker, wanting to make it a real destination place—five stars and all that.”

  “So, you’ve tried to reach her?” Kieran said, frowning.

  “She’s not answering her cell phone. She doesn’t keep a landline at her apartment.”

  “Where does she live?” Kieran asked.

  The woman narrowed her eyes, looking at her suspiciously and said, “Honey, I know you’ve been here, I know that you’ve talked with her, but...”

  Kieran motioned for Milo to come to the counter. “My friend here is Special Agent Milo DeLuca. FBI. If you’re worried about Annie, we’re worried about her, too.”

  Milo obligingly brought out the flat little wallet containing his ID and badge.

  The woman studied it and grabbed the pen by the register and a napkin, scratching out an address.

  Kieran handed her a card. “Call us if she shows up?”

  “And you call me if you find Annie. Now you’ve got me really worrying!”

  Milo looked at Kieran and took the napkin from her. Neither spoke; they just turned to leave, anxious to get to the address in Hell’s Kitchen as quickly as possible.

  * * *

  The board of suspects Craig had been constructing in his mind was now a real one. He and Mike sat in the conference room, staring at the large whiteboard available to every member of the Fireman task force. On one side, pictures and information detailed the five murders of “witches” Nicholson had confessed to committing.

  There was a listing of Nicholson’s family members.

  To the right on the board, one list that detailed tenants of the building, and one that listed Simon Wrigley, Joel Catalano, and the rest of the security personnel who worked there.

  “Amy Nicholson,” Mike said.

  “She couldn’t have attacked Simon Wrigley. We were with her when he was attacked,” Craig said.

  “Well, Simon Wrigley didn’t attack Simon Wrigley,” Mike said. He shook his head. “So where is the connection between Nicholson killing witches, Nicholson escaping, and the deaths of Charles Mayhew and Olav Blom.”

  “Blom—we figured that was a matter of convenience,” Craig said.

  “Then why attack Simon Wrigley?”

  “It all goes back to Annie’s Sunrise somehow,” Craig said. “We know that Nicholson went there. And Wrigley went there.”

  “Charles Mayhew was really rich. What we need to figure out is, did he do something that caused someone else problems? Maybe lose a great deal of money? How are we doing with the forensic accountants?” Mike asked.

  Flipping open his laptop, Craig pulled up the report that their people had been working on. “Charles Mayhew gave to every heart, kidney, diabetes, and cancer institution out there,” Craig said, looking at the spreadsheet.

  “Tax dodges?” Mike asked.

  “Always a benefit, but okay, you want to kill Mayhew, and you happen to know a serial killer who hasn’t been granted bail. But if you can make it look like the serial killer was on the loose and killed Mayhew, you get away with it,” Craig said.

  “So we’re back to this—who wanted to kill Mayhew?”

  “Killing Mayhew couldn’t have benefited Raoul Nicholson. Since he was on the loose, it tightens the noose around his neck, so to say.”

  “But then again, where did the voices come from? Other than the cell phone.”

  Craig reached for a stack of manila folders containing profiles of each of the Fireman’s victims. “The first woman,” he muttered. “Gretchen Larson.”

  “The first victim whispered to Nicholson that she should kill him? Hey, maybe she was one of his flock, finding religion once she knew that she might not have long to live. She’s the one we know to have tested positive for HIV. You think she had a death wish? That she wanted to die before she began a slow descent?”

  “Maybe she did find religion. She had been arrested a few times for prostitution. Although how you find a ‘church’ like Nicholson’s is beyond me. We’re the FBI, and even we can’t find out who the members are. We’d need subpoenas, but no one even goes by a last name and judges are very worried about trampling on the rights of citizens. We’d need more info on someone than what we have. But, say in jail she talked to someone, and then that someone who had been with her gave Nicholson the clue on her illness, and that if she had sex with anyone, she’d possibly be giving that person a death sentence. Do you have the reports from the ME’s office? Was there anything wrong with or about the others that would suggest that they might be...witches, or, rather ordinary people, really, who could cause bad things to happen to others?”

  Craig leafed through the sheets in front of him. “Well, hmm. Our second girl didn’t have any other blood-related disease, but apparently she had been diagnosed with a brain tumor, and that tumor might have eventually caused ‘erratic’ behavior.”

  “Turn her into a killer?” Mike said skeptically.

  “Hey, I’m grabbing at s
traws here,” Craig said. “Is there anything in the third victim’s medical history? Uh, she was a star student, right?”

  “Nothing in the autopsy. She was a healthy girl, clean lungs, great heart...healthy, until she was dead,” Craig said. “Ah! But she did spend time in jail!”

  “A shoplifter?” Mike asked.

  Craig shook his head. “Protester, animal rights group. They held her on mischief charges because she pelted a number of people wearing fur and leather with red paintballs. Oh, and she was known to shout out threats, as in ‘Paintballs! Animals get knives and bullets—remember, people are animals, too. Maybe someone wants your skin!’”

  “You made that up?” Mike asked.

  “It’s in her record.”

  “So, if you weren’t an avid animal activist, you might think she meant those words and that she could turn into a killer,” Mike said thoughtfully. “What about the fashion designer?”

  “Victor Brava. I’m not seeing an arrest record. Oh...but wait! His daughter, Viola, was arrested and held on some drug trafficking.”

  “Didn’t mean she was held without bail, but she might have been. One more victim—the accountant. The guy we found in the street, still burning,” Mike added quietly.

  “Larry Armistice.” Craig flipped through the massive pile of records before them and looked at Mike. “You’re going to love this one. He spent time in jail, right here in New York. I don’t know how our people got it, because he wasn’t convicted, and the record had been expunged. He was brought in for child abuse.”

  “Okay, so Nicholson’s victims might have all somehow come through our legal system. How did he come in contact with these people? And what about Mayhew. He wasn’t ever arrested, was he?”

  After a moment Craig shook his head. “I know who we can call. Cliff Watkins may know things that he’s not sharing with us.”

  “Client-attorney privilege,” Mike reminded him.

  “He’s an officer of the court. If he can stop further violence, death, or criminal activity, he is required to do so.”

  “I don’t know. He may be unhappy with this case, but he’s a good attorney. He’s still Nicholson’s attorney of record. He can’t tell us anything that was said to him in confidence.”

  Craig shook his head. “I don’t think Nicholson said much in confidence. He talked to us before getting an attorney, and we almost had to push him to understand that he really needed to accept a public defender before Cliff Watkins came on, the pro bono sacrificial lamb from his firm. If there was a third party present—and there often was—things Nicholson said wouldn’t be limited under the law. Especially since we are facing the fact that whether we think he killed Mayhew and Blom or not, he very well may kill again.”

  “Let’s call him. We’ll set up a meeting,” Mike said.

  “No, let’s find him and talk to him now,” Craig said.

  But as he spoke, his phone began to ring. Caller ID told him it was Kieran.

  “Hey, what’s up?” he asked her.

  “Annie hasn’t shown up to work,” Kieran said.

  “Maybe it’s her day off?”

  “Craig, obviously we asked. She hasn’t shown, and she isn’t answering her cell phone. I’m forwarding her address. Milo and I are almost there. She might be just fine, sleeping or something. But we’re going to try to find out. To be safe. After yesterday. Hanging up and sending you the address—okay, see you here, unless I call right back, with everything all right.”

  “Kieran, wait. What is Milo thinking? Don’t go—”

  There was silence. She had hung up on him. He cursed softly, getting up.

  “We’re seeing Watkins?”

  “No, we’re going to find Kieran and Milo—who are searching for Annie Sullivan.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ANNIE’S APARTMENT WAS up a single flight of stairs; the building was only four floors, with one being the lower floor beneath her—a nice little space with something like a tiny courtyard.

  The outdoor space was almost completely taken up with a recycling bin and a trash can, but Kieran could still imagine that it would have been a nice space for a little pup like Ruff.

  But their attention was on the second floor, up a broad flight of stone steps from the sidewalk. Kieran rapped on the door; there was no answer. She saw that there was a buzzer, and she rang it.

  There was no response. Milo stepped past Kieran and pounded on the door.

  “Hello!” he shouted. “Annie, if you’re home, please open the door!”

  No one appeared at Annie’s, but the door to the apartment below on the basement level opened. A sleepy looking young man with long tousled hair came out. “Hey!” he whined. “You’re going to wake the damned dead. Annie is obviously not there!”

  “Did you see her leave this morning?” Milo demanded, his tone sharp.

  The man frowned, definitely feeling put-upon. “No. I saw her come home last night, and she goes to work real early. Go away. Come back tonight!”

  Milo produced his credentials. “She didn’t show up for work,” he said.

  “We’re worried,” Kieran said.

  “Do you hear that?” Milo asked her.

  She looked at him blankly. “Hear...?”

  He glared at her. “I think that someone is in distress in there. I hear screaming!”

  “What you hear is kids playing in the park,” the young man said, shaking his head.

  Kieran didn’t hear anything, but she did smell a funny, sweet odor. “Milo,” she began worriedly. She didn’t see smoke, and she didn’t smell it. Just something a little bit sickly sweet.

  She narrowed her eyes, frowning, but nodded at Milo. She was about to tell him that they needed to break in when the irritated young man spoke up again. “Did you leave this here? My brother visits with his kids and his dog. What the hell is this?”

  He picked something up.

  A gas can.

  “Break the door!” Kieran told Milo.

  He kicked the door to no avail; he tried again. Kieran was ready to help him when a car jerked to a halt on the street and Craig and Mike jumped out. The two hurried up the steps, and Kieran quickly said, “There’s a gas can down there in the little courtyard—”

  Craig and Mike each took a turn aiming a powerful kick against the door.

  It held.

  “What the hell is that smell?” Milo muttered, getting ready to slam the door again.

  “Gas,” Craig said.

  “Ah, crap, it is,” Mike grumbled.

  “Gas?” Milo said. “There’s a gasoline container down there, but I think it’s still—”

  “Not gasoline, kid,” Mike said. “Knockout gas. Methyl propyl ether, maybe. Any number of other gasses or combination of gasses. Be careful breathing.”

  “Careful...breathing?” Milo repeated.

  “We should have masks, but—”

  “We can’t wait,” Craig said. “Together. On three, guys. One, two, three!”

  They slammed the door again.

  This time, Kieran heard a crack as the wood around the bolt gave and the door flew inward.

  The apartment was all on one level; Milo split off and went to the right, Mike on his tail. Craig was headed to the left, probably thinking that Kieran would follow him, for the sake of her own personal safety, even if it was a crime scene.

  But it looked to her as if a dining area and small parlor were to the right, and the kitchen and pantry were to the left.

  The bedroom was straight ahead.

  She rushed in.

  Annie Sullivan lay on the mattress. She was still in a lacy nightgown, and with her hair spread out around her, she looked like the sleeping princess in a fairy tale.

  Kieran froze for a second; she covered her mouth with the edge of her blouse. She could see a small contai
ner that must have held the knockout gas on the floor at the foot of the bed.

  She hurried forward, falling to her knees at Annie’s side, seeking her wrist and a pulse.

  She had a pulse. She was alive.

  “Here!” she shouted. “Here—call 911. She’s alive! We need an ambulance!”

  Craig rushed in, and then the other agents. Milo cried out and pushed past Kieran, falling down on his knees, as well, shouldering her out of the way. “Oh, my God—oh, my God, oh, my God!” he cried.

  “Ambulance is on the way,” Mike said.

  Craig, on the other side of the bed, felt for her pulse. Then, he gave Annie a tap on the side of her cheek, once, again, and then again.

  “Craig!” Milo said indignantly.

  He ignored him. Wasting no time, he swept her up, hurrying outside the apartment. Out into the fresh air of New York City.

  May not have been the best ever, but it was better than the toxic air of the apartment.

  “Annie, Annie, come on, listen to me, listen to my voice, open your eyes,” Craig pleaded with the limp woman.

  Her eyelids fluttered slightly. He thrust Annie into Milo’s arms.

  “There’s a back door,” he said. Craig dashed back into the apartment. The young man living in the basement apartment started exclaiming loudly and in alarm. “You said there was knockout gas? That could have come into my apartment! And this gas, here...oh, jeez! I shouldn’t be living next to her...she knew that killer guy. That’s it, right? That serial killer is on the loose. He was going to burn Annie up, and I might have been knocked out and the whole place could have burned and oh, my God, gas—”

  He started to reach for the gas can.

  “Don’t—don’t! Don’t even think about touching that!” Mike said. “You’re fine. Gas is diluted out here. Go inside and wait. Emergency personnel are on the way.”

  “Oh man, I can’t believe this is happening right now!”

  “Shut up!” Milo roared, his voice loud, deep, and authoritative.

  Annie was conscious, but just barely. She was looking up at Milo with wide eyes. As he shouted, she seemed to grow more alert. Her lips moved in a whisper.

  “You saved me,” she whispered.