The Final Deception

by Heather Graham

  In truth, he had. It had been his insistence that they find out why she wasn’t at work, and why she hadn’t answered her phone.

  Kieran could hear that sirens were close; an ambulance was on the way.

  “Stay with her. Get to the hospital with her,” Kieran said, and she ran through the apartment, back to the kitchen, Mike close behind her.

  There wasn’t so much a back door as there was a fire escape. She looked up; escape stairs from the two floors above joined those on this floor. A little metal platform allowed one to get from the kitchen to the stairs. They didn’t have to be dropped; they were permanent, fixed down the side of the building and landing on a narrow porch that circled the building.

  Craig was already on the ground.

  Mike followed him down and Kieran went after, but she paused, seeing that there was something glimmering in the morning sun, caught on the metal of the stairs.

  She started to reach down, but paused when she realized she wasn’t wearing gloves.

  “Mike!” she called.

  He looked up.

  “There’s something here.”

  “What?”

  “I need gloves!”

  He headed back up to her; his hands were already gloved by the time he reached her.

  “What, where?” he asked.

  She pointed. Mike withdrew the shiny piece.

  Kieran gasped. It was small, but the bowl had jagged edges.

  It was a grapefruit spoon.

  * * *

  “She should really just go through the Academy and maybe join a profiling team,” Mike told Craig. He was referring to Kieran, of course. “She swears, though, that Milo was the one who wanted to check on Annie right away.”

  Craig nodded. “Good instincts on the part of Milo DeLuca,” he said. “Except, of course, that his job is to watch over a civilian, one who has a true penchant for trouble, and he manages to drag her along on all his adventures.”

  Mike grinned; they were seated in the hallway at the hospital again. Annie Sullivan was going to be all right; in truth, they were only keeping her for observation. She had just been transferred from Emergency to a room, and the doctors were still with her.

  Kieran was down the hall, trying to coerce the coffee machine into giving up a cup.

  Milo was pacing.

  Mike leaned back. “Well, face it. You’ve dragged her into things before—your cousin’s situation. And then, of course, when you met her, her brother was involved, and then, a woman shoved a baby into her arms...trouble finds her. Can’t blame Milo—or her—for that,” Mike pointed out.

  Craig shrugged.

  “So what are we dealing with this time?” Mike asked. “Killer gassed Annie. Maybe he didn’t want to have to see her face or feel her struggle when he strangled her. But he left his gas can outside, and he apparently escaped and lost his grapefruit spoon along the way. So, what are we looking at here? Nicholson or the copycat?”

  “We’re looking at us, a day late and a dollar short again,” Craig said. He winced, leaning his head back to rest on the wall. “One of them was there. One of them came and knocked Annie out. He might have been waiting, hiding in that little courtyard-under-the-stairwell area. And that’s why he left his gasoline can there. He was waiting, trying to make sure that his knockout gas had worked on Annie.”

  “We had to break the door down. How did he get in?” Mike asked.

  “It was a small cannister. He might have knocked on the door. She might have let him in.”

  “Then she’d know who it was.”

  “She barely knows who she is right now. They’re still cleaning the sedation out of her system.”

  “Was it laughing gas? The kind you get at a dentist?” Milo suggested. “I mean, too much of any sedation can be...too much. I’m sure the doctors will tell us. Thing is, why was she targeted? Was Annie a ‘witch,’ or do you think she knows too much?”

  “Not laughing gas,” Mike said. “It might have been methyl propyl ether.”

  “You think she’s hiding information? That she might know more about Nicholson, or his lieutenant, than she’s saying?” Craig asked.

  “We do know now that all of Nicholson’s victims had records,” Mike said.

  “Do you know who we haven’t seen yet?” Craig asked.

  “Who?”

  “His old pastor. He went to a recognized Unitarian church before he went off on his own. The church wasn’t strict enough for him. I never really knew if he left on his own, or if he was asked to leave,” Craig said. He stood. “I’m going to go to find his old pastor... Axel Cunningham. Nicholson’s son said that his father had a falling-out with him, or that he may know his movements now that he’s out—a hideaway. The guy’s rectory was right by his church. Then, I’m going to find Mr. Cliff Watkins, Esquire, and find out what he knows about Nicholson and the fact that his victims had all been jailed for various offenses.” He started to walk away, but then spun and went back.

  “Mike—”

  “Aw, come on, Craig. I can talk to Annie just fine.”

  “I know you can. But—” He paused, indicating Kieran, who was finally getting coffee out of the machine, and Milo, who was still pacing.

  “I’ll watch the children, too,” Mike said dryly. “Can’t knock them, though. Looks like they might just have saved two lives now.”

  No, he couldn’t knock them. He went to Kieran, who was smiling in triumph at having gotten the machine to work.

  “I’ll be back. Mike is staying. You...you guys did great. But this is getting pretty damned scary.”

  “I will stay right here!” she promised, then kissed him lightly. “Go. I’ll be right here—or, wherever Milo and Mike may be.”

  He hesitated, not wanting to encourage her to include herself on dangerous outings; he’d come too close to losing her, a few times too many. But she was good—at people, and, it seemed, yes, for finding trouble—and at following the right twists and turns.

  Saving lives. She deserved that recognition.

  “You and Milo...great instincts today,” he said.

  “Thank you! I did call you right away. Great timing!” she said, returning the compliment.

  He smiled. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  * * *

  “I really could go home, or even to work!” Annie said, propped up on her hospital bed. She was no longer in her pretty nightdress, but rather a plain hospital gown in lifeless green.

  She was still a pretty girl. And Milo was wide-eyed and happy by her side. He wasn’t trying to talk to her; he was letting Mike do all the work.

  Her eyes widened, and it seemed that her face grew pale. “But oh, if you hadn’t come... I might be dead now. That’s...terrifying. I love my apartment, but I don’t know if I can ever go back there now.”

  “What were your movements yesterday?” Mike asked.

  “My movements?” She shrugged. “I went to work. I came home. I was...kind of late. But still, I run a coffee shop. We don’t stay open nights. We close at 6:00. But of course, if people are there, we don’t throw them out. Then, there’s cleanup and prep for the morning. So, late for me was...hmm, I think I got into my apartment at about 9:30.”

  “And then?” Mike asked.

  “Well, since I work in a restaurant, I have to admit, I sometimes feel a little bit like walking maple syrup, or barbecue sauce. I took a long shower, and I was in bed by 10:30. I know because I watched the news, and I think I fell asleep when they were doing a recap on the attack on Mr. Wrigley yesterday.”

  “Annie,” Kieran said, speaking up, “this is really, really important. Do you think that there was something between Raoul Nicholson and Simon Wrigley that you maybe didn’t really see, but might somehow remember?”

  She shook her head firmly. “I never saw Raoul and Mr. Wrigley speak. I’
m not even sure they were ever in at the same time.” She trembled suddenly. “Someone meant to kill me. To knock me out and come in and...strangle me and burn me!”

  “But they didn’t,” Kieran said. She smiled at Annie.

  Mike, seated by her, just seemed frustrated.

  Kieran’s phone rang, and she excused herself, expecting it to be one of her brothers. Again, no details were out, but with crime scene investigators coming to search for clues at Annie’s and a gas can left at the neighbor’s, they had certainly seen something on the media by now.

  She should have called one of them already to tell them that she was fine.

  But it wasn’t one of her brothers. It was the attorney, Cliff Watkins.

  “I just tried to reach Richard Egan or Craig Frasier,” he told her. “I couldn’t get through. Is it true? Has there been a Nicholson attack on a young woman?”

  “There has been an attack,” she said.

  “But the young woman is all right?”

  “Yes, she’s going to be all right.”

  “Well, thank God for that.” On the other end, Cliff Watkins hesitated. “Was it Nicholson who tried to kill her or a copycat? He hasn’t reached out to me, his wife, or his kids... Has he tried to reach you?”

  Kieran paused a minute. She didn’t know just what she was allowed to say to whom. Cliff Watkins was an officer of the court, bound by professional rules and regulations.

  That didn’t mean that there wasn’t something that he knew that he wasn’t saying. He was, after all, human.

  “I’m not sure. I think I see people in crowds who might not be there... Maybe he is out there, trying to figure out how to get to me, talk to me. You know, of course, that both Craig and Mike go by the book. Every move they make is legal, so you will be advised right away if they do find him or have any news of him.”

  Her words weren’t strictly the truth.

  Close enough for now.

  “Well, thank you,” Watkins said, and hung up.

  Kieran stared at the phone, reflecting on it for the moment.

  He was an attorney—a defense attorney. His firm had handled some of the most high-level cases in the city.

  He’d spent plenty of time out at the island with those he was defending. He was privy to all kinds of information. He knew details of the killings that had never been out in the media. Could he be involved in this new wave of murders?

  Why would Cliff Watkins want to kill Charles Mayhew, and try to see that it was blamed on Raoul Nicholson?

  She paused in the hallway and called Craig. She got through no problem, unlike Watkins, apparently. Craig had just reached Pastor Axel Cunningham’s rectory.

  She quickly told him which way her thoughts had turned.

  “Watkins,” Craig said. “The one man close to this all that we hadn’t considered. Hard to imagine that an attorney of such note could possibly be involved.”

  “He could have known about the people Nicholson killed as witches, known about their past records. He’d have access to so much that others might not have. He saw Raoul Nicholson the day that he escaped. He might well know enough about the workings of jails and infirmaries to have laid out the plan for Raoul Nicholson to have escaped. And he just called me and asked if Nicholson had tried to reach me. Look, from what I’ve seen of the man, he’s a straight shooter, but...who knows? The only thing I can’t figure is why he’d want to kill Charles Mayhew.”

  “We’ve had the task force going through records. Mayhew had to have done something that angered somebody enough to make them want to kill. I’m going to call Marty Kim. If anyone can find dirt on someone, it’s Marty. Stay in touch. Call me if anything changes.”

  “You are number one on my speed dial,” she reminded him.

  “Thanks,” he said softly, and ended the call.

  Kieran paused in the hallway for a minute, at an angle where she could look through the doorway to Annie Sullivan’s room.

  Mike was still seated by her legs, right on the bed.

  Milo was next to her. They seemed to be talking about something that had nothing to do with the attack; she was smiling.

  Milo was looking at her, the stars in his eyes evident.

  She frowned.

  Timing.

  So much came down to timing.

  It was possible for Raoul Nicholson to have escaped and killed Mayhew, but not very probable. He would have needed to get a key, get Olav Blom outside...gotten back in through the ice delivery chute...

  He had to know more than just how to escape from the island—he had to have known something about the building ahead of time.

  But due to his past, a prosecutor might well have made a case that Nicholson had been the killer.

  She knew in her gut that he wasn’t.

  She was about to head back into Annie’s room when her phone rang.

  Craig couldn’t possibly be getting back to her again this quickly.

  She looked at the number; it was an unknown.

  “Hello?”

  “Miss Finnegan?”

  The voice was hushed and low. Raoul Nicholson.

  “Mr. Nicholson, yes, it’s me.”

  “Can you talk?”

  “I’m standing alone in a hospital hallway. Annie Sullivan was attacked.”

  “I thought that might happen. I...” He stopped speaking.

  “Please, if you were to come in, or tell me something, we could help you. You will get help. Even if you go to prison, you’ll be alive—”

  “There’s construction at my old shop. Seven p.m. Please, I’m begging you. Say nothing, and come alone.”

  “Wait, please, you have to understand—”

  She broke off; she was talking to air. He had already hung up.

  Tonight—at 7:00. Come alone.

  She couldn’t do it, of course; she couldn’t do it. But...

  Something had to be arranged. It might be her only chance to reach him.

  Their only chance to stop a killer before more people died.

  * * *

  “Pastor Cunningham,” Craig said. The man had answered the door to his rectory, a little room off the main body of his church. A Unitarian church, somewhat strict in its teachings, but nowhere near as fanatical as the True Life church Raoul Nicholson had created.

  Cunningham was somewhere in his early fifties, tall, distinguished looking, with platinum hair going white and cool blue eyes that were probably a blue fire when he was passionate in the midst of a sermon.

  “Special Agent Frasier,” Cunningham said wearily. “I’ve been expecting you. Come in, please. Can I get you anything?”

  “No, no. I’ve come for help.”

  “I wish I had help to give.”

  Cunningham led him from the entry to a sparse parlor. There were chairs by a fireplace, glowing with an electric set of logs, and a bookcase holding religious texts. Cunningham asked him to take a chair.

  Once seated, Craig launched right in. “You were once Raoul Nicholson’s spiritual adviser. Someone he might come back to now.”

  “You do realize that while I’m not a Roman Catholic priest, what members of my congregation say to me in confidence must be confidential. I’m protected by the law on that.”

  “So, he has come to you.”

  “If I had something that would help you, I’d give it to you.”

  “But Pastor, you’re behaving as if you do know something. You don’t have to betray a confidence. If you know where Nicholson is, I’m hoping you’ll help us, so that an overzealous officer doesn’t kill him in the line of duty. We need Raoul.”

  Cunningham frowned. “You don’t think he’s guilty of killing again?”

  Craig shook his head. “No. We don’t.”

  Cunningham hesitated. “Well, honestly, I didn’t hear from him at f
irst. He must have gotten hold of a cell phone today. I didn’t know the number when my phone rang. But of course, being who I am, I answer my phone. And before you think it, I don’t hear voices of any kind.”

  “I didn’t think it,” Craig said.

  Cunningham stared toward his fireplace. “He sounded frantic. He told me that he hadn’t killed Charles Mayhew, that he didn’t even know Charles Mayhew, and he hadn’t even been in the Upper East Side in years. He says no one will believe the truth—his word against another’s word. And he’s afraid to show himself to anyone anywhere. Oh—and he’s questioning himself now. I think he hates himself. He now believes the voice was from an earthly source, and not that of a higher power. To be frank, I’m afraid he’s going to commit suicide.”

  “You have no idea where he was?”

  “I haven’t. I did tell him that he could find sanctuary with me. But he said that he just called to tell me that he had been wrong, that I was a good man, and that he was going to burn in hell for what he had done. But also, he’d been used. I, naturally, told him that he was confessing, and that all sins could be forgiven when they were truly repented in the heart. I did encourage him to come in. He sounded...wild. I’m sure he’s been painted as a lunatic, but he was different than I remember.”

  “You didn’t think to call any of us with this information?” Craig said lowly.

  “He said that he didn’t know who to trust. Like I said, I begged him to come to me and get help, but he said again that no one could be trusted.”

  Craig nodded. “Do you know anywhere he might be? Would he have gone home?” He didn’t mention that they had searched the man’s apartment that day.

  Cunningham shook his head. “I don’t know—I really don’t know. Amy Nicholson...well, I’m not sure she wanted him coming home. The attorney arranged for the sale of Raoul’s business and set up a trust for her. I think she intended to get rid of her apartment and relocate somewhere she wasn’t known. Then again, Amy was his...well, she was his chief supporter. In fact...”

  “In fact, what?”

  “I think that Raoul felt his children might not have left if it weren’t for her. Do you know much about the Amish, Special Agent?”