The Grey Falcon

by J. C. Williams

  Chad had an idea. He pulled the fire alarm.

  Chapter 2

  Chad watched his three suspects. The couple hurried toward an exit. The single woman followed the crowd. The grey-haired artist stood his ground for just a second and then moved quickly, without a limp, away from the exits, pulling a radio from beneath his coat.

  Good, Archer thought. Ponytail will realize that in less than ten minutes there will be police, firemen, and many emergency vehicles blocking the neighborhood. The activity outside will attract the public – more witnesses. He’ll call off the robbery. Chad’s quick thinking had moved the museum visitors out of harm’s way. Now, all he had to do was detain his suspect.

  Archer followed Ponytail along the catwalk, keeping close to the wall. His suspect weaved his way around the self-supported walls to the exhibition of porcelain. He lifted and shook several, then took one. Then the man hurried to an exit door.

  Chad quickly descended a spiral staircase to the fourth floor. Then he took the stairs opposite from his suspect. He suspected Ponytail’s destination was the ground floor delivery dock at the back of the building. Chad had to get there first. Luckily, the stairs on this end would come out next to the dock. His suspect would have to cross the ground floor.

  Archer reached the dock area and was shocked at the activity. The dock door was open, a truck was backed in, and the freight elevator was humming. The theft team was already at work moving items from the museum into the truck. Five minutes until lights out.

  It took only three minutes for the thieves to finish. They piled into the truck. Ponytail was there, counting heads and then pulling down the truck door. He banged on the back. The truck started. Ponytail pushed a button to close the dock door. Chad could hear the firemen coming in the front as Ponytail walked across the dark dock to the pedestrian door just around the corner from the stairwell where Chad waited and watched. The door’s small window let in just enough light from the dock’s emergency lights to form silhouettes and cast shadows.

  Chad had his eye on the porcelain vase that Ponytail still carried. Why he still had it, Chad didn’t know, but it now had the suspect’s fingerprints, maybe some sweat that would reveal DNA. If he couldn’t detain the man, he had to take the vase.

  Archer left his coat on the stairs, freeing both hands. He rushed out onto the dock and into the darkness. The man turned at the sound of Chad’s approach. Chad grabbed the top of the vase with hands strengthened from rock climbing. He pulled hard but Ponytail was just as quick and just as strong. Dropping his cane, he had both hands on the bottom of the vase.

  The vase was now a horizontal tug of war. The lid fell away crashing to the cement floor, shattering.

  Chad pulled harder. The suspect flipped his end up releasing it and Chad staggered back, stumbling, and losing his grip. He clawed at the air and the vase as it slipped away. His fingertips closed on the upside down urn. He pulled it to him as a wide receiver would. A white envelope slid from the vase. Photos slipped out, scattering on the floor as Chad twisted his body, letting his left shoulder take the fall, protecting the vase.

  Archer rolled, quickly rose to his knees, and gently placed the vase on the floor, while worrying about what was happening behind him.

  Ponytail swung the cane aiming at Chad’s neck. The hard metal blow knocked Chad forward. His vision blurred, his hands reached out to stop his fall. Time seemed to slow down. He saw a black and white photo, a ditch, bodies, and guns. Then, the lights went out in the museum. Chad slipped into semi-consciousness, his arms collapsed. He fell forward, his face meeting the concrete. He was lucky. The next blow from the cane, swung in the dark, landed solidly on his back instead of his head.

  Motionless, eyes closed, Chad sensed movement around him. Someone picking things up. A door closing. Seconds seemed like minutes. He couldn’t focus his thoughts. There was something he had to do. Something he had to remember. What was it? He pushed himself up to his hands and knees. One part of his brain registered two photos beneath him. Save them, he thought. His thoughts were scrambled. He was panicking. Don’t lose consciousness. Wait. What? Don’t forget the coat, he quietly screamed at himself. His hands closed on the photos, crushing them in his fists.

  Chad stood up wobbly and staggered to the stairwell. Still clenching his fists he maneuvered his arms into his coat, then he jammed his hands into the pockets releasing the photos. He half sat and half fell on the stairs, his head slumping against the wall. Unconsciousness swept away all thoughts.

  Five minutes later, though it could have been hours to him, Chad heard a distant voice calling and he felt a gentle shaking.

  “Sir? Sir, can you hear me?”

  A crackle of a radio. “I need medical help in the west stairwell, ground floor.”

  “Sir. Open your eyes. That’s it. Good. Good.”

  “What’s your name? Can you talk to me?”

  Chad felt his mouth moving, “Archer.” His vision cleared. Flashlights crisscrossed the dock. His head ached.

  An ambulance attendant checked him out. Sandy appeared, a look of concern on her face.

  “What did you tangle with, Archer boy? Your nose is bruised and blue. Are you with us Chad?” His eyes looked distant. “Is he okay?” she asked the medic.

  “A slight concussion, Inspector. I gave him a pain pill. He should be okay. But, maybe to be sure, or if he still feels woozy in the morning, see a doctor.”

  Chad spoke, “I’ll be fine.”

  “Okay, thank you,” Sandy said.

  “Did you get the vase?” Chad asked. He didn’t remember the photographs.

  “There’s no vase. There are pieces of porcelain on the floor. Some pieces might be large enough to lift prints.”

  “He didn’t touch the lid.”

  “Tell me what happened, Chad.”

  Chad recounted the events as he remembered them. He described Ponytail, but he suspected that the hair, beard, and mustache were part of a disguise.

  Tellier joined them.

  “His eyes were younger than he looked,” Chad said. “And, he was strong. What did they take?”

  “About the same as the other thefts,” Tellier reported.

  Ten miles away, the thief minus his disguise, handed over the vase and envelope. Zevic questioned him on the events and waited until he left to look at the photos. He counted them. Ten. Two were missing. He had to find the man that interfered at the museum. He had to retrieve the two missing pictures.

  June 17

  11 Days to Vidovdan

  Chapter 3

  “How are you feeling?” Adrien asked Chad the next morning.

  “I still have a headache,” Chad answered.

  “He needs to see a doctor,” Sandy stated with concern. “I told him we can have our Met doctor look at him. The one who looks at concussions.”

  “You should listen to her,” Tellier agreed.

  “See, Archer. Don’t be such a cowboy,” Sandy said.

  “We don’t have cowboys in Boston,” Chad tried to joke, sitting down at the table in their war room.

  Sandy remained standing, hand on hip, glaring at Archer.

  He looked up at her with a wide smile. She was even more beautiful when she was angry. Her green eyes were greener. Her red hair flamed redder. Her freckles were more freckly. Was that a word he asked himself?

  She scolded him. “Don’t try that smile on me. I’ve learned your snily ways over the last year.”

  “Snily is not a word.”

  “It’s sneaky and wily combined. You look it up and there will be a picture of you.”

  “Is wily even a word?” Chad baited her, still smiling.

  “I think I’ll get some coffee and round up the others,” Tellier said and left.

  Sandy sat down and smiled. “I know what you are trying to do. You are trying to get me off the subject of the doctor. It won’t work. I’m a Scotland Yard inspector, trained in interrogation techniques. I’ve interviewed and questioned hundreds of criminals
much smarter and even more snily than you. I see through you. Besides, I love you. You’re going to the doctor. End of story. I’ll make the appointment and have a unit take you.”

  “Sandy, I’ll be okay…” he started.

  “Uh, uh, uh,” she said shaking her head back and forth and holding up her hand in a stop gesture. “Talk to the hand, Archer.”

  Sandy left the room as the others filed in. In addition to Tellier there was another Interpol agent, two detectives from the Metropolitan Police Serious Crimes Unit, and an assistant project curator from the British Museum.

  The next hour was a review of last night’s theft, the evidence and lack of. Witness statements. They found the junction that was shorted out to cause the local blackout. Assignments were made to look into requests or access to the city’s electrical drawings. Sandy and a newly assigned partner would pick up the pawnbroker for questioning. Maybe they could sweat him into cooperating to trap anyone coming to him with the stolen goods.

  They batted around the MOs used at all the thefts. They felt there was enough similarities that made it look like the work of one group, at least one organizing mind. Chad wondered if Ponytail was the chief or an Indian. That’s a cowboy reference he told the team, while looking at Sandy. She pointedly ignored him.

  Archer registered most of what was said. He needed facts to paint a history. He had a knack for finding facts and linking facts. Interpol had used him before for this skill. So had the Boston PD.

  “Ready to go?” Sandy asked him. “Your appointment awaits.”

  “Sure.” He knew she was right. “Adrien, can I get the list of the stolen items from last night? I’ll compare it with the other thefts. I think there is a link. I just cannot see it.”

  -----

  “Well, Dr. Archer, your vitals are good. Let’s check a few more things.”

  The physician looked into his ears, then he told Chad to follow his penlight with his eyes. Back and forth, then up and down.

  “Nausea?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Neck pain? Back pain?”

  “My neck where I was hit.”

  “Ringing in your ears?”

  “No.”

  “Just a headache?”

  “Yes.”

  “Front or back? Dull or sharp.”

  “Kind of all over. A dull pain. Behind my eyes, too.”

  “Blurred vision?”

  “Not today.”

  “Okay. Good. You’ll be fine in a couple days. It’s a slight concussion. Whatever you normally take for pain will be okay for two days. If it still hurts three days from now, come back and see me. Any questions?”

  Chad was hesitant.

  “What is it?”

  “Would a concussion create visions?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like a dream. I see something.”

  “When did it start?”

  “When I was struck yesterday and lost consciousness.”

  “What did you see?”

  “It’s like a picture. A photo. In black and white. We dream in black and white don’t we?”

  “New studies show people dream in color also. What is the picture?”

  “It’s kind of fuzzy. I see a ditch with people in it and then standing over the people are men and boys with guns.”

  “H-m-m,” the doctor said thinking.

  “What does h-m-m mean?”

  “I am not an expert in dreams. It could be a manifestation of your condition. Helplessness. Losing control, fear of death. It was a male that struck you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What age?”

  “Older but I am not sure. It could be a disguise.”

  “Hence boys and men in your vision.”

  “Why the ditch with bodies?” Chad asked.

  “Have you seen anything lately that spoke of the horrors of war, or read about the plague, or fear of a terrorist with a bacteria? Multiple homicides? You are in police work right?”

  “Not really. But, there were some strange works of art at the museum yesterday. One I think was called Holocaust .”

  “That might be what your subconscious mind used to communicate to your conscious mind.”

  “Makes sense. Doctor, if something occurred during my wooziness is it possible that I do not remember it?”

  “Very possible. But, it may or may not come to you over time.”

  “Thanks. I feel better about it now.”

  On the way out of the doctor’s office, Chad took a look in the mirror. The bruising in his face looked worse than last night. The doctor told him to keep ice on it. His green eyes stood out against his black and blue face. His red hair was a match for Sandy’s. Often people mistook them for siblings. Tall, green eyed, and physically fit. He smiled. His normal, warm, friendly smile looked like a macabre mask. No wonder Sandy was able to resist it this morning. Better not say that to her he told himself.

  -----

  Outside, Chad turned his phone on. He saw a missed call from the Professor. Archer called back.

  “Dr. Archer. Thanks for calling back. How are you feeling? A bit of nasty business last night, eh?”

  “Yes it was.” Chad was not entirely surprised that word reached the Professor in Edinburgh.

  “What did the doctor say?”

  That did surprise Chad. “How did you know I saw a doctor?”

  “Assumed that you did. Concussions can become serious.”

  “He said I’d be fine in a couple days.”

  “Great. I need your help.”

  That was always what the Professor said.

  “With what?”

  “Can you meet me tonight in London?”

  That was unusual. He had only seen the Professor in Edinburgh and that one time in York.

  “Sure.”

  “Great. Eight at the Flag and Crown.”

  “Okay,” Chad said but he was talking to a dead phone.

  He knew the Professor as a manipulative, well connected, and powerful spokesman, or the leader, of a self-appointed watch group. They were known as the Guardians. They seemed to know much of what was secretly happening all over the world. He had crossed paths with the Professor a year ago. Since then, Chad had fulfilled a few research requests for them. In return, the Professor arranged for this teaching position in London, and for Chad to simultaneously keep the one in Boston. He had not made up his mind about the Guardians yet. Sandy worked for them as well. She followed the vocation that centuries of her family did, as a Guard of the Guardians.

  Chapter 4

  Sandy found the desk of her new partner, Detective Inspector Dickie Williams. His reputation was legendary in the force. Williams could retire anytime; he already had thirty years. He was known to be outspoken, sarcastic, and didn’t tolerate incompetence at any level, including senior officers. Others would have been sacked by now. That he was still working showed how good he was.

  Williams had done stints in Robbery, Organized Crime, and the long-named, and unwanted assignment, Sexual Offences, Exploitation and Child Abuse. His eight years in sex crimes was one of the longest of anyone. They said he aged fifteen years. They said his already bitter personality became even worse. They said his wife left him during that time unable to compete with the job. They said a lot of things about him, but no one said it to him.

  He was big. Broad in the chest. A thick neck supporting a large head. At fifty-seven he was not in any kind of shape. He didn’t care. He said he didn’t have to chase the perps because he knew where they all lived. He probably did.

  He asked to be part of the new Homicide and Major Crimes Division, with one stipulation, he could stay in London.

  “Hi, I’m Saundra Moffat. We’re together.”

  He looked her up and down then grunted, “Right”.

  “We’ve got the assignment of the pawnshop from last night. We want to lean on him.”

  “Okay,” Williams said as he stood and started to walk to the door.

  Sandy
stood her ground. “Inspector, have I done something to offend you?”

  “Not yet, but it’s still early,” he said. “And, it’s Dickie. You driving or am I?”

  -----

  For anyone else, the drive would have seemed extraordinarily long, but Sandy let herself be herself – talkative, engaging, humorous, questioning. Every no-answer, grunt, or monosyllabic response from Williams rolled off her.

  By the time they arrived at the pawnbroker, she had successfully covered the key points of the crimes and the task team’s efforts.

  When they pulled up to Best Pawn, Dickie finally asked a question. “So we need the name of the person who told Cyrus Best about the blackout, then we need the one who told that guy, then the guy who told the guy, and so on.”

  “That’s it.”

  “You go in first, Sandy. Give your charm a try. Cyrus knows me. It’s been six or seven years, but he’ll know me. I don’t want to scare him quiet. I’ll follow in ten minutes unless you come out first.”

  “Right.”

  Sandy entered the shop to the sound of a loud bell mounted near the ceiling. Anyone entering would naturally look up where they would see one of three cameras in the shop and a large sign about video security.

  Cyrus Best was behind the counter and frowned when she entered.

  “Mr. Best, I’d like to continue our discussion from last night.”

  He glanced around at the few customers browsing his goods. “I don’t have anything to tell you,” he said emphatically.

  “Sorry to hear that. You were so helpful to the police last night. I thought we were friends.”

  One customer hurriedly left. The other two stole a furtive glance at Cyrus.

  “Not here,” he said and led her to a back room office.

  “I need a name, Cyrus,” Sandy said.

  “I don’t have a name.”

  “Someone told you about the blackout. You were helpful last night. Why the change?”

  “You threatened me last night with that incident three years ago. I spoke to my solicitor this morning. The agreement we had then still holds.”