He walked directly to the computer room and looked up and around. No new cameras there either. He knew the idea was to make the room as inviting and unintimidating to people as possible.
Two staff members were in the room. One was organizing magazines in the corner, and the other sat at a desk, sorting through books that had recently been returned. She paid no attention to who was at the computers, or whether they had signed in.
Like he belonged there, he settled into his place at the third computer from the door. The same one he’d used to send his letter to the New York Daily News. He wanted to see the story online even though he’d already read it so many times in print. Often the online stories were accompanied by photos or embedded videos not available in the print edition.
Ott then moved on to other local media stories about the murders. He was interested in learning more about the detective on the case. There were photos of this Michael Bennett in several different settings. Ott didn’t think the man looked like a cop. He looked more like an actor. Then Ott did a search on Bennett.
He couldn’t believe the number of articles that had run over the years. The man had been lead detective on several major investigations. There were also several human-interest stories about his personal life. He was a widower with ten adopted children. Ott wondered if he’d adopted the children before or after his wife died.
He glanced up from the computer at the two women working in the room. They both appeared subdued. Ott assumed that was because of him, because he had murdered one of their colleagues. He smiled. They had no idea it was her conduct on the job that had put their friend at risk.
The woman behind the desk had a beautiful face and long, lustrous blond hair that flowed over her shoulders. He wondered how much money and effort it took to keep her hair looking like that. Probably enough to feed a poor family in other parts of the world. Just the thought of it made him a little angry.
Ott stretched his neck to get a better view of the woman. He was hoping to read the name tag she wore on her blouse.
Then he got hold of himself. He returned his focus to the computer and started doing a little more research. He wanted to know more about this Michael Bennett before he did anything else. His idea to stir things up might have to wait.
Chapter 46
You know, I’ve lived in New York my whole life and I’ve never been in here before,” Brett Hollis said as we entered the library. He looked awestruck by the marble walls and high ceilings of the scholarly locale.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” I said. “As a tourist destination, it even makes a little money for the city.” And as we walked through the famous library, I felt a familiar pride and appreciation for this monument to learning.
I waited while Hollis phoned a tech agent from the NYPD, gathering a few more pieces of the puzzle. Then we continued on to the admin office, where we identified ourselves and were led to Carolyn Richard, a confident older black woman in charge of public services, such as the computer room. Ms. Richard was imposing and elegant, and as soon as I saw her, I thought, She could be one of the nuns from Holy Name—especially the way she had her arms folded across her chest when she told us to come in and sit down.
Ms. Richard said, “I assume you’re here about Yara Zunis.”
Is that the murder victim I just heard about from Hollis? I thought so but wasn’t sure, so I kept quiet, let her talk.
“Yara Zunis, one of our librarians. She and her boyfriend were victims of a terrible crime. They were both stabbed to death outside their home in East Harlem.”
That didn’t fit our killer’s MO—as far as we were aware, he only ever killed young women, not couples, and he never killed out in the open. Still, what were the chances that a serial killer uses a specific library’s computer and then one of that library’s staff is murdered? Was it just a horrible coincidence? Or could there be some sort of connection?
I gathered my thoughts and said, “My utmost condolences to you and your staff on the tragedy you’ve all suffered. But we’re actually here investigating an email that our cyber forensics team believe was sent from your computer room.”
“Oh my—is this related to that awful letter I read in the Daily News?” Carolyn Richard asked. She was a smart woman, and I could see her quickly reassessing the situation, even as I demurred, citing confidentiality issues.
During the walk to the computer room from her office, I asked Ms. Richard more about Yara Zunis.
“How long had she worked here at the library?”
“Yara was one of our newest and brightest,” she said, “a recent graduate from the prestigious Master of Library and Information Science program at Simmons University in Boston. She was making significant contributions. It’s such a terrible shame.”
She shook her head and sighed. “Is there anything you can tell me about the investigation into her murder? I know it’s not your case, but I assume there’s communication between precincts.”
“I’ll have the detectives handling the case get back to you,” I told her. I was pretty curious about it myself, to be honest. “For now, our primary concern is the email.”
Ms. Richard nodded, then said, “With all these murders in the city, I’ve been starting to wonder if our staff needs to commute using some kind of buddy system.”
The marble floor of the entrance hall gave way to the high marble walls of the periodical/computer room. The two young women working there immediately looked up when Ms. Richard entered.
I quickly scanned the room to get a sense of the security measures in place. I saw a few cameras, but they were mainly dummies. I wondered about the computer sign-in procedures.
I saw a quick movement to my right. I turned but caught only a glimpse of a man wearing a white, short-sleeved shirt and a tie leaving the room.
Why had he caught my attention? Call it instinct.
I glanced back to Hollis. He hadn’t seemed to notice the guy, and Ms. Richard was intent on introducing me to the blond woman behind the desk.
Even though the blonde was the person I needed to talk to about the email, I had to excuse myself. “We need to go talk to someone for a minute.”
I grabbed Hollis by the arm and pulled him with me out the door, saying, “I saw a man wearing a white, short-sleeved shirt and a tie. As soon as he saw us, he popped out of the room with his head ducked down.”
As Hollis kept pace, I added the kicker: “I have a strong feeling that we gotta find this guy and talk to him right away.”
Chapter 47
Set perimeters and start a methodical grid search. I knew the routine for searches, honed during my days as a uniformed officer in the Bronx and as a homicide detective, hunting everyone from drug suspects to bank robbers.
But that approach took manpower, at least twenty cops to do right. Right now it was just Hollis and me, and I was hesitant to call in reinforcements based on nothing more than my flimsy hunch and a fleeting image. Besides, it would take too long to get backup here and organized.
Instead, I sent Hollis toward the main entrance as I rushed down a hallway in the opposite direction. My last words to the young detective were “Don’t do anything stupid. Just hang back and call me on the cell if you see him.” I knew advice like that was difficult for a young hotshot like Brett Hollis to follow. He was wearing the damaged proof on his face.
I loped down the empty hallway with my right arm loose at my side so I could reach my Glock if needed. I should’ve come to a complete stop and sliced the pie by looking around each corner, but there wasn’t time. Smart policies are all well and good, but no bad guys would ever get caught if we officers followed every policy to the letter, every time.
Sweat slipped down my forehead as my pulse picked up.
To my right was a marble staircase that headed down, away from the main floor. I took the steps two at a time. Just as I skidded onto the tiled floor of the lower level, a figure moved to my right.
I saw a flash of white shirt and dark tie.
> I let out a quick “Freeze!” as I reached for my pistol, and in the same instant, I recognized the uniform shirt of a security guard. The man flinched and scooted away from me.
I flashed my badge. “NYPD. Did anyone else come down here?”
He hesitated, then said, “I thought I heard footsteps, but it might have been yours coming down the stairs.”
A door down the hall was cracked open. I indicated it with a lift of my chin. “Where does that go?”
“Lower-level maintenance. Nothing there but conduits and heating units.”
I raced to the door without another word. The guard called after me, but I didn’t have time to waste words. I was hoping for action. I almost hoped he’d call for more security people. A group following me could be useful if the chase ended in a show of force.
I reached the open door and discovered that it led to a narrow, metal staircase descending into a dark, tunnel-like passageway filled with electrical boxes and abandoned computers stacked haphazardly against whitewashed cinder-block walls. Tracks of wires seemed to guide me in one direction. At the same time, something told me to slow down and make every move deliberate.
A light flickered a dozen feet down the hallway. I flipped my coat away from my right hip and slid my hand onto the butt of my duty weapon.
I pulled my phone from my pocket to check on Hollis. No service.
Could Bobby Fisher be down here, setting up for his next match?
Chapter 48
Fifteen minutes earlier, Daniel Ott had looked up from the public computer to see the same man he’d just read about on the internet standing by the door. He had done a double take, stolen several more peeks, then was certain. It was that detective, Michael Bennett.
For a moment, Ott calculated the odds of this being a coincidence. No: the police had to be here because of the dead librarian. But did Bennett know that the librarian and her friend were connected to his handiwork? It hurt his brain to think too much about it. He had to slip away. Fast.
Even if Ott hadn’t just been reading about the detective, he would have suspected something. Bennett and the other guy he was with just looked like police officers—fit, well-dressed, and alert. They had come into the room with an older black woman. Ott watched as the three of them stepped over to the information desk, and while they seemed distracted, he used his soft cloth to wipe the keyboard of prints, quickly gathered his things, and slipped out the door. Almost involuntarily, he’d picked up his pace to a near run.
Mistake. The detective had noticed him leaving.
At the bottom of the marble staircase, Ott fingered a screwdriver in his pocket. A screwdriver through the neck or in an eye would definitely slow down anyone chasing him.
He considered his next move, zeroing in on another stairwell that didn’t look public. No marble or frills. He raced for it.
Ott found himself in the lowest level of the library. The Ghostbusters may have prowled the subbasement stacks, but not the maintenance corridors. The stark layout here meant some part of him would be visible anywhere he crouched or lay down. There was no place he could hide.
Then he saw a junction box built into the wall. One of those big industrial suckers. It had to be four feet tall and two feet wide. It was a screw model with no handle.
He had an idea.
He snapped his head in every direction. His heart beat hard in his chest. His hands shook. He used his cheap tie with the Computelex logo to wipe sweat from his face.
The first screw at the top of the box was hard to reach. He was able to remove a couple more screws, but then they slipped from his hand and scattered on the rough concrete floor.
He wasn’t sure what he’d find when he opened the box’s door. Would it be a mess of wiring inside? Luckily for him, when he finally yanked the door open, he discovered there were no breakers or other more complex electrical connections. This was just a pass-through that redirected most of the wires up to the main floors of the library.
It would be tight, but he could fit inside it if he contorted his body just so. Ott hopped up, then pulled himself all the way into the box. He kept the screwdriver in his right hand. If someone opened the box while he was inside, he’d take a mighty swing at their eyes, leap into the passageway, then run.
With his left hand, he pulled the door shut behind him. He crouched uncomfortably inside the box, perspiration running down his back, ears straining to hear any noises outside.
Chapter 49
I moved cautiously. The heat down here couldn’t account for all the sweat in my eyes. Some of it was nerves.
I had no cell service. No radio. I had to admit that I’d put myself in a stupid situation. If the guy I’d seen was the killer, and if he was down here and managed to get the drop on me, I wasn’t sure anyone would even know to look for me here unless the library guard had sounded the alarm.
This area of the library was creepy. The flickering light down the hallway reminded me of the horror movies my older kids were just about brave enough to watch through half closed eyes.
I thought I heard something. A shift. A slight metallic noise. Now I was studying shadows in the poorly lit corridor. My mind was starting to play tricks on me and I was freaking myself out.
Keeping my right hand on the butt of my pistol, I moved slowly. Once I passed the flickering light, I paused and listened again. I leaned against the wall next to some kind of giant circuit box. I really thought I heard something moving inside.
Mice? Squirrels? Or worse—rats?
I looked down at the concrete and noticed a single screw sitting in the middle of the corridor. I kneeled down and picked it up. Before I rose again to my feet, I rested in a silent crouch. Listening. Feeling like there was someone close by. I cocked my head like a curious dog. But I couldn’t pick up the sound again.
Then I heard a noise. It registered on several levels inside my head. I listened and realized it was footsteps. Not someone trying to hide.
Then a voice called out, “Officer! Are you still down here? Officer?”
I called out, “Over here.”
The security guard I had seen on the upper level swung into view. He was winded and overheated. His sweaty hair was plastered to his forehead, and he was panting from exertion.
He had to lean down with his hands on his knees and take a couple of gulps of air before he could stand upright and speak. “The cop with the broken nose? He told me to come find you,” he said. “He needs you at the main entrance. He said to hurry.”
I kept the screw I found on the floor. For no reason that I can explain, it struck me as a potential piece of evidence. I shoved it into my front pocket as I started to jog ahead of the security guard.
Chapter 50
As I burst out of the main doors to the library, I held up my hand to protect against the glare of the sun; though it wasn’t all that bright out, my eyes had quickly grown accustomed to the gloom of the basement. I felt relief to have gotten out of there.
Crowds washed by on the street. The security guard directed me to a bench just past the edge of the stairs to the right, where Brett Hollis stood next to a man of about forty-five wearing a short-sleeved shirt and a gaudy purple tie. His thinning hair hung in a loose comb-over. He was sweating in the midday sun. The fact that he was thirty pounds overweight probably didn’t help the situation.
The man was not in custody, I noted, and he and Hollis were talking casually. Hollis saw me coming down the stairs and gave me a quick headshake. This wasn’t our suspect. As I walked up, Hollis told me, “This gentleman is a vending machine rep who was meeting with the library staff. I already confirmed it. I sent the security guard to look for you before I checked out his story.”
I looked at the pudgy, red-faced, balding man. He looked pissed off.
“Do we need to hold him any longer?”
Hollis shrugged. “That’s sort of the problem. He won’t leave.”
The man looked toward Hollis and said, “I’ll have your goddamn badge ove
r this.” Then he looked at me, making the assumption that, as an older detective, I was probably in charge, and said, “He arrested me without a warrant! I know my rights. I know how you guys operate.”
Arrested? I turned to the man and said, “I’m sorry. I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
Hollis said, “Sir, you were never under arrest. All I did was talk to you for a couple of minutes about a matter that needed clearing up, and you didn’t argue.”
“I was too scared. You intimidated me.”
All I could say was “C’mon, sir, you got misidentified. We cleared it up in a couple of minutes. Won’t you just go about your business?”
The pudgy man barked again. “Bullshit. I want your names and badge numbers. Why are you bothering me when you should be trying to catch that nut cutting up women all over the city?”
I could sense Hollis losing patience with the man. We needed to de-escalate. I reached into my wallet and pulled out a business card. I wrote Harry’s name and phone number on the back. I handed it to the man and said, “That’s our lieutenant. If you have any complaints, talk to him.”
“I’ll go straight to the Post. I know you cops all watch each other’s backs. I’m a US citizen.”
I’d had enough. I gave the man a hard look and said, “You have the right to get on with your life. I would recommend you exercise that right as soon as possible. Frankly, I’ve heard all the shit I want to out of you.”
The man started walking away on the sidewalk, muttering to himself. He stopped twenty feet away and shouted, “Cops suck!”
It wasn’t original, but he got his point across.
Hollis looked at me and said, “What now?”
“We work with what we have. I was chasing ghosts beneath the library. At least you got to talk to a real person.”
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