“The nurse took my blood pressure when I arrived. She said it was down.”
“Not enough. Police are among the highest risk groups for high blood pressure because of job stress.”
“I can’t exactly do anything about the stress in my job. It comes with the territory.”
“I realize that, but you can learn how to handle it better. Plus, you have another issue exacerbating your blood pressure.”
“Which is?”
The doctor cleared her throat before continuing. “Anger. Let me be perfectly frank. You have the temper of Yosemite Sam.”
Mary stood up and put her hands on her hips. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“I think you just answered your own question.”
Embarrassed by her behavior, Mary quietly sat down. “So what happens now? Do you write me a prescription?”
“Yes. I’m prescribing an anger management class.”
“A what? I don’t have any trouble managing my anger.” Even as she said it, Mary realize her voice was rising.
“Bottling it up doesn’t help you any. You need to learn how not to get angry in the first place. I want you to start attending a class at least twice a week.”
Mary shook her head vigorously. “I don’t have time for that nonsense.”
“You’ll have a lot more time on your hands if you don’t.”
It took Mary a moment to understand what the doctor was saying. “Are you saying you’ll have me pulled from active duty?”
“I’m saying if you don’t do something about your blood pressure, you’ll have a stroke by the time you’re fifty. If I clear you for duty, and you drop dead chasing some purse snatcher, it becomes my fault.”
Mary was in full panic mode now. “You can’t put be behind a desk. This job is … is …”
“Is what?”
“All I have.”
“Maybe that’s part of the problem.” The doctor wrote something down on a scratch pad. She tore the paper loose and handed it to Mary. “This is the name and number of a therapist. He’s very good and he has experience with cops, so he’s flexible. He can help you.”
“Are you going to clear me for duty?”
“Yes.”
Mary let out a sigh of relief.
“Provisionally.” The doctor added. “Come back in three months, and we’ll see how you are doing.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Times Square was an advertiser’s wet dream. It was impossible to find a place to set your eyes that didn’t include a commercial. Above were the famous animated billboards, basically giant television screens, continually showing commercials for various products such as Coca-Cola and Kodak. Only the biggest of the big dogs could afford that most prime of advertising real estate.
There was advertising at street level as well. Corporate-sponsored mascots wandered among the crowds of tourists, handing out flyers and getting their pictures taken while dressed like well-known characters from television and movies and boxes of breakfast cereal. A few independent street performers moved among the company shills, although it wasn’t always easy to tell the difference. There were two Supermen, three Batmen (one of whom was a lady), and one Wonder Woman (who was a man). There was a muscular man wearing nothing but underwear and a cowboy hat, with a guitar slung on his back. He posed for pictures and, occasionally, serenaded giggling tourists.
A woman dressed as the Statue of Liberty, with a green, flowing robe, spiked crown, and a torch, had staked out a prime spot near a delicatessen. She was a college student, just trying to make a few bucks between classes. She’d had a pretty good day, so far. Despite recent news items about a sniper, and then a couple of bombs, the tourists had been out in force. She had nearly fifty bucks stuffed into her torch.
As she stood, waving to the passersby, one caught her eye. A young man in blue jeans and a baseball cap. A fringe of red hair stuck out from under the cap. He had a shapeless canvas bag over his shoulder. She noticed him a second time when, less than a minute later, he walked past her again. This time, he gave her a big smile and handed her a fiver. She watched him disappear into the crowd.
There was a nice breeze. It was especially appreciated as the robes were damned hot, even though she was wearing next to nothing underneath. She decided it was time for a cigarette break. There was a row of potted plants in front of the deli, and one would make a perfect impromptu ash tray. She sidled next to one and lit up. Then she saw something in the cement planter besides the plant and cigarette butts. A canvas bag was stuffed into the planter. It was too big to fit, so it hung over the edge, held in place by branches. That’s right, she thought. The redhead had it the first time he walked past her but not the second. He’d left it behind. She wasn’t sure what she should do. Should she leave it in case he comes back for it? Then, she wondered if there could be something valuable in it. Couldn’t hurt to take a peek.
She reached for the bag, but stopped short when someone bellowed, “Stop!”
The voice came from a policeman on horseback across the street. She never understood the need for horses in New York City, of all places. It must be for the tourists. This was the first time she’d ever seen one of them actually gallop. He stopped right in front of her. “I’m going to have to ask you to step back, miss.”
“Startled, she asked, “Did I do something wrong?”
“No, miss. Just please step back.”
She turned to leave and saw a whole bunch of police running towards her. Something was wrong, all right. The police began ushering crowds away from the deli.
Then the wind changed direction. Branches moved. The bag came loose and fell.
The explosion blew the planter to pieces, sending concrete shrapnel into the crowd. People screamed and ran in all directions. The windows of the deli blew inward, sending glass shards raining down over the patrons inside.
The woman dressed as the Statue of Liberty was knocked off her feet, landing face down. Her robes blew over her head and revealing her underwear to the world. It would have been a nice show had the people who saw it not been running for their lives. She sat up and smoothed out her robes, restoring her modesty. The she realized her torch had split apart, scattering the day’s profits into the wind.
“Well, shit.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Leopold checked the caller ID on his phone: Mary. He answered, “Hi. What’s up?”
“We got an ID,” Mary said, happily.
“On the bomber?”
“Yes. There were dozens of cameras going off in Times Square. It was inevitable that we would find his picture, really. We put it out on the wire and got a hit back in minutes, from Nebraska, of all places.”
“Nebraska?”
“Yup. Donald Ronkowski hails from a little farm community called Moreau, Nebraska. It has a population just shy of a thousand.”
“He came all the way from Nebraska to New York? Are you sure the subway bomber and the Times Square bomber were the same person?”
“No doubt. According to the bomb squad, they were simple fertilizer bombs. The thing is, there was no timer or proper detonator. They were rigged to blow when someone tampered with them. Basically, our suspect knows how to make explosives but not bombs. The subway bomb only killed so many people because it was in a crowd within an enclosed space. The Times Square one blew out in the open and didn’t kill anyone.”
“Is there anything in Mr. Ronkowski’s past that indicates he knows about explosives?”
“Yes and no. He’s twenty-six and a high school dropout. He’s never done work except manual labor. His rap sheet is pretty unremarkable - a couple of drug busts, a couple of assaults, and some petty theft. One thing stands out, though, at least to me.”
“And what’s that?”
“At nineteen, he jacked a local farmer’s pickup truck. The judge declared it joy riding and gave him a slap on the wrist. In retrospect, based on what we know now, I think maybe he wasn’t interested in the truck at all. I think
he wanted what was in the truck.”
“Why? What was in it?” Leopold said. “Wait. Let me guess. You said a farmer. By any chance, was it fertilizer?”
“Four fifty-pound bags.”
“So our Mr. Ronkowski has had this in mind for a while. Why come to New York, I wonder?”
“I guess the same reason any terrorist comes to New York. Not much cache in blowing up a dairy queen in flyover country.”
“Spoken like a true New Yorker.”
“We have a few leads on where he might be holed up. Care to join me?”
Leopold wanted to say yes, but the words of Captain Oakes echoed in his brain. “Actually, I have a business meeting today and I really can’t miss it.”
“Oh.”
“Besides, I’d probably just be in the way. It sounds like you have everything in hand. I don’t think I’d be much help.”
“Oh. Well, okay.” The disappointment in Mary’s voice was evident. There was a time, early on in their relationship, when she resented Leopold’s meddling presence in one of her cases. Now, it seemed she missed it. “Give me a call if you change your mind. Bye.”
“Bye.” Click.
Jerome was sitting in a chair nearby, reading. He never looked up from his book and gave no indication he had heard the conversation. Leopold knew better.
“Oh, shut up,” Leopold snapped.
“I didn’t say anything.” The bodyguard still didn’t look up from his book.
“Well … shut up anyway.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The hotel room was small, but clean. No rats. That was the big thing. Donald Ronkowski had only been in New York City for a few days, but he had already seen several rats in the streets, and one in a restaurant. He’d heard somewhere that between ten and fifteen homeless dudes were eaten by rats every year. He didn’t remember where he’d heard it, so he wasn’t a hundred percent sure it was true. True or not, he simply could not abide rats.
Don sat on the corner of the unmade bed (he had told the front desk manager no cleaning service) and fretted. Would she come?
There was a soft rap at the door. Don took a deep breath. He got up and peered through the fish-eye of the peephole. Even through the greasy smear on the lens, he recognized the beautiful, tobacco-brown face.
He opened the door. “You came.”
She slipped in and closed the door behind her. “Of course I came. I got your message.” She leaned in and they kissed, long and hard. When she finally withdrew, she said, “I got all your messages.”
Don looked puzzled. “What do you mean? I only sent one message.”
“What about the Times Square message? Wasn’t that for me? And the one on the subway?”
“You knew it was me.”
She put a hand tenderly on his cheek. “Who else could it be?”
“I did it all for you.” He kissed her again. He pulled away, reluctantly. “I think the police have identified me, but that’s okay. I got a plan.”
“A plan?”
“Yeah. I got a fake ID and some cash. Enough cash for what I want to do. We’ll get you a fake ID too, and then rent a car. It’s easier to get a flight to Turkey from Canada than the U.S.”
“We’re going to Turkey?”
“That’s just the first stop. From Turkey, we can arrange travel to Syria. Lots of Islamist groups are recruiting foreign fighters. Especially Westerners.” He leaned in close and added, “And their wives.”
“You mean we can finally be together?”
“That’s right.”
“When are we leaving?”
“Now. Let me just get my things.” He turned and picked up the duffle bag with his clothes off the bed.
When he turned around, he saw the gun in her hand. She fired one shot into his belly. He dropped the duffle bag and fell back onto the bed.
He whispered, “I thought you loved me, Rose.”
The second shot was to his forehead.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Un-freaking-believable.” Mary said. “How long has he been dead?”
“Two hours at the absolute most,” The medical examiner said. “He was shot first in the stomach. He fell onto his back. The second shot to the head was the kill shot.”
An aging, paunchy uniformed officer named Brackett said, “We’ve interviewed the staff of the hotel, and the guests on this floor. Nobody heard any shots.”
“We won’t know till I dig the slugs out, but I’ll bet the killer used a silencer. Striations on the bullets will tell us for sure.” The medical examiner crooked a finger at Mary. “I did notice something else interesting, though.”
Mary walked over to the body. “What?”
“Take a sniff.”
“Of what?”
“The mouth. Go on, smell.”
Never one to be squeamish, Mary leaned over and positioned her nose less than an inch from the corpse’s lips. She sniffed. The smell of death was almost overpowering, even after just two hours. There was something else. She sniffed again, then straightened up. “Is that lemon?”
“A lemon-scented moist towelette.” The medical examiner pointed to a bowl filled with small packets on the dresser. “Probably from there.”
Mary clapped her hands together. “Yes. I knew it.” The killer had wiped off the dead man’s mouth and there was only one reason for that - to remove evidence. Mary now had no doubt that the killer was a woman, and she had kissed the man before killing him. Mary had suspected it for a while and now she was sure. The mysterious, unseen girlfriends of Ali Nasir and Waris Khan, and now the killer of Donald Ronkowski were the same person. These three men hadn’t decided to kill on their own. They had been recruited.
No. Not recruited. Seduced.
The hotel room was swarming with crime scene technicians looking for evidence. There was barely enough space in the tiny room for all the people. Mary announced to the entire room, “Did anyone find a computer?”
A handful of no’s floated around the room.
Brachett asked, “What makes you think this guy even had a computer?”
Mary picked up a card from the nightstand. It looked like a business card, but the only thing printed on it was, “ILUVNY5505.”
Brackett squinted at the card. “What’s that?”
“The Wi-Fi password. He got it from the front desk.” Mary remembered the missing computer from Waris Khan’s home. No one had ever found Ali Nasir’s computer, either. The killer must have corresponded with the men electronically at some point.
“Sergeant. You’d better take a look at this.” One of the technicians was sorting through the contents of a trash can.
“What did you find?”
He handed Mary a small, crinkled piece of paper. It was a receipt from a local shop for three canvas bags.
Three!
“Shit. There’s another bomb.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Grand Central Terminal (often mistakenly called Grand Central Station) was the busiest train station in the country. A train station might seem an odd location for a business meeting, but Ray Lance had to catch a train to Philadelphia that afternoon. More importantly, Grand Central Terminal boasted Grand Central Oyster Bar. First opened in 1913, it offered some of the best seafood on the East Coast, and Ray Lance loved seafood, especially shellfish. He had ordered an appetizer of clams casino, and then followed with the bivalve platter: four clams and four oysters. Leopold eschewed an appetizer and ordered the broiled Carolina bluefish.
“I’ll send you a list of possible risk consultants. Look them over and let me know what you think.” Lance lifted a shell to his lips and greedily slurped up the contents.
Leopold speared a piece of his fish. “I’ll take a look. We still need to make plans for a permanent fraud program.”
“Based on the consultant’s recommendations, right?” Down went another oyster.
“Yes, of course.”
“Good. There are several excellent investigative firms that specialize in
health care fraud. We can outsource the function at minimal cost.”
“I’d rather keep it in-house.”
Lance raised another oyster but stopped halfway to his mouth. “Why? Setting up a fraud unit from scratch is a lot of work. It’s cheaper to outsource.”
“But it’s easier to maintain control in-house.”
Lance didn’t bother to hide the annoyance in his voice. “That’s a waste of resources, including the company’s most valuable resource - you.”
“I’m not sure what that means.”
“Can I be frank with you, Leopold?”
“When are you not?”
“Blake Investments is like a pyramid.”
“Do you mean a pyramid scheme, or do you mean I’m like a Pharaoh?”
“Neither. Okay, forget the pyramid. Blake Investments is a ladder. You are at the very top rung. Fraud investigation is near the bottom rungs. Your primary focus should be on those upper rungs nearest you. You’re so high up, you shouldn’t even be able to see those bottom rungs. You want to keep the fraud unit in-house because you want to keep your fingers in it, but you shouldn’t be involved in that any more than you should be meddling in where the company buys copy paper or who cleans the johns.”
“So we’re back to the criminologist thing again. You think it interferes with my position as head of Blake Investments, don’t you?”
Leopold’s phone rang. Lance said, “What are the odds that’s a cop?”
Leopold answered. It was, indeed, a cop. “Is this important, Mary? I’m in the middle of something.”
“Damned right, it’s important. Ronkowski is dead, and I think there’s another bomb somewhere, but I don’t know where. Can you help?”
“Where are you now?”
“We found the hotel where he’s been staying.”
“Okay. Let’s think about this. Ronkowski had never been to New York before, right?”
“As far as we know, this is the first time he even left Nebraska.”
“I don’t suppose you found a guidebook or anything like that in his belongings.”
Broken: A Leopold Blake Thriller Page 5