by James Tucker
He stood up a little straighter.
25
The mayor offered her hand. It was warmer and stronger than he’d expected.
Mayor Blenheim was in her late fifties, Buddy guessed. Until now, he’d never seen her up close. She was prettier than she appeared to be on television. More serene and yet commanding. Her light-brown hair alloyed with strands of gray hung straight, framing her clear, fair-skinned, attractive face. She had dark-brown eyes and a prominent nose.
She smiled at him. “It’s an honor to meet you, Detective Lock.”
Her voice was calm and deep—fitting, he decided, for someone who had a large presence in the city. A little over three years ago, he’d voted for her, and she’d won reelection to her second term.
He said, “The honor is mine, Mayor Blenheim. And you can call me Buddy. Everyone does.”
“All right.” She smiled. “Buddy, then. I heard about your award, and I wanted to thank you personally for what you’ve done for the city over the past few months. The Death Clock Murders and then the—”
“I’m not ready to talk about it,” Buddy interrupted, holding up a hand. “Especially not here.”
The mayor nodded, her eyes never leaving his. “I understand. Really, I do. My father worked for Madigan-Hyland as an engineer. When I was eleven, he was supervising a cabling repair near the top of the Tappan Zee Bridge, and he fell. My mother and I were left alone, with nothing but union death benefits. Those were enough to keep us from having to move into a shelter, but not much more than that. I thought everything would improve, and for a time, it did. Until my late husband went missing in action. It was extremely difficult,” she explained, “picking up the pieces. I couldn’t talk about what happened to my father until about five years ago. So I know how things can hang on for a long time.”
This story surprised Buddy. He thought Mayor Blenheim had a royal-sounding name, excellent manners, and educated speech. She didn’t seem to be working class, but she was. Or had been. He said, “Thanks, Mayor. It’s been a tough few months.”
“For you, it has been,” she agreed. “I’m glad you’ve been reinstated. I feel much better with you on point. If you ever need anything—if there’s a roadblock to your doing your job as effectively as possible—feel free to contact me personally.”
Buddy nodded, sensing this was a politeness rather than a real offer. “Thanks,” he said.
He glanced at Malone, whose eyebrows rose dramatically. He looked at the mayor. She stood motionless, hands clasped together in front of her. There seemed to be nothing more to say.
As Buddy turned to go, he heard Malone’s voice bellowing behind him.
“Coffee!” Malone said. “On me. Now!”
Before Buddy could react, Mario had put an arm around his shoulder, and Buddy was swept up in their group as it moved toward the elevators. As he smiled and accepted their congratulations, he thought about it.
Betrayal.
Joking, giving Mario a high five, he tried to recall which of those standing in the elevator with him now had also been present in Malone’s office when he’d described the bodies found off Long Island.
He smiled, but his eyes recorded those around him. Chief Malone, red-faced and blustery. Rachel Grove, lively but watchful. Mario Mingo, young and enthusiastic. Mayor Blenheim, dignified but friendly. Alicia Bravo, Malone’s secretary, quiet with the boisterous detectives and the mayor.
But even in the midst of the high spirits, he knew that everyone in that office might have been innocent, and innocently told someone else who was dirty. And that person might have ordered Tan Jacket to kill him. But he didn’t believe in innocence—not after twenty years as a detective. He believed that at least one person in the building, if not in Malone’s office, if not in this very elevator, intended to kill him, and to kill Mei and Ben.
Who?
He realized he was a blind man walking through a field littered with land mines.
26
Who betrayed me? Buddy thought.
He wanted to leave his fellow officers, but he had to be here. He couldn’t be rude, even though he wanted to begin work on the missing couple found off Long Island. He also couldn’t help thinking that someone having coffee with him wanted him dead.
Who? he thought again, forcing himself to smile, to keep his voice upbeat. Yet his stomach burned with anger.
Having official business to attend to, Mayor Blenheim had parted from them on the steps of One Police Plaza. But everyone else from the elevator had walked over to Chambers Street and the Blue Spoon for coffee. It was good coffee, Buddy admitted, though not his customary Dunkin’ Donuts. But it wasn’t his money, and he needed some caffeine. After they’d placed their orders, some sat at an empty table and a few of them stood. Buddy sat on one of the stools by the window. He felt a tug at his elbow and turned to see Rachel Grove perched next to him.
“Congratulations,” she said loudly, and then leaned closer to his ear. “Can I talk with you?”
He could smell the mint in her shampoo. “Yeah. What about?”
She shook her head. “Not here.”
He stared at her until Mario joined them and said, “How the hell am I going to compete with the Combat Cross? I mean, Jesus. It’s like working with Sherlock fucking Holmes.”
Malone turned and scowled. “Stop it, Mingo. He’s had enough praise for one day.”
“For one year,” Rachel Grove piped up.
“You guys don’t know a good thing when you have it,” said Alicia Bravo, her face coloring as she chided the others. “That’s the problem with cops.”
“You’d know.” Buddy laughed, alluding to her boyfriend, currently in patrol out of the Twenty-Eighth Precinct in Harlem.
It went on like this for longer than Buddy wanted. But eventually the coffee was gone, and they left the Blue Spoon and headed southeast on Chambers. Minutes later, as they neared the front doors of One Police Plaza, Buddy held back, as did Rachel. When the others were out of earshot, she put a hand on his shoulder until he stopped.
She pushed her brown hair behind her ears, alluring even in the bitter cold. Her voice was low when she spoke. “You know I can’t discuss IAB cases,” she began, referring to the Internal Affairs Bureau.
Buddy wasn’t sure where this was headed, but he was going to tread carefully. He said, “They’re confidential. Everyone knows that.”
Rachel nodded. “Right. But I’m going to bend the rules here because you’re our best detective, and I know you’re clean.”
Buddy didn’t react.
She said, “I can’t give you details, but we’re looking at Malone and Mingo.”
Buddy felt himself tense. “What do you mean, ‘looking at’?”
“I can’t say more.”
“Bullshit, Rachel. You opened the door. You have to give me something.”
“I can’t.”
Buddy pointed at her chest. “You’ve got to. You can’t drop a bomb and walk away. That’s not how it’s done.”
Rachel looked around him, and behind her, to be sure they were alone. She said, “Mingo has a bank account.” Then she stared at him knowingly.
He smiled. “BFD. I have a bank account. So do you.”
Rachel raised an eyebrow. “A numbered Swiss bank account. You have one of those?”
Buddy thought about Mingo. He’d figured the kid was green, but not green in the sense of having money. Had he misjudged his new partner? He wondered why Mingo had set up an account at a Swiss bank. Payment for selling me out? he wondered.
Rachel didn’t stop there. She said, “We’re also watching Malone.”
“What?” Buddy whispered loudly. “Why?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Come on, Rachel. Give me more.”
“Not on the chief of detectives, Buddy. We’re monitoring him. IAB doesn’t have anything solid yet, but he’s hiding something. If I told you more, my job would be at risk.”
From the way her mouth had set a
nd her expression had hardened, he knew she’d disclose nothing else. But he made a final request. “Rachel, could you tell me who at One Police called a certain number?”
She considered it but shook her head. “I couldn’t get a warrant, not without more.”
He held up a hand. “The call was from the NYPD trunk line. From a department phone. You don’t need a warrant for that.”
Slowly, she nodded. “All right. What’s the number?”
He took out the burner phone he’d lifted from Tan Jacket, switched it on, and checked the number. She took out her phone and typed in the number.
“Give me till tomorrow,” she told him.
“Thanks, Rachel.”
She touched his shoulder once more. And then she removed her hand, turned from him, and hurried into One Police Plaza.
Buddy stood there, alone, an empty coffee cup in his hand. He stared up at the large brick edifice of One Police, doubting whether he should ever enter it again. He couldn’t trust anyone—not his boss or his partner. He was exposed, and he knew it. Making a rapid decision, he pulled out his phone and dialed his brother.
“Ward Mills.” The voice calm.
In the background was another voice, soft, female.
Buddy paused and then said, “I need you to check on two people for me. Mike Malone, chief of detectives, and Mario Mingo, my partner.”
The female whisper on the other end of the line ceased. Ward said, “What’s your reasoning?”
“Inside info. See if Mingo has a Swiss bank account.”
“Why would he have a Swiss account?”
“That’s the question.”
Buddy ended the call. He had many questions, all with answers that might prove fatal.
27
Ward set the phone on the nightstand. Staring at the ceiling of the spacious bedroom, he thought about Swiss banks and money and payment for services rendered. He thought about access and how to get it. He thought about wire transfers from the United States and realized the money could have come from anyone. No, he needed the receiving end of the money, not the origination. Mario Mingo would have used a bank that people—people like Ward—commonly used.
He turned and looked at the woman lying beside him. She was blond, slender, and she had a husky voice he liked, especially when she urged him to be more strenuous in bed.
She smiled at him, touched his stomach, and began to move her hand lower.
He pushed himself up on one elbow and admired her. She wasn’t wearing anything, and neither was he. They’d pushed the covers down to the foot of the bed and then, as they’d grappled with each other, onto the plush carpeting.
She had the figure of an eighteen-year-old girl, but she was in her early thirties, ten years younger than he. Hazel eyes, full lips, wonderful breasts. She spoke well, in her husky voice, the product of attending university in England. He liked her hair that she colored blond, and the darker hair between her legs. But duty had called, quite literally.
Gently, he took her hand and set it on the sheets.
She raised an eyebrow.
He said, “I have to check my computer.”
“Really?” Her breathy voice made him yearn for her. “You’re tired?”
He laughed. “No, I’m not tired. I have to do something for my brother.”
She sat up, swiveled around, and put her feet on the floor. “I have to meet some girl who says her mother abandoned her as a baby. Probably nothing to it.”
He knew she wasn’t pretending to have work. She was a leading reporter at the Gazette. And he couldn’t tell her anything about the case Buddy was working. He watched her firm backside as she stood and walked into the master bathroom, closed the door, and switched on the shower.
He sprang out of bed, pulled on a pair of Burberry boxer briefs, and went over to the leather chair and ottoman on the other side of the room. Opening his laptop, he waited for the wireless connection, then typed in the web address of Zurich Cantonal Bank. He put in his identification number and password. A moment later, the screen showed his account activity and balance.
It was over a quarter of a billion dollars. This was his escape hatch. His fuck-you money. His ability to disappear and survive, if it ever came to that.
He heard her turn off the shower. Heard the whir of the hair dryer. He exited his account, went over to the nightstand, and picked up his phone. He pressed a number he had on speed dial, walked into the sitting room, and gazed out at the snow and skeletal trees of Central Park.
It was near the end of the day in Zurich, and he wasn’t sure Helmut Borer would answer, but the Swiss rarely left their offices early.
“Helmut Borer” came the voice. Stiff, formal, severe.
“Good evening, Helmut. Ward Mills here.”
“Hello, Mr. Mills. How may I be of service today?”
“Helmut, I need to locate a numbered account owned by an American gentleman named Mario Mingo.” Ward spelled Mario’s name aloud before asking, “Does Zurich Cantonal have an account owned by Mr. Mingo?”
Helmut made a noise of displeasure. “I am sorry, Mr. Mills. I cannot divulge the names of any of our account holders.”
Ward waited for more, but the Swiss was quiet. Ward said, “Helmut, have you forgotten how much business I give you?”
“No, Mr. Mills. No, of course not.”
“You wouldn’t want me to move my account to Credit Suisse, would you?”
“I . . . I think understand, Mr. Mills.”
Ward said, “You have my word that the information you give me won’t be made public and won’t cause harm to anyone. But I must have your help.”
For a long time, Helmut was silent. At last he said, “I’m looking in our system, and I can report that Mr. Mingo has no account with Zurich Cantonal Bank.”
Ward said, “Would you check with your fellow bank managers—Reichmuth, Banque Bonhôte, and the others—to see if they have a numbered account owned by Mario Mingo?”
“No, Mr. Mills. You know that is not legal. To get that information, you would need a court order.”
Ward thought of Buddy and the mortal danger he’d be in if Mario were taking kickbacks for betraying his partner. He lowered his voice almost to a whisper, something he knew the powerful often did. “Helmut, ask your fellow bank managers for the information. If I don’t have an answer by tomorrow, New York time, I’ll move a hundred million out of your bank and over to Credit Suisse.”
Without waiting for Helmut’s response, Ward ended the call. He stood up from the leather sofa and returned to the bedroom.
“Hello?” he called. “Sophie?”
The scent of her Chanel No. 5 remained, but she was gone, having slipped out during his phone call. He picked up the sheet, blanket, and duvet, and made the bed. His chest ached with a new pain, one he hadn’t felt in many years, not since he’d fallen in love with his late wife.
28
Buddy got out of the Dodge Charger he’d taken from the motor pool and scanned the street. He looked to his right, left, straight in front, and behind him. Then he headed toward the chief medical examiner’s offices at 520 First Avenue. In the cold morning, the wind had disappeared, and the city lay noisy and hard under a blanket of gray clouds that didn’t seem to move. Despite the cold, he began to sweat, and he touched his gloved hand to the left side of his jacket. He felt the Glock 19, which he’d loaded before leaving One Police.
Betrayal, he thought, is only the beginning.
He walked through OCME’s metal doors and showed identification at the security desk. Riding an elevator down to the examination rooms, he could feel his mind sharpening. He hoped the bodies would show him something, some clue to the killer’s identity.
An assistant showed him to the room in which Dr. Silva, the chief medical examiner, stood between two bodies on stainless-steel tables. Silva had short dark hair and olive skin, and was perhaps five foot four. In contrast to his white lab coat and shirt, he sported a tie of purple paisley below his ki
ndly expression. Buddy guessed the ME was fifty-five, twelve years older than he. Buddy wondered if he’d be so well preserved at that age, or if he’d even be alive.
Silva walked around the table and smiled. He said, “Detective Lock, you’re finding bodies all over America for me to work on, aren’t you?”
“Sorry, Doc. I had to do it. Thanks for handling my cases personally.”
“Hey, no worries. These won’t take long.”
Buddy said, “You’ve opened them up?”
“Not yet. We took delivery last night. Interesting situation.”
“How so?”
In response, Silva turned and extended a hand toward the bodies.
The overhead lights made the color of their skin darker and yellow, as if they’d been dipped in iodine. Extensive bruising on both bodies, one side of the woman and the legs and arms of the man. Some visitors to the morgue might forget these bodies were, until recently, people who’d talked and laughed and slept alone and together. Buddy wasn’t one of those people.
Silva said, “Fingerprints don’t match anyone in NCIC or IAFIS. So they’re Jane Doe and John Doe, unless you’ve learned more.”
Buddy shook his head.
“No tattoos or jewelry.”
Buddy said, “Not anymore, as to jewelry. Jane Doe was wearing a silver-colored engagement ring with a single diamond, plus a silver-colored wedding band. I gave them to the property clerk. John Doe had nothing.” He didn’t tell Silva about John Doe’s medallion with the Asian symbol that was in the left front pocket of his trousers.
Silva nodded and continued. “Nothing remarkable about the dental work. Probably American.”
Buddy asked, “The victims are Chinese?”
Lines formed on Silva’s forehead as he looked down at the woman on the table in front of him. “Probably Chinese American, but they could have been Chinese nationals living here.”
Buddy avoided looking directly at the faces. A glance was enough to confirm they were the same bodies he’d seen on Mack Berringer’s trawler in Southampton. The missing eyelids, eyeballs, and lips made them appear like terrible ghosts, unnerving even to him. But avoiding their faces left him studying their naked torsos and limbs. In these he saw nothing unusual, except for the bruising. He asked, “How long were they in the water?”