by Andrew Mayne
After the briefing I call Ailes with the news. He’d been sleeping on a couch in the bullpen waiting for an update. I can’t remember when I had a full night’s rest either. I look like a zombie in the reflection as the tinted window exaggerates the circles under my eyes.
“That’s great news. But you sound angry, Jessica,” he tells me.
I pace the New York FBI room trying to sort things out in my head. “We could have got him. He was probably following the bus. The creep got away again.” He’s always a step ahead.
“Jessica. I think you’re missing an important detail. We saved the girl. If it hadn’t been for you, we’d never have known about her. He would have killed her and she would have vanished from history. We stopped him. That should make you feel good.”
“I know. But we didn’t save Claire. We had the information, but we couldn’t put it together in time.” I stop pacing to sit on the edge of a table and stare at a wall full of missing-persons photos. The faces look back with happy expressions, unaware of what fate has in store for them. There’s a map next to the photos with pins at locations where each of them was last.
Ailes continues, “We’re getting closer. Close enough to save at least one person. He knows the noose is getting tighter. And he probably still doesn’t know about our ace in the hole, that we’re inside the website he used to track down some of his victims. This information is putting us closer. If he tries to kill again, we might be able to be there this time.”
“If?”
“Some of Chisholm’s people think this may have been the final murder. At least for a while. If we only count them as miracles, this is the third one. Like a trinity. The first one was in the ground. The second was in the sky. The third was in heaven. It has a nice kind of symmetry to it. Doesn’t it? The Bible loves threes.”
“I think it’s wishful thinking,” I reply, perhaps a little too tersely. “I think he’s saving the best for last.” I still can’t get the five classical elements out of my mind. I used to build my show around a five-part structure. Three may be a holy number. Five offers a sense of completeness. “I think there’s going to be at least two more.”
I can hear Ailes sigh on the other end of the phone. “Yeah, maybe I do too.”
Symmetry. I roll the thought around in my head for a moment. The Warlock wants to show everyone how clever he is. Even going as far as planting little Easter eggs like the sand and the feather. Nothing is left to chance. The last two murders were revealed in carefully chosen locations. The plane appeared near where it was last seen in 1945. Claire was supposed to have died in the most public place in the world. A taunting gesture if there ever was one. The one part that doesn’t fit is the graveyard. It got our attention, but it doesn’t have the narrative of the others. It was just a cemetery. Sure, it was where his real first victim was buried. But why her and why there?
“Dr. Ailes, can you hold on a second?” I set the phone on speaker, put it down and grab some of the pins stuck to the side of the map. There’s something about the cemetery that’s odd.
I stick a pin in the town in Michigan. I push another in Fort Lauderdale and a third in New York City.
A triangle.
“Dr. Ailes. The last three murders form a triangle if you look at them on a map.”
He lets out a small laugh. “Jessica, any three points on a map will make a triangle. It’s getting late. You need some sleep.”
I look at the triangle in front of me. “I know. I know. But this is a pretty nice triangle.” I’m embarrassed I can’t remember the mathematical word for it. I rummage through the top drawer of a desk and find a ruler and a marker. I trace the lines of the triangle on the map. Two sides look perfectly even. “What’s the distance from Manhattan to the cemetery?”
Ailes asks me to hold and calls out to Gerald. A minute later he has the answer. “One thousand and sixty miles.”
“What’s the distance from Fort Lauderdale to Manhattan?”
There’s a long pause.
Ailes clears his throat. “Damn, about one thousand and sixty miles! Give or take. Curious. Real curious. You know, Jessica, you’re talking to three mathematicians who didn’t notice this. You may have missed your real calling. That’s a perfect triangle!”
“I’m sure one of the FBI computers would have picked it up sooner or later.” And remember what an isosceles triangle was called.
“Maybe. But only if we ask it to. Usually we only use the Data Integration and Visualization System computer when we think someone is dumping bodies randomly and can’t find a connection. Gerald is going to put these coordinates in and see what we come up with. Could be something. We might have the next location in here somewhere. Now that you’ve schooled the math teacher, go get some rest. And feel good. You saved a life today.” I sense a touch of pride in his voice.
I take a van with the other agents to the hotel where we’re checked in. We’re all tired. Some of them seem a little excited about the fact that we saved Katya. I guess they’re right to. We showed up here expecting to pick up the pieces of a murder, but we got lucky and saved someone. Barely. Still too late for Claire.
I put the keycard into the lock and kick the newspaper in front of the door across the hall. Above the fold is a high-resolution photo of Claire. In a smaller box is my photo and a headline about me, “FBI Magician on Hunt for Angel Killer.”
I can’t get away from this bullshit. I have to resist the urge to throw the paper down the hall.
Too tired to even take a bath, I just set my alarm, undress, crawl into bed, and shut my eyes. I’m still too wound-up to sleep, but if I can keep my eyes closed long enough . . .
A minute after my head hits the pillow, the phone on the nightstand rings. I answer without thinking. I should know that only one person ever calls me on actual hotel phones.
“Hello, beautiful. Seen the paper today?”
44
I BOLT UPRIGHT. Damian’s voice stirs up memories of the conversation in the director’s office about him. My reaction to Knoll asking about a “partner” makes me blush when I hear his voice. “Where are you?”
“Too far away for a cuddle, if that’s what you’re asking for.”
“Go to hell. Where are you?” Still holding the phone, I get out of bed and grab my mobile off the desk.
“Why do you care so much all of a sudden?”
“Because you’re our number one suspect after that with Faceplaced stunt you pulled.” I try to keep the conversation going as I send a text message to Knoll and the ops dispatcher in Quantico.
Damian Knight on my hotel phone. Can u trace? Room 2032.
“Can’t a citizen help out law enforcement without being made a suspect?”
“Not when they’re you,” I reply.
“I see that we were too late for that poor girl in Times Square.”
We haven’t released information about the girl we think we saved, so I keep my mouth shut.
Damian senses my hesitation. “Ah . . . I’m glad to see my money wasn’t totally wasted. He knows you’re getting close now. You probably came within just minutes of catching him. Better to save the girl first . . . I suppose.”
“How do I know this whole thing is not one of your stupid games?”
There’s a long pause. “Me? Murder is too boring. And, you know, morally wrong. I do have my version of morals. I’m also not the type that likes the attention. This Warlock, well, we all know he’s got a god complex. But gods do hate it when mortals mess with their plans.”
I speak calmly. “Damian, how can I know it’s not you?”
I have to be objective about this. Despite my gut feelings, Damian is clearly the most suspicious person in this whole thing. My stomach feels queasy at the thought that he might be playing me along, deceiving me again. That he could be a cold-blooded serial killer is too much to handle.
I regain my calm. “Damian. You’ve lied before. There’s no reason to trust you. No reason for me to trust you.”
&nb
sp; “Are we still on that? Fine. Before I hang up I’ll give you all the proof you need. Of course, I think you’re probably already working on that. To be honest, I called this number because I was sure they’d be tapping it. Transparency, eh?”
Tapping my phone? I catch a glimpse of my naked body in the mirror and suddenly feel vulnerable. Would they bug my phone? Of course they did. I would.
If Damian is our only person of interest and Chisholm could tell I was being evasive, why not? They know it’s only a matter of time before Damian calls me again. And now here he is on the other end of the line.
“Why are you calling?” I ask.
“A few reasons. I had an interesting chat with a man from Tulsa who brought up some curious things. A churchgoing man, he saw the news on a bar television and all of a sudden felt the urge to get good with the Lord. He ran to the nearest church. I tried to tell him nobody is home. I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but late-night masses are starting to fill up everywhere. Who knows what tomorrow’s going to look like. This angel killing stunt is darkly brilliant. This country is experiencing a religious revival because of the Warlock.”
I was afraid of this. Right now when you say the word “miracle,” the first thing that comes up is the Warlock. Good or evil, he’s made himself the center of religious discussion. Each deception elevates him in people’s minds. He’s created something bigger than all the people watching Times Square.
“I doubt people see anything godly in what he did,” I reply.
“Maybe not. I think what he’s really trying to do is challenge God or at least our notion of him. And that might be enough.”
“Enough for what?”
“He wants followers. He’s waiting to make sure he’s proven himself. Then he’s going to give us his real message. Unless he’s already sent you something?”
I’m silent. There’s nothing I can say, but I don’t want anyone thinking that I’m feeding Damian information. I’m under enough scrutiny.
“I think he’ll do it in a public way. He doesn’t want you hiding the message. Unless he wants to give it to you first and then reveal the fact that you were trying to suppress it. That’s the first step to creating a religion—show the people that the authorities are trying to hide the truth. I think you’ve interfered with his plans, however. I suspect he’s going to step up the timetable a bit.”
“That’s obvious.”
“Of course. This is just a friendly reminder. Remember what I said before about him having his sights set on you? I think that’s still true. But now there’s another problem. He may not have to do anything to hinder you. The kind of fervor that sends people to midnight mass is also the kind of thing to inspire the more unstable parts of our society. Proud as I was to see your face in the paper, I think you may have more admirers than you can handle.”
This is a repercussion I do not want to think about. It’s one thing to deal with Damian and the Warlock leaving vague threats in hotel rooms. It’s another to have to worry about every psycho out there waiting for a sign who might see my face in the news and get an idea.
“Don’t worry, Jessica. I’m sure after you catch him, this will die down and then I can go back to being your number one fan.”
That’s unsettling. “You may be the worst of them.”
“You know that’s not true. Anyhow, how’s the next clue going? I have to assume he’s been leaving calling cards.”
We haven’t found one yet. As I went to sleep forensics was still going over the body. But Damian’s voice sounds like it’s a certainty.
“What clue?” I ask.
“Really?” Damian sounds genuinely surprised. “I mean, it seemed obvious to me. Of course I don’t have the whole picture. Just the direction, so to speak.”
He’s being cryptic. “What do you know?”
“Fine. Make me explain everything. First off, the media has it wrong. Typically, of course. She’s not an angel.”
“We know this, Damian,” I try to keep the frustration out of my voice, remembering that others may be listening.
“No. I mean in the Christian Bible, angels don’t have wings. This girl does. In other mythologies, like Babylonian, they do. Of course, that’s academic. What they can all agree on is that winged beings are either messengers or, as the Babylonians described them, watchers. Messengers or watchers, take your pick. If she’s not here to tell us something obvious, then logic would dictate she’s watching something. What was she looking at, Jessica?”
She was looking at something? Damn. I spent over an hour at the crime scene and never bothered to think about this. I even stared down at her haunted eyes. I was so focused on figuring out how he did it, I didn’t bother to ask why. None of us did. We forgot the Warlock is trying to tell a story.
The angel herself is the clue.
A text message comes up on my phone from Knoll with a Las Vegas phone number.
Damian sighs. “I can see this didn’t dawn on you and your friends. I’m sure you were all tired. Maybe I’m wrong. But we know I’m not. Either way, if you go have a look to see what your angel is watching, don’t go alone. I think I’m going to have a nap myself. I’ve been up for three days straight. If you call this number, just ask for Mr. Smith. I won’t be here, though. But you’ll get all the proof of my innocence you need. And one more thing . . .”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Put something on. You’ll catch cold.”
He hangs up, leaving me staring at my naked reflection. He’s thousands of miles away, yet he knows me. He knows me better than I know myself.
45
A MINUTE AFTER DAMIAN hangs up on the hotel telephone, Knoll calls me on my mobile.
“We traced it to the Bellagio casino in Las Vegas. We’re sending some uniformed police to pick him up.”
“He won’t be there. He knows you’re coming,” I explain with a sigh.
“It’s worth a try,” Knoll replies tersely. “We’ve told security there too.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Kind of sloppy of him to use a landline like that.”
Knoll doesn’t know Damian. “No. He wants us to know where he is. Call the number back and ask for Mr. Smith.”
“We’re checking on that. See you downstairs in ten,” Knoll says before he hangs up.
I get dressed while I wait for Knoll to call back. I have to see what the angel was looking at. I’m exhausted, but I need to know. I send an e-mail to Ailes describing Damian’s insight, then go down to the lobby to get a cup of coffee and wait for the rest of the team who were in on the phone call.
Three minutes later he steps from the elevator flanked by two of our forensic people from Quantico. Knoll sees me and shakes his head. “Security at the Bellagio said he left right after he hung up on the house phone. They’re going to double check their security footage, but they’re pretty sure the man who made that call is the same person they’ve been watching for the last three days at the poker tables. He only gets up to use the bathroom. Other than that he hasn’t moved more than a hundred feet for seventy-two hours. Nuts.”
“Yes. Insane. That would be Damian.” Leave it to him to figure out how to give himself an airtight alibi and still stay out of our reach.
“They ran his image through their own database. Nothing came up. The casino also says he broke even after three days of solid play. That’s a trick in itself.”
That would be Damian making a point.
Fifteen minutes later we’re back in Times Square. NYPD still has the street blocked off, but the body has been moved to the medical examiner’s office. There’s an outline of tape marking where the body had lain. Three techs in hard hats are using a saw to cut the asphalt out of the ground where she appeared to have landed. A road crew is standing by with hot gravel to patch it after them. In a few hours it’ll be like it never happened. This city seriously never sleeps.
One of Knoll’s agents has brought a large printout of a photograph documenting the
placement of Claire’s body on the ground. It looks like it was taken from the overhead lift. The woman sets it on the sidewalk a few yards away from where Claire was found and rotates it to match her position.
We step back and take a look across the street in the same direction Claire was looking. The buildings are covered with electronic billboards. One of the agents, a tired-looking man with uncombed hair and an FBI jacket like mine, starts taking photographs of everything in front of us. I’m sure we already have this shot uploaded onto a server in Quantico by now, but it doesn’t hurt to be thorough.
Knoll takes a sip from his coffee cup and surveys the array of fashion models displaying clothing, perfume and watches. “So which one didn’t Leonardo DiCaprio date?”
There are a million things in front of us. Everything around us is demanding our attention. Anything could be a clue. The time on a watch. The image on one of the giant televisions. The models. The information overload is overwhelming. Somewhere back in Quantico, a room full of analysts will pore all over these images for hours or days trying to find something.
Maybe we’re being too literal? I remember something about a fingerprint on a cornea leading to a killer. “We ever have anything left on someone’s eyes before?”
“Dust, metal fragments. Sometimes fibers. Semen.” Knoll has another drink of his coffee in the absentminded way cops deal with the morbid.
We’re facing west and the sun is rising behind us. Rays of light start to shine through the streets. I once read an article about Manhattanhenge, a phenomenon that occurs two times a year when the sun is exactly parallel to the streets and sends shafts of light straight through the buildings like an ancient monolith. I look at my own shadow and think of something.
I call Ailes.
Gerald answers. “Hello?”
“Gerald, is Dr. Ailes there?”
Knoll raises an eyebrow.