by Unknown
Fernandez desperately wanted to join Jack and Howie in beating up ‘Toxic Tariq’ as she called him, but Howie told her that her mission of the morning was to chase up the other loose ends. Manny Lieberman was top of her list. The FBI had its own in-house forensic documents examiners but almost anyone who knew Manny, used Manny. He was eighty-two but his eyes were still as sharp as a fox on a midnight run to the hen house.
Fernandez knew there was no point ringing him. Whenever Manny was busy he ignored the phone; in fact he ignored everything. She grabbed her stuff, diverted her calls and made her way to his office off Liberty Avenue near the Jewish Cemetery. The black lettering on the frosted window declared the business to be Lieberman & Son & Daughter. The ‘& Daughter’ had been added two years earlier when Annie, his ‘Princess’, as he referred to her, had graduated and finally decided that she did want to work with the old man after all. As Manny would tell you, it had been a toss-up between him and taxidermy, and he had been forced to use all his charm, wealth and family connections in order to narrowly defeat a stuffed animal. What could he say? The Liebermans specialized in all forms of handwriting analysis, including detecting forged signatures, validating signatures, spotting alterations to wills, land titles, deeds and all manner of other business documents.
The walls of his tiny reception area were plastered with hundreds of forged cheques that he’d spotted and that the cops had given him as mementos of successful prosecutions. Beneath the bottom line of cheques, worth a total of about $2 million, Manny’s son David answered phones and ran the admin. David was drop-dead gorgeous and gayer than Elton John. Such a waste, thought Fernandez, as she stared into his baby blues and waited for him to hang up.
David Lieberman cupped his hand over the phone and whispered to her, ‘Go straight through, Agent Fernandez, my dad won’t mind.’
‘Thanks,’ she said, wondering whether it would be possible to ‘convert’ him. What the hell, even if she couldn’t she wouldn’t mind trying.
Fernandez knocked on a cheap wooden door, pushed it open and walked into an even cheaper-looking room. Manny wasn’t big on spending money on anything other than essentials and that was a category he reserved solely for the tools of his trade. Lately, his hearing had virtually gone and he didn’t even look up from his work as Fernandez stood in the open doorway, waiting to be invited in.
The old man sat behind an uncluttered desk, with bright angle-poise lights and a variety of hugely expensive, long-handled magnifying lenses strewn across it like discarded lollipops. He wore an ancient dark blue jacket, white shirt and blue tie, pulled tight into the collar. ‘Look professional, act professional’ he’d always told his family.
‘Morning, Mr L,’ chirped Fernandez.
The head of thinning white hair half cocked towards her, one eye still focused on his M-glass and the paper beneath it.
‘Morning, Agent Fernandez, come on in. Are you here to harass an old man?’
‘Not at all,’ she lied, moving into the heart of the room. ‘In fact, I’ve come to make him very happy.’ She dug into her purse and produced a paper bag containing a quarter of iced gem biscuits, a type only available at a local baker near her parents’ home out on Staten Island.
Lieberman now gave her his full attention. ‘Aaah, you’re an angel fallen from the clouds of heaven,’ he said as he took them off her. The iced gems were a running joke between them, going back to the first case they’d worked together, when Manny had helped Angelita bag a top burglar and a bent jeweller from Manhattan. The jeweller would sell high-quality diamonds to wealthy clients, and give the burglar the addresses where the ‘ice’ was. The burglar would steal the diamonds and the jeweller would buy them back from him for a fraction of their value. Afterwards the jeweller would resell the gems through shops he had in other states.
‘You know, Angelita,’ mused Manny, a five-carat sparkle in his eye, ‘if only I were twenty-five years younger and free and single, then you and I –’
‘Yeah,’ laughed Fernandez. ‘Then you and I’d be down the jail house’cos you’d be busted, on account that I’d still be under-age and you’d still be a wicked old man.’
They both laughed. Fernandez took one of the tiny biscuits and crunched off the icing. ‘You got anything for me, Mr L? Or do I have to come back again?’
Manny Lieberman sighed. He knew he was being ‘worked’ by the sassy agent, and he loved every minute of it. He put the document he had been examining into a file and demoted it to a desk drawer. He took out another file. Fernandez instantly recognized the carefully cut piece of cardboard with the black felt-tip writing as coming from the package containing Sarah Kearney’s head sent to the FBI. Manny also slid out a photocopy of the BRK note from Italy and placed this alongside the cardboard.
‘I know you officers have very short attention spans, so I’ll try to be as brief as possible about this.’ He folded his hands together. ‘The same man wrote the same writing with the same pen. Your Italian package and your American package were addressed by the same hand.’
Fernandez’s eyes widened as she took in the implications of his snappy summary. ‘You’re sure?’
Manny picked up some gold wire-rimmed glasses and popped them on. ‘Aah, so now you want the not-so-brief version?’
‘Afraid so.’
‘Okay; then let’s start with the science first. As you know, I am a little old-fashioned in my ways and methods, but they haven’t let me down yet. I pin-scraped a tiny part of the ink from the writing on both samples that you gave me. I then subjected these scrapings to pyrolysis gas chromatography, which I have always favoured for analysis of paint and fibre samples. The final program produced in this process is virtually unique. Certainly reliable enough for me to say confident lyin any court that the samples matched.’
‘Fine,’ said Fernandez, getting her evidential bearings. ‘So that tells us that it was the same type of pen, maybe even the same pen, but it wouldn’t be evidence that the same guy used it?’
‘No, indeed it wouldn’t. And that presumably is the main reason why you came to me.’
‘Mr Lieberman, where else would I go – you’re the best.’
‘Flattery, my dear Agent Fernandez, will get you everything your heart desires.’ Manny slid a piece of tracing paper out of the file envelope and paper-clipped it on to the photocopy of the BRK letter recovered in Italy. ‘First I did top-of-the-letter analysis, and I’ve marked up this “trace” to show how the offender starts off his letters. Can you see?’
Fernandez had to stand behind him to get a proper look. The trace paper was covered with tiny marks. The first marks were made at the highest point of all the letters. ‘I’ve got it,’ she said.
‘Okay. Next I marked out where his second peaks are. So, for example, on the letter B, my first mark is at the top of the B, then my second mark is where the top half-circle of the B hits the middle of the vertical letter line. You got that too?’
Fernandez looked at the trace paper closely. ‘Yeah, Mr L, I’m still with you.’
Manny sat back. ‘By marking out all the peaks and troughs of his letters with those small dots that you saw, I was able to join up the dots and get a kind of graph. Let me show you.’ He returned to the trace paper and ran his finger along the pencil line, which looked to Fernandez very similar to the printout you might get from an ECG or a polygraph. ‘Then, I was able to take this trace from the BRK letter and place it over the writing on the label of the box sent to your office here in New York.’ Manny slid the trace over the cardboard sample and clipped it into position. ‘You’ll see now that although he wrote in capital letters, obviously to avoid handwriting detection, he has still given us enough to go on. The height of all the letters is identical, the mid-points are identical, the spacing between the letters is identical, the spacing between the words is identical and the spacing between the lines he’s written is also identical. As I said, the same man wrote the same messages with the same pen.’
‘Mr L,
at times like this I wish I was fifty years older,’ said Fernandez, planting a kiss on the top of his head.
Suddenly, all the hunches and gut instincts were justified. At last, they had positive proof, hopefully proof strong enough to one day put before a jury, that there hadn’t been two killers at work. Just the one. The Black River Killer had indeed crossed continents and killed in Italy.
65
Pan Arabia News Channel, New York
Jack and Howie had no time to waste on pleasantries. Howie shoved his FBI shield in the face of the security guards at Pan Arabia’s reception and made it brutally clear that he and his colleague were going straight to el Daher’s office, whether they liked it or not.
They rode the elevator, both visualizing how the coming scene would play out. The metal doors slid open, revealing a busy open-plan office with another reception area. Howie flashed his badge again. ‘FBI. Where’s Tariq el Daher’s office?’
A young woman in her mid-twenties almost held her nerve and thought about stalling them, but caved in and said, ‘At the bottom on the left. Shall I call his secretary and say –’
Jack and Howie were gone before she finished. They strode past journalists pounding computer keyboards and secretaries running off multi-coloured copies of scripts. Tariq el Daher was sitting watching TV with another man, when they pushed open the door to his glass-fronted office.
‘I didn’t know you had an appointment, Mr Baumguard,’ said the journalist, his eyes never leaving the screen.
‘Do I need one?’ said Howie, jabbing his finger on the set’s off button. ‘I thought yesterday that we had an understanding. Then I drive into work and listen to a pile of bullshit on the radio that upsets me so badly I have to come straight round here.’
Tariq looked at Howie. ‘Be good enough to turn the television back on and I’ll show you something of interest to you.’
Howie shot him a searching look, then switched on the set.
Jack sat down on a couch next to Tariq’s companion and sprawled out his giant frame. ‘Hi there,’ he said, in a way that sounded more intimidating than courteous. The man, a professional type in his late fifties, looked back at him but said nothing.
Tariq hit a remote control and rewound some footage. ‘This morning I received a telephone call from someone who rang our reception and asked to speak to me. Anonymous callers don’t usually get put through, but he asked reception to tell me the numbers 898989. I took the call and he told me that the hyperlink I clicked yesterday would be reactivated in five minutes’ time and would then be inoperable again within another five minutes. He added that unless I disconnected the police trace it would not work.’
‘What did he sound like?’ asked Jack.
Tariq frowned at him. ‘And you are?’
Jack frowned back. ‘I’m the guy asking you the question. What did he sound like?’
‘His voice was disguised,’ said Tariq. He waved a hand towards his glass-topped desk. ‘I recorded it on my phone. I will have a copy made for you.’
‘Gee, thanks,’ said Howie. ‘What’d he say?’
Tariq yawned, as though it was a big effort to answer their questions. ‘That was it. He just said I had five minutes to access the site. I think we missed thirty seconds, maybe one minute of it. When you came in, I was reviewing the footage.’
‘The same footage that you screened on this morning’s eight o’clock bulletin?’ asked Howie.
‘Yes,’ confirmed Tariq. ‘But I presume if you only heard about it on the radio, then you haven’t seen the material?’
‘You presume right,’ said Howie.
Tariq hit play on the remote and as the first picture came on screen he paused it. ‘I will show you, but please understand we did not screen this version in its entirety. We selected only the least disturbing part of the tape and we showed it on air for only twenty seconds.’
‘Very restrained,’ said Jack sarcastically, ‘how very responsible of you.’
Tariq put the remote down on his lap and frowned again at Jack. ‘You’re Jack King, aren’t you? I remember seeing a photograph of you when I was at Reuters, what, four, five years ago now. Am I right?’
Jack stared him down. ‘We don’t have time for this. Just play the video.’
Tariq studied the man’s face. He was sure he was right. He pressed play and the pictures started rolling.
Howie and Jack didn’t flinch or react at all when they saw the awful scene of the girl’s convulsions. They were unemotionally scanning every inch of the picture frame, searching for clues and any possible evidence that would tell them where she was, when the recording had been made and whether she might still be alive.
Jack’s mind turned to the reasons why someone would record the scene through fixed cameras, rather than be there in the room with the victim. Why wouldn’t he film it himself with a hand-held camera, so he could get up close and personal?
Maybe he would, if he had a choice. Which meant he wasn’t in the building wherever the girl was kept.
Why wouldn’t he be in the building? Because he was working during the day? Or, more likely, because he wanted to be away from the crime scene when she died, making it much harder therefore to connect him to the murder.
The tape ran for almost four minutes. After seeing the victim motionless for around thirty seconds, Howie called time out. ‘Hold it. Stop it for a second. What do you think, Jack? Is she dead, or what?’
Jack scratched the back of his neck and was about to give his opinion when Tariq’s companion spoke for the first time. ‘If I may introduce myself, I am Dr Ian Carter; I am a consultant to the television station and formerly a member of the World Health Organisation. I have seen the footage only three or four times, but from what I have observed I would say she has suffered a terrible convulsion and blacked out. I cannot conclude that she is dead. Sadly, nor can I tell you with any great confidence that she is still alive.’
‘How long has she been like that?’ interrupted Jack.
‘It is possible that this footage was shot some time ago and the girl is already dead. Or it could be that this is very recent footage. If that is the case, then I can tell you that, in my expert opinion, even if she survived the convulsion she is critically close to death.’
‘How long would you give her, doc?’ asked Howie.
Carter took his time thinking about it. ‘Forty-eight hours max.’
PART EIGHT
Sunday, 8 July
66
Holiday Inn, New York
It was the early hours of the morning when Howie had finally gone home for round two with Carrie while Jack checked in at the Holiday Inn on Lafayette Street.
Jack guessed the Bureau had a deal on the slate price because the room was tiny and stank of the unseen and unclean who’d been there before him. He flopped down on the bed and discovered it had springs crafted by cavemen. He rang reception and asked if there was a chance of a sandwich and a glass of milk. The guy laughed and said something in Spanish that Jack guessed meant ‘no way’. He put the phone down and at first was pissed as hell, but then figured that missing a midnight snack might turn out to be a good thing. He remembered the girl in the video and felt guilty. Poor kid would kill just for the bottle of water in his room, let alone a bar of chocolate from the mini-bar, and there he was cursing about not being able to get room service.
Jack kicked off his shoes, checked his watch and called Nancy. Just approaching one a.m. in New York, meant it was seven a.m. in Tuscany and he timed things perfectly so he caught her seconds after her alarm went off. Nancy was a creature of habit. The clock was always set for the same time, even on holiday. She saw no point in lying in bed and always wanted to start the day as early as possible. They didn’t speak for long, just long enough to say they loved each other, and for Jack to send Zack a hug and a kiss.
After hanging up, Jack lay back on the bed, still in his suit, and pictured his wife and child just about to start their day. The image was soothing eno
ugh to make him feel sleepy, but he popped an Ambien to make sure and washed it down with a slug of water. He’d meant to rest for a minute and then clean up in the bathroom, but he never made it. Within seconds of shutting his eyes, he was asleep.
And then the nightmare started.
Only this time, it was different.
This time he was in the same room as the girl in the video. She was having convulsions again, her body jumping all over that strange table she was tied to. Jack put his hand on her chest to calm her down. He checked her face and she was still breathing. He loosened her chains and turned her on her side so she wouldn’t choke, then he got a blanket from somewhere and covered her up. Soon the room was filling with paramedics, cops and scene-of-crime officers. The paramedics gently lifted the girl on to a stretcher, quickly attached a saline drip and carried her out to an ambulance.
Jack felt good; she was going to be all right. He’d saved her. He looked around the room as the forensics team started snapping pictures, bagging and tagging evidence. He saw something on the floor. Something utterly shocking.
Jack woke up.
A thought hit his subconscious like a bolt of lightning.
In the dream he’d just had, he was reaching for the newspaper on the floor, the copy of USA Today, the copy dated the second of July.
Suddenly, Jack had the answer to the questions he’d posed himself in Tariq el Daher’s office.
Why wouldn’t her attacker film it himself with a hand-held camera, so he could get up close and personal?
The paper had been left to prove to anyone watching the first video after Tariq got it on the fifth of July that it was recent material. But when Tariq received new footage on the seventh, there was no new paper.
Why?
The answer was simple. Because he hadn’t been in that room since he left the paper in the video. Because from the second of July onwards, six days ago, he’d left the girl to starve to death and was remotely controlling the recording and delivery of the footage by Internet. Internet – the perfect tool of anonymous criminals.