by Anna Murray
"You bet. Entire five state area has been alerted."
"Excellent. Keep me updated." Felipe Moreno ended the call and looked out at the street through the modest home's front windows. His visual survey ran across the paper lying next to the sink. The business section was on top, and his eyes ran across a headline: Renowned Wall Street Quant Murdered in Penthouse Break-in, Robbery.
He scanned the first paragraph:
New York City police are asking for the public's help in the murder of Brent Van Demeer. Van Demeer was killed in the early morning hours Monday, when one or two intruders entered his luxury suite . . .
Moreno skimmed down to the fifth paragraph.
Van Demeer, known to his close associates as "The Great One", was managing director of Alba Financial's Quantitative Group. Van Demeer hails fromNorth Dakota, and he was recently recognized for his work on --
Moreno grabbed his phone, but it rang before he could get to the speed dial menu.
"Phil?"
"Yeah."
"Carrie Landis here. Have you seen the news?" Her voice was bursting with excitement.
"About the quant in New York? The other Great One?"
"Yesss! You've seen it!" She spoke rapidly. "Remember Jane Nelson's search words the day before the killings?"
"I was thinking about that. How would she know Van Demeer and a nick used by his "close associates?"
'I don't know. Her total investment portfolio was a savings account and the company 401K. Less than twenty thousand dollars, all in the S&P index fund. Boring stuff. I don't see a compelling reason for her to be interested in this guy."
"I don't know either, but we could have something here."
"I've got the feeling too. Do you know anything about Jack Anderson?" Carrie rushed on. "About his particular area of research?"
"Some. He teaches probability, calculus, was recently honored by the American Association for Advancement of Mathematics," Moreno replied.
"I've been digging on the dear professor. An anonymous poster on a message board called him an 'arrogant, self-reverential, platitudinous hack,' and that might be true, but, get this, he's also an expert on game theory and the stock market. He worked as an intern on Wall Street."
"No kidding? You think he knew this Van Demeer?"
"Could be. It's all too much to be a coincidence, wouldn't you say?"
"Carrie, call New York. Get whatever they have on this Van Demeer case. I'm coming back to the office. Arrange a conference call if you can. Who do you know in enforcement at SEC?"
"I'm on it. See you soon, Phil."
Chapter 19
Driving to the university campus, Mark struggled to hide his anxiety, but Sally sensed he was worried.
"Slow down, Mark. I want to get there in one piece," she scolded. "I'm bent on having a 30-year career with the FBI. I need to stay alive to do it."
"I don't want to mess up again," Mark explained. "Moreno has tasked you to mother me because he doesn't think I can do the job." Mark was filled with a growing dread, and he prayed Sally wouldn't evaluate his condition.
"That's the wrong conclusion, Mark," Sally replied. "The boss sent both of us because he needs a good team to interview Anderson's colleagues. This is our best lead. He wouldn't send you if he didn't think you could handle it."
"Right."
Sally was a crack forensic psychologist, and damn if he wasn't sweating like a hot dog on a roller rack. The woman was a walking lie detector to boot. Why had Moreno teamed them? Did he suspect something? Mark removed his gloves and cap and threw them behind him. Unzipping his jacket provided some relief, but the feeling of dread lingered like sauna steam.
"Darn right. Mark, you ok? You don't seem like yourself."
"I might be getting the flu," he lied. "Crud is going around."
"Here's our exit. Get over."
"Got it." Mark steered onto the exit ramp, and within minutes they were crunching over snow to the University of Minnesota School of Mathematics building.
Sally and Mark flashed their badges to the department admin. Her desk nameplate identified her as Claire Hill.
Sally started to explain they needed to interview everyone in the department, starting with Jack's closest associates. At this point Mark interjected.
"To speed things up, could you organize staff members and assemble them in the empty classroom over there?" Mark pointed to a door across the hall. "We need to debrief as quickly as we can, as Anderson could be in danger. Tell them it will take less than a half hour of their time."
Sally looked stunned, while a rattled Claire Hill ran off to round up her troops.
"What the meatloaf?" Sally hissed. "You violate all the rules of effective interviewing and expect to get away with it? In a group these people bounce their biases off each other. For pete's sake, Mark --"
"Sal, don't get your undies in a bundle." Mark's eyes had gone to steel, and he sneered. "We've got to get information quickly. Perhaps you have all afternoon to sit down for tea with these yahoos, but I don't."
She dished heat right back at him. "I can't do an effective behavioral interview with a group! I can't control stimulus. I can't identify all the non-verbals flowing in a group. Most communication IS nonverbal, and I can't analyze body language of fifteen people all at once. This is nuts!"
"It's done. Look, we'll do the best we can. Consider the group. These are math professors, Sal, not the compulsive liars club. They deal in truths and facts. This will work. Trust me."
He could see he had her there. "Okay, but if Moreno finds out, we're so busted."
"You can lay it on me if he does."
It turned out Claire Hill ran a tight ship. Within minutes a group of eight math PhDs and post-docs were seated in the appointed room. Sally and Mark entered and introduced themselves.
"Sorry for this intrusion but I'll be brief," stated Mark. "We have reason to believe Jack Anderson is harboring a person of interest in the Woodbury massacre case."
Queer looks and twisted faces broke out all around.
"If any of you have information about his whereabouts, we'd appreciate cooperation. Anything relevant about his personal life -- "
"If you are suggesting he cheated on his wife," Claire Hill objected, "give up the notion. The man is an absolute saint."
Mark cleared his throat. "We're here to learn anything that could help us to find Dr. Anderson. He could be in danger. It's possible he's being held against his will."
"Balderdash!" An elderly gentlemen looked up from the papers he was grading and pointed a finger at Mark. "Young man, you don't know Jack Anderson."
"That's why we're here," replied Sally. "We're hoping you can help us to know him."
"Jack lost his wife. If he needed to get away for a while," the elderly man continued, "it doesn't mean he's with anyone."
"He was seen leaving his home with a woman last night," Sally intoned, and she watched the elderly gentleman carefully.
The man dropped his eyes back down to his papers.
"You're all free to go, but Sally and I will remain here, in each corner. If you have something to share, please stay and speak confidentially with one of us. Or call us at this number. He handed cards to each attendee.
"Thank you for your time," added Sally.
The group shuffled from the room, but a couple remained; the elderly gentleman approached Mark, while Sally handled a younger woman.
Mark extended a hand. "Bill Otto." They shook. "Jack's at my cabin. He needed to get away due to stress. You can't blame the young man. He's been through hell with his recent loss."
Mark nodded. "Of course." He inhaled quickly. "Where's the cabin?"
"Cumberland. Wisconsin. I can draw you a map, but I guarantee you won't find a woman there."
"Thanks, yes, I'd appreciate a map."
Bill took a sheet of paper off his pile and leaned over a student desk. He drew a rough series of lines. "You're barking up the wrong tree."
"You could be right, Mr. O
tto, but we'll check to make sure Anderson is safe."
Otto handed him the paper, and Mark looked over at Sally. She was still speaking with Mrs. Hill. He waited until the woman departed, and then approached her.
"Get anything?"
"A tongue lashing from his best friend," she exhaled. "You?"
"Pretty much the same. Anderson has ardent defenders here."
"Yah."
"Sally, can I drop you at the office to pick up your car, so you can get back to the Anderson neighborhood? Moreno told me to stop at BCA lab to pick data reports and x-rays. It seems everybody wants to see this stuff. I'll join you out there."
"Sounds like a plan." Sally looked up and down the hall and lowered her voice. "Mark, you've gotta be careful about breaking the rules. Your intuition told you those people had nothing to move us forward, and you were probably right, but it doesn't give you license to suspend protocol."
They went to the car and rode back in silence. As she got out, Sally threw one last jab. "Decker, you think you can chart your own course and live by your own rules, all because you have a rich daddy to cover your ass. I don't have that advantage, so next time leave me out of your roguery, ok?"
He nodded. Sally was angry, but there was nothing for it. Blood was thicker than his association with the Bureau.
God knows, he'd tried to run from it. He knew enough about his father's business to know it rode the line between sleazy and illegal, but he'd never dreamed it was this bad.
His father was the reason he'd chosen this career path. The FBI represented structure, regimen, and values -- integrity and honesty. He'd wanted to show his father he was the better man.
Yet he couldn't escape the past. Even after years of abuse, he still wanted to please the man. Sally tagged this Stockholm Syndrome, or the clinical mystery of loving a controller. Whatever. After all this time, and all the discrete family counseling, Mark was still the same kid who'd tried to make his father love him when he was a teenager. This was the same as the time he'd stolen money to buy Dad an expensive birthday gift. Except the stakes were now much higher. Mark thought about the first call for help; it had been a simple request from Dad to “keep your ear to the ground.” It was sheer luck and good fortune that Mark was working in the Minneapolis office, on the right case, and just when his father wanted something he could provide. Mark felt oddly elated. For the very first time his father needed him, and Mark was the ever-dutiful son, who craved approval and love. He was ready to do Dan Decker's bidding.
Chapter 20
The weather had turned milder and snowflakes swirled on a damp-smelling breeze.
Jane Nelson and Jack Anderson shared a lunch of coffee with oatmeal.
"I found brown sugar, but there's no milk," Jane apologized as she set the bowls on the plastic checkered placemats.
"Looks good. I'm hungry." Jack settled his elbows onto the table. "You sleep ok?"
"Better than last night," she replied. "How about you?"
"Takes some getting used to." His mouth tightened into a straight line.
"The couch uncomfortable?" She wrapped her small hands around the coffee mug and let the warmth sink in.
"No. The silence."
"Oh. I know what you mean. It echoes off the trees or something." She stirred the oatmeal in her bowl.
"So . . . you liked your job doing the websites?" Jack asked to make light conversation.
"I loved it. There's always something new to learn. The internet is the revolution of our lifetime. Mark my words, it will be huge."
Jack chortled. "As soon as it gets faster! I wait forever for AOL to load the pictures." He groaned. "What else do you do, besides work?"
"I like photography, reading, movies, hiking, camping, hanging out with family and friends." She looked at him thoughtfully. "What about you? I mean, anything beyond the crazy motorcycle hobby?"
He looked out the window. "Watching movies with my wife, talking, reading, woodworking, travel, walking our dog. Pretty much I had the whole enchilada."
Jane lowered her gaze to her cereal. "Yeah. You know, shit happens. Then we have to do a hard reboot on life. I don't know what I'll be doing in a month. My job is gone, and some of my best friends . . ."
Her voice trailed off.
"You'll get through this."
"Hey, it could be worse. We could be in the intensive care unit. And, there are a few good things about restarting. This is my second go around at it."
Jack's eyebrows went up. "What's good?"
"Being accountable to no one but yourself, because your family and friends cut you some breaks, and knowing you have the strength to pick up the pieces and move on. Those who aren't tested always doubt their abilities. I also know time with people I love is precious. I'm closer to my parents and sister."
"You must be worried about them."
"They know I'm ok. They know me."
"You seem very confident." He took a sip of the coffee.
"I couldn't have slept last night if I weren't," she admitted. "And, quite frankly, I need my sleep." Jane pushed back her chair and carried her bowl to the sink. "You need more coffee while I'm up?"
Sharp rapping at the door broke into the conversation.
"Ed Peterson! Your neighbor!" The man yelled. The heavy door muffled his voice. "Bill Otto sent me!"
Jane looked out the window. The man wore a Green Bay Packers leather jacket and a matching green logo-stocking hat. He'd removed his glove to knock, and was pulling it back onto his large hand.
Jack peered over her shoulder. "Hi, Ed." He jerked open the door, and Ed Peterson stumbled over the thresh hold.
Ed Peterson looked at Jane with middle-aged Christian disapproval. "Bill called. He couldn't get you on your cell phone. Said he needs to speak to you right away."
"Can I use your phone? I left mine back in St. Paul." Jack easily told the half-truth.
"Not a problem." Looking past Jack, Ed spied the blanket and pillow sprawled across the living room couch, and his stern visage softened into a stiff smile.
"I'll be a few minutes, Jane." Jack threw on his coat and boots and followed the neighbor out to his house down the road.
"You staying long at Bill's?" Ed made small talk as they shuffled down the driveway.
"No. Got here yesterday. You remember me? I was up with Bill during hunting season."
Ed peered at him. "Now that you mention it, you do look familiar."
A hundred yards later they came upon Ed's place, nestled in pines. He pulled the latch on the creaky screen door and ushered Jack through the steel storm one.
Jack was careful to remove his boots on the entry rug, and the men left their coats on a bench in the mudroom.
Ed waved a hand. "Phone's in the hallway. Bill's number is on the post-it note on the wall."
"Thanks." Jack skated, stocking feet on vinyl, down to the hall phone, and, picking up the receiver, he punched in Bill's office number.
It rang once. "Bill Otto here."
"Bill. It's Jack. What's up?"
"Claire's in a tizzy. Two FBI agents came by to question us about you. I told the guy you were up at my cabin." He paused. "I had to, Jack. He said you were in danger. With a woman."
Jack ignored the implied question. "When?"
"Maybe a half hour ago. I've got his card if you'd like to call him."
Jack heard Bill pulling it from a pile of papers.
"Here it is. A Mark Decker. Want his number?"
"Mark Decker? Spell it."
"D-E-C-K-E-R."
"No." Jack felt like a lead boat anchor falling to the bottom of Lake Superior. His mind flashed to an interview with Dan Decker, and he recalled the man bragging on his son, who had joined the FBI.
"You know this Decker character?"
"This, this Decker, did he, was he a local?"
"Hell no, Jack. Brash, young fellow with an irritating New York accent."
Jack slumped against the wall. He wondered. Did the FBI know they had a mole?
>
Mark Decker knew where they were. Was he an independent actor, working on behalf of his father? Jane was in danger, real danger, and Jack was backed into a corner. He calculated the odds, and he knew he had to trust someone. Jack had run out of moves, and now he had to take a chance.
Chapter 21
"Hey, Phil."
"Hey Carrie." Moreno entered the lab and stationed himself in the ever-present guest chair next to her computer. "Have you seen Mark? I can't raise him." He eyed the ham and cheese sandwich on Carrie's desk.
"No. You look hungry Phil. I made extra," she handed him half.
"You sure?"
She nodded. "I ate a big breakfast at Embers after I walked Dizzy this morning."
"How's Diz?" Moreno muttered as he recalled Carrie's hermaphrodite, frisbee-playing, champion beagle.
"Great, thanks for asking."
"Thanks for the sandwich." Phil took a bite. "Mmmm. Swiss cheese and mayo. My favorite."
"Like mom used to make," Carrie smiled and turned to the computer screen. "Phil, I've received the info from NYPD on the Van Demeer murder investigation. I had to wrench it out of them. There are some big names in here. Sensitive stuff."
"Yeah?"
"Wall Street bankers and assorted beautiful people. He was dating Antonia K, among others."
"Huh. Lucky guy. I saw her on an episode of Frasier."
"Unlucky," Carrie corrected. "Seems he was a 'live fast and die fast' kind of guy."
Carrie scrolled down the screen, reading along with Moreno.
"What's this? Stop, stop." He pointed at the bottom of the monitor.
Carrie paused the mouse while Moreno spoke around a mouthful of bread and cheese. "Phone calls to Van Demeer's place. Look at this last call, at one in the morning. That's an hour before he was shot."
"I'm looking."
"The caller is 'Daniel Decker.'"
"Hmmmm. The big-deal fund manager?" A light flickered in her green eyes. "Isn't he Mark's dad?"
"Jolines!" Moreno slapped a palm to his forehead.
"What?"
"Where's Mark?" The cheese sandwich was a lump in his stomach. He flipped out his phone and began punching frantically. When he couldn't get through to Mark, he tried Sally. "Sally, you were with Mark this morning. What happened over there?"