Eric Van Burren was currently in witness protection, which was a touch better than either Kotler or Denzel had wished on him. That was frustrating, but also necessary. He had a lot of information about his grandfather’s smuggling network, and the FBI was keenly interested in dismantling that. So, appalling or not, giving Eric a comfortable bed in a nice house, nestled into a suburb somewhere in the Midwest—that was the annoying and necessary reality of things.
Far worse was the fact that Gail McCarthy had escaped. Using that same smuggling network, Gail had managed to make a run for it and stay hidden all these months. There hadn’t been a peep out of her. No clue as to where she was or what she was up to. That was frustrating to both Kotler and Denzel, for a variety of reasons. But mostly to Kotler
Gail had played him worst of all, masquerading as a neighbor, as a victim, even as a lover. She had been far more devious than Kotler could have anticipated, and had nearly had both Kotler and Denzel killed on multiple occasions. Worse, though, was that Kotler had been fooled so completely. He was highly trained to read body language, to see the signs of lies and deception, to intuitively and overtly understand the drives and motives behind a person's actions. He hadn't seen Gail coming until it was too late.
But that was yesterday’s story. At least for now. Today was a new day, with new promise. The Atlantis project was continuing, and was now at a point where Kotler could step away, and concentrate on other things. Which brought him to here and now, in the Manhattan offices of the FBI.
Kotler needed a new thing to concentrate on.
He sipped his coffee and said, “What’s on the docket these days? Anything interesting?”
Denzel leaned back, stretching a bit before folding his hands over his stomach. “I’m glad you asked,” he said. “We still have the map thing.”
Kotler shook his head. “The map thing isn’t historic. It's not real."
“It’s being played off like it is,” Denzel replied. “That’s the problem.”
“It’s a forgery. A good one, but still a forgery. That isn’t really our thing, is it? Isn't that a White Collar case?”
“They’re booked up,” Denzel said. “And there’s the whole ‘lost civilization’ thing.”
Kotler nodded, and sighed. When this new division was commissioned, Denzel was two-for-two with solving crimes the FBI only barely had bandwidth for. He’d become something of a hero in the Bureau, after bringing down Director Crispen and solving two high-profile, history-related crimes in a row. There was buzz that echoed all the way to the Hill, where it was determined that there was a growing need for this sort of thing.
As a reward for his work in Pueblo, and at the Atlantis site, Denzel had been given the helm of a new division, and carte blanche to pick personnel to man his team. As his first pick, Denzel had engaged Kotler as a resource on retainer, though Kotler had set things up so his fee went to charity. He had no need for a salary, and didn’t feel right taking one. It was better for the money to go to a good cause, such as funding science and history programs in underprivileged schools.
For a few months after the Atlantis case, Denzel and Kotler had been rock stars at the Bureau. Every case that had even a hint of ‘misplaced history’ was sent their way. Most turned out to be mundane, lacking any real connection to actual historic or archeological facts or events, and often turning out to be scams or forgeries.
Case in point, ‘the map thing,’ which Kotler had determined to be a forgery of a sixteenth century nautical map, that supposedly pointed to a lost civilization in the Antarctic.
It had taken Kotler only thirty minutes to prove the map was a fake, but the case persisted because the forger had not yet been apprehended, and the suspect who had tried to sell the map was insisting that it was a replica of a real document, and that it was accurate.
The case wasn’t quite in the purview of the new Historic Crimes Division, but it was deemed ‘close enough.’ Kotler was happy to help, in all the ways he could, but at this point there really wasn’t much left for him to do. Unless they could locate the forger, and somehow verify that the fake was based on a real map, Kotler’s usefulness amounted mostly to helping Denzel brainstorm leads.
He was about to comment on this, again, but at that moment Denzel’s desk phone rang. “Agent Denzel.”
Kotler settled into his chair, sipping his coffee and looking at the decor of Denzel’s office, which trended toward memorabilia. There were framed photos of Denzel with various political figures and a couple of celebrities. A signed Nolan Ryan baseball card was in a small frame resting on a shelf next to an autographed baseball from the same pitcher. There was a photo of Denzel with President Obama, and another with President George W. Bush. There were also photos with various high-ranking officers of the Bureau, though notably no photo with Director Crispen.
And, to Kotler’s delight, there were news clippings about the Coelho Medallion, as well as a photograph of the ruins at the Atlantis site. These told Kotler a story about Denzel—that he was proud of his work, but also inspired by it. And as a part of that work, Kotler was gratified to know of its impact. Maybe he would take this ‘map thing’ a bit more seriously.
“Detective Holden?” Denzel asked. “What can I do for you?”
Holden. Kotler recognized that name, but it took a moment to place it. Detective Peter Holden, with the NYPD. He’d been the lead detective working the murder of Morgan Keller, the former Head of Acquisitions at Baker Tait. She had been murdered by Gail McCarthy, or by someone she’d hired—though they’d been unable to prove it so far. Was this something to do with that investigation?
“Detective, I’m afraid I don’t really handle murder investigations, so …”
Kotler watched as his friend’s face went through a rainbow of micro expressions. There was skepticism, or something akin to it, and a bit of stubbornness as Denzel internally decided to ignore Holden’s request for assistance. Then something changed. There was a spark. Denzel’s eyes darted to the newspaper clipping and the photo on his wall, and Kotler could see that his interest had been piqued.
“That does sound interesting,” Denzel said. “Hold on.” He held the phone aside and looked at Kotler. “What do you know about something called ‘the Devil’s Interval?’"
They arrived at the high-rise home of Ashton Mink less than an hour later. It was quite close to Kotler’s apartment. In fact, Kotler had bumped into Ashton a few times at local events—the type where Ashton was asked to be a guest rather than a performer, and where he and Kotler were valued more for their checkbooks than for whatever their contributions to society might be.
For all that, Kotler hadn’t really known Ashton very well, and wasn’t sure Ashton knew who he was at all. But the man had seemed interesting and kind, if a bit eccentric. And his company was doing amazing things in the field of acoustic research. Some of the technology used in Kotler’s own field was built around AMSL’s patents.
Kotler and Denzel were greeted by two uniformed police officers standing in the doorway to Ashton’s apartment. Denzel showed his badge and Kotler showed his FBI consultant ID. It was the coolest thing about his contract with the Bureau, and Denzel had made him swear on his life that he would never abuse it for fun. Kotler had mostly lived up to his word on that promise.
Inside the apartment, a forensic team was at work combing through everything. Kotler saw with relief that the victims had already been removed. There were little numbered cards placed on each blood-soaked spot on the carpet, but no taped outlines or other evidence that a body had lain there.
Kotler had no problem with dead bodies—he'd seen more of the dead than most living people ever had. He had no driving desire to see more, however. He could live with a corpse-free day, just fine.
Detective Holden was consulting with a lab tech, whose white polypropylene coveralls stood in stark contrast to Holden’s rumpled brown suit and coffee-stained shirt. His necktie was loosened just enough to reveal a missing top button on his shirt c
ollar, its severed threads coiling and bending away from the fabric like thin, white weeds. Holden looked exhausted, which was exactly how Kotler remembered him from the last time.
“Agent Denzel, thank you for coming,” Holden said. He then turned to Kotler. “And you’re the squint.”
Kotler nodded. “We’ve met before.”
“I remember,” Holden said. “You’re the archeologist guy. The one who found all those Vikings in Colorado. I read about you.”
Kotler only nodded. Holden’s body language was sending all sorts of signals, particularly his disdain for Kotler. But he was also showing signs of deep respect for Denzel, which seemed unusual. The FBI and the NYPD had a notoriously bad relationship at times. At least, if the whole of modern fiction was to be believed.
“Ok, let’s get to this,” Holden said. He turned and caught the eye of one of the forensic personnel—a young woman in white coveralls—and waved her over. She wound her way between markers on the floor, and when she arrived she presented a large plastic bag, zip closed at the top, and marked with details about the case. Holden took the bag, held it up and looked through it, then handed it to Kotler.
“You know anything about this?” he asked.
Kotler examined the contents of the bag, turning it to get more light from the large windows of Ashton Mink’s apartment.
Through the clear plastic, he could see a torn piece of paper, bloodstained around the edges. It seemed weathered by age, but otherwise clean enough to make out the shaky handwriting: Devil’s Interval.
Kotler turned the bag over and saw that on the reverse side were musical notations. In the top margin of the page were the words “Take the Name of Jesus With You,” and in the bottom margin was the page number.
“This is a page from an old Baptist hymnal,” Kotler said aloud, looking closer. “Maybe from the 1940s or ‘50s.”
“We know that part,” Holden said. “The handwriting on the back. The Devil thing.”
Kotler nodded, turning the bag over and once again examining the writing. “Shaky,” he said. “Written under extreme duress. I’m guessing by the fact that there’s blood on it that Ashton wrote this as he was dying?”
“That’s our guess,” Holden nodded. “What does it mean?”
“Well, the Devil’s Interval is a tritone,” Kotler said. “It’s a pretty common interval in music, actually. But back in the early eighteenth century there was a concern that it was evil, and that using it could create a sense of dread in the listener, that was basically the devil encroaching on their soul.”
“That’s what Elizabeth said,” Holden nodded, indicating the woman who had presented the bag. “Dr. Elizabeth Ludlum,” Holden said. “She’s our Lead Forensic Specialist.”
Kotler turned to Dr. Ludlum, who had taken off a rubber glove and extended her hand to him, smiling. “Dr. Kotler, it’s a privilege to meet you! I started my career in Forensic Anthropology, and I’ve read practically everything you’ve published.”
Kotler smiled. Since the events in Pueblo, he’d gained quite a bit of notoriety, even from people on the streets, but it had cost him a lot of the respect he’d once held within the scientific community. It had become rare indeed to hear praise for his academic work, especially work published prior to the events surrounding the discovery of the Coelho Medallion.
This made Kotler take an instant liking to Dr. Elizabeth Ludlum. He was aware of the implications—that his ego was driving.
However, ego or not, he had always enjoyed meeting intelligent women. It didn’t hurt that Dr. Ludlum was very attractive, of course. Though the observation did make Kotler question his own perspective. He knew his faults, and his weakness.
Dr. Ludlum was a young woman of African descent, with a deep, flawless complexion of mocha and créme, accentuating startlingly bright hazel eyes and a glistening smile that was entirely captivating. She wore her hair long, but had it in a ponytail to facilitate her work in the field. The baggy overalls hid her figure, but she seemed somewhat diminutive. Except that she was tall—as tall as Kotler himself.
Kotler blinked. He realized he’d paused just a bit too long in reply, but sped ahead anyway. “Good to meet you,” he said, taking her hand and smiling.
Denzel cleared his throat. “So, Kotler, can you tell us anything else about this? Anything that might give us a clue as to why Mr. Mink wrote it?”
Kotler again refocused his attention on the bag, turning it over once more to examine the musical notes. “Do we know where this page came from?” he asked.
Dr. Ludlum answered, “He tore it out of an old hymnal. We’ve bagged that, too, since there’s blood on it.”
“Can I examine it?” Kotler asked.
Ludlum ushered them to a bar top that was being used by the forensic team as a convenient place to make notes and take photographs of small objects. Resting on the bar was another large, plastic bag, and within was the hymnal.
“Can we open it?” Kotler asked.
Ludlum nodded and pulled on a new set of rubber gloves. She took a pair of forceps from what looked like an antique doctor’s bag, tore open the sterile paper sleeve for them, and laid them on top of the paper on the bar’s surface. She then used a small scalpel to cut the bag open. “I’ll need to rebag it when we’re done, and note what we do here, to preserve the chain of custody.”
Kotler nodded.
She laid the hymnal on a piece of sterile, lint-free cloth, and opened it to the very back, where the last page had been torn. She turned to Kotler and handed him the forceps.
He took these, and very carefully began turning the pages of the hymnal, examining each one. There were no more torn pages, and it seemed the blood droplets were confined to the exterior surface of the book. By all evidence, Ashton had opened the back cover and gone straight to tearing out the final page. Kotler flipped the pages to the front again, so he could examine those remaining, as well as the back cover.
Stooping and looking at both the page and back cover at angles, with the light cascading in from the window, Kotler could see that there were subtle impressions from pen strokes, and they matched what had been written on the torn page. “He wrote it while it was still in the hymnal,” he said, noting details out of habit. They may or may not be important to the investigation, but you never knew.
He picked up the hymnal now, and turned it in the light, looking at the interior of the back cover. There was a large, bloody blotch there, possibly form Ashton’s thumb, but also something else.
“There’s an impression in the paper covering the cardboard stock,” he said.
“There is?” Ludlum asked, leaning in, close. She smelled of a very distracting perfume, and Kotler blinked a few times before using the forceps to point out his findings.
“There,” he said, lightly tracing the indentation. “It's bulging outward, slightly. Whatever made it was beneath the paper, between it and the card stock.” He ran the tip of the forceps along the edge of the paper, and gently took an edge, pulling it away. There was a bit of adhesive there, just enough to hold things together but not enough to glue the cover in place permanently. “Temporary adhesive,” he said. “Like what they use to make sticky notes. This was a hiding place.”
He stood upright, looking around, and spotted a photographer’s loupe a foot or so to his left. “May I?” he asked Ludlum, who nodded.
He held the loupe to his eye and examined the corner of the cover, looking first at the slight bulge outside, then peeling the paper back to look inside.
The adhesive had formed a slight ridge around what had been stuck there, and it was preserved by the air gap of the bulge. Kotler could see the shape of it. And as he looked closer, he saw a small scrap of white paper, contrasting sharply against the aged paper of the hymnal.
He tugged at this with the forceps, removing it. The word “microSD” was mostly visible, only partly obscured from the tear.
“There was a memory card hidden here,” he said. “A microSD card. The kind you
might use for additional memory in a smartphone. Ashton must have hidden it here.”
“Something to do with his company?” Holden asked. He consulted a small notebook. “AMSL?”
“I’d make that guess,” Kotler said. “But I couldn’t say for certain.”
Holden noted this. “I’m stopping by there this afternoon. I’ll ask them about this. You still don’t know what he meant by ‘Devil’s Interval?’”
Kotler thought about this, but shook his head. “I’m sorry, Detective. I can tell you about the history of the phrase at length, but I can’t determine why he wrote it.”
“I’d like to get a full statement from you about it, then,” Holden said. “Everything you know.”
“That could be quite an essay,” Kotler smiled. “As in volumes. It would help to be able to narrow things down a bit. To have some context.”
“Mind if we tag along on your interview at AMSL?” Denzel asked, suddenly.
Holden looked up at him, as if he were about to tear into him, but stopped. He frowned, shook his head, and said, “Sure. Just remember, this is my investigation. You two are here to assist, not take over.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Denzel replied, smiling.
Holden turned back to Kotler. “If you think of anything relevant, I’d appreciate the heads up.”
Kotler nodded, and the three of them moved away, back out into the hall.
As they exited, Kotler spared one last glance at Dr. Elizabeth Ludlum, who quickly looked away and tried to pretend she hadn’t watched them go.
Chapter 2
AMSL Facility
Denzel and Kotler arrived shortly after Detective Holden, walking into the lobby of Ashton Mink Sound Lab just as Holden was clearing their entry with security. He waved the two of them over.
Denzel produced his FBI credentials before Kotler had even had a chance to think about it, and for a few seconds Kotler was less than his usual pulled-together self, fumbling through his coat pocket for the consultant ID, and flipping it open for the guard to inspect.
The Devil's Interval Page 3