Pendulum

by Adam Hamdy

  ‘Don’t thank me, Mr Wallace,’ Ash replied. ‘If you hadn’t prompted me, there is no way we would have been able to identify the fact that there’s a serial killer passing murder for suicide.’

  ‘What’s going to happen to me? Are you going to send me back?’

  ‘No. This is a Bureau safe house,’ Ash said. ‘You’ve been put into the Witness Protection Programme.’

  ‘He was in a mask. Body armour. I didn’t see anything,’ Wallace warned her.

  ‘Did he speak?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you’d recognise his voice,’ Ash said. ‘And the way he moves. His height, build, the type of armour he was wearing. Apart from Morton, you’re the only person alive who’s seen this guy, so for now, you’re our best witness. The assistant district attorney is prepared to drop the charges against you in exchange for your cooperation. You won’t be going back to jail.’

  Wallace sagged with relief as he was hit by the realisation that he’d escaped the hell of Rikers.

  ‘And I put a call in to London yesterday. Detective Sergeant Bailey came out of his coma a few days ago. The Metropolitan Police have his statement, which exonerates you. Like I said, I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ Wallace replied honestly. Relief was a potent drug that soothed the raw memory of his experiences in Rikers.

  ‘What you’ve been through,’ Ash said. ‘It would have broken most people. You’re a strong man, Mr Wallace.’ She put a conciliatory hand on Wallace’s shoulder and smiled at him. ‘I’ve got to get back to work,’ she announced as she stood up. ‘I just wanted to be here when you came round. You have a rotating guard; two US marshals on duty at all times. If you need—’

  She was interrupted by Parker, who burst into the room. ‘You gotta see this, Ash.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said to Wallace, before following Parker out.

  Ash chased Parker along the corridor and down the stairs into the open-plan living room. Two US Marshals, Perez and Hill, were standing in front of the large television, and Ash didn’t get a clear view of what was on the screen until she was almost alongside them. She felt a cold rush of dismay as she saw a woman’s body hanging far beneath the Golden Gate Bridge. They were watching an east-facing, wide-angle helicopter shot of the iconic structure. The sun was rising behind the bridge, throwing the body below into solid silhouette. The rope ran about fifty feet up to one of the struts on the service level. There was no traffic on the bridge apart from a stationary fleet of emergency vehicles. Ash could see a group of cops and firefighters making their way along the service level.

  ‘The identity of the woman is unknown,’ the news anchor reported over the image. ‘And as we can see from our live coverage, authorities have closed one side of the bridge until they complete the recovery of the body. We’re going live to Al Henson, who is on the scene.’

  A file photograph of Al Henson, an earnest reporter, was superimposed over the shot of the Bridge.

  ‘Al, what are you hearing on the ground?’ the news anchor asked.

  ‘The woman’s body was discovered earlier today, swinging beneath the bridge like a macabre pendulum,’ Henson’s disembodied voice revealed. ‘The first job for law enforcement is to recover the body and discover who this individual is.’

  Ash’s phone rang and she pulled it from her pocket to see Hector’s name.

  ‘You seen it yet?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m watching right now,’ she replied. ‘If she’d jumped, the drop would have ripped her head off. Rope that long means she had to be lowered.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Hector agreed. ‘I need to see you.’

  ‘I’m on my way.’ Ash hung up and turned for the door. ‘Look after him,’ she instructed Parker. She exited the small, converted red-brick warehouse and stepped on to the icy Brooklyn Heights street.

  The Brooklyn Bridge was heavy with rush-hour traffic creeping slowly through the slush. The journey from Hunts Lane to Federal Plaza took twenty-five minutes, and by the time Ash slid her late-model black Ford Taurus into a bay beneath the building, she had figured out how to approach the next phase of the investigation. She’d ask Hector to arrange for local liaisons from the Los Angeles and San Francisco field offices to coordinate the murder investigations. She would ask for Tommy Holt if he was available. He was a good agent based out of LA and they’d worked together before. Ash couldn’t think of anyone from San Francisco, but she’d be able to put the word out and get the local recommends. The New York team would be tasked with investigating the Byrne and Walters deaths, and she’d liaise with the Met about the killer’s activities in the UK.

  She stepped out of the elevator, swiped her key card and hurried along the corridor. She passed the thirtieth-floor offices of a dozen senior agents before she reached Hector’s, which was located in the north-east corner of the building. Brooke, Hector’s middle-aged assistant, stood as Ash approached.

  ‘They’re waiting for you,’ Brooke said before she opened the door to Hector’s office. Something about her feeble smile unsettled Ash. Did she sense pity?

  Ash knew the answer the moment she entered the room. Hector was leaning against his desk talking to Alvarez, but their conversation came to an abrupt end when they saw Ash. Hector nodded solemnly and Alvarez offered a weakly curled smile, the twin of Brooke’s.

  ‘Take a seat, Chris,’ Hector offered.

  ‘I’ll stand,’ Ash replied.

  ‘How’s Wallace?’ Alvarez asked.

  ‘Pretty beat up.’ Ash crossed Hector’s office and peered down at the street where tiny vehicles rolled along like toys. She watched miniature New Yorkers weave their way between grey mounds of snow. If Hector was going to do this, she wasn’t going to give Alvarez the satisfaction of seeing her disappointment. The dim noise of distant traffic drifted into the room.

  ‘Arturo’s taking this one,’ Hector said finally.

  ‘I brought this in, Hector. You put me in charge.’ Ash spoke quietly, keeping her eyes firmly focused on the street below.

  ‘That was before this morning,’ Hector protested. ‘Before this thing became national news. We’ve got murders in at least three states, two countries—’

  ‘Nobody outside the Bureau knows we’re dealing with a serial killer,’ Ash interrupted.

  ‘And how long do you think that will last?’ Hector countered. ‘This thing needs seniority.’

  ‘Seniority,’ Ash sneered. ‘Alvarez and I came up together.’

  ‘Arturo is an SSA, Chris. You’re not,’ Hector countered. ‘Not any more.’

  ‘No offence, but you know I can run rings around this guy,’ Ash replied flatly.

  ‘Hard not to take offence at that,’ Alvarez interjected. ‘But I’m a big guy, Chris. I know how hard this demotion thing has hit you.’

  ‘You have no fucking idea,’ Ash snarled, wheeling round from the window. ‘Or you wouldn’t have had me profiling.’

  ‘It’s done.’ Hector positioned himself between his two subordinates. ‘This is too big, Chris. Washington needs to see a senior agent running the taskforce.’

  Ash swallowed her anger and returned to the window.

  ‘Arturo wants you on the team,’ Hector said, trying to mollify her.

  ‘Profiling?’ she asked sarcastically.

  ‘Wallace knows you,’ Alvarez replied. ‘Depose him. When you’re done, report to Parker. He’s gonna be running the New York investigation.’

  Ash bit her bottom lip and kept her eyes on the little street far below. There was no doubt Alvarez was trying to play her. He’d lobbied Hector to take charge of the investigation, but that wasn’t enough; now he was trying to humiliate her, goad her into a reaction. There was no way she should be working for Parker.

  ‘I thought Parker was already assigned to investigate the Foundation?’ she tried desperately.

  ‘A handful of anti-capitalist nuts hacking bank accounts?’ Alvarez countered. ‘This has to take priority.’

  ‘
We good?’ Hector asked.

  Ash made them wait. She listened to the wail of a siren, and studied the clouds in the cold grey sky. Finally, she turned away from the window and nodded. ‘We’re good,’ she said, but the way she looked at Alvarez left no doubt that they weren’t. ‘I’d better get back to the safe house.’

  Hector patted Ash on the back and walked her to the door. ‘I’m sorry, Chris,’ he said. ‘You still get to play a part.’

  ‘I gotta earn it, right?’ she replied with a cold look.

  ‘Hey, Chris,’ Alvarez called after her. ‘When you get to the safe house, tell Parker to get over here. I gotta bring him up to speed.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Ash responded sarcastically as she hurried from the room.

  36

  Ash collected her laptop and stuffed it into her bag on her way out of the building. She spent the drive back to the safe house thinking about Marcel Washington, wondering whether she could have played that bust differently. You did the right thing, she told herself. This is just a temporary setback. Dark clouds glowered over the East River, and the temperature was dropping ahead of the forecast storm. She turned the Taurus into Hunts Lane and saw Perez look up. He was sitting in the driver’s seat of an old Crown Vic that was parked across the narrow street, opposite the safe house. He gave Ash a cursory wave as she drove past. She swung a U-turn, pulled in behind the Crown Vic, grabbed her bag and hurried across the bitterly cold street into the house.

  Parker sat on the edge of the couch hunched over his laptop, and Ash saw he was running searches on the NCIC database looking for hangings that might fit the killer’s profile. Hill, the other US Marshal, sat in a nearby armchair, his eyes turned towards the television, watching a rerun of Seinfeld.

  ‘Alvarez wants you,’ Ash told Parker.

  ‘I know. He called,’ Parker said, looking up from his computer. ‘I’m gonna be running the New York investigation.’

  Ash wondered why Alvarez had called Parker. Was it because he didn’t trust her? Or was he simply trying to stick it to her?

  ‘I thought this was your show,’ Parker observed.

  ‘Shit happens,’ Ash responded as casually as she could. ‘You’d better get going.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Parker said as he put his laptop to sleep and slid it into his bag. ‘Listen, I don’t want this to get weird, but Alvarez said that once you’ve finished deposing Wallace, you need to report to me.’

  ‘I know,’ Ash concealed her anger. ‘Don’t worry. It won’t be weird.’

  ‘Great,’ Parker smiled. ‘Call me if you need anything.’

  Ash kept the rictus smile firmly fixed to her face until Parker had left the building, and then she turned to Hill, who gave her a knowing nod. His craggy face, heavy jowls and grey flecked hair marked him out as a man of years, an experienced cop who had been around long enough to know when someone was getting screwed.

  ‘Sometimes you eat the bear,’ he drawled.

  ‘And sometimes he eats you,’ Ash finished the saying with a grin. ‘Ain’t that the truth?’

  She put her laptop on the coffee table then went upstairs and quietly opened the door to the master bedroom. The drapes were still drawn and from the deep, rhythmic breathing, she guessed that Wallace was asleep. She crept into the room until she could see his face in the dim light. His eyes were closed and his lids flickered with the energy of a potent dream. Ash backed out of the room, shut the door and went downstairs.

  She perched on the edge of the couch and fired up her laptop to check for the latest on the Golden Gate murder. The press were still treating it as a sensational suicide, but Hector was right; it wouldn’t be long before news of the investigation leaked. The body had been spotted by a fishing charter leaving Pelican Harbour a couple of hours before dawn, and unconfirmed reports had named the victim as Bonnie Mann, an unemployed woman from the Bay Area. Her most recent Facebook post had been a detailed suicide note in which she confessed to a crippling gambling addiction.

  ‘Jerry, the Japanese guys had sake in the hot tub,’ Costanza’s voice yelled from the television. ‘You gotta get ’em outta the drawers and get ’em down here, or I don’t have a focus group to sell the pilot to Japanese TV.’

  Hill’s body shook with laughter. He half-turned to Ash, a little embarrassed. ‘Seen it a million times, but it still kills me. Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Ash replied. She remembered hearing Seinfeld through the walls of the disciplinary cell. Her steward had been watching the contraband show on a smuggled portable television, but even aged nine, Ash had known ratting him out would have brought more pain than she suffered simply serving out her ten-day punishment. ‘I can work in the kitchen.’

  Hill smiled appreciatively and turned his attention to the television as Ash picked up her laptop, crossed the room and went through the lightweight swing door that led to the kitchen. The house had just enough furniture to make a short stay tolerable. There were no pictures or souvenirs or other junk that would make it seem like a real home, but Ash liked spartan. Apart from a framed photo of her with her mother and a large picture of the Malibu coastline, Ash’s own home was equally austere. She took a seat at the circular pine table in the middle of the kitchen, determined to learn everything she could about Stewart Huvane, John Wallace, Kye Walters, Erin Byrne, Ken Pallo and Bonnie Mann. There had to be something that connected these people, so she leaned over her laptop and started digging.

  Wallace was hanging by his neck, the noose pulled tight around his throat. It was all wrong. He was in his flat, dying, and Connie was looking up at him.

  ‘What did it feel like?’ she whispered.

  Then the world warped and Wallace was Connie. He was looking up at her as she choked to death.

  ‘What did it feel like?’ he asked quietly.

  Connie opened her mouth to reply, but no words came, just a horrific rasping sound.

  Wallace woke with the terrible recollection that he would never see Connie again. His potent nightmares permeated the real world, making him tremble and sweat. He felt a welcome rush of cool air as he rolled out from under the comforter and walked towards the window. The sweat on his torso started to evaporate as he pulled one of the drapes back. He was in a narrow street of old warehouses that looked like they’d been converted into homes. It was dark outside and the yellow light from a tungsten street lamp was being peppered by heavy snowfall. There were a few snow-covered cars parked on either side of the street. One of the cars had its engine running and its chassis was moist with melted snow. Wallace could see the shape of a man inside. He looked up at Wallace and nodded. Police guard, he hoped.

  Dull aches assailed him as he crossed the room. He wore nothing but a pair of tight black boxer shorts that didn’t belong to him. He pressed the main light switch, but the bulb didn’t work. He tried the lamp on the dresser and it cast the weak, hazy light of an energy efficient bulb. He noticed his brogues under the chest of drawers. He’d been wearing them when he’d been arrested. If they’d returned his shoes . . . He opened the top drawer and found a pile of clothes that looked like they might fit him. He rifled through, then went to the second drawer, which was similarly stocked. In the third drawer down, he found his own clothes, and, nestled between his folded suit and shirt, was his belt. Wallace unfurled it and pulled open the concealed zip. He was relieved when he saw a wad of greenbacks and pound notes; he had his money. He put on a pair of black jeans, a lightweight black long-sleeve top and a pair of black trainers that he found next to his shoes. He looped the money belt around his waist and pulled it a notch tighter than when he’d last worn it. The thought of his enforced starvation at the hands of Smokie made Wallace realise he had no idea when he’d last eaten. His stomach felt crumpled and empty, but he couldn’t say for certain whether he was hungry.

  He had the answer when he opened the bedroom door and started to salivate the instant he smelled the rich scent of food that filled the corridor. He walked downstairs and followed the smell thro
ugh the empty living room into the kitchen. A heavyset, middle-aged man in a white shirt and dark trousers was standing by the oven, shovelling a slice of pizza into his mouth. The butt of a pistol poked out from the man’s side holster. Agent Ash leaned against the counter on the other side of the kitchen and nodded at Wallace, her mouth full of pizza.

  ‘Hey,’ Ash said, finally swallowing. ‘You hungry?’

  Wallace nodded.

  ‘Help yourself.’ She indicated a couple of pizzas lying on oven trays that rested on top of the stove. ‘Edges got a little burnt.’

  ‘Crispy,’ the man interjected. ‘Exactly how pizza should be.’

  He leaned forward and offered Wallace his hand. ‘Peyton Hill, US Marshal.’

  Wallace shook Hill’s hand. ‘John Wallace.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ Hill advised. ‘Before it’s all gone.’

  Wallace picked up a slice of pepperoni and took a bite. The pre-packaged, processed pizza was possibly the most delicious thing he had ever eaten. The first bite incited Wallace’s hunger and he devoured the rest of the slice. He was part-way through his second, when the kitchen door opened and a young, dark-skinned man with jet-black hair entered. He wore a blue suit, which glistened with what looked like dew drops.

  ‘Man, it’s freezing out there!’ the man exclaimed, patting his sides as he hugged himself. ‘Shift change,’ he said to Hill.

  ‘John Wallace, this is my partner, Geraldo Perez,’ Hill told Wallace.

  Perez shook Wallace’s hand.

  ‘Pizza any good?’ Perez asked as he picked up a slice.

  ‘Burnt,’ Ash replied.

  ‘Crispy,’ Wallace and Hill said in unison.

  Hill laughed. ‘I like your style, man. You got the keys?’ he asked Perez, who tossed them across the kitchen. ‘Time to count snowflakes,’ Hill remarked as he left the room.

  Moments later, Wallace heard the front door slam shut.

  ‘I’m going to need to take your statement,’ Ash said to Wallace. ‘We’ll get started when you’re done.’

  ‘Could be a while,’ Wallace advised, picking up a third slice.