The Observer (Derek Cole Suspense Thriller Book 3)

by Phelps, T Patrick

“Doesn’t matter if you do or don’t. I know it's the truth.”

  “Where’s Cortez?” Derek asked. The suddenness of the conversation change seemed to catch Mark off-guard.

  “He’s off the case. I don’t think he would try but if he does try to contact you, tell him nothing, then let me know that he contacted you.”

  “Sounds like Special Agent Juan Cortez isn’t viewed as being very special by the FBI anymore.”

  “Can’t give you the details, Cole,” Mark said, again checking his surroundings for anyone or anything that looked suspiciously interested in the conversation. “Just know that he is off the case and that DHS is very interested in speaking with him.”

  “Is he a suspect now?” Derek asked, feigning surprise.

  “Like I said, I can’t get into any details. He’s off the case and if he makes contact with you, you need to let me know right away. Is that clear?”

  “About as clear as my role in this case,” Derek fired back. “The folder you gave me had three pictures and a listing of all the mosques in the area. Nothing else. Pretty much a waste of time. I visited Abdul and Badr and now have no idea what I am supposed to do next. Abdul’s dead, as you know, so I am drawn to want to find out more about his death. Badr is not a fan of mine, nor of America in general, so I don’t know how much more info I can get from investigating him.”

  “There was another picture included in that folder. Any leads on who that man is?”

  “None. When I visited Abdul, there was someone waiting for him in another room that Abdul was very nervous about. When I asked to talk to the other man, Abdul made no bones about not wanting me anywhere near him.”

  “Think that could have been our guy?” Henderson asked.

  “No idea. And now that Abdul’s dead, I can’t really ask him about his mysterious visitor.”

  “I have more information for you, Cole,” Henderson said as he checked for a third time for any nosey people nearby. He stood slightly and removed another manila envelope that he had been sitting on. “A little bit more on Badr and Abdul. I think your idea of finding more about Abdul’s demise is a good one. The information in this folder may be of assistance. Again, you’re on your own for the most part and I need you to keep your involvement with DHS under your hat.”

  “Curious,” Derek said.

  “What’s curious?”

  “Why it’s so important to you that I don’t mention that I was hired by the FBI.”

  “Matters of Homeland Security, Cole. I can’t say much more than that.”

  “That’s a pretty tired reason, in my opinion. A very popular reason, granted, but pretty damn tired.”

  Before Henderson could respond, his government issued Blackberry sounded.

  “Give me a minute, Cole,” he said as he answered the call while walking out of the deli. It was two minutes before he returned to the table. His face had changed from one that held a calm expression to one filled with worry and fear. As he tossed a 20 dollar bill on the table, he told Derek, “I have a situation I need to address. I’ll be in touch.” With that, Special Agent Mark Henderson walked briskly through the deli, out of the door and into the busy streets of Manhattan.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The August sun was finishing its travels and was preparing to allow darkness to invade the city. As he stood, crammed against one of they many vertical poles on the subway, Derek kept his right hand covering the slight bulge beneath his shirt. He hadn’t opened the folder that Mark Henderson gave him yet, as he wanted to do so in the most secure area he could think of. As the doors of the subway opened and people filed out in a surprisingly orderly fashion, he followed the line of travelers up the escalators and out into the streets of Times Square.

  As he walked through Times Square and towards his hotel room, Derek could see that the area where Abdul had gone to see Allah was buzzing with activity. Yellow police taped cordoned off a large area around the TKTS bleacher area, as several men wearing FBI or NYPD shirts were inspecting the ground and surrounding area for clues. Derek walked as close to the cordoned-off area as he could before a uniformed officer stopped his progress.

  “Never seen yellow police tape before?” the officer snapped. “Move along. Nothing left to see here.”

  Derek walked around the cordoned-off area and made his way through the front doors of the Marquis. He paused when reaching the bank of doors and glanced around the area. He wanted to see if anyone was following him and to be seen by anyone who might be following him. After several seconds, he walked into the lobby, headed to the “floor assigned” elevators and pressed the button that would send him to the 23rd floor.

  As the elevator doors opened, Derek walked towards his reserved room, attentive to see if anyone was watching him from any of the lower floors, all of which were visible from the open hallway. Seeing nothing of interest, he passed by his room and made his way to the nearest stairway. He knew when he accepted this case from the FBI, his comings and goings would be monitored. But after witnessing Abdul’s demise, Derek felt that the FBI watching him would be low on their list of concerns.

  As before, he inconspicuously made his way down to the lowest level of the Marquis then exited the rear of the hotel. Choosing to take a longer route back to the Sheraton, it took Derek nearly 30 minutes to make the relatively short walk from the Marquis to his hotel.

  When he finally entered his room at the Sheraton, the day’s events caught up with him. Pouring himself a tall glass of scotch, Derek sat at the end of his bed and simply stared out of the window overlooking Times Square. It was just a few hours prior that he stood in front of Abdul, heard Abdul blame his visit for his death, and then watched the man he had spoken with just a couple of hours earlier end his life in a cell-scattering explosion. He hadn’t heard from Detective Connor about Abdul’s sons. For some reason, he could not fully understand, he felt responsible for them. Abdul asked him to make sure they were safe, but beyond trusting Detective Connor and the NYPD to ensure their safety, Derek had done nothing to honor Abdul’s final request.

  He flipped open his laptop and dialed in the IP address of the spy pens, but saw only a black screen. After checking that he had entered the correct address, and confirming that he had, he pulled out his iPhone, launched the "BuryMe" app, and called Crown.

  "Crown, it's Derek."

  "You don't need to tell me who you are," Crown said, her voice hardly recognizable after the decryption app played its game with it. "You're the only person who could be calling me on this line. Damn Cole, you need to catch up with the times."

  "Listen," Derek said, hoping the seriousness and urgency in his voice were not filtered out by the encryption app, "this case just took a turn for the bizarre. I need you to do some research for me."

  "What happened?"

  "Check the news stream. A guy I met with about this case a few hours ago just blew himself up in the middle of Times Square."

  "Got it," Crown said. "There's a pic on Drudge that shows the vic kneeling down, strapped with a bombing vest. Guess who can be seen in the background? Looks like you were awful close."

  "Close enough to be the recipient of his DNA sharing."

  "You injured?"

  “Not at all. Listen, I need you to dig for info about the vic. Who he's connected with, whether or not he's on any terror suspect lists, anything you can find out. Is there a way you can do your research without anyone knowing what you're doing?"

  "So the FBI is your client?"

  "How the hell did you figure that out?"

  "Two and two always makes four," Crown said. "And since I know you're a blubbering idiot when it comes to technology, the fact that you asked if I can find out about your DNA-sharing buddy down there tells me you think someone is watching what you do. And by you, I mean you and me."

  "Can you find info without leaving a trace?"

  "Can you shit after drinking coffee?"

  "I'll take that as a 'yes.' Also, my stream is dead," Derek said.

&nb
sp; "Drink more water. What am I, your doctor now?"

  "Not that stream, my spy pen stream."

  After a pause that extended close to a full minute, Crown confirmed the IP stream was down. "Either the batteries ran down or someone liked your pens more than you did. I'll ping them and see if I can locate them."

  "No idea what ping means, but it sounds like something good to do," Derek replied. "Guess that's it for now. I'll call you when I can to get an update from you."

  "Fine," Crown said. "And Cole? I'm not the mushy type but, you better be careful. Seems to me like you're playing with some dangerous folks down there. Don't want to lose my job, so don't get yourself killed."

  "Heartwarming, Crown."

  It was close to 5 PM before Derek felt in control of his thoughts. The folder that Mark Henderson had given him sat unopened on the bed beside him. It was precisely when his hand grabbed the folder that the explosion happened. The flash of light came first, followed by the horrible sounds of shattered glass and a deep, ominous sound as its bass.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Derek raced to his window, his gaze directed by the black smoke and licks of flames pouring out from the Marquis hotel. His mind responded quickly as he counted to see on which floor the explosion had occurred. When he counted to the 23rd floor, he felt his stomach drop. He tried to count the rooms' windows on the 23rd floor to see if it was his room that was now filled with smoke and flames. Best as he tried, his mind was racing too fast to deliver an accurate count.

  As he stood, staring out of the window in shocked disbelief, he felt his iPhone vibrating in his pocket. He checked the caller ID, which could only offer “Unknown Caller.”

  “Can I help you?” he answered.

  “Good move on your part, I’d say,” the man said, his voice distantly familiar. “Checking into one hotel under your name then paying cash for another room in a different hotel. Your paranoia served you well this time, Cole.”

  “Who is this?” Derek asked, familiar with the voice but unable to assign an owner to it.

  “You need to not use your cell phone,” the man said. “Meet me in the bathroom on the third floor in 20 minutes. Turn off your cell phone, now.”

  “Who is this?” Derek demanded.

  “Cortez. Turn off your phone and meet me in five.”

  ***I***

  Derek quickly dialed Crown using the encryption app. Seconds later, Crown answered.

  "Forget something?" she asked.

  "Listen, I only have a few minutes. There was a bombing in the hotel where I am registered as a guest. I wasn't in the room, but I have a feeling that people will think that either I was blown up or was a part of whatever the hell it is that's going on down here."

  "Shit Cole," Crown's distorted voice replied.

  "I need your skills. I just received a call from one of the FBI Agents, Special Agent Juan Cortez. Too many details to give you on this call, but I need you to find out everything you can about him."

  "If he called you right after the bombing then he probably knows that you weren't in the hotel when the bomb went off."

  "Exactly. Plus, the other FBI agent I met with along with Cortez told me that Cortez is off the case and that if I see him, to contact him right away."

  "You got yourself into some serious crap, Cole. You need to be more selective with your cases."

  "Too late for that," Derek said. "Find out anything and everything you can about Cortez, Special Agent Mark Henderson and this whole case. I'm going dark for a while so I'll contact you as soon as I can."

  "Going dark," Crown replied. "That's a very techy term for a moron like yourself."

  "Thanks for the never-ending stream of compliments. One more thing," Derek paused. "When this bombing hits the news, which should be any second now, reporters are going to start digging to see who was in that guest room. If you start hearing my name as a possible victim, please let my parents know that I'm safe."

  "Got it," Crown said. "And I'll make sure that they keep the intel to themselves. Just in case."

  The restroom on the third floor appeared empty when Derek walked in. He checked each stall and found each vacant. An instant terror crossed his mind as he wondered if he had been set up and if another explosion would soon confirm his suspicions. He turned and raced towards the exit, desperate to get as far away from the restroom as possible. But before he reached the door, it swung open. Walking through the door was Special Agent Juan Cortez.

  “Not sure if you’re brilliant or an idiot,” Cortez said, his voice displaying a heavier Hispanic accent than he employed at the diner in Yonkers. “You’re smart enough to figure out the whole ‘hotel-room-switch-out,' but stupid enough to walk right into the bathroom without checking the surroundings first.”

  “Chalk it up to having a bad day,” Derek replied. “What the hell is going on here, and why did you leave me a note in the case folder?”

  “Speaking of folders,” Cortez said, “I hope you didn’t leave them in your room upstairs. I know Henderson met with you today and gave you a second one. Where are they?”

  “Safe and sound,” Derek said.

  “And where exactly is safe and sound?”

  “On my bed upstairs,” Derek admitted.

  “Answers my original question,” Cortez said. “You are an idiot.”

  “Can we discuss my intelligence level later? What the hell is going on?”

  “Follow me,” Cortez said as he slowly opened the restroom door, peered out then quickly moved into the hallway. He led Derek up the nearest stairway where they climbed until they reached Derek's floor.

  “Mind telling me where you are leading me?” Derek asked.

  “To your room first to get the folders, then over to my room at the Marquis.”

  “Are you crazy? We’ll never get into that hotel. The whole place is probably being evacuated right now.”

  “True. Every guest room will be searched and any guests will be told to get the hell out. Good thing my room isn’t a guest room, huh?”

  “It doesn’t matter if your room is a restroom, which you seem to be fond of. The entire hotel will be searched and evacuated.”

  “Exactly why we are going there. Funny thing about emergency evacuations; it’s nearly impossible for authorities to identify anyone and extremely easy to disappear into the mass exodus. Hurry up. We need to get there fast.”

  After collecting the case folders, the pace at which Juan and Derek took to the Marquis would have raised suspicions had a bomb not just exploded; the second bomb of the day. Nerves that were already stretched thin, were close to their breaking points. Though he couldn’t see them, Derek assumed that the bridges and roads leading off the island of Manhattan were quickly filling up as residents, visitors and tourists decided that being outside of Manhattan was a much better place to be.

  When they reached the rear of the Marquis, dazed and terrified guests were being routed to a nearby hotel and then assembled in the hotel’s lobby. Derek followed Juan’s lead and joined the group of Marquis guests. Both were soon being led by an NYPD officer across the street and into the nearby hotel.

  “They won’t ask, but if they do, tell them you were on the 21st floor. Got it?”

  “And if they ask for my name?” Derek whispered to Juan as they stood among a group of 50 other Marquis guests.

  “Make up a name. Do not use your name or, God forbid, my name. Keep cool. We’ll either be in a room in this hotel or on a bus to some other hotel within an hour.”

  True to his word, Derek and Juan were among a group of 30 that were put on a school bus and transported into Queens. After dropping off guests at various hotels with vacancies, Juan and Derek arrived at a Courtyard Marriott, no more than five miles away from Citi Field.

  “Act like you’re in shock,” Juan whispered to Derek as they made their way into the small lobby. “Keep your head down and try to keep your face covered with your hand.”

  Within minutes after they walked into the lobby,
Juan and Derek were given room keys after checking in under the names Jacob Hernandez and Ralph Bryant.

  “So who is Ralph Bryant?” Juan asked when he and Derek were in Juan’s room together.

  “Combination of two important people in my life. Ralph Fox is a good friend and a Chief of Police in Upstate New York and Maggie Bryant was my last client.”

  “Must have been a pretty important client to have earned a spot in your alias.”

  “Yeah,” Derek said as his thought drifted back to Maggie and his last case. “She was pretty special.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “What did Henderson tell you about me being off the case?” Juan asked, his face emotionless yet displaying a hint of concern.

  “Not much,” Derek said. “Just that you’re no longer on the case and that DHS is interested in speaking with you.”

  “Interested in speaking to me? If that’s not the biggest understatement ever.”

  “Okay, Juan,” Derek said, “you gotta tell me what the hell is going on and why you left that note for me.”

  “Henderson and I lied to you the other day at the diner,” Juan started. “DHS hired 12 private investigators and assigned each one an overlapping area to cover.”

  “I know I wasn’t the only freelancer hired,” Derek stated.

  “But what you don’t know is that you were handpicked and assigned the only people and mosques that really mattered.”

  “Handpicked by whom?” Derek asked.

  “By whom? What are you, an English teacher or a private eye? Me. I handpicked you, that’s whom. When we started hearing the chatter and realized that whatever we were facing was much too big for our resources, we were instructed to start researching private investigators. I filtered through hundreds of people until I came across your name. I did a deep check into your background and demanded that you were not only hired, but that you would be the main hombre.”

  Knowing that Juan was probably well aware that Derek had attempted to kill himself after losing his wife made him feel embarrassed. He knew that his feeble suicide attempt was caused by his extreme depression, but, sitting across from someone who certainly didn’t know the reasons behind the suicide attempt, made Derek feel like he held a disadvantaged position.