COPS SPIES & PI'S: The Four Novel Box Set

by David Wind

  “It’s worth a chance. What’s more important is to get surveillance on the passengers out of our jurisdiction. Protection is another form of surveillance, isn’t it?”

  <><><>

  Hyte fought through a crush of reporters to get to his office on Tuesday morning, where he found memos from Phil Mason, the crime scene unit, and three precincts who were holding the confessed Samaels.

  He asked Cohen to check on the Samaels, and Schwartz to set up an appointment with the Moffertys’ psychiatrist. Then he called the crime scene lab and learned the bolt Samael sent them was coated with the same poison that killed the other victims.

  As soon as Hyte hung up, Schwartz popped his head into the office. “Dr. Masters says that ten-thirty is his only free time today. Shall I tell him you’ll be there?”

  “Ten-thirty it is. Any word on the name?”

  Schwartz shook his head. “All I’ve been able to learn so far is that Samael is not a name from the New Testament.”

  Hyte spent the next half hour going over reports. At ten, he left headquarters and drove to Franklin Master’s expensively furnished Park Avenue office.

  “I really don’t understand why you wanted to see me, Lieutenant,” the psychiatrist said. “I can’t discuss my patients’ cases with you.”

  “Dr. Masters, I wouldn’t be here now if it wasn’t necessary. Both Jack and Sonja Mofferty were hostages on a hijacked plane—”

  “Really, Lieutenant, why do you think they’re seeing me?”

  “—and they are involved in what the papers are calling the Friday Night Killings,” he continued as if the psychiatrist had not interrupted him.

  “As victims, yes. A psychotic has targeted the passengers from that plane. Jack and Sonia are well aware of that.”

  “They’re also suspects. And you’re their alibi.”

  “A good one, too. Neither of them could possibly be the killer.”

  “What makes you think it’s a psychotic?”

  “It’s a wastebasket term I use when I don’t have enough information. Psychotic or sociopath—all the signs are there.”

  “Such as?”

  “The delusion. You received a letter, did you not? Something with a biblical name. Delusional.”

  Hyte let Masters’ comment slide. “Of all the passengers, the only people we know for certain to have sustained a long term relationship with an analyst are the Moffertys. The only hostage to have a criminal record is Jack Mofferty.”

  “That old arrest is meaningless. Neither Sonja nor Jack are capable of committing these crimes.”

  “I don’t see it that way. Jack Mofferty has hate built up inside him from what happened. Why couldn’t he be my killer?”

  “Lieutenant, please. As Jack Mofferty’s psychiatrist—”

  Hyte leaned forward. “Look at it from my point of view. If you can’t give me something concrete, I’m going to arrest him on suspicion. He’ll stay in jail until another murder is committed, or you and a lawyer get him out for a complete psychiatric evaluation overseen by the courts.”

  “You don’t have that kind of authority,” Masters said, “and if you push me, I’ll go right to your chief.”

  Hyte reached across Masters’ desk and picked up the phone. “555-1200, extension 801. Ask for Chief of Detectives Philip Mason.”

  “You’re bluffing.”

  “Which will be something you’ll find out when I announce to the press that we are seeking extradition on Jack Mofferty from Suffolk County.”

  “I believe you’re bluffing,” Masters said again, “but I can’t have Jack Mofferty held up to public ridicule. To disprove your suspicions, his problem would have to become public. If that happens, it will set back whatever progress we’ve made in his therapy.”

  “Then talk to me.”

  “I can’t, even if I wanted to. All I can say is that if you arrest Jack Mofferty, you will be arresting the wrong man and at the same time do irreparable harm to him.”

  “No, Masters, you’ll be doing the harm, because you could have stopped it. Doctor, for God’s sake help your patients!”

  Masters stood. “Excuse me a moment.” He left his office, returning several minutes later.

  “I spoke with the Moffertys,” the psychiatrist said. “I explained the situation as you outlined it to me. I also gave them my opinion that to withhold the information of their treatment would be detrimental to their overall therapy. They gave me permission to discuss certain aspects with you. However, anything I am about to say will and must remain off the record. If this goes to court, I will invoke medical privilege. Is that understood?”

  “Of course.”

  “Just remember that I’m doing this strictly with my patients’ well-being in mind. Ask your questions.”

  “Did the hijacking bring out any manifestations of paranoia?”

  “Not in the traditional sense. You see, for a man of my patient’s background, a man who grew up in a strongly male-dominated household, and one who went on to become a self-made millionaire, having his wife save his life by allowing herself to be brutalized is a devastating, ego shattering experience. Yes, there’s paranoia, but its manifestation is that Jack Mofferty cannot deal with other people any longer. He believes everyone thinks he let them rape his wife so he could live. What happened during the hijacking emasculated Jack Mofferty.”

  “He’s impotent?” Masters nodded. Hyte leaned back.

  “Which would bring out latent homosexuality because of his shame. Why wouldn’t he want to silence the people who saw what happened?”

  The doctor laughed. “Don’t quote Freud to me. Try Marshal McLuhan. If the hijacking hadn’t been videotaped, your theory might—just might—hold water. Realistically, I don’t think anyone is capable of killing the entire world. Everyone who has a television has seen tapes of the hijacking. That, Lieutenant, is what makes Jack’s treatment so damned hard! He believes everyone he meets, everyone he sees, is accusing him of using his wife to keep himself alive.”

  “And Sonja?”

  Masters smiled. “She’s definitely not your killer. The hijacking brought out a character trait Sonja never knew she possessed—self-sacrifice for the benefit of another. For ten years, she was a highly paid model, pampered, taken care of, and given everything she wanted.

  “The hijacking changed all of that. At first, it took several months to get over her initial feelings that her former lifestyle was what condemned her. But she now realizes that what she did, she did out of love for her husband.”

  “Which means she forgives everyone involved?”

  “No, Lieutenant, she simply feels she did what was necessary to keep herself and her husband alive. Nothing more, nothing less. It was a horrifying experience, but one that helped her grow emotionally. Until the hijacking, she was immature. Now she’s coming to terms with herself. Which is to say, Sonja is growing up.”

  “When I visited them, there seemed to be a fair amount of stress between them. It wasn’t what I’d call an example of a loving relationship. In fact, neither of them seem to fit the picture you’re drawing for me.”

  “Every relationship has its times of stress. This happens to be such a time for Sonja and Jack. I’m sure that once they’ve worked their problems out, they’ll be as loving as they once were.”

  On the trip back to headquarters, Hyte thought about the doctor’s diagnoses and protestations on behalf of the Moffertys. Nothing the psychiatrist had said was enough to make him believe that Jack or Sonja was incapable of committing murder.

  He was just passing the Pan Am building when he heard his number called from the radio. He picked up the microphone and replied.

  “Lieutenant,” said Randal Schwartz, “I just got a make on the name.”

  Hyte pulled to the curb. “Go on.”

  “The name Samael is Semitic. It’s from Hebraic mythology.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Hyte woke, and tried to push aside the dream. It was a familiar dream: the hijacking
. The killing of helpless people.

  He wondered what Samael’s mind was like. Did the killer have tortured dreams? Did he wake in the middle of the night, sweating? Hyte hoped so. He wanted to feel some sort of mental affinity with the killer.

  Samael was secure in the knowledge he could outwit him. That was the note’s purpose. Was it also the reason he’d brought Michael Barnes into the city?

  Hyte glanced at Emma. His restlessness hadn’t woken her. Moving carefully, he left the bed and went into the living room, where he looked down at the two books on the coffee table. One was a psychology text; he had thoroughly studied the section on classic paranoia. The second was one Schwartz’s father had loaned Hyte. It was a compilation of rabbinic literature and Hebrew mythology.

  Samael, according to the writings, was God’s Messenger of Death—not an angel of death, but a messenger sent to find those people who had somehow outwitted death.

  The name gave Hyte reassurance. It was verification that he was right about the victims. They were the full-term hostages who had not died—they had outwitted death.

  Nor did he necessarily believe that because the name came from Jewish folklore that the killer was Jewish. There had been three Jewish passengers on board Flight 88: Anita and Jonah Graham, and Sylvia Mossberg. Anita was dead, Jonah was as good as dead, and they’d cleared Sylvia.

  The killer was smart, and devious, Hyte reminded himself. Using a Hebraic legend could be a method of sending Hyte to chase a dead end. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that the name was to signify the killer’s intent.

  He thought about possible suspects. The overtime men had completed their detailed checks of the coach passengers, as well as clearing the relatives of the murdered hostages.

  There was one tenuous lead, which came from Jim Roberts, after he’d re-interviewed the doorman of Flaxman’s building. The doorman had described an elderly pedestrian who, wearing a hat and a trench coat, using a cane, and carrying a shopping bag, had walked past the building moments before Flaxman was murdered.

  Roberts tied the doorman’s description to the one the woman at the Seventy-Ninth Street boat basin had given the police the day after the Barnes’ murder.

  Learning that Elaine Samson had taken a taxi on the night of her murder, Sally O’Rourke was on the trail of the driver.

  Of all the passengers from Flight 88, only the whereabouts of the Helenezes were unknown. Nothing Hyte had been able to do, or any pressure he had exerted, had been able to pry their location from corporate headquarters. Cristobal Helenez had left instructions that no one was to know where he and his wife were. Hyte didn’t like dealing with wealthy people. They believed their money could buy them anything, including safety and protection. Sometimes it did, but often it was never quite enough.

  <><><>

  “You have no choice!” Phil Mason thundered.

  “How in the hell can you even consider doing it?” Hyte asked.

  “Damn it, Ray, you sit in your office and ponder the nuances of this case. You check and recheck all your facts, and you can do it without anyone staring over your shoulder because I’m running interference for you. I’m the one who everyone focuses on. The press is on me all day long. And to make it worse, I’ve got McPheerson parting the hairs on my ass, looking for a way in.”

  “It stinks.”

  “So does the Jersey Turnpike in Newark! Look, you got your protection, and surveillance, for the coach passengers. And don’t for a moment think I don’t know you and Carson hatched out that little bit of media coercion.”

  “Phil—”

  “Chief, to you right now, Lieutenant. The PC personally called every outside jurisdiction to reinforce my request for their cooperation in watching the passengers on Friday night. When Rutledge asked for our cooperation with the senator, I told him we’d take care of it. And, since Prestone has offered to act as bait, we’re going to use him.”

  “It won’t work,” Hyte said. “Samael is a strategist. He’s already chosen the order of his victims. He’s staked them out, watched their every move. He won’t go after Prestone until he’s ready.”

  “What are you—God? You know what this maniac will do and when? Come on, Ray, we’re throwing out the bait. How many psychos can refuse bait? It worked before. It’ll work again.”

  “We’re not dealing with a psycho!” Hyte said.

  “Regardless, you will see Prestone at 1:00 P. M. Keep in mind that we are protecting all the passengers. If Samael doesn’t take the bait, he still won’t be able to get at the others.”

  Hyte left Mason’s office and went to the conference room.

  “We’ve been given a new plan,” he told the team. “Senator Prestone is now a member of our task force. Before we get into that, has anyone come up with anything new?”

  “Yes,” Sally O’Rourke said, “I talked with the cab driver who took Elaine Samson home. His name is Herman Oberman. He remembered her because she gave him a buck and a half tip on an eighteen-fifty fare. He said most stewardesses tipped better.

  “When I asked if he saw anything unusual that night, he said he was doing up his trip sheet before he left and saw an old woman go into the building. She had a scarf on her head, wore an old trench coat, and carried a large shopping bag.”

  “That’s a pretty concise memory.”

  “I thought so, too. When I asked him how he could remember her so clearly, he said it was unusual to see a bag lady in that neighborhood, and more so for one to talk to the woman instead of just talking to herself.”

  “The bag lady talked to Samson?”

  “That’s what the man said. Went inside with her, too.”

  “Lou,” Roberts said, his voice tense, excited. “Except for the sex, that could be the same description as the man seen before the Flaxman hit and after the Barnes one. Old, overcoat, something on the head, and the shopping bag. It’s important, isn’t it, the shopping bag?”

  Hyte grunted. “Oh yes. It’s where he keeps the crossbow.”

  “Our man disguised himself as a woman on the Samson killing?” Smith said.

  “Or vice versa—or, they’re all disguises. What it tells us is that we have to keep a lookout for anyone with a shopping bag near a possible victim. All right, we’re starting to get somewhere. I just wish to hell I knew where. Sy, any luck with the Helenezes?”

  “I’m waiting to hear from Immigration,” Cohen said. Because Helenez’s company had refused to tell the task force if Helenez was in the States, an immigration check was the only way to find out if they were.

  “Use whatever pressure you have to, but find them.”

  “I will. By the way,” Cohen added, “the Desmonds are clean. Confirmation came in on Harold Desmond’s statement. They were in Hawaii from March twenty-fifth through April fourth. With Lea.”

  <><><>

  At one o’clock, Hyte stepped into the understated reception area of the Lentronics Corporation, on East Fifty-Seventh Street. Two conservatively dressed men came to attention.

  He categorized them immediately. Both had the clean cut looks and dress of high-level federal agents. Their faces were ordinary, their eyes intelligent. They wore custom-tailored suits that gave no sign of the weapons Hyte knew they carried.

  “Lieutenant Hyte,” said the man on the left, “I’m Rawling, this is Collins. We’re with NSA.”

  Hyte didn’t ask why NSA was covering Prestone instead of Secret Service—it wasn’t his business. After shaking hands, Rawling took him into a large, wood-paneled office. Behind a mahogany desk, J. Milton Prestone presided.

  “Thank you, Rawling,” Prestone said as he came around the desk to shake hands with Hyte. “I’m sorry we’re meeting again under these circumstances.”

  “Why are we meeting?”

  “Drink?” Prestone asked. Hyte shook his head. Both men sat down.

  “Lieutenant, I’m aware you’ve seen fit to check up on my whereabouts for the past month. Why?”

  “Becaus
e every first-class passenger is a suspect in this case.”

  “As I thought. The results of your queries have absolved me from suspicion, have they not?”

  “They have. Why are you here, Senator? Why are you involving yourself?”

  Prestone moistened his lips; Hyte caught the nervous tick of the senator’s left eye. “Because what’s happening is my fault. If I hadn’t been on that plane, no one would have died. And the pilot would not have been killed trying to save my life.”

  “You had no control over any of that. They sabotaged your plane.”

  “Nonetheless, it was my presence that endangered the others. Three people died because of who I am. And four more people have died as well.”

  “Which has nothing to do with you. Senator, all you’ve accomplished by coming here is to put yourself in danger and give me more problems.”

  “I came here to help you, just as you helped me on that plane, just as the pilot helped me to stay alive. We both know that what’s happening stems from the hijacking. I want to put an end to it; if I have to offer myself as a victim to achieve that goal, that’s what I’ll do.”

  “It won’t work,” Hyte said, knowing his argument with Prestone was as hopeless as it had been with Mason.

  “It’s worth a try. Besides, I’m well protected. You met my bodyguards. I didn’t hire them, Lieutenant, that’s not my style. After the hijacking, the President assigned them to me.”

  “Good. Maybe they’ll save your life. But it would be smarter and safer for you to leave New York.”

  “I intend to make my presence very well-known over the next few days. I have meetings to attend, and several fund raisers as well.”

  “These fund raisers, were they scheduled a while ago?”

  “No. I invited myself the other day. I’m also doing guest shots on several news shows between now and tomorrow night. I intend to show the public that I’m not afraid to move freely about.”

  Why was Hyte the only one who saw the senselessness of Prestone’s plan? As he’d told Mason, Samael was a strategist. The Friday Night Killer would not go after someone spontaneously. Yet, Hyte knew he couldn’t make Prestone believe him. “You realize you’re making yourself a target for anyone with a grudge against you, not just our man?”