by David Wind
When the tape was in place, Samael looked at Sylvia.
“Don’t move. If you do, I’ll kill her.” When Sylvia Mossberg nodded, Samael got out the rear door.
“Out,” Samael told Ethel Greenblatt.
The driver squirmed out of the car. Samael guided her to the back door. “Lay face down on the back seat.”
When Ethel was lying on the rear seat, Samael took a syringe out of the raincoat’s pocket. “You will not die,” the Messenger said before injecting her. The woman was asleep in fifty seconds.
Samael slid behind the steering wheel, turned, and pointed the crossbow at Sylvia Mossberg. “It is time.”
Sylvia Mossberg stared at Samael. Suddenly, her eyes filled with recognition. “Oh my God, I know you!” Sylvia shook her head. “Why? After what happened to— oh, my God!”
“It doesn’t matter now.”
Sylvia stared at Samael, seeing behind the heavy layers of makeup. “It does matter. Please, turn yourself in. They’ll understand. You’ll get help.”
“No, damn you!” Samael shouted. “You won’t outwit death this time. Your fear won’t save you tonight.”
“I’m not afraid,” Sylvia whispered.
Samael released the bolt. It struck the woman in the chest, penetrating her coat, biting deeply into her left breast. “No, you’re not afraid now.” The Messenger of Death started the car and pulled out from beneath the dark cavern created by the overhead highway.
Samael’s work was not yet finished for this night.
The Messenger stopped the car half a block from a private parking area, and waited patiently for the right opportunity to present itself.
Twenty minutes later, that opportunity came. The uniformed policeman on duty was called away by another officer. Samael drove into the parking area unobserved, parked the car in a reserved space, and left seconds before the policeman returned.
Behind Samael, the lights from the windows of One Police Plaza reflected off the roof of Ethel Greenblatt’s car.
Chapter Thirty-nine
Hyte stretched his legs to ease the cramps of having sat for too long. It was ten after six. The eastern sky was light, the west still a pale gray. The night had taken even longer to pass than he had expected.
The only things that had broken the lonely monotony of the vigil had been his contacts with Schwartz and two calls from Emma. Her first had been a little after eleven, the second at four that morning. She said she’d been unable to sleep. They’d talked for ten minutes.
Hyte debated on whether to take another close look at the house. He decided against it. It was getting light.
The car phone rang suddenly. “Yes?”
“Lieutenant, you were right,” said Randal Schwartz.
Coldness spread through his intestines. “About what?”
“They found Sylvia Mossberg a half hour ago. She was killed with a bolt.”
Bile rose in Hyte’s throat. Not only had he guessed wrong, he had been outmaneuvered. “Where?”
“In a car parked at headquarters.”
Hyte’s mind raced. “Randy, as soon as Sy and Sally call in, tell them to meet me at headquarters.”
Slamming the phone down, his anger flared. Sylvia Mossberg died because McPheerson and Conner’s actions put him in an impossible situation.
He’d had to weigh the risks to the various victims. It had been his concern for all the full-term hostages, combined with the possible jurisdictional entanglements, which prompted him to have O’Rourke watch the Desmond apartment. Instead, he should have followed his intuition that Lea Desmond was not one of Samael’s victims. Sylvia Mossberg was dead because of his decision.
How had Samael gotten past Sircolli’s men to take Mossberg?
“Damn it!” he shouted. It should have been either himself or O’Rourke who covered Mossberg. Sylvia Mossberg might be alive if he hadn’t forgotten the simplest rule of this case—there were no rules.
Yet, there were certainties, he knew now. Samael was playing a game of wits. The Friday Night Killer was challenging him, much in the way that Rashid Mohamad had during the hijack negotiations. Samael wanted Hyte on the case for reasons only the killer knew. That was the message Samael was giving him, by leaving Sylvia Mossberg’s body at headquarters.
You know him, Professor Alinski had told him after listening to the audio tape of Samael’s phone call.
“Who are you?” Hyte asked aloud.
He clenched his teeth against his rage, refusing to give in to blind hatred. I’m better than that. I have to be.
He started the car. By the time he reached the Southern State Parkway, Sy Cohen called.
“Randy told me what happened. Ray, Joan Bidding never left her place.”
“You’re positive?”
“I spent the night by the elevator. She never left.”
“Meet me in my office.”
He pulled into his parking space at headquarters forty minutes later. There wasn’t a single member of the press present. Hyte attributed that to McPheerson’s power.
He spotted the PC talking with McPheerson. Inspector Conner was with them. Phil Mason stood slightly behind them, head to head with Harry Lester. The crime scene people were all over the car. An older woman sat on a portable gurney. Two paramedics were checking her over.
As Hyte approached, Mason broke away from the pathologist and McPheerson. Their eyes met and held. Just as the chief of department whispered something to Conner, Mason grabbed his arm.
“Be cool, Ray. Don’t blow it now. Just turn around and walk away. I’ll be with you in a little while.”
“He blew it, Phil, not me.” He went to where Sylvia Mossberg lay.
The crime scene man was in the process of zipping up the body bag when Hyte motioned for him to wait. He looked down at Sylvia, and then felt a tap on his shoulder. “What are you doing here?” Deputy Inspector Conner asked.
He turned. “How are you going to explain this to the press?”
“Don’t make a scene, Hyte. Leave before you get yourself in any deeper.”
The weeks of frustration struck him hard. Samael’s success and his failures added fuel to his anger. “Are you going to put the task force back together?”
“For what?” Conner said. “We know who the killers are. It’s just a matter of time before we catch all of them.”
Hyte watched them take away the body bag containing Sylvia Mossberg. He spun on Conner. “Them? There isn’t any them, you stupid prick!”
He took a step forward, his fists clenched.
Mason quickly stepped between them. “You’re off duty, Lieutenant. Go home.”
From over Mason’s shoulder, Hyte saw Chief McPheerson and Commissioner Rutledge watching them. McPheerson called out to Conner. Hyte fought to control his temper.
“We’ll discuss this insubordination later,” Conner said.
“Don’t say anything else,” Mason warned, placing a hand on Hyte’s shoulder.
Hyte nodded. He saw Sy Cohen come out of the side entrance, and went to meet him. “Get O’Rourke and Schwartz and come to my place.”
Mason arrived at the apartment an hour later. Hyte was surprised it took his godfather that long.
“I want to speak to you privately,” Mason said, looking at Cohen, O’Rourke, and Schwartz.
Hyte took Mason into his bedroom. “Why’d you stop me, Phil?”
“What the hell did you expect me to do? Let you hit a superior officer? Suspension would be the least that would happen.”
“Who gives a shit? McPheerson and Conner killed Mossberg.”
“Samael killed Mossberg!”
“Really?” Hyte asked. “And here I thought Samael was in jail? So, apparently, did you. If you didn’t, you would have done something with that tape.”
“I did,” Mason told him. “I played it for the PC.”
Hyte whistled appreciatively. “Why wasn’t McPheerson told?”
“The commissioner reminded me that no one other than
you and I has any firsthand knowledge that the mayor authorized a parallel covert investigation.”
“Which means what?”
“Come on, Ray, everything was verbal. The man responsible for forcing the mayor and the PC into keeping you on the case is dead. If anyone learns that the mayor, with the consent of the police commissioner, has authorized a covert operation going against the chief of department’s own task force, the political ramifications will be enormous. No matter what happens that information can never be made public.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“You don’t believe what?”
“That in order to save the mayor and the Department from a little embarrassment, you’re willing to let more people die.”
“You know me better than that! No, I don’t want anyone else killed, nor can the Department afford an internal battle. And that’s what you would have unleashed if you’d hit Conner.”
Hyte didn’t want to accept Mason’s words, but there was no choice. “I can’t figure out—not after this morning—how McPheerson and Conner can stay on the investigation.”
“Because McPheerson covered himself. He claims it was a copycat killing, done by one of the terrorists in Mohamad’s little band, to take suspicion away from Saad Mohamad.”
“Bullshit. They could have smoked anyone. They wouldn’t have gone to all the trouble of going after Sylvia Mossberg.”
“Maybe not, but McPheerson made a convincing case for himself. Last night Saad Mohamad said he was Samael and declared that all the passengers of Flight 88 are marked for death by his organization.”
“All? Well, you also seem to have all the answers, so tell me, what do I do now?”
“You do what you always do. Solve the puzzle. Catch Samael.”
Hyte raised an eyebrow. “Catch Samael? I guess that means the throwaway cop and his invisible task force are still on the case. Why?”
Mason smiled. “Because I reminded the PC that if McPheerson wins, he loses. And, I won’t let you be hung out to dry. So, cut the shit, we have a few problems.” Mason hesitated, collecting his thoughts. “The first problem is that McPheerson and Conner want your ass and your shield for the way you mouthed off to Conner today. Second, with Rashid Mohamad’s brother accepting the blame for the deaths, the press and public believe McPheerson. Public fear of terrorism is strong and it gives McPheerson the edge. He’s had experts testifying that very little can be done to stop a determined terrorist attack.”
“If it was a terrorist, he’d be right. All he’s doing is covering himself for when Samael kills the next victim. And once Samael’s finished with the last victim, he’s going to disappear.”
“Exactly!” Mason said, cutting him off. “That leaves four victims—four more weeks to catch him or lose him forever. McPheerson’s playing up the terrorists because he’s counting on only four more deaths, and on using Saad Mohamad as his scapegoat. Saad Mohamad is a stupid little ass who sees himself becoming as great a hero as his brother. He did blow up Prestone’s plane—the Feds’ proof is irrefutable. He isn’t Samael, and I know it as well as you. But unless it can be proven, Saad Mohamad is going to stand trial for all the murders, and the real Samael is going to walk free.”
“You haven’t quite thought it through,” Hyte said. “If Samael is put down during an attempt on a victim, we’ll have to prove two things—first, that Samael was not a part of Saad Mohamad’s group, and second, that the Mossberg killing was done by Samael, that it’s not a copycat murder. We’d have to have absolute evidence of both.”
“Then that’s what will have to be done.”
“I can’t make any promises.”
“I know you’ll do the best you can. And, Ray,” he added, “I have to ask you for a personal favor. Godfather to godson if it has to be that way.”
Hyte avoided his eyes. “What?”
“I want you to run the investigation from a distance. I’ve already told you McPheerson and Conner want to nail you. After this morning, there’s a damned good chance they’ll do it. McPheerson told me he’s going to file formal charges. As of right now, you’re on vacation. Don’t show up at headquarters! Use O’Rourke and Cohen as your legs. It’s important that you find the killer. And you don’t have a lot of time to do it.”
“You’re pretty damned sure of me.”
“I’m sure of what I taught you, and what your father taught you. Find him. Bring him in.”
“Bring him in? Right,” Hyte said, slowly drawing out the word.
He walked Mason to the front door. “There’s one other thing, Phil. You’re wrong about the time. We don’t have four weeks; we only have three. The Moffertys will be killed together...unless of course Jack or Sonja is Samael.”
With Mason gone, Hyte poured himself a drink and thought about the salient points of his talk with Mason.
The phone rang. It was Tony Sircolli.
“What happened?” Hyte asked.
“My boys got taken.” Without any excuses, he related the sequence of events outside the synagogue. “The Mossberg woman was out of their sight for the fourteen minutes it took them to change the tire and get back to the apartment complex.”
“Long enough. Why didn’t you call me?”
“Because the scam was beautiful. Lights on timers kept going on and off. When the living room light went out, the bedroom light came on. An hour later the living room light went on again. A half hour after that, around midnight, all the lights went out. They thought she was asleep for the night.
“They only put it together after they heard the newscast about the killing. They told me that when they were at the synagogue, an old woman dropped her cane near the front of the car. They didn’t pay much attention to it, but...she was carrying a shopping bag. And she was real old, they said.”
“That was our man,” Hyte said.
“Yeah,” Sircolli agreed. “My boys took a little look-see in the apartment. They found light timers hooked up all over the place. Said they looked brand new. Ray, I’m sorry about this. I wanted him as much as you.”
“I know, Tony. Thank you.”
He hung up, a sense of loss and despair rising. He didn’t like it at all. Then he picked up the phone again and dialed Emma. She answered on the second ring. He told her that he would be by to pick her up.
<><><>
Emma dropped him off at the country house in Connecticut, before going into town for food. Hyte remained outside, concentrating on the beauty of the green mountains and the blue lake.
When Emma returned, it was almost seven. They ate a light dinner and walked down to the lake where they sat for a moment, hand in hand.
Then he told Emma the events of the day.
Her mouth thinned into an angry pale line. “You mean to say McPheerson will stay on the case even though you have proof he’s wrong?” She shook her head. “If they took you off the case because of the Helenez’s deaths, how can they let him stay on?”
“The Department is a world unto itself, a state within a state. McPheerson is the head boy right now. And he has even bigger aspirations.”
“You think he wants to be the mayor?”
“That’s been the word around the Job for a few years. But it’s more. I’m running a covert operation behind McPheerson’s back. That makes for big internal problems. The PC and the mayor need someone to take the heat if McPheerson or Conner learns about it.”
“And you’re that someone?”
“I could be if I tell what I know without being able to produce the killer.”
“But it’s wrong.” She paused to look at the lake. The water was still. Moonlight reflected across its surface in sharp, precise lines. “Are you going to do something about it? I mean, you’re not going to let the killer get away, are you?”
He stared at the sky. “No, I won’t let Samael get away.”
Chapter Forty
Early on Monday morning, Hyte put a pot of coffee on the dining room table, and scrutinized his three-member te
am.
“Randy, did you stop by headquarters and pick up the INS report?”
“I have it,” Cohen said. “The Immigration computer came up with nineteen names matching the passenger and crew. Three of the stewardesses from coach class have worked Far East flights. Sixteen passengers have been to an Asian country at least once since the hijacking.”
“How many first class?”
“Two. Sonja Mofferty and Emma Graham.”
“Emma?” he said, exhaling. “No, we know where she was at every killing.” He took the sheet from Cohen, found Emma’s name, and looked at the date. December third.
“Of course,” he murmured. “I’ve been so wrapped up in this, I forgot. I took Emma to the airport myself. It was the first overseas trip she had made since the hijacking. Almost sixty percent of Graham International’s goods come from the Far East. Jonah Graham used to go on several buying trips a year. Emma does all the buying now.”
“Which puts us back to the beginning again,” Sally O’Rourke said.
“Not really. According to Samael’s note, we have four victims left. If we’re right about Jonah and Lea not being targets, then we know who three of them are—Joan Bidding and Sonja and Jack Mofferty. Now we have to figure out who the fourth will be.”
“Maybe there’ll be another call,” Cohen said.
Hyte frowned. “I don’t think so. When Samael left Sylvia Mossberg at headquarters, it wasn’t just a message to McPheerson and Conner telling them that they had the wrong man. It was Samael’s way of letting me know that nothing I can do will stop him. I think Samael believed that McPheerson would be kicked off the case just like I was.”
“But it didn’t work.”
“Which is good for us. Maybe now Samael will think we’re not playing his game and make a mistake.”
“Until then, what do we do?” Sally asked.
“Think, wait, and do a lot of legwork.” Hyte paused.
“Sally, I want you and Sy to check with Sonja Mofferty’s modeling agency.”
O’Rourke scowled. “You said neither of them left their house Friday night.”