The Blackbird Papers

by Ian Smith

  “Are you going to tell me what's going on?”

  Sterling thought about it. He owed her some type of explanation, but there were many things that still concerned him. If he told her everything and they found her, they'd have little problem coercing the information out of her. He also didn't want to scare her, which was pretty easy to do. She might try to do something that was helpful and only get herself or him hurt. Limited knowledge would have to satisfy her for now. It would be best for both of them.

  “There've been three murders so far, Wilson included. I don't know the reason or reasons, but someone is now after me. Maybe I was getting too close to cracking the case. I don't know. But until I figure all this out, you need to stay out of sight. One way they could get to me would be through you, which is why I want to make sure you're secure. These guys are playing for keeps, Ronnie. There will be no mercy.”

  “I could go down to my parents in D.C.,” Veronica offered.

  “No, that's the last thing you should do. We're dealing with professionals, Ronnie. They already know everything about your family and close friends and where they live. That's the first place they'll check if they haven't already. That's why I don't want you to call anyone. No family, no friends. Understand?”

  “This is getting scary, Sterling.”

  “I know it is, but everything will be fine in a couple of days. I just need more time to put all the pieces together. Where's your cell phone?”

  “In my purse.”

  “Good, leave it there. Don't answer it or make any calls. Actually, turn it off so it doesn't even ring. Where's the gun?”

  “In the bag with the money.”

  “Take it out and keep it next to you. Don't answer your door for anyone. No housecleaning or management. Nothing. If someone forces their way in, aim and shoot.”

  “I don't know how to shoot a gun.” She was crying softly now, something she rarely did, and the sound pained him.

  “Pull down the safety lock, aim at their chest, then squeeze the trigger. You might not hit, but at least you'll scare the shit out of them.”

  “When will you be here, Sterling?”

  “Sometime tomorrow. Just hold on. Everything will be all right.”

  Veronica blew kisses into the phone, then the line went dead.

  Sterling's next call was to Professor Mandryka. The phone rang eight times before it was answered.

  “Hello,” Mandryka said.

  “Yuri, it's Sterling Bledsoe. Thank God you're all right.”

  “Why wouldn't I be?”

  “Because three people are dead right now and at least two of them knew about the blackbirds.”

  “Who else other than Wilson knew about the birds?”

  “Heidi Vorscht.”

  “Was this Heidi Vorscht the girl they found in the Grand Union dumpster?”

  “That's right. She lived with Mrs. Potter. But she also knew Wilson. Her name has surfaced on every lead I've found so far.”

  “And who was the third killing?”

  “One of our agents helping me with the investigation. I don't know how, but he found out something about Heidi Vorscht and her involvement in this mess. I'm not sure exactly what he knew, but it was enough to get him killed. Knowledge of those blackbirds is proving deadly.”

  Mandryka grunted. “Have you learned anything else about the birds and who might be killing them?”

  “I'm making some headway, but not enough to draw any real conclusions. My working theory is that whoever's killing them will spare no expense or life in keeping it secret. That means your life's at serious risk just like the rest of them.”

  “I'm an old man, Sterling, long past my prime. I'm not much use to anyone. Don't worry about me.”

  Sterling had to stop himself from slamming the phone against the wall. “Dammit, Yuri, stop it with that fatalistic bullshit. Someone could put a bullet in your head the minute we get off the phone. If for no other reason, I need you alive to help me put this thing together and catch Wilson's killer. I'm counting on you, Yuri, and so is Wilson.”

  There was a brief pause at the other end. “What do you want me to do?”

  “First, stay away from the lab, at least until I get things sorted out. Call one of your assistants tomorrow morning and tell them that you're sick and taking the rest of the week off. Do you have another house nearby or relatives?”

  “No relatives, but I have a small place up near Killington Peak in Vermont. I haven't been there in a few years.”

  “Does anyone else know you have it?”

  “Only Wilson knew. We went up there for a few days of eagle spotting. Wilson always loved the eagles.”

  “Good. Pack as much as you can as fast as you can and get up there. Is there a working phone in the cabin?”

  “Are you kidding? I probably don't even have running water.”

  “Then take down my number.” Sterling gave him his cell number. “If you think of something else about the blackbirds or Heidi or anything else we might've missed, call me. Otherwise, check in with me in twenty-four hours. Agreed?”

  Mandryka read back the number. “I got it. Are you all right, Sterling?”

  “I'll feel a lot better when this is behind us. Be careful, Yuri. And most important, don't trust anyone.”

  Sterling filled up the Mustang at an all-night gas station, then raced out of the Adirondacks and toward the city. He couldn't get his mind off Heidi Vorscht and the central role she played in this. He took out his black book and read the notes he had made during his conversation with Vivian Sinclair, the receptionist in Mortimer's office. According to Vivian, Heidi had walked into the president's office looking for a job without even so much as an appointment. Vivian was surprised that President Mortimer had agreed to see her right away. Students typically went through layers of bureaucracy before getting a chance to see him. Why was he so agreeable about bending the rules for this foreign student?

  Vivian also recalled the nasty argument she overheard between Mortimer and his wife. The divisive issue—Heidi Vorscht. Vivian had said that Heidi and Mrs. Mortimer were “like oil and water.” But why was Mortimer such a big fan, and why was he so hell-bent on patching things up between his wife and this student? It just didn't fit. Mortimer was an aloof, guarded bureaucrat who hid behind his presidential position and spent the greater part of his time worrying about his legacy at Dartmouth. Why take such an interest in a student who meant nothing to him or his school?

  Then the pictures.

  Sean insisted that Heidi didn't work in the lab, but she was in that group photo they had taken on the lawn. And she wasn't just in the picture, but had been prominently positioned next to Wilson. Even in an informal picture, one would have expected to see the most senior post-doc fellow standing next to the lab director. Hierarchy was always preserved in academia.

  Sterling had been bothered by something else in the picture, the way Heidi rested her hand on Wilson's shoulder. Too familiar. Now Harry had another picture of Heidi, but this time with Kanti. Sterling turned on the car light and looked at the photo again. They seemed so peaceful sitting there, both with their legs crossed, the tall grass blowing in the wind. Kanti was explaining something with his hands and she watched with laser intensity. Who had taken the photograph and how had it ended up with Harry?

  By the time Sterling worked through all the possibilities, he had reached the outskirts of the city, passing the Yonkers Raceway. His first order of business would be to get some sleep, but he didn't want to go to the hotel just yet. Veronica probably wouldn't let him sleep anyway with all of the questions she had in store for him.

  He raced through the Bronx and past Yankee Stadium, then crossed the Willis Avenue Bridge, merged onto FDR Drive, and headed down the East Side of Manhattan. He looked across the East River and saw a glint of light breaking on the distant horizon. It had been a long night. First the confrontation and struggle with Wiley, then finding Harry murdered in his cottage. Now he had the picture of who he bel
ieved to be the real killer and a mysterious photo of Heidi and Kanti sitting in tall grass. Veronica was penned up in an hourly, and Yuri was hopefully on his way into seclusion on Killington Peak. Now he needed to focus on his own safety and well-being.

  Sterling followed the signs to the Manhattan Bridge that would lead him to Brooklyn. It would be easier to find a secluded spot somewhere in that vicinity. He could easily hide the Mustang and at least get a couple of hours of sleep. Just as he was turning off the FDR, his cell rang. He looked down at the caller ID. Unknown. He held the phone in his hand and debated a moment before flipping the lid open.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “What the hell are you doing, Bledsoe?” It was the unforgiving voice of Director Daniel J. Murphy.

  Sterling couldn't suppress his sarcasm. “I was wondering what was taking you so long, Murph. Isn't this kind of late in the game?”

  “Cut the goddamn bullshit, Bledsoe! I want a full rundown of what has transpired over the last twenty-four hours and why one of my best agents is on the run.”

  Sterling was too tired for the harangue. “The honest answer is that I myself don't even know what's going on. But right now there are three people dead and some assholes have the bright idea that I'm behind it. Go figure.”

  “I only know what I've been told so far, and it ain't good. For any of us. What are you doing right now?”

  “Knitting a scarf for the local Girl Scouts. What the hell do you think I'm doing? Trying to find the real killer and save my ass.”

  Murphy groaned loudly and Sterling took some delight in picturing the director ensconced in his Potomac, Maryland, mansion, wearing silk pajamas and fur-lined slippers, massaging his temples to fend off the impending headache. Murphy was a deeply political man, and this growing embarrassment could hurt his not-so-secret ambitions to run for the Senate.

  “Stop playing cowboy, Bledsoe,” Murphy barked. “This case is blown wide open and every law enforcement agency in the states of Vermont and New Hampshire is looking for you.”

  Sterling mashed the car's accelerator. “You're not getting the message, Murph. I don't give a damn, because I didn't do it. Not only is someone trying to set me up, but I'm starting to feel like they have some inside help.”

  “Why in the hell are you running? People don't run unless they have something to hide.”

  “Fuck you, Murph. You know damn well if I sat and talked, the chances of me walking away from this is next to nothing.”

  “Then who's the murderer?”

  Sterling looked down at the picture on the seat next to him. “I might be able to figure it out if you called the hounds off of me. All I'm asking for is a few more days to put everything together.”

  “You know damn well I can't do that. I'm already getting questions from Sixteen Hundred. Come in on your own and we'll get through this, save us both a lot of trouble. There's still time to make it work without any more repercussions. What you did to that lieutenant up there makes you nothing better than a goddamn ciminal.”

  Sterling looked out over the Brooklyn Bridge. He was leaving the Manhattan skyline behind and heading toward the squat buildings of a sleeping Brooklyn. In the city now, he was on his own turf, which meant the odds had turned slightly in his favor that he could avoid capture and still have a fighting chance of figuring out who the killer was.

  “We've known each other for ten years, Murph,” Sterling said. “I haven't always followed procedure, but I've always delivered for you. I'm asking you, no I'm begging you, hang with me on this and buy me a little time. There's something big at work here. A lot bigger than my brother and the girl.”

  “How do you explain Frumpton?”

  “Collateral damage. Harry must've found out something they didn't want him to know. He wasn't a primary.”

  Murphy's groan rumbled through the phone like the slow roll of a drum. “There are just too many bodies without enough answers,” he said. “I can't let you stay out there and freewheel it. Bring it in and I'll personally see to it that you're given a fair deal.”

  Empty words from a politician-in-waiting, and Sterling knew it. “Can't do it, Senator. It's not business anymore. It's personal.”

  “I'm sorry you feel that way,” Murph said. “You leave me no choice but to consider you armed and dangerous. From here on out, Bledsoe, all bets are off.”

  “Your support is overwhelming.” Sterling hung up as he came off the Brooklyn Bridge and steered the car along the water's edge. The phone rang again. Murph having second thoughts? Sterling ignored the phone this time, as he should have the first. He weaved in and out of a maze of one-way streets and back alleys until he found what he was looking for—a small, cobblestone, dead-end road hidden underneath the long shadows of a row of boarded-up warehouses and burned-out buildings. He pulled up alongside a chain-link fence, feet away from the heavy steel columns of the Manhattan Bridge. He fell asleep with his hand on his gun and the twinkling lights of Manhattan blinking in the distance.

  37

  The constant tapping was part of his dream. He had locked himself in an office and a team of agents were hunting for him. They were going door to door, busting into offices that had been locked for the night. He reached by his hip for his gun, but realized he had left it in the car. A sense of doom squeezed his heart. He covered his ears, but the knock was still there. Slow. Constant. He wanted to scream. Why didn't they just break down the door already? He turned left, then right, but it was still there. Then the knocks grew more forceful.

  Sterling opened his eyes slowly and shielded his face from the blazing sun. He looked left. A police officer was standing at the window, one hand on his stick, the other on his gun. He was a short, barrel-chested white man with biceps straining his sleeves. He sported one of those hard-ass buzz cuts, close on the sides, sticking straight up on top. There was a tap on the right window. His partner. A tall black man with a shiny bald head. He gave Sterling the roll-your-window-down motion. Sterling squeezed his right hand. The gun wasn't there. It must've fallen between the seats, which right now was a good thing.

  “How's it going, Officer?” Sterling said, as he rolled down his window. “I guess I lost track of the time.” The easy approach.

  “License and registration,” the cop drilled away, skipping the whole pleasantry exchange. “And proof of insurance.” Another robotic local. No personality, all attitude.

  “Is there a problem?” Sterling asked. He almost reached for his FBI shield, but thought better of it. He was on the run.

  “There's no standing after eight,” the officer maintained in flat tones. His left hand was free, but he still used the stick to point at the parking sign. Thinly veiled intimidation. “Not only are you parked, but you're sleeping. What are you doing down here?”

  “Waiting for a buddy,” Sterling said. “We're supposed to meet here and carpool over to the city. That lame two-person commuter requirement to get in over the bridge.” Sterling handed his license through the window.

  “You have New Hampshire tags,” the officer said. “You live around here?”

  Sterling chuckled, giving himself more time and trying to defuse the mounting tension. “The tags. Not mine. My car's in the shop. Busted transmission. This here is a rental. Wish it were mine, though. I'd have a lot less problems than with my piece of shit.”

  The officer looked at Sterling's license, turning it over in his hands a couple of times. “You live here or in Virginia?”

  “Just moved up from Virginia, about thirty miles out of D.C. I've been here for a month, staying with a friend over in Fort Greene.”

  “Can I see the rental papers?”

  Sterling reached into the glove compartment, pulling out the sleeve of papers. He shuffled through them as if he were trying to get them organized, but he was quickly checking to make sure there were no references to the FBI. He put the origination paper in the back, hoping the officer wouldn't notice the car had been rented in New Hampshire.

  “Everyt
hing's here,” Sterling said, handing the papers to the officer.

  The officer looked at the rental agreement, then matched the name to Sterling's license. Satisfied, he glanced across the car at his partner who hiked his shoulders, signaling he believed the story. Sterling considered what to do if they still went back to run his info through the computer. A simple check and they'd be ready to call in the National Guard for backup.

  “When's your partner coming?” the buzz cut asked.

  Sterling looked at his watch. “Typical. He's already ten minutes late. Punctuality isn't his strong point, but luckily, he's the boss.”

  “Open the trunk, please,” the black officer said.

  Sterling popped the trunk and waited while they inspected. There wasn't anything back there except for the box of documents and diskettes. Nothing suspicious. They returned to the windows, taking their respective sides.

  “What kind of work do you do?” It was the short officer again. Now he was leaning his outstretched arm against the window frame. The bottom portion of a tattoo appeared just underneath his sleeve. It looked like the rear wheel of a Harley. Sterling read his nameplate—Bronchetti. It should've read “Tough Guy.”

  He continued to play along. “I'm a computer programmer, Officer Bronchetti. Small company in the Flatiron District.”

  Bronchetti looked at the license again. “This is a no-standing zone, Mr. Bledsoe, even if you're waiting for someone. And if you've moved to the city, you should be carrying a New York license. The next time you get stopped, the officer might not be so lenient and issue you a summons.” He handed the license back to Sterling.

  “Thanks, Officers,” Sterling said. “I'll get that done right away.”

  They gave him one last look-over. “And maybe you need to get some more sleep at home,” the tall officer said before turning to leave. “You look horrible, buddy.”

  Sterling thought of a few choice words, but resisted answering. He watched as the officers returned to their car then slowly pulled off. He let out a deep sigh, waited a few minutes, then started the Mustang. The sweat running down his back made his shirt stick to the seat like glue. The car had definitely become a liability and it was time to dump it, but not before he made a drop-off.