The October List

by Jeffery Deaver

  "Be careful," the vendor said, his voice deflating, as if he wanted to append the word "Father," but was recalling that Dixon wasn't one. "If they've done a crime they might not understand you want to help them. They might be desperate, dangerous."

  "I've made my peace with God," Dixon called breathlessly as he broke into a trot, tapping his chest to make sure the small Bible was seated firmly in his pocket.

  CHAPTER 25

  11:10 A.M., SUNDAY

  25 MINUTES EARLIER

  THE GUN JUST WENT OFF," Gabriela whispered, her voice the tone of hysteria. "I didn't mean to do it."

  Daniel remained silent. He steered her quickly down the sidewalk away from the scene of the shooting.

  She asked desperately, "He didn't die, did he? What did you see, Daniel? What did you see?"

  Still no response.

  Sirens filled the air around them as they headed east from Madison Avenue. There were lights too, piercing white and blue flashers. And reflections of white and blue flashers in windows. Lights seemed to be everywhere. Daniel and Gabriela kept their heads down. They didn't dare look up.

  Then he directed her quickly to the side, a ninety-degree turn. She nearly stumbled but he held her firmly.

  "What?" she gasped.

  A car skidded to a stop, an unmarked police car. Two detectives in suits leapt out and headed into a crowded specialty food store, displaying their badges.

  "Do they think we're in there?" she asked.

  "Just keep walking."

  Manic, Gabriela asked, "He didn't die, did he? He was so young! Please, tell me!" Her grip must have hurt. He frowned. She relented.

  "I don't know, Mac. I'm sorry, but I don't know. It's possible."

  Walking as fast as they dared without drawing attention, they moved east, leaving the unmarked car behind. She glanced back. The officers didn't appear. She and Daniel hurried south, then east again.

  To anyone else's eye, they resembled a typical couple. Not particularly jovial, not particularly conversational. Harried. A relationship limned by stress, money woes, child woes, sexual woes. Life in Manhattan, professionals. Yet every glance their way seemed tinted with suspicion.

  But no one pointed, no one called out, no one seemed about to rip cell phones from holsters and speed-dial 911.

  No one fled from the homicidal auburn-haired woman and her actor look-alike companion.

  "I didn't think, Daniel. There was the gun. It was just there. I grabbed it! It went off. I've never even touched one before. I was just... Oh, Jesus. What've I done?"

  A look behind revealed a half-dozen pedestrians, but no police. Still, Gabriela focused on a man in a suit--a rumpled gray one, of thin cloth that seemed inadequate in the chill. He was walking in their direction. She noticed him because of his yellow shirt. His stride seemed purposeful though he wasn't paying particular attention to them.

  Gabriela nudged Daniel. "That guy? Yellow shirt? Look carefully."

  "Got it."

  "I've seen him before, I think. On Madison."

  "He followed us from the shooting?"

  "I don't know--" Gabriela winced, gasped, then stopped abruptly, her hand on her side.

  "It's bad?" he asked, gesturing down toward her ribs.

  A nod.

  "Can you walk?"

  "Yes." Though she frowned when they began again.

  They kept their heads down, not looking anywhere but at the sidewalk. Suddenly Daniel took her arm and guided her quickly into a Korean deli, where they paused to examine the fresh-cut flowers and a tub of ice in which nested plastic bottles of orange and mango juice.

  "What?" Gabriela asked in a whisper.

  "Cops."

  A police cruiser sped past, silently, but its lights pierced as harshly as a siren.

  Blue and white...

  A moment later they took to the sidewalk again. They dodged through traffic and bicyclists and joggers and more pedestrians. When they hit the uptown-downtown street, another police car sped past.

  She looked back and said urgently, "I thought I saw him again. The yellow shirt guy."

  When they reached the next intersection, another police car sped past. It didn't slow, but the officers were looking around. He said, "We need to get out of sight. There's a place we can stay."

  "Where?"

  "The Norwalk Fund has an apartment, for out-of-town clients."

  "Norwalk... Oh, your company, right?"

  He nodded. "It's empty now. Off First Avenue in the Fifties." He noted the cross street sign: 79th. "It's a long walk," he said. "But I'm worried about cabs. They have that new video system, the TVs. Your picture might show up on the screen."

  "I can walk, sure."

  After five minutes, he paused and examined her. "You can't walk."

  She took a breath, then coughed. "Subway, okay." She leaned against him again. "Is that man behind us, Yellow Shirt?"

  "I don't see him."

  He took her arm and directed her east.

  She inhaled several deep breaths, let herself be led down the sidewalk. "On Madison Avenue? He wasn't dead when we left. You saw that, right? He'll probably be okay, don't you think? He was so young."

  Daniel Reardon didn't speak for a moment. He said, "I don't know, Gabriela. It depends on where you shot him."

  "He was married. He had a wedding ring on. Maybe he has children."

  "Gabriela..."

  "I didn't mean to. I panicked. I didn't want to hurt anybody. But they were going to stop me and I couldn't let them. It was for Sarah... You understand. I had to do something."

  "People can get shot and still live."

  "The ambulance would be there soon, right? Probably minutes."

  At 74th and Lexington they dodged through traffic and paused at a light, next to a pushcart vendor, who called, "You want hot dog? Pretzel?" He glanced at them with some curiosity. When they ignored him he turned to another customer and fished a frankfurter out of the gray frankfurter water.

  The light changed and they crossed.

  She said, "People're looking at us, Daniel."

  "At you, Mac. Not us."

  "What?"

  "Because you're beautiful."

  She gave a wan smile. She nodded at a souvenir shop. "Hats," she said, pointing to a rack.

  "Good."

  They stepped inside.

  She grabbed the first one she saw. But Daniel smiled and said, "Maybe not." It sported a Lady Gaga logo in glitter.

  "Oh." She picked a plain navy blue baseball cap. He picked a black one.

  "Jackets?"

  But all the store sold was brightly colored and sequined I New York gear, worse than the glitzy hat. Outer camo would have to wait.

  They both also bought new luggage--small backpacks, hers black, his dark gray.

  Daniel paid, cash, and they pulled on the caps and stuffed their gym bags into the new packs.

  "Not much of a disguise but different enough."

  At the door Daniel gazed out, looking for police, looking for the man in the yellow shirt, looking for Joseph.

  "Nothing."

  "But--"

  She took his arm and grew serious. "Listen, Daniel. This isn't right. It's time for you to leave. Get out now. I don't think they even saw you back there, when I shot him. Get away from me." She choked. "This isn't your problem."

  He bent forward fast and kissed her on the lips. "Okay, that's it."

  She blinked in surprise.

  "What?"

  "Do you watch that show CSI?"

  "I used to."

  "Well, now you've got my DNA on you. If they catch you, I'm going down too."

  She smiled. "Oh, Daniel..."

  "It'll be okay, Mac. I promise."

  "Mac?" She blinked, hearing him use this name.

  "You're more of a Mac than a Gabriela. And come on, with a last name like McKenzie, don't tell me nobody's ever called you Mac?"

  "True."

  Gabriela didn't tell him that she and her father
used nicknames for each other, and the one he'd bestowed on his daughter was indeed "Mac."

  "You mind?"

  She smiled. "I love it."

  "And I may just love you," Daniel whispered.

  She stiffened at the word, then let herself go and pressed against him, shoulders-to-thigh. And for a fleeting moment the horrors of the weekend vanished.

  CHAPTER 24

  10:00 A.M., SUNDAY

  1 HOUR, 10 MINUTES EARLIER

  DANIEL AND GABRIELA HAD CHECKED OUT and were sitting at a wobbly table in a coffee shop on the Upper East Side.

  She nodded back to the hotel in which they'd spent the night. "You always take girls to dives like that?"

  "Only the ones I think can handle it. You passed the test."

  She gave a wry smile and turned back to her task. Dozens of documents sat in front of them, business records, letters, copies of emails.

  She examined the last few in the pile. She leaned back. "It looks like there's close to a million dollars in quote 'miscellaneous assets' that my boss has. But there's no clue where they could be. It's so unfair! To know there's money out there, enough for the ransom, but not know where it is. How the hell'm I going to get Joseph his goddamn money?"

  Daniel had examined his half of the documents and he admitted he'd found nothing either.

  Gabriela's coffee sat untouched before her. Daniel was drinking tea. Two bags sat in the cup, dyeing the water ruddy brown. Not many people drank tea, she reflected. Her mother did. For the past six years, though, the woman mostly just stared at the cup of cooling English Breakfast on the table in the assisted-living home.

  Forget that. Concentrate. This is important, this is vital.

  Gabriela found herself sweating. She wiped her palms on her blue jeans. She'd peeled off the windbreaker, but the restaurant was hot and her wool sweater, which she'd knitted herself, was warm. The pale green garment was thick. She remembered picking out the yarn, searching online to find a good pattern for the collar and sleeves, an Irish chain.

  She sipped coffee and picked at toast, for which she had no appetite. Then, with both hands, she gestured desperately at the documents and muttered, "Where do we go from here? Safe-deposit boxes?"

  "The police will've found them all, locked them down."

  They were silent, surrounded by the sound of the milk steamer, Muzak from CDs offered for sale, a little conversation and a lot of clattering keyboards. Looking out the window, she noted the silhouette of the Queensboro Bridge, 59th Street. It was stark against an indifferent sky.

  Gabriela had a sip of coffee, then another. It was bitter. She didn't mind. The sharp flavor made her alert.

  "Did you find anything about this mysterious Gunther?" he asked.

  "Nothing, no."

  "What about family property?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Your boss's parents? Brothers and sisters? Someplace that was held in a different name than Prescott."

  Gabriela said quickly, "Yes, yes! There is." Her eyes grew wide. "That could be it. When Charles's father died last year, he and his siblings were going to put the family home on the market but they decided they had to fix the place up first. Charles would go up there every few months to work on it. It's still being renovated."

  "Whose name was it under?"

  "It was a trust the lawyers named something like One Oh Nine Bedford Road Trust."

  "The police might not have heard about it yet."

  She continued, "I've seen pictures. It'd be perfect to hide money--it's old, two hundred years. And has dozens of rooms and a huge basement. How big is a million dollars?"

  Daniel laughed. "I wouldn't know. My clients use wire transfers. But it's probably not as big as you'd expect. Where is the house?" he asked.

  "Near Ridgefield, Connecticut. In the western part of the state, near the New York border."

  "I know it. We could get up there and back in time before the deadline. We can take my car. I garage it a couple blocks from here." But then he frowned and asked, "Is the phone up there still working?"

  "I don't know. Why?"

  "You better try it first, before we show up."

  "Why? You think Charles's hiding there? The police traced him to the Caribbean."

  "No," Daniel said. "I think the police might be there."

  "Oh. Of course." She lifted her mobile.

  But Daniel stopped her, pointing to a pay phone in the back of the shop.

  "You think they're tracing calls?" she asked.

  "I'm way past paranoia at this point."

  She rose and walked to the phone, lifted the receiver and fed in some coins. Two minutes later she was back at the table, scooting the chair next to him.

  She offered a rueful look. "Good decision, Daniel."

  "Who answered?" he asked.

  "Detective Holloway. Connecticut State Police. I said it was a wrong number and hung up." Gabriela sighed and her body seemed to collapse in on itself. Daniel wasn't much taller than she was--maybe three inches--but she was so diminished at the moment that he seemed to tower over her. Her head was tilted downward. "That was our last chance... Oh, Sarah..." she muttered. "What am I going to do, Daniel? If we don't get that money..."

  But then she fell silent and cocked her head. "Wait, wait..." She plowed once more through the documents spread out before them.

  "What? You look like a wolf going after a sheep."

  Her dark fingernail underlined some entries on a business form. "These are accounts of non-deductible expenses that Charles had. Personal accounts. I never paid any attention to them before because they didn't have anything to do with the business." Reading through the documents again, Gabriela pointed to some entries. "He spent close to a hundred thousand at jewelry and department stores last year. Some of the items he had delivered to an address on Madison Avenue, a woman named Sonia Dietrich."

  "Who is she?"

  "I never heard of her. I know Charles dated some but he never mentioned who he was seeing. No woman ever came by the office." Perusing the balance sheets and ledgers again. "Hell, he did more than buy her presents. He wrote dozens of checks to her too. A hundred thousand, a little more."

  "And maybe gave her some cash."

  "It could be," she said excitedly. "She might have the missing million."

  Daniel asked, "Would she have left the country with him?"

  Gabriela said, "Considering he's a wanted man, Charles's probably the last person she'd want to be seen with. Women like her have a sixth sense. Survival, you know."

  He'd noted a certain tenor. "Like her? I thought you didn't know her."

  "Intuition," she said drily.

  "How should we handle it?" he asked.

  "I could call and tell her..." She debated. "No, how's this? I could tell her the police are looking for people connected with Charles. He wanted me to pick up anything he left with her, to keep her in the clear."

  "Including a large satchel of hundred-dollar bills? I don't think that'll work."

  "No, I suppose not. Well, how about this? I'll tell her if I don't get the money I'm going to the police and reporting that she's been hiding stolen money for him. What do they call that?"

  "Bagman."

  "I'll tell those detectives she's a bagman. Well, bagwoman. I get the five hundred thousand and she doesn't go to jail."

  "I like that a lot better."

  Stuffing a crumpled napkin into his cup, Daniel asked, "But what if she's not home?"

  Gabriela thought for a moment. "Then it's Plan B."

  "Which is?"

  "I'll break into her fucking apartment and turn it inside out."

  THEY STOOD ON THE CORNER of 88th and Madison, two buildings away from the one Gabriela pointed at. "That's it. That's where she lives, his girlfriend, or mistress, or accomplice. Whatever Ms. Dietrich is."

  " 'Slut' was the most recent job description, I thought," Daniel reminded in a whisper.

  Gabriela dug through the documents in her purse. She
then placed a call and held the phone to her ear. After a few seconds she put the unit away. She said, "Voice mail. I guess we assume she's not there."

  "As opposed to assuming she's not answering because she's busy cleaning her shotgun?" He looked boyish, he looked charming... and he seemed a bit charmed himself as he scanned her face.

  "Okay. We go with the alternative."

  Plan B...

  "Wait here a minute," she told him and walked into the lobby of the elegant brownstone, looking over the mailboxes. She returned to Daniel. "Brother, she's got the whole second floor." They gazed at those windows, which were dark. The rooms seemed to be unoccupied.

  "Come on," she said.

  They walked into the alleyway beside the building. All the windows on the ground floor were barred with elaborate, scrolly grates. The second-floor windows, however, were not protected, and one was partly open.

  "Help me."

  They wheeled a Dumpster below it.

  Gabriela then turned and walked back to the street, with Daniel following. She surveyed the scene. The sidewalk wasn't crowded. "The alley's narrow," she pointed out. "There's no reason for anybody to look into it and see me."

  "You're really going to break in?"

  "Yep. I sure as hell am."

  She noted a closed antiques store on the corner. In front were two massive Chinese lions, secured to the sidewalk with massive chains. Who on earth would steal them? she thought. How could you fence eight hundred pounds of ugly sculpture?

  "You wait there and, I don't know--pretend to make a call. If you see anybody walk up to the building, call me."

  He gave her a quick kiss. "Good luck." He retreated ten feet and took out his mobile.

  Gabriela started back to the alley. She had just reached the mouth when, with a staccato flutter of urgent, official lights, an unmarked police car, followed by a blue-and-white NYPD cruiser, skidded to a stop in front of the building.

  Daniel started forward but Gabriela subtly gestured for him to stay where he was.

  The two detectives who'd stopped the pair yesterday, Kepler and Surani, climbed out of the unmarked police car. A uniformed officer, blond and young, exited the cruiser.

  None of them looked Daniel's way.

  Kepler gestured toward where they stood on the sidewalk. "Come on over here, Ms. McKenzie."

  She didn't move.

  "Please. Now."

  She hesitated then joined them.

  "Tell us what're you doing," Surani insisted, though politely.

  "That's my business."

  "Well, explain what that business is and why it involves an alleyway?"