“It’s going to be a long night. Get everything you can find on the victim. And call Richard. Get his ass out of bed, too. He’s the financial expert. Maybe he’ll know something about him.” Sam paused. “How old was he?”
“Fifty-seven. I think he’s on the Forbes richest A-hole list.”
“Didn’t really buy him a nice exit, did it?”
Seth shrugged. “Can’t take it with you, they say.”
“Not with three rounds in your chest, you can’t.”
Seth began making calls. It had only been a few days since the last killing, and the frequency was now completely unpredictable — any pattern theories could be thrown out the window. Maybe Sam was right after all — Seth had never heard of any serials who diverged in so many ways from their stereotype.
Seth looked at his watch and noted that it was now two thirty a.m.. He’d been up since one, which meant he’d get a whopping two hours of sleep today. He rubbed the beginnings of stubble on his chin and pressed the talk button on his two-way.
A lot of agents weren’t going to be happy.
The next morning, Silver took a careful sip of her steaming mug of coffee and logged back into the FBI network, anxious to see if anything had surfaced while she’d slept. She’d stayed up till one before taking a sleeping pill to force herself back onto a normal schedule. She’d woken at nine, surprised it was so late — she was usually up by six thirty every morning, ready to do half an hour of yoga before starting her day. The pill had worked better than expected.
She threw the drapes open and winced as the pale sunlight streamed in. A quick glance at the sidewalk below found no stalkers — the prior evening’s false alarm now seemed silly with a few hours of rest under her belt. That was one of the problems with sleep deprivation and nerves: imagination could easily distort reality, and a man admiring the turn of her leg suddenly became a ninja killer in waiting.
Her computer beeped, and she quickly navigated to her e-mail, then noticed that her phone was blinking. She thumbed through the menu to her voicemail and held the phone to her ear as she simultaneously scanned the e-mail messages on her system.
Two messages on the phone — first one from Seth, time-stamped that morning at six thirty. His voice sounded uncharacteristically tired.
“Hey, it’s Seth. The Regulator struck again. This time a shooting. A hedge fund bigwig. Three shots. No witnesses. You’re probably still asleep like any sane normal person, so I’ll try you back when I get a chance. Sam’s on the warpath and called an all-hands meeting for nine, which will last hours. In the meantime, I’ll forward what we have to your box. Check it at your leisure. Ciao.”
The second message was from Richard at eight o’clock. Same basic information.
She put the phone down and opened Seth’s most recent missive before spending the next twenty minutes reading the preliminary crime scene report. This killing was unlike any of the others, with the exception that the victim was in the financial industry and had been investigated by the SEC five years earlier, but with no charges brought. He’d been subpoenaed, and then the investigation had died. A one-sentence statement from the SEC last year had confirmed that there was no investigation active, so, whatever the suspicions, they had been put to rest. The only reason anyone had even known about it was because he had disclosed the subpoena in his quarterly letter to his investors.
She read further and saw another paragraph on his investment notoriety of late — he’d been one of a blessed few who had made a fortune from the 2008 crash, when betting against the real estate boom. She remembered reading something about that, so she switched to the Internet, opened a new window, and typed in the victim’s name. A slew of articles proclaiming him to be a financial genius appeared, most of them based on his remarkable performance during the crash, when fortuitous bets had made him close to a billion dollars. Others had made far more, with some funds seeing three or more billion in profits, but he had been one of that group — a savvy operator exploiting an engineered fever of madness in the markets.
But why a shooting? If the killer was going to use a gun, why not kill all his victims with one? It made no sense.
Unless she was still missing the symbolism.
Her other e-mail was from the tech she’d sent the photos to. She opened it and read the two-sentence response promising more to come later during the day, with preliminary edits attached.
Silver opened the first in the series and stared at the rendering. It was the New Jersey suspect with a beard superimposed over his driver’s license photo and his mug shot. It didn’t look like the traffic cam man. The second was the driver’s license photo of the old guy. Her breath caught in her throat. Not because of the photo, which didn’t really look much like the traffic footage either. No, because of the eyes. Something about the eyes and nose. She wasn’t sure why, but her heart rate had increased.
She kept staring at his photo, but the elusive sense of being right on the verge of a breakthrough slipped away the more she studied it. Frustrated, she pulled up the traffic cam photo and put it alongside, but other than the two men being male she didn’t see much to go on. She’d been hoping for something more definitive, not the sense that it could have been either of them, or neither.
The more she looked at the images, the less certain of anything she was. It was defeating the purpose.
She switched to her prior evening’s research, and then stopped cold.
The address on the license. It looked familiar.
She flipped back and then ran out to the front room, where the papers were still strewn around the dining room table.
Midway into the pile she found what she was looking for. She approached the screen and held up the photocopy of a three-year-old article about a man who had been decapitated in a horrific car crash; the victim of his own reckless behavior. His blood alcohol had been almost triple the legal limit when he’d plowed into the back of a parked semi-rig, its lift gate acting as a guillotine and severing his head like a hot knife through butter.
Parker Rose. Age fifty-nine.
Parker Rose’s address was two numbers different than Howard Jarvis’ before the fire had taken his wife and daughter from him. Same street.
They had been neighbors.
And possibly friends?
The coincidence was too large to ignore. Although it hardly constituted proof of anything, it was a thread. A substantial one. And she had solved other crimes with slimmer threads than this.
She quickly pulled up the interrogation file on Howard from earlier in the week and jotted down his information before calling Sam’s office. His phone went to voicemail. She left a brief message, then hung up in frustration. His cell went to voicemail too. She left the same message:
“Sam, this is Silver. I think I may have discovered something of significance on the ‘Regulator’ suspect in Brooklyn. It’s convoluted, but a search for decapitations turned up an article on his neighbor being killed in a freak accident…I think there’s something there. Call me as soon as you get this.”
Even as she hung up, she realized how odd her call sounded. She could imagine Sam’s derisive response, “Wow, Silver, his neighbor drove into a truck and killed himself while wasted, and his wife was a psycho and burned their house down? Cuff him!”
She tried Brett’s number, but his secretary reminded her that he was in Washington, out of phone contact until the evenings.
Her frustration mounted. If she was still running the taskforce, she could have put a dozen men on scouring the records for more background, looking for the links she was now sure would be there. It was only a theory, but it was a powerful one — of course it was personal. The significance was now clear. He’d lost friends and loved ones in the same manner as he was now killing his victims.
Silver caught another glimpse of the driver’s license photo with the beard and was again struck by the feeling of unease. Why? What was she sensing unconsciously that she wasn’t picking up when she studied it?
The hair. Something about the hair.
She next erased first the top, then the sides, mimicking a very short cut.
Silver froze.
That face.
She closed her eyes and concentrated, straining to recall the brief glimpse she’d gotten. Her eyes popped open, and she gasped.
It was him.
The man in black from yesterday.
She was sure of it.
Or almost sure.
That was the problem with post-traumatic stress disorder, a small voice inside of her cautioned. After killing a man and then having her daughter kidnapped, black could seem like it was really white, and she could talk herself into believing that the laundry man across the street was really the Pope, or Hitler, or a trained assassin. Lots of crazies went round the bend on killing sprees because they saw the devil in the faces of others, clear as day. It puzzled them why nobody else saw what was obvious to them.
Am I losing it?
She considered the question dispassionately. No, you’re not losing it. You might be tired and distraught, but you’re not crazy as a shithouse rat. Yet.
Although you have been eating dinner with a loaded Glock as your companion. Not everyone had a forty-caliber dining guest.
The doubts faded the more she stared at the photo she’d modified. It was him. And he had been across the street. Which meant he knew where she lived.
Like the kidnappers, who had never bothered to call, knew where she lived.
The final piece fell into place. If she was right, he could not only be the killer but also could have her daughter. A serial killer imprisoning her ten-year-old.
The thought catalyzed her, and she sprang into action. Everyone else might be too busy to take her calls but that didn’t mean she was helpless. She had over a decade of field experience and was one of the best.
Silver glanced at the time as she strode purposefully into the bedroom.
She pulled her hair into a ponytail and briefly considered calling Art and telling him about her breakthrough, but then hesitated. Put simply, it sounded crazy, or at least highly implausible. He would probably be polite and listen patiently, and maybe send a team over to chat with the nice old man again, but that wouldn’t be the same as him coming face to face with Silver. They would have to follow a host of rules of engagement and would be deeply skeptical of her intuition, which could tip him off in a number of ways. He was obviously extremely smart, and he’d already been through one round of questioning with nothing to show for it.
No, that wouldn’t do any good.
She would need to handle this herself.
Five minutes later, she was taking the stairs to the street, two at a time, anxious to get to Brooklyn as quickly as possible.
Chapter 23
The bar was technically open at ten a.m., but there were no customers yet. When the front door swung wide, the harsh rays of the late morning sun shot through the gloom, bringing with it the shadow of a huge man in worn jeans and a leather jacket. He looked around and spotted his objective — a bald man sipping a cognac in one of the red-upholstered booths.
The sound of his heavy motorcycle boots on the polished concrete floor echoed through the lounge as he approached the drinker, who motioned to him to sit.
“What would you like, my friend? Anything. Say the word.” The bald man’s Slavic accent was thick, but understandable.
“What’s that you’re drinking?” the tall American grunted.
“Hennessy. I like a little eye-opener with my coffee. I highly recommend it.”
“Fine. But skip the coffee part.”
The bald man snapped his fingers and pointed to his miniature snifter, and within twenty seconds another glass appeared alongside it before the bartender scuttled away to the farthest corner in the room.
The two men toasted, and the new arrival downed the drink in a single gulp, then exhaled noisily with a burp.
“What happened? I have some very pissed-off people who want the woman dead, and these are not people you want angry.”
“It was a regrettable oversight. The contractor was careless. You probably read in the papers that he paid the ultimate price for his sloppiness.”
“I saw that. But that doesn’t get our fifty grand back, does it?”
“Do you want your money back? Or do you want us to take care of the woman? I’m still prepared to do this job if that’s your wish. Of course, now that we know she is an FBI agent who has advance warning of danger, it won’t be as simple a matter.”
“I don’t want the money back. I want her snuffed, preferably yesterday. Same deal, only this time you don’t screw it up.”
“I think if you want a better caliber of contractor, you should consider paying a little more.”
The big man’s eyes narrowed to slits. “How much more?”
“I think another ten grand would get you the best in the business.”
“I thought I was already paying for the best.”
“Do you want this done right, or do you want best efforts? Ten grand will eliminate any uncertainty.”
“You’re a crook.” The big man smiled an evil grin, revealing a mouthful of haphazard dental work.
“That I am. But I’m your crook.”
The bald man raised his glass and beckoned to the bartender, who brought the bottle.
By the time it was half gone, enough information had been recorded to put the biker in prison for twenty lifetimes.
~ ~ ~
Silver took a cab to the headquarters’ garage and pulled her car out of the stall, the ugly memories of the shooting lingering as she made her way to the exit. The attendant waved her on, and she pulled out and gunned the engine, intent on making it to Brooklyn without any delays.
A part of her questioned her conviction, debating silently with the other part of her that was sure she’d tumbled across the solution to the case.
She pulled onto the Brooklyn Bridge and watched the New York skyline disappear in her rearview mirror as she headed towards Howard Jarvis’ current address. The familiar bulk of her Glock rubbed against her hip — her thigh-length jacket was cut to conceal it when she was standing. She’d put a second fully-loaded magazine in her pocket, prepared for anything.
Silver didn’t have a plan. Her strategy was to meet with the suspect, see if it was indeed the man who had been shadowing her at home, and if it was…what? Beat a confession out of him? Threaten to blow his head off? Arrest him without having built a case that would hold any sort of water?
She had to admit that part of her approach wasn’t fully formed, but it felt good to be out, taking action, doing something, instead of waiting for the phone to ring while alternating between rage and despair. At the very least, she could get a feel for where the man lived and possibly interview some of the neighbors. Maybe this was all a red herring, in which case she’d wasted part of her busy day following up on an interview. But if she suspected that it was something else…she’d have to play it by ear.
The neighborhoods deteriorated as she made it closer to her destination. Even with the improvement in Manhattan’s outlying areas, some had resisted changes for the better, and this section of Brooklyn appeared to be one of them. Groups of menacing youths cold-stared her as she crept along the streets, following the dash-mounted GPS’ map to Howard’s new address. Graffiti covered most of the lamp posts and street-level walls: gang tags proclaiming turf with vividly-colored flourishes.
She turned the corner onto his street and estimated that it was two blocks up on the right. Unlike the city’s, these sidewalks were largely empty, the residents locked away in their homes behind barred windows, or at work. The only pedestrians were sketchy-looking junkies and the obvious gang members engaged in supplying them with their substance of choice. Even the cars seemed beaten down
and tired, mostly older economy vehicles, with the odd German luxury brand, no doubt the conveyances of the dealers.
Silver pulled to the curb in front of Howard’s tiny home, two stories that spoke of decades of neglect and hard times. She shouldered her purse and touched her pistol reassuringly before exiting the vehicle. Taking the stairs to the front door with care, she noted that the drapes were drawn behind the iron-barred, ground-floor windows, making it impossible for her to see inside the house. As she reached for the doorbell, she automatically scanned the surroundings but didn’t see any signs of life.
The buzzer screeched inside as she jabbed the button. She waited patiently but didn’t hear anything from inside. Trying again, she shifted her weight and strained to detect any evidence of the occupant being home. She knocked loudly, and when she got no response, she peered around the porch to the small backyard. Brown patches of ignored grass struggled to survive between the tall concrete perimeter walls.
Silver descended the stairs and moved to the side gate, fabricated out of the same iron bars that protected the windows, and found it open. That surprised her, but not so much that she was unwilling to continue. She peered cautiously up at the neighboring homes, wary of watchers. The buildings extended further back on their lots, so she wouldn’t be visible to them if she was careful.
At the back door, she halfheartedly tried the knob, but it was locked. She shielded her eyes from the light and peered through the dirty glass, trying to make out what was inside, but only saw a kitchen counter with a few water bottles on it, and a backpack.
Her impulse was to try to pick the lock and execute an unauthorized entry, but she reminded herself that she was one of the good guys, and the good guys didn’t break and enter.
Frustrated, she tried the door again, but it didn’t budge.
She looked around and spotted a garbage can. Silver again scanned the surrounding homes and calculated that she could reach it without being spotted. It was worth a peek — she was already there, so the hard work was done.
Silver Justice Page 23