Текст книги "The Skin Collector"

Автор книги: Jeffery Deaver

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

CHAPTER 35

A good workout.

As he walked from his health club back to his apartment on East 52nd Street to collect his car, Braden Alexander was counting the crunches he’d done. He’d given up after a hundred.

Counting them, that is. The crunches themselves? Plenty. He’d forgotten how many.

Alexander had a sedentary job – writing code for one of the big investment firms (one that actually had not  been the subject of an investigation) – and the thirty seven year old was determined to stay in good shape, despite the eight hour days at his workstation – and the one hour reverse commute to Jersey, where his company’s IT headquarters building was located.

And the curls? With the thirty pound bells? Maybe two hundred. Damn, he sure felt it. He decided he’d take it a bit easier tomorrow. No need to push too  far. It was more important to be consistent, Alexander knew. Every day he made the trek from his apartment west to the health club on Sixth Avenue. Every day, the stationary bike and curls and squats and, yeah, crunches, crunches, crunches … What do we think, 150?

Probably.

He glanced at himself in a window and thought: The weight’s okay. His skin seemed a little pale. Not so good, that. He and his family would get to an island soon. Maybe after Thanksgiving. Anyway, who wouldn’t look sickly on a day like this? The sleet had let up but the light was gray and anemic. He was actually looking forward to getting into his cubicle. He found it cozy, a word he wouldn’t use with anybody but his wife.

Today there was something else to look forward to. He’d be picking up a bicycle at his brother’s house in Paramus. Joey’d gotten a new mountain bike and was giving his old one to Alexander’s son. The boy was ecstatic and had texted twice from school, just to see how ‘everything was going?’

The impatience of youth.

He looked south and caught sight of the new Trade Tower, or whatever it was going to be called. He’d been working at his first job, crunching code for a bank, when the attack had happened, 2001. The new structure was impressive, architecturally more interesting than the simple rectangles of its predecessors. Still, nothing could ever match their grandeur, their style.

What a time that was. His first son had been born the day after the attack. Alexander and his wife had abandoned plans to name him after her father and had picked instead Emery, after the architectural firm Emery Roth & Sons, which along with Minoru Yamasaki had designed the original Trade Towers.

Alexander continued east back toward his apartment, where he’d collect his car and head to work. As he paused for a red light he happened to look back and caught a glimpse of someone behind him, head down. Some guy, young, in dark clothes and stocking cap. A bag or backpack on his shoulder. Was he the same one who’d been sitting in a coffee shop across the street from the health club?

He following me?

Alexander had lived in the city for fifteen years. He considered New York the safest urban area on earth. But he wasn’t a fool, either. He made his living because of bad guys. When he’d started as a programmer some years ago most of his work had been to hack together code that made the servers run more smoothly, expanded web traffic and allowed the various operating systems to talk to each other without stuttering. Over the years, though, he’d developed the specialty of security. Commercial hackers, terrorists and punks with too much time on their hands and too many cells in their brains now preyed on banking institutions like his employer with increasingly bold and brilliant attacks.

That had become Alexander’s specialty, throwing nails in the path of some pretty smart and pretty nasty hackers.

He’d heard of some computer security pros who’d been physically attacked. He sometimes wondered if he was at personal risk. He had no specific knowledge that any hackers knew his name but he also was aware that it was impossible to keep all information about yourself hidden from someone with enough drive to track you down.

Near his apartment building Alexander paused and, on the pretext of making a phone call, glanced back once more. The man in the cap and coat continued following, head down. He didn’t seem to be paying any attention to Alexander. Then without a pause the supposed hit hacker walked into a building across the street, an old one, now a commercial space, with a For Rent  sign pasted across a dirty window. Maybe he was a Realtor or new tenant. Or a janitor examining a temperamental boiler – it was supposed to be another bone chilling evening.

Amused at his own wasted concern, Alexander continued on to his building and to the entrance to the parking garage, where they kept the Subaru. The parking space was a luxury – it alone cost more than his first apartment. But a guaranteed slot in the city that brought the world alternate side of the street parking? Didn’t get any better than that – except it did: The space was enclosed, so he never had to shovel snow or scrape ice. Extremely enclosed, in fact. The space was in the third sub basement.

He now waved to the cashier, who called, ‘Hey, Mr Alexander. When’s it gonna let up? You know what I mean?’ The skinny, gray complexioned man gazed up at the sky.

He’d said virtually the same thing every day for the past week.

Alexander grinned and shrugged. He descended the spiral ramp of the dim place.

On the bottom floor, the Subie’s floor, as his wife had dubbed the vehicle, Alexander walked under the low ceiling toward where the front of his green car peeked out. The garage – this floor at least – seemed completely deserted. But he wasn’t feeling uneasy anymore, now that the imaginary killer shadowing him had disappeared into the building across the street. Besides, no mugger – or hacker intent on breaking Alexander’s typing fingers – would dare risk an attack here. The only way in was past the watchful attendant.

You know what I mean? …

As he approached the Subaru he pulled his keys out and hit the unlock button on the fob. The lights flashed. He continued on to the car, thinking of the bike for his son. He was looking forward to riding his own ten speed with Emery through Central Park this weekend.

He was smiling at the prospective pleasure when a man stepped casually out from behind a wall to Alexander’s right and punched him in the neck.

‘The hell–?’ Alexander gasped and spun around.

Oh, Christ, Christ … The guy wore gray coveralls like a repairman or utility worker but his face looked like an alien’s – encased in a tight yellowish mask, latex.

Then he saw the hypodermic needle in the gloved, yellow hand.

Alexander touched his neck, which stung.

He’d poked him with something! The first thing he thought was: AIDS.

Some kind of psycho. No, no, no …

Then he thought: Nobody’s going to get away with this crap. Alexander had taken several self defense courses and a kickboxing class at the gym. Not to mention being racked from the thousands of crunches and curls. He turned to face the guy and planted his feet firmly on the ground, drawing back his right arm, recalling how to hit fast and follow up.

One, two, feint, hit.

One, two …

But his arm wasn’t behaving. It was heavy. Too heavy even to lift. And he noted the terrible panic, the shock, fading. He didn’t even feel scared at all anymore.

And when the dim light grew dimmer he understood:

No, not tainted blood. Of course not. It was a sedative of some kind the asshole had injected him with. Sure, sure, this was  the guy who’d been following him. He’d slipped down here from the building across the street. But how …? Oh, there. There was a small metal access door open. Behind it darkness, like a tunnel or a basement. And the guy’s mission? To kidnap Alexander. To get him to reveal codes or security flaws in his clients’ programs.

‘Ahhhl talll you … whah …’ Alexander was speaking. Trying  to speak.

Say it! Come on! I’ll tell you what you want. Just let me go.

‘Lllll. Tllll. You waaaaa …’

The syllables were falling apart.

Then the words were just gurgling from his throat.

He was surprised to find he wasn’t standing any longer but sitting down, paralyzed, staring up at the masked freak. Looking around at his surroundings. The Subie’s tire. A Hershey bar wrapper. An oval of dried dog pee.

The attacker bent down over a backpack.

As the darkness grew, serious darkness now, Alexander squinted, looking at a weird tattoo on the man’s left arm. A snake … no, a centipede. With a human face.

Then he was lying on his back, too weak even to sit up any longer. The attacker roughly tugged Alexander’s wrists behind his back and cuffed them. Rolled him over on his back once more.

But just because this guy had the melted skin mask and a macabre tattoo didn’t mean he was a psychotic killer. No, he just wanted to get the codes to the Livingston Associates main server. Or the password to crack the Bank of Eastern Nassau’s security lock out system.

Sure.

Not a wacko.

This was business was all. Only business. They didn’t want to hurt him. They were after data? Fine, he’d give them data. Passcodes? They’d get passcodes.

Only business, right?

But then why was he lifting Alexander’s jacket and shirt and staring at his abdomen intently? And reaching forward and stroking the skin with a rigid, probing finger?

Has to be … only …

Blackness enwrapped him completely.

CHAPTER 36

‘Where are you, Sachs?’

‘Almost there.’ Her voice was echoing through the speaker in Rhyme’s parlor. The criminalist was here with Pulaski and Cooper, while Amelia Sachs was presently streaking across Central Park, one of the traverses, headed east. ‘Hanging up. Gotta drive.’

It turned out there were forty eight places in Manhattan in which ‘Belvedere’ figured in the name. This had been the conclusion of yet another team that Lon Sellitto had assembled at One Police Plaza. There’d been the Find the Out of Print Book team, now disbanded. Then the current What the Fuck Do the Words the Second and Forty Mean team, still active.

Now the Which Belvedere Is It team, assembled thanks to skin artist Anne Thomson’s fortuitous eavesdropping.

Four dozen instances of Belvedere in Manhattan (which seemed to be 11 5’s preferred hunting borough; besides, you can’t search everywhere).

Delis, apartment buildings, transport companies, boutiques, a cab company, a ferry.

An escort service.

A half hour ago, in Rhyme’s parlor, he and Sachs, along with Sellitto, Cooper and Pulaski, had debated which of the Belvederes were the most likely to be connected to the unsub. Of course, the name might have nothing to do with the next or a future target. It could be where he lived, or near where he lived, or his dry cleaner or where he boarded his cat. Or a business he was curious about. But, being cautious, they assumed it was a kill site and wanted to get tac teams to the most likely ones ASAP.

They’d decided three were good candidates for an attack. One was a deserted warehouse in the Chelsea area of Manhattan – north of Greenwich Village. It featured an extensive labyrinth of underground passages and storerooms. Perfect for their unsub’s purposes, though Cooper had made the point that it might be a little too deserted. ‘He needs to get a victim from somewhere.’

Rhyme considered this but tapped into some CCTV images there and noted that it had more pedestrian traffic than you’d think – including even some joggers out on this blustery day.

‘He only needs one,’ Rhyme pointed out.

Sellitto’d called ESU to have a team sent there.

The second Belvedere was an old movie theater on the Upper West Side, the sort of grande dame you used to see on Broadway, the ornate venues where Clark Gable or Marilyn Monroe would open films. It was closed at this hour and, according to one of Rhyme’s underground diagrams, had a number of basements, just the place for Unsub 11 5 to take his victims. Another ESU team was sent there.

The final possibility was an apartment building on Midtown’s East Side named the Belvedere. A grimy old structure, like the gothic Dakota. It featured both a large basement and an underground parking garage. The detective arranged for a third team to speed there.

Sachs had said, ‘Smells like that’s the one. I’ll go too.’

Rhyme had noted her eyes, that huntress look, the undeterred focus. Which he found so appealing, and so unnerving, at the same time. Sachs was one of the best crime scene cops Rhyme had ever known. But she was never more alive than when leading a dynamic entry in a tactical scenario.

She’d sprinted out the door, pulling her jacket on as she went. Sellitto had followed shortly after.

Now Rhyme got a message from Sellitto, also mobile, reporting that a tac team had hit the Belvedere warehouse in Chelsea and found nothing. ESU commander Bo Haumann had left a small surveillance team and divided up the others; one group was heading to the Belvedere Apartments and one to the theater, which was massive; the search would take some time.

Just after he disconnected, his phone line rang again. ‘Rhyme?’ Sachs’s voice came through the speakers.

‘Just heard from Lon,’ he told her. He explained that the warehouse was a bust. ‘But that means you’re getting some reinforcements. An ESU team’s headed to the apartment building where you are.’

‘Not are, Rhyme,’ she muttered. ‘Will be . Traffic’s lousy. And nobody knows how to drive in this weather. I’m on the sidewalk. Hold on.’ Rhyme heard a crash as presumably her Torino reseated itself on New York City asphalt. He wondered about debilitating damage to the drive train or the axles. ‘At this rate, ten minutes. And it’s just ’cross town. Jesus.’

Rhyme noted another incoming call on his phone.

‘I’ll call you back, Sachs. ESU’s on the other line.’

‘Lincoln, you there?’ It was Haumann.

‘Yes, Bo. What’s the status?’

‘Tac Team Two’s almost to the Belvedere Apartments. We’ll hit the basement in the building and the garage too. Any more evidence that he’s armed?’ Haumann would be remembering the earlier incident, at the hospital in Marble Hill, where Unsub 11 5 had threatened to shoot Harriet Stanton and Sachs.

‘Nothing further. But assume he is.’

‘I’ll pass it along.’ A pause as Haumann spoke to someone else in his car or ESU van. Rhyme couldn’t hear the exchange. ‘Okay, we’re rolling up silent.’

‘I’ll tell Amelia you’re there. She’ll want to be included in any tactical op. I wouldn’t take any chances. You can’t wait. Go in, dynamic, ASAP.’

‘Sure, Lincoln, we’ll do it.’

Rhyme said, ‘Tell your folks to look out for traps. That’s his new game. Gloves and respirators.’

‘Roger that. Hold on … Okay, Lincoln?’

‘I’m here.’

‘We’ve got a chopper in place. You want to log in and watch?’

‘Sure.’

The ESU commander gave him the code and a moment later Rhyme, Pulaski and Cooper were staring at the screen. It was a high def image of two boxy ESU tactical trucks, designation numbers clearly visible on their roofs. Rhyme could see two dozen troops deploy through the front door of the apartment building and down the exit ramp of the garage. The parking attendant was being led away to safety by one of the officers.

The audio was up too. Rhyme could hear the ESU troops as they made their way through the facilities. ‘… Southwest corridor, level one, clear … Access door here … no, it’s sealed … ’

Haumann disconnected and Rhyme called Sachs back. Told her about the conversation.

She sighed. ‘I’m ETA five minutes.’ He could hear the disappointment about missing the entry.

Rhyme’s attention swiveled to the radio feed from the tactical operation.

‘Tac Two A is going in, heading down the stairs to the lower level. Two B is heading down the garage ramp. Hold on … So far, no resistance, no innocents. We’re green. K.’

‘Rhyme, I’m almost there. I–’

But he missed what she said next. An officer’s voice blared out of the radio. ‘Tac Two B … we have a situation. Lower level, parking garage … Jesus … Call it in, call it in! … Fire department … Move, move, move! We need fire now! K. ’

Fire? Rhyme wondered.

Another officer echoed his question. ‘What’s burning? I don’t see anything burning. K? ’

‘Tac Two B. Negative on fire. The perp opened a standpipe to cover his getaway. We’ve got a flood. We can’t get through. Already six inches of water. And it’s rising. Need a fireman with a wrench to close the fucker. K.’

Rhyme heard a chuckle from the ether – apparently relief that they had to contend only with water, not an arson blaze.

He, however, was not amused. He knew exactly what their nimble unsub had done: unleashed the flood not only to slow down his pursuers, but to destroy whatever evidence he’d left behind.

CHAPTER 37

Running now, sprinting.

Billy Haven was underground, in the old train tunnel once more, heading back past the spot where Bear man Nathan had come close to performing his straight razor modification.

His backpack light as a leaf on his shoulder – that’s what adrenaline does – he sprinted fast. The latex mask was off but not the gloves or coveralls. He carried his shoes. He was in his stocking feet. There wasn’t, he’d learned in his research, any database for cloth footwear that might allow them to trace him. The booties were too slippery for sprinting.

Move, move, move …

The warning that had precipitated his rapid escape from the Belvedere parking garage had not been the squeal of brakes from the Emergency Service trucks or the quiet footfalls of the cops. He’d known a few moments before that that he was in danger. The police dispatcher had reported the address and mentioned the name Belvedere, as Billy had heard through the earbud, connected to his police scanner.

He’d then taken some measures to make sure the location – and the victim – would be useless to the police.

Thou shalt cleanse the crime scene of all that can incriminate.

Then he was back through the utility access port in the Belvedere parking garage’s wall.

And underground once more.

Finally it was safe, Billy figured, to get to the surface. Chest aching, coughing shallowly, he climbed through another access door into the basement of a Midtown office building. It was one of those scuffed limestone functionaries of architecture, three quarters of a century old, possibly more. Ten, twelve stories high, with dimly lit, jerky elevators that prompted you to bless yourself before you stepped inside.

Billy, though, took the stairs from the basement and, after checking, eased into the first floor hallway, the professional home of ambulance chasers, accountants and some import export operations whose names in English appeared under Cyrillic letters or Asian pictograms. He stripped off the coveralls, stuffed them into a trash bin and pulled on a different stocking cap, beige for a change. Shoes back on.

At the greasy glass door leading onto the street Billy paused and looked for police. None. This made sense; he was far enough away from the site of the attack at the Belvedere. The officers would have their hands full for some time there. It amused him to think of what was going on in the garage.

Stepping out onto the street he moved quickly east.

How had the great anticipator anticipated this? Yes, he’d been to the Belvedere several times to scope out the place. Maybe he’d picked up some trace there that had been discovered. That seemed unlikely but, with Rhyme, anything was possible.

Walking through the sleet, he kept his head down and thought back to any mistakes he might’ve made. Then: Yes, yes … he remembered. A week or so ago he’d called directory assistance to get the number for the Belvedere to check on the hours of the parking garage. He’d been in the tattoo supply store, buying extra needles for the American Eagle machine. That’s how they’d found him.

This raised a question: The only reason the owner would have mentioned the Belvedere was because the police wanted to know who’d bought an American Eagle or needles for it. But how had they learned that this was his murder weapon?

He’d have to do some more thinking about that.

A subway station loomed and he descended the slushy stairs then caught a train south. In twenty minutes Billy was back at his workshop, in the shower, letting the hot water blast his skin as he scrubbed and scrubbed.

Then toweling off, dressing again.

He clicked on the radio. A short time later the news reported another attack by the ‘Underground Man’, which had struck him as a rather pathetic nickname. Couldn’t they come up with anything better?

Still no mention of Amelia Sachs or anybody else falling victim to a strychnine attack. Which meant that by either diligence or luck the crime scene people had missed getting stuck by the needle in Samantha’s purse.

Billy had known all along the Modification would be like a battle, with wins and losses on both sides. He’d succeeded with two victims. The police had had some victories too. This was to be expected – in fact, it had been anticipated. Now, he reflected, he had to be a bit more serious about protecting himself.

An idea occurred to him.

Surprisingly simple, surprisingly good.

The applicable Commandment for this situation would be: Know thine enemy. But know the friends and family of thine enemy too.