Текст книги "Panic"

Автор книги: Nick Stephenson

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Chapter 3

Police Sergeant Mary Jordan was tired. Damned tired. The call had come in about an hour before, a triple homicide outside a mid-town club. Not her favorite way to start a Friday, especially not at one thirty in the morning and on only two hours’ sleep. The gas station coffee in her hand just wasn’t cutting it, and she hoped she didn’t look as bad as she felt. Mary was attractive enough not to need makeup, but she had thrown on a cursory dash of lipstick and tied back her unruly dark hair just in case she didn’t get a chance later, which was becoming more and more likely as she contemplated the scene in front of her.

On the ground lay the remains of two young women, both of whom had probably been pretty attractive before some sicko decided to mess with their faces. One girl’s nose had been caved in and her eyes were bulging from their sockets, and the other girl’s head was at a funny angle, a grotesque expression on her horrified face. Mary noticed they were both wearing clothes she couldn’t afford if she saved up for a year. A few feet further back lay the body of a young male, Mary guessed late twenties, with a single gunshot wound to the head.

“Looks like we’ve got two killers, Sarge,” one of the duty officers addressed her. He was young and puffed up, trying to prove himself. Mary eyed his badge number.

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, this guy’s been shot and the others weren’t. Two killers.”

“Or just the one guy who likes to strangle women.”

Mary had seen it before. Some crazies liked to see the life drain out of their victims, liked to dispatch them using their own two hands. They got some kind of sick sexual kick out of it. As for the stiff with the bullet wound, Mary guessed he just wasn’t the killer’s type.

“Just the one set of boot prints,” she continued, “no car, no bullet casings. There was just one guy, and he was a pro.”

“Buy why would anyone want to kill someone coming out of a club?”

“You find any ID on these guys?”

The officer nodded, “Wallets and purses weren’t taken, so it was easy enough to check. Finn Johnson, Candice Berkeley, and Dakota Hall. Finn’s a nobody, works at a nightclub round the corner. Probably knew the doorman, otherwise no way he’d get in. The girls are your usual type, living off Daddy’s money and enjoying their college years. Checked immediate family, they’re all clean. Not a parking ticket among them. So why would someone want to kill them?”

“They wouldn’t. Whoever killed these people was after something else.”

“How do you know?”

“Like you said, these guys are nobodies,” said Mary, glancing down at the bodies. “You don’t see pros like this taking out nobodies on the street. He was after either something they had, or someone they were with. It doesn’t look like anything was stolen, so I’d bet on the latter.”

“What do you want me to do, Sarge?”

“Tape this place up. When forensics get here, get them searching for any hair or fibers that don’t match our other vics and have them call me straight away. Let’s find out what’s missing from this picture.”

The rookie dashed off and left Mary staring at the scene in front of her. This was all she needed, more unexplained deaths. The captain was already riding her ass over a string of high-profile cases the FBI was investigating. Apparently they expected the police to do their damn jobs for them. Unfortunately for Mary, that meant she had to deliver a suspect with at least enough evidence to guarantee a court hearing. If she didn’t find one soon, the captain, the commissioner, and even the Mayor would be baying for blood, and she knew where they’d be looking.

Mary swore under her breath and patted down her jacket pockets, looking for her cigarettes. Then she remembered she had quit last week and swore again. It was hard enough to give up smoking without having to deal with this mess. Coffee just wasn’t cutting it. Mary bit her tongue in frustration and stalked back to her car, a mid-nineties sedan that was more inconspicuous than a squad car but lacked a decent heater. She turned the car around in the narrow alley and set off in the direction of the precinct, a full night of paperwork ahead of her.

Chapter 4

Leopold saw the blade arc through the air toward his head a moment too late. The blunted edge struck him hard against the padded armor that protected his skull, but he still felt the blow like a sledgehammer striking a stone wall. Faltering slightly, he steadied himself with his right leg and assumed a more defensive stance.

Leopold tensed as his opponent advanced, sword held high. Jerome was forty-six years old, six feet seven inches tall, and built like a pro wrestler. Despite his build, he carried himself gracefully and effortlessly, even with the bulky armor weighing him down.  Against his black skin, the dark padding made him look even more imposing, like a deadly shadow. Leopold wished Jerome hadn’t insisted on swapping out their usual wooden swords for steel ones.

His sparring partner attacked again, aiming his blows at Leopold’s side this time, and he had to parry with increasing speed to avoid a blow to the ribs, filling the empty gymnasium with the echoing clash of metal on metal. The sound only worsened his wavering focus as his arms began to ache from exhaustion. As Leopold’s parries slowed, his opponent found an opening and struck hard, connecting with Leopold’s ribcage and knocking the wind out of his lungs. Despite the thick armor and blunted swords, the blows still hurt like hell.

“You’re distracted,” said Jerome through the grille of his headgear.

“I’m just tired. Five a.m. is far too early for a beating.”

“It’s only a beating if you don’t concentrate. I can tell you’re not focused. Tell me what’s going on.”

Jerome lowered his sword. Leopold followed, secretly relieved he would get a few moments to catch his breath. Neither removed his head protection, which was lesson number one in any sport involving deadly weapons.

“I’m trying to figure out the connection between the dead state senators. Three now, all killed within a few weeks of each other. One from Massachusetts, one from California, and one from Florida.”

“I remember. It took you all of five minutes to figure out what happened. Staged suicides, right?”

“Right. All three deaths made to look like suicides, all three victims state senators. Other than that, I can’t find a connection between them.”

“So what’s the problem? You’ll figure it out eventually,” said Jerome, raising his sword.

“The FBI has jurisdiction,” – Leopold raised his own weapon – “which means I don’t get to know the facts. They’re playing a media game and trying to keep me off the team. They’ve announced that the bodies were recovered, but no mention of the connection between them or the cause of death.”

“What’s your point?” Jerome began to advance.

“It means that I can’t get to the bottom of what happened without going through the FBI staff, who so far aren’t returning my calls. There are going to be more deaths unless I can figure out who’s behind this.”

“Your problem, Leopold,” – his opponent circled to cut off Leopold’s retreat – “is you just have no faith in other people.”

“Thanks, Jerome, but you’re my bodyguard, not my shrink.”

“Bodyguard? That’s a hell of way to sum up twenty years of loyal service. I’m not so sure I should be taking it so easy on you.”

Leopold tried to dodge, but he was too slow. Despite years of practice, he could still not hope to compete at the same level as Jerome, who had the added benefit of a lifetime of combat training and expertise.

The giant bodyguard wheeled his blade round with impossible speed and connected sharply with Leopold’s wrist, causing him to drop his sword. He felt his eyes water from the pain, but picked up his weapon and resumed the defensive stance, shaking his wrist to get the blood flowing again. His wiry frame was a relatively small target, which he intended to use to his advantage against his opponent’s stronger strikes and longer reach. Jerome’s attacks were fast and powerful, but so far Leopold hadn’t provided much of a challenge, meaning that his sparring partner was bound to grow complacent eventually. All he had to do was focus and wait for the right opportunity.

Jerome advanced again, whirling the blade through the air faster than Leopold’s eyes could reliably follow. He counted on his instincts and brought his own sword up to parry, successfully avoiding a blow to the shoulder. The bodyguard countered with a strike to the side of the head, which he also managed to block. He sensed Jerome going for the wrists again and instinctively parried, dodging to the right and following up with an attack of his own.

 But he was too slow. His opponent blocked the attack and stepped left, causing him to lose balance and open up his sides to attack. Jerome pressed his advantage and struck Leopold on the upper arm as he stumbled, knocking him to his knees.

“Better!” shouted the bodyguard.

“Hardly. I can’t feel my arms, legs, or head.”

“You kept yourself from getting hit for nearly two minutes. A personal best.”

Leopold stood and bowed. Usually, the first to land two strikes would be declared the winner, and Jerome had managed at least four so far.

“It’s over. You win.”

Jerome bowed back.

“I’m taking a shower before I regain feeling in my body and it starts getting too painful to move,” said Leopold.

“No problem. Don’t you need to be somewhere this morning?”

“Yes, I have that appointment later on, but I need to make an unscheduled stop first. This morning’s beating has given me an idea.”

The bodyguard nodded and followed his employer out. They stepped through into the main apartment, connected to the private gymnasium by a set of heavy glass doors, and Jerome slipped away to make use of one of the many wash rooms dotted around the sprawling penthouse.

Leopold let out a ragged sigh as the pain in his muscles reached a crescendo, before limping off in the direction of his bedroom, where he knew a hot shower was waiting. His apartment took up the entire top floor of an Upper East Side complex, with a view of Central Park to the west that stretched the entire width of the living area, thanks to the floor-to-ceiling windows. He had inherited the property, cars, and bank accounts several years ago, thanks to a trust fund, and had systematically turned the apartment’s chic décor and expensive furnishings into something that fitted his tastes a little better. As a result the apartment resembled a bomb site, with books and equipment strewn all around, often in piles several feet high. The only area kept relatively tidy was a small space in the cavernous living room, near the fireplace, where two high-backed armchairs faced each other across a shallow coffee table on which lay the day’s newspapers and a bottle of expensive scotch.

Housekeeping staff kept the place clean, but were under strict instructions not to move anything. Food was brought in from one of the many nearby restaurants, and Leopold worked off the calories during his daily training sessions with Jerome, who lived with in a self-contained suite at the other end of the apartment, which he kept in immaculate condition.

There were no photographs or paintings on the wall, only faint outlines where frames had been removed. All the family portraits had been taken down after the funeral and Leopold had still not found the time to hang any replacements. Seeing the portraits brought back painful memories, images of the day he’d buried his mother and said goodbye to the empty casket where his father’s body should have been.

The Blake family fortune had sustained a life of luxury for many generations, but since the death of his parents Leopold had no desire to continue that tradition. Instead, his considerable inheritance went into philanthropy, scientific research, and work in the local community. Despite his general distaste for wealth, however, the money only ever seemed to grow, vast investments tied up in everything from timber and coal to nuclear power and military weapons contracts. Such power, however, has inevitable downsides, which is why Jerome was paid to stay close at all times. Powerful men make powerful enemies.

Still reeling from his beating, Leopold stepped into the shower and gasped as the hot water struck his bruised body. Eventually the heat and steam helped ease his pain, and he began to feel human again. Once finished, he dried himself off and threw on a shirt, a ruffled suit jacket, and a pair of jeans, grabbing a cup of thick espresso from the machine as he headed out the door to his first meeting of the day.

He was glad they had no idea he was coming.

Chapter 5

At seven a.m., the leafy expanse of Federal Plaza NYC was already full of people on their way to work, clocking in at any one of the dozen-or-so federal buildings nearby. The FBI field offices were located in the plaza’s newest and tallest building, on the twenty-third floor overlooking the state supreme court. It certainly was quite a view. Leopold sat at the back of the conference room and watched FBI Special Agent Todd Coleman take the podium and raise his palms to the noisy crowd of journalists that had gathered inside. The room gradually fell silent and he spoke.

“Thank you for coming this morning. As you already know, the bodies of State Senators Wilson, Carrera, and Hague underwent forensic analysis earlier this week to determine cause of death. I am calling this press conference to announce that the results were inconclusive. As such, we’re waiting for more evidence before we can make a definitive statement.”

He spoke slowly and calmly. Leopold noticed his suit. Probably Armani, based on the size of the lapels, and at least twelve hundred dollars. His skin was fresh and bright, a product of regular sleep and a healthy diet. This man clearly hadn’t seen any field action in quite some time.

“The FBI would like to reiterate that there is no evidence to suggest that any of the deaths are related. The FBI would like to send our deepest condolences to the families of the victims and offer our assurances that we are doing all we can to bring the perpetrators to justice. I’ll now take questions.”

Leopold watched the hands fly up into the air as Coleman finished his statement. A deep female voice asked the first question.

“Special Agent Coleman, do you expect us to believe that three state senators turning up dead in as many weeks is a coincidence?”

“I can understand your concern, but I must remind you that we are in possession of no evidence to suggest otherwise. Next question.”

“Are you saying these people killed themselves, or that they were murdered?” a male voice continued.

“There is nothing yet to suggest the deaths were homicides. We can’t take a firm position until more evidence comes to light. I’m afraid I can’t give any more specific information at this time. Next, please.”

Another round of general questions followed, all of which Coleman answered as vaguely as possible. After ten more minutes, Coleman thanked his audience and left in a hurry. Leopold waited until the crowd of journalists began to make their way out of the door at the front of the room, and then slipped out of the rear exit while the security guards were distracted. He managed to catch up with Coleman making his way back to his office.

“Special Agent Coleman, just one second,” said Leopold, matching Coleman’s long stride.

Coleman turned, still maintaining his pace. “Who are you?”

“Leopold Blake. Pleasure to meet you.”

He held out his hand. Coleman ignored it.

“Blake? What are you doing here? I gave specific instructions to keep you out of the press conference.”

“Yes, I figured Bradley would phone ahead, so I came a little early. Nice to finally meet you, by the way. I wanted to see for myself whether you had taken my advice or not. It appears you haven’t.”

“I’m busy, Blake. There are bigger things going on today that I have to sort out, and I don’t have time to worry about this case. Tell me why I shouldn’t have security throw you out.”

Leopold took a step forward. “Because there are two dozen of the city’s most influential journalists in the room next door, just itching for some more dirt on one of the biggest stories of the year. So, if you really don’t want to talk, I can always schedule a conference of my own.”

Coleman’s face hardened and Leopold could see the muscles in his jaw bulge as he clenched his teeth. “My office. Now.”

Leopold followed Coleman to his office and sat down on the spare seat with his back to the door. The room was modestly sized, and almost every spare surface was crowded with plaques and trophies engraved with Coleman’s name. The special agent took the chair on the other side of the desk and sat partially silhouetted by the light coming in from the tall window behind him. On the right side of the window hung the blue and gold flag of the FBI, and on the left side hung the stars and stripes. Leopold chuckled softly and imagined himself on a corny television show.

“Something funny?”

“No, nothing. Nothing at all.” Leopold wondered whether the man was wearing FBI socks and slept with a picture of J. Edgar Hoover under his pillow. He held back another chuckle.

“You said you wanted to talk. So talk.”

“You told the journalists out there that you hadn’t determined cause of death,” said Leopold. “Why lie to them like that?”

“Cause of death can’t be determined, to any degree of certainty, until evidence comes to light that can prove it beyond a reasonable doubt. That’s how we work here.”

“Yes, that’s the official line. I’ll catch the evening news for your sound bites. But you and I both know these three deaths were murders. And we both know they were committed by the same person.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Coleman, scowling.

“I was there. I know a serial killer’s work when I see it.”

The FBI agent leaned forward in his chair and jabbed his index finger at Leopold.

“Now listen here. The NYPD might have every faith in your abilities, but as far as I’m concerned, there’s no place for amateurs in a murder investigation.”

Leopold reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a selection of photographs. He turned the first one face up and slapped it onto the table. “State Senator Wilson. Killed earlier this week. Single gunshot wound to the head. Made to look like a suicide, but the killer got sloppy.”

“Yes, I’ve read the –”

Leopold slapped a second photo down. “State Senator Carrera. She was found hanged in a hotel room with no signs of a struggle. Another suicide note, this time with a signature. I also found rope fibers on her wrists, which made me wonder how she managed to untie her hands and dispose of the cord after her death.”

“This isn’t necessary.”

A third photo.

“State Senator Hague, found dead in his garage. This is my favorite. He had apparently hooked up a hose to his car exhaust and committed suicide by inhaling half a tank’s worth of carbon monoxide. Problem is, he died with both hands gripping the steering wheel, which is very difficult to do if you’re in the process of gradually passing out.”

Coleman didn’t respond.

“In short: three senators plus three murders plus three staged suicides equals one killer. And you’re right.”

“Right about what?”

“There is no place for amateurs in a murder investigation.”

Coleman leant back in his chair again and held his hands together in his lap. “Like I said, Blake, there’s no evidence to suggest homicide, let alone a serial killer. This isn’t police work, this is just your particular brand of conjecture.”

“I was at all three scenes. There’s a consistent M.O. and a consistent demographic of targets. What more could you possibly need?”

Leopold’s voice caught the attention of one of the office interns as she passed by carrying a tower of paper files. The special agent waved her away and let out a long sigh.

“We need forensic evidence putting the same person at each scene, a credible witness who is willing to make a statement, or even a sensible motive that fits all three victims. We currently have none of those things, so until such evidence materializes, there’s no need to cause unnecessary panic by suggesting there may be a serial killer at large.”

Leopold looked Coleman in the eye and smiled. “And that’s it, isn’t it?” He continued, “You want to keep this as quiet as possible. You know as well as I that these deaths are connected, but you don’t want to admit you can’t figure out why. Better to blame the whole thing on a lack of evidence, I suspect. You need to trust me, I know you want to get to the bottom of this before any more bodies start surfacing.”

Coleman broke eye contact shuffled uncomfortably in his chair. “The FBI will not release statements of record that are based on the opinion of one consultant,” he said, in a tone that clearly signaled the end of the meeting.

“You’re making a mistake. There are people in danger.”

“We’re done here, Blake,” grunted Coleman, gesturing toward the door. “I have work to do. I don’t have time to entertain these unsubstantiated theories. Come back to me with some solid evidence, and maybe we’ll talk. Please see yourself out.”

Leopold nodded a brisk goodbye before stalking out of the office back to the elevators. He paused at the lobby desk and leaned over to speak to the middle-aged receptionist, whispering just loud enough for her to hear him over the television that had been bolted to the wall to keep visitors entertained as they waited. A news anchor mentioned something about stolen military weapons before the video feed cut to a busty weather girl for the day’s forecast. Talk about priorities.

“Madeline, thank you again for your help this morning,” said Leopold, grasping her hand and smiling broadly.

“Any time, Leopold,” replied Madeline, blushing slightly. “I hope the meeting went well. And thank you again for getting me this job. I can’t tell you how much it’s helped me out.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“And good luck this morning at the University.”

Leopold kissed the back of her hand before saying goodbye and heading to the elevators. As he rode the thirty stories down to the ground floor, his cell phone rang.

“Yes, hello?”

“Blake. This is Bradley. I just got a phone call from Coleman and he’s not pleased. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I needed to speak to Coleman in person, seeing as how he doesn’t return my phone calls.”

“Can you blame him? How the hell did you get in?”

“The secret to getting what one wants,” said Leopold, “is to have friends in high places.”

“What the hell are you – ”

He grinned and hung up.