Date: 2012-07-02 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Mystery; Thriller; Mystery Thriller; Action; Romance; Suspense
Description: Manhattan. A ruthless serial killer is butchering financial industry high rollers. FBI Special Agent Silver Cassidy, the head of a task force that's on a collision course with disaster, finds herself fighting impossible odds to stop the murderer before he can kill again. Struggling to balance the hunt for a savage predator with the challenges of being a single parent, Silver finds herself thrust into a nightmare of brutality that will demand every ounce of determination she possesses to survive.
Publisher: Reprobatio Ltd.

SILVER JUSTICE

Russell Blake

Copyright 2012 by Russell Blake. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, contact Books@RussellBlake.com.

Table of Contents

About the author

Excerpts from Russell Blake’s novels

Foreword

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Afterword

Excerpt from King of Swords

Introduction

Prologue

Excerpt from Fatal Exchange

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

About the author

Russell Blake lives full time on the Pacific coast of Mexico. He is the acclaimed author of the thrillers: Fatal Exchange, The Geronimo Breach, Zero Sum, The Delphi Chronicle trilogy (The Manuscript, The Tortoise and the Hare, and Phoenix Rising), King of Swords, Night of the Assassin, The Voynich Cypher, Revenge of the Assassin, Return of the Assassin, Silver Justice, JET, JET II – Betrayal, JET III – Vengeance and JET IV – Reckoning.

Non-fiction novels include the international bestseller An Angel With Fur (animal biography) and How To Sell A Gazillion eBooks (while drunk, high or incarcerated) – a joyfully vicious parody of all things writing and self-publishing related.

“Capt.” Russell enjoys writing, fishing, playing with his dogs, collecting and sampling tequila, and waging an ongoing battle against world domination by clowns.

Visit Russell’s salient website for updates

Follow Russell on Twitter

Excerpts from Russell Blake’s novels

King of Swords By Russell Blake

King of Swords is an epic assassination thriller set in modern Mexico against a backdrop of cartel violence. Captain Romero Cruz discovers an assassination plot to kill the Mexican and U.S. presidents at the G-20 conference in Cabo by “El Rey” - a super assassin responsible for some of the world's most shocking killings.

Go to King of Swords excerpt

Purchase King of Swords

Fatal Exchange By Russell Blake

Fatal Exchange is the story of Tess Gideon, an iconoclastic female Manhattan bike messenger with an appetite for the wild side embroiled in a rogue nation’s Byzantine scheme to destabilize the U.S. financial system. As the body count climes, Tess is targeted for extermination by a rogue nation’s torture squad while being stalked by a brutal serial killer.

Go to the Fatal Exchange excerpt

Purchase Fatal Exchange

Foreword

Silver Justice is a work of fiction. Those disturbed by the information presented herein are encouraged to treat it all as storytelling and make-believe. Those interested in where the fiction begins are encouraged to read the material in the Afterword section.

As always, any resemblance between people or organizations, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Chapter 1

“We found it.”

Assistant Special Agent in Charge Silver Cassidy grabbed the radio hooked on her belt, thumbed the transmit button, and raised it to her mouth.

“Where?”

“The sick bastard threw it down the garbage chute.” Special Agent Seth Thompson’s ironic tone was unmistakable even over the radio. “Seven floors. It’s hard to recognize it as a head now. Bumpety bump bump.”

“Nice. Forensics will go crazy for this one,” she said, glancing at the group of agents standing near the bedroom door.

She caught a flash of her reflection in the hallway mirror and paused to plump her dark brown hair. The morning had been a whirlwind, between the early call on the latest murder and trying to get her daughter to school before heading to the crime scene. She knew she looked tired and harried, having had no time for makeup or hair gel in the rush.

That was fine. As the head of the FBI task force hunting this serial killer, Silver didn’t need a glamorous look or a ready-for-the-cameras presentation in order to be taken seriously. She was the no-nonsense presence representing the Bureau leadership on the investigation, so everyone at the crime scene gave her a respectfully wide berth.

A generally good idea before she’d imbibed her second cup of coffee.

Static burped at her from the two-way again.

“You got anything more up there?” Seth asked.

Silver paused, considering possible responses as she turned towards the floor-to-ceiling glass of the living room, taking in the West Side apartment’s magnificent view of Central Park and the Manhattan skyline. Some people knew how to live.

Or in this case, where to die.

“Just more of the same. Body in the bedroom tied to the bed. Evidence of loss of bodily functions and a whole lot of blood…he didn’t go easily. Over.”

Silver shook her head and pursed her lips. This was victim number four for their killer, who had been kind enough to leave a laser-printed calling card that she knew could have been made on any of tens of thousands of HP laser printers that used the same toner.

One of the forensics techs had bagged it after dusting it carefully. She caught Silver’s eye, then shook her head. Nothing. Clean as everything else had been on this frustrating hunt. Still, patience would pay off. They would find something. They just needed to look a little harder…

This was a murderer who reveled in the limelight. He clearly wanted to be known, so much so that he’d been willing to help the process along by contacting the press with photos following the first killing. The papers had gone berserk after that. One of the Florida rags had made the shots of the victim and the calling card the central feature of their front page treatment after the ruthless and sensational slaying. As a publicity grabber the little rectangle was elegant and brief, offering two words on one side.

The Regulator.

The media had immediately picked up on the moniker, and now that was the case name.

The FBI had kept the messages neatly printed on the opposite side to itself – standard operating procedure to ensure there were elements only the real killer could know about. This one said: ‘Cooler heads prevail’. She knew from lab reports on the earlier slayings that the message had been printed at the same time the card had been created. Premeditation wasn’t even in question.

Silver adjusted her belt, shifting the Glock 23 in the hip holster over, already sweating in the navy blue FBI windbreaker she wore over her blouse and slacks. They had taken over the crime scene from the NYPD detectives, who had reluctantly acceded federal jurisdiction given that this was an interstate killer. A few uniformed patrolmen waited in the hall, securing the area, and the two homicide detectives who’d initially been assigned to the case were keeping them company, unwilling to completely remove themselves from the action but finding themselves with nothing to add.

“What do we know, people?” she called out to the remaining group, all FBI, mostly male, white, and older than her. At thirty-six she was considered young to be running such a high-profile investigation, especially in the boys’ club that the Bureau continued to be – all the FBI’s marketing photos and insistence on politically-correct diversity notwithstanding. But Silver had earned her position and didn’t make any excuses; she was used to swimming upstream in a man’s world – had been doing so for as long as she could remember. She’d been proving herself since her training days, when she’d graduated second in her class at Quantico – she would have been first had she not annoyed one too many instructors with her independent attitude and been marked down accordingly.

That still stuck in her craw. By rights, she should have been first.

Supervisory Special Agent Sam Aravian, a tall, gangly man with olive skin and an unruly head of black curly hair, emerged from the bedroom and shot her a worried glance.

“This one is grislier than the last. It looks like he was tortured, judging by the lacerations,” he reported, shaking his head. “I’m thinking the killer was trying to get information out of him.”

“Little soon to speculate, don’t you think?” Silver cautioned.

Sam turned his head towards the dining room’s picture window and rolled his eyes, thinking Silver wouldn’t catch his expression in the dim reflection. She let it go.

“Have we got anything from the doorman? Any witnesses? What about security cams? Tell me this isn’t four in a row where the perp’s a ghost…”

“Nothing so far. The maid found him. NYPD is interviewing her with two of our agents, but she doesn’t know much, and she’s still in shock. It isn’t every day you find your employer of six years doing the headless horseman thing,” Sam offered, biting short the rest of his remark when he caught the look in Silver’s eye.

Silver keyed the radio again.

“Seth. What are you going to need to process the downstairs?”

“We have the garbage room sealed off, and two techs are on it. They called upstairs and have someone going over the chute room, too. I’ll be up in a few minutes. But I don’t need to tell you this is going in an ugly direction.”

Silver looked out at the park again and wondered when they would catch a break. It had been six weeks since the first killing, three weeks since the last, and they were no closer to closing in on the killer than when the first victim had been discovered in his car with the calling card stuck in his mouth, stabbed to death and left to drown on his own blood. That modus operandi, coupled with the killer’s contacting the press and promising more killings, had galvanized the Bureau into creating a serial killer task force even before he’d slain his second victim.

Besides the lack of any breaks in his having been seen or caught on camera, she was concerned with how clean the crime scenes were. That implied at least a passing familiarity with forensics, which didn’t bode well for their hunt. This was an organized, patient planner who hadn’t slipped up.

Yet.

But they always did.

That wasn’t completely true, though, was it? an internal voice chided her, reminding her of the ones that had gotten away.

The Capital City murderer.

The Grim Sleeper.

The Zodiac Killer.

The Original Night Stalker.

Every time she was on one of these cases her worst nightmare was that her quarry would turn out to be the next Jack the Ripper or Zodiac and simply disappear into the fog one day after a run of devastating brutality – on her watch. That fear kept her driving hard and had molded a herculean work ethic which had served her well.

“Okay, Sam. Let’s make sure we get statements from everyone who could have potentially seen anything,” Silver said, turning to survey the scene. “We should probably go to the surrounding buildings and talk to anyone who had a sightline on this place. Although that’s a longshot, given the timing.”

“I’m on it,” he agreed and moved back into the bedroom.

Silver had been with the Bureau for thirteen years and had risen through the ranks, starting in Organized Crime before switching to Violent Crime, and since making the move, this was the second task force where she’d been the assistant special agent in charge. The last one, disbanded two years earlier, had stopped a particularly ugly serial killer who’d been targeting prostitutes in the Pennsylvania, New Jersey and New York areas. It had taken nine months to capture Tom Rinkley, but they had ultimately arrested him in Perth Amboy, New Jersey, where he drove a cab for a living. DNA had proved his undoing – they had managed to get just enough samples from four of the victims to put him away with a clean, unassailable case – so much so that once he’d been told what he was facing, the killer had confessed to a total of a dozen slayings spanning two years, reciting them with clinical precision.

Rinkley hadn’t been a particularly bright man, but he was methodical, at least at first. They had gotten him after he’d increased his frequency and gotten sloppy, which they later discovered was because he was having breaks from reality – vivid drug-induced hallucinatory episodes where he believed he was receiving messages from God to kill unclean women.

Silver had participated in the interrogation. Her skin still crawled as she recalled his gleeful account of how he’d reduced the incidence of AIDS and deterred any women considering the vocation. The interaction had made her want to put a bullet between his eyes right at the questioning table.

“Well, Agent, they were whores. Unclean, polluted vessels for disease, sent to tempt good men and contaminate them with their foulness.”

“Good men? You mean the kind of good men that leave their wives and families at home and go seek out prostitutes in truck stops or near bus stations, like those you targeted? Those kinds of good men?” Silver had inquired in a neutral tone.

“Men are like dogs. They don’t know any better. It’s women who lead them astray and spread the corruption of their bodies and their spirits. Exterminate the vermin and the neighborhood becomes clean over time.” Rinkley had fixed her with cold, dead eyes, smirking as he winked at her. “You should know how filthy women can be, Agent Cassidy.”

Silver had outwardly been unmoved, but that night after crawling into bed, she’d cried for an hour – for her soul, for her daughter, and because the universe produced sick animals that viewed her gender as inferior, and therefore something less than human. She knew Rinkley was atypical, but being in the same room with a man who was so palpably evil strained her composure and tested her inner fortitude.

If she’d had a gun in her hand when he’d winked at her…

Silver snapped back into the present and took a few deep breaths, trying to purge her psyche of the ugly stain the predator had left.

This was her job. This was what she’d chosen, no, fought to do with her life. And sometimes you had to get your hands dirty.

But when she thought of her ten-year-old daughter, Kennedy, growing up in a world where evil like Rinkley’s prowled the streets, a small part of her wondered if they wouldn’t be better off taking these psychos behind the jail and shooting them.

Only that wasn’t the gig. Vigilante justice wasn’t a big part of the FBI curriculum.

Seth walked through the door and approached her, holding out a digital camera. “You want to take a look? It ain’t pretty.”

Silver paged through the photos, her face betraying nothing.

“What’s HQ saying about the financial connection?” Seth asked.

All four victims had been involved in the financial industry – the first had been an investment advisor; the second and third, partners in a hedge fund; and their current object of interest, the president of a software company whose clients were brokerage houses and exchanges.

Silver frowned. “They agree that’s the link, but we’re still at a dead end for now. Knowing of the connection doesn’t help us predict who’s next, or when. And let’s face it – these days, half the country would like to strangle Wall Street…”

“Shall I add that to the suspect list? Couple of hundred million disgruntled Americans?”

“Ha.”

“What about the regulatory angle? The SEC?” Seth asked.

“That appears to be the only other connection, but they were unrelated investigations.”

The first and second victims had faced SEC charges and had settled with the agency, as in all such cases, without admitting or denying guilt. That was how the system worked – the wording of the settlements was carefully crafted so it wouldn’t open the door to lawsuits from the victims of the scams.

“True. But there has to be something there,” Seth persisted.

“No argument,” Silver agreed. “The question is what? The investment advisor was slapped for funneling clients into unapproved financial vehicles, and the hedge fund manager was accused of insider trading. Both happened years ago. You couldn’t invent two more dissimilar cases.”

“I know. But come on. The killer is calling himself The Regulator, and two of the victims faced regulatory sanctions. Seems pretty clear to me.”

“The younger of the two in the house fire – victim number three – didn’t. If our latest victim also never got into trouble with the SEC that hypothesis is all wet. That’s why I try not to go down a road based on one connection.”

“Can’t argue that,” Seth conceded, then pulled a notebook out of his windbreaker pocket and flipped through it. “Oh – and I forgot to tell you. Yesterday, after you left the office, a supervisory special agent by the name of Richard Gale called for you. Said he was from Financial Crimes.”

“That must be the resource I asked for. I want someone who is focused on the industry. We’re out of our depth if it’s something esoteric connecting the victims. I’m hoping a specialist will see something we don’t.” Silver glanced at her watch. “A supervisory special agent, huh? That’s positive – I was afraid we would get someone two years out of training.” She paused, looking around. “Have you got control of this? Looks like all the excitement is over for moi.”

“Sure. I’ll stick around for the duration. Go do what you need to do. Nothing to see here,” Seth said, eyeing the men by the bedroom.

“Thanks, Seth. I’ll be on the cell or the radio.”

~ ~ ~

Two New Jersey state troopers stood chatting by their cars, watching the local Newark cops write up the crime scene.

A patrolman had noticed a broken window by one of the chained doors and had radioed it in. Half an hour later, two squad cars were parked in the circular drive with the uniformed officers taking haphazard notes.

The security guard had been on the other side of the complex when they had appeared, and had been puzzled by their arrival until they’d pointed out the window. Frowning, he unlocked the entry, and together they moved through the opaque glass doors, noting that the plywood mounted across each panel to keep vandals out was covered with graffiti – as were whole swatches of the tired-looking building. The pair of cops stopped once inside, waiting for their eyes to adjust to the dark.

The power was off so they flicked on their flashlights. They passed room after empty room in the musty gloom, finding no signs of intrusion. They arrived at the end of the main hall, where a locked metal gate blocked the stairwell leading to the upper floors, and the elevator shafts were boarded up.

One of the cops shone his beam at the open stairs leading to the basement. “What’s down there?” he asked the guard.

“The radiology departments.”

“Is there anything worth stealing?”

“Not unless you can back up a semi-rig. All the small stuff got sold by an auction company, and they came last week and removed everything. But the big pieces of equipment are still down there. I heard one of the guys saying they sell those separate ’cause they’re so huge.”

“Let’s go take a look.”

The three men cautiously descended the stairs; the temperature dropped ten degrees by the time they were standing in the drab corridor. Brightly painted arrows on the floor directed them to various departments – yellow for X-ray, red for nuclear medicine, blue for cancer therapy.

“Bobby. You take that side, I’ll take this one. We should be in and out within a few minutes,” the heavier of the two officers said.

“I hope so. Don’t know why, but this place gives me the creeps.”

“I know what you mean. I don’t even like hospitals when I need one, much less when they’re abandoned. And the place kinda stinks.” He turned to the security guard. “You staying here?”

“Yeah. Nuthin’ to see for me.”

The pair pushed open the steel doors to the various rooms, noting the film of dust on the floors. There hadn’t been anyone in them for months.

From down the hall, Bobby’s voice sounded a few pitches higher than it had a couple of minutes earlier.

“Hey, Mike. I think you need to take a look at this. I think someone’s been in here recently.”

Mike followed the sound of Bobby’s voice to an open door. A distinctive radiation warning logo was embossed on the wall next to the words: ‘Radiation Therapy’.

“Where you at?” Mike asked, noting the dust had been trampled leading to the three different rooms.

“In here.”

Mike’s flashlight played along the hall, and then he saw Bobby’s light in the third vault. He approached the heavy door, at least eight inches thick, which was propped open with a wooden wedge.

Bobby was standing in the twenty by twenty-five foot room, shining his beam on a massive treatment machine that appeared to be from the Fifties. The fiberglass casing had been removed, and it looked like someone had been trying to filch parts from it.

“How we gonna know if this was left this way, or someone tried to steal something?” Mike asked.

“Beats the crap outta me. I say we write it up, take a statement from the guard, and get the hell outta here. If they were trying to rip the place off, they picked the wrong area to work in. That piece of iron looks older than you. What the hell is it, anyway?”

Mike swiveled and cupped his hands, facing the way they’d entered. “Yo. Buddy. Come down here. We need your help,” he called to the guard. They saw the man’s light bouncing off the hallway walls, and then he was standing in the doorway.

“This look like it’s from when they closed the place down?” Bobby asked him.

“I don’t know. I don’t come down here hardly ever. Maybe the auction guys were in here inspecting the equipment?”

“Yeah. That could be. All right. Is there anything more to see?” Mike asked.

“Some more machines over in the far rooms.”

“Okay. Let’s wrap this up, then. Hey, buddy, what do they call these things, anyway? For the report?”

The guard shone his light up at the wall sign in the area’s foyer.

“Says ‘Linear Accelerators’.”

“I better write that down. No way I’m gonna remember.”

~ ~ ~

Silver’s phone rang as she negotiated the late morning New York City traffic. She stabbed the speakerphone button on as she pulled to a red light.

“Cassidy.”

“Silver. It’s Eric. Did I get you at a bad time?”

Silver counted to three…slowly. She fought to keep her tone neutral.

“Don’t you dare flake on her tonight,” she warned.

“Why do you always assume the worst about me?” Eric demanded, offended.

“Because it’s usually right. Now tell me that you’re going to honor your commitment to your daughter and spend the time you promised to with her.”

A pause settled over the line.

“I think you may reconsider when I tell you the reason for my call,” Eric said.

“Spit it out. I’m knee deep in alligators on this investigation.” The light changed, and she goosed the gas.

“Of course. Because the job always comes first.”

Silver realized that he was being even more abrasive than usual but said nothing, wondering why her ex was calling. He never got in touch with her unless he wanted something.

“I’ve filed for custody of Kennedy,” Eric said.

She almost slammed into the car next to her.

“You miserable piece of shit. What’s going on in your head? You’ve never done a thing that wasn’t self-interested. You don’t have a moment for your daughter most of the time, anyway. Why would you want to fight me for custody of her, especially given your track record…?” Silver seethed.

“I’m concerned that her mother isn’t providing the sort of home environment that is optimal for her development,” he stated, somewhat smoother than had been rehearsed.

“Over my dead body. This discussion is over.”

“Silv–”

She punched the off button. Seconds later, it rang again, and she let it go to voicemail. Whatever had she been thinking when she’d married this bastard?

Silver paged through her phone numbers and placed a call.

A receptionist answered. “Renkin, Larrabee and Winters.”

“Is Ben there?” she asked.

“One moment, please. May I ask who is calling?”

“Silver Cassidy.”

Music on hold jangled her nerves before a deep baritone voice came on the line.

“Silver. Long time no talk. Do you need another divorce?” Ben had handled the parting of ways between Eric and her.

“No. I’m afraid I’ve got a real problem, Ben.”

The attorney’s voice became instantly serious. “What happened?”

Two minutes later, Ben had agreed to meet Silver whenever she had time over the next day, and in the meantime would check on recent filings to get a running start on whatever her ex had cooked up. Ben remembered Eric. Smooth talker, highly intelligent, a corporate turnaround expert wholly lacking in empathy, who treated Silver like a possession rather than a loved mate. Their story hadn’t been an uncommon one – once the baby came, Silver was juggling her duties between the Bureau, her new child and her spouse; something had to give.

Eric had adapted to her workload and the challenges of raising a family by having an affair with one of his young assistants. When Silver put two and two together on why he was increasingly distant and unavailable, it had been child’s play for an agent with her skills to catch him in the act.

The only good news had been that Eric had deep pockets and was willing to be generous to keep matters civil, although she’d always smelled a rat in how easily he’d given in. His capitulation had surprised her – Eric played hardball in all negotiations regardless of the stakes; it was just his nature. But his admission that he’d been unfaithful, which Silver had the presence of mind to capture on tape, painted an ugly picture, so it had been prudent for him not to contest anything and simply give her what she wanted, which in the end had only been what she’d needed to provide for her daughter.

Now, five years later, he was going in for the kill. Any infidelity in the marriage would be ancient history, and he’d waited long enough so that he could frame concerns over her lifestyle as a hard-charging FBI agent without having his past conduct examined too closely.

Silver knew this was his way of getting back at her. He’d never gotten over being made a fool of with the tape – he’d stammered out four different lies before admitting his infidelity, his pretense of civility momentarily slipping to reveal raw hatred.

He’d successfully hidden his true colors for their first three years together, but after that, following a difficult pregnancy, his real personality had emerged little by little. Silver had initially attributed it to stress from work, but he grew increasingly dismissive and cold as time went by, except when he wanted sex. Towards the end of the relationship, Silver came to believe that being around his family was a concession he’d made in order to appear to have a respectable home life, for display at the frequent business-related events he took them to – and later, when he was making the preparatory moves to enter the political arena.

Perhaps that was the other part of what this was all about. Being a devoted father who was raising a daughter under his custody would be a surefire winner at the polls.

She was still shaking from fury when she pulled into the lower East Side parking structure adjacent to her office at 26 Federal Plaza.

If it was a fight Eric wanted, he had grossly underestimated her.

There was no way he was getting Kennedy.

No way in hell.

Chapter 2

“I want her dead.”

The speaker was gaunt, with skin permanently jaundiced from nicotine and cirrhosis, a blue knit longshoreman’s cap pulled over his head. He kept his arms around his food tray, a reflexive posture learned quickly in prison which made it harder for other inmates to grab your food. Not that any would try with Rob Bollinger, who was standout dangerous, even in a facility that housed some of the most violent offenders in the state. “And her partner, too.”

“Like I said, it’s already in play. Although snuffing her is going to be harder than getting him. We’ve had to contract out for the hit on her,” his lunch mate disclosed, his eyes roving around the room. Carl Lexington was Rob’s number two man inside and coordinated all the day-to-day operations – drug distribution, assaults and killings, and communications with the outside world when commissioning the occasional special request from Rob.

“I’m never getting out of here – I’ll be rotting in the joint for the rest of my life, and it’s because of them.” Rob’s whisper increased in volume as he spoke, rage broiling below the surface. He’d been inside for six years, serving four consecutive life sentences for his role in the leadership of Seventh Sons, one of New York’s most violent motorcycle gangs.

Once his appeals had been exhausted and he’d been incarcerated for good, Rob had shifted into operating a profitable prison drug-smuggling business, subsidized with a sideline of contract killings on other inmates. It had been rough at first, competing with the white supremacists, the Mexicans and the other gangs, but after he’d proved himself an absolutely vicious adversary, he’d been able to secure a foothold, and now ran twenty percent of the trafficking racket.

But he would never see the free world again, and Rob harbored a grudge against the cops who had led the investigation that had resulted in his brother being shot to death outside of an industrial supply warehouse in upstate New York, leaving Rob severely wounded, having taken two slugs in the torso and one in the leg, which pained him every day – and always would.

Shots fired by the agent who had somehow gotten one of his most loyal street soldiers to roll on him.

“Silver Cassidy and Andy Teluride.” Rob pronounced their names with distaste. “I hear she’s in the city now. No longer upstate, although he still is.”

“Security is tight at FBI headquarters, so we have to be careful and patient. But we’ll get her.” Carl spat a piece of gristle on to the floor. “He’s a done deal – dead man walking. Probably within the week.”

Rob scowled impatiently. Decades of meth and heroin use had destroyed any elasticity in his skin; he resembled a hairless Shar Pei more than a human. Except for the eyes, which burned with a feverish intensity.

“Who’s going to do it?”

“Jeb’s gonna dust him,” Carl whispered. “He’s already been practicing – it’s been a while since Iraq, but he still reckons it will only take one shot. We’ve contracted with the Russians for her. I don’t want this traced back to us. Being in the city, she’s a higher risk proposition – anything goes wrong, we have a world of problems if it’s one of our crew. The Russians will do anything, and they don’t care who they’re taking out if the money’s right – most of the time they don’t even wanna know who it is…”

A typical contract killing cost fifteen grand on the street from someone competent. A gang bang shooting went for five. But to take out a cop, much less an FBI agent, had cost fifty from the Russians after considerable negotiations.

One of the Mexican gang members three tables over spent a little too long glaring at Carl before averting his gaze, prompting him to lean in to Rob and mutter, “We’re going to have a war in here before much longer. The beaners are looking to grab the rest of the heroin biz, and they don’t wanna share. It’s been the buzz for the last few days. You might wanna stay out of the yard till I can get it cleaned up. Could get messy,” Carl concluded, making a mental note of the young, tattooed man’s face. Staring Carl down like that was a sign of disrespect – you didn’t disrespect the Seventh Sons and live to talk about it. That this punk had dared to indicated just how out of control things were getting.

Rob nodded. “I’ll get sick for a week. I can pay off the block guard to leave me be or get me into the infirmary until it’s over. You need anything?” Rob asked, mopping up the last of the unidentifiable stew with his bread before popping the soggy mess into his mouth.

“Nah. I got this. But it’s gonna be ugly. Watch your back.”

Carl stood, prompting three members of his entourage at the next table to follow suit. Another three waited to escort Rob back to his cell. While it was unlikely anyone would move on them in the cafeteria, they were taking no chances. Rob counted over forty inmates loyal to him, each one indebted to him in ways they could never repay. He wasn’t worried about a little scuffle with some Mexicans who were mistaken about how easy it would be to encroach on his business. Once a few of them had been carved and left to bleed out, they’d get the message. That was a universal language everyone understood.

Rob finished his apple juice and smiled to himself, revealing a mouth filled with discolored teeth – another legacy of his taste for meth.

He pushed back from the table and was almost immediately encircled by his bodyguards – heavily muscled bikers with full-sleeve tats and numerous knife and bullet scars. Even in the joint, in a jungle of vicious and hardened criminals, these men stood out as menacing.

Rob nodded at the tallest man, deeply tanned with a shaved head and an elaborately styled beard, and the group moved to the exit, where four guards stood watching impassively, though wary of any aggressive moves. They’d heard the rumors, too. Something was going to go down, and they didn’t want to get caught in the crossfire.

There was a lingering atmosphere of imminent violence as the inmates walked by, radiating danger with every step.

The Mexicans across the room glared at them, their gaze a promise of death.

Rob sneered, and then the group was out of the mess hall.

Just another breakfast of champions in Attica.

~ ~ ~

The killer hummed to himself as he studied the blueprints on his flat-screen monitor. He pushed the little work lamp to the side and moved a few tools to the right corner of his computer desk, clearing space for a bottle of water. He was tempted to turn on the television or the radio, or scour the Internet for some mention of the latest killing, but opted instead for patience.

A wave of dizziness washed over him, and he closed his eyes, suddenly fatigued. Unbidden, a hazy image came to the forefront of his awareness – a house ablaze, fire engines battling to contain the out-of-control inferno, orange flames licking the night like a hungry lover. A kaleidoscope of impressions flooded his psyche: ambulances, body bags, hands gripping his arms.

He shuddered at the memory and opened his eyes. Going down that road never led anywhere good.

Returning to the screen, he clicked an icon and zoomed in on the blueprint, having caught something that might prove helpful. He used a draftsman’s pencil to scribble a note for further research then glanced at his list of names. Four had been crossed off.

The next one was going to be a pleasure for him, not that the act of killing the targets gave him any titillation. On the contrary, other than pride in a job well done, he felt flat after each operation. But number five was different. He was an especially loathsome example of humanity. The head of a small, boutique brokerage firm, he had rocketed to notoriety during the 2008 financial crisis, after miraculously making a fortune as the economy tanked. He’d briefly been a headline name, calling the financial meltdown correctly and having taken auspiciously-timed bets that the markets would tumble.

The killer rubbed at the stiffness in his neck. He’d only gotten a few hours of sleep. There had been too much adrenaline coursing through his system after slipping through the service entrance of the latest victim’s building shouldering a black nylon backpack containing his blood-spattered clothes and tools of the trade.

Distracted from the blueprint, he slid his phone out of his shirt pocket and plugged it into an adapter, then downloaded the photos he’d taken the prior night. He would send a few choice ones to the papers to ensure maximum headline value. Some wouldn’t print them, but there would always be one or two that would, even if they censored them. Trick was to choose ones that were sensationalistic, but not too gory.

His face broke into a pained grin, then he succumbed to a coughing fit. It was time to take his meds again. He’d been so engrossed in the blueprints and his tangent down memory lane that he’d forgotten.

He padded across the scarred hardwood floors to the ancient kitchen, where he pulled a plastic storage container from a top cabinet and set about sorting his morning doses.

Routines were important, even if this one was a distasteful necessity. He needed to stay fit to finish this job – forgetting his meds could be disastrous. Wouldn’t do to drift off or overlook things due to pain or fatigue.

Perhaps the definition of being truly nuts was believing you were sane, even though you had embarked on a murder binge, he mused.

But if he was crazy, then lunacy was the appropriate response to a world run amok. He had not an iota of doubt that he was on the right path; at no point in his life had he ever been more sure of anything.

One night, shortly before making the decision to become The Regulator, he’d read a quotation by Edmund Burke on the Internet that had synthesized his jumbled thoughts into a cause: “All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.” Those words had forced him to think deeply about his situation. While the eighteenth century politician and philosopher probably wouldn’t have endorsed his murdering a group of parasites, the killer was comfortable with his decision.

If nobody would punish these men, then his new hobby would be dragging them to accountability in his own crude court. Maybe they were protected by a system they controlled, but there was no escaping the rough justice of The Regulator.

Coughing again as one of the pills caught in his throat, he took another sip of water before returning to his computer to study the blueprint in more depth.

There was so much to do, so little time remaining.

He would have to work very smart to accomplish everything he had set out to.

Which was fine.

He was a very smart man.

Chapter 3

Silver emerged from the stainless steel double elevator doors at the Manhattan FBI field office and moved through the lobby to the employee entrance, where she endured the redundant security checkpoints with thinly disguised impatience. She was still off-balance from Eric’s call and was struggling to maintain her composure. The question of why he’d decided to make her life hell now, fully five years after the divorce, weighed on her. And with her running an important task force, the timing couldn’t have been worse.

The first order of business would be to find out what sort of stalling tactics Ben could mount to buy maneuvering room. Silver quietly debated whether to cancel his visitation with Kennedy that night – he was taking her to the ballet – and decided that it would be unfair. She would be punishing her daughter to send him a message. Kennedy had been talking about nothing but the performance for the last week, and Silver knew how much she was looking forward to it.

When she entered the cubicle area where most of the agents worked, the receptionist stopped her and handed her a stack of yellow message slips. Monique had been there for three years and was always a sunny personality, as well as a friend.

“You have a visitor waiting for you in conference room one. Hubba hubba,” she said with an exaggerated wink. Monique was aggressively single and let every male within shouting distance know it. Not a bad strategy, Silver had to admit. Better than hers of playing hermit at home every night with her daughter.

Silver honestly couldn’t remember the last time she’d been on a date – actually, not true. It had been fourteen months ago and ended in disaster. He was an attorney, good looking and smart, but during the few hours of dinner it had become obvious that he was neurotic and self-involved, and he didn’t hold his liquor well. When she’d begged off on a nightcap at a bar a few blocks from the restaurant, he hadn’t gotten the hint and had made a fumbled attempt at kissing her that she’d dodged, but that had sealed the night as a failure.

He’d called the next day to apologize and proposed trying again on another date, but she’d politely shut that down.

“Visitor?” Silver asked, ignoring Monique’s customary lewd innuendo.

“Agent from Financial Crimes in Washington. A hottie. I was going to sit on his lap and keep him company while he waited, but who would answer the phones?” Monique offered.

“That’s mighty hospitable of you, M,” Silver agreed.

“No wedding ring, mid to late thirties, looks like he works out.” She rolled her eyes as if swooning. “Big hands.”

Silver shook her head in wonder. Monique had always been the same. In some ways, Silver envied her single-minded focus.

“I’ll be in there within a few minutes. Got to drop my junk off.”

“If you don’t want him, tell him I’m free for lunch, or dinner, or anything else he can think of,” Monique trilled as Silver wove her way to her small office.

Upon heading up the task force, she’d been upgraded from a cubicle to a ten by twelve box with no window and the most unattractive fluorescent lighting in history, but at least it gave her a modicum of privacy, which she badly needed right now.

She flipped on the lights and tossed her purse and briefcase onto her gunmetal gray credenza and glanced at the row of photos of Kennedy that occupied the shelves of her Ikea bookcase, alongside textbooks on investigation procedures, forensics, and related arcana. Kennedy as a baby, Kennedy as a toddler, and then transforming into her current state, an adolescent goth phase fueled more by boredom and pre-teen rebellion than anything. For the last six months, all she’d wanted to wear was black, and she’d taken to painting her nails the same inky color. Rather than fighting her on it, Silver had been non-judgmental, all the while scouring the web for confirmation that her daughter wasn’t going to become a dope fiend or a schoolyard killer.

At ten years old, Kennedy was frighteningly smart and quick to read people, but with a snotty smart-aleck bent.

In other words, very much like Silver had been as a child.

She supposed that the universe chose its punishments fittingly.

Realizing that she was meandering, she gathered the case file, a yellow legal tablet and her trusty iPad, and strode purposefully to the bank of conference rooms at the far end of the work area.

When she opened the door, Supervisory Special Agent Richard Gale looked up from his notebook, pushed back his chair, and stood. Silver took him in with a quick appraising glance – six, maybe six one, black wavy hair cut conservatively, lean and fit, brown eyes. A good-looking man, but Monique had oversold him. Monique found every new potentially-eligible bachelor fascinating, so Silver was hardly surprised.

“Agent Cassidy? Richard Gale from Financial Crimes.”

Richard extended a hand, which she shook firmly before pulling up a seat opposite him.

“Call me Silver. I’m glad you could make it over. I need someone who’s tuned in to the financial industry, who’s familiar with the ins and outs as well as the players. How much do you know about our task force?”

“Just what I was told. You have a serial working on a three-week calendar, apparently taking out financial players. First one a financial planner, second and third hedge fund managers, the latest, this morning’s…well, the pattern seems to fall apart there, right?”

“Yes and no. He was a financial industry software provider. But I don’t see anything obvious in terms of connections.”

“The first two had been sanctioned by the SEC. And this latest one?” Richard asked.

“We’re checking, but first round didn’t show anything. Here’s the file. Go ahead and read through it, and let me know your thoughts,” Silver said, sliding it across the table to him.

“Do you have it in electronic format? That would be way faster. Oh, and it’s Richard.”

He smiled – a kind, warm expression that extended to his eyes. She could have sworn they twinkled. She didn’t see a lot of twinkling in New York. Maybe Monique hadn’t been over-selling after all.

“Sure, but today’s notes won’t be written up for a few hours. Old-fashioned, I know, but that’s how I do it. Pen and paper, then put it in the computer.” She cocked her head. “What’s your background?”

“CPA and JD from Georgetown. Joined the Bureau at twenty-five. Been in the trenches ever since. My specialty is forensic accounting, with an emphasis on fraud. Most of my work involves Wall Street these days, with an occasional corporation thrown in for diversity.”

“Sounds like the skillset we’re lacking. My team has a lot of depth on violent crime and serials but not much on the financial end. I hope you can find something we missed.”

“Let me take a look at the file, and I’ll offer any thoughts that come up.”

“Fair enough. I’ll arrange for you to have a cubicle here while you’re part of the task force. Welcome aboard. Do you have any problem with living arrangements?”

“No. Washington set me up temporarily at one of the Bureau apartments in mid-town.”

“Good. Well, I’ll leave you to it. I need to go update the file on today’s developments. I’ll shoot it to you as soon as I’m done, then come back to see what you make of all this.” Silver rose, gathering her computer.

“I’ll want to pull all of the victims’ financial records and look for anything unusual in them – you never know what you’ll run into when you follow the money. I’ll also research their backgrounds and see if there’s something that could indicate a motive. Right now there doesn’t seem to be much.”

“It’s true. But then again, it’s early in the case.”

“Not for at least four victims.” Richard flipped open the manila file. “The Regulator, huh?”

“Doesn’t have quite the ring of The Terminator, but hey…”

“Let me get to work. Who can I ask if I need something?”

Silver considered Monique, but bit her tongue. “You can give me a buzz. My office is over on the far side, second from the left corner. Extension eighty-eight.”

“Thanks, Silver. Let’s hope something jumps out at me,” he said, nodding towards the file.

Silver involuntarily thought of Monique again, pouncing like a cougar on Richard. The image made her grin to herself. Richard appeared perplexed by the expression on her face, and she banished the thought as she turned to leave. The departure from her usual no-nonsense inner dialogue was no doubt due to stress. Eric’s broadside had thrown her, no question.

“Here’s to hoping,” she said as she let herself out, leaving Richard to digest the data.

~ ~ ~

“Looks like we have a hunter here,” Special Agent in Charge Brett Matthews said as he read the report on the latest killing. His office was in the corner, on the far side from Silver’s modest one, and he had a window, along with real wood furniture. The perks of power. Then again, he rarely got to go into the field anymore and was chained to a desk most of the time. That wasn’t for Silver. Even as a supervisor she still got to get her hands dirty, which was more her speed.

“Yes, a vigilante type. But what worries me is that he’s not sticking to the same MO. Each time he kills it’s in a different way. That’s unusual.”

“Agreed. If they’re cutters, they stick to the knife. Shooters like guns. But this guy is all over the place.”

Neither had to state the obvious out loud – that the lack of a pattern would make the killer much more difficult to catch.

Brett’s hair had gotten grayer over the last few years. The job could do that to you. As well she knew.

He tossed the manila folder onto his desk and eyed Silver. “I got you the additional resource you wanted. Maybe that will help.”

“Yes, thank you. I just met our new Financial Crimes adjunct. Seems smart. I hope he can put something together here that we’ve missed.”

“He comes highly recommended. Supposedly one of the best. Financial Crimes was reluctant to let him go, even for a short while.” Brett rose from behind his desk and moved to the window to look out over the lower East Side of Manhattan.

“That’s good to know.” Silver hesitated. “We don’t have much to go on here.”

“I got that from the file. Forty-five pages of crime scene descriptions and victim backgrounds but not a lot of meat on the bone. This isn’t going to get solved easily, is it?”

Silver didn’t say anything.

“Just our luck that this kind of nutjob had to show up on our beat. Couldn’t have been in California, where most of the crazies go to play.” Brett turned to face her. “So what’s the next step?”

“By the book. Daily meetings, wait for forensics to come up with anything we can use, pore over any security footage, interview witnesses. But I agree that this one will be more difficult than the usual freeway slasher. All we can do is keep gathering evidence and pray for a break,” Silver said.

“Prayer has proved a lousy strategy for case management.”

“I know. But we don’t have anything solid right now, so all we can do is stick to the routine until something pops up.”

“All right. Thanks for the update. See to it that I get regular status reports. I’ll run interference with the press and the city. You don’t really need them in your hair.”

“I appreciate that, sir.”

Chapter 4

Silver stood at the head of the table in the crowded conference room, the day having sped by in a whirlwind. After glancing around to silence the murmured discussion, she introduced Richard to the task force.

Seth launched into a review of the case then mopped his brow and sighed before drawing his conclusions.

“Time of death was four a.m., give or take. Nobody saw anything, no suspicious activity, no shady characters skulking around. The maid only knows what I have there in the report. Found the body; the boss was a wonderful man; nobody would want to hurt him.”

“All right. So he was a saint. Any ideas on how the perp got in and out?” Silver asked.

“The service entrance deadbolt shows indeterminate signs of having been picked. It’s not conclusive, but it looks like that was the way out. As far as gaining entrance, it looks like he got through the front door while the doorman was in the can. Same scratches on the lock levers, but only from the outside. The service entrance has abrasions on the inside.”

“I don’t suppose we got lucky with any security footage?”

“It’s an older building, so there is none,” Seth reported.

“How about traffic cams in the area?”

“We’ve pulled the feeds, but there are hundreds of people from the time of the killing until nine, when the maid arrived. Thousands, actually. I’m hoping we can narrow the time down some, but even so…”

Silver tried to contain her frustration. “What else?”

Richard cleared his throat. All eyes swiveled to the new team member. He got to his feet, studying a piece of paper.

“Ali Kurup, age forty-two, single, never married, lived alone. Was one of two principals in a software company that created custom applications for the financial industry. A wealthy man, with homes in Aruba, New York, Paris and Buenos Aires.”

“Was he ever investigated by the SEC?” Silver asked, fearing she knew the answer. “Two of the other victims had been.”

“Nope. Clean as a whistle. At least on the surface. But some interesting threads start to appear if you dig deeper,” Richard said.

“Like what?” Seth asked.

“Well, Ali wasn’t just a software guru. He had another sideline that made his software empire seem like small potatoes. Our victim was the principal architect, along with another man, of virtually every electronic trading platform in the United States. All the electronic exchanges – every one – were designed by him.”

The room was silent for a few moments.

“I don’t understand,” said Tom Brandt, one of the agents who worked with Seth.

“It means that all of the exchanges that popped up over the last fifteen years, that do huge amounts of trading – competition to the American and New York Stock Exchanges – were created either by Ali, or using his software. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that over half the trading in the U.S. markets goes over one of his platforms.”

“Wow.” Silver spoke for the group.

“Yes. Wow is right.”

“And yet nobody has ever heard of him.”

“Correct,” Richard said. “But it gets even stranger from there. Because of his partner and his associates.” At this point he had the room’s full attention. “His partner was a gentleman by the name of Farouk Iben Al Azir, who is also an unknown. But not his brother, Sharif, who is on the government’s watch list of suspected terrorist financiers supporting Muslim fundamentalist organizations hostile to the United States’ interests.”

Richard sat back down, having said his piece. Nobody spoke.

“Wait a minute. You’re saying that one of the two men who created the trading platforms used for the majority of trades in the United States is the brother of a known terrorist financier?” Silver pronounced each word carefully.

“Suspected. Brother of a suspected terrorist financier. Born in Lebanon. When he goes back there, he’s routinely in the company of several clerics who call for terrorist attacks against the U.S.. Known to frequent a mosque in Chicago that’s a who’s who of suspected financiers. Big on causes like Hamas and the Islamic Jihad,” Richard explained.

“And the only reason that anyone cares is because his partner got killed? Not because it seems like a generally bad idea that a group as anti-American as it gets is one degree of separation from the guys who created the wiring for the modern stock market? Am I missing something here?” Silver asked, trying to process the information so it made sense.

“I’m unaware of any ongoing investigations. Nothing came up. I ran Ali through the computers and the partnership and past business interests were there along with about twenty shell companies suspected of being tied to them – but no hard evidence linking them. The terrorism connection only came up because I went beyond what we normally would have done for a homicide. My forensic accounting background, I guess,” Richard said sheepishly.

“But you would agree that this is alarming?”

Richard sighed. “Of course it is. And it opens a whole other can of worms. If there’s a foreign terrorism element, then the entire serial killing premise could be a ruse – a cover for some sort of covert operation. I’d say it warrants going back and seeing if there are any connections in the other victims’ pasts. It may be nothing, but in my line of work there are no such things as coincidences. When I go in and do an audit, I just assume that nothing is as it appears and that everyone is lying. I approached this case the same way, starting with the identity of the victim. Now, maybe world-class baddies being so close to him is immaterial. But I wouldn’t bet on it. I think we need to keep turning over rocks and see what we find. Could be the other victims are angels. But given the SEC settlements, my money is on that they aren’t.”

“Right, then. The question is what bad apples pop up when we really go in-depth. How long do you think it will take to put some muscle behind this?” Silver asked.

“If I can get one of my analysts on it, that would speed things along. But nothing happens fast. We need to look at every aspect of all four victims, going back to their school years. Maybe even further back. There’s literally no telling what we’ll find, or if there’s a connection, where or how it’s hidden.”

“Let’s discuss the other three victims. The second one, David Petron. A hedge fund manager living in Connecticut. Fifty-nine. Married, although the wife was in Europe at the time of the killing. Two kids – son and a daughter. The son was in the house with him and was victim number three. He worked with his dad at the same hedge fund. Richard, maybe you can give us an overview of what a hedge fund is and how they operate?” Silver prompted.

Richard cleared his throat. “A hedge fund is basically a big investment pool – an anonymous fund of cash. It’s an entity that collects money from investors and then invests however its charter allows. There’s virtually no regulation on the industry, and it is estimated hedge funds control two trillion dollars.”

“Why no regulation?” Seth asked.

“Because the industry is tremendously rich and powerful. Its political clout kills any attempts to impose regulation. Aside from a few token nuisance requirements, the reality is that they’re black boxes with no transparency. And that’s how they like it – they have an army of lobbyists that fight any regulation tooth and nail. Hedge funds are also by far the largest players in the markets. One fund alone is estimated to account for over fifty percent of the trading on the NYSE, many days. It is mind-boggling, the amount of money we’re talking.”

“And victim number two ran one?” Silver asked, more a statement than question.

“Yes,” Richard confirmed, “but he was relatively small potatoes. His fund was eight hundred million.”

“That’s small?” Sam Aravian asked from the back of the room, his tone skeptical.

“Sure. We’re talking an industry where some of the more successful managers make two to three billion dollars a year, personally, and have funds that are ten billion and up. Eight hundred million isn’t even in the B league. It’s unlikely that his take home was more than thirty million on a flat year. Depends on his management agreement and the percentage of any upside.”

Sam whistled. “I’m in the wrong business.”

The agent across from him chuckled.

Silver nodded.

“Seth, brief the room on that set of murders.”

Seth shuffled his papers. “Big house in Connecticut went up in a blaze. Victim number two, the hedge fund manager, had been tied to his bed with electrical wire – we know because once it was extinguished about the only thing left were traces of the wire, the iron bed frame and the remains of the corpse. Victim number three – his son – had been bound to a chair in the hall leading to the basement and died of smoke inhalation. We aren’t sure that he was intended as a victim, though. If the goal was to burn him alive, like Dad, the killer went about it all wrong. There was literally no place else he could have left him that would have been safer from the fire. It was the smoke that got him.”

“And how do we know the killings were The Regulator’s work?” Richard asked.

“He left his calling card in the father’s Bentley, parked in the driveway. The firemen and local police found it and called us. Message on the back was ‘Hellfire Burns’.”

“After going over the scene for days, we came up with no clues.” Silver paused. “And victim number one?”

“He was discovered in his car in Boca Raton, Florida, stabbed three times. The vehicle was found adjacent to a liquor store in a seedy area of town, in a shopping center parking lot. Had been there most of the night. There was a security guard, but he doesn’t remember seeing anything. Probably inside watching TV or dozing,” Seth reasoned. “The card was stuck in the victim’s mouth. Message on the back said, ‘Red Light Special’.”

“As well as victims two and three, there’s a full background on the first victim in the files,” Silver added. “A financial planner named Stewart Rothcliff. The local cops called us in after the perp contacted the press and announced there would be more to come. He wanted attention right out of the gate and took steps to guarantee it. Although if your theory that this could be a cover for something else is correct, that would play into it nicely.”

“It’s not my theory. I’m simply mentioning the possibility. I’ll need a few more days of digging to formulate any theories. What I can say after a cursory look is that I see no obvious connection between the victims, beyond that everyone worked in the industry. One was a financial advisor in Florida – the retirement belt. Another was a high-rolling hedge fund partner in the city, who lived in Connecticut and worked with his son…” Richard flipped his pencil onto the table. “The final victim was a technology type whose partner has questionable associates, to put it mildly. None of that adds up to an obvious motive or a suspect,” Richard concluded.

Silver nodded. “Fair enough. Folks, you can see that our new colleague from Financial Crimes brings a valuable difference in perspective, and I hope everyone gives him the cooperation and support he’ll need. Let’s plan on another meeting tomorrow morning, ten a.m., to compare notes. We should have something more from forensics by then, and who knows – CSI may have found something.” Silver felt the words ring hollow in her ears.

The meeting broke up with murmurings and the sound of chairs scraping the ceramic tile floor. Silver glanced at her watch. She’d need to move to get Kennedy from daycare before it closed.

Which returned the Eric confrontation to the forefront of her thoughts. And the fact that she’d see him within a few hours when he stopped to pick up Kennedy for the ballet.

Some days sucked.

Today had earned a position in her top sucking days of the year, and she still had the evening to go.

Things weren’t looking promising.

~ ~ ~

Traffic was a snarl, gridlocked in most intersections as short-tempered drivers jockeyed for meager advantage. One of Silver’s annoyances on even balmy late spring days was how clogged the streets could get. She left her Bureau car at the lot overnight and usually took the subway, but she was running late and had decided to splurge for a cab. Finding one had been a challenge, and she was now regretting her decision as they inched north towards the daycare near the Flatiron district.

The taxi pulled to the curb in front of the daycare center, and Silver paid the driver and got out. She hated that she had to leave her daughter there from when school let out at two until six, but it was an imperfect world. She was doing her best, and the truth was that Kennedy enjoyed helping the owner, Miriam, with the younger kids. Kennedy was practically an employee after five years there. Miriam loved her and treated her as if she was her own daughter.

Silver swung the battered wooden front door open and waved at the receptionist, who was chatting on the phone and barely glanced up. The usual din of children from the rear was absent – she checked her watch and saw that it was six twenty – past official closing time.

She entered the largest play room to find Miriam sitting with Kennedy at one of the tables, going over schoolwork with her. Her daughter’s unruly hair hung in her face as she concentrated on whatever math problem she was solving. That should have been Silver helping her daughter, not a surrogate. Silver felt a twinge of guilt and sadness and something else. Jealousy? Possibly. Time was going by so fast.

Kennedy looked up from her studies, small hand clutching a pencil, nails black, her school uniform accented by a black woven bracelet and a black leather necklace suspending a silver cross.

“Hey, Mom. Late, huh?” she said.

“Yup. Another long one. And traffic was a bear. Miriam, I’m so sorry…”

“Not a problem. Just don’t let it happen again, or I’ll have to charge you my hotel rate, and it ain’t pretty,” Miriam teased, with a smile that lit up her face.

Even though she’d been born the following decade, Miriam was a throwback to the Sixties who favored clothes that would have been more congruous at a Grateful Dead concert than a New York daycare. A frustrated sculptor from Ohio, she always smelled vaguely like patchouli and often bemoaned she’d been born twenty years too late – had missed the Summer of Love through a cruel trick of temporal fate.

“Come on, sweetheart. Big night tonight,” Silver said, smoothing Kennedy’s hair with her hand. Kennedy pulled away, already too old for such childlike displays of affection. Silver continued without missing a beat. “It’s all she’s talked about for weeks. New York City Ballet.”

Kennedy rolled her eyes. “TMI.”

Too Much Information.

She’d started speaking in acronyms six months earlier, and Silver had made a conscious effort not to let it annoy her.

“Okay. Collect your gear and let’s hit it. I’m going to have my hands full getting you fed and cleaned up in time for your…for your pick up.”

She just couldn’t bring herself to use the term ‘father’. Her anger bubbled up almost to the surface as she recalled the afternoon’s insulting interaction. Now more than ever, Eric was the enemy, having taken the gloves off and shown his true intentions. But she would not allow her feelings to color Kennedy’s evening. They’d have to discuss things soon enough, but tonight she could have her dream date. There would be time to explain how her scumbag ex wanted to break up their little family unit so he could stick it to her and appear to be a more sensitive candidate when he ran for office. Silver knew he was engaged to an advertising executive almost ten years his junior – Amber – who was as ambitious and transparently selfish as he was. No doubt the coming nuptials were also window dressing for his career.

They were a perfect match – photogenic, artificial, driven and self-involved.

I will not launch into another ‘beat up on Silver for being so stupid as to marry Eric’ session. Silver thrust the mental images away, preferring to focus on Kennedy in the here and now. The only good thing to come out of the union.

“Are you done with your homework?” Silver asked as Kennedy packed her books into her bag.

“Half an hour ago. Miriam and I were just going over the next chapter so I’d be prepped.”

When had Kennedy switched to calling her Miriam instead of Miss Miriam?

“All right, then. Let’s make tracks for home, shall we?” Silver suggested, her voice adopting more of a commanding, no-arguments approach than her usual light demeanor. Kennedy better not start trying to call her Silver instead of Mom any time soon, though, or there would be one more child sold to the circus this year.

“’Bout time,” Kennedy muttered, but Silver let it go. She was at an age where she was starting to test boundaries – so Silver chose her battles carefully. Token disgruntled ennui didn’t really qualify.

“You’re welcome,” Silver replied, pretending to mishear her angelic offspring’s comment. She exchanged a glance with Miriam, who barely concealed her smile.

“Okay, you two. Stay out of trouble. Enjoy the ballet,” Miriam enthused.

“Again. Sorry for being late. Monster day,” Silver explained.

“Don’t sweat it. See you mañana.”

Mother and daughter trudged down the sidewalk, part of the swarm that was the New York rush hour. Silver always felt the desire to hold Kennedy’s hand, but she had rejected that as suitable only for babies a few years back. It seemed like only yesterday she’d been a toddler, wobbling around on unsteady legs, a drunken sailor on a pitching deck. Now, she was all energy and attitude and independence, having modeled her mother’s self-dependent view of the world.

They crossed the street and weaved their way through the rushing humanity, and made it to the flat in twelve minutes, Silver glancing nervously at her watch. They wouldn’t have much time.

“Go clean up, and don’t dawdle. You need to eat before you go. No excuses,” Silver ordered as she unlocked the two deadbolts, to be greeted by the heady stagnant air from the hall as it wafted past her.

“What’s on the menu?” Kennedy asked as she pushed into the tiny entry foyer and dumped her backpack by the walnut side table.

“Leftover spaghetti. Your favorite.”

“I don’t want any. It’s fattening,” Kennedy said on her way to her room.

Silver considered Kennedy’s frame: three percent body fat, all petulant arms and legs and winsome grace.

“If you eat two pounds of it. But that’s what’s for dinner, so while your health and fitness concerns are noted, you either eat it or someone else will be going to the performance tonight.”

Kennedy greeted the ultimatum with the closing of her bedroom door. Dinner was a purely token, increasingly obligatory battle that she didn’t even expect to win. She was merely signaling yet another veiled criticism of Silver’s parenting. Par for the course as kids went through their snotty phase. Silver only hoped she would grow out of it by twenty-five or so.

While Silver was microwaving and setting the table, Kennedy emerged from the shared bathroom, decked in head-to-toe black – black jeans, a black T-shirt with black sequins on it, and a black jacket she’d insisted on for her tenth birthday. Silver bit her tongue and decided against commenting. Kennedy had taken a decidedly gloomy turn over the last six months, but on balance it was the least of her problems – at least she’d stopped pulling her eyelashes out; what the therapist had diagnosed as Trichotillomania – a form of obsessive-compulsive disorder caused by anxiety.

That had started when she was eight and had developed into a real problem over the course of a year. Kennedy had seemed completely unaware she was doing it, and it had driven Silver nutty on the occasions she had picked her up from daycare and found her to be missing half her upper lashes. They had tried everything – wearing gloves at night, putting petroleum jelly on her lashes, cognitive behavioral techniques – but the problem had continued until Silver had sought a second opinion from a doctor who had been recommended by the school. Dr. Thelma, as she liked to be called, was a large, friendly, cheery woman who specialized in treating children. She had quickly gotten to the root problem – Kennedy felt unbalanced and uncertain about the future since the marriage had ended, and internalized a lot of her worry, ultimately taking it out on herself.

They had worked together as a team on modifying the urge to pull, and Kennedy had been doing well for almost nine months – she’d channeled her dissatisfaction into more traditional forms of protest, like the adoption of the ghoulish styling she and some of her school friends now favored. If it was a choice of a kid who wanted to look like a pallbearer in a vampire film or one that was mutilating herself, that was an easy one.

Silver glanced at her as she walked around the small dining table. “Is that makeup? Eyeliner?” Silver asked, trying to keep her voice neutral.

“Just a little. It’s a special occasion. Big production. The theater.”

“Off. Now. No arguments. We’ve discussed this, and not a chance in hell do you wear makeup before you’re in high school, at the earliest. Go. Don’t start down this road tonight, Kennedy, or I will end it here and now, and you will not be going anywhere. Understood?”

Kennedy pushed back her chair, noisily scraping it against the hardwood floor. “Lots of the other girls are wearing it,” she protested.

“No, they aren’t. Not at ten. And by the way, if lots of the other girls were taking drugs, or jumping in front of busses, would that make it a good idea?”

“This sucks. I feel like I’m in some kind of nightmare prison,” she said, stomping her black hiking boots as she retreated to the bathroom.

“Yes. Poor you. A nightmare where you go to the ballet and have a private chef preparing your meals. It’s a kind of hell on earth, I can see already. How do you manage?”

The bathroom door slammed.

Silver wasn’t even going to get into the issue of Kennedy touching her makeup. That was the least of the offenses, and one better left for another day.

She put the plates of steaming spaghetti on the table and waited patiently. Three, four, five minutes crawled by before Kennedy emerged, sans eyeliner, and truculently took her seat. Silver chanced a surreptitious peek at Kennedy’s eyelashes – thank God, all there.

“Don’t worry. I’m not pulling them out,” Kennedy said as she lifted a forkful of pasta and blew on it, watching the steam rise from the plate as she gauged how hot it was.

“That’s good, sweetheart. You’ve made incredible progress.”

“Yeah. I guess being a nutcase is a lot of trouble for everyone,” she tossed out, then stuffed the noodles in her mouth.

Silver put her fork down, considering this new wrinkle. What was bringing it on?

“You’re not a nutcase, and you’re not a lot of trouble. Kennedy. Look at me. What is going on in your head? Why are you being this way? Why start a fight with me when you’re not even going to see me for the next three hours? Talk. Come on.”

“Never mind.”

Silver refused to rise to the dismissive bait. “That isn’t much of an explanation.”

“Whatever.”

Silver counted slowly to three, fighting the urge to react. Kennedy, for whatever reason, was playing let’s make Mommy miserable, and she wasn’t going to give her daughter the power to trigger an explosion.

“When this case is over, I was thinking about us going away for a week, whenever school has a break. Maybe to Florida,” she tried, changing the subject to something more upbeat.

“Florida sucks. It’s hot and humid, and everyone’s a million years old.”

“Well, it’s true that the weather can be unpleasant, and there are a lot of older folks there…”

Kennedy suddenly became animated.

“Why not California? I can learn to surf!” she exclaimed, loading up another forkful of noodles.

Silver appeared to consider it. “Do they let goth vampires surf? Isn’t there some kind of code of ethics or something?”

“It’s a very flexible lifestyle,” Kennedy intoned seriously, causing them both to explode in a fit of giggling.

They discussed the various merits of California beaches as they finished dinner. The intercom buzzer sounded. Silver glanced at the clock and saw that the time had flown. She got up while Kennedy carried their plates into the kitchen and walked over to the ancient contrivance on the wall.

“Yes?”

“It’s me. Is she ready?” Eric's voice boomed from the speaker.

“YES!” Kennedy screamed from behind her, racing for the door.

“Be there in a second.” Silver wasn’t interested in inviting him up. She grabbed her keys and reached for the locks. “I’ll walk you down. Remember to call me five minutes before you get back so I can meet you at the front door.”

Kennedy responded with her best ten-year-old sneer, but nodded.

They made their way to the ground floor in record time. Eric was standing in front of the building wearing a hand-tailored, navy blue suit, crisp white shirt, no tie. She remained halfway up the first flight of stairs, watching as Kennedy ran to the entrance, opened the door, then threw her arms around her father. That figured – Silver got the cold shoulder when trying to hold her hand, but Eric got greeted like he was returning from the war. She didn’t want to dwell on it, but she could have sworn he threw her a smug look.

At that moment she hated him with an intensity that surprised her. She watched as Kennedy unwrapped herself from him and they set off down the street.

There was only one thing she could think of as she climbed the stairs back to the flat.

It was time for a glass of cabernet and some chocolate.

Maybe she’d clean her guns while she was at it. That always seemed to soothe her troubled spirit.

Just an ordinary evening at home.

Chapter 5

“Glenn. Get in here. I need you to look at something,” Matt Rice’s voice called from the editor’s office.

Glenn Wexler stopped typing and stood with a groan, his back killing him after spending most of the day at his computer screen. Such was the way of the professional journalist in the increasingly difficult environment brought about by the Internet. Budgets had been slashed, then slashed again, and staffing had never been thinner. That meant worker bees like Glenn had to carry a lot more load to get the paper out every day.

He approached Matt’s office with trepidation, hoping he wasn’t about to be handed yet more to churn out before leaving for the evening. He’d already worked through dinner time for the third day in a row. Enough was enough, he decided as he steeled himself for a confrontation. He wasn’t a bath mat. Time to stand up and be a man.

Although being an unemployed man wasn’t so appealing when there were bills to pay.

“Shut the door,” Matt said as he entered.

Glenn complied and raised his eyebrows in a silent inquiry as to what the fire drill was about.

“Come over here. Look at these. I just got them by e-mail.” Matt gestured to a spot where Glenn could see the images on the monitor.

Glenn walked around the desk, careful not to disturb the overhanging stack of back issues.

His eyes went wide. “Holy shit. Is that what I think it is?”

“Yup. From the psycho killer – The Regulator. Shots of his latest butchery, up close and personal.”

“Jesus. You need to call the cops. Maybe they can trace the account…” Glenn blurted.

“I know. I’m going to in a second. After I finish choosing a few for the morning edition. What do we know about today’s killing?”

“Just what the FBI put out. A male New York resident, murdered sometime last night, believed to be the work of The Regulator. Not much more. Name will be released after the next of kin have been contacted. The usual ambiguous routine.”

“Well, the days of ambiguity are over. There’s a message with the photos identifying the victim and making a statement about bringing criminals to justice. Sounds like he views himself as a vigilante. Chuck Bronson – The Terminator,” Matt said.

“I think that was Death Wish. Terminator was Schwarzenegger. Who wasn’t a vigilante. More of a robot assassin,” Glenn corrected.

“Yeah, whatever. I could never tell what the hell either of them was saying. One Chuck Norris could have kicked both their asses. The point is that we have a serial killer who’s giving us gold, and if he wants us to print his side of the story, I don’t see any reason not to, do you?”

“One reason is it could get us in hot water with law enforcement…maybe you should run this by legal before making any final decisions?” Glenn counseled.

“I’m all over it. I have a conference call in a few minutes.”

They studied the message under the photos until Matt finally said, “He’s pretty vague, don’t you think? Says he’s going after untouchable criminals that the system won’t prosecute. Promises more to come, as well as a story that will detail the crime of the century.”

“Uh huh. Let me guess. The trilateral commission and the Templars are secretly keeping Hitler’s brain alive?”

“I know. This gives me the creeps. But still. It’s a gift, and these days I’ll take whatever I’m given. Which brings me to why I wanted to talk to you. We’re going to need fifteen hundred words, and nobody can crank out quality as fast as you. What do you think? Can you get this done stat?”

Glenn sighed. He knew it. Then again, this was an unexpected break, and it would ensure his byline was seen by a huge number of people. Might even go national. This was the sort of thing he would have actually stayed up all night for.

“Give me an hour. I’ll flesh out the bare bones from the FBI and throw in some lurid speculation. Finish with a paragraph that will ensure that nobody feels safe. It’ll scare the shit out of anyone reading it.”

“That’s my boy,” Matt said.

His phone rang.

“That will be legal. I need to take this. I’ll look for your article before I leave. Thanks, big guy.”

“Sure thing, boss. No problem.”

~ ~ ~

A white Chevrolet sedan pulled up to the warehouse on the outskirts of Rochester, New York, a few minutes south of the suburb of Brighton. The worst of the morning commute traffic had died down, and the vehicle had made it to the building in reasonably short time. The area around it was green, thick with trees, typical of most of upstate New York. Aside from the steadily expanding populated areas, the region was still relatively unspoiled – as far from the dense concrete jungle that was Manhattan as one could get and still be in the same state.

The two occupants of the car studied the metal-sided exterior of the building, and were surprised at the absence of security cameras that would usually serve as an early warning system. Which wasn’t positive – it made the information that had come in that much more far-fetched; one of countless false alarms they had to wade through every year in order to glean a real lead.

In this case, they were part of an ongoing investigation into a human trafficking and prostitution ring operated by the aggressively proliferating Chinese criminal syndicates. Already, bloody turf wars had taken place in several East Coast metropolitan areas between the Russians and the Chinese, and that looked to become the norm.

“What do you think?” the younger, fair-haired driver asked as he scanned the nearby structures for any signs of surveillance.

“Looks like your average industrial building to me. What did the tip claim?” his partner, a paunchy, shorter man in his early forties, inquired.

“Said that around twenty underage Asian females are being held in the building, waiting to be transported to massage parlors that are fronts for prostitution. The caller said the move is supposed to happen today or tomorrow, and that while the building is low security, they have the girls penned up in a chain link holding area inside the warehouse.”

“Think we should call in an assault team?”

“Not until we’ve done at least some cursory nosing around. No way we can justify an armed incursion if we haven’t knocked on any doors or watched the place for a while. Could be complete bullshit. But you know how this goes – every now and then a rival tips off the law to make life difficult for their adversaries. You never know. This could be an early birthday present. It’s happened before.”

“So what do you think? We go poke our noses in and see if there are a bunch of caged Chinese girls in the back?”

“Hardly seems likely they’d show us around if that was the case, right? No, I say we hang out here for a few hours and see who goes in and out. Then we make a call later. For now we stay put and enjoy our coffee.” He tapped the rim of his cup of convenience store brew.

“You want to take the first nap, or should I?” his partner joked.

They adjusted their seats to more comfortable positions, settling in for a few hours of wasted surveillance. All part of the job.

~ ~ ~

Four hundred and sixty yards away, a bearded figure lowered the binoculars and thumbed his iPhone on. The photograph of a man, taken as he was walking out of the federal courthouse, had been enlarged for ease of identification.

The blond driver had gained ten pounds in the two years since the snap had been taken, but he was unmistakable.

The bearded man raised the glasses to his eyes again, scanning the periphery of the area where the vehicle was parked, gauging the traffic patterns of the roads feeding into the industrial park. He’d planned his escape route carefully and would be miles away before anyone had a chance to react. The flat roof of the empty structure he was perched upon hid him from view, and he seriously doubted that the pair in the car had any idea what they were walking into.

A light breeze ruffled the nearby tree tops as a pair of gray doves took to the air. It was an idyllic day after months of gloom and cold. Spring had arrived and looked good to stay. He didn’t mind the cold, but was always glad when the sun came out and the weather got warmer. It made days like today much more pleasant – no numb hands or hours of shivering to contend with.

He continued to check the surrounding area, then returned his attention to the car before setting the glasses down on top of the black nylon backpack next to him.

~ ~ ~

“I don’t know how you can say Aerosmith and Bon Jovi in the same breath. I mean, come on. Toys in the Attic. Pump. We’re talking real rock and roll. Not pop anthems with a pretty face.”

“Why do you always pick on Bon Jovi when you’re bored?” the blond driver asked, already knowing the answer, having had the discussion dozens of times before.

“Because it just bugs me that they got as big as they did, and bands like Tesla and Rhino Bucket, who made real music, faded to nothing.”

“Life’s not fair. I’m sorry to break it to you. But you’ll thank me later.”

“It…it isn’t?” his portly partner stammered, a look of confused concern on his face as he sipped his brew.

“No, Virginia, and there’s no Santa Cl–”

The driver’s head exploded with a wet crack as the back of his skull blew across the rear seat, a spray of bloody tissue spackling the side windows with crimson. A hole in the windshield announced the entry point of the fifty-caliber round and the shattered rear window signaled its departure route. A second bullet tore into the driver’s throat just under his jaw, but he was already dead, even as his ruined head lolled forward to slump against the horn.

A third shot rang out, and one of the front tires hissed as a slug ripped through it.

The driver’s partner instinctively ducked below the level of the dashboard, grappling for his service pistol even as he wiped the bloody remnants of his partner off his face with his suit sleeve. His hands shook as he reached over to the radio and grabbed the microphone, keying the transmit button before he made the distress call.

He glanced at the macabre profile of Supervisory Special Agent Andy Teluride, obviously now deceased, and made the call, hopeful that there would be at least a squad car in the vicinity to lend backup.

~ ~ ~

The shooter took two more seconds to survey his work through the high-powered Zeiss scope and briefly considered killing the other agent, the top of whose head he could just make out bobbing above the dash. It would be an easy shot, but he decided to err on the side of caution. His assignment was done. No point sticking around any longer than necessary.

He slipped the rifle into the carrying case and scooped up the backpack, taking care to drop the binoculars inside before shouldering it. After running in a crouch to the far end of the building, he tossed first the sack, then the rifle, over the side onto the soft grass a story below, then pulled on gloves before lowering himself over the side until his feet were dangling six feet above the lawn. He released his grip and dropped, landing easily, then retrieved his bags before moving into the underbrush at the edge of the deserted parking lot. His vehicle was a hundred yards beyond the far side of the brush – an easy minute jog.

A handheld police scanner chirped and crackled in his pocket, and he could just make out the chatter. A cruiser would be at the site within five minutes. That left him four to be long gone in the opposite direction, headed for the freeway that would take him to his crash pad in Buffalo.

This had been child’s play. It would ensure that he rose in the ranks and got a bigger slice of Seventh Sons’ drug profits, in addition to the cash bonus he’d been promised for carrying out the hit. All in all, a very productive morning.

He got to his truck and stowed his gear before sliding into the cab. The Nissan’s big motor turned over with a satisfying roar, and within twenty seconds he was headed south, away from the shooting, looking to all the world like a man with no worries. He listened for a few more minutes to the police radio, then switched it off once he was on the road east.

He was home free.

~ ~ ~

Silver’s phone rang right after she dropped Kennedy off at school.

“Pick up a copy of the Herald,” Seth’s voice advised.

“What now?”

“They notified us late last night that they were running something this morning. We’ve had a team over at their offices for the last hour, but it doesn’t look like there are any traces on the e-mail the killer sent them. Whoever this guy is, he’s good. Knows his cyber-security. The e-mail account he used to contact them was set up yesterday using a proxy mask. We can probably get past that, but what do you want to bet that it was done from a public computer? Same setup he used in Florida? Just get the paper and call me back.”

“I’ll be there within fifteen minutes, so no point. Have one sitting on my desk when I get in. See you in a few,” Silver said before hanging up.

So their killer had turned up the heat in a bid for wider exposure. That wasn’t unexpected given his performance in Boca Raton. But it meant that her life would become more complicated now because the media furor would bring more pressure on the Bureau to do something to stop him. And the truth, which was that they really had nothing, wouldn’t sit well with the inevitable panicky politicians. It never did.

The subway was packed, but she tolerated the jostling from the press of humanity with grim determination. When the train pulled into her station, she got out with a sigh of relief and strode purposefully to the exit, up the familiar shabby stairs a block from her office. New York in late spring could be pleasant, and today was a textbook morning – no rain, light breeze, forecast calling for no clouds and a high in the mid-seventies. She enjoyed the warmth as she made her way down the sidewalk, recalling her discussion with Kennedy last night. It might be nice to get away someplace different, where there weren’t any skyscrapers or horns honking. The thought of Kennedy on a surfboard doing the California dreaming thing made her smile as she turned and approached the coffee shop where she got her morning jolt of caffeine each day before work. Nodding to the invariably aloof young man behind the counter, she exchanged a handful of change for a tall cappuccino, quickly exited, and threaded her way through the pedestrians to the front entrance of her building.

Once through security, Silver bee-lined for her office, where as requested a copy of the paper sat waiting. The front page was a collage of crime scene photos, obviously taken by the killer. Particularly chilling was the central one where the victim was still alive, bound to the bed and obviously aware of his imminent fate. His eyes spoke such horror that Silver found herself looking away. More than any of the other shots, that particular one would cause a riot. She knew it the second she saw it. They were in deep trouble.

Her inbox had a stack of messages, which she rifled through as she waited for her computer to boot up. Three from Washington, spaced every fifteen minutes. That couldn’t be good. Even as she registered the thought, her desk phone rang. Silver steeled herself for the onslaught she knew was to come. She took a quick gulp of her coffee and resignedly lifted the handset to her ear.

~ ~ ~

The killer re-read the article and smiled, leaning back in his swivel chair, feet up on his computer desk as he nibbled on a doughnut. It had been another rough night, made more so by his brain racing at a thousand miles an hour, and he felt like he had a hangover even though he hadn’t taken a drink in months. He hoped the headache would fade as the day progressed – there was much to do, and he couldn’t afford to be incapacitated.

The reporter had done a decent job of splicing in the message he had sent. At this stage, it was long on speculation and innuendo and short on fact, which is how he preferred it. The art was in getting the balance right – provide enough to titillate and keep the story topical without tipping his hand and revealing too much.

The idea that he was bringing guilty predators to his brand of justice was the most important point, and that had come across loud and clear in the article. He didn’t want to be lumped in with the Ted Bundys of the world – twisted psychopaths who killed to satisfy some primal bloodlust. Quite the opposite, he didn’t consider himself to be a particularly violent man.

He swallowed a morsel of doughnut and reached for his coffee while he debated his next target.

The killings would get harder from here. The final ones were increasingly high profile. He wanted to save the best for last. Make a statement.

He didn’t think anyone would figure out the connection until it was too late. Only a few people in the world understood what these men had done and how they were intertwined. If he had more time, he could have targeted a dozen more equally deserving, who were also beyond the reach of justice, but he didn’t have that luxury, although he’d certainly daydreamed about it.

There was only so much he could accomplish. It would require all his skill and patience to successfully carry out his plan to fruition.

He was at the halfway point, but already tiring. That wouldn’t do at all.

After standing and stretching for a few moments, he paced over to his kitchen with his now-empty cup and got a can of soda. One of his guilty pleasures; he’d never acquired the taste for diet drinks. Full tilt was the only way he drank them, sugar be damned. And the caffeine would help him stay alert. At this point he needed all the help he could get.

The killer peered through the window by the sink and noted that it was a nice day. He’d become so wrapped up in his mission that simple pleasures like this had largely been lost on him. Maybe he needed an intermission, a change of scenery.

He chugged the cola on the way to the hall closet, where he pulled out a coat. Lately, the chill never left his bones, even when it was warm out. He knew it was all part of the process, but he still didn’t like it.

Opening the door, he squinted up at the sun, then did a quick scan of his drab little block. This was all he had accomplished in his life – nothing else to show for it.

The walk to the market took twenty minutes round trip, during which time he saw only one person he knew – a woman who had made it more than abundantly clear that it got lonely in the neighborhood at night. He wondered to himself how flirty she would have been if she’d known that she was extending a none-too-elegant invitation to the country’s most wanted serial killer. The thought made him smile, and for a moment he felt better.

Once back home, he opened a file on his computer and began reading the contents – his research notes. Whenever his commitment wavered, all he had to do was read the litany of evil that members of this group had perpetrated, and remember those who had been forever damaged by them – such injustice reassured him that his course was the only one that made sense.

Which was the wonder of it all.

How messed-up was the world if the only logical plan involved him becoming a serial killer?

He shook his head and clucked his tongue.

What an odd trip it had become.

~ ~ ~

It looked as though Richard had gotten little sleep when Silver called him into her office for an update. He entered clutching an iPad under his arm and sat at her small, round meeting table.

“What do we have – anything new?” she asked, studying his eyes.

He had definitely been burning the midnight oil. Possibly out painting the town red, charming the local ladies with his DC stories. She took a seat in the chair opposite him.

“We do, but none of it is good. I spent most of yesterday night and this morning doing checks on the latest victim’s partner, given his associations, and I made a few calls to some colleagues. The more I dig, the odder it gets. The man has a hand in virtually every corner of the market system. He and Ali’s latest gambit was creating the back end for ‘dark pool’ trading and sponsored access.”

Silver gave him a blank stare.

“I’m sorry. About seven years ago they started supplying software and communications infrastructure so that larger entities could trade stock without having to go onto the exchanges. The trading takes place in dark pools, so named because they aren’t transparent.”

“That sounds like it defeats the whole idea of a fair and orderly market, doesn’t it?” Silver commented. She ventured a sidelong glance at Richard. Even when tired, Silver conceded that he did exude a certain charisma. Perhaps Monique had developed fresh eyes for talent.

“Exactly. But some pigs are more equal than others, and now most of the significant trading takes place in these pools. They’re unregulated, so there are no checks or balances, and ‘sponsored access’ is a term for where a large broker allows an important customer – a hedge fund – to trade directly in the markets using one of the brokers’ computer IDs. To the rest of the world, it looks like the broker is doing the buying and selling, which is a nice way to circumvent quite a few rules designed to stop manipulative trading.”

“What do you mean?”

“Big brokers are ‘market makers’. The rules for market makers are different than for everyone else. Another way of looking at this is that these brokers are renting out their market maker exemptions to the largest hedge funds. Happens all the time now.”

“And Ali and his partner…”

“Are the cutting edge of the plumbing used to do it. These two were instrumental in designing the electronic exchanges most brokers now use, creating the dark pools that mask most of the larger trades and coming up with a way for preferred customers to masquerade as brokers. And one of the two is spitting distance from those who actively fund terrorists, whose largest enemy in the world is…”

“The U.S.,” Silver offered.

“Yes. Once I understood all this, I made a few more calls. Nobody knows anything about any investigation into it. Put simply, this is as big a smoking gun as if you were a flight school and had a couple of heavily accented voices on the phone asking if you could teach them how to fly a commercial jet, but skip the take-off and landing part. It’s that obvious. And yet when I spoke to my colleagues, as well as my superior, they knew nothing. So I sent a brief summary of my findings to my boss, who I have a good relationship with, and he promised to nose around.”

“Did you get the feeling that he would pursue it?” Silver got a whiff of Richard’s aftershave as she leaned towards him to look at the information on his tablet’s screen. Understated. She decided that he smelled good. Very good, actually.

“Not really. If it isn’t part of an active investigation, it takes a lot to move the machine into gear. Maybe something will happen, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

Silver considered the latest bit of news. “I’m thinking that Ali’s partner may be next in line for a visit from the killer. It makes a certain kind of sense if The Regulator is what he appears to be, which is a serial killer on a mission. Part of me doubts that now because of the terrorism connection – that opens all kinds of doors. But absent any new information, I don’t want to go off on a tangent and assume there’s more going on than there really might be.” She shook her head. “What about the other three victims? Anything more there?”

“I’m doing a background check on all their known associates and clients to see if there are any commonalities. I’m sure someone already did that, but it can’t hurt to do a thorough exam. And I’ve widened the parameters a little, to include anything that seems terror-related. Could be that’s the link. Not saying that it is, but my instinct is to pursue it.”

“How long do you think it will take to scour their histories?”

“A few days. Maybe as much as a week. It’s time intensive – not just simple name matching. There are several layers we need to dig through…”

Richard ran his fingers through his hair. Thick hair, Silver noted, with strong hands for a financial type. Athletic for a desk jockey, too. She found herself wondering about his exercise regimen then realized she had started drifting again. Silver shrugged off the mental image she’d been forming of him standing under a waterfall with his shirt off. What was going on with her?

“…so I don’t think it warrants surveillance. Not with his schedule. We should have another couple of weeks before he strikes again,” Richard concluded.

Silver nodded along as she picked up the thread. “Hmmm. Fair enough. I think we wait to see what more we can glean before we do anything like put a team on the partner. Which I have no compunction about doing if it looks like he may be a target.” She shuffled her notes and stood, checking her watch. “Have you settled in to your apartment? Everything fine on that end?”

Richard smiled. She noted the small wrinkles that appeared in the corners of his eyes and decided she liked them, too.

“It’s not the Ritz, but hey, not terrible, either. My place back in D.C. isn’t exactly lavish, so I’m easy. It’ll do.”

“That’s good to hear. Be sure to tell me if you need anything.” That didn’t come out right. She debated clarifying and then thought better of it.

Richard seemed oblivious to the effect he was having on her. Which was for the best given that it was completely inappropriate, as was her internal dialogue at the moment.

He stood and collected his iPad and notepad. “I’m going to go help my analyst get set up. She’s just arrived. Things will go faster once she’s plugged in…” Richard said.

Silver nodded.

She?

Silver had assumed that the analyst from Washington would be male. Not that she’d devoted tremendous thought to it. She made a mental note to go meet the new arrival sooner than later – welcome her to the team.

“How long will she be with us? And what’s her name?” Silver asked.

“Oh, she just came in for the day. I wanted to bring her up to speed personally, and then she’ll be working remotely from D.C.. Maybe come into the city once a week to compare notes. She’s a civilian contractor. Stacy Burroughs. We’ve worked together on a number of cases, and she’s one of the best.”

“Well, go do what you need to do, and I’ll stop in later to say hello. Good work on the victim’s partner. I just don’t know what to make of it.”

“I know. Neither do I. But we’ll get to the bottom of things. That’s what I’m here for,” he said, before opening her door to let himself out.

She watched through the glass panel as he made his way to the cubicles and wondered why she was suddenly so keenly aware of him as a male of the species. That was unlike her – Silver was ultimately all about business, and the thoughts she’d been having during their meeting were anything but. Perhaps it was the season. Spring in the air. Pollination running rampant, and so forth.

Whatever it was, she wasn’t going to entertain any more of it. Even if Richard did have a bounce to his gait she could have watched all day.

Silver shook off her musings and returned to her never-ending pile of reports, trying to make headway against the unstoppable tide. As the morning wore on, the drudgery got the better of her, and she found herself drifting off. Anxious for a break, she made a fresh pot of coffee and poured a generous measure, mentally promising herself that this would be the very last one of the day. The phone rang just as she was sitting back down.

“Cassidy,” she answered.

“Silver? It’s Frank Erensen from Rochester.”

“Frank. It’s been forever. What’s going on up in God’s country?”

“I wish this was a social call, Silver. But I’m afraid I have some bad news. It’s about Andy, and I wanted you to hear about it from me first…”

“Andy? What happened, Frank?” Silver’s voice caught in her throat. Andy had been her partner until five years ago.

“Andy was shot and killed in the line of duty this morning.”

“What? How?”

“He was pursuing a lead in an investigation, and a sniper got him while he was on a stakeout.”

“Good Lord. What was he investigating?”

“Chinese triads. Child prostitution. We’re pulling out all the stops to figure things out, but it’s still early. This just happened, so everyone’s scrambling.”

Silver shook her head and rubbed her eyes. “How’s Julie doing? And the kids?” Andy had two boys, one about five and the other would be around two by now.

“I’m headed out to the house right now to see them. Julie is falling apart, as you can imagine. I don’t even want to think about what the next few hours are going to be like.”

“Frank, I’m so sorry. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

“I will.” Silver heard another line ringing in the background, and the murmur of voices. “Listen, Silver, I have to run. Sorry to be the bearer of such crappy news.”

“No problem. It sounds like you have your hands full. Thanks for the heads-up.”

Silver set down the phone and stared off into space. She hadn’t talked to Andy in at least a year – where had the time gone? He was still a relatively young man. She’d always had a soft spot for him. A big brother type, Andy was funny and engaging, and they’d been through a lot together in their years on the job. And now he was a corpse on a morgue slab, leaving a devastated family to mourn him.

Every agent knew the risks and understood the theoretical possibility of work-related danger, but it still came as a shock whenever one of their own was killed. It was too close to home, and a reminder of the very real downside of the job. Every day, they were in the line of fire, even if it seemed like they were far removed when insulated in their offices and surrounded by manila folder jungles.

The phone’s ringing jarred her back into the moment, and she braced herself for yet another in the long string of anxious calls she had been fielding since arriving that morning. She’d have to process the news about Andy later – right now the task force was her necessary focus. The newspaper coverage had created a firestorm that was set to define her day.

She took a long pull on her coffee as the strident clamoring demanded her immediate attention, then reluctantly picked up the phone.

Chapter 6

Silver exited the cab at the curb in front of Ben’s building and pressed her way through the swarm of lunchtime pedestrians. Once in the lobby, she waited for the ponderous elevator to arrive, nervously checking her watch. She only had an hour she could be away from the office, and with travel that would barely leave her half an hour with Ben. And they had a lot of ground to cover.

At the firm’s reception desk, a well-groomed young woman took her name and murmured into a headset. Silver busied herself with her phone, responding to e-mails that never seemed to stop coming in. As expected there had been considerable agitation over the photo spread, and everyone from the mayor on down was demanding action and answers.

Ten minutes later another woman approached from a door behind the receptionist and escorted her to a meeting room.

Another three minutes ticked by before a rotund and bearded Ben, wearing his trademark gray suit, entered carrying a file. He sat down heavily across the table from her and leaned over to shake her hand.

“You look good, Silver,” he boomed in his rich baritone voice. “Fighting crime must agree with you. What’s it been? Three – no, four years?”

“About that. Thanks, Ben. You’re too kind. Time marches on…”

“I know you’re probably in a hurry, so I’ll cut straight to the chase. I had a clerk pull the file at the courthouse, and basically your ex is filing for full custody of Kennedy, offering you weekend visitation rights.”

“But he can’t do that! He has no grounds. I’ve provided everything a mother could,” Silver protested.

“I understand. But he contends that with the amount you work you aren’t supplying a healthy living situation for Kennedy. He claims that ten or more hours a day you’re leaving her in the care of schools and babysitters, and that it’s having a negative effect on her mental health. He filed a placeholder for testimony from experts, including a counselor from her school, a teacher or principal, a Jane Doe and a shrink. Claims that Kennedy has a stress-related disorder stemming from this unhealthy living situation that involves self-mutilation, and that she’s developing increasingly anti-social tendencies.” Ben stopped consulting his notes. “What’s that all about?”

Silver had stiffened. “What a miserable asshole. Kennedy has had some developmental problems adjusting to being in a single parent home, mainly because her father decided to screw everything in a skirt while she was an infant, as you know.”

“I recall the case, Silver. But that’s ancient history. It will have a bearing, but what the court will really care about is the testimony from third parties on how she’s doing now. Do you have any idea what they’ll say? Who’s he going to get to throw dirt?” Ben asked, cutting to the chase. There was no point reconfirming what they both already knew about Eric’s trysts.

Silver paused and thought about it.

“Kennedy suffered from an anxiety disorder, which is documented, so there’s no point in denying it. But it isn’t because of my bad parenting, or my schedule, or because I’m somehow deficient. The likeliest explanation is that she wishes her mommy and daddy were still together under the same roof – which isn’t on the table because daddy likes to bang most of the halfwit strippers in Manhattan. So if anyone wants to point a finger and play the blame game that’s where the problem lies. And now the very same scumbag who caused the breakup of our family wants to take my daughter away so he can look more appealing on an election poster? Over my dead body.” Silver had reddened as she finished, and from the look on Ben’s face she realized she was losing her cool.

“So she has this disorder. Can’t argue that. What will her doctor say?”

“I don’t think she’s allowed to say anything, is she?”

“Kennedy is a minor and Eric is her father. I would say blocking the doctor’s testimony, even if successful, would raise more doubts than it would settle. Better to understand what damage could result from all facts being known.”

Silver considered Ben’s words. What would the doctor’s testimony be like? Was she willing to bet her kid on it?

“Okay, that’s something I’ll need to look into. I have a good relationship with the doc, but you never know. What else?”

“I think you should have meetings with the school so you understand their stance. I know you have your position, but it could be that they view the situation differently. We need to know before we go into battle who our assets are and who will be liabilities. I’m not saying that any of this has merit, but your ex is a wealthy man, and the firm he’s retained is one of the heavyweights in this realm of law. Reading between the lines of the complaint, they’ll try to paint you as a workaholic whose daughter is an annoying afterthought, and who’s demonstrably suffering due to your lack of attention. It’s also safe to assume they’ll have private detectives nosing around to dig up any dirt on your private life they can.”

“Ha! Best of luck with that. I know convents that see more action than I do.” Silver immediately regretted the glib response.

Ben studied her. “I’ll throw up as many obstacles as I can and buy as much time as possible. Nothing is going to happen quickly. But you need to treat this as a very real threat and start circling the wagons.”

“What about visitations? I want to cut him off at the knees.”

“Not advisable. Would make you look like you’re using your daughter as a pawn. That’s how they’ll spin it. We need to be the good guys here. You’ll just have to suck it up and try to be as civil as you can manage while I develop a strategy.”

“All right. What else do you need?”

He closed the file and sighed. “A retainer. This won’t be inexpensive to fight. While I hate to bother you with money, we’ll have some very real expenses. Our own experts, private investigators, filings, motions, time crafting a response…this could run six figures, Silver.” Ben’s voice had lost some of its usual deep timbre.

“Six figures! That’s insane. Are you serious? How am I supposed to come up with that kind of money?” Silver felt like she was drowning, the air heavy and stifling. Her limbs had gone numb, and she could feel her pulse hammering in her ears.

“Honestly, I don’t know. But I’m not going to lie to you. Maybe we can get away with less, but there’s no way of knowing. Eric has money. He’s going to use that as a weapon against you. Recognize that and learn to deal with it.” Ben paused. “I’ll need twenty-five thousand to start. I’ll try to make that last as long as possible, but it’s going to take a lot more to see this through, Silver. It stinks, I know, but the monster will need to be fed.”

They finished up the meeting quickly from that point. She was in a daze as she made her way to the elevators.

As she drifted her way along the busy street, Silver thought she was going to faint. Everything felt surrealistic as the enormity of the problem settled into place. Of course Eric would try to drown her in debt – that’s how he played. To win. She only had forty thousand dollars in savings, and everything was spoken for, between school, daycare, clothes, braces, food, utilities and property taxes – never mind that a decent cup of coffee cost six bucks. She had naïvely imagined that making six figures a year would solve most of her financial problems, but the truth was that after taxes took their bite and everything else was factored in, she was living month to month.

At least she didn’t have to make a massive house payment. Her third-floor, two-bedroom flat on the once newly gentrified East Side near Gramercy Park had been part of her divorce settlement. The building was an ancient five-story walkup over a collection of bohemian shops. The water pipes were antiquated, the electrical wiring was marginally better, but the building had been a find – she still wasn’t sure exactly how Eric had finagled the place, but he’d wound up owning the flat, and as part of Silver’s price for going quietly, she had gotten it. It had served her well; there was no chance of her being able to afford anything in the city these days.

A mortgage on the flat seemed the only option, although that was just delaying the inevitable problem – a mortgage would require the ability to make the payments, which would be close to impossible with her monthly burn. New York was one of the most expensive cities in the world, and just Kennedy’s school and daycare ate well over half her take-home pay.

A horn sounded as she stepped off the curb. She was jerked back to reality. A cab had almost taken her leg off. The driver made an obscene gesture and rolled his window down to begin his inevitable tirade – but thought better of it when he saw her expression.

She waved him off and stepped back onto the sidewalk, noting the time on her phone. Dammit. Late.

Her jaw clenched as she mulled over her few options. She was thin on cash and up to her neck with work related to the task force, but there was no way she was going to let him get away with this. If it was a fight he was after, he’d come to the right place. He’d underestimated her throughout their marriage and was now biting off way more than he could chew. She supposed his money made him feel all-powerful, but even the most foolhardy hunter knew it was a bad bet to come between a mama bear and her cub.

Eric had just made the worst mistake of his life. She would make it her mission to not only battle him on this and win, but would do everything in her power to ruin his aspirations for a political career. She would arrange for his true nature to be broadcast from the highest buildings, and before she was done with him he, would wish he’d never been born.

The mental image of him ruined, shivering next to a dumpster, homeless, mocked and ostracized by everyone, cheered her somewhat.

Silver began to feel better.

Positive thinking was working for her. Just like the doctor had counseled Kennedy.

Maybe the doc knew what she was talking about.

She visualized a dog chasing Eric as he fumbled with his few belongings, muttering incoherently, and smiled for the first time since meeting with Ben.

Eric would rue the day he had cooked up this scheme.

She’d make sure of it.

~ ~ ~

The killer watched as the low-slung Maybach exited the garage and swung into traffic. He had confirmed the identity of the man behind the wheel as his next target. One of the prospective victim’s quirks would make the killer’s job much easier – unlike so many of his peers, the victim seemed to enjoy the solitude of driving and didn’t have a driver waiting to take him to his home in Connecticut. That would prove fortuitous – he hated the idea of having to take out an innocent to accomplish his task. Collateral damage was messy and increased the risk.

He put his nine-year-old VW Jetta into gear and pulled out after the luxury car, tailing the Maybach from a hundred or more yards.

They moved in sync as the big German sedan cruised its way off the island and north towards Greenwich, where the victim had his main residence. The killer had spent several days following the man and knew that during the week he spent his nights at a high rise on the East Side, returning to Connecticut on weekends to stay with his lovely wife and two sons. New York would be easier logistically, but he hadn’t completely discounted the idea of taking him out en route.

The killer glanced at his Bulova wristwatch, calculating how long it would take to arrive at the man’s home. So far he didn’t see anything obvious by way of opportunities, but that was the nature of the surveillance – establishing his victim’s patterns, looking for chinks in armor.

He could have easily accomplished his task a dozen times over the two days he’d been watching him, but the point wasn’t to simply erase the target from the face of the earth. He had a specific method he intended to employ, and to pull it off would require exactly the right circumstances.

The killer coughed harshly a few times and then rolled down his window to spit. The short-burst fits had grown more frequent, creating a sense of urgency for him. He fumbled in his jacket pocket for a plastic pill container and palmed two into his hand before dry-swallowing them with a wince.

Up ahead the Maybach signaled a lane change. The killer smiled to himself. So far this was going well. By his calculations, they would be at his house within another forty minutes, tops, and then he would settle in for a long weekend of watching and waiting.

And planning.

You could never do too much planning.

~ ~ ~

The following morning, Silver pulled up a chair at the conference table and sat down, eyes wandering over the room’s occupants – Richard, Seth, Sam, and another half-dozen agents. She was excited – she’d had a breakthrough the prior night as she’d drifted off to sleep, and it had stayed with her upon waking. It was only a hunch, but right now, considering the dearth of leads they had, it was worth pursuing.

She cleared her throat and opened the file in front of her, withdrawing a sheaf of photographs from the various crime scenes.

“We’ve been focusing on finding clues in the forensics or the backgrounds of the victims, and have so far come up blank, with the exception of the terrorist funding anomaly, which is still too undeveloped to rate. So I got to thinking that maybe we’ve been going about this the wrong way. Perhaps the clues are the actual killings. The way the victims have been murdered or the locations.”

Sam exhaled audibly and shook his head. “I don’t understand. What do you mean, the way or the locations? Each was killed differently in a different place. Number one, stabbed in his car. Number two and three burned to death at home. Number four, decapitated at home. You aren’t the only one missing a connection…”

Silver nodded. “What I mean is…perhaps there’s a symbolism to the killings known only to the killer. Perhaps there’s a ritual to it – the way the victims are being killed means something or has significance to him that we’re not aware of. Or perhaps the locations are important to him in some way. I don’t know why they would be important, but that’s the point of throwing this out there.”

Richard leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head, and considered the idea. “If there is some symbolism, I’m with Sam that it’s obscure. I don’t see any pattern other than the obvious one – the victims are all male and are all associated with the financial industry in some way.”

“Yes, that’s the obvious, but it doesn’t really help us much. There’s no apparent pattern, which itself is odd. What do most serials have in common? A sense of ritual. They have a preferred way of killing and a preferred type of victim. And yet our Regulator is all over the map. The lack of a pattern could be a pattern in itself,” Silver countered.

Sam winced and shook his head. “The lack of a predictable routine would also be consistent with the theory that this is something besides a serial killer. Like the terrorist funding thing. If the murders are somehow related to that, then these killings could be a ruse to make targeted executions appear to be the random work of a nut. Like a boyfriend who kills his girlfriend and tries to make it look like a robbery. That strikes me as more likely.”

“I’m not discounting that, but it doesn’t feel right.”

“Feel right? With all due respect, feelings aren’t really germane to the science and method of tracking a serial, are they?” Sam said with a chuckle. Several of the other agents smiled.

Silver felt anger stirring, but maintained her composure. “Ordinarily I’d agree with you, but sometimes the subconscious processes all the information and arrives at a conclusion before we’re aware of why. While I understand your skepticism, I’d also remind you that I’m running this show, and I’m telling you that I think there’s more to the way he’s killing them than just random chance. For Christ’s sake, he decapitated the last one. How much work was involved in doing that? It makes more sense to me that there was a reason he chose decapitation. There’s enough meaning in the act for him to warrant his preparing the cards with an allusion to the manner in which they died. That could be the way we find him.”

Seth nodded. “I get it, but I’m not sure where to begin. Where would you start?”

“There’s a strong vengeance or vigilantism aspect to this. He views himself as judge and jury, not to mention executioner, and he’s decided they deserve to die. So the obvious question is, why? Why does he think they deserve to die? I believe that the answer to the why lies in the way he’s killing. It’s associated.”

“Maybe he believes they did something to him, specifically. I mean, obviously he believes that they did something to society in general based on his statement to the Herald. But perhaps the method is more literal than we think and there’s something deeper at play,” Seth observed.

“I don’t follow,” Sam said.

“Is it possible that he has somehow been harmed?” Silver mused, “or feels he has, in the same way as he’s killing the victims – that the manner of execution is a re-enactment of some sort? Maybe this is some sort of an eye for an eye. Nobody’s advanced that idea, but it seems like it’s worth considering.”

“Anything’s possible. It’s possible that none of this means anything more than the obvious. The question is not what’s possible, it’s what’s probable…” Sam said.

Silver bristled. She was getting tired of his condescending attitude.

“How would these men have harmed him in the same way?” Seth asked.

“That’s the question we should be asking,” Silver replied.

Everyone looked at her expectantly.

“I think we should go down the road that he’s been involved in, or was affected by, similar tragedies. That he’s killing in a specific way to emulate damage that was done to him.” She held up her hand, silencing any discussion. “It’s worth looking at. What I would suggest is that we run a computer search for any events that mirror the circumstances of the killings. Decapitations. Stabbings. Death by fire.”

“That will be a massive list,” Sam argued.

“Yes, it will. Especially if we go national. But once we have the list, we can start sorting for geography, or any links or connections to the financial industry. It may come up cold, but it’s worth doing.”

Seth scribbled some quick notes. “Can’t hurt to run the queries,” he agreed. “Worst case, we don’t find anything that makes any sense. In which case we’re right back where we’re sitting – waiting for the next victim…”

“I’m sure that there’s some sort of pathology to this we’re missing. Sure, he’s pissed off at the bankers – he said as much in his communiqué to the press. But lots of people are. The economy is in the toilet, unemployment is an ongoing problem, people are struggling to make ends meet…and it’s all because of the financial industry, which took outsized risks, forced the world to the brink when its bets went bad, and banked massive bonuses in the process. But Joe Mainstreet hasn’t put his broker’s head on a pike. Maybe some would like to, but they haven’t.” Silver studied the assembled faces of the agents. “Only for our man, it’s different. He’s crossed the line and taken it upon himself to right the world’s wrongs. I don’t believe that’s necessarily psychosis. I think if we look hard enough, we’re going to find that something happened to take him over the edge – and it could be that the something is playing a part in his selection criteria, as well as his method of killing. If I’m right then there might just be a connection we can make that will lead us to him, or at least give us a group of candidate suspects. Does everyone see the logic?”

“Sure, but I want to go on record as saying that this seems like it will be a huge waste of resources based on nothing more than a hunch,” Sam stated flatly.

Silver encouraged healthy give and take on her team, but it was time to shut Sam down. “Do you have some sort of a problem, Sam? Someone piss on your Wheaties this morning?” She again held up a hand. “Don’t answer that – I don’t want to know. Your sentiments are noted, but this isn’t a request or a suggestion. I want Seth to do a preliminary pull based on the murder criteria, and I’m uninterested in your views as to whether that’s the smartest use of the taxpayer dollar. I know you think the terrorist angle has legs, but unless there’s something substantial that comes up tying the rest of the victims into it, that’s a dead end. So, Richard, please keep digging on their backgrounds and finances, Seth, please pull all cases that in any way resemble the killings going back a decade, and Sam, get the traffic feed analysis done in case we get lucky there. That’s all for today.”

Sam looked as if he had been punched in the throat, which gave her some slim satisfaction. He was typical of a certain breed at the Bureau – smug, arrogant and convinced that he was better capable of running the task force than she was. But she was the boss, and as much as she hated putting her foot down, enough was enough. The assignment to go over the traffic feeds was a tedious, grueling job, so perhaps a few days of that would blunt his insolence.

There was more discussion on logistics before the meeting wound down and everyone received their marching orders.

Silver returned to her office and closed the door, tired from the tension of having to combat insurrection in her ranks. She idly wished that she could return to the good old days before she was in a supervisory position, when all she had to do was be good at her job and catch bad guys.

Nothing in life was ever easy. That’s the lesson she’d learned so far. And just when you thought you had a handle on things, they changed, often for the worse.

But she was convinced she was on to something about the killings.

And when she got one of these feelings, it had always been a good idea to pursue it.

Even if her a-hole subordinate thought she was an idiot.

Taking a grimaced sip of her cold coffee, she pulled open her drawer and fished out a piece of Gudrun chocolate – a truffle. Studying it for a moment, she popped it into her mouth, savoring the guilty pleasure in the calm of her environment.

Thank God for chocolate.

Chapter 7

Kennedy was sitting at the computer desk playing a game while Silver lounged on the couch poring over her evening’s casework.

“Why does Dad say that I’d be better off if I lived with him?”

“When did he say that?” Silver asked, struggling to keep her tone even.

“The other night at the ballet. On the way there we were talking about my day at school, then at Miriam’s, and he just came out with it.”

Silver took her time, considering how to frame her response.

“Your father and I disagree on many things. That’s obviously one of them. I think you’re doing great here, just like things are. You’re getting good grades, you have all your fingers and toes, and you’re growing into a beautiful young lady.” That was as honest as she felt like being with a ten-year-old. It wouldn’t do to tell her the truth – your father is a miserable, selfish prick who only loves himself, and views you as a disposable accessory, just as he did his wife. “Did he say anything else?”

“Just that he missed me and wished we could spend more time together.”

“Well, that’s a nice sentiment. I’m sure he does.”

“I asked him if that was so, why he misses visitations so often,” Kennedy revealed.

Wow. Score one for Silver’s team. “That’s a fair question. What did he say?”

“That his schedule is complicated.” Kennedy paused. “He didn’t really want to talk about it after that,” she said innocently.

I’ll bet he didn’t, Silver thought.

“And I thought it was weird that he suddenly was talking as though I should move in with him.”

Silver occasionally forgot how smart Kennedy was. She thought of her as a little girl, but she was years ahead of her diminutive stature.

“Sometimes your father says weird things.”

“Sometimes you do, too.” Kennedy changed the subject. “Are we going to California? I’ve been looking at bikinis online. And surfboards. Way cool stuff.”

“Maybe so, sweetie. But I have to finish up the case I’m working on before I can get away.” Bikinis? Way cool?

“So you’re telling me what I want to hear. We’re not going.”

“I didn’t say that. I’m considering it. It depends on a lot of things. My schedule. School. Money.”

Kennedy returned to the game and muttered, “Whatever.”

Silver considered chastising her for the snotty retort and then thought better of it. This wouldn’t be the last opportunity to take her on for her attitude. Better to finish up her work and get them ready for bed.

So Eric was lobbying Kennedy about custody. He was such a lowlife. That was as below the belt as you could get.

Any hesitation she had about coming up with the money for Ben to do a full court press on the private detectives evaporated. This was war. One she would win no matter what.

~ ~ ~

The next morning, as Silver made her way to her office through the maze of cubicles, coffee and briefcase in hand, she heard Richard’s voice followed by a tinkling peal of female laughter from the far end. It couldn’t be Monique – she wasn’t due in yet. Silver turned and walked down the aisle to where she could just make out the distinctive top of Richard’s head.

When she got to his work area, sensing a presence behind him, Richard swung around to greet her. A woman in her late twenties was seated in one of the only two chairs, a laptop computer in front of her. She was gorgeous, Silver noted – even in business attire, her blond hair and symmetrical features would have stopped traffic.

The woman stood and Richard made introductions. “Good morning, Silver. This is Stacy Burroughs. Stacy, Assistant Special Agent In Charge Silver Cassidy – who is running this show,” Richard said with a smile.

Silver tried not to telegraph her sizing up Stacy but was sure she was failing. She was five seven or so, with curves in all the right places – not a bombshell like Monique, just a very attractive female. No wedding ring or jewelry of any kind.

Stacy extended her hand. “Pleased to meet you,” Stacy said, and Silver noted a southern twang. Georgia?

Silver fumbled with her coffee then shook her hand, noting the cool, confident grip.

“Stacy just got in on the morning train from D.C.. She’s made progress on the background checks, and I thought it would be a good idea to have her back for another day,” Richard explained. “We can get more accomplished at this stage in person than over e-mail.”

Richard was wearing a pale blue oxford shirt with a maroon and yellow tie, and appeared to shimmer with good health and sex appeal. His teeth gleamed against the contrast of his tan, and Silver noted that he was wearing the understated aftershave that suited him so well.

“Welcome to our humble offices. I’m sure Richard knows his way around well enough by now to get you anything you need. Are you just down for the day again?”

Silver hoped it hadn’t sounded like she wanted her to leave soon. Although she knew that in spite of her best efforts there was certainly a little of that in her tone.

“That’s the plan, unless something comes up that requires me to stay here,” Stacy responded neutrally, eyes shifting for a half-second to Richard.

Like what? An erection?

Silver stopped her inner voice before it could kick into high gear. It was unprofessional and catty. Besides, she didn’t have any interest in Richard’s romantic life, and certainly had no reason to be concerned about who he was or wasn’t entangled with.

That was her official position, anyway. Although she was feeling suddenly territorial, which was unlike her.

“Well, nice to meet you. I hope you make progress. We could certainly use some,” Silver said, glancing at the time and taking a sip of her coffee. She’d seen about all she wanted to of Richard’s research assistant and suddenly couldn’t wait to get out of there.

“That’s what I’m here for,” Stacy chirped enthusiastically.

Silver decided she hated Stacy.

“I’ll let you know what we come up with later,” Richard said, and there was an uneasy pause.

“All right, then. Off to work. You know where to find me if you need me,” Silver said, the words sounding vapid even as she spoke them.

What the hell was wrong with her?

This was another agent – a peer – and an analyst she’d approved to work on the case. Not her boyfriend and some hooker from south of Broadway.

She turned and left them, her thoughts contradictory. It was probably the residue of her uneasy night, when she’d tossed and turned, worried over the Eric situation. There had been so many unpleasant confrontations with him leading up to the divorce. That had probably colored her attitude this morning, so when she met Stacy, who was without a doubt beautiful and available, with Richard, who she had to admit was very attractive…

Silver didn’t have the luxury of turning her team into a tawdry soap opera. She was the boss – she admonished herself that she’d better start thinking like one. Rounding the corner to her office, she made a mental effort to banish any further speculations about Richard and his…his analyst. Besides, it was probably just an innocent work relationship.

Where Stacy might have to burn the midnight oil with him, and perhaps soothe the kinks out of his strong back with her capable…

Enough.

She reached her door and pushed it open with her toe, setting her briefcase down on the meeting table and switching on the lights. It was a little early for chocolate, especially the rich Belgian variety she had stashed – but was it ever really too early?

She rounded her desk, plopped down in the seat, and slid her drawer open.

~ ~ ~

Silver spent the morning updating the paperwork associated with operating the task force – not her favorite part of the job, but a necessary evil. Her computer pinged a warning at her, signaling that her meeting to go over the forensics report from the latest killing was in five minutes.

A soft knock at the door disrupted her. She put her pen down with an exasperated sigh.

“Yes.”

Seth poked his head in. “We still on at eleven?”

“Yes. My automated taskmaster just flagged me.” Silver gestured at her screen.

Seth stepped into the office. “I began the search for like incidences, but it will take a while. I had no idea there were so many house fires every year.”

“I’ve been thinking about that. Once you’re done, it would be interesting to focus on only those where two people were killed – remember that there were two victims in Connecticut.”

“One of which could have been an unintended collateral victim…”

“That’s always bothered me a little,” she reflected. “I’m not so sure it was accidental. Our killer is sophisticated, smart, and has so far made no mistakes. And yet he leaves the son where he won’t burn. That doesn’t make any sense. Why not just lock him in the basement where he would be guaranteed to be safe?”

“Maybe he was in a hurry?”

“Maybe. But he took the time to tie him up, drag a chair there… No, I’m beginning to believe he had a reason. When you sort the results, look for father/son deaths in fires. Or fires where only one of the people in the house died from the fire, and the other or others died from smoke inhalation or the structure collapsing. Call it intuition, but I don’t believe anything the killer is doing is unplanned. If that’s correct, then he wanted the son to die in precisely the way he did.”

“I’m all for intuition, Silver. I get where you’re going with this. It kind of makes sense, in a weird, twisted serial-killer-thinking kind of way. Remind me never to piss you off.” Seth checked the time. “Now, I think we’ve got a meeting to go to?”

“I know. I’ll be there in four or five minutes. I just have a few more things I have to sign.”

“All right. See you in the conference room in five.”

Silver organized her notes for the meeting and tried to clear her head. She was over the Stacy/Richard thing by now, but she was having a problem putting aside the other nagging matter that had been preoccupying her thoughts – how to fund her legal bills.

Two hours of filling out forms at the bank had resulted in promises of an answer on her loan application – a second mortgage for two hundred thousand dollars she could draw down as needed. That would more than fund an adequate war chest, although even as she had signed the application she had understood that her income wasn’t really strong enough to make the payments if she had to use more than about fifty grand of it, which she would burn through quickly based on what Ben had said.

She needed to hear something soon – the money issue was beginning to distract her, and she couldn’t afford to be anything but completely on. Which reminded her that she needed to get moving. She grabbed her computer and the case files and strode to the door. Time to go find out what forensics had come up with.

Chapter 8

The room was full, with Richard and Seth sitting on either side of Silver, and the rest of the agents, mostly male, gathered around the table. Sam stood and moved to a laptop that had been set up with an overhead projection system. Seth flipped off the lights, and Sam began the rundown.

“Cause of death was decapitation. Instrument appears to have been a sharp blade used in a chopping manner – looks like four blows. Probably a hatchet. Sharp one, that’s for sure. Time of death narrowed to around four a.m.. The bruising and lacerations were sustained prior to death, and the head had a nasty bump on the front that was caused by a blow, which likely rendered the victim unconscious for a while.” Sam stopped, looking around the room. “The condo locks had been picked, so best guess is that the killer broke in while the victim was asleep, hit him over the head to knock him out, tied him to the bed with the same electrical wire that he used in the house fire, then slapped him around before doing the chop job.”

Silver glanced at Sam, indicating that he should move it along.

“While processing the site, we recovered a number of fibers that don’t match anything in the room, and also may have gotten lucky. We have a single hair, which doesn’t belong to either the victim or the maid,” Sam revealed.

“Girlfriend? Boyfriend?”

“The report says it’s male, inch and a half long, and medium brown. We’re still checking, but neither the maid nor the doormen think the victim had a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend, for that matter. Whatever he was doing, he didn’t do it at home.”

“Superintendent? Maintenance guy?” Seth suggested.

“We’re working on those, but the building superintendent is Chinese and in his late thirties, which means it isn’t his. We’re looking over the log of all visitors for the last three months. The doorman records everyone, so at least there’s that.”

“What does forensics think about the fibers?” Silver asked.

“They aren’t definitive, but they believe they could have come from the perp’s clothing. Nothing in the condo resembles them. The report spends three paragraphs describing length, density and all, but in the end it concludes that they’re probably from an area rug – they’re synthetic fibers of the same sort used in cheap carpets and floor coverings.”

“Great. Doesn’t leave us with a lot,” Seth said.

“The contusions raise a question in my mind, though,” Sam continued. “If this isn’t a single perp, and these killings are being staged to look like the random acts of a serial, then perhaps the team carrying them out was extracting information from the victim. That would explain binding him to the bed and beating him.”

“As would a single perp who was mad as hell,” Silver observed. “So far, the theory that these are staged has exactly zero basis in any of the evidence. And nothing about this one is changing that.”

“True, but I’m just saying–”

“I think we’re all clear on where you’re going with this. You like the idea that the killings are somehow tied to terrorist funding. The problem is there’s nothing to support that idea.” Silver enjoyed stopping him in his tracks, but then changed the discussion. “What the profiling group has come up with to date is available for everyone to study, but it’s pretty generic. Many of the usual vague assertions are made – that he’s a loner, single or estranged from his mate, highly organized, has studied forensics or read about it in depth, is skilled with locks and plans carefully. He also has reasonable physical strength given that he’s been able to subdue multiple adult male victims. Although he uses a stun gun, at least sometimes, which we know from the trace evidence from the first, and now the latest, victim.”

“Maybe we’ll get some hits from the traffic cams,” Seth suggested. “How’s that going, Sam?”

“It’s a laborious process. We’re comparing three feed sources from this latest killing, to see whether there are any multiple appearances by a single suspect. The problem is that there are usually tons of multiples because people stay in their neighborhood and are coming and going. That’s a busy area of the park. But we’ve narrowed it down to around sixty multiples who appear between ten p.m. and eight the next morning. Most are probably going home then to work the next day, but it needs more study…”

Silver nodded. “I’d back it up to more like six p.m.. The killer could have slipped into the building earlier and been waiting for the victim to go to sleep. I think it’s a mistake to limit the timing.”

Sam groaned. “That will quadruple the number of people we’ll need to track.”

“Yes, Sam, it will increase the number, but it is also what we will need to do to ensure we don’t miss anyone. Nobody said that this was going to be an easy job. I can put someone else on it if you’re too busy with other duties. Which I want a list of, if I have to hand it over or request more staff…”

Sam seemed ready to take the bait, then backed down. “No need. I was just pointing out that it’s going to take longer the larger the data set we have to scan. If you want it from six, then six it is.”

Silver’s gaze roved over the room again. “If it doesn’t belong to anyone we can place at the victim’s condo, then the hair is a major move forward in getting a conviction. That’s the good news. The bad news is that we still need to make an arrest, and we’re a long way from doing so without a suspect. Anybody got any further ideas?” she asked.

Richard cleared his throat. “Have we considered putting out some sort of partial information or incorrect statement to draw the killer out? He’s clearly following the press coverage. Maybe try to get him angry so he makes a mistake?” he ventured.

“Like what?” Silver asked.

“I don’t know. Like a profile that’s insulting – hypothesizes that there’s a sexual component to the killings, perhaps some sort of homo-erotic element that our pet shrinks believe is a driver? That we believe we are looking for someone with a deep-seated emotional disturbance, likely due to being molested as a child, and that we’re presuming that he’s acting out some sort of disturbed ritual where the victims are his father? I don’t know the exact bullshit, but something to get him seeing red so he’ll get sloppy?”

Seth shook his head. “If we were dealing with a more impulsive killer, I’d say that might have some legs. But this one is a planner, and a meticulous one at that. That implies above average intelligence, which means that he would see through a ruse within minutes.”

Silver nodded. “I tend to agree. But it’s a good idea. Just the wrong killer to try it on…”

“That’s why I work in Financial Crimes,” Richard said with a grin, and a few of the agents laughed.

Silver waited for the rumblings to subside. “Which brings us to the part of the meeting where I ask whether you’ve made any progress on the victims’ backgrounds.”

All eyes turned to Richard, who opened his notebook and scribbled something with his pen.

“First off, I want to establish for everyone that the financial industry is a big world, but once you’re at a certain level, not nearly as big as you might imagine. Having said that, I’ve discovered a few connections between the first and second victims that might be coincidental, but certainly raised my eyebrows. How many of you know anything about Benjamin Masenkoff?” Richard asked, and almost every hand in the room raised.

“Ran the biggest Ponzi scheme in history, right?” Sam replied. “Whole thing fell apart during the financial crisis. Bilked investors out of billions.”

“Yes, he stole billions and ruined quite a few people’s lives. What many don’t know is that he was long suspected by most of the large brokerage houses of being a crook, but nobody said anything. One of the industry’s largest had a policy of advising its clients not to invest with him, even as it processed his trades for him. The reason that he was treated with such deference is that he was one of the most influential men on Wall Street. In fact, he wrote key regulations for the SEC governing stock manipulation and abusive short selling, where he drafted loopholes that were used for years by stock manipulators. One section of code was even referred to as ‘The Masenkoff Exemption’ inside the SEC and on Wall Street.”

“Does this go anywhere that’s germane to our killer?” Sam asked, looking around the room.

“That depends on why he’s killing, I guess. Masenkoff was both a complete criminal and also instrumental in shaping the regulations that supposedly protect the markets. And here we have a serial killer who’s calling himself The Regulator, who is issuing statements to the press about Wall Street being a den of thieves. So yes, I would say that it’s germane in the sense that Masenkoff was a pillar of the financial system and yet operated a con game that harmed many – maybe including our man. You have to look at that and wonder, how did he get away with it for so long, and yet nobody caught on to him?” Richard paused. “The answer is nobody wanted to blow the whistle because he was too high-profile and important to the industry. Too connected.”

Silver made a hurry-up gesture.

“Masenkoff was a very bad man. And guess what? Both victim number one and victim number two can be put in the same room as him at some point in the last decade.” Richard paused for effect. “Think about that. You have two men, one burned to death in his home in Connecticut, the other stabbed to death in his car in Florida, both sanctioned by the SEC, and both more than passingly familiar with the biggest crook in financial history. It took some digging, but when I found that, I stopped and wondered what it meant.”

Seth leaned forward, elbows on the table. “So what does it mean?”

Richard tossed his pen down and sighed. “I don’t know. But here’s what I learned. Victim number one was a feeder to Masenkoff’s fund. He directed investors to Masenkoff, and what we now know is that Masenkoff paid hefty finders’ fees for doing so. And victim number two’s hedge fund cleared its trades through Masenkoff’s brokerage firm. So there’s that name, popping up in both men’s histories. Now, true, both had also been sanctioned by the SEC, but that was nothing compared to the Masenkoff thing. Remember, thousands were destroyed when his Ponzi scheme collapsed. Charities. Pension plans. High net worth investors. I’m wondering if the killer might have been materially damaged by him.”

Nobody said a word. Then Sam spoke up.

“You just said that was thousands of people. How does that narrow anything down for us?”

“Sam. I’ve only been here a couple of days. I never claimed I could solve your case for you in under a week. But what I’ve done is discovered a link that nobody found until I started digging. Not you. Not anyone. That’s why I’m here. Now I’m wondering how deep this goes. We have a hedge fund that was doing business with Masenkoff’s brokerage, we have one of his feeders, and we have a software provider who just so happened to create the electronic exchanges that most of the manipulative trading the Masenkoff exemption enabled was done on. Oh, and whose partner was spitting distance from Hamas and the Islamic Jihad. Now maybe it’s just me, but that seems like it’s an awful lot of very unusual connections for three random victims,” Richard said evenly, although it was obvious that he was annoyed with Sam’s attitude.

“I agree. Did the last victim have any obvious connection with Masenkoff,” Silver asked. “or is it more by association?”

“I’m still rooting around to see what I can find. So far, nothing, but my nose is telling me that the victims are all somehow related – even the son who was caught in the house fire worked at the father’s hedge fund, so his connection is the same as his dad’s. As of now, three of four victims are linked to Masenkoff in some way. And the fourth is about as close as you can get to some pretty sketchy Middle Eastern black hats without being a card-carrying Jihadist.” Richard picked up his pen and tapped his folder with it. “Another little factoid I know from my work is that some of Masenkoff’s investors were criminal syndicates. The Russian mob features prominently. And when you hear Russian mob, that’s usually synonymous with the former KGB. So now what it starts looking like is that three of the four are connected to a conduit for Russian mob money laundering, and the fourth is connected to terrorist funding and money laundering, some of which could be intermingled with mob money. You see how this gets increasingly interesting as we peel the onion?” Richard asked.

Sam nodded. “Now I get it. I totally get it. Apologies for busting your chops earlier. It actually supports the terrorist/criminal funding theory and gets us further from a single individual serial killer. Or am I misconstruing this?”

Richard closed his file. “That’s right. Or it could all be completely unrelated to the killings, and could just be one of those weird coincidences that can pop up. Personally, that seems like a stretch. There has to be something to all this. I just don’t have enough information yet to know what I’m looking at. But now all of you know everything I do, so I’m hoping that your collective brain trust will be more powerful than just me sitting in a cubicle,” Richard concluded.

After some back and forth discussion amongst the agents, Silver could feel the agenda slipping into tangential areas. She let them have some room for conjecture and then skillfully guided the room back on point, away from speculations and back to the hard facts of the case.

The meeting went on for another hour, as the minutiae of the forensics report were digested by the group and every element of the evidence was re-examined. When Silver stood and thanked everyone for coming, she was drained. It felt like they were standing still, waiting for the next ugly shoe to drop. For all the titillation of Richard’s bombshell and the promise held by having a potential evidentiary gold mine in the single strand of hair and its DNA, they were still light years from keeping the killer from striking again. As everyone filed out, she pulled Richard and Seth aside, and waited until the room cleared before tackling the next subject.

“The partner. Do you think we have enough to justify putting him under surveillance – for his own protection?” she asked.

“Boy, that’s where you earn the big bucks, chief,” Seth said.

“It’s not clear cut. I’m asking if we have enough to make a credible argument that he may be in imminent danger from the killer. If so, I’ll ramrod this up the ladder and get it done. So what do you think?”

“I think that the connections in their backgrounds are interesting and certainly inflammatory, but not a lock. In the end, it probably couldn’t hurt to put him under relaxed surveillance, but I wouldn’t count on it leading anywhere. My entire presentation was a loose interpretation of partial data, not a coherent case for the partner being a target. If it was me, I’d wait to see what else we discover, and keep my powder dry,” Richard advised.

Seth nodded grudgingly, and Silver ran a hand through her hair, combing it back with her fingers.

“You’re probably right. But I think I’ll put a team on him, just in case. Richard, it really feels like you’re on to something with all the connections in their backgrounds. How did we miss this?” she lamented.

“All due respect, this is a pretty specialized area we’re talking about. Half of the agents in Financial Crimes might not have connected these dots. The only reason I did is because market fraud is sort of my hobby – I actually wrote a paper on it, many moons ago, comparing the financial raiders of the Roaring Twenties to those of modern times. And one of the last cases I worked was peripherally associated with terrorist money laundering by a group of related pawn shops and restaurants in the Midwest, so when I saw the names involved my antenna quivered. Otherwise it would have just flown completely over my head.” Richard hesitated. “I just hope I’m not tilting at windmills here. One of those cases of where you see zebras everywhere…”

Silver nodded. “Understood. But sometimes there are actually zebras everywhere.”

Chapter 9

Silver walked out of the bank almost in tears. The loan officer had been understanding and supportive, but ultimately couldn’t help her. With the debt she was carrying on her credit cards, along with the tuition for Kennedy’s private school and the cost of daycare and all the rest, there simply hadn’t been sufficient income left over to make a decent-sized loan even with the flat as collateral. She’d suspected as much, but to have the door slammed in her face when she needed it the most still threw her.

She stood on the sidewalk, taking deep breaths, trying to slow her heartbeat. What was she going to do now?

Her thoughts turned to her mother. That was out of the question. Since her father had passed away three years ago her mom had been comfortably ensconced in a condo she’d purchased in Austin, Texas, where she was taking art classes and trying to make a life for herself in her late sixties. Although her mom would do whatever she could to help, she didn’t have much – she’d sold the house shortly after the funeral and used the profit from it to buy the condo and subsidize her social security and her pension. She needed every penny she had and was working a part-time job in a bookstore to make ends meet more comfortably.

There was no way Silver could lean on her.

After a few minutes of thought, she took her cell phone from her purse and called Ben. He took her call immediately and assured her he would set aside time for her in twenty minutes.

It was midday, and the lunch rush was over, although there were still plenty of people clogging the sidewalks. New York was a chaotic tangle of crowds wherever you went – she’d gotten used to it after living in the city for over a decade. At times it was energizing, but today it was only annoying as her mind raced over possible solutions to her problem.

She rounded a corner and checked the time as she made her way to Ben’s towering edifice – one of the more sumptuous in the area. Being a divorce attorney in the city clearly paid well. He was one of the top dogs in his game, highly recommended and well thought of, so he was never hurting for business. Which gave her hope. Perhaps there was an accommodation she could make with him to carry part of the case costs. She knew he wasn’t a bank and that it was asking a lot, but she wasn’t sure where else she could turn.

Silver waited in the cool air conditioning of the law offices, flushed from making her way uptown in so little time. Surprisingly, Ben was immediately available, and Silver followed his severely-coiffed secretary to the rear conference room.

Ben rose from his chair to greet her when she entered. “Silver. Good to see you. A nice surprise,” he said as he shook her hand. “What brings you to my neck of the woods on a work day? Am I a suspect for something?” he joked.

“Thankfully, no. They haven’t caught on to you yet. But it’s coming,” Silver fired back.

“Good. Then my evil plan is working. Nobody is any the wiser.”

“Your secret’s safe with me. Always.”

“Good to know, Silver. Now seriously. What’s up?”

“I’m worried about the money, Ben. How are the expenses running on the case, and what are they looking like they’ll add up to by the time you’re done?”

“I don’t honestly know. At this point it’s all on a spreadsheet. We’ll send you a monthly statement showing the drawdown and balance remaining. Why? Do I need to call someone to get you a total right now?”

“If you could, I’d appreciate it. I’m especially interested in what you think it’s going to cost to get it to the finish line.”

Ben paused, eyeing her thoughtfully. “What happened, Silver?”

She was holding it together well, but then her resolve failed her, and she could feel her eyes brimming over. A single droplet fell, tickling the contour of her cheek before settling in the corner of her mouth.

Without saying anything, Ben slid a Kleenex box across the table to her. She plucked out a tissue and blotted her lids, hating her own weakness, but unable to stop the tears.

“It’s been one of those days, Ben. I’ve been trying everything to come up with a way to fund this fight, but I just came from the bank, and they declined my loan.” She went on to tell him everything, feeling better as the story came spilling out.

Ben leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers, peering thoughtfully at the ceiling. “I can probably absorb some of the costs, but I’d be lying if I said I could do it all. My partners would never allow it. I’m sorry, Silver. As to your inquiry, I think even if I bit off, say, twenty-five grand and held it in-house, you would still burn at least another fifty to a hundred. The investigators, the paralegals, responding to the filings, making motions, hiring expert witnesses…victory usually goes to the best-funded army, I’m afraid. The fairy tale of the lawyer working out of his briefcase taking on the system and winning is just that. You don’t want to go into this without enough money to see it through, Silver. You’re fighting for your family here, and Eric is throwing the kitchen sink at this. I only know one way to fight that fire, and it’s with fire.”

She nodded. That was what she had expected. “If I have to take you up on the matching twenty-five, how far will that take us?”

“Not that far. I’ll need to look at the numbers, but the investigators are burning money like they’re the pentagon, and we’re going to have to get Kennedy in front of some doctors soon so they can certify that she’s doing well. Nobody works for free, as you know…my hunch is that we’ll be through your retainer within another three weeks, tops. I meant what I said – I can carry another twenty-five, so let’s say that buys you another six weeks. You’re going to be in real trouble within two months, Silver. That’s your timeline.”

That bought her a month more than she’d had when she walked through the doors today. It wasn’t a reprieve, but it was better than nothing.

“Silver, I don’t want to meddle, but have you considered selling the flat? Or maybe you can do some sort of creative financing deal on it? An interest only loan for a year or two? To get you past this point?”

“I can’t rack up a lot of debt I can’t pay back, Ben. And frankly, I don’t know who to approach to do something creative, as you call it. I’m buried with work, and I really thought that the bank would be able to do something. I mean, even in this market it has to be worth at least seven or eight hundred thousand. You would think they would jump at the chance to lend me a hundred or so against it.”

“Banks aren’t lending money these days, as you’ve discovered. They’re hoarding cash. Tell you what, Silver. Let me make a few calls. I know people who specialize in these sorts of things. I have one in mind who might be able to put together a decent package you could afford for a year, and then you can cross the sale bridge when you come to it. If you prevail in this, I can go after Eric for restitution given that this is imposing a hardship on you, so you could pay it back then – and if you don’t prevail, well…”

“…then Kennedy won’t have to worry about having a roof over her head, and I can sell the place and move somewhere more in keeping with my new lifestyle.” She took a deep breath. “I hate this, Ben. I hate Eric, I hate the system that allows this, and I hate the universe at the moment.”

“You’re within your rights to hate everyone, Silver. It stinks.”

“At least I don’t hate you.” She gave him a tentative smile.

“I have that going for me.” Ben looked at the clock on the heavy wooden bookcase at the far end of the room. “I’ll put out the word and see what I can do, Silver. And I’ll have my bookkeeper send you an updated statement via e-mail, unless you can wait for it for a few minutes.”

“No rush. I almost don’t want to know. E-mail will be fine, Ben. Just fine.”

~ ~ ~

Silver was on her computer studying the forensics report on the latest killing when her line rang. She glanced at the number and saw it was Monique at the front desk.

“Hi, sweetie. I have a Glenn from the Herald on line two. Asked for you.”

“The Herald? Did he say what he wanted?”

“No, just wanted to speak to you. I didn’t interrogate him, though. Want me to? I could play bad cop…”

“You aren’t a cop, Monique. Okay, put him through.”

Music on hold intruded for a moment, the line beeped, and a man’s voice came on.

“Hello? Special Agent Cassidy?”

“Speaking. How can I help you?”

“Agent Cassidy, I’m doing a follow-up to our series of reports on The Regulator, and I wanted to see if the Bureau had anything to add. Briefly, I’m stating that you are running a task force focused on his apprehension and that so far you have no leads to speak of. Would that be correct?”

Silver didn’t like the way this was starting at all. “Who am I speaking with?”

“Oh, sorry. I’m Glenn Wexler with the Herald. I’ve written the series so far. Maybe you’ve seen my byline?”

“No, can’t say the name is familiar. How did you get this number and my name?”

“Your agents came by to look at the computers, and one of them gave me your name.”

“I see. Mind if I ask who?” Silver tried to remember who had gone over to the Herald, and then recalled it was Simkins, and…Sam.

“I’m not sure I remember. I don’t think I took any notes.”

Of course not. She suspected he could recite their badge numbers if it would save his skin, but when she wanted info, memory always seemed to elude the media.

“Well, I would direct you to our press office. I have no comment.” Silver knew better than to dole out any information to a reporter who was fishing.

“I was hoping for something more than a two-day wait for the press flunky to tell me that he can’t confirm or deny anything…”

“I’m quite sure you were, Mr. Wexler. But that’s protocol. I’m sorry I can’t help you, but that’s the way we do things.”

“Fair enough, but I’m still going to be writing the article based on information I’ve been able to glean. It’s a free country,” Glenn said, sounding annoyed.

“Yes, it is free, and if you want to write an article that basically says nothing, you just described it. I’m sure it will sell a lot of papers. Good luck with that.”

She disconnected, wondering why she’d gotten the call at all. It sounded like someone on the task force was talking out of turn to the press. Either that or he was bluffing and had used her name and rank as entre to attempt to get some info. But she’d been around the block enough times to know that reporters were rarely her friend when running an investigation. Three other papers besides the Herald had received the photos from the killer. All three had contacted the FBI immediately. Only the Herald had chosen to print them, which figured. The others were more upscale rags, whereas the Herald was sensationalistic and played gutter ball.

There was no way in hell she was giving them anything more than they already had, which was nothing by the sound of it. The reporter was just trying to find another angle to milk. Articles that said, ‘Police still looking for killer’ didn’t sell papers, so the fact that he was calling told her everything she needed to know. The press office had already said there was a task force focusing on the killer, so that wasn’t news.

Silver hit the intercom button and punched in three digits. A male voice came on the line.

“Sam. Could you please come to my office for a second?”

Sam hesitated before answering, and when he did, he sounded impatient. “Uh, sure. I’m not doing much besides sorting through hundreds of images of pedestrians. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

He was becoming a problem. The tone, the attitude – she’d given him as much latitude as she intended to.

Another in a long series of unpleasant tasks. Just her luck. When it rained…

Sam sauntered in five minutes later with an expression of mild annoyance. Silver stood and gestured to a pair of chairs in front of her desk. Sam sat and gave her a quizzical look.

“I just got a call from a reporter at the Herald. He knew my name and that I was running the task force. Any idea how he came by that information?”

Sam’s face went blank, which she knew from working with him meant he was considering lying. His eyes always gave him away – a dart to the right, just for a second, even though he’d obviously practiced his poker face. She would have been able to beat him every time if they had been playing for money. Maybe if all else failed that was an option for funding Ben.

“Damn. I’m sorry. He must have heard your name when we were at the Herald offices. I might have mentioned it, or Simkins could have. I honestly don’t remember. But that’s the only thing I can think of.”

Completely non-disprovable and appeared to be taking the blame for both of them. Sam would do well in politics, she decided. Very polished.

“Hmm. I can see where that could happen. Listen, Sam, since I have you here, I want to get something else out in the open. I’ve been noticing that you seem to have a problem with many of my decisions lately. That’s coming out in your tone as well as our interactions. What’s that about?”

Sam shrugged. “We aren’t always going to agree on everything.”

“See? That’s what I mean. Your demeanor is flippant and disrespectful. No, let me finish.” She held up her hand so he wouldn’t interrupt – she could see that he was going to argue. “Sam, I don’t want a bunch of automatons on my team. I don’t need a group of yes-men. But I do expect respect, just as I treat everyone else with it. I don’t have to explain myself or put up with any thinly veiled, snarky bullshit. If you can’t get your attitude back in line, I’ll transfer you elsewhere – do I make myself clear? If you have a personal problem with me, then let’s hear it, because otherwise I expect you to get your act together and start behaving like a professional.” Silver was using her mommy tone automatically, and Sam had stiffened as she spoke.

“I…I’m sorry, Silver. I didn’t realize I was pushing the limits. I…”

“Sam. You’re a talented agent. I understand you may think you know a better way to do things than I do. And I don’t mind hearing about it. What I’m telling you is that your attitude needs adjusting. I don’t want to make this into a huge deal, but over the last few weeks you’ve become increasingly adversarial. So consider this fair warning. I don’t want to get into it with you, but if I have to make a formal request to get you off this team, I will. I think we would both be poorer for that so I’m approaching you unofficially. We have a killer who’s out there planning another murder, and we need to work together or he’s going to keep killing. Am I clear?”

Sam looked shaken. He’d obviously believed he could keep needling her and get away with it. She knew his type. The Bureau was full of them. Men who resented working for a woman, or who believed that they could do things better. She’d dealt with that attitude throughout her training and career, so she recognized it a mile away. She just wasn’t going to tolerate it on her task force.

“I…I get it. Again, it wasn’t intentional.”

Of course it was intentional. If she’d been a male supervisor, he wouldn’t have dared to pull these stunts.

None of which she said. The message had been delivered, and hopefully, received. It was actually harder to transfer an agent than she’d made it seem – there would be messy interviews, and she would be suspect for having been too sensitive or judgmental. She knew how things worked. She would be on the defensive because the system would assume that she had over-reacted and couldn’t handle a little criticism or healthy dissention.

Sam stood and Silver nodded. The meeting was at an end.

“One more thing. How’s the traffic cam study coming? That’s about all we have in terms of promising leads. It’s one of the reasons I gave it to you – I need it done thoroughly and correctly the first time.” It wouldn’t hurt to praise him a little now. A slap on the face followed by a pat on the head usually worked wonders.

“It’s going well. I’m hopeful we have it finished within twenty-four hours. The facial recognition software is next, but it can be buggy. I’m going over every match personally. There are a lot of them. It’s a busy area.”

“Let’s hope we get a hit. Thanks for putting in the time, Sam.” She studied him. “Are we good?”

He shrugged again, but this time with no attitude. “Sure. No problem.”

Sam opened the door and went back to his area. Silver groaned; she hated that kind of confrontation, but it had to be done.

Returning to the reporter’s call, she logged the discussion and typed in a few quick notes, then picked up a stack of paperwork from her inbox that she’d been delaying dealing with.

Silver took a sip of water and put the call and her run-in with Sam out of her head, trying to focus on the job at hand. It was hard after her meeting with Ben. She looked at the wall clock and noted that she had four hours of work to fit into another two hours.

It was going to be a frantic afternoon.

~ ~ ~

Richard ducked his head into Silver’s office at just before five o’clock and asked if she was doing anything. She waved at the paperwork covering her desk and offered a wan smile.

“Nothing more than usual. What’s up?”

“I’ve spent more time on the partner, and it looks like he’s quite a character. Sits on the board of a number of technology companies, all of which have something to do with the brokerage industry. It’s amazing to me how plugged-in he is to big names – I mean, I’ve never heard of him, and yet he’s peripherally associated with just about everyone who matters in the clearance and settlement system on Wall Street.” He entered her office and sat down at her conference table with his iPad.

“The what?” Silver rounded her desk and sat across from him.

“It’s the plumbing that makes everything work. The back office, where all the accounting takes place. Everywhere you look the victim and his partner show up.”

“But that’s their business, right? Is it really so surprising?”

“Yes, it kind of is. Think about it logically. The markets are vast, and tens of thousands of people work in the industry – maybe more, for all I know, if you take all the peripheral functions. To have two guys so connected to everything that has to do with one area is unusual, to say the least. There are a lot of people out there trying to invent better mousetraps – competition for everything in the industry is fierce, and to have two virtual unknowns so entwined with the guts of the trading machinery is, well, for lack of a better word, remarkable. And for one of the two to be so close to some of the biggest terrorist financiers in the world is beyond worrisome.”

Silver shifted. “I get that you’re troubled by it.”

Richard nodded. “It’s like finding out that the brother of a guy who used to hang out with Osama Bin Laden is involved with virtually every company that makes the guidance systems for nuclear warheads. No, I take that back. A better example would be that he wrote the software for, or had a hand in founding, every company responsible for controlling the nation’s nuclear power plants. It’s that weird. Think about it for a second. If you just removed the words financial industry and replaced them with nuclear industry, there would be investigations mounted before I could put down the phone. And yet here we have nothing.”

“Right. But it’s not the same, Richard.”

“No, but the financial system has the same capacity to cripple us, if not more so. We’re so used to anticipating risks in a conventional sense – planes flying into buildings or bombs strapped to people’s chests – but the truth is that’s all completely obsolete. If you want to wage war these days there’s no need to drop bombs or invade. You just attack the target’s economy and pretty soon your enemy is begging for a loan.”

“But you’ve found no evidence of any foul play, right?”

“Not so far, but how long have I been looking into this? I have a good nose for crookery, and I’ve never seen a scenario that demands a task force more than this one. Yet nobody seems worried but me. My boss was polite, but I could tell he isn’t going to push it.”

“That’s probably because nobody understands it like you do. This is pretty complex and arcane stuff, Richard. It sounds like he doesn’t have a clue what’s really at stake here.”

“I know. It’s one of the many curses of being a numbers geek.”

During the next half an hour, Richard painstakingly walked her through his research until Silver realized that her eyes were starting to glaze over. He was so passionate about the topic you could feel the electricity coming off him, like an engine revving at ten thousand RPM. But in the end, for all the intrigue, it wasn’t getting them any closer to catching the killer – which was her primary directive.

“I agree this is alarming, but frankly, Richard, I don’t see what we can do about it. I don’t mean to be small-minded, but I’m going to stay focused on the task force and try to avoid getting sucked into tangents – as fascinating as they are.” She stifled a yawn.

“Saving the financial system from itself is definitely not in our job description.” Richard shook his head and looked at his watch. “It’s just depressing that you can have a hole this big, with such profound implications, and nobody wants to know about it.”

“We can add it to the list of unfair things in the world,” she agreed.

He stretched his arms over his head and sighed, then gave her a look of frustration and…something else. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink.” He paused, as if mulling over a difficult decision, then leaned back in his chair and fixed her with an intense gaze. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Silver. I completely respect your position of authority and the fact that you’re the task force leader on this case…but would you like to have a cocktail with me? Maybe grab dinner?”

Silver’s breath caught in her throat, and she felt herself flushing. Was he asking her out?

She hesitated for a few seconds before speaking. “Are you asking me out?”

Richard appeared to consider her question, and then nodded. “You know what? I am.”

A cascade of mixed emotions came crashing in at once. What was he thinking? And what was she? There was no way she could go out with Richard. It wasn’t appropriate.

Why not? He’s a temporary resource assigned for who knows how long, not a permanent fixture, and he’s close to the same rank – not that it mattered. So there wasn’t really anything wrong with having dinner with him, was there? There weren’t any rules against it. The little voice in her head wasn’t helping. The last thing she needed with all the other crap going on in her life was to get involved with a co-worker.

He’s asking you out for a drink, not suggesting you have sex on the table. Although it’s certainly been a while. And there are always going to be plenty of emergencies to contend with – if you wait until there aren’t any crises, you’ll be in your seventies before you see a naked man anywhere but in the movies. Her inner dialogue was not providing the kind of support she needed. This was crazy. The answer was no. Absolutely not.

“I’d have to get a babysitter.”

Was that her voice? Did she just say that?

“That’s what they’re for, right?” Richard’s eyes glittered. She could swear they did. Glittered like diamonds.

“I…I don’t know if this is such a good idea, Richard.” Finally. Whatever evil demon had temporarily possessed her had departed and sanity had returned.

“What? Getting a babysitter? I mean, you can’t just leave Kennedy locked in the attic. They frown on that sort of thing, even in New York – don’t they? I’m not up on all the local codes, but still…”

They both laughed nervously. The tension had been broken.

“I suppose one drink wouldn’t kill me. It’s forever since I’ve been anyplace but my kitchen at night. It might be good to get out.” Yes. And maybe he can dance for you. Take off that hot, binding shirt and swing it around his head, above washboard abs…

“Then it’s decided. You make a few calls, I’ll cancel my dinner at the United Nations, and we can go grab a bite and have a martini or something. I can even give you a ride to pick up Kennedy, if you want. Chauffeur service, with food dangled as a lure. How can you beat that?” Richard asked, and Silver had to laugh again. He did have a quirky charm.

And maybe he does have washboard abs. Judging by the rest of him, you never knew.

She felt a flush rise to her cheeks as she quickly rose and smoothed her blouse. “Okay, then. You talked me into it. Let me see what I can do. Are we done with all this for the day? Is there anything else that’s germane to the case you’ve been able to find?” Silver asked, struggling to deflect her inner tension.

“No, you just heard everything. But you have to admit, the more we look into this, the uglier it gets. It starts to look more plausible that this could be a concerted effort rather than a single perpetrator. I’m not saying that’s what’s happening. I’m saying that, given the players, you certainly can’t rule it out.”

“I know what you mean, but I’m not sold on the idea of The Regulator as a red herring. I won’t discount anything, but all along this has felt more, I don’t know, personal. Something about the way he’s carrying out the killings. Don’t ask me why I’m so convinced, but I am.” Silver realized as she finished that she sounded completely illogical.

“I happen to agree with you, Silver, although the group theory is certainly plausible. Tell you what. Let’s put this to bed for the evening and come back to it tomorrow, shall we? I don’t think we’re going to make any more progress today. I’m beat – I feel like I’m running on empty.”

“Sounds like a plan. Let me go make some calls. I’ll buzz you when I know for sure about the babysitter.”

Richard collected his papers and loosened his tie. “Okay. You know where I’ll be.”

Silver felt dizzy as he left her office. What had just happened? One minute they were discussing the world of financial terrorism and the next she’d been agreeing to dinner and drinks. It felt overwhelming. And crazy. Impulsive. Completely unlike her.

And right. It felt right.

It was as though part of her psyche had been spirited back to high school; butterflies of excitement and anticipation danced a tarantella in her stomach.

She hoped Sarah, her babysitter, was available on short notice.

Life had just gotten interesting.

~ ~ ~

Richard drove to the daycare, and after some awkward introductions, he ferried Silver and Kennedy home, fighting his way through the snarl of belligerent vehicles, obviously uncomfortable with the aggressive driving style of the New York streets. When they arrived at her flat, Silver agreed to meet him in an hour, and then she and Kennedy disappeared into the building in a swirl of hair and giggles.

He raced to his little apartment, took a quick shower, and changed into something more relaxed than his suit, then spent the balance of his time calling around to the few restaurants he’d heard of – with no success.

The traffic lights conspired to make him a few minutes late; he arrived to find her already waiting for him on the sidewalk, wearing jeans and a colorful blouse. She swung the door open and slid into the passenger seat.

He greeted her with his relaxed grin. “Kennedy all set?”

“You bet. She loves it when Sarah’s there because she can sit on the computer for hours, and all Sarah wants to do is watch TV and chat on her cell phone. It’s a symbiotic relationship. Sarah gets paid, and Kennedy gets to do what she enjoys…and I get to have a cocktail and some decent food. I hope you’ve picked a good place.”

“Actually, I bombed out on getting a reservation on short notice. But I’ve heard there are a slew of restaurants over by Union Square. Maybe we can get into one without having to pay a fortune to bribe the head waiter?”

“Beats me. You’ve probably eaten out more than I have. My evenings are spent slaving over a hot microwave and dealing with work I brought home.”

“Well, then we’re both in for a treat. My dining adventures have been confined to take-out Chinese and pizza from the places on my block. I do some of my better work at night. Always been like that, ever since my college days. I sort of got into the habit, and it stuck.”

Within eight minutes they’d found a parking lot that wasn’t full, and the second restaurant they tried had open tables – a cozy Italian bistro masquerading as ‘continental’ with a Mediterranean twist. They ordered drinks and took their time with the menu as the waiter dallied at the bar.

Once their cosmopolitans had arrived they made their dinner selection, and the waiter returned with a basket of bread and a ceramic bowl of garlic-infused oil. They dipped and munched, and Richard took a long appreciative sip of his drink before leaning back and letting out a sigh.

“I can’t tell you how good that tastes after a day like today.”

“Oh, I think I’ve got a pretty good idea,” she said and took a pull on hers.

They made small talk as the appetizer arrived – something the menu referred to as Pan-Asian Italian fusion that seemed suspiciously like bruschetta with fresh ginger on top. Silver took a tentative bite and pronounced it delicious. Richard wasted no time digging in.

The background music changed from a vaguely French accordion-driven melody to Moroccan over a slow-grooving techno beat. The ambient lighting level was lowered to suit the hour, creating a warm amber glow. The second sip of her Cosmo tasted better than the first, and Silver felt herself relaxing.

Richard made a silent toast with his drink and then grinned. “So, Assistant Special Agent in Charge Cassidy, what’s your story? How did you get to be such a kick-ass crime fighter?” he asked.

She smiled. “A ‘kick-ass crime fighter’, you say? Wow. Kennedy will love that. I think you may have just coined her new nickname for me.” She set her drink down on the table. “My story? Boy. How much time do we have?”

“It’s your babysitter that’s on the clock. But from my standpoint, I’d say as long as it takes.”

“That’s very generous of you, but be careful what you wish for.” Her eyes flitted to the ceiling for a moment. “Let’s see. I was born in Maine, moved to New York to go to college – Columbia – and got my degree in business. I knew I wanted to be with the FBI since I was about sixteen years old. Don’t ask me why. That’s a whole other story. Anyhow, once I graduated, I applied to the Bureau and was accepted under a language program thirteen years ago…and the rest is history.”

“What do you speak?”

“Spanish. My mom was from El Salvador, so I grew up fluent.”

“Have you always been in Violent Crime?”

“No, I did my first eight in Organized Crime, then switched. What about you?” Silver was always uncomfortable talking about herself.

“Graduated Georgetown with a CPA and then a law degree, joined the bureau fourteen years ago, and have been happy ever since. But what about the rest of your story? You know – the non-career stuff? Kennedy? Life?” Richard probed.

“Kennedy is the best thing that ever happened to me. Her father is probably the worst. We got married twelve years ago after a whirlwind courtship once I finished with training. A classic Cinderella story. He was a New York wheeler-dealer from a privileged family, and I was a girl from the sticks, in the big city with no friends. I was pretty much all about getting straight A’s so I didn’t do the usual college party thing. I met him my last year in school, and he was charming and smooth. One thing led to another, and we were sort of a couple until I went to Quantico. He would come to town every few weeks to visit me, and I thought it was true love. Once I was an agent we moved in together, and I’d commute upstate during the weeks before we got married six months later. Kennedy was a surprise, but the best one I could have ever had.”

Silver finished her drink and motioned to the waiter that she wanted another. Richard polished his off and held up two fingers.

“How long have you been separated?” Richard asked.

“Divorced. About five years.”

“Do I dare ask why?”

“I could say irreconcilable differences, but the truth is I discovered he was chronically unfaithful – probably throughout the marriage, including when I was pregnant. I decided I could do better than that, so I folded up my tent and filed for divorce. It was devastating for Kennedy at first, but she’s adjusted now, for the most part.”

The waiter arrived with their second round of drinks and assured them that their entrées would be out shortly.

“And now? Boyfriend?” Richard asked.

“Honestly, that hasn’t been a big priority. Between running task forces and being a single mom, there isn’t a lot of disco time, if you know what I mean,” Silver admitted.

“Then it sounds like you could use this drink even more than I could.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Silver said and took a noisy slurp.

She set her glass down and studied Richard. “Since we’re on the full disclosure path, what about you? What’s your deal?”

“My deal?”

“Sure. Ever been married?”

“Nope. Came close once, but I chickened out at the last minute, which was for the best. I loved her, or thought I did, but she wanted this whole structured life that she’d already planned out, and I got to feeling like I was just another slot to fill – the loving husband slot – in her vision of what a life well lived would entail. Nothing wrong with that, but I sort of felt like if it wasn’t me in the slot she would find someone else pretty quickly. Which is exactly what happened. In hindsight, it was the best thing for both of us. She has an insurance executive husband who does the nine-to-five thing and goes to the kids’ soccer games on weekends, and she’s a stay-at-home mom working on the great American novel. She was a literature major at Georgetown. We hit it off after meeting at a friend’s party.”

“And since then? Girlfriend?” Silver smiled as she echoed his question.

“A few, but nothing that stuck. Last relationship lasted almost three years, but I spent the first year falling head over heels, the second asking myself what the hell I was doing, and the final one trying to end it. So no, nothing going on in my love life. Which leaves a lot of time for poring over financial data.”

The waiter arrived with their dinners, setting them down with a gentle precision before retreating from their table.

As they chatted, Silver realized that he was calm and humble; two traits she’d always found attractive. Richard seemed like the real thing – a nice guy who was comfortable in his skin, not struggling to impress.

“What about your analyst – Stacy? She seemed like she’d be receptive.”

“Stacy? Nah. Not my type. I mean, don’t get me wrong. She’s smart and attractive…but after working together for a few years, let’s just say that I know enough to know it wouldn’t work. So why go there?” Richard took a forkful of his fish and tried it. “Mmmm. This is excellent. You have to try some.”

He cut a piece for her and slid it onto her plate.

She popped it into her mouth and nodded approval. “You’re right. That’s great. What is it?”

“Pesto crusted halibut. Baked. Melts in your mouth.”

“My eggplant is wonderful too. Can I tempt you?”

“Maybe later…”

Silver wondered how he intended that, then decided she wasn’t worried about it. She was having a good time with a handsome, nice, eligible man. She could turn her brain off for a while.

They finished dinner and lingered over a nightcap, chatting easily, any trace of awkwardness in each other’s company now completely gone. She decided that she liked the way Richard looked when he talked – his facial expressions, and the way his eyes fixed her with a palpable intensity.

When they pulled up to her building, Richard surprised her by leaning over and kissing her; a slow, gentle-yet-passionate kiss that seemed to go on forever. She closed her eyes as their tongues danced, and when he pulled back, she realized she’d been holding her breath.

“I…that…”

“I had a wonderful time, Silver.”

She studied him, taking in his serious demeanor; confident, and yet with a hint of something else. Was he afraid she was going to say something to ruin it? Scold him, or chastise him? That was it. He looked just a little uneasy, as though afraid he’d crossed a line she hadn’t wanted him to cross.

She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, savoring his scent and the feel of his face against hers.

“I did, too. Especially this part.” She held her hand up and stroked his chin, then slid out the door. “Goodnight, Richard. It was a perfect evening.”

He waited until she unlocked her front door and then waved as he pulled off.

She ascended the stairs slowly, thoughtfully, her mind a whirl of conflicting impressions. What was she doing? This was so unlike her – the methodical, cautious, orderly Silver she was comfortable with. This had come on like some kind of a force of nature, a storm rolling into previously calm skies. The feel of his lips on hers, the taste of him, lingered as she reached her landing. She paused to take stock of how she felt.

Giddy, she decided – like she wanted to run back down to the street and chase after the car, grab Richard, and drag him someplace private.

Whatever this storm may bring, she welcomed it.

It had been too long.

She took several deep breaths and patted her hair as she waited for her heart rate to return to normal. Richard had triggered a reaction in her that was completely unexpected, one that she’d long ago decided was part of her past, not her future. She didn’t know how that would develop, but she did know that she wanted to see him again outside of work and damn the consequences. There had been a promise of unfinished business in that kiss, and she wanted to confirm whether her attraction to him, so powerful and immediate, was a product of the night and the booze, or something more.

There was only one way to find out.

Chapter 10

“We’ve got another one,” Seth said, his voice sounding muted on the cell phone.

“Damn. Where this time? What are the details?” Silver asked, as she struggled to pour cereal into Kennedy’s bowl while she held the phone to her ear with her shoulder. She moved to the refrigerator and pulled out a milk carton. Kennedy held her hands out to take it from her.

“Here, in the city. Upper East Side. Head of a mid-sized brokerage firm. Suffocated in his car.”

“Who found him?” Silver watched Kennedy carefully pour the milk, trying to be neat.

“A custodian. Car was running, so he checked it, and the victim was sitting behind the wheel with a plastic bag over his head.”

“Any sign of a struggle?”

“There was a garrote wire holding his neck against the headrest, and it cut into him pretty good, so we know he thrashed around some in the end. But the ME thinks that could have been death throes. We’re thinking that he was drugged, or stun-gunned, or both. Won’t know until later, but apparent cause of death was suffocation.”

“I don’t even want to ask about the card.”

Silver sat down opposite Kennedy and took a sip of her smoothie – a concoction she blended fresh every morning using fresh fruit and yogurt.

“In his jacket pocket. Says: ‘Don’t hold your breath’. Seems like The Regulator has a twisted sense of humor. Go figure.”

“Is forensics on the way?”

“Already here. NYPD is cooperating, so all systems go.”

“Give me the address. I need to get Kennedy dropped off, and then I’ll come straight there. Anything else I need to know?”

Kennedy made a face. She hated when her mother talked about her like she wasn’t there. Silver stuck her tongue out at her.

“Not really. The only piece of good news is that we have traffic cams on both ends of the block, so we might get lucky this time. Either our man wasn’t paying attention, or he didn’t care. In either case it’s good for us. I’m going to get the feeds downloaded and over to Sam as soon as we can.” Seth gave her the address.

“Was there any security at the building?” Silver rose and went to the counter, where she hastily scribbled the street number on a notepad.

“Yes, a doorman. But the parking area was remote-controlled. Looks like the killer slipped in and got into the car somehow and then waited for the victim. He was headed to Connecticut for an early weekend. Market’s closed today for the bank holiday.”

“Which implies that the killer knew his habits. It also points to surveillance.”

“I agree. Does Kennedy have school?”

“No. Just daycare. So Mom can go make a living catching bad guys.”

“Well, take your time. This guy’s not going anywhere. Ever.”

“I’ll see you within the hour.”

Silver terminated the call and turned her attention to Kennedy. “What’s with the making faces and not eating your breakfast?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I’m going to tell Miriam not to give you anything until lunch. You’ll regret your insolence. Resistance is futile,” Silver said in a robotic monotone. This would normally have caused Kennedy to crack up, but not today.

“What’s wrong, sweetie?”

“Nothing. I just hate that you have to work on days when I don’t have school. It sucks.”

“Yes, it does suck. I wish I was hanging out with you all day instead of having to do what I’m going to be doing.”

“They found another body?”

Silver didn’t like to talk about the job with Kennedy. She was too young. But she’d also just overheard half the conversation, and she wasn’t stupid.

“Something like that. I need to get moving or I’ll never make it to work. You going to eat, or is this one of your hunger strikes?”

“I’m really not hungry, Mom. I’m not trying to make life difficult.” Kennedy let loose a mischievous smirk. “Not today, anyway.”

“That’s good to know. I appreciate you cutting me some slack.”

Kennedy pushed her cereal around the bowl with her spoon and took a tentative bite, making a face like she was eating live cockroaches. She dropped the spoon into the dish with a clatter and pushed it away.

“I can’t do it. I just don’t want any,” she insisted.

“Suit yourself, princess, but you’re going to be starving all morning, and it’s nobody’s fault but your own.”

“Can’t we stop at the Juice Hut and get something? That’s way healthier. Carrot, mango…”

“Nope. We need to get going. Last chance to fill your pie hole. Take it or leave it.”

Kennedy shook her head.

“Okay. Put it in the sink, and vamanos.”

Silver was already mentally going through her checklist. She didn’t have the bandwidth to engage in a food tug of war with her daughter today. She rose and dumped her now-empty glass in the sink, then stood by while Kennedy approached, holding out the cereal bowl shakily. She really was just a little girl – a ten-year-old trying to make sense out of the world.

Silver didn’t want to ruin it for her and tell her that it wouldn’t get any easier from here. Let her have her illusions.

“All right. Grab your backpack, and let’s boogie. Time’s a wasting.”

They gathered their things and made for the door, Kennedy scooping up her backpack and an individual serving box of juice to have with lunch. Silver went through the exercise of locking the two deadbolts before they descended the stairs to the front entrance.

~ ~ ~

The short, crew-cut man watched as the woman crossed the street from the subway stop and made her way towards the large building that housed the FBI offices. She was practically running, which would make sneaking up on her without being detected more of a problem.

This one wouldn’t be easy. There were pedestrians everywhere, and any public assault would cause instant panic. He eyed her over his newspaper as she moved through the doors, and resigned himself to a dull day hanging around waiting for an opportunity.

He was just about to go grab breakfast in one of the greasy spoons across the street when she exited again and trotted down the sidewalk towards the garage. He had confirmed that was where the car she used for official business was kept. His senses quickened. This could be it.

The man folded his paper and walked parallel to her, sixty yards behind and at a slower gait so as not to arouse suspicion. The garage had two exits, and he’d spent time studying the layout, so he knew that he could get in through the smaller walkway or through the main auto gate. Judging by her trajectory she would almost certainly go through the main entry, so he cut down the alley and entered through the pedestrian entrance.

He was about to make a cool fifty grand.

~ ~ ~

Silver hoped the holiday traffic would be light and that it wouldn’t take too long to make it to the crime scene. She’d needed to drop in and collect her field kit and sign a few vouchers before heading out.

As she strode through the garage entrance, her phone beeped an instant message notification. She waved at the attendant as she read it and noted that half the stalls were empty – that was hopeful. As she rounded a van and texted a reply she caught movement out of the corner of her eye – just an impression, at the far end, fairly close to her car. She relaxed when she saw that it was only Hank, the neighborhood homeless man who cleaned windshields around the block for spare change. He was pushing his cart of precious treasures, one of the wheels clattering as it vibrated erratically, something wrong with the bearing.

Hank had been eking out his grim existence near the garage for the five years she’d been working out of the building. He stopped his trek when he saw her and straightened his hunched form to attention, doing his best to hold a salute. The filthy clothes and stained, cast-off overcoat did little to augment the gesture, but she waved anyway, as was her custom. He waited until she passed, and then she heard the clamor of his cart lurching back into motion.

Her mind was churning over the implications of another killing – a little over a week after the last one. The Regulator was accelerating, which didn’t portend good things given that the crime scenes were still devoid of clues. This was the worst kind of killer to pursue – one whose actions would continue until he made a critical mistake or the FBI just got plain old lucky. And that didn’t seem likely any time soon.

She stiffened as an explosion of feathers burst from between two cars, and a pigeon flapped its way noisily towards the exit. Her nerves were closer to the surface than usual. Probably the anxiety over her ex and the financial pressure, as well as that of batting zero for five now on the killer. She hadn’t been sleeping well, was on edge from a combination of sleep deprivation and caffeine jitters.

Silver sighed when she saw the familiar outline of her car.

From behind her, a man’s hoarse voice screamed, “Hey! HEY! LOOK OUT!”

Silver spun around and registered a man barreling towards her, the unmistakable outline of a pistol pointing at her head. She instinctively hurled her briefcase at her attacker and dropped to the ground. Everything began to happen in slow motion. Hank stood petrified at the far end of the garage after bellowing his warning as she tucked and rolled and simultaneously grappled for her service weapon. The window of the sedan next to her exploded in a shower of glass inches from where her head had been a moment earlier. As she watched the careening briefcase bounce harmlessly off her attacker’s shoulder, her fingers found her Glock’s grip. She pulled the gun loose just as her assailant’s eyes narrowed in preparation for another shot, then rolled through the broken safety glass, raised her pistol in front of her, and squeezed off three rounds.

An orange bloom of flame erupted from his gun and a burning pain shot across her left buttock, but she continued rapid firing and was rewarded as the shooter’s chest erupted with smoking red wounds. He tried one more shot as he stumbled forward and crumpled, but the slug went wide. A burbled groan sounded from him when he hit the concrete, his gun clattering beside him onto the floor of the garage.

Silver held her position on the ground, weapon trained on the man’s form, and watched as his body heaved, struggling for breath, and then shuddered and lay still. Her ears were ringing from her Glock’s detonations in the confined space. She shook her head to clear it and wiped sweat from her eyes with the back of her hand. It took a few moments for her to stop shaking from the adrenaline, even as she fought to maintain calm and kept her gun pointed at her would-be killer.

After what seemed like an hour, Hank hesitantly approached. She heard her voice, sounding distant and eerily foreign.

“Stay back. Do not approach. Hank. Stay back. Stay where you are!”

Her eyes instinctively roamed over the other vehicles, searching for any additional threat. It appeared that it was just Hank in the immediate vicinity. She rose unsteadily to her feet, gun clenched in front of her with both hands as she’d been taught, muzzle still locked on the inert attacker. Hank had frozen twenty yards from the carnage, eyes glued to the spectacle.

She took several cautious steps towards the body, and after detecting no danger, closed the distance, kicking the assailant’s pistol five feet further from his outstretched hand. He wasn’t moving, so she sidled behind him, and she saw three exit wounds in his back. A small voice in her head noted that it was a nice grouping considering the circumstances – rolling through glass while trying for an erratically moving target with no real time to aim.

The pain from where she’d been hit flared into her consciousness. She lowered her pistol, changing from a two-handed grip to single so she could probe her injury. Her left hand came away shining with bright red blood, which she wiped on her jacket before reaching for her phone. She thumbed the speed dial and got Seth on the third ring.

“Seth. I’m in the garage by the office. Shots fired. I’ve been hit. I got the shooter – he’s down, but I need backup and an ambulance.” Silver was surprised how calm her voice sounded, still as if from a distance due to the gunfire-induced tinnitus.

“How badly are you hurt?” Seth asked.

“I’ll live. But get me some backup and an EMT. I’m bleeding and don’t know how long I’ll be conscious…”

“Done. I’ll call right back. Keep the line open once you answer.” Seth hung up.

She registered the wail of distant sirens competing with the ringing in her ears.

A wave of dizziness washed over her, and then her knees gave out, and she slumped against a nearby car, Glock still pointed at the man’s bulk, her hand clutching the telephone as she sank to the floor. She laid the handset on the ground, pulled out her badge and slipped the nylon cord that dangled from it over her head, smearing blood on her face in the process.

When the first squad cars arrived, followed by a group of FBI at a run from the building, they found her still alert, weapon steadily pointed at the shooter’s corpse, sitting in a small puddle of her own blood and looking like she’d fought her way through hell.

It took three tries to get her to lower her weapon.

She blacked out a few seconds later.

Chapter 11

The bouncing movement that woke Silver made her wonder if she was being tossed in the air by a group holding a blanket. She squinted open her eyes to find a concerned male face staring down at her. There was a mask over her nose and mouth. She raised her hand, and the man gently pushed it back to her side.

“You’re on your way to the hospital. In an ambulance. Don’t take the mask off until someone does it for you.” He winked. “Insurance rules.”

Silver shook her head. “But I feel better. I don’t need help breathing. I got shot in the ass, not the throat.”

“You lost a lot of blood and have been through a very difficult ordeal. Just play along, and it won’t be my problem in another five minutes. We’re almost there.” He gave her a friendly look. “You don’t want me to get fired, do you?”

“What a con artist. I know it’s harder to fire you than it is a congressman. Who are you kidding?”

The ambulance swung right, and they bounced a few more times before pulling up outside the emergency room entrance.

“Weeeee’re Heeeeeere,” the paramedic announced as he ceremoniously swung the rear doors open.

Silver was on a gurney with a small oxygen tank mounted on one side and an IV bag on the other. Quite a fanfare for a grazed butt, she thought, but the fight had gone out of her. The gurney was hauled from the back of the ambulance, and then she was being rolled through the doors to the emergency room, where she was clearly a high-priority patient. Within seconds she was in the rear of the ward with a curtain pulled around her, and a concerned, tired-looking doctor who looked like he was all of twenty-seven took her vitals as they shifted her to a hospital bed outside of one of the staging rooms that led to the operating rooms.

The doctor narrowed his bloodshot eyes. “Gunshot. She’s an FBI agent. Let’s keep the line going and get a look at the wound,” he barked at the two nurses on either side.

“I got hit in the butt. It’s not the end of the world. Hurts, though…”

“I’ll bet it does. Let’s get these pants cut off, and we’ll give you something for the pain.”

“Do you have to cut them? Really? Can’t I just take them off?”

“Lady, you’ve been shot. Don’t worry about the outfit, okay? Just let me peek at what we have and assess the damage.”

Silver acceded and shifted over onto her side. “Can you take the mask off me?”

The doctor nodded at one of the nurses, and she removed it.

“That’s better. Thank you.”

Another pair of hands efficiently cut away her pants and panties, while a third pulled off her jacket and put it into a plastic bag. Soon, she was in a gown, her modesty a non-issue to the medical staff who saw naked women and gunshot wounds on a regular basis.

“You’ve been lucky,” the doctor said. “It looks like the bullet creased the top of your buttock but missed the lion’s share of the muscle. Still, you lost a lot of blood.”

“I told you it was no big deal.”

“I didn’t say that. You’ve been shot. What I need to do is clean the wound and stitch you up. I’ll put you out, and within no time you’ll be running marathons.”

“No. Just use a local. I have work I need to do today.”

“It’s your call, but I’d go for the general if I were you.”

“You’re not me.”

“How’s your pain tolerance?” he asked.

“I gave birth to an eight-and-a-half-pound daughter. Have you?”

“Fair point.”

The doctor swung around to the staff. “Get her into OR number three, and I’ll be in shortly. Prep her.”

He turned back to Silver and offered a fatigued smile. “This will probably leave a scar. Maybe not much, but it will be there.”

“There goes my pole-dancing gig. Although maybe I can get some sympathy cash for it?”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. Maybe I’ll get a marijuana leaf tattoo to cover it up.”

He regarded her.

“I’ll see you in about ten minutes,” he said and moved to the foot of the bed. “I charge extra for the tattoo. The nurse will bring you a book of designs. I like the Kanji script ones for this type of scar. Says something like ‘I wonder what the hell this says’ in Japanese.”

Silver sighed.

She was in good hands, even if he did look like he should be in class somewhere instead of working in a hospital.

~ ~ ~

Once the short procedure was over, Silver was wheeled to a private room.

Within half an hour Seth, Richard and Brett appeared.

“I’m going to need some new clothes. They cut mine to pieces,” she grumbled by way of greeting.

Seth nodded. “Monique can pick up whatever you need. What are you thinking?”

“A pair of pants, and some, er…underwear. She knows about how big I am.”

“Size…four?” Seth guessed.

“Nice try. Given where the bullet hit, let’s go for more like a size ten to twelve. Little more room. You can tell her the problem, and she’ll figure it out.”

“I’ll sign off on the expense report,” Brett said. “Definitely line of duty.”

Seth moved to the window and made a hurried call to Monique, then gave Silver the thumbs-up sign.

“It was nice of everyone to come down, but I’m afraid it’s anti-climactic. It was really just a scratch. That’s why I want some clothes – so I can get the hell out of here.”

Brett and Seth exchanged glances.

“You should probably rest, Silver,” Seth advised her. “We’ve got it handled. The latest victim is still dead. The scene is being processed. Not a lot for you to do.”

“Guys. Please. A bullet grazed me. It was nothing. I could have put a few Band-Aids on it, and it would have been fine.”

“That’s not entirely true,” Richard said. “A lot of your blood was left pooled on the garage floor, from what I could see – I stopped there on the way over.”

“Right. Which was replaced by the IV fluids and the frigging orange juice they’ve had me drinking like it’s holy water. It’s been three hours. I got a scratch. On the battlefield, I’d be back shooting by now. Give me a break.”

The door opened, and the doctor entered holding a chart. He looked at the small group assembled in the room and then focused on her.

“You’ll be good as new in a little while.”

“That’s what I was trying to tell them. Now let me out of here.”

The doctor shook his head. “Not quite so fast, I’m afraid. We still need to keep you for a few more hours before I can let you go. Purely routine. Once you’re discharged, try to take it easy for a few days. People process shock in different ways, and you just underwent a trauma.”

“A few more hours? You’re kidding me.”

“Just doing my job. That’s all I have for you. The nurse will be in shortly to take you off the drip, and then you’ll need to sign a stack of forms – that should burn through the time and keep you occupied.”

“Thanks a lot…”

“Look at the bright side. No charge for the tattoo. My treat.”

The three men stood silently as the doctor left the room.

“What? It’s an inside joke,” Silver said, enjoying the expressions on their faces.

Brett cleared his throat. “You’ll need to do a psych evaluation first thing in the morning, Silver. All part of the drill following a shooting, as you know.”

“I hear voices.”

“Then you should have no problem,” Brett assured her.

“Since I can’t go to the scene, what do we know about the shooter? Who was he? Any info?”

Seth shifted uneasily. “Name was Leonid Sudenokov. Thirty-six years old. A driver for a meat wholesaler – at least that’s what his work papers claim. Based on the extensive body art and a few older wounds, we can safely assume he was Russian mafia. Likely ex-military. A few of the tattoos were consistent with their special forces group – spetsnaz. As you might have surmised, he was dead on arrival.”

“The wrong end of a Glock will do that for you,” Brett observed.

“I don’t get it. Why would the Russian mob be trying to take me out?” Silver asked, and then her face changed. “Oh my God. Andy. My old partner in Organized Crime was shot to death…”

“It was all over the news,” Brett said, “but there’s no way of knowing for sure whether these cases are connected, although I’ll admit the timing is awfully coincidental.”

“What about the shooter’s cell phone? Anything?”

Seth shook his head. “It was a burner cell, so nothing there. But he wasn’t planning on dying today – he had his wallet with him, all his ID and credit cards, and six hundred dollars cash.” He paused for a moment. “We’re already putting out feelers in the underworld. Don’t worry. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

“I’m just going through the cases I worked,” Silver said. “There were three involving the Russian mob, but one never went anywhere, and in the other two I wasn’t a major player. Just part of the team. So no reason to single me out.”

“We’ll know more over the next few days,” Brett said, “but I’ve asked for NYPD help. I want stepped-up security, including the garage. We had the bomb squad go over your car, by the way, and it wasn’t touched. Still, I’m going to assign a different vehicle until we have more information. And I’ve requested some uniforms at your building for a few days when you’re coming and going, just to be safe.”

“Great. On top of everything else, now the mob is gunning for me?”

Nobody had much to say to that.

“Well, I’ll let you get on with it,” Brett said. “I just wanted to see how you were and let you know that we’re a hundred percent behind you, Silver.” He moved to the door. “Don’t push yourself. That’s an order. Oh, and we have your service piece. Need to process it. Again, procedure. You have another weapon?”

“Yup. Another Glock.”

Richard eyed her.

“What? They’re like dogs. Keep each other company.”

Brett almost smiled. “All right. I’ll see you at the office tomorrow for the evaluation. I’ve got to issue a statement to the media today, but I’m going to be deliberately vague. Just that there was a shooting, with one casualty. No names, no details. I think we can get away with that for a while.”

Brett left, and Seth and Richard fidgeted.

“Pull up chairs. I want to know everything about the latest victim.”

They did as instructed, and Seth took her through what they knew on the latest killing.

“Another one with an SEC settlement,” Richard revealed. “Seven years ago. His brokerage was sanctioned for improperly segregating client accounts. Looks like they were co-mingling margin and cash accounts, which is a big no-no.”

Silver cocked her head at him.

“Okay. Put simply: with margin accounts, the broker is allowed to lend out any shares in them and collect a fee even though they aren’t his property. It’s a nice loophole so brokers can make money off assets that aren’t theirs.”

Seth frowned. “I don’t understand. They can take their clients’ stock, lend it, make money off it, and they’re allowed to? Isn’t that the clients’ property? What other business operates like that?”

“Yes. It’s in the fine print of every agreement in the industry. That’s one of the reasons all the discount brokers will execute a trade for next to nothing. The industry gave up making money off commissions a long time ago. Now, they want your account because if it’s a margin account, which most are, they can lend your shares out and collect fat loan fees, and not tell you.”

“But who do they lend to?” Silver asked. “Who wants to borrow shares?”

“Short sellers. The irony is that you own the shares of a company because you’re hoping the share price goes up, while your broker is lending your shares to short sellers who are trying to drive the price down.” Richard noticed the look on Silver’s face.

“And that’s legal?” Seth demanded.

“It is. But anyway, with cash accounts you aren’t allowed to do that. There’s supposed to be a wall between the margin accounts and the cash accounts. The theory that allows them to lend from margin accounts is that they’ve extended you credit and the shares are therefore their asset, to collateralize the credit. But with cash accounts, you own the assets and there is no credit, so they have no claim on your property. They’re just acting as custodians, holding your shares as a courtesy so you can trade more easily. Apparently our victim was playing fast and loose with the cash accounts too. Or at least that’s what the SEC contended. He settled with them, without admitting or denying guilt, of course.”

“What is that now?” Silver remarked. “Three out of five victims with SEC actions?”

“Yes, but for our purposes, that’s two out of five without. In terms of predictive value, I’m not sure it will help us figure out who will be next.”

“Great.”

“I know. It’s just information.”

Seth’s face was a picture of indignation. “Didn’t I read somewhere about the ex-governor or someone doing exactly what you described with over a billion dollars of his brokerage’s money? The firm went BK and the money’s gone?”

“That’s the general idea. But nobody has been prosecuted.”

“You take over a billion dollars of someone else’s money, it’s gone, and nobody gets charged?”

“Welcome to Wall Street.”

They considered the ramifications in silence for a few seconds before Silver asked, “Does the latest victim have any connection to any of the other victims, Richard?”

“We’re still digging, but it looks like there’s a link with the second and third victims – the hedge fund. This was one of the brokers that they used to process their trades.”

“One?”

“Hedge funds will often have a variety of brokers. Usually one prime broker – their main broker – but larger funds will have more than one prime broker, as well as secondary brokers. Depends on the fund and their trading strategy. In that hedge fund’s case it was largely short selling, or what they call short-biased.”

“Meaning they made their money by stocks going down?” Seth tried.

“You’re getting the hang of this. It’s more complicated than that, but yes, that’s essentially it. But there’s an even more ominous connection I’m still trying to get to the bottom of.”

“What’s that?”

“It looks like the latest victim could have been associated with some of the funds that come up when you look hard at the software guy’s partner. This broker handled several of the larger suspect investment funds that have been targeted for scrutiny because of terrorist ties.”

“Really,” Silver said.

“While it’s too soon to get all excited, my cronies back in Financial Crimes also flagged the broker as being rumored to be mob-connected. I’m trying to get more information on why that is, but if it’s correct, we have mob and terrorist money moving through him. I’m going to run all the brokers he has working for him to see if any of them have been sanctioned elsewhere. When you look at the mob on Wall Street, many of the same names keep popping up again and again. So it’s worth a check. I might get lucky. You never know.”

“Russian mob – like Masenkoff? Or Italian?” Silver asked.

“Both.”

“Every time we turn over a rock, this gets more complicated.”

“That’s what keeps it interesting, right?” Richard observed.

“And the shooter this morning looks like he was Russian mob…” Silver trailed off.

Her head was swimming from all the information and the implications.

If there was a pattern, other than that everyone appeared to get dirtier the harder they looked, she wasn’t seeing it.

They continued to discuss the findings until the nurse came in, as promised, with a file full of forms and a bag with clothes in it. Monique had saved the day.

While she was checking the relevant boxes and scribbling her signature, Richard offered to drive her wherever she needed to go after being discharged. She momentarily panicked at the thought of time having raced by, then confirmed it was actually only one o’clock – there was plenty of time to get Kennedy. Calculating, she decided she would make a call and tell Miriam the barest details of her ordeal and let her know she’d be dropping by early. If she didn’t have to work the rest of the afternoon, she might as well spend some quality time with her daughter.

“I’ll take you up on your kind offer, Richard. I should be ready to get out of here shortly.”

The nurse shook her head.

“An hour?”

The nurse nodded.

“Take your time. I’m in no hurry,” Richard assured Silver, who couldn’t conceal her annoyance at the delay.

“Okay. Now let me make a call and get dressed. Thanks, both of you, for coming.”

Seth rose quickly from his chair. “No problem, boss. I’m headed back to the scene. Call if you need anything,” he said, waving as he opened the door.

“Will do.”

Chapter 12

Surprisingly, the stitches didn’t hurt much – probably because the local anesthetic hadn’t completely worn off. The hospital had given her pain killers and warned her against aspirin for a week, which was fine – she preferred ibuprofen, anyway. She had no intention of taking the painkillers. Anything that would dull her reactions or thinking was out of the question.

As Silver and Richard made their way from the hospital, she stopped and picked up a copy of the Herald from the sidewalk magazine vendor. The headline screamed about the previous night’s killing in huge letters. She quickly scanned the contents, then looked at Richard with simmering anger.

“Did you see this?”

“I don’t read the Herald. Sorry.”

She shook the paper and then began reading aloud.

“Blah blah blah, ‘Horrendous murder’ blah blah. Oh. Here it is: ‘A task force is being headed by Assistant Special Agent In Charge Silver Cassidy, whose name might ring bells following her work on the Turnpike killer a few years ago. Cassidy declined to comment to the Herald when contacted’. What a prick this guy is. I mean, really.”

“What’s the big deal?”

“I try to keep a low profile. Now every reporter, author and nervous politician in New York knows I’m running the task force, which means I’m going to get bombarded with calls. It’s not the end of the world, but it’s another annoyance I’d just as soon do without.”

“I gotcha. Does it say anything else interesting?”

“Not really. Just a rehash of the older cases. I wonder where this guy’s getting his info from, though? He connected this killing with the others awfully quickly. We haven’t issued a statement yet, have we?”

Richard nodded. “We have, actually, but not in time for the Herald to go to press. I think one was issued late morning. NYPD contacts? Someone at the Bureau? Maybe the killer?”

“You’d think they would have called us if that was the case. Then again, you never know. It’s worth asking about, but the problem is there’s a limit to what I can demand if they start in with saying that they got their information from a protected source. Freedom of the press and all.”

“I’d still make the call.”

Silver typed in a quick reminder for herself on her cell phone then slid it back into her purse.

“Where are we off to? You have a chauffeur for the afternoon,” Richard announced cheerfully.

She glanced at him, the sun glinting off highlights in his hair she hadn’t noticed before, and realized she was glad he was escorting her.

She smiled for the first time in a few hours. “I hope you have a pillow for me to sit on.”

He slowed.

“Relax, Richard. I’m kidding. It’s not that bad.”

He resumed his pace. “You had me there for a second. But…I have to say – I don’t know how I’d be reacting if the same thing had happened to me this morning. I mean, Silver, come on. This is a big deal.”

Silver nodded. He was right. But she needed time to process it all, and for that, she needed to be alone.

“I know.”

~ ~ ~

Miriam looked troubled when Silver walked through the daycare door. She approached Silver and wordlessly hugged her.

“Hey. Let’s not act like we’re going to a funeral or anything, okay? It was just an incident. Nothing more. All part of the job.”

Kennedy came running from the back. “Mommy,” she cried and threw her arms around Silver, causing her to wince. The anesthetic was wearing off.

“Careful. You don’t want to break my hip.”

“Are you all right? What happened?” Miriam asked.

So much for downplaying things. Silver glanced at Kennedy and sighed.

“We had a…a situation this morning. You’ll probably be hearing about it on the news before too long. A man attacked me in the parking garage, and I had to use my gun to stop him.”

“Whoa. Did you shoot someone?” Kennedy asked in a voice laced with admiration.

“I’m afraid so, sweetheart.”

“Too cool.”

Silver hesitated, wondering how much her daughter was trying to shock her and how much was genuine. “No, it’s not cool. I’m lucky I’ve had the training to defend myself. Many wouldn’t have been that fortunate.”

“What exactly happened?” Miriam asked, prompting Silver to make an instantaneous decision.

“I can’t talk about the details. I’m not allowed to. Sorry. Those are the rules after a shooting.”

Both Miriam and Kennedy looked crestfallen.

“But you’re okay, Mom?”

She debated how much to share. “I hurt my butt. I’ll be sore for a few days, but that’s about it. So no spanking.”

Kennedy giggled. Miriam gave her a look that said she wouldn’t push it, but that she didn’t believe it was that minor.

Miriam sighed. “Well, you look like you’re in one piece. Thank God. That had to be a dreadful ordeal.”

“I’ve had better mornings. But hey, it gave me a chance to play hooky for the afternoon, so it isn’t all bad. Listen, Miriam, thanks so much for taking care of Kennedy. I don’t mean to rush out of here, but I have to go. I’ve got someone waiting outside in a car…”

“My pleasure, as always. See you tomorrow?”

“First thing. Kennedy, would you please grab your stuff so we can get going?”

Kennedy walked to the corner of the room and scooped up her bag. “Is Richard driving again? He’s cute.”

“It’s not like that. And mind your manners, young lady.”

“That means you think he’s cute, too!” Kennedy squealed.

“Can’t you go back to being more goth, or whatever it is you’ve been lately? You’re kind of freaking me out with all this good humor.”

Kennedy ignored her. “Does that mean he is driving again? Does he carry a gun too? Can I ask to see it?”

Silver gave her a look that could have stopped a truck. She knew Kennedy was deliberately pushing it now, probably from all the accumulated stress of worrying about her mom. But still.

“One wrong word out of you and you won’t have computer privileges for a week. I’m not kidding. So behave, or you’re going to regret it.”

Kennedy affected a pout.

Miriam smiled. “All right, you two. See you in the morning,” she said as mother and daughter began making their way to where Richard waited for them.

~ ~ ~

The afternoon sped by uneventfully, with Silver fielding a few calls while at home, including a return call from Ben, who had agreed to contact Eric and break the news about the shooting so he wouldn’t hear about it on the news. She felt like she was chickening out, but Ben had agreed that it was a good idea to avoid speaking directly to him. Eric was the enemy now, and she couldn’t afford for a slip of the tongue to be used against her later.

Ben had done the deed and had also asked Eric to refrain from contacting Silver, which was a huge relief. She didn’t need an inquisition, and Eric’s natural instinct was to strike whenever his adversary was weak.

Silver had Kennedy helping her make dinner, selecting the vegetables for their salad and setting the table. Kennedy had been remarkably meek all day, so when she turned to Silver with worry in her eyes, Silver knew that she would need to be careful how she handled the questions that were coming.

“Did you kill the man you shot today, Mom?”

Silver stopped chopping. “Yes, honey, I’m afraid I did. It was self-defense. There was no other way to stop him from hurting me.”

Kennedy nodded, as if understanding that and finding it reasonable. “Why was he trying to hurt you?”

A great question.

“We aren’t sure, sweetheart. We think it has something to do with my job. He was a criminal, and it could be that I somehow made him angry.”

“But don’t police do that every day? Criminals don’t come after police for doing their job.”

“No, ordinarily they don’t. That’s why nobody is sure what this is all about.”

“Are you safe now?”

“Yes, honey, I believe I am. The FBI has protection in place. Nobody can hurt us.”

Silver could see where this was going. She was going to have a kid who couldn’t get to sleep because of nightmares of bad guys trying to get them.

“Then why couldn’t they protect you this morning?”

“Because nobody knew this man was going to try to attack me.”

She instantly saw the hole in the logic of her response.

“But then couldn’t they also be missing someone else who wants to attack you?”

Silver put down the knife and wiped her hands on a towel and walked around the counter to face Kennedy. She sat down at the dining room table, put her hands on Kennedy’s shoulders and looked straight into her eyes.

“Your mom is an ass kicker, Kennedy. This guy tried to get me, and I took him down. That’s what I do for a living – I take down bad guys. I’m very good at it. It’s extremely rare for anyone to attack an FBI agent for that reason. It’s almost guaranteed failure. So this man was either crazy, or desperate, or stupid, because if you mess with me, you lose. Do you understand? Nothing in life is completely safe, but coming for me is about the most unsafe thing I can think of.”

A trace of a smile played around the corners of Kennedy’s lips.

“Having said that, it’s not pleasant to shoot someone, or to be shot at, and it’s even worse to kill someone. I wish I hadn’t had to do it. But sometimes you have to do things you don’t like, and this morning was one of those times.”

“And how’s your butt feeling? The wound?”

“It hurts a little. But I wouldn’t call it a wound. More like a scratch. A bullet ricocheted and creased my bottom. It was nothing. Really. A few stitches…”

Kennedy regarded her skeptically.

“Do I seem wounded to you?”

“You’ve been walking funny, and the clown pants you’re wearing are sort of strange-looking,” Kennedy deadpanned.

Shit. She’d completely forgotten about the pants she had on.

“It’s really nothing. And these are very fashionable right now.”

Kennedy rolled her eyes. “Sure, Mom. I can’t wait to get my own pair of big mama pants. Hey, can I see the wound?”

Silver stood and returned to preparing the salad. “If you’re good, after dinner. But all it’s going to look like is some stitches and some bruising. It’s probably ugly.”

“Okay. That will give us something to do besides watching TV. Now can we talk about Richard? Is he cute, or what?”

Silver shook her head. Another road she was not going down tonight. “No, we cannot talk about the agents I work with like they’re pieces of meat.”

“Is he single?”

“Why? Isn’t he kind of old for you?” Silver asked innocently.

“Is he?”

Silver sighed. She’d raised a pit bull.

Kennedy cocked one eyebrow. “Come on, Mom. Is he single or not?”

“I suppose so.”

“Girlfriend?”

“Kennedy. Seriously. Are you just trying to get under my skin? Haven’t I had a hard enough day as it is?”

Kennedy grinned. “Sorry for asking. It says online that you should establish your romantic interest in a firm yet relaxed manner. Men can get confused with mixed signals.”

Great. Now she was getting dating advice from her ten-year-old.

“Thanks for the tip. Where do you get this from? You’re too young to be reading about men and romance.”

“Oh, Mom. We aren’t living in the Middle Ages.”

“Keep this up, and I will be putting you into a convent until you’re eighteen.”

“I’m just saying. If you are interested, you should let him know. I think he’s a hunk.”

Silver exhaled noisily. “Noted. Now get over here and make yourself useful.”

~ ~ ~

The next morning, after two hours of being grilled by the psychiatrist, Silver had convinced him that she wasn’t going to swallow her pistol or go on a shooting rampage in a mall. She’d been involved in a shooting once before, seven years earlier, when she was working in Organized Crime, and had gone through the same post-shooting counseling then.

Certified as fit for duty, she returned to her office and sat gingerly in her chair. It was a good thing the bullet had hit the top of her buttock because if it had been any lower she would have been standing for a week.

Among the stack of messages there was one from Eric. She would ignore that one for the time being. She hurriedly returned the rest of the calls in the half hour she had before her meeting with Seth.

Richard had picked her up in the morning, which was way above the call of duty, but he had insisted, and Kennedy seemed quite taken with the idea, so she didn’t fight it. Kennedy had given her a knowing look when Richard had moved around the car to open their doors, and Silver had silently cursed her for her insistence that he was hunky – though she had to admit he was.

Her intercom buzzed to shatter her daydream. She punched the button.

“Yes?”

“We still on for eleven forty-five?” Seth’s voice sounded tinny on the crummy speaker.

“You bet. In my office.”

“Be there in a few.”

Seth ambled in five minutes later with a milk crate filled with files and documents, his notebook computer precariously balanced on top of the pile. He set it down on the floor next to her circular meeting table and pulled up a chair. She rounded her desk and took a seat.

“So what do you have?”

“Well, I first did a search for fires that in any way matched our perp’s MO. Going back ten years. Turns out there are a lot of fires. Tens of thousands. So that didn’t really help.”

“Did you narrow it down to fires where a parent and offspring were involved?”

Seth nodded. “Yes. That dropped the number to hundreds.”

“I really believe the way he’s killing has symbolism for him – there has to be a deeper connected meaning. It’s the only explanation that makes sense.”

“That’s why I started with the fire. It’s the most obvious – I mean, if he’s being literal, that is. If he’s twisting the meaning and obscuring it, or if it’s more indirect…then we’re kind of screwed.”

“I know, Seth. But we don’t really have much else. Unless you believe, as Sam does, that this is all an elaborate ruse to cloak the actions of a terrorist cell or something.”

“This doesn’t really seem like a hit team, does it?” Seth asked.

“Not really. Which brings us back to what you’ve found.”

“There are roughly three hundred house fires that sort of match up, where only a parent and child were killed. But if we further refine the search, we see that there are only nine that really fit the exact description of a parent killed by fire…and a child killed by smoke inhalation.”

“Nine? Well, that’s promising.”

“Of the nine, six would appear to have no match that I can see. But I brought all nine so you can look them over. Let’s see what you think.”

Seth ducked down to his cache of folders for a moment then reappeared and spread out photocopies of nine newspaper articles in front of her.

“Can we cut to the chase and just go to the ones you like? Your top three?”

“Humor me.”

Silver squirmed in her seat, reminding herself that it would be a few days before her wound was really healing. It was tender and starting to itch. She resisted an urge to scratch at the sutures and, as she began reading the first article, made a mental note to check for infection.

Ten minutes later she leaned back and asked, “Which one do you want to start with?”

“Might as well go with the one in Pennsylvania. Six years ago. Stanley Erickson and Sheryl. Father and daughter. He was fifty-one, she was twenty-three, living at home after a brief marriage that didn’t go well. Wife, Louise, was out of town visiting her sister. The fire started in the master bedroom from a cigarette, and because of the age of the house quickly spread and trapped the daughter in her room. The firemen fought the flames for a half an hour but couldn’t get to her. She’d covered herself with a wet blanket, which avoided the worst of the burning, but not the smoke. Survivors were the wife, and two sons, Ralph and Henry, now thirty-one and thirty-four. Ralph is a warehouse manager for an industrial supply company, and Henry is a private detective, after spending ten years on the Pittsburg police force. His discharge was controversial – he was implicated in several incidences of unprovoked violence while on the beat, although no charges were ever filed. Reading between the lines, it looks like he was invited to leave before he was forced to. Since then he’s had a website development company that went nowhere, and now has a private security and investigation company.”

“Interesting. With that background, he would more than have the skills and knowledge of forensics to be our man. And the history of violence is a flag. Hmmm. What about Ralph?”

“Married, two kids. No record.”

“All right, who’s next?”

Seth slid a file to her. “Brooklyn.”

“Ah.”

“Here’s the police report. What’s the most striking is the suicide note. I mean, she was obviously disturbed, but the circumstances…I actually remember reading about this when it happened. It was just so tragic and, well, such a sign of the times…”

“I know what you mean. Multiple sclerosis, at the end of her rope. Give me a quick tour of the high notes, would you?” Silver asked.

“Patricia Jarvis, fifty-seven, married, one child – Rachel, age thirty-four. Husband Howard, now…sixty, I believe. They were unable to continue making the mortgage payment after the 2008 crash, so the bank foreclosed. She was on a cocktail of medications for pain and complications from the MS, and decided the bank wasn’t going to get her house – not while she was alive. So a week before it was going to take possession, she got two five gallon cans of gasoline and doused the place, after leaving a note in the car. Perhaps even more tragic than her death was that of her daughter. She lived only a few blocks away, and her mother’s last act was to call her and tell her that she loved her before she lit the place up. So, sensing something wrong, Rachel raced over, but by the time she arrived, the fire was well under way. She battled her way in before the fire department got there, but got trapped inside by a collapsing beam as she was trying to get up the stairs from the basement access door. When they put out the blaze, Patricia was dead from the fire, and Rachel had died from smoke inhalation.”

“And where was Howard?” Silver asked.

“He arrived at the scene an hour later – he was on the train coming from the city. The report says he found the suicide note, and then he collapsed. They had to sedate him – he tried to run into the wreckage.”

“I can understand why. Poor bastard. Wife, daughter…”

“Yeah.”

Silver read through the file more carefully. “Do we like him as the killer? A sixty-year-old man?”

“Doesn’t fit any of the profiles, does it? Plus, let’s face it, he’s getting along in years to be going on a killing spree. I mean, anything’s possible, but usually when you see older folks in a murder, it’s with a gun, not decapitation,” Seth reasoned.

“What do we know about him?”

“He was in the military at the end of the Vietnam war. Honorable discharge. Engineering degree. Worked as a civil engineer for two companies – last one, for twenty-two years. Retired.”

“A Vietnam vet turned engineer? I’m warming to this for the methodical angle because of the engineering thing, and the military record is interesting, even if it’s ancient history – although his age makes him unlikely. I mean, nothing’s impossible, but the fire happened almost four years ago. So why start now?” Silver read the article again, then put it aside. “What else do we have?”

“The Michigan case. Nine years ago. Father and son. Michael Everin and Scott, ages forty-three and nineteen. An electrical fire. The flames got Dad, smoke got the kid. That left one surviving older son, now thirty-two, and an estranged wife who went on to re-marry. Interesting thing there is that the kid has a record. Aggravated assault, possession of a concealed handgun. Served five years. Two fights while incarcerated. Added six months to his sentence, which was still shortened due to no priors. You can see his prison record – there’s some speculation that he was taken in by a white supremacist gang while inside, but who knows for sure? He’s kept his nose clean since release – that’s about all we know.”

“How long has he been out?”

“Just over three years.”

“We know where he’s living?”

“New Jersey.”

“Really? That’s pretty close to home. And what does he do for a living?”

“Looks like construction, although that’s probably just a catch-all. He’s had a few other types of jobs – four months as a security guard, three as kitchen staff at an Italian restaurant. Currently unemployed. Although, wait a minute. In his prison records, it also notes that he was a kind of wiz with anything electronic or mechanical. So that could explain how he’s gotten past all the locks and alarms if he’s our killer.”

“Perhaps. Anything connecting him to the financial industry? Any reasons to be pissed off at it?”

“Not really. I mean, some of the Aryan Nation rhetoric is anti-Semitic, which includes anti-banking sentiment, but that’s a slender reed. No, so far, the best bet looks like the old guy.”

“Which is to say our odds don’t look particularly good.”

“No argument. But this was your hunch…”

They went through the rest, and half an hour later Silver was left feeling exasperated.

“I think we should pay a visit to all the possibles. Can’t hurt. Get some teams to question everyone. And keep looking for other articles that might tie in – you know the drill. Especially decapitations. Those aren’t common,” she observed.

“I’m already on it. Same search – going back ten years. Should have results coming in by tomorrow, if we’re lucky. This is a tremendous amount of data to sift through.”

“Seth, I just had another thought, and you aren’t going to like it. We’re limiting the search to the U.S., right? What if our killer isn’t from here? I mean, assuming my hunch isn’t completely wrong in the first place…what if he’s foreign?”

“Then our search wouldn’t turn up anything. We don’t have the records access to do a global search along the same lines.”

“That’s what I was afraid of. I guess we better hope that our killer was made in the U.S.A..”

“That’s the assumption we’ve been working under.”

“Then let’s not go off on any tangents. Have agents do preliminary interviews, and be sensitive to any tells.”

“Will do, boss. Is there anything else? How are you doing after the shooting?”

“You know. All in a day’s work. Speaking of which, who’s running the investigation on the guy who tried to turn off my lights yesterday?”

“Brett wanted to supervise it himself. He’s taking it personally. I hear he’s got Heron running lead on it.”

“Do me a favor. Keep an ear to the ground, and let me know if you hear anything, okay? I’m supposed to stay clear of it, but that doesn’t mean I have to be in the dark.”

“You got it.”

Chapter 13

Silver entered the doctor’s offices and waited patiently while she finished with a patient. When the receptionist called for her to go into the doctor’s office fifteen minutes later, she was pleasantly surprised at not having to wait longer.

“Silver Cassidy. Long time no see. Come in and have a seat. I only have a few minutes until my next patient, but please, sit.” Dr. Thelma Weiss was a large, friendly, open-looking woman with a ready smile and kind eyes. Her office was warm and informal, with overstuffed furniture that had a country living-room feel to it. Silver had spent countless hours there with Kennedy and was reminded again of its tranquility, which she knew was designed to put the patients at ease and make them feel at home. Apparently it worked. “You sounded agitated on the phone. Care to explain more?”

“Sure. As I said, my ex is suing for custody of Kennedy. As part of that, I suspect he’s going to drag everyone he can into this, fishing for negatives that will establish that she would be better off with him. I figured I would beat him to the punch and ask you what a formal assessment would say,” Silver began.

The doctor leaned back in her chair and took a sip of tea. “Well, I hope this doesn’t come down to having to take sides. I don’t really know the father…”

“I think it will be more a matter of your impressions of Kennedy.”

“Yes, well, I’d have to be truthful, obviously.”

Silver didn’t like the way this was starting. “Of course.”

“Kennedy has a kind of obsessive compulsive disorder that is brought about by an inability to process stress in an appropriate manner. She was deeply disturbed. What we worked out was that it was directly related to separation anxiety – not in the traditional sense, but anxiety brought about by having her parents split up and her going from living in a two parent home to a single parent home.”

“That was a difficult time for everyone. But we’re past it now, right?”

“Well, yes and no. We’ve channeled her stress into a more normalized response mechanism, so she’s no longer pulling her hair and eyelashes out. But I suspect it’s still latent at some level. She did say that she wishes she had more time with you – I remember the last few sessions that was a big topic. From her standpoint, she feels like she only sees you for a few hours at night. It probably is exaggerated, but to hear her talk, she spends the day in school, then the afternoon into the evening at daycare, with only a sliver of time at night, where you eat, and then she plays on the computer or does schoolwork.”

Silver bristled. “Like with most single parents, it’s hard to juggle a career and raise a kid…”

“I understand. But that isn’t my place to judge. I’m sure you’re doing the best you can. I can only work with what she told me, and try to help her come up with coping mechanisms.”

“Half the households in the country have single parents fighting the same battles. It’s not like it’s unique to me.”

“No, but for your daughter, the important thing isn’t what everyone else does. It’s how she perceives her reality, which she views as being precarious because her family stability was suddenly upended.”

“Because her father was screwing everything in a skirt.”

“Look, Silver. I’m not the enemy here. I’m not questioning whether your marriage was a good one or not, or who did what to whom. I’m just telling you that your child has had a very rough emotional time of it, and that’s what my report will have to say. I can’t lie.”

“I’m not asking you to. But he’s going to try to make it sound like a life with him and his new trophy wife-to-be would be better for Kennedy than being with her own mom.”

The doctor regarded Silver over her bifocals. “Honest question for you. How many waking hours a week do you think you spend with Kennedy? Counting weekends?”

Silver thought about it. “She’s with her dad at least one day a week on weekends, so that’s not really fair.”

“Does he usually pick her up the night before and drop her off the next night? Or does he only get her for the day?”

“I try to accommodate him. Lately, he’s been getting her the night before. Eric says it’s easier to plan things in the morning if she’s already with him, and she seems to enjoy her sleepovers…”

“Let’s break it down. How many waking hours?”

“We have breakfast every morning…”

“She gets herself ready when she wakes up?”

“Yes. She has her little routine while I’m doing Yoga for half an hour. She’s been very insistent about being independent for about a year now.”

“So then you have breakfast, and…you take her to school? How long total together?”

“At least an hour.”

“Fine. Then you get her from daycare at…”

“I try to be there by five – five thirty.”

“She said she’s often there until after it closes. What time is that?”

“Oh, please. That was then – I had a case I was working that was demanding a lot out of me,” Silver insisted.

“Right. And do you have a case that’s demanding a lot out of you now?”

Silver bristled. “It’s been a rough couple of months.”

“You’re with the FBI. Would it be fair to say you often have cases that place demands on you?”

“Doctor. All jobs have their responsibilities. This one as much as any.”

“No question. In fact, I’d imagine being a special agent would be more demanding than, say, being a schoolteacher or working in an office. So what time does daycare close?”

“Officially? Six is when the doors close.”

“And do you ever leave her there longer? She seemed to make it sound like that was the case on a routine basis.”

“I try not to.”

“Silver, I’m sure you try as hard as you can. So let’s say you pick her up, on a regular basis, at, what, six o’clock? What time do you have her in bed?”

“Her cutoff time to be asleep is nine o’clock. She’s a cranky kid if she doesn’t get adequate sleep.”

“And does she have a routine at night? Tooth brushing? Preparing her stuff for the next day?”

“Of course.”

“And how long would you say that takes, on average?”

“No more than half an hour.” The sinking feeling in the pit of Silver’s stomach was becoming a kind of free fall.

“And she mentioned that she does homework every night? How long does that take, do you think?”

“Perhaps an hour or two.” Silver saw where the math was going. “Sometimes she doesn’t go to sleep until nine thirty.”

“Right. And sometimes you don’t pick her up until well after closing time. I’m just trying to get an idea here. Whoever your husband has working on this will be doing the same math. The way it looks to me, you spend an hour in the morning with her, and an hour or two in the evening. An entire day on the weekend is gone, so assuming she’s up at seven on Saturday and spends all day with you, no computers or friend visits or anything, you spend something like twelve hours a week with her during the week, and twelve on the weekends – although she did mention that you often bring work home with you on the weekends.”

Silver didn’t respond.

“When he picks her up, say, on a Saturday,” the doctor looked at Silver with a calculating expression, “does he generally get her before, or after, dinner?”

“Lately, he’s been taking her to dinner the night before.”

“And when he brings her home?”

“After dinner the next night.”

“I think Kennedy’s father could truthfully state he spends almost as much time with her already in one day as you do in an entire week. If she gets picked up before dinner time the night before and gets back after dinner the next evening, he’s spending, oh, a total of fifteen to sixteen hours of total quality time – three the night before, and twelve the next day. Looking at your numbers, you spend around twenty-four – a grand total of eight more hours a week with Kennedy than he does.” She took another sip of her tea, and might as well have said, ‘I rest my case’.

“But that’s so unfair. It doesn’t reflect reality.”

“Doesn’t it?”

Silver fought a feeling of sudden claustrophobia. “Doctor, what is your report going to say? Because you know they’re going to need one.”

“Yes, I expect they will. I’ll try to be as fair as possible, Silver, and skirt the weekly hours issue unless directly instructed to address it. But you might want to take a look at the hard numbers and consider your life with your daughter in that light. I’m saying that for both of your sakes.”

Back on the street, Silver felt like she had just gone ten rounds wrestling a bear. She’d been shot yesterday and had killed a man, and yet this was more traumatic. She was beginning to see why Eric thought he had a better than fair chance of prevailing. And she knew that if they took statements from Miriam, which was a given, even if she stretched the truth in Silver’s favor, she wasn’t crafty enough to know whether she was helping or hurting. That meant that the court might compute that Silver was spending more like twenty hours a week with her daughter, versus her ex’s sixteen. And Eric would certainly hammer home how devoted he and his new wife were, and what a stable, consistent routine they enjoyed…

Silver waved down a cab and gave him the office address, shaken from the realization that she could lose this case, and with it, her daughter.

~ ~ ~

Vaslav Korienkov sat at a sidewalk table of one of the chain of cafés he owned, sipping espresso while smoking his thirty-seventh cigarette of the day, watching the young women walk by on their way to the late afternoon dance class in the building on the corner. He was forty-eight years old, but still appreciated a bouncing breast or well-turned leg, and enjoyed this time of day for the opportunities it offered to admire New York’s magnetic pull on some of the most beautiful females in the world. Four of his bodyguards sat at two of the other tables, eyes roving over the passing traffic, ever on the alert for threats.

As one of the top Russian mafia bosses in Manhattan, Korienkov ran the lower East Side’s thriving prostitution and drug distribution businesses, as well as a variety of protection and gambling rackets. He wasn’t picky about how he made his money – generally the entrepreneurial type – the quintessential new Russian that had emerged since the Berlin wall had come down and the Soviet Union had collapsed.

He’d been in his mid-twenties at the time, already a mover and shaker among the Moscow street soldiers, having grown up there after being born in the Ukraine to parents with enough resources to make the move. He’d always been amused by the American read on why the creaky communist empire had self-destructed, which varied from a triumph of capitalist war spending that had overloaded the regime’s ability to compete, to the inevitable victory of the free market ideology. He’d been there, and his bosses, who comprised most of the KGB, knew differently. The Soviet Union had collapsed because the communist infrastructure had been too burdensome for the mob’s purposes – it had become too big a drag on profits. It was far more efficient to become an overnight capitalist society, where the same power players could divide up the nation’s wealth in the open and leave the running of the country to a less expensive system.

Tales of oligarchs becoming billionaires within a few years of the Wall coming down were commonplace, and every industry that was worth anything was immediately placed in the hands of mob cronies and bosses. Freed of its expensive war machine, the nation openly became a kleptocracy, operated entirely for the enrichment of a few special interests. Most of the movers and shakers were the same ex-KGB criminals who’d operated the thriving black markets during communism, and even the top positions in the government went to familiar faces. The usual suspects.

Those had been heady times, and because of his craftiness and his ability to speak passable English, he’d been sent to New York. Within a decade of establishing the infrastructure for a now burgeoning Russian syndicate’s presence, he was one of the top bosses in the city. Unlike the Italian mob, the Russians were centralized – possibly a throwback to their centrally-planned heritage during communism – and he answered to the boss who ran the whole state, as well as New Jersey. Originally based in Brighton Beach, Vaslav had been moved to the South Bronx and put in charge of several key neighborhoods before ultimately winding up in the Big Apple.

His main entrepreneurial concerns involved prostitution and drugs, but he was also open to money laundering through his network of strip clubs, white slavery via his Russian mail-order bride business, shakedowns of other immigrants, and retribution killing. These were relatively low-level pursuits compared to the really big money-makers over the last decade, namely stock manipulation schemes.

But Vaslav was old school, and for him the old ways were still good ways – the profits from selling young, willing-or-otherwise flesh or a silenced bullet to the brain were also an important part of the mob’s income, even if more problematic to launder. Vaslav didn’t run any of the higher-end white-collar stuff, preferring to stick to what he knew and leave the market gamesmanship to the Canali-decked young MBAs who arrived seemingly daily from Moscow. He was too old to change, and his workmanlike appreciation of the merits of providing two sixteen-year-olds for a fun-filled frolic over the weekend or grinding a slow-paying deadbeat’s hand in a thresher still more than ensured he could pay the bills.

When two gray American sedans pulled up to the café and six obviously government-employed men got out, his bodyguards visibly relaxed so as not to provide any reason for a confrontation. This wasn’t NYPD – they knew all the locals by sight, some of whom were enthusiastic consumers of Vaslav’s wares. No, he recognized the lead figure and murmured the three letters that were guaranteed to chill his entourage’s protective blood lust.

“FBI.”

The group approached him, and the agent he recognized pulled up a chair opposite him.

“Vaslav. We need to talk,” Special Agent Bill Heron said in passable Russian.

“For this you need to bring a football team and scare my friends?”

“You’re about ten seconds away from being taken in and interrogated,” Heron said, switching to English, “and I can ensure that your evening goes poorly – it could take hours, or days, for your attorney to get you out of the system.”

“And why would you want to hassle a law-abiding member of the business community like myself instead of catching criminals? To what do I owe this undeserved attention?” Vaslav asked innocently.

“You know about the shooting at headquarters yesterday morning. No, shh, don’t pretend you don’t. Of course you do. This is your turf. You know everything that goes on here.”

“I think I might have heard something on the television. But what could that possibly have to do with me?” Vaslav asked, genuinely puzzled.

“The shooter was Russian. Covered with tattoos – you know the kind.”

Vaslav recoiled. “Are you out of your mind? You think I would have anything to do with going after an agent? Do I look insane to you? Please. Go find someone who actually might know something. I can’t help you.”

“Vaslav. Let’s go for a walk, okay?”

Vaslav nodded and stood, gesturing to his men to stay put. Heron motioned to him to accompany him down the sidewalk, and they set off at a steady gait, Vaslav spewing smoke into the sky.

“Those things will be the death of you.”

“Yes. I suspect if I don’t die in some angry husband’s bed, my foul habits will eventually catch up with me.”

Heron slowed his pace. “Vaslav, don’t bullshit me. I have a very short fuse. This was an ex-spetsnaz soldier working for a Brooklyn meat company. That couldn’t be more Russian mob if he’d been wearing a sign around his neck.”

“Honestly, I know nothing about it.”

“I believe you don’t. I don’t think you’re stupid enough to jeopardize your entire operation here for the commission off one lousy hit. But someone in your crew was involved, and since I don’t know every lowlife in Brighton on a first name basis, I figured I’d come over and see my old pal, Vaslav. Mainly, to tell him that if he can’t come up with solid information that will lead me to whoever was responsible within the next twenty-four hours, that every one of his sketchy businesses will be getting a full proctology exam by immigration, the DEA, NYPD, and of course, my group, which is feeling particularly vindictive given that one of our people was targeted. I can guarantee we will find plenty of ways to make your life miserable, and it will cost you hundreds of thousands, if not millions, to fight – and that’s assuming we don’t come back the next week and do it all over again.”

“Heron. Come on. What the fu–”

“I don’t think you’re reading me, Vaslav. One of your own tried to kill an agent at headquarters. That kind of act is like throwing a rock into a quiet pool. It will cause ripples that will continue for a long time. Someone on your side made a horrendous error in judgment, and there will be a price paid for that. We can start with you. If you really want the full weight of the federal government coming down on you starting tomorrow then simply do nothing, or protest your innocence, and you will soon be spending two dollars for every one you take in trying to stay out of prison. Just the sheer number of underage Russian pros who will need bail will be staggering, and the number of felony charges arising from your prostitution rings will read ten pages. So don’t fuck with me, Vaslav, even the slightest bit, because I am in a really, really foul mood, and I’m looking for someone to take it out on…and you’re it.”

“That isn’t fair. I did nothing.”

“Correct, my friend. It’s completely unfair. Just as hooking sixteen year olds on heroin so you can sell their bodies to old perverts isn’t fair. It’s a fundamentally unfair planet. There’s only power and money and the desire to crush the weaker by the strong. I believe Tolstoy captured the essence of it in War and Peace. That being so, you’re in the cross hairs, and if you don’t find out who did this, I’ll grind your bones into jelly and leave you a smear on the sidewalk. A delicate equilibrium has been disturbed, which will cause collateral damage. You will be the first of that damage. Next, your other friends here in the city will suddenly find it impossible to do business. And then Brighton will get its own special task force, hundreds of agents if necessary, to make it impossible to move without being arrested.”

“But–”

“I am not bullshitting you, Vaslav. Twenty-four hours. I know you can make this happen.” Heron turned and began walking back to the café.

Vaslav spun and accompanied him.

“You’re an ugly, bad man, Vaslav. But you’re a known quantity. I would prefer not to have to deal with another ugly, bad man, but you will lose your position of prominence if you don’t help me on this. You can pass that up the chain of command. They will understand. Because you will be just the first of many in their organization – and the cost to them will be massive.” Heron reached over and patted Vaslav’s shoulder, brushing some dandruff off his leather jacket. “Massive, Vaslav. You don’t want that.”

Chapter 14

Rodney Everin sauntered down the sidewalk in Orange, New Jersey, carrying a plastic bag containing a late lunch – a six pack of beer and a sandwich from the corner market. The balmy afternoon sunshine warmed his rugged features as he meandered back from the store. The hangover from the prior night’s festivities was a dull pounding in his frontal lobes – he was hoping the first or second of the frosty tall boys would dampen the worst of it. Even sleeping till one in the afternoon hadn’t blunted the throbbing. But a little hair of the biting dog worked every time.

He passed a pair of women standing outside a beauty salon, smoking, and nodded at them with a smirk, taking care to flex his considerable upper body muscles so they could appreciate his physique.

“Yo. Howsa bout you and me take a load off and have a little drink?” he shot out at both of them. “Someplace cool and private?”

“Drop dead, lowlife,” the little brunette suggested before returning to her conversation with the blonde about how she was going to kill someone named Tanya if she came anywhere near her again.

“You’ll be begging for it come Friday night, baby,” he hurled back, grabbing his crotch with his free hand.

The blonde made a gesture with her little finger, and the two cosmetologists cackled with glee.

“Dykes,” he muttered and then continued on his way. Plenty more where that came from.

As he approached his apartment block, he spied a government sedan with a giveaway whip antenna parked in front. His alcohol-ravaged synapses shrieked a warning as he slowed momentarily, trying to assess the situation. A pair of serious-looking men in suits were descending the stairs from the front entrance, surveying the street. One of them held a sheet of paper in his hand with a series of photographs on it – a mug shot and a driver’s license scan.

Rodney felt a tingle of apprehension in his gut. Instead of making the turn towards his place, he kept on walking, picking up the pace without seeming obvious.

As he reached the far end of the block, a voice behind him called out, “Rodney Everin. Stop. We need to talk to you.”

He kept moving, ignoring the man, hoping they’d think they’d gotten the wrong guy.

“Rodney. FBI. Stop where you are.”

That was all he needed to hear. Feds at his digs. Probably something to do with the deal he’d been trying to set up, to get a half-kilo of meth fronted to him so he could sell to his bar buddies. That must have triggered something – maybe the whole thing was some kind of sting, where he was being set up.

He debated stopping as instructed then thought about the marijuana in his pants pocket and the quarter gram of meth next to it – if they searched him, he would be going back to prison, no mistake, even if he hadn’t done anything on the half-kilo yet. The switchblade he carried for self-protection would be icing on the cake.

He made his decision and bolted, rounding the corner and sprinting across the street. If he could make it to the second block from the park, he could lose them – or at least jettison the dope so they’d come up empty on a search. Then all they’d have was his word against whoever’s. He hadn’t done anything yet, so wasn’t guilty of anything but being stupid or drunk when he was talking to the dealer. There was no law against being a drunken idiot that he knew of.

The man who’d called after him raced for the car, and his partner took off in pursuit at a run – he’d been no mean athlete in college and even after seven years he could keep up with the best.

Rodney swung around another corner and tossed his sack into a garbage can. The weight wasn’t worth the ten bucks the beer and sandwich represented. He fished in his pocket for the dope as he ran and palmed the little baggie as he poured on the speed. Startled pedestrians gave him a wide berth, the sound of his work boots thumping against the pavement all the warning they needed. Nobody wanted to get involved in something they didn’t understand, and an adult male doing the four-minute mile down the sidewalk was unusual enough to warrant caution.

“Rodney!”

The voice behind him sounded like it was a hundred yards back. He hadn’t seen his pursuer when he’d ditched the beer, but there was no mistaking him now. He still needed to lose the drugs, though, and the switchblade. He’d be sad to see the knife go – they were pricey these days, even for the crap blades from Mexico. Maybe he could recover it later.

A group of teens on a stoop cheered him on as he ran past them, whooping in delight at this unexpected entertainment on an otherwise boring day. One took up the pursuit on his skateboard for a few short yards then thought better of it when he heard the agent pounding down the sidewalk behind him.

He collided with a couple of metal garbage cans, spilling the contents into the gutter as he stumbled through the trash and recovered his footing. He ventured a glance over his shoulder and saw that the fed was gaining. Seeing his pursuer bearing down on him, he darted into the street, trying to time the traffic so he could put some distance between himself and the agent.

He almost made it.

The Dodge Ram crew cab slammed into him, flipping him into the air. He struck the pavement with a wet thunk, bouncing like a ragdoll for a few yards before rolling to a halt. A Chrysler screeched to a stop a few inches from his head, and the last thing he registered was the warm wet flow of blood streaming down his nose onto the pavement.

~ ~ ~

“What do you mean, he ran?” Silver demanded.

“Took off like a scared rabbit when he saw us. We advised him that we were FBI and demanded that he stop, but he just tore away like we were shooting at him,” the voice on the phone reported.

“This was supposed to be an informational interview. Low pressure.”

“I know. But he had a different idea.”

“Which hospital did they take him to?”

“University. He should be there by now. We’re on our way over, as soon as we get finished with the local cops. They’re dragging their feet on filling out the reports. You know how they like to bust our chops.”

“How badly was he hurt?” Silver asked.

“Pretty badly. The paramedics gave him a fifty-fifty chance. He hit the road hard. Man against truck doesn’t usually wind up with the man winning. Stupid bastard.”

“And you have no idea why he ran?”

“You mean other than he was an unemployed ex-con with no visible means of support who could still afford a little weed and some methamphetamines? My guess is that he was up to something and thought we’d caught him. Or he was afraid we’d take him in and find the dope and he’d back in lockup. And it could be he’s our killer – we’ll need to get a warrant for his place and search it, see if we can find anything incriminating.”

“Probable cause is going to be tough,” Silver said, “but I’ll see what I can swing.”

“He did run from us.”

“Yeah, but you know as well as I do that a decent lawyer could argue that, given his history, he panicked. Acting guilty isn’t the same as being guilty – something about reasonable doubt and presumption of innocence. But I’ll do what I can. Let me call over to the hospital and see what I can find out.”

“Okay. Soon as we can break loose from here, we’ll be there.”

“10-4.” Silver terminated the call, then pulled up a number on her computer and dialed it. After a few minutes of being shunted from person to person, she got the emergency room nurse, who was willing to take a few moments out from her busy schedule to give her an update.

“We just wheeled him into radiology for a CT, and then he’s going straight to the OR. Looks like massive intracranial bleeding – his pupils were non-responsive when he came in. Legs are both broken, his hip, most of his ribs…arms have compound fractures…I don’t think he’s going to be doing any triathlons any time soon.”

“Sounds like he’s lucky to be alive.”

“I don’t know that I’d use the word lucky. But he’s still breathing.”

“I know it’s probably a stupid question, but I’ll ask anyway. What are the chances that he pulls through and regains consciousness?”

“Sweetheart, I have three lottery tickets in my purse for the next big one, and I’d guess my chances of quitting this job and living in the South of France next month are better. But I never said that. Only a doctor can answer that question in an official capacity.”

“I completely understand. Listen, I appreciate it. My men will be there shortly. I’d really like it if you could take out a minute and fill them in. Could I ask you to do that?”

“No problem. I’ll just look for the G-men in the lobby. Shouldn’t be too hard to spot among this bunch.”

Silver hung up and cursed her luck. This had gone from routine to disastrous in nothing flat. And they didn’t even know if the victim was their man. The odds were far greater that this was just an ugly confluence of events and the killer was still out there planning his next murder.

The worst part was they might never know. If the killings stopped abruptly, but they found no evidence Rodney was the serial…she didn’t even want to go down that road.

She balked at the prospect of having to explain to Brett what had happened, then decided to get it over with and made her way to his office. That was some hunch she’d had. So far, at least one man down, possibly a vegetable – or dead – and nothing to show for it.

~ ~ ~

The big Chevrolet sedan pulled up to the curb outside the shabby home in Brooklyn. A man and woman got out, their business suits incongruent with the neighborhood. They checked the address and ascended the stairs to the small porch after doing a quick scan of the quiet street. The woman punched the doorbell, and they waited for someone to answer.

A cautious voice sounded from behind the weathered door. “Who is it?”

“Mr. Jarvis?” the woman asked.

“Who wants to know?”

“Federal Bureau of Investigation, sir.”

There was a pause from inside.

“FBI? Little late for April Fool’s Day, isn’t it?”

“This isn’t a joke, Mr. Jarvis.”

More silence.

“Lemme see your badges. Hold them up to the peephole.”

The two agents removed slim leather wallets, doing as asked. After thirty seconds the door swung open four inches, a security chain holding it in place. Piercing blue eyes studied the pair.

“What does the FBI want with me?” Howard grumbled, distrust evident in his expression.

“We would like to ask you a few questions, sir.”

“About?”

“The fire that took your wife’s life.”

“What? Three years after the fact? Little late, aren’t you? And why federal interest?”

“Sir, would it be possible to come inside?” the female agent asked.

“All due respect, no, I don’t really want federal agents in my house.”

“Well, we need to talk to you.”

The eyes pored over them both.

“Shit. All right. Give me a second. I’m afraid I’m not exactly set up for visitors. The maid and butler quit last week, and it’s been hard keeping the place shipshape since then…”

The door slammed, and they heard the sound of the chain being fiddled with. It swung open again, and they were face to face with their subject. Five ten, medium-length brown hair going to gray, mustache, wearing a long-sleeved blue polo shirt and loose jeans.

He motioned for the agents to come in and turned, moving through the narrow hall to the living room, the scarred hardwood floor creaking under his weight.

“Close the door behind you. Though I’m guessing I’ll be safe from the local thieves if you two are here. You want some water or coffee? I’m afraid I don’t have much else.”

“No, sir, thank you. We’d just like to ask a few questions,” the female agent said.

“Come on, then, and take a seat.” He gestured to a beaten couch, sagging in the middle.

“Thanks.” They sat down, and he lowered himself into a cracking La-Z-Boy.

“So to what do I owe the honor of two genuine FBI agents visiting with me in beautiful Brooklyn? You say you want to talk about the fire? What do you want to know that isn’t in the reports? And why now?”

The male agent leaned forward. “Mr. Jarvis–”

“Please. Call me Howard.”

“Howard. I’m Agent Border and this is Agent Torres. We’re just following up on some routine information and wanted to hear about the fire first hand.” He cocked his head in the direction of the female agent and placed a small recorder on the coffee table. “Do you mind if I record this? Makes it way easier than trying to take notes.”

“Routine information?” Howard seemed relaxed, but curious, and somewhat puzzled. He waved an indifferent hand at the small device. “Sure. Go ahead. I’ve already been through this so many times…”

Border depressed the record button and murmured into the condenser microphone. “April nineteenth, three p.m., interview with Howard Jarvis.” He looked up, returning to Howard. “Yes. I can appreciate that. It was a terrible tragedy. Can you tell us what happened, in your own words?”

“My wife was sick, on a lot of meds. We ran into some financial difficulty when the markets crashed and wound up losing the house to the bank. Couldn’t afford it – that happens a lot these days. Anyway, she was stubborn as a mule and fought me every step of the way on preparing to move somewhere else. I had no idea what she was planning. I was in New York for the day, trying to line up somewhere for us to live with my contacts. When I got back to the house, it was almost completely gutted, and the firefighters were battling the blaze, trying to put it out. Long story short, she didn’t want to lose her house and decided that if she couldn’t live there, then nobody could. We’d had it for twenty-eight years. It wasn’t the Taj Mahal, but it was our place, and she loved it.”

“Yes. Well, what about the note?” Agent Torres asked softly.

“That’s how we knew what happened. She’d dropped me off at the station so I could take the train into town. I saw a piece of paper folded on the dashboard, so while the firemen were trying to put out the fire, I opened the car and got it. You already know what it said… You have to understand. She wasn’t rational, and the stress from our changing circumstances pushed her over the edge. I blame the medication. She was on everything you could think of for her problems.”

“I understand. And your daughter…”

“That day was a tragedy all around. You know about her. It’s in all the reports. Insurance, police, fire…”

The agents exchanged glances, and the woman began asking the questions.

“Mist– Howard. This may seem like an odd series of questions, but bear with us. Can you tell where you were three nights ago?”

“Huh? Three nights ago?”

“That’s right.”

The distrustful look returned to Howard’s face. “What is this?”

“Please. Just answer the question.”

“Why? Am I a suspect or something? I’ve seen enough TV to know that when the law shows up asking questions about where you were that doesn’t go anywhere good.”

“No, sir, you’re not a suspect. We’ve been assigned to determine your whereabouts because of a similar fire. That’s all. It’s really nothing more than a checklist interview so we can mark you as spoken to.” Torres sounded reasonable and friendly, as she had been trained to be during these sorts of interrogations.

“Do I need a lawyer?”

“If you would like one, of course, you can get one, but it might be easier to just tell us what we need to know so we can get this over with and get out of your hair. Not that we aren’t enjoying the tour of Brooklyn, mind you,” she said with a smile.

“Hmm. Three nights ago I was doing what I do every night. I was reading until maybe nine thirty and then went to sleep. I didn’t get any invitations to Studio 54 that night, I’m pretty sure.”

“Can anyone confirm you were here?”

“What, are you for real? No, my night-time reading isn’t a spectator sport. I’m afraid that as fascinating as it sounds there isn’t a big market for ringside seats for me in my PJs.”

“No phone calls? No visitors?”

“Ha. Look around you. Does it seem like I do a lot of entertaining?”

Torres smiled again. “And no calls?”

“I haven’t had a phone call in a week. And I think that one was a bill collector.”

Agent Border took up the routine. “What about two weeks ago? The night of April sixth?” he asked.

“The sixth? How the hell would I know? Probably the same. I spend every night the same way. Not a lot of variation once you get to a certain age.”

“Would it be fair to say that you can’t account for your whereabouts?” Border wasn’t nearly as friendly as Torres. His tone was more aggressive.

“I think it’s about time to shut this down unless you tell me what the hell this is all about. I don’t see what my reading schedule has to do with the fire. I’m serious. Spill the beans or you can pack up and this discussion is at an end.”

The agents exchanged glances.

“We’re investigating some episodes that we can’t go into detail about. But one is similar to your fire, so we’re running down every lead, no matter how much of a longshot,” Torres said, trying to salvage the good rapport she’d built.

“Episodes. Can’t go into detail. Agents, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be difficult, but I’m going to terminate this. You come into my house on the pretense of talking about the fire that killed my family and then start giving me the fifth degree about something you can’t even talk about? No, thank you. This is still a free country, and I’ve been more than civil. Please take your good cop, bad cop routine and go back wherever you came from…” Howard began coughing, and Torres’ eyes roved over the interior of the small row house, stopping when they got to the kitchen. A group of pill bottles sat on the counter, their distinctive prescription labels unmistakable.

“We’re sorry, Howard. We didn’t mean to upset you. I appreciate your taking the time to meet with us and answer our questions. Of course we’ll leave – we meant you no disrespect. If anything else comes up, we’ll call first and ask you to come into the office. But I think it’s unlikely we’ll need to,” Torres said.

The pair rose to their feet while Howard fought to recover from the coughing fit. Border retrieved the recorder and punched it off before returning it to his pocket.

“We’ll just see our way out, sir,” Torres said apologetically as they made their way to the front door.

“I still don’t understand what this is all about.”

“Don’t worry. It’s strictly routine, as I said. Again, sorry to disturb you.” Torres opened the door, and they walked out onto the porch.

Howard stood and followed them to the door, closing it behind them. They heard the locks being re-engaged and slowly descended the stairs.

Once they were in the car, Torres turned to Border. “What do you think?”

Border shook his head. “Are you serious? Come on. The guy sounds like he’s on his last legs.”

“Yeah. A waste of time. Unless we’re thinking that we’ve got a geriatric killer.”

“I don’t think any of the victims were gummed to death.”

“Or beaten with a cane,” Torres added.

“Still, he was scrappy there towards the end.”

They got serious.

“So are we in agreement?” Border asked. “Dead end?”

“They don’t get much deader, do they?”

~ ~ ~

Howard watched through his curtains as the unmarked car pulled away from the curb, his mind racing. The coughing had the intended result – they couldn’t get out fast enough. But he had a problem. Somehow they had connected the fire with the one in Connecticut – an almost impossible logical leap, and completely unexpected. He knew they were fishing, but now that they had him on the radar, his internal alarms were going off at full roar.

How had they made him? He’d considered the similarities between the fires as a risk, but discarded it as a virtually impossible logical leap. One in ten million.

And yet here he was, being visited by the FBI.

He drew a few deep breaths and considered his next step.

Within two weeks none of this would matter, but in the meantime, this sort of unforeseen wrinkle could prove disastrous.

His plans were contingent upon his being able to move around in an unfettered manner. But if the FBI continued connecting dots, they would probably initiate surveillance, which would cripple his ability to execute his remaining targets. Then again, there was nothing to tie him to the crimes. He’d been very careful. If they really knew anything, they wouldn’t have sent two young agents who were clearly just going through the motions. That meant he was probably a reasonable way from warrants and searches.

But he couldn’t be complacent – the visit had told him all he needed to know. He would need to bring his schedule forward now – there was no telling how much they had pieced together.

Howard fought back the creeping sense of panic that the visit had engendered and struggled to slow his racing thoughts. He needed to somehow stop any investigation. Derail it for just another ten days or so – and if he picked up the pace, no more than a week on the outside. Then it would be all over.

He sat down at his dining room table and began considering options. How could he throw the FBI off the scent long enough to finish his job? Maybe some red herrings to the press? Or possibly a distraction of some kind? Something that would shift the task force’s attention in the wrong direction?

As he mulled over his options, his eyes drifted to his computer flickering in his bedroom. A flicker of an idea occurred to him, and Howard went in and navigated to a familiar website. He quickly skimmed through the pages and came to the most recent Herald article. Howard read it carefully, taking notes, and a possibility occurred to him.

He pulled up another site and began the research required to see what would be feasible.

Howard peered at his watch and made a mental note, then switched to another website and typed in the requested information. Scouring the reams of data that spat forth, he finally leaned back in his chair and rubbed his face, peering at the final lines of the report. It would seem there was a chink in the Bureau’s armor. It wouldn’t be easy and would require considerable luck, but if he was successful, it would accomplish everything he needed, and then some.

He’d have to call in sick to his part-time job – an off-the-books cash affair he’d been working for a year – so he could do some necessary surveillance. And much of his research could be done online, he knew. There was so much data in the public domain – it was scary once you knew just how much. He’d become somewhat of an expert on it all over the last few years, his nimble engineer’s mind eagerly embracing the nuances of the technology.

After fifteen more minutes, he pushed back from the table and powered down the system. He’d found what he was looking for. Now he would need to do the hard part.

And he still needed to finish his preparations for his sixth victim. That was more urgent than ever. Once he was eliminated, it was all downhill.

Howard hummed to himself as he packed a duffel bag with a variety of odds and ends – rope, hardware, flashlights, a notebook computer and charger, a burner cell phone, a slim Jim and some other tools useful for liberating a car. Once finished, he looked around the drab little bedroom he had called home since the fire, then made his way to the front door, ready to pack the gear in his car.

He wouldn’t miss his life in the shabby little dwelling – the neighborhood was dangerous, the place was little better than slum housing, and there was no insulation, so in the winter he froze, and in the summer it was sweltering. But he paid bargain rent, which in his circumstances was its biggest appeal.

He only needed a little more time. A matter of days, if he hurried and the stars aligned. That was the story of his life – always needing just a little more time.

But the FBI visit signaled that for Howard time was running out.

The engine creaked over with a groan. He put the transmission into gear and pulled off to go car hunting.

He’d have to work fast.

Very fast.

Chapter 15

Sam pointed to an image on the overhead projector and traced a circle with his finger.

“Right there. See? Long hair in a ponytail, beard, knit cap, wire-rimmed glasses. Dark jacket, carrying a backpack. He next appears about six in the morning the following day.”

The gathered agents peered at the grainy profile frozen on the wall.

The image changed to one of the same man at a different angle. The time stamp showed it as six hours later.

Seth nodded. “It’s the same guy, all right. But there’s hardly proof of anything except he wears the same jacket both coming from and going home. Am I missing something?”

“Yes. What you’re missing is that a man who looks remarkably similar also appears on the cameras at one of the intersections near our latest victim. It looks like the same guy near both crime scenes.”

Sam pressed a button on the remote, and the footage changed again. This time the angle was from farther away. Everyone squinted at the figure making his way down the street.

“The time stamp puts it in the window for the broker’s killing.”

“Agreed. And do we have him leaving, as well?”

“No. That’s one of the problems with that area of the East Side. The coverage isn’t a hundred percent.”

“This guy looks different,” Silver pointed out. “The facial hair isn’t the same. And no cap. We don’t really get a shot of his face in this one, either. I don’t know, Sam. Truthfully, that could be almost anyone – the same man, or any of a quarter million other long-haired pedestrians in New York on any given day.”

“Is it my imagination,” Seth asked, “or does he seem to be deliberately turning away from the camera and holding his hand up to his face?”

“Hard to tell. Looks like he’s talking on a cell phone. Could be deliberate, or could just be the angle.”

Sam finished his presentation with some closing comments and turned on the lights, looking at Silver expectantly.

“Okay. It’s a long way from anything conclusive, Sam, but at least it’s a start. Let’s get the images blown up and see if we can do anything with image enhancement to improve the clarity. The low light isn’t our friend.”

“The cameras are optimized to get license plates and drivers’ faces. They aren’t intended for this. We just got lucky.”

“Noted. But this is the first crack in the case we’ve gotten, assuming that the second man is the same as the one in the first set. What about his clothes? They look completely different. I’m not trying to argue, but other than the fact both of these characters have long hair…do we have anything more?”

“He is wearing different clothes, but I think he moves the same. From the quality of the footage it’s impossible to be sure, but the similarities are significant,” Sam insisted.

Silver looked around the room and nodded at her assembled team.

“Fair enough. Let’s get the image circulated to all law enforcement in the area. Maybe we’ll get lucky and somebody will recognize him.”

“Do you want to go public with it?” Sam asked. “Get it on the news?”

“That seems premature, doesn’t it? I mean, we have him in the vicinity of the scenes, but last time I checked there was no law against being on the streets of New York, even if the timing and locations are highly suspect. I’ll ask Brett to take it up-channel, but my guess is that they shoot down going public with it for the time being. But that doesn’t mean we need to sleep on it. Let’s get it out and see if anything comes back within twenty-four hours. If we don’t get something then I’ll push to make it public.”

“Going public with it could also spook him and drive him underground,” Sam said. “We might never find him then. It’s a risk.”

“Agreed. I think we do as I suggested and take this up tomorrow.”

The meeting broke up, and a few of the agents congratulated Sam. It felt like it could be their first break in the case, and it was his diligence that had paid off. Silver approached him as he was leaving.

“How long will it take to get the images ready for circulation?”

“It’s getting late. I’d say let the techs have it for the rest of the day, and then we can get it out tomorrow morning.”

“Good work, Sam. Let me know when we’re ready to rock.”

“Will do.”

~ ~ ~

Late that afternoon, Silver and Richard sat in the conference room going over his notes on the last victim. He’d been on the line with Washington most of the day, and he’d had a chance to lean on his contacts to dig into the organized crime rumors surrounding the brokerage firm. As he laid out the information he’d gleaned, she was amazed at how seamy the financial industry was the more she learned about it. She’d had no idea – typically when she thought about white collar crime, she envisioned embezzling accountants or crooked CEOs cooking the books.

“What’s truly shocking is that there’s no investigation into this,” Richard said.

“How can that be? A tiny brokerage suddenly swells to where twenty percent of all U.S. market trading is going through it, at a time when the economy is collapsing and the largest banks are howling about being manipulated into the ground by predatory short selling…and nobody raises an eyebrow? It’s all just business as usual? Explain that to me. Because I don’t understand.”

“I know. I can’t believe it myself. I simply had no idea about this until I started looking into connections between this victim and the others. But as incredible as it sounds, that’s the case. This guy went from a boutique broker, really a nothing, to one of the most active houses in the world in a space of a few months – and virtually all of the trading was on the short side.”

“Why isn’t the SEC investigating? This isn’t a smoking gun. This is video footage of a killer holding an Uzi to his victim’s head and pulling the trigger. It’s a no-brainer…”

“I completely agree. But they aren’t doing squat. It’s been four years since the crash, and the statute of limitations will run out in another year…and nothing,” Richard complained. “For the record, I’ve rarely seen anything this cut and dried. But it’s like they’ve gone deaf, dumb and blind.”

“What about the DOJ? What about us? Can’t we do something? I mean the Bureau, not me, obviously. Financial Crimes? Your usual beat?”

“DOJ will only go after financial types after the SEC recommends prosecution. But if the SEC isn’t doing anything, then neither will the DOJ. Remember Masenkoff. He basically had to turn himself in and admit to running the biggest fraud in history before he got arrested. There was no action until he walked through the door with a ‘guilty’ sign around his neck, even though for years most players on Wall Street knew his results couldn’t possibly be true. They had even been warned repeatedly by whistleblowers, and did squat. What does that tell you about the SEC?”

She rolled her eyes. “Nothing good.”

“Trust me, it’s frustrating.”

“I know it’s not really a part of this investigation, but surely you can do something with this evidence. Maybe lean on your boss again? This is too big to just ignore.”

“Silver, you’re singing to the choir, but there’s nothing I can do. The information is out there – there are websites devoted to it. There have been hearings, and speeches, and outraged fist-shaking. But nobody does anything. It’s like it’s all for show, and nobody wants to know the truth. And the media just ignores it all, so the average person thinks everything must be okay. People have short attention spans. I’ll hit my boss again, but I’m not hopeful.”

“I just can’t believe it. Really. That’s not how things are supposed to work.” Silver shook her head. “I walk into the corner liquor store and stick my gun in the owner’s face and steal four hundred dollars, I’m going to jail, but if I run a brokerage that takes the financial system to the edge of disaster and make billions illegally trading on behalf of the country’s enemies or for criminal syndicates, nobody does anything? That can’t be. It just can’t be, Richard.”

“I hear you. And I’m also telling you that’s exactly what happened and nobody wants to know about it.” He sighed and stretched, then smiled at her. “This stuff gets to me. It’s my specialty, and sometimes I get too close to it. Sorry.”

“No problem. I understand why you’re so passionate about it. It’s got me seeing red now too.”

She studied his expression and felt a stirring of something in her stomach. The same as the other night when they’d kissed. He must have felt it too, because when he glanced at his watch, he did so with an almost elaborate calm.

“I really enjoyed dinner the other night, Silver. I’ve been thinking about it a lot.”

No kidding. She had, too. A whole lot.

“Me, too. We should definitely do it again.”

“What about tonight? Are you super-busy, or could you fit in a few hours for your hardest working Financial Crimes liaison? You’ve been so busy getting shot and all, I haven’t had a chance to ask…”

A tremble of anxiety fluttered through her, but she didn’t try to duck the question. “I suppose I could see my way clear to working you in. Provided I can get the babysitter again.”

There was an undeniable magnetism to Richard, and she sensed that the pull was mutual. She’d had time to sort out her feelings about the prior dinner date, and she didn’t see any reason to say no to another one.

“Give her a try. If so, I’ll see if I can get us a table someplace nice. I’ve heard good things about a few places in this area.”

“There are world-class restaurants on the lower East Side. Some of the best in the city…” she said.

He stood, his hand brushing hers as he reached for his files. She felt a shiver run down her spine.

“All right, then,” Richard said. “It’s a date. Buzz me to confirm, okay?”

“I will. Want to shoot for seven thirty?”

“Perfect. You want me to give you a ride home?”

“No, let’s plan on meeting at my building. Assuming I can reach the babysitter, and that she’s free. I guess it’s all up to her schedule, now. I’ll let you know.”

Richard smiled. “Talk about power…”

Chapter 16

Howard watched as the two figures entered the building and then nodded to himself when the lights came on in the windows facing the street. This was his second evening of surveillance, and he was ready to move to the next phase of his plan whenever an opportunity presented itself.

He rubbed his eyes, which were burning from the long days and only a few hours of sleep every night. The hours were beginning to wear on him, but he was confident that he’d be done soon enough.

Closing his eyes for a brief moment, the visions of horror came unbidden, as they had with increasing regularity of late. His house belched smoke into the sky as streams of high-pressure water futilely arced through the air, and the soot-streaked face of one of the firefighters screamed an impossible message at him as he struggled to break free from his grip and run into the inferno.

The seared remains of his beloved wife being carted out in a body bag, followed by his only daughter – struck down in her prime, a gentle spirit who’d never hurt anyone or anything in her life.

He opened his eyes and realized that he had no answers to the questions that played through his mind whenever the visions came. Why had his angels been torn from him in such a brutal and ugly way? And why his daughter? Why had she been the one to try to rescue her mother from her mad act instead of him? To what end? All he had were questions, and he knew he would never have suitable responses, except that the world was random and chaotic in how it apportioned cruel outcomes, and that evil often prevailed for no good reason.

Howard shook off the memories. He couldn’t afford sentimentality if he was going to be effective. There would be plenty of opportunities for harsh introspection once he was finished – for now, he needed to focus.

He settled in for another long vigil, thankful that he might be able to snatch a few hours of sleep once the hour grew later and the object of his surveillance went down for the night. But the clock was working against him – he would need to make his move soon. He wanted to avoid anything during the daytime, but it was increasingly looking like he might have no choice.

Time was running out.

~ ~ ~

Richard pulled to the curb and put the car in park, then called Silver on his cell.

“I’m downstairs. I got us a last minute reservation at Gramercy Tavern. Have you heard of it?”

“Heard of it? It’s one of my favorite restaurants. But I’ll need to change – it’s kind of upscale.”

“Well, hurry up. We’ve got to be there in fifteen minutes.”

“I’ll be down in five.”

He hung up and turned on the radio, scanning the airwaves until he found something he liked. Gypsy Kings. Flamenco voices filled the car as guitars strummed furiously, and he tapped his fingers along with the music on the steering wheel.

Ten minutes later, Silver appeared at the front door, looking ravishing in a one-piece black dress cut just above her knees. Richard turned down the radio and got out of the car to greet her.

“Wow. That’s quite an outfit you threw together in nothing flat,” he said approvingly.

“A girl can never go wrong with a black dress. My mom told me that. When in doubt, go black and keep it simple.” She flashed a smile, white teeth dazzling in the twilight.

“I feel underdressed now. Hardly Cary Grant to your Audrey Hepburn.” He gestured to his dark blue Tommy Bahama shirt and black slacks.

“Nonsense. They’ll be more than happy to take your money, either way. Come on. I’m starving, and time’s a wasting.”

Richard opened the passenger door for her. “How’s the bullet wound?”

“You mean the scratch? I’ve had toothaches that hurt worse.” A small exaggeration, but not too much.

“I wonder if you’ll get a medal for being shot in the tush…”

They both laughed.

“Wouldn’t that be typical? Hey, at least it would be a great conversation starter at the local watering hole.”

“Something tells me you won’t be needing that tonight. You’re spoken for,” Richard said, and she liked the way he said it. It was nice to be spoken for. She noted that his arms were well muscled. Not too much, but not too little. She’d only seen him in long-sleeved dress shirts, and upon consideration, she decided that they were exactly right.

“Are you in awe of being in the presence of a genuine FBI combat veteran?” she teased.

“Definitely. It’s impressive. That, and the dress isn’t bad either.”

She felt the tingle in her stomach again and decided that was exactly right, too. She liked that he had such an effect on her.

“Better hit the lights, Kojak, or we’ll never get there in time.”

He made a point of trotting around the car at a jog, then threw open his door and swung behind the wheel. The engine cranked over, and within a few seconds they were threading their way towards the restaurant.

Neither of them registered the SUV parked thirty yards across the street, nor did they notice that the occupant seemed particularly interested in their departure, as well as the departure of the NYPD cruiser that had been sitting a few yards behind them.

~ ~ ~

Silver and Richard settled into their corner table in the mood-lit restaurant and sipped their cosmopolitans appreciatively.

“Everything looks amazing,” Richard said, studying the menu and glancing at the table next to them, where the couple was halfway through their entrées.

“It does, doesn’t it?”

They took their time with their drinks, and when the waiter arrived, Silver ordered the lamb chops, and Richard got the filet and selected a Malbec from the considerable wine list. When the bottle arrived, he sniffed the cork and then nodded approval after tasting a splash of it in his glass.

“You know a lot about wine?” Silver asked, studying the deep, garnet-colored Malbec in her glass.

“This one’s red. I understand they make white ones, too.”

They studied each other’s expressions then both laughed simultaneously.

“So you’re an expert.”

“I wouldn’t say that. But I know what I like.” He held his glass aloft and toasted her. She clinked the lip of her glass against his and took a sip.

“Wow,” Silver said, “that’s really good.”

“You like?”

“Me like.”

The waiter brought bread, and they munched on it as they bantered. By the time the main course arrived, the wine was almost gone. Richard ordered a second bottle.

“Are you trying to get me drunk? Because it’s kind of working,” she warned.

“It better be. At these prices, I’d have to take out a loan if you needed a third bottle.”

“Maybe we can only pay for what we drink? Give them part of the bottle back?” Silver suggested.

“Heresy. There won’t be anything to give back.”

They savored their meal, and Silver realized that she was enjoying her evening with Richard far more than she’d hoped. He was witty, self-deprecating but very fast, yet with no trace of competitiveness. Just a handsome, smart man sitting across from her. And a great kisser, she remembered.

When they were done, the waiter brought the dessert menu, but Silver waved him off. Richard stopped him.

“Do you have something really chocolaty?” he asked the waiter. “I’ve kind of got a craving tonight.”

“Yes, of course. We have a specialty of the house. Molten chocolate cake with a drizzle of hot chocolate sauce.”

Richard nodded. “Sounds heart healthy and low calorie. We’ll split one.”

The waiter nodded and departed.

Silver studied him with new approval. “And you like chocolate, too?” she asked, finishing her glass of wine.

Richard poured the last of the second bottle into their cups and placed it on the edge of the table. “Doesn’t everybody?”

When they made their way to the sidewalk to wait for the valet to bring the car, Richard wrapped his arms around Silver from behind. She leaned her head back against him.

“Mmm. That was incredible, Richard. Thank you so much. You know how to spoil a girl, that’s for sure.”

He kissed the top of her head and nuzzled her cheek.

“Some girls deserve it,” he said, and she turned towards him.

Their second kiss lasted an eternity, and by the time it was finished, her knees were weak. When the car arrived, they parted wordlessly, and the valet got out and ran to open her door for her. She slid in and glanced over at Richard, who leaned over and kissed her again, savoring her taste and smell.

A horn tooted from behind them, breaking them out of the moment. Richard waved in his rearview mirror and put the car in gear. Silver slid her hand over and took his.

“I don’t mean to be presumptuous,” Richard ventured, “but could I talk you into a nightcap? I know a place by my apartment…”

And there it was. The moment of truth they’d been leading up to all night. If she said yes there was no turning back, she knew.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

~ ~ ~

They made short work of their chocolate martinis at the dark little bar around the corner from his place, and spent the last half of their short time there kissing in a private booth at the rear. It was a slow night, and they had the area to themselves, the bartender and waitress occupied at the front with their few regular customers. A guitar player sat by the window near the door, playing Cat Stevens and James Blunt, crooning softly into a mike. Silver hummed along with the melodies as they relished each other. When their glasses were empty, Richard stood and took her by the hand, and they weaved their way to the front, pausing to put a ten-dollar bill in the hat by the guitar player’s feet.

Once out on the street, he guided her to his front door, and they waited impatiently for the elevator to arrive and take them to his fifth-floor apartment. They were alone, and she traced the beginnings of laugh lines around his eyes with her fingers after another kiss, wondering at the good fortune that had brought them to this point. She wanted him more than she thought possible. It had been far too long, and she resolved herself to not analyze anything and instead to enjoy being carried along by life.

Inside his darkened apartment, Silver pulled at the buttons of his shirt, rubbing her hands hungrily along his stomach as he leaned his head back and moaned, her tongue flicking his neck as she panted her need in his ear. She could feel his arousal through his slacks and pushed him towards the open bedroom door as she stripped off his top, the only illumination the dim glow from the windows facing the street.

Richard ran his fingers through the hair at the back of her head, and his fingers tightened on it, restraining her while he ran his lips along her earlobe. Her breath caught in her throat at the pull of his hand, and she groaned with pleasure as his tongue followed her neck down to her shoulder. When his hands caressed her breasts through the dress, she moaned again, and then with a single movement, she pulled the dress over her head and tossed it on the floor.

She pulled at the waist of his pants with an excited urgency, and within seconds he was naked, the evidence of his passion unmistakable. She took him in her mouth, and he sighed with pleasure, and then without saying a word, she stood and slipped her panties off.

They fell onto the bed, his hands all over her body, stroking her, teasing her. Silver pushed him back against the pillows and shuddered with passion, straddling him while still locked in a deep kiss. She trembled with anticipation, then her back arched as he slid into her slickness. An animal sound escaped her lips, raw and wanton, as she greeted his thrust with a furious intensity that matched his own.

Chapter 17

When Richard and Silver turned the corner onto her street, they were jarred out of their exhausted glow by the harsh flashing lights of the squad cars gathered in front of her building. Richard pulled to the curb, double parking in the red zone.

A uniformed officer approached him, waving him on.

“Hey, buddy. Move. You can’t park there.”

Richard held out his badge.

“What’s going on?” Silver demanded from the passenger seat, holding up her badge as well.

“Robbery, assault, kidnapping–”

“What? In my building?”

The cop leaned down and gave her a long look. “You live here?”

Something about his tone chilled her. She swung the door open and stepped out onto the sidewalk. Police were milling around, and a crime scene van pulled up behind them as Richard was getting out of the car. Badge aloft, she pushed through the gathered officers and moved into the familiar ground-floor lobby, increasing her pace as she got to the stairs, taking them two at a time. Richard struggled to keep up, until their way was blocked on the third floor by a tall man in a cheap jacket and rumpled slacks.

“Sorry, lady. Crime scene. You can’t come any farther.”

“I live here. Who are you? And what the hell is going on? What apartment got hit?”

He gave her a hard look. “I’m Detective Aaron Baker. Who are you?”

She held up her badge. “Assistant Special Agent in Charge Silver Cassidy. FBI. Now are you going to answer my questions?”

The detective’s face fell. “Cassidy? I think you should probably have a seat over here–”

Silver’s eyes were already looking past him at the crime scene tape across her door. Sarah was seated in the hallway on a chair, a blanket over her shoulders, an ice bag on her face, as another detective spoke with her and a paramedic dabbed at her head.

“What happened?” Silver’s voice had climbed in pitch and had the distinctive edge of panic now. “Someone tell me what the hell is going on here.”

Detective Baker took her arm and led her towards her door. “There’s no easy way to say this, so out of professional courtesy I’m going to level with you. About an hour and a half ago, someone broke into your apartment and robbed it at gunpoint, assaulting the young lady over there,” he gestured at Sarah, “and then kidnapped the girl she was watching. I’m assuming that’s your daughter.”

The world tilted for a second, then Richard’s arms caught her. She felt him steady her as she fought to process the words she was hearing.

“That’s impossible. My daughter? Someone kidnapped my daughter? But she’s only a baby. No. No, you must have it wrong.” Silver began glancing around frantically. This was a mistake. Some kind of horrible mistake. Kennedy couldn’t have been kidnapped. That was ludicrous.

“Agent Cassidy, I know how hard this must be for you. Believe me. I wish it was a mistake. But I’m afraid it isn’t. The girl there has been hit pretty hard and injected with some sort of sedative, so she’s out of it. But we have this right. I’m sorry, but your daughter has been kidnapped.”

Silver grabbed for the wall to steady herself. She heard the words, but inside her head a deafening howl of fear and despair swept through her consciousness.

Richard nodded at the cop, and he stepped back, allowing them to approach the apartment doorway. Silver looked past the little foyer to the computer desk in the living room, where Kennedy would normally have been planted…

She fought to understand how any of this made any sense, but came up empty. “I…why would anyone want to kidnap my daughter?”

They were interrupted by the sound of the forensics techs stomping up the stairs.

“Good evening, Detective,” the female tech said, ignoring Silver and Richard. “Sammy’s downstairs processing the lobby door. I presume the tape is the crime scene?”

“Yes. We’ve tried to keep everyone out. I was inside, as well as the two uniforms downstairs, and the girl over there. Oh, and this is the mother of the kidnap victim,” Baker added as an afterthought. “Special Agent Cassidy, FBI.”

The tech nodded, already losing interest, anxious to get to work in the apartment. Cassidy’s phone rang in her little clutch purse and she fumbled with dead fingers to answer it.

“Silver. It’s Brett. Where are you?”

“I’m at my flat.” Her speech sounded wooden.

“Oh God. I just got the call. I’m en route. Stay put. I’ll be there within half an hour.”

Silver cleared her throat, struggling for composure. “Does anyone know what happened?”

“The details are thin, Silver. But we’ll know more shortly.”

Silver hung up and forced herself to detach and become clinical. After a few minutes regaining control of herself, she approached Baker. The initial shock of adrenaline was wearing off, and she was starting to function again.

“Officer, what do you know about this? Give me the rundown. Who found them? How long do you estimate the kidnapper has been gone?”

“One of your neighbors heard screaming from inside and eventually worked up the courage to knock on the door and see if everything was okay. She tried the knob, and it was open. The babysitter was cuffed on the couch, unconscious. Your neighbor immediately called the police, and the first respondent arrived within twenty minutes.”

“Twenty minutes? Are you kidding me? It took twenty minutes to get a car here?”

“Look. I’m just telling you the chronology, okay? The guesstimate is that the kidnapper left over an hour ago.”

“What about traffic cams?” Silver demanded.

“They’re being analyzed. Should have something shortly. But you know how busy the streets are – there are a lot of cars that went through those intersections. On a quick scan, it’s a needle in a haystack unless we know what we’re looking for. Sorry.”

Sarah yelped from the other end of the hallway as the paramedic probed the gash in her head with his fingers, and Silver’s attention was drawn to her. She moved down the gloomy corridor until she was standing in front of her.

“Sarah. It’s Silver. Are you okay?”

Sarah peered up at her with glazed, unfocused eyes. “I’m sorry, Ms. Cassidy. We never stood a chance. It all happened so fast…”

“Can you tell me what happened?” Silver asked gently.

“We were hanging out in the living room, and then suddenly this guy was standing in the room with a gun – we never heard him come in. He said he was going to rob us and tried to inject me with something, but I fought him, and then he hit me. That’s all I remember. When I woke up, your neighbor, Mrs. Lee, was with me. I’m sorry…there was nothing I could do…”

“We need to get you to the hospital and get an X-ray of your head,” the detective said, “make sure you don’t have a concussion.”

“No. I can’t. I don’t have insurance.”

Sarah was eighteen, an aspiring actress who worked around the corner at a coffee shop. She’d dropped out of school in her native Virginia when she was sixteen and thumbed her way to New York, where she’d been living hand-to-mouth ever since. Cassidy knew her from the restaurant – she was always sweet, if not particularly bright.

“Don’t worry about it. This one’s on the City of New York,” he assured her.

“What did he look like?” Silver asked Sarah.

“I don’t know. I mean, I know it was a man, but I don’t know much else. He had pantyhose over his head, like one of those robber movies. Kind of freaky looking.”

“What about his clothes? Pants? Jacket? Shoes?”

“He was wearing some kind of construction boots, I think. Those tan kind? And jeans. Baggy jeans…and a brown windbreaker jacket. Kind of cheap-looking stuff, you know? Like thrift shop cheap.”

Silver continued interrogating her, but it quickly became apparent that she didn’t know much more than she’d initially said. Something was nagging at Silver as she listened, though, and she stopped the girl midway through a sentence.

“How did he get in the apartment?” Silver asked. “You said he just appeared there?”

“Yeah. I have no idea. One minute we were alone, and the next he was standing in the hall pointing a pistol at me.”

Silver exchanged glances with Richard, and they walked over to the front door of the flat. Silver squatted down and peered at the locks. Sure enough, there were telltale scratches on them.

“He jimmied the locks. That’s fairly sophisticated. And ballsy at that hour. There are still people circulating,” she observed.

“Which tells me he knew what he was doing. But why Kennedy?” Richard asked.

Silver didn’t say anything. She walked to the far end of the hall, and Richard followed her. She was trying to hold it together, but when she thought about her baby girl, kidnapped, she began sobbing quietly, her frame shuddering. Richard put his hand on her shoulder, and she shrugged it off, then turned and fell into his arms. He held her while she cried, her tears of helplessness and loss staining his shirt.

Seth appeared on the landing, with Brett following right behind him. They approached Silver, who didn’t register them until Richard cleared his throat. Silver looked up from his chest, tears streaming down her face, then pulled away from him as she tried to wipe away her grief with shaking fingers.

Nobody said anything.

Seth studied Richard, his shirt soaked from Silver’s pained reaction, then took in Silver’s dress. Brett regarded them both.

“Silver. I’m so sorry. You have my word that we’ll do everything possible to get your daughter back safely.”

Silver began speaking, but her voice cracked and momentarily failed her. She tried again, and it came out stronger. “I know you will. I just don’t understand any of this.”

“We’ll get to the bottom of it, Silver. I am putting the full resources of the FBI behind finding her and bringing her kidnapper to justice.”

Seth nodded solemnly, but everyone knew that nothing that was being said would change things or bring Kennedy back. It was just what you said to the family when horror intruded and loved ones were stolen in the night.

The next half hour went by in a blur, with Silver lost in her thoughts, occasionally racked with desperation and breaking into tears for a few minutes before pulling herself together.

Detective Baker and Brett squared off over the inevitable jurisdictional issue, but Baker quickly conceded the advantage to the FBI. This was one of their own, and he wanted out of it as soon as possible. By the looks of the number of agents that had arrived since Brett had gotten there, it was going to be a full-court press, and another broken-down NYPD detective wouldn’t be needed.

As time continued to drag on, Brett pulled Richard aside and had a hushed conversation.

Richard sat down next to Silver on one of the folding camp chairs the crime scene technicians had put out. “They’re going to be here most of the night, Silver. Let’s get you a hotel room so you can get some sleep. There’s no point staying. We can come back in the morning.”

She shook her head, dazed, but he was persistent, and she eventually nodded and stood, feeling the eyes of the agents and police boring into her as she squared her shoulders and walked down the hall to the stairs, Richard trailing her.

Silver knew the statistics on kidnappings as well as anyone and tried to banish the poison thoughts that waited to overcome her – Kennedy, shivering, half-dressed or worse, a shadowy figure looming over her tiny adolescent body, and her captor…her captor a sick, twisted…

When they arrived at the hotel seven blocks from her flat and checked her in, any chance of sleeping had been destroyed by the vision of her little girl, alone in an ugly, dangerous world where predators routinely did the unthinkable, crying out soundlessly in Silver’s head, begging Mommy to save her.

Chapter 18

Silver awoke, disoriented, in a strange bed with her head pounding. She peered at her watch, and then reality came crashing in on her. She must have drifted off to sleep at around four, and now with the alarm sounding at seven-thirty, she was back in a world that was as grim as any she could imagine.

The realization that Kennedy’s abduction had really happened, and that this was the next day, froze her on the bed. Her limbs were immobilized, and it felt like someone was standing on her chest. She couldn’t breathe for a few seconds, then started hyper-ventilating automatically.

Calm your ass down, she commanded herself silently. Your daughter needs you functional, not a vegetable. Knock this shit off and get up, take a shower, clean up, and head over to your flat to change into some new clothes.

She dragged herself off the mattress and stumbled half asleep into the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror staring at a stranger’s red, bleary eyes. Steam began rising from above the shower door, and she stripped down and immersed herself under the hot stream, washing away the residue of the prior day’s ordeal.

As she lathered the hotel shampoo through her hair, she automatically began running a mental checklist of things she’d need to do – they would want to put a trace on her phone lines so when the kidnapper called they could triangulate him. She would have to call Miriam and let her know Kennedy wouldn’t be there, and also contact the school. She’d want to get the transcripts of any interviews they’d conducted last night and also go over the traffic cam footage. She’d need to coordinate with the agent running the Kennedy investigation and see what kind of help she could provide.

She shut the water off and felt marginally better – the mental exercise had centered her and given her a sense of purpose. But there were still troubling and puzzling unanswered questions, the largest being why Kennedy had been taken. She hoped it wasn’t anything to do with the man who had tried to kill her, but logic said it had to be. There was no other reason to snatch her daughter than to have a hold over her. But whoever had done it was misjudging the amount of weight that would be brought to bear – kidnapping an FBI agent’s child was unheard of and ranked right below kidnapping the president’s in terms of recklessness.

There was no other reason that made any sense. She wasn’t rich. Far from it, she was probably the worst person in the world to try to extract a ransom from. A broke single mom with a license to carry a Glock. Not smart. Not smart at all.

Once she was close to ready, she called Richard, and after a quick scan of the room, she took the elevator to the ground floor and signed out of the hotel. She dropped the key off at the front desk and waited in the lobby for him to arrive, watching the crowd move along the sidewalk, oblivious to her ordeal as they went about their early morning business. A few minutes later her phone rang.

“I’m swinging around the corner right now,” Richard said. “Traffic’s crazy. I’ll pick you up at the curb.”

The sun momentarily blinded her when she stepped out onto the sidewalk, and then she saw him, trying to force his way over in front of a persistent cabby who wasn’t giving an inch. The power struggle eventually went to the cab, and an angry blast of horns protested as Richard cut off a delivery van and pulled into the drop-off zone.

She swung open the door and slid in, noting that Richard looked like he’d gotten twelve straight hours of untroubled sleep even though he couldn’t have had much more than herself. He leaned over and kissed her, and she almost lost it as his lips brushed her cheek. He sensed the precariousness of her grip and let her have her space, focusing instead on the relentless stream of cars growling by.

“Friendly town here. Courteous bunch,” he observed, hitting his blinker and trying to edge back into traffic.

Silver didn’t respond for a second. “New York is known for that,” she finally replied, her voice tense.

“How are you doing?”

“About like you’d expect. I feel like a truck ran me over. You?”

“Same truck hit me and then backed over me to finish the job. Are we headed to your place?”

“Yes. I want to be there when the techs show up. And much as I like wearing my little black dress for days on end, I’m pretty sure I’ll be more useful in something more sensible.” She smiled grimly, trying to hit an upbeat note in the miserable situation.

Richard slammed on the brakes as a bicycle messenger shot in front of the car, missing the front bumper by a few scant inches. He exhaled and shook his head. Manhattan driving was an acquired taste.

“You want to stop for some coffee?” he asked. “I didn’t have time to pick any up. Sorry.”

“Can we? There’s a Starbucks up the block on the right hand side.” She glanced down at her bare legs. “We look like we’ve been out all night and are just getting in…” she trailed off, lost in her thoughts.

“There are worse things. You look great, by the way,” he offered.

She grimaced at the transparent lie. “Nice try, and thanks, but they have mirrors at the hotel.” She grabbed his arm and pointed. “Oh, look. There’s a spot out in front. Cut over – you’re clear.”

He veered to the curb and rolled to a stop, and they made their way inside, waiting patiently in the long line of half-asleep workers buying their five dollar morning jolt of wake-up.

“Brett wants you to call him once you get back to your flat. You know the drill. They want to monitor any calls that come in.”

“I figured as much. I’ll have to take the day off, I suppose. Hopefully the task force can fend for itself without me for twenty-four hours.”

Richard didn’t respond, seemingly engrossed in the pastry possibilities, and then it was their turn to order.

“I hope they can keep this out of the papers,” Silver commented as they waited for their drinks.

“So far I haven’t seen anything, but I wouldn’t bet on it. Bad news has a way of traveling.”

Her cell phone beeped at her. She glanced at the number and contemplated not answering it, but then thought better of it.

“I need to take this outside. Can you throw three sweeteners in mine?” she asked Richard, then pushed her way to the entrance.

“Hello.”

“Jesus. I just heard. What happened? Do you know anything?” It was Eric.

“No, Eric. I don’t. She was kidnapped last night from the flat. We don’t know by whom, or even what they want. But I’m on my way over there right now to meet the techs so they can record any demand calls and trace them.”

“The feds are coming to put tracers on my phones, too. How did they get her? And how did they get by you?”

“We don’t know how they got in, but the best guess is that they picked the locks.”

“But how did they make it past you?”

Silver considered the ten possible non-responsive rejoinders she could try to make his life miserable, and then just told the truth.

“I wasn’t there. She was with a babysitter.”

“What? You weren’t with her?” Eric barked.

“That’s what I just said, didn’t I?”

“Where were you? What was more important than taking care of our daughter?” Eric’s tone had gone dangerously ugly in a heartbeat. The insinuation was clear. If Silver had been doing her job as a mom, Kennedy would still be safe. Guilt slammed into her, but she banished it – that was precisely the effect he wanted. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Any remorse she had for having left Kennedy with the babysitter would be played out on her own timeline, not his.

“I was having dinner with a colleague from work. I do that once every year or so.” She really didn’t need this. She should have lied.

“So you were out on the town while someone was breaking into the flat? Is this some kind of nightmare? What in the hel–”

Silver depressed the end call button and then dialed Ben. She briefly explained the situation on his machine and asked him to call back as soon as he was in the office. She would just ignore Eric’s abuse until she could talk to him.

Her line rang again. Eric.

She answered, against her better judgment. “If you start down that road again, I hang up,” she cautioned.

He didn’t apologize, but he didn’t pursue it. “What are you doing to get her back?”

“We have a full team on it, and I’ll be with the investigators in a few minutes. I don’t know anything more right now. I’ll make sure you’re kept in the loop. Now I have to go.”

“Silver, don’t hang up on me again. I’m warning you. If you think you can–”

She stabbed the line off and switched the phone to silent. Her nerves really couldn’t handle this today. She would leave Eric to Ben.

Richard exited with their coffee and hesitated when he saw the look on her face. “You okay?”

“No, Richard. I’m not okay. My daughter’s been kidnapped, my life is a shambles, God knows what’s being done to her while we speak, and my asshole ex is going for my throat.” She stopped. He was on her side. “I’m sorry. I’m just raw.”

“I figured, and I completely understand. No problem. You want to hold these while I try to drive?” he asked, changing the subject.

“Sure.”

~ ~ ~

Sam was in the office early and heard about Silver’s situation within the first five minutes. It was all anyone was talking about – the biggest news to hit the building in years. One of their own had first been attacked by a gunman, and now her child had been kidnapped, all within a space of a few days. That was a threat to every one of them – most had families, and the unspoken fear was that if the job put their loved ones in jeopardy, that changed the playing field.

Sam sauntered to Brett’s office and knocked on his door. He looked like he’d been there all night.

“Yes?”

“I just heard about the situation with Silver. That’s unbelievable, sir.”

“Yes, it is. I’ve been working on it non-stop. We will be committing substantial resources to this case – agents to question everyone in the neighborhood, to review all the traffic footage, coordinate with NYPD…”

“I just want you to know that you can depend upon me to step in and pick up Silver’s load on The Regulator task force. We shouldn’t miss a beat.”

“Really…” Brett’s eyes narrowed.

“Yes. I mean, I know she’s going to be too distracted to run the task force effectively. She’s good, but she’s not superhuman. Nobody could expect her focus and concentration to be there. I know mine wouldn’t be…”

Brett considered Sam’s statement. “I’ve been too slammed to devote a lot of thought to it, but you make a good point.”

“Between the shooting, and now this…nobody could be anywhere close to a hundred percent. And with The Regulator’s killings heating up and more pressure coming from all directions…it wouldn’t be fair.”

Brett picked up his pen and resumed signing the stack of documents on his desk. “No, I suppose it wouldn’t be. Your readiness to step into the breach is noted and appreciated.”

“No problem, sir, I just wanted you to know that she’s got support systems in place.”

“Very well. Thanks. And please, close the door behind you.”

~ ~ ~

Silver climbed the stairs to her apartment and was greeted by two techs who had been let in by the departing agents that morning. They quietly and efficiently went about their mysterious business, and Silver motioned Richard to take a seat while she ducked into the bedroom to change.

As she was pulling off her dress, her phone lit up, and she grabbed it after catching a glimpse of the number.

“Ben. Thanks for calling me back so quickly.”

“Silver. No problem. Now what’s this about a kidnapping? Did I hear you right on the voicemail?”

Silver took him through the events of the last twelve hours, finishing with the call from her ex.

“All right. I’ll handle it. You’re right not to have any contact with him. You have more than enough to contend with right now without worrying about how every other word will be used against you later. Speaking of which, you’ll be happy to know that some of your money is paying dividends. I don’t want to jinx it, but we may have something that will shut down Eric’s bid for Kennedy.”

“That’s wonderful news, Ben. Although I would be more excited if I knew she was…that she was okay.”

“I understand. Leave everything to me. I still have his phone number. I’ll touch base and advise him to stop pestering you with calls.” Ben paused. “He’s quite a dick, isn’t he?”

“That’s the technical term. Yes, he’s relentless and totally amoral, and as vicious as a pit viper.”

“Snakes are my specialty. I’ll handle it. Silver, I hope everything turns out okay. I know it’s slim comfort at a time like this, but my heart goes out to you. This is a terrible, terrible thing…”

“Thanks, Ben. I appreciate the kind words.”

She disconnected and then completed her wardrobe change, selecting a pair of loose slacks and a button-up, crème-colored blouse. She slipped on a pair of sandals and dialed Brett’s number as she exited the bedroom.

“You want something else besides coffee?” Silver asked Richard.

He shook his head.

Brett’s voice came on the line, and she held up a finger.

“Brett. It’s Silver. I’m back at the flat.”

“How are you holding up?”

“So-so. The electronics team is here. No ransom call yet. It’s the landline they’ll need to use.”

“That’s good. Simplifies things. But we’ll still be running a trace on your cell as well – they might get the number from your daughter.”

She hadn’t thought of that – and it was basic procedure. She needed to pull herself together, or she wouldn’t be any good to anyone.

“I know it’s too soon to expect anything, but have you made any progress?” she asked.

“I’ve got a team assembled, and they’re going to canvass the neighborhood and see if anyone saw anything. That’s a good first place to start. You never know. It’s a relatively busy area, so we may get lucky. We’ve also gone through the traffic camera feeds, and one of the cams captured a suspicious-looking SUV.”

“Suspicious? Suspicious how?”

“The SUV triggered a stolen plate alert. A dark green Ford Explorer. I’ve put out an APB on it, so maybe we’ll get a hit.”

“I wonder how many cars on the streets at any given hour are stolen? I’m guessing it isn’t a lot.”

“Not that many. This is significant. It’s our best lead so far, but it’s still early. Silver, we’re going to throw the kitchen sink at this. Nothing will be spared. Absolutely nothing,” Brett assured her.

“I know you will. I appreciate it. Now tell me who’s running the team? Maybe we can compare notes.”

“It’s Art Phillips. He’s seasoned – has done a lot of these, relatively speaking.”

“Art’s good. That will help. Listen, I’m sorry to have to take time off from the task force. I know things are heating up there with the latest–”

“I need to talk to you about that. Don’t worry about the task force. Your priority should be your daughter.”

“I know, but I’m able to focus, and I’m planning to be back on line tomorrow. I really feel like we’re making progress now. With the traffic image and some leads on possible motivation…”

“Silver, that isn’t important. You need to look after yourself until this ordeal is over. I’ll assign someone else to run the task force.” Brett dropped the bomb as artfully as possible.

Silver took a few seconds of silence to absorb his words. “You’re pulling me?”

Brett hesitated, and then his voice grew in conviction. “I have no choice. With your daughter kidnapped, there’s not a chance in hell the Bureau will let you keep running it. You know how things work. We can’t afford to have anything but best efforts every step, and with all this other shit going on… Look, once we find Kennedy, you’re back in the saddle. You have my word on that. But for now, you need to concentrate on your family, not the task force.”

She swallowed, temporarily feeling like she was choking. “I…I can do this, Brett. Really. It will help take my mind off wondering what’s happening to Kennedy every minute of the day. The work will help.”

“I don’t doubt it, but running a serial killer investigation isn’t some kind of therapy, Silver. The victims need someone with no distractions. I wouldn’t remain in this office for two minutes if I let you continue. You know it.”

She felt blood rushing to her cheeks as he spoke.

“Because I’m a woman, and women are emotional, right?”

“Silver, that’s not fair. If you were a man, we’d pull you off just as quickly. It has nothing to do with gender – and everything to do with being involved in a crisis. Think about it. That you would even consider this is because of your sex is irrational. Which underscores my assumption that you aren’t going to be performing at peak while Kennedy is missing.”

Silver digested his words for a few moments. “You’re right, Brett. This is a massive body blow. I’m sorry for lashing out at you. It’s just that right now, the job is all I have. Without that…”

“It’s still your job. But you’re going to take time off. That’s an order. I don’t want to see you near this building until…until there’s a resolution on the kidnapping.” His voice softened. “Silver, if this happened to me I’d be a basket case. Stop forcing yourself to be Wonder Woman. Nobody could keep it together in light of what’s happened. Take the time to deal with this, and we’ll revisit things once…later.”

“Who are you putting in charge?”

“Sam Aravian.”

“No. Brett. Please don’t do that,” she blurted, her voice sounding borderline hysterical. Silver reined in her anger before she lost it. She needed to make a dispassionate case for not giving Sam the lead, not unload on her boss. “He’s not on the same page, Brett. He’ll take the investigation down an unproductive road. He’s fought me tooth and nail on virtually every decision for the last week. Why not Seth? He’s good, and he’s up to speed.”

“He’s also got three years’ less experience, Silver, and he’s not a Supervisory Agent yet. I can’t just bypass a resource like Sam and ask him to answer to Seth. Give me a break.”

Brett was right. He had to work within the framework of the Bureau’s playbook, and while Silver didn’t agree with the decision, she could see how it was the only one he could make.

“I get it. But with all due respect, you’re not going to get rid of me that easily. I want access to the computers while I’m off. If I don’t have something to work on, I’ll go stir crazy. Come on, Brett. Throw me a bone here. Don’t shut me out. I didn’t do anything wrong…”

Brett groaned and then capitulated. She could hear it in his exhalation.

“Fine, Silver, fine. All right. Your remote access will remain in place. But don’t wear yourself out. Your first priority needs to be to yourself right now. We’ll catch this serial one way or another. It shouldn’t be your overriding concern.”

“Thank you, Brett. I appreciate it. And I completely understand what you’re saying. But we’re all wired differently, and the work will really help.”

“Good. Call me if you need anything at all. I’ll be around today and tomorrow, and then I’m off to a conference in D.C. next week. Closed doors, so I’ll only be available in the evenings. Meanwhile, you can also have full access to Art. He’s expecting your call.”

Brett gave her Art’s cell number. “Give Art an hour – he’s going to be in a briefing first thing this morning. I’ve got to go give it, so I won’t be around, either. I’ll keep you posted on any progress. Again, I’m sorry this is happening, Silver.”

“Yeah. It sucks.”

“It does indeed.”

Chapter 19

Kennedy had regained consciousness a few hours earlier, lying on a bed in a completely dark room with no windows. She’d felt her way around, exploring what she could absent any light – it seemed bigger than her bedroom at home, and very different. The air smelled dank and musty and abandoned, and the only furniture in the room was the bed – a single width mattress on a box-spring with no frame.

The cold metal door was locked. She twisted the knob and alternated between pushing and pulling, but no matter what she did, she couldn’t get it to budge. She debated slamming against it and making as much noise as possible but then thought better of it. She didn’t want to risk angering whoever had locked her in.

She listened intently but didn’t hear anything other than a dim humming she couldn’t identify, emanating from somewhere on the other side of the door. Wherever this was, she’d never been anywhere like it before. Her trembling fingers brushed against the coarse finish on the walls. Rough cement with a damp feel. At least it wasn’t freezing or boiling hot.

Her wrists hurt from the cuffs, and her head was pounding. Dizziness came and went along with waves of nausea. Her mouth was dry and tasted like she’d chewed on metal in her sleep, and she was sore all over. Creeping anxiety gnawed at her stomach, aside from the fear she’d awoken to, and her eyes felt like they were going to pop out of her head.

The last thing she remembered was struggling with the intruder, fighting to break free from his superior grip. Then everything had gone dark, and the next thing she knew she was on the bed, thirsty and needing to use the bathroom.

Something scuttled across her arm. She screamed reflexively, brushing it away with revulsion. Visions of spiders, their mandibles twitching feverishly as they sensed blood pulsing just below the surface of her skin, froze her in place. Kennedy had always been terrified of the dark. This was her worst nightmare come true. She shuddered at the thought of insects creeping towards her, unsure of how to protect herself from them.

Kennedy started bawling out of fear and dread of whatever was to come. She wanted her mother and to be someplace safe. Her cries reverberated off the cold, uncaring walls as she shrieked her terror and frustration at them. She threw herself down on the bed face first and howled into the pillow until she drifted off again, exhausted by her outburst.

The humming continued without abating, her only company in the dark confinement.

~ ~ ~

Kennedy bolted upright, woken by the sound of the door lock being slid open. She instinctively shrank back to the farthest corner of the bed, pulling her knees to her chin.

Light streamed through the opening as the heavy steel door swung wide, and then a man filled the space. He walked into the room and reached overhead, and she instinctively flinched. His hand gripped a short cord dangling from the ceiling, and he pulled it with an audible snap. A single bulb illuminated.

Kennedy peered up at him, squinting as her eyes adjusted to the new light. He turned and studied her, rubbing a hand over the closely-cropped, quarter-inch stubble on his head. Their eyes locked, and she felt a chill run through her.

“You probably have to go to the bathroom by now,” he said, his voice sounding gravelly in the confined area.

Kennedy nodded fearfully.

“All right, then. Follow me.”

He turned and moved towards the door. She remained where she was.

“You going to come, or should I leave you in here to do your business on the floor?”

That got her attention. The lesser of two evils was to accompany him.

She stood up gingerly, her legs still wobbly, and trailed him out of the room, through a basement area with a boiler. A small utility door stood open, beyond which she could make out a toilet and an old, cracked, enamel wall sink.

“You have five minutes. Make it worthwhile.” He pointed to the bathroom.

Kennedy went in and closed the door, searching frantically for a way to reach the small window near the ceiling. The light only just penetrated the grimy glass and looked like it might not even open.

“And don’t get any ideas about the window. I have a couple of very mean, very hungry Rottweilers circling the grounds. You wouldn’t make it ten feet.”

The man’s voice was clearly audible through the door. While she attended to her necessities, she could hear him moving around and the sound of cabinets being opened.

Three minutes later, she opened the door and stepped out.

The man held out a bottle of water and an energy bar.

“Here’s breakfast. How do you feel?” he asked as he handed them to her.

She didn’t say anything.

“I’ll bet kind of crummy. That’s from the drug I used. But the water and the food should help. All right. Come on. Back to your room with you.”

He pointed to the doorway.

She shook her head, her eyes fearful.

“This isn’t a negotiation. I tell you what to do, and you do it. That’s the rule. Now, back to the room. I’ll come back in a while to let you out to use the bathroom again and bring you more water.”

She hesitantly shuffled towards the door, then paused and turned. “Can you leave the light on?” she asked softly.

He stared impassively at her for a few moments. “I suppose that wouldn’t hurt anything,” he said and then gestured again.

She nodded, then turned and trudged back into the room.

The door closed behind her, and she heard the bolt slide back into place. She’d taken care to catch a good look at the lock as she went by. It looked very strong.

Kennedy unwrapped the granola bar and tried a bite.

At least it wasn’t stale.

~ ~ ~

Agent Heron approached Vaslav’s customary table framed by two other men, all three wearing suits. Vaslav’s men remained seated. Heron pulled up a chair from one of the surrounding empty tables and slid it next to Vaslav’s.

“Is the coffee any good?” he asked.

“Not bad. Better than most of the other shit served around here.”

“Huh. I’ll have to give it a try sometime.”

“My treat.”

Heron looked at him with humorless eyes. “Want to take a stroll?”

“You read my mind.”

They both stood. Vaslav made a small motion with his head at the seated bodyguards, who blinked back at him and stayed where they were. Vaslav set the pace, fishing in his trousers for a pack of cigarettes. He paused a few feet from the café and lit one with a gold Dunhill lighter, exhaling a stream of gray smoke into the air with satisfaction.

“Give me some good news, Vaslav. I could use some good news.”

They resumed their stroll.

“I believe that I can find out who was foolish enough to attempt to take out a contract on your colleague, but I’ll need some assurances first.”

“Believe? Assurances? Vaslav, I don’t think you understood me very well at our last meeting. I thought I was clear.” Heron sighed. “I guess now you’ll need to see a demonstration to confirm I was serious. Too bad for you, because once that ball starts rolling it can be impossible to stop.” Heron slowed.

Vaslav cursed silently. He was trying to stall for more time, but Heron was playing hard ball.

“My friend. Not so fast. I’m close to having the information you seek. But I can’t get it unless I have some guarantees that doing so won’t bring about negative consequences for those who are providing it.” Vaslav’s face crinkled as he took another pull on his cigarette. “It doesn’t matter whether you bring me down in their eyes. I will just be replaced with someone else. But if they are going to give up information that will impact their relationships, they need to know that they won’t be prosecuted for any part in this regrettable incident.”

Heron shook his head. He leaned in close to Vaslav. “I’ll crush you like a bug, you shit. The same agent’s child was kidnapped last night. That turns the heat up in an altogether more intense way. If your people had anything to do with that, nothing, and I mean nothing under heaven, will keep the U.S. government from going scorched earth on all of you. I mean sky-raining-fire, biblical end-of-days kind of shit, my Russian friend. Think Al Capone-level, it’s-over-for-you kind of shit,” Heron snarled.

Vaslav appeared genuinely shocked. “I swear I know nothing about this latest development. And I don’t think it’s anyone I am involved with. There is no way even the most foolhardy would go to that extreme. These are businessmen, not suicide bombers – they do not wish to eradicate themselves. Look, I can get you the name of the party who ordered the hit, but in return, I have to get a guarantee that nobody on my side will be prosecuted for making the stupid mistake of taking the contract without checking into the particulars of the target. That’s what I’m told happened.”

“I find that impossible to believe.”

“Perhaps, but in the end, the offer is the same. They take the position that it was a regrettable indiscretion, but that all is well, as you say, that has ended well, correct? The shooter has paid the ultimate price for failure; nobody really got hurt other than him, and this way you can go after the driving force who set the contract into motion in the first place. As to the child, I have nothing to do with it, and I can speak for everyone I know that they wouldn’t compound their mistake in this way. Perhaps it would even help you to find her if you knew the identity of the person who ordered the hit. If it is the same person, then you could apply pressure. Does this make sense?”

Heron was very good at reading people, and he could sense two things coming off the Russian: fear and sincerity. He believed that they hadn’t grabbed the girl. It would guarantee their extermination. No business would do that.

“Suppose I believed you. How long would it be before you had a name and enough details to make it stick?”

“Would you entertain immunity in exchange for testifying?”

“No. No way. But right now, I’m not so worried about testifying as I am in knowing who went after her. Once we know the who, then we can look at the viability of making a case.”

“Very well. I will go to my people and share our discussion with them. Give me a few days. I’m sure they will agree. It will just require some internal argument. There are some who believe my operations should be left to your devices rather than potentially exposing other, more powerful players to inconvenience over this.”

“You can have forty-eight hours. That’s it. There will be no further extension. But, Vaslav, a word of warning. If anyone in your group is even remotely associated with the kidnapping, all bets are off. Unless the little girl shows up at a police station, unharmed, before today is at an end, the kidnapping is a declaration of war that could never be rescinded. Do I make myself completely clear?”

Vaslav took a last puff of smoke and dropped the butt into the gutter, where it hissed in a pool of oily water as the ember died. He thought about the ramifications of kidnapping the family of a federal agent, of the devastation the act would cause to the parents, and how he would react if it was his child.

When his eyes met those of Agent Heron, they were unflinching.

“Crystal.”

Chapter 20

The day passed uneventfully, but there had been no call, which was disturbing to everyone involved in the investigation. In most kidnappings, a ransom demand usually came in within twenty-four hours. If it didn’t, the crime took on a more ominous tone. If a child was kidnapped for money, there was a chance they could get the child back unharmed. But when abductions had no clear motive, the odds dropped drastically.

Art had stopped in with two agents and a psychiatrist. They had spent hours with Silver, waiting for the call that never came. Art was seasoned and proficient, and his demeanor gave away nothing, but she could tell that he was getting more worried as the day wore on. When he finally left with the team, he told her he would be back the next day if she needed him, but Silver declined. The techs had wired the phone line so it could be remotely traced from headquarters, so there was no point tying up personnel at her flat. Besides which, she wanted to be alone. Richard had called and offered to come by to keep her company, but she was overloaded and didn’t want to be around anyone, so she begged off, promising to call him the next day.

She went into Kennedy’s room, sat on her bed, and began crying for the little girl who’d been torn from her without warning. Silver fingered the quilted bedspread she’d gotten for Kennedy when she was five, keening as she spied her school bag in the corner, her clothes neatly hung up in her open closet, an outfit for the next day set out on the overstuffed chair by her window.

What kind of monster would do something like this? The thought echoed in her mind, over and over. Silver laid her head on Kennedy’s pillow, stained by the small amount of drool that seeped from her daughter’s mouth as she slept – something she’d done ever since a baby. The bed shook as sobs racked her body, and she moaned raw anguish into the mattress.

When Silver opened her eyes, she realized an hour had passed. She pulled herself to her feet and dragged herself into her own bedroom. She flicked on the lights and then padded back through the flat to the front door, checking to ensure that the two deadbolts were locked and that the chain and the sliding lock were also secure.

Silver returned to her bedroom and kneeled down at the base of her closet, spinning the combination lock on the floor safe with practiced finesse. Two to the left, one to the right, a half turn, and then depress the lever and swing the door open. She reached inside and extracted her Glock and chambered a round, then put it on her nightstand next to the bedside lamp.

Her vision blurred, and she realized that the combination of stress and too little sleep was wearing on her. She headed to her bathroom, opened the tap and poured herself a glass of water, and then returned to her bed, where she gratefully swallowed one of the sleeping pills the therapist had given her then crawled under the covers, emotionally and physically exhausted.

~ ~ ~

The following morning, Silver awoke to a grogginess that was a residual effect of the pill. She felt a little better after a shower but didn’t fully rejoin the living until her third cup of coffee.

No calls had come in, and a quick check with Art confirmed that no new leads had surfaced. Agents were working the neighborhood all day, and he agreed to check in if anything came up. Silver set the phone down on the dining table as she stared out the window with the realization that every minute nothing new transpired her daughter’s odds of survival declined.

Her next call was to Richard, whom she’d avoided being alone with since that night. She wasn’t ready to process what had happened between them; the added weight of the kidnapping had colored the whole thing negatively. It wasn’t fair to either of them to associate her daughter’s disappearance with their night together, but she did, and she wasn’t sure she would ever be able not to. He answered on the second ring.

“How are you, Silver?”

“Digging out. Waiting for something to happen. Going a little stir-crazy. How about you?”

“Sitting in meetings with Sam as he asserts control over the task force. Hours of brain suck.”

“Anything new come up?”

“He’s really interested in pursuing his theory about this not being the work of a single perp. He has everyone scrambling to follow up on the idea that it’s somehow connected to either the Ponzi scheme or the terrorist funding.”

“That’s not a surprise. Did anything come back on the photos of our mystery man that were circulated?”

“Nope. But I’m not sure how much priority Sam gave those with everything that’s happened since. I know they got sent out, but you know if you don’t follow up, they get tossed in the round file by the end of the day. Everyone’s got other things to do than rack their brain for a possible ID of a grainy black and white.”

“And what about the interviews that were done with the men connected with the fires?”

“Nothing. The New Jersey runner is still unconscious and in critical condition, and the prognosis is that he’ll be on machines for the rest of his life. We managed to get a warrant to search his digs, but other than some drugs and a pistol with the serial number filed off, there wasn’t much. If he is the killer, he’s either got a second place, or he’s the most methodical evil genius in history. Given the condition of his apartment, I think it’s safe to say he isn’t our man.”

“And the others?”

“The report on the old guy was negative. The agents conducted an interview but walked away from it believing he’s clean. The third suspect has an alibi for two of the nights – we’re in the process of checking it out.”

“What if it isn’t someone related to the victims? Have we looked at boyfriends of the daughter who was killed? Or maybe close school friends?”

“Seth is driving that effort, but my guess is no. Since Sam took over, there’s not a ton of time to follow up on that line of inquiry. He’s made clear the direction he believes will be the most fruitful, and I don’t think anyone wants to cause any friction with the new boss in the first few days he’s running things.”

“I was afraid of that. But listen – I have access to the computers, so I’m going to keep at it. I think Sam’s well intentioned, but dead wrong on this one. The way he’s killing them has to be the key. I’ll go into the system and pull everything from the interviews and see if anything pops up, and I’ll call Seth to see if he’s onboard to help. I hope you are…”

“Silver. You don’t even have to ask. Surely you’ve figured that out by now? And listen. About the other night–”

“Richard, it was magical. And I don’t regret a second of it. But with Kennedy missing, I’m not able to devote anything to it right now. I hope that doesn’t sound cold, but as much as I’d like to pick up where we left off, it’s not a good time.” As she said it, she realized it sounded distant and detached.

“Don’t worry. I figured you’d have other things on your mind – I know I would.” She made to interrupt but he kept speaking. “Silver, what I’d like to say is that it was special, and I’m here if you need anything, and I will be until this is all resolved. We’ve got time.”

Saying nothing to this, she silently thanked him for his understanding.

“One thing, though,” he continued, “and I’m saying this because I care. Do you really think it’s a good idea to be devoting a lot of your bandwidth to the task force? I’m not trying to tell you what to do, but you’ve got…well, you have other fish to fry.”

“Richard, if I don’t occupy myself with something that keeps my brain engaged, I’m going to spend my days sitting in Kennedy’s room, crying. Putting some effort into trying to nail the killer may not be at the top of any therapist’s coping strategies, but for me it’s a way to stay sane. I’ll drive Art crazy calling him every ten minutes otherwise, and my temptation to insert myself into his investigation won’t end well.” She hesitated. “So this is all I have.”

Richard paused for a few seconds. “It isn’t everything you have, Silver.”

“Perhaps. But for now it’s the only way I have to fill the next ten hours today that won’t have me locked in a padded room by the end of the week.”

He conceded the point. She knew herself better than he did.

“Fair enough. You can depend on me for anything you need, Silver. Anything at all. I mean it.”

“I know you do, Richard. Thank you. Now I’m going to try to find Seth. I need him to run me a couple of errands.”

“I’ll call later, after my day’s over.”

“You know where I’ll be.”

They ended the conversation, and Silver stared at the handset for a good minute. Part of her wanted to ask him to come over and stay with her, hold her while the world collapsed around her, but another part wanted to push him away. She knew she’d need to deal with her feelings sooner than later, but today wasn’t the day.

She dialed Seth and was reassured when he picked up.

“Seth. How’s everything going?”

“Silver! Fine, I suppose. What about you?”

“I’m alive. That’s about as far as I’m willing to push it today.”

“Any…developments with the kidnapping?”

“No. They’re doing all the usual stuff, but so far, nothing.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. But they’re staying in touch?”

“Of course. Art is running it, and he’s top notch. But they don’t have a lot to work with. No call yet, so the motive is an unknown.”

Seth didn’t say anything. There really wasn’t much he could add that wouldn’t sound like a bromide.

“That’s not why I called, though. I heard about Sam and the task force, and I wanted to follow up on the traffic cam photos as well as the research you were doing on the similar incidents.”

“Yeah, well, Sam has decided to move the investigation in a different direction, and that got de-prioritized.”

“I heard. But I’m just sitting around my flat waiting for the phone to ring, so I thought I’d work that angle. You know how I feel about Sam’s theory. How far were you able to get on other crimes that might be associated in some way?”

“Boy, Silver. I finished the search on decapitations going back ten years, and all I can say is there are a lot of bizarre accidental deaths, as well as a few really sick bastards out there. But nothing connected in any obvious way.”

“What about geographically? Did you try filtering them and limiting the results to only the areas near the fires?”

“No. I never got that far. I was going to do that next, and also look for any connections with any of the names.”

“How long would it take?”

“It’s not a fast process. Sam’s got me doing a whole stack of other things now, focusing on the people at the latest victim’s brokerage. He’s really fixated on the Masenkoff feeder thing, as well as all the jihad buddies of the fourth victim’s partner.”

“Could you shoot me an e-mail with an outline of how to do the searches so I can take that on? I want to go through all the evidence to date and look at it with fresh eyes. Can’t hurt, and maybe I’ll have a breakthrough.”

“Sure. No problem. Give me a little time, and I’ll get it to you.”

“Thanks, Seth. I appreciate it.”

~ ~ ~

The bolt on the door slid open, startling Kennedy out of the half slumber she’d fallen into. She’d busied herself killing any spiders or other bugs she could find in the room to avoid a repeat performance once the lights were turned off again, but had exhausted the pursuit hours ago and was now left to her thoughts. She was no longer thirsty, but the headache was still bad. The breakfast bar had helped, but not to the point where she felt normal.

The door swung open, and the man stood looking into the room. Kennedy met his gaze.

“Bathroom time.”

She stood and dutifully moved ahead of him.

“Five minutes. You know the drill.”

She nodded and went in, closing the door behind her.

The window was far too high to reach, even if she could somehow balance on the toilet tank, which didn’t seem like a great idea. It looked old and decrepit and was fixed haphazardly to the wall. She studied the empty room with defeated resignation. There wasn’t much promise she could see from a toilet and a sink, and there were no cabinets or any junk lying around she could use. He had obviously sanitized the area of anything before bringing her there.

When she came out, he had a sandwich wrapped in plastic and a liter bottle of water.

He held up the sandwich. “Peanut butter and jelly.”

She eyed it distrustfully.

“It won’t kill you. I ate one a few minutes ago, and I’m still standing. Now come on. Back to the room.”

She clumped to the doorway and then stopped. “What are you going to do with me? Why did you take me?”

“None of your business. For now, be glad you’re getting food and water and being allowed to use the bathroom. I could feed you to the dogs, and nobody would ever know about it.”

“I don’t hear any dogs. And you don’t have any dog hair on your clothes. My friend has a dog, and she always has dog hair on her.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “What are you, Sherlock Holmes? I don’t go near the dogs. They’re too vicious. I just push food out through the mail slot, and they devour it.”

“Sher…Sherlock who?”

“Sherlock Holmes. What the hell do they teach in school these days?”

“I’ve heard of him,” she insisted unconvincingly.

He snorted. “He’s a detective. The greatest detective of all time. I can’t believe you don’t know that.”

Kennedy didn’t say anything.

“That’s it for now. I’ll be back later to let you use the bathroom again.”

A tear trickled down her cheek.

“How long are you going to keep me here?” she asked and then snuffled. She wiped the tear away with a trembling hand.

“As long as I need to. But you’re alive, aren’t you? I haven’t killed you or fed you to the mutts. So it could be worse.”

“Why did you take me?”

“That’s not your concern. I had my reasons. That’s all you need to know.”

Kennedy decided to try a different tack. “My mom is an FBI agent. She’ll be going crazy to find me.”

“I expect she will. I would.”

That wasn’t the response she had been expecting. “Then you know about that. So why am I here?”

“To give me an entertaining hobby. Now go in the room and keep quiet. There’s no escape, so don’t hurt yourself trying to come up with one, or you’ll be sorry. Just behave yourself, and you’ll be okay. That’s all I’m going to tell you.”

“Will you leave the light on?”

“If you’ll promise to be good.”

“There’s not many ways I could be bad in an empty room.”

“That was the whole point.”

“What if I have to go to the bathroom before you come again?”

“Hold it. Or do you want me to give you a bucket? It would be easier than me coming down here every five hours.”

So he was coming down from somewhere. That confirmed her feeling that she was in a basement. She’d never really been in one before, but had seen them on TV in police shows.

She gave him a dirty look. “I’ll try to hold it.”

“Do that.”

The door closed with a metallic clunk.

~ ~ ~

Silver drifted back into Kennedy’s room and touched random items on her desk, silently agonizing over the ordeal she must be going through. She wasn’t hugely religious, but had found herself praying, promising any kind of bargain if she could only have her daughter back safe. A part of her was afraid to imagine what could be going on – she’d spent far too much time looking at crime scene photos of innocents who had been subjected to unspeakable horrors by sick animals masquerading as normal people. She understood all too well the violations, the depravity that people were capable of. But it would do no good to allow her imagination to run away with itself.

Her eye caught something she’d missed earlier. In the closet. There were three empty hangers. She did a quick scan of the dirty clothes basket in the bottom but couldn’t find the clothes she was sure she had hung up.

What were they?

She was almost positive there were two stretchy tops and a pair of jeans.

Her pulse quickened, and she moved to the dresser, opening each drawer to see if anything was missing.

There. Panties and socks. She wasn’t sure how many, but there were fewer in the drawer than before.

A cautious flicker of hope glimmered to life within her. If the kidnappers had taken clothes, then they were planning on her needing them – which meant that they were planning on keeping Kennedy alive. At least for a while. There was no other reason to do so.

She ran to the living room and grabbed her phone and called Art’s cell. He listened patiently and agreed that was indeed positive. But beyond that agreement, it didn’t change much.

Still, it was a reason for optimism. And at this point she’d adopt it.

It meant that her little girl’s chances of being alive were better than she’d believed an hour ago.

Silver made her way to her computer by her bedroom window and sat. She quickly made a series of keystrokes and logged into the FBI network, then searched through her recent messages. There it was, from Seth. A series of files was attached to the main body.

The search results were collected in several batches, with precise instructions for modifying the parameters to change the searches. She opened another window and studied the reports of the interrogations, and then followed the step-by-step directions Seth had left, and created a new algorithm, looking for decapitations that were geographically-proximate, as well as in any way related to their three likeliest suspects.

She knew from Seth’s warning that the results would take some time to churn out – it wasn’t like the movies, where the super-sleuth agents waved their hands over the touch screen wall monitor and the processing power of a small sun yielded answers in nanoseconds. In the meantime, she busied herself reading the interviews with the two who hadn’t run headlong into a truck, searching for the smallest inconsistencies.

The Regulator was killing methodically, and his schedule, while accelerating, didn’t seem erratic. Most of the time when a serial increased the frequency, it was because his impulse control was breaking down, which was how they tripped up – they started making mistakes, cutting corners because they were in a hurry. But this killer hadn’t made any she could see, other than allowing himself to be photographed by the traffic cams – assuming that was even him.

The photos.

She opened Seth’s folder and studied the face – hard to make out in the shadows, even with the image enhancement. With all the facial hair and the cap, it was tough to be sure, but he looked older than the average psycho – which pointed to their Brooklyn possibility. Assuming her idea that the current killings were mirroring earlier incidences was even valid – a conviction that was rapidly fading. She pushed back from the keyboard in frustration – she was getting nowhere.

After pacing a few lengths of the living room, Silver moved into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, searching for something sweet. She was reaching for the box of emergency chocolates when a thought struck her with the force of a blow.

This serial was highly intelligent and had left nothing to chance. Did it make sense that type of meticulous planner would simply not notice, or ignore, the traffic cameras that even cursory research would have revealed? They had been working under some assumptions, and one of those was that he hadn’t known about them. But what if he had? What if he’d planned on being photographed because there was no way around it, and disguised himself to throw them further off the scent?

She hurried back to screen.

Pulling up the driver’s license photos of the three possibles, she ruled out the Pennsylvania PI. He had a round, cherubic face, and the man in the photos had a longer face. But it also still didn’t look much like either of the remaining two. Was it possible that her hunch was that far off?

Silver opened the secure e-mail browser and sent the images to the technicians, asking them to do their best to remove the facial hair. Also, to put a beard and long hair on their two driver’s license photos and to modify the noses to match the traffic cam shots. And to run facial recognition software to see if it could spot any similarities that her naked eye couldn’t.

She’d be lucky if she got those back by the next morning, but she wasn’t in a huge rush – it wasn’t like she had places to go. And what if one of the two looked like the traffic shot?

She understood why Sam was pushing in a different direction. The odds were against her theory holding water, but she couldn’t shake her feeling, so she resigned herself to putting in a few more hours before giving up. It would be worth seeing what the image experts could do, and check if any decapitations came up over the last ten years that could be connected to the fires.

In the end, it was going to be a marathon, not a sprint.

Chapter 21

Kennedy heard the footsteps before she registered the scraping of the door bolt. Her water bottle was three-quarters gone, so it was in the nick of time. She’d managed to sleep, but she was still thirsty almost all the time as she recovered from the effects of the drug.

The door creaked open on its rusty hinges, and the now-familiar man stood waiting in the doorway.

“Rise and shine. It’s bathroom time again.”

She swung her legs off the bed and stood, feeling stronger now. He stepped back, and they repeated the trip to the john. She’d been thinking of ways to reach the window but hadn’t had any breakthroughs. She did know that she didn’t want to make her captor angry. She wasn’t sure what he was capable of and didn’t want to find out the hard way.

When she was done, she emerged to find the man coming down the stairs at the far end of the oblong space, carrying a flat cardboard box, a bottle, and a backpack. Her nose quivered at the aroma.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“What does it smell like? Pizza, I’d say.”

“What kind?”

“Whatever kind you want, assuming you’re thinking pepperoni.”

She made a face. “I normally eat cheese. My mom gets cheese.”

“I’ve heard the secret to modifying pepperoni into cheese is a multi-step process. First, you remove the pepperoni. Next, you eat the remaining cheese pizza, now without pepperoni.”

He held up the plastic bottle. “Orange juice.”

“What’s in the backpack?”

“Let’s go back to your room, and I’ll show you.”

She hesitated. “How long are you going to keep me here?”

“You already asked me that.”

“You didn’t really answer.”

“As long as I have to.”

“Are you going to hurt me?” she asked in a small voice.

“Have I hurt you so far?”

“You’ve locked me in a room with spiders.”

“But I haven’t hurt you, have I?”

She considered him. “No. Not today.”

“Look, I didn’t plan on hurting you at your flat, either, but you were putting up such a fight I had to subdue you somehow. So that was more your fault than my intention. If you don’t cause any problems for me, I don’t have any reason to hurt you.”

“Then why do you have me locked up?”

“Believe me, I wish I didn’t. This has complicated my life a lot.”

That wasn’t the answer she expected. “Then why?”

“You’re an insurance policy.”

She didn’t understand. “What?”

“I needed something to distract the FBI. You’re it. It’s nothing personal. It will be over soon, and then I’ll let you go. Now back in the room.”

“What will be over?” Kennedy asked as they walked back to her little area.

“This. In a few more days. Then you can go home, and you’ll be famous – all over the news. So will I with any luck at all.”

She stepped into the room. “Why will we be famous?” she couldn’t help but ask.

“Never mind. Now, what do you want to do with the pizza? I left you two slices. Big ones. You want to take the pepperoni off or eat it with it on?”

“Pizza and orange juice sounds like it will suck.”

“Don’t complain. The correct response would be: ‘thank you for not making me eat dog food out of a bowl’, not speculations about whether or not you’d prefer a different beverage with your dinner.”

“What’s in the bag?”

He reached in and extracted three books – battered paperbacks from a bygone era.

“Sherlock Holmes. You can improve your mind while you’re here. Presuming you can read. Do they still teach reading in school?”

She looked offended. “I read at an eighth-grade level. Even though I’m in fifth.”

“Congratulations. Then these will be perfect. They’ll help you pass the time. Let me know when you’re done, and I’ll see if I can find you some more.”

“I prefer vampires or zombies.”

“And I prefer kids who are grateful and not complaining.”

They stared at each other.

“Why are you doing this? You don’t seem like a bad man,” she said honestly.

“I’m not. I’m a good man who is having to do bad things. But in the end, I guess it’s the same as being a bad one.”

“No, it isn’t.”

He paused, appraising her again. “When did you become Freud?”

“Who?”

“Never mind. Enjoy your books. I’ll be back one more time for a bathroom break, and then it’s time for you to sleep.”

“What if I’m not tired?”

“Then you’ll have to try to read in the dark.”

For the first time during the discussion, her composure slipped. “I’d rather if you didn’t turn off the light. There are spiders and bugs in here.”

He looked around the room, and then nodded. “There probably are. I’ll think about it. Meanwhile, eat your pie and enjoy your books. I’ll be back later.”

The door closed behind him, and she sat down on the bed, cross-legged, and opened the pizza carton. It actually looked pretty good and was still warm. No restaurant name or address on it, though, so no new information – just an artist’s generic rendition of a steaming pizza.

Kennedy examined the first of the small paperback books, featuring a depiction of some sort of monster in the background and a man wearing a curious hat while smoking a pipe in the foreground. She flipped to the first page of The Hound of the Baskervilles, happy to have something to take her mind off the tedium of sitting, staring at the walls, wondering what was going to happen next.

~ ~ ~

The onscreen window blinked green – the search for decapitations within fifty miles of any of the most likely fires was finished. Silver scrolled through the list and counted seventeen in the last decade. Most of the results were newspaper articles with associated police reports, which would make for slow reading.

She resigned herself to sorting through them and began with the first – a forklift accident in Pennsylvania eight years ago.

Two hours later, she’d read all the documents and was numb. Nothing had jumped out. Car accidents, industrial accidents, one solved murder attributed to a drug-crazed ex-boyfriend. If she was expecting an obvious connection to any of the fires, she was sorely disappointed. At first glance, there was nothing there.

Silver got up and paced, the new information orbiting her brain as she considered her next step. She supposed she could do another search, this time for suffocations, but that would be a much, much longer list. Thousands. She wasn’t looking forward to having to sort through a mountain of accidental deaths but didn’t see any other way to proceed. Until the photos came back, she was dead in the water.

For the first time that day, she faltered. Maybe Sam was right, and the terrorist link was pertinent. Certainly it was curious that the software victim’s partner was so proximate to terrorist financiers – and now their fifth victim was mob-connected, as was Masenkoff, which by extension made the first victim also at least peripherally mob-affiliated. Maybe the entire series of killings was some sort of criminal syndicate retaliatory strike against a rival network?

If that was the case, then Sam would get to the bottom of it, she had no doubt – if for no other reason than solving the case by taking it in that new direction would guarantee him a promotion to Silver’s rank. She could tell he wanted that more than life itself, and she had every faith that he would work tirelessly to discover the truth.

She padded to the kitchen, grabbed a soda, and considered another chocolate, but then thought better of it – a brief mental image of the paramedics finding her in a sugar-induced coma, lying on the floor amid a heap of candy wrappers flitted through her imagination. She smiled at the visual.

Just before dinner time, Richard called.

“Hey. Any progress? Anything come in today?” he asked.

“Nope. Completely quiet. But I made a discovery. The kidnapper took some of Kennedy’s clothes, so it looks like he planned to keep her alive, at least for a while.”

“Did you tell Art?”

“Of course. He agreed it was positive.”

Richard filled her in on his day, which largely consisted of sitting in meetings with Sam, who was already beginning to display a dictatorial penchant. He had demanded a mountain of new research on the terrorist funding and was pressing Richard to get him the backgrounds on all the brokers at their latest victim’s company.

“I don’t think he realizes what a big job that is. I understand why he wants it, but it’s not like it’s an hour’s worth of work.”

“When will you have it for him?”

“Tomorrow, with any luck. I’m probably going to be working late tonight.”

“So am I, so don’t feel bad.”

“Well, I’m hoping we get a break in the next day so I can come see you. The other night was…I think we need to talk, Silver. We need some time alone.”

Her love life was at the bottom of her priority list at the moment. Still, he deserved some attention, and he was right. Whatever had happened between them deserved an opportunity to develop, if it was going to. She couldn’t hide in the flat forever.

“Just let me know what your schedule looks like. You know where to find me. Maybe we can have dinner in the next day or two?”

“I’d like that, Silver.”

“Me, too. Consider it done, then. We can talk tomorrow. I’m going to be burning the midnight oil on the case the rest of this evening, and it sounds like you will be, too. Sleep well, whenever you get to.”

She disconnected, and then her attention was drawn to her computer screen. A confirmation message from one of the techs blinked at her – they were starting on the photos. She glanced at her watch – barring a miracle, she wouldn’t have anything back before mid-day tomorrow at the earliest.

Silver sat back down in front of the screen and brought up the list of decapitations again. There had to be something there. She was sure she was missing something obvious and resigned herself to spending her night poring over the minutiae of the cases in the hopes of spotting something.

She turned on her speakers and selected her favorite internet radio station, then shifted in the chair, the healing bullet wound a reminder of how quickly time was passing.

Somewhere out there, the killer was planning to strike again.

She knew it like she knew her own name.

And it was now up to her to figure out how, and why, because with Sam chasing ghosts, she had zero faith he’d stop him.

That left Silver.

Her stomach rumbled, signaling she had to attend to the mundane task of feeding herself. She did a mental inventory of her options in the flat and decided to go round the corner to grab a rotisserie chicken – she didn’t see the point of spending a half-hour preparing a meal.

She grabbed her purse and pulled on a light jacket, then considered her Glock. Wherever she went, it would go. That seemed prudent in light of the attempt on her life. She scooped it up and dropped it into her purse, then made her way to the front door.

She exited her building, taking slim comfort from the NYPD cruiser in front of it, and pressed her way into the mass of humanity thronging the sidewalk on its way home after a long day at work, the crowd moving with an anxious pace particular to big cities. As she approached the corner, the back of her neck prickled, and she felt as though she was being watched. She stopped abruptly and swung around, eyeing the sea of approaching faces, but didn’t spot anyone who was obvious or seemed to pose a threat. It was probably just nerves getting the better of her, she decided, then noticed a figure standing across the street from her building, wearing black trousers and a black jacket – a man who quickly averted his gaze after their eyes locked for a brief moment.

A woman pushing a stroller next to her lost control of her grocery bag, and it tumbled to the ground, spilling cans and packages everywhere. The businessman next to Silver bumped into her roughly, then apologized as he kneeled to help the young mother. The surge of pedestrians dodged the parcels, a few throwing her dirty looks, several smiling, one other stopping to help. A can bumped Silver’s ankle, so she crouched down, retrieved it, and handed it to the harried woman as she struggled to gather her groceries before they got kicked all over the sidewalk. The baby girl seemed mesmerized by the sudden change of pace and squealed delightedly, unaware of her mother’s consternation.

Silver stood and turned, straining to catch sight of the man again, but he was gone, melted into the crowd. She considered running across the busy, rush-hour traffic to try to pick up his trail, then thought better of it. There was no law against watching the world go by, even if it triggered her internal alarms.

She hefted her purse and reached in, feeling the comforting coldness of her Glock. If someone wanted a piece of her, they’d find that it wasn’t that easy to get.

Silver resumed her walk, now hyper-conscious of her surroundings, but didn’t notice anything further.

When she returned to the flat with her chicken and rice, she locked all the bolts, set the meal on the counter, and hurried to the window to scan the street below, but saw only the random flow of the city’s population going about its business. She checked the windows to ensure they were locked and then pulled the drapes closed. Silver noticed that her hands were shaking, just a little, a telltale tremor. She sat down hard on the swivel chair that Kennedy used when she played on the computer, and glanced at the multi-colored Post-it notes with her daughter’s precise scrawl on it – the addresses of websites she’d found and wanted to revisit later.

Silver spent the evening at her dining room table. The first mouthful of chicken bestirred her sadness; she quickly washed it down and took another. A pile of paper she’d printed out for ease of reading sat in front of her, a bottle of mineral water on one side and her Glock on the other – a solitary figure with a lone lamp illuminating the area, struggling to hold it together as she searched for hidden meaning in long-forgotten reports of events nobody cared about.

~ ~ ~

Vaslav had called Agent Heron and agreed to a meet in a deli near Times Square at seven p.m.. When the mobster entered the bustling dining room, he instantly spotted Heron and murmured instructions to his two companions, who resembled nothing so much as small, fleshy mountains in suits. They glanced around before taking up positions by the exit while Vaslav moved to Heron’s booth.

Heron didn’t get up when Vaslav stopped by his table, the last booth at the back, all the surrounding tables devoid of customers. Heron had a milkshake in front of him and was pouring more into the tall, old-fashioned glass from a frost-encrusted stainless steel blending cup. He raised his eyes to Vaslav as he slowed the stream to a trickle.

“You want some of this?” Heron offered. “It’s amazing. Just like Mama used to make, if Mama worked for Ben and Jerry’s.”

“No. My body is a temple.” When Vaslav grinned he took on the appearance of a wolf with nicotine-stained teeth.

“Sure it is. So what do you have for me?”

Vaslav cleared his throat. “First, my people say that they had no idea what the target’s association with law enforcement was when they agreed to help the customer…”

“Yes, I suspect that when they’re setting a price to kill someone, they don’t ask questions like ‘is it a cop?’. Let’s just dispense with the stupidities and cut to the chase, shall we? Your people can claim they’re innocent as lambs, and I’ll pretend I believe their bullshit. Which leaves us here, now, with you telling me what you know in the next thirty seconds or I declare war on your ass, starting with cuffing you right now. You sure you don’t want to try the shake? It’s chocolate coconut. Really good.”

“Nyet.”

“Come on, Vaslav, live a little. Here.” Heron waved down the waitress and asked for another glass. She reached behind the counter and placed one on their table before making off to the front of the deli. Heron repeated the process with the mixing cup and poured several inches into the glass, then slid it to Vaslav.

The Russian raised it to his lips and tasted it. “Wow. You weren’t kidding. That is good.”

“Should be for eight dollars. Now what have you got for me?”

“My colleagues, who shall remain nameless, were approached by a man they had done business with before. Mainly drugs. This man specified that he had a contract that needed to be fulfilled and that he was both generous and serious. My colleagues should have researched all of the elements of the transaction better, I’ll grant you – I’m not arguing that taking the deal was prudent. Anyway, you know the rest. The assignment, which should have been questioned, in retrospect, went out to a talented freelancer who wasn’t talented enough.”

“All very touching, but that doesn’t tell me anything I don’t already know. Do I look stupid to you, Vaslav? Are you going to treat me like your bitch when I was nice enough to share my tasty choco-coconut beverage with you?” Heron’s tone had hardened.

“The group that wanted your associate gone is a motorcycle gang. Seventh Sons. You’ve heard of them?”

Heron’s eyes narrowed at the mention of the name. “It rings a bell.”

“What my colleagues proposed is this. They can do a meet with the representative of that organization, you can record it, and then take whatever steps you see fit – as long as you leave my colleagues out of it from then on.”

Heron took another appreciative pull on his shake, pausing to savor the flavor before setting the glass down. “What’s the name of the contact person with Seventh Sons?”

“Teddy. Teddy Bear.”

Heron’s expression didn’t change. “Is this some kind of Russian humor, Vaslav? Because you’re losing your audience.”

“I don’t mean to offend. That’s the name he uses. He’s a huge man and looks like he’s been through several wars. I don’t pick their names. I’m just reporting.”

Heron sighed. He tapped a brief text message into his phone and sipped his shake while he waited for a response. Two minutes later his phone vibrated, and he peered at the message.

“Fair enough. There’s a known leader in their organization who goes by that moniker. I’ll need to run this up the flagpole to get approval but I think it’s a reasonable solution. I have your number. I’ll give you a call as soon as I have a ‘go’, and then we’ll work on the logistics of a meet – maybe you’ll need to get more money out of them to finish the job. Whatever. We can fine-tune that later.”

Heron finished the milkshake with a loud slurp and rose to his feet. “The shake is on you, Vaslav. Have one while you’re here. No reason not to. I’ll be in touch within twenty-four hours.”

“I think I will,” Vaslav said, draining the last of his glass. “I’ll be waiting for your call.”

~ ~ ~

Kennedy heard the man approaching before the door made any noise. Her ears were getting used to being alone in the quiet room, and she was now sensitized to any sound that was out of the ordinary. When the door opened, she was standing, ready, clutching the pizza box in front of her like a peace offering. It had been longer between bathroom breaks this time, but she was holding her own and wasn’t uncomfortable. She guessed it was late.

“Last time for the night. You eat everything?”

She nodded. “Even most of the pepperoni.”

“Good. Use the can, and then we’re done until tomorrow. Don’t drink any more water tonight, or you’ll be in trouble.”

“Okay.”

They made their procession to the toilet, and the man took the box from her. She looked at him before going into the little room.

“Too bad there’s no shower in there.”

“This isn’t a spa,” he replied with a shrug. “Not taking a shower for a few days won’t kill you.”

“It would be way more convenient if you could just lock the entire downstairs, and then I could use the bathroom whenever I needed to,” Kennedy said matter-of-factly.

“Yes, and when you tried to create some kind of distraction with the boiler or pipes or electricity and wound up killing yourself, my worries would be over because you’d never have to use the bathroom ever again. Then I’d just let the dogs eat you, and I could move on with my life.”

“I don’t hear any dogs,” Kennedy countered.

“They’re trained to stay silent. All good killer dogs are.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’ll be right out.” She disappeared into the bathroom, listening for any movement by the little window. She didn’t hear anything. Kennedy was beginning to suspect that the dog story was concocted to keep her from trying to escape.

When she exited, the man was holding a black cloth item in his hand.

“If I leave the light on, you can use this to sleep.” He handed her the object.

“What is it?”

“A sleep mask. They give them away on planes and sell them at drugstores so people can sleep when there’s lights on. You put it over your eyes, and the elastic holds it on your head.”

She inspected the mask.

“Don’t worry. It’s new.”

“I wasn’t worried.”

“Fine. How are the books?”

“Good. But I’ll be done with them by tomorrow.”

“What? You read that fast?”

“I told you I read at an advanced level,” Kennedy said with precise pronunciation. She sounded much older for an instant.

“Well, read slower at an advanced level. I’m not going to have time to get you books every day.”

“You could always just let me go. I would take care of my own books, then.”

He appeared to consider it. “Now there’s an idea…Oh, wait, I thought about it, and the answer is…no. So we’re back to you need to read slower.” The man’s expression didn’t change.

“I was just tossing it out there.”

“Very kind of you. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got things to do. Time to retire to your lavish digs. I’ll be back in about twelve hours.”

“How will I know twelve hours have gone by? I don’t have a watch.”

“You’ll know because I open the door again.”

“You could always leave a cell phone. Those have the time on them.”

“I wonder why I didn’t think of that. I’ll certainly consider it.”

She smiled for the first time. “Just a thought,” she said.

“Thanks for that. But it’s going to be a long night, so I have to lock up now. See you tomorrow.”

“Are you really going to let me go?”

“At some point.”

“When?”

“When I’m ready.”

“Are you lying?”

“If I was, then my saying I wasn’t would also be a lie.”

They stared at each other.

“Are you planning to hurt my mom?”

“What is it with all the questions? Jesus. No, I’m not planning to hurt her, or you. Now go sit down on your bed, go to sleep or read your books – slowly – and don’t drink any more. Can you do that?”

She shuffled back into the room, giving him a petulant glare.

He swung the door closed.

Just as it was almost shut, she said, “Goodnight. And thank you for the mask.”

The door stayed open a crack.

“You’re welcome.”

The bolt eased back into place, then she heard his boots making their way back to wherever they’d come from.

Chapter 22

Red and blue lights flickered off the glass storefront, the cheap neon sign overhead adding a carnival quality with its blinking, stylized, 1930s-era, tuxedo-clad cartoon figure waving a liquor bottle. NYPD had called in the FBI when The Regulator’s card was spotted clutched in the corpse’s bloody hand. A substantial contingent of agents had since gathered, waiting for the crime scene to be processed.

Sam looked like he’d been roused from a deep sleep, which was in fact the case when his jangling cell phone had jarred him awake an hour ago. He’d listened to the voice on the other end for a few moments, asked two or three groggy questions, then leapt into reluctant action, calling the lead members of the task force as he pulled on clothes and headed for the scene.

“What do we know about him?” Seth asked.

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment. “Not a lot. ID says his name is Stewart Corbess, address over on the West Side in one of those twenty-million and up buildings over by Columbus Circle.”

“He’s a little far from home, isn’t he?” Seth commented as he looked around the dilapidated parking lot, deep within the confines of Hell’s Kitchen. Even with the gentrification of Manhattan there were some areas that were unsafe after dark, and this area near Javits Convention Center was high on the list.

“Hey, you never know how a guy’s going to try to find his stimulation, right?” Sam countered.

Seth didn’t smile. “NYPD got a call, shots fired. Looks like he took three to the chest. Dead before he hit the ground.”

“Do I want to know what the card says?” Sam asked.

“Rough Neighborhood.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes. Only that. Although he could have saved himself the trouble. I think most everybody agrees this isn’t a five-star block.”

Sam nodded. “The predators do enjoy their nighttime haunts, don’t they?”

“Hey, we have some data coming in on him…holy shit. This guy is a bigwig. Shows up as owning half of New York. Okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration, but still – he’s in the same ballpark as Trump. Oh – hey, guess what he did for a living?” Seth was reading off his iPhone as the feed uploaded.

“Bus driver?”

“Close. He’s the top dog at one of the biggest hedge funds on Wall Street. As in mucho billions.”

“How can I have never heard of these guys, and yet they’re worth as much as the average midsized city?” Sam complained.

“I guess you need to travel in different circles,” Seth advised, immediately regretting his words when Sam threw him a dirty look. “He’s got another address up in the Hamptons and one in Connecticut. This isn’t the kind of guy you’d expect to be looking for some street action in Chelsea, that’s for sure.”

Sam approached the blanket-draped corpse, stopping just beyond the crime scene tape.

“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?

She flipped to the un-doctored photo and downloaded it, then opened it in Photoshop. Using the clone stamp function, she eliminated the mustache. No, that wasn’t it. Although…

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.

She opened the lid and looked inside – not a lot of trash – mainly empty bottles, the usual wrappers, and a pizza box. Silver was preparing to lower the lid back into place when she noticed several fingerprint smudges on the outside of the box – grease, or tomato paste.

Small smudges. Like a child’s.

The blood drained from her face.

Maybe Howard had a grandchild, or a nephew or niece? She struggled to remember, but thought it had been just the wife and the daughter. With a trembling hand, she withdrew her phone and took several photographs of the garbage can sitting outside the house, and then a few close-ups of the box in the trash. The time/date stamp would confirm that it pertained to this visit.

Now she needed to retrieve the box without contaminating it. A part of her brain was thinking about evidence chains, due process, and reasonable cause, but another part was shrieking that her baby might be inside, only a few feet from where she was standing. The internal struggle lasted until she picked up a branch and cautiously lifted the box out, holding one side with a tissue she’d fished from her jacket pocket, her breath catching in her throat for fear of dislodging it.

A light breeze tugged at a corner of the empty carton and she watched in helpless horror as it tumbled out of her grasp and landed on the dying lawn, flipping open in the process. She moved to retrieve it but a gust blew it another few feet away from her, shaking three pieces of pepperoni loose from the bottom and sending them tumbling onto the grass.

Silver stooped over to retrieve the container and then froze. She slowly drew her Glock and turned to the back door.

Inside, the slices of congealed meat had fallen away, revealing four unmistakable letters scratched into the cardboard.

The wind pushed the box, now forgotten, towards the far wall, where it stuck in the hedge, propped open by the breeze, the message visible from a few feet away.

Silver thumbed her phone and dialed headquarters, but it still went directly to Sam’s voicemail. She stabbed another number, but Art’s line was busy. At least she had tried, she reasoned. Then her instinct to save her daughter’s life preempted any others, and she kicked in the rear door, the lock shattering on the second blow.

Across the meager backyard, the sun glinted against the glistening tomato sauce that had been used to increase the legibility of the four letters scratched into the carton bottom. They were unmistakable, etched in a child’s shaky script.

HELP

Chapter 24

Silver stepped into the narrow rear hall, the splintered shards of the doorjamb crunching underfoot. Her Glock 23 was clenched in both hands, pointed in front of her. She stopped in the kitchen, tilting her head to detect any hint of movement in the house. A creak sounded from the second story. A few seconds later, another. She couldn’t be sure whether it was the breeze or someone overhead, but she steeled herself to find out.

As she stood motionless, a third creak sounded, and she began to believe it was the wind – the sound came from the same area each time at the front of the house. She turned so that she would present as small a target area as possible and cautiously eased into the hall between the small combination dining/living room and the stairs leading to the upper level.

The floor plan was typical of the older row homes in the area – a modest downstairs forty feet deep by twenty feet wide consisting of the living area, and two or three bedrooms up, usually two, one in the rear and the other facing the street, with a landing and hall between them. She confirmed that nobody was downstairs and then carefully put weight on the first stair tread as she began ascending to the upper floor.

At the third step, the wood beneath her foot emitted a squeak. She stopped, her heart pounding in her ears. Her finger caressed the Glock’s trigger, ready to empty the weapon at anything that moved. She stood like that for a seeming eternity and then heard the creak from the front bedroom again – same as before. She was almost positive it was the wind now, but she still moved with stealthy deliberation as her head, and then her body, moved into sightline of the second floor landing. Both bedroom doors were closed, although the single bathroom between them had its battered door ajar. Now she was faced with an impossible choice – which bedroom to search first?

The front bedroom creaked again, and she realized it was the door – every time a draft moved through the house, it stirred it just enough to coax a protestation. Taking a deep breath, she made two rapid strides and threw herself flat against the wall. A single bead of sweat trickled from her hairline, down her temple, and then ran to the corner of her mouth, where it hung before she flicked at it with her tongue.

She took another step, and then another. Once she was alongside the door, she slowly dropped her left hand from its position on the pistol butt and gripped the worn pewter knob and turned it, trying to make no sound. When she felt the mechanism disengage, she flung the door ajar, pausing a split second before moving into the doorway in a crouch.

The second bedroom’s door burst open, and she spun, training her weapon on it, ready to fire. The door bounced against the wall and then swung shut again, with a slam that shook the house. She froze, momentarily paralyzed as she processed what was happening, and then felt the wind on her back.

She turned and peered into the master and saw that one of the two windows was open eight inches, causing the draft responsible for the creaking. The bedroom was otherwise empty except for the closed closet door and a neatly made bed. Opening the master must have created the breeze that had blown the guest bedroom door open. As if congratulating her for her deduction, it slammed again. The lock was either ill-fitting or out of adjustment – it wasn’t holding the door shut.

Now that she’d made enough noise to alert the entire neighborhood to her presence, she inched towards the closet – the final area in the master that could conceal anyone. Silver threw the door open, to be confronted with a tidy display of hanging shirts and pants. Her eyes took in the outline of a hatch in the ceiling leading to the attic, but the condition of the dust and cobwebs told her that it hadn’t been opened for a long time, so any possibility of an assailant hiding up there existed only in her mind.

The second bedroom door slammed again, and she turned to face it, ready to tackle the other possible upstairs hiding place.

Step by step she moved from the master to the rear bedroom, both hands steadying the Glock in a combat grip. When she reached the door she hesitated, listening, but detected nothing. Without warning she burst in, weapon sweeping the room. No closet, just a chest of drawers and a cheap armoire too small to hide in.

A sound echoed from downstairs.

Adrenaline coursed through her veins as she stiffened. Satisfied that the upstairs was secure, she pulled her phone out of her pocket and called Seth, but that call too went to voicemail. She left a terse message – a whispered advisement that she was in Howard’s house and to send backup immediately – that she believed the killer might still be inside, and that she was in pursuit.

Now the question was whether to wait, or go get her daughter. If anyone was inside, there were only two places they could be – the single-width garage or the basement. She hadn’t seen a car in the driveway, so she was guessing that if anyone was home, their car was in the garage. That left the basement.

Silver moved down the stairs, taking care to place her weight on the outer edges of the steps to minimize any noise. She’d learned that lesson on the ascent.

Once in the ground floor hall, she moved towards the front of the house and stopped at the only door along the span – the basement entry. There was little in the way of places she could hide, so she pushed the door open. A shaft of light stabbed down the concrete stairs to the dark expanse below. She listened, but didn’t hear any movement – just a dim hum of machinery in the gloom.

Groping along the wall with her left hand, she fumbled for a light switch. Her fingers felt the familiar shape and flicked it up.

Nothing happened.

After pausing for a moment, she reached into her purse and searched around until she found her keys. She had a miniature flashlight secured to the ring – a red anodized aluminum trinket she’d bought to make it easier to see her deadbolts at night. She flicked on the beam and winced as the keys jangled, then braced herself for the descent into the basement. The small beam of light seemed woefully inadequate, but it was better than nothing. She held the keys and flashlight in front of her and pointed her weapon down the stairs, carefully feeling with her feet for the next tread in the series. Step by step she moved lower, her pulse booming in her throat from the accumulated tension.

She was three-quarters down the stairs when something moved in the periphery of her vision. The door above her slammed shut. The next thing she knew, she was falling; a spike of white hot pain lanced up her spine, and her head slammed against a step with a crack. The last thing she registered was the sound of her now-useless gun hitting the concrete basement floor next to her flashlight, which extinguished with a pop as it skidded to a halt.

~ ~ ~

Silver regained consciousness to pain. Her back felt like someone had slammed her in the kidneys with a lead pipe, and her head shrieked in protest as she tried to open her eyes. Then she heard the most beautiful sound in the world and forced her lids wide.

“Mommy. Mommy. Don’t try to move,” Kennedy warned, her voice a distorted tremolo amid the ringing in Silver’s ears.

She tried to sit up, but the room swam dangerously. From the soft resistance beneath her, she concluded she was on a mattress with her head in her daughter’s lap. Something cold was being used as a pillow. Everything looked fuzzy, and she blinked a few times, trying to clear her vision. On the third try, she could make out the walls of a room – unpainted concrete.

“Sweetheart. Are you okay? Are you hurt?” Silver asked, her voice a croak.

“I’m fine, Mom. But you aren’t. It took a while to stop the bleeding, and I have to hold the ice on your head, or it could start again.”

Her face leaned over Silver’s, a look of clear concern on it.

“Where did you get ice?”

“The man brought some after he put the butterflies on your head. He said that head wounds bleed a lot so you need to stay quiet.”

Silver stiffened. “The man?”

Just then the door rattled and then swung open. A figure stepped in from the darkness outside. The man who had been watching her from across the street. She could see that his hair was trimmed in a buzz cut and the mustache was gone, but it was him.

Howard Jarvis.

He approached the bed, and she flinched as she tried unsuccessfully to raise her arms. She saw the tie wrap around her wrists a second later.

“I apologize for the drama. I didn’t know who was breaking in, so I had to take steps to defend myself. It wasn’t my intention to hurt you.” She struggled again, and he held up a hand. “Don’t. You’ll just make it worse. It took ten minutes to stop most of the bleeding. I’m afraid you have a concussion – hopefully no internal bleeding. I wouldn’t risk any sudden movements.” He held up a large freezer bag. “I brought some more ice. We need to keep the area cold for a while.”

She studied him. He looked ten years younger than his sixty years, but his face looked drawn and gray.

“You’re never going to get away with this,” she said, wincing with the effort.

He nodded. “No, I’m sure I won’t.”

Kennedy’s hand brushed her forehead, and he handed her the bag, taking the melted soggy one from her. The white towel wrapped around it was bloody, but not as bad as she supposed it could have been.

“The blow to your skull will require an MRI. So will your spine. And you’ll need some stitches in your scalp. I doubt you’ll be teaching any gymnastics classes in the near future,” he said, his tone conversational.

She needed to keep him talking until backup arrived. “So you’ve got me now. What’s your plan? And why did you kidnap my daughter?” she asked.

Most criminals, especially egocentric narcissists, which she assumed he was from his pursuit of media attention for his Regulator alias, wanted to brag to someone about their exploits. Motive was always a good place to start. When they were caught, they invariably had a story they had to tell – something that they needed their captor to understand. Only this time, she was the captive. She didn’t want to dwell on that for the moment.

“My plan? Why, can’t you guess? As to your daughter, that was an improvisation, and in hindsight, while a necessary one, it’s something I deeply regret for the anxiety it must have caused you both. If there had been any other way, I would have skipped it.”

“An improvisation? What do you mean?”

“You were getting too close, too soon. I was forced to expedite my plan, but even so, I was afraid you would tumble to my identity and shut me down before I was done. I couldn’t afford that, so I created a distraction. Kennedy was it.”

“I don’t understand,” Silver said.

“The deductive leap that connected the killings to past events. You were identified as the driving force in the paper, so from there, I simply needed to find an answer to the question: ‘how do I keep her mind off it so she’s rendered inefficient?’. A kidnapping was the best I could come up with.” He shrugged.

“Why did you kill all those people?” Silver asked.

Howard looked at Kennedy with an air of caution and then shrugged again. “I remember reading a story from the Old West. Years ago. I don’t remember what paper it was from, but I do remember it was a town where a bully who had been terrorizing everyone wound up shot, but when the marshals showed up to investigate the murder, they met with zero cooperation from the townspeople. The only statement they ever got was from an old woman. Her response was: ‘he needed killing’. My response is the same. I have a long version, but the short version is: ‘they needed killing’.” He smiled at the thought. “Indeed they did.”

“I don’t understand. Why? How are they all connected? And are you admitting that you killed them all?”

“Absolutely. Of course I did. I intend to give you a full confession. What’s the point of playing coy? Yes, I killed them, and my motivations were simple. Revenge and justice.”

“Justice? You killed six men to get justice?”

“And revenge. Retribution, actually.”

“Retribution.”

Howard glanced at his watch. “I’ll tell you a story, and then I’m going to end this painful little chapter. I’ll turn myself in, surrendering to you.” He lifted his hands into the air. “Ya got me. As I said, I’ll give you a full confession. But while it’s still just us, I’ll tell you the details so you understand the why. Nobody else will care, or believe it, for a while at least. But I have a captive audience, so I’ll tell you the story.”

He cleared his throat. “It starts with a fire. My wife was suffering from multiple sclerosis, and when the housing crash happened in 2008 and the stock market fell by over fifty percent I was wiped out by margin calls, and the pension I was relying on vaporized when the company’s fund became insolvent. Within a matter of months, we were close to being destitute – I’d gone from having comfortable retirement prospects to barely surviving on social security. The bank was quick to foreclose on the house, and they were going to take possession of it. My wife went over the edge and decided that nobody was going to get her home. So she committed suicide, and through an ugly set of terrible coincidences, our only daughter died in the blaze trying to save her. You probably already know all this if you connected the fire to the killings.”

Silver nodded, then regretted it as pain spiked through her head.

“Over the next couple of years, I watched as the devastation from the financial crisis claimed the lives of my friends and neighbors. One wound up drinking himself to oblivion and dying in a car accident – the decapitation. Another was forced to move to a terrible neighborhood and got killed in a mugging; stabbed to death for twenty dollars in his wallet. Another couldn’t take a life where he’d lost everything, so he turned on his car one night and sucked on the exhaust. My best friend resorted to crime and was shot to death outside of a liquor store he robbed with an unloaded gun. The Korean owner had a Beretta and years of target practice. What all these people had in common was that their deaths were brought about by an event that’s caused millions around the world to have their lives forever changed for the worse. That event was the financial crisis.”

Howard glanced at the floor, kicking at the concrete absently with the toe of his boot as he collected his thoughts.

“What most don’t realize is that event wasn’t an accident. It was deliberate, avoidable, and engineered as deliberately as a film explosion. I spent years researching why it happened and who did it. Once I understood, I was able to target at least one of the groups responsible. That group is my victims list. A list of untouchable players who would never serve a day in jail, even if all facts were known.” Howard hesitated, studied the ceiling, then continued. “Because the money behind them is the real power here – the silent power that pretends very hard not to exist. That money decides who gets elected, and which lobbyists do which politicians favors, and what laws get passed and enforced. But the money stays in the shadows. Once I understood those responsible would never be brought to justice no matter what the circumstances, I came up with a plan.” Howard cleared his throat again. “I invented The Regulator and devoted what’s left of my life to executing my plan.”

“Let’s say you’re right,” Silver said, “and that these men somehow did cause the crisis. I don’t see how, but let’s assume they did. What good does killing them do? They’re dead. So now what? To what end?”

“I thought you’d never ask. The idea was never just to kill them. The point was to kill them in such a fashion as to build notoriety for The Regulator, so that when he revealed the full story people would be interested in why he’d done it. I understood that most have no grasp as to how they’ve been robbed, or are so apathetic they mistake irony for vitality. But if I became a notorious serial killer then an entire nation would want to know the reasoning – the why.”

“The why?”

“And the who and the how.”

“Which is?”

He checked his watch. “My guess is we have maybe twenty minutes before the SWAT team comes through the door, so I’ll give you the abridged version. The 2008 crisis was caused by a concerted effort of organized criminals, rogue governments, terrorists and financial predators – enemies of the U.S. that figured out that it was unnecessary to declare conventional war or crash planes into buildings. Nowadays if you want to bring down a nation you crash its economy, and that forever alters its population’s existence without firing a shot. They’ve been testing and refining their techniques for at least a decade, but the basics are simple.”

“So you say.”

“I do. First, you have your people design the guts of the system so you have backdoors for all the electronic trading and can manipulate everything. Next, you create a network of brokers and money funds that will participate in an organized attack, using those backdoors when you pull the trigger. Third, you lobby to keep the identity of the money in the funds anonymous – can’t have anyone know who’s providing all the liquidity in the market, because some people might think it’s a bad idea to have every criminal element and enemy of the state in the world investing in the largest funds. Next, lobby to remove all the safeguards that were put in place after the 1929 crash so it can happen again. Because the real profit in all markets is made when they crash, not when they go up. In the ’29 crash, fortunes were made. Same in 2008.”

“It can’t be that straightforward.”

“Of course it isn’t. You need a lot of time, and to spend billions lobbying lawmakers to pass favorable legislation and to ban any regulation of the mechanisms you plan to use. Your Ponzi scheme cronies write the trading regulations so you have loopholes you can exploit. You send your kids to Harvard and Wharton and they get MBAs and go to work with the biggest financial entities, and eventually they’re fifty and running them. All the time, you’re putting the building blocks in place. But the final piece is to convince the entire country to put its money into the market you plan on crashing. That’s the hard part. The test run was the dot com crash. A lot of money was made pulling the rug out from under the system, but not nearly enough to end the U.S. as a global power within a generation, which I believe was the ultimate goal of this crash. To weaken it sufficiently so the population will allow the unthinkable to happen.”

Howard coughed alarmingly, then composed himself, but his eyes were still streaming as he continued.

“That’s where the big banks came in. Everyone was told for seventy years that the one safe investment was real estate. So how do you destroy the value of the one thing everyone agrees is a wise investment? Easy. Create an industry that turns the mortgages into securities that can be manipulated. Then have your mob associates set up loan companies that will give anyone with a pulse a million dollars to buy a house, and have your friends at the central bank drop interest rates to nothing so there’s a ton of liquidity available for gambling on home values. That creates a bubble where everyone becomes a speculator with all the easy cash. Just like all the easy money that led up to the 1929 crash. There are no new ideas.”

“I remember reading a lot of articles about how ridiculously easy it was to get loans for about four years.”

“Yup. A golden retriever could get a loan with no documentation. It got insane, but nobody would stop it – for good reason. Everyone was getting rich, and the big money was preparing to kick the chair out from under the market.” Howard rubbed the moistness from his eyes. “Then one day, at the height of the mania, you pop the bubble. Because you know when you plan to pop it, you’re in position to make hundreds of billions when you crash the market, and the ensuing devastation not only makes you a fortune, but guts the country and plunges it into an inevitable downward spiral. That’s it.”

“That’s impossible. There are safeguards…”

“Are there? Really? Like what? Did you know that some of the biggest Wall Street firms created billions and billions of dollars of securities they knew would fail? Such toxic junk there was no way they couldn’t fail? Of course, they didn’t tell their customers that. They sold the securities to trusting customers all over the world. But did you know they allowed the big money managers who were betting on a crash to select the mortgages that went into those securities, which they had sold short? In other words, they let those who would make billions from the mortgages failing to custom-design pools that were guaranteed to fail.”

Howard spat through the door into the basement.

“And you know how many people have gone to jail for defrauding the entire world and causing the largest crisis in history? None. Not one. Nobody has, and nobody will. Because the interests that destroyed the U.S. economy are too rich and powerful to prosecute.” Howard looked disgusted.

“I still don’t get how they made money doing it.”

“Many ways. Through credit default swaps, which are like insurance policies that pay you if whatever they’re insuring drops in value. The industry lobbied to keep those unregulated, so a company could sell hundreds of billions of dollars of them, but not have to actually possess the money to pay on them if the market collapsed. That would be illegal to do if credit default swaps were called insurance. But by calling them something else, presto, it’s legal. Look, it’s illegal to take out insurance on your neighbor’s house and then burn it down to collect the payment. But if you call that insurance a credit default swap, and you get your former CEO to run Treasury so it will step in with the taxpayer’s checkbook when your neighbor’s house burns down, you have a winning recipe to profit handsomely from destruction.”

Howard reached into his jacket for a small bottle of water and took a pull before continuing.

“Another way is by short selling. My second to last victim? His brokerage was one of several that came from nowhere to account for a ton of the trading in the markets every day during the 2008 crash – most of it short selling. The vast majority of the selling never had any shares delivered, so whoever sold those millions and millions of shares never had to come up with any – they were literally selling shares that didn’t exist, getting paid as if they had delivered them, and if the company went belly up, they never had to deliver – ever. Do you see how creating unlimited supply of a commodity during a panic could dump the price, no matter how much buying took place? It’s simple supply and demand.”

“But surely that’s illegal…”

“Don’t you get it? Since when has fraud not been illegal? But do you see any criminal cases being brought against anyone who was known by the government to be committing fraud on a daily basis? No. Why? Because they’re ‘too big to fail’. That means they’re too powerful to prosecute. That’s the simple truth. All the regulators would have to do is look at who sold ten times as much stock as existed in a bank like Bear Stearns – a deliberate fraud that destroyed the economy – but nobody dares. Nobody is curious about who was trading that twenty percent of the total market through a couple of tiny brokers.”

Howard stopped to catch his breath, then glanced at the time. “I need to go get something. I’ll be right back.”

He walked out of the room. Silver and Cassidy listened as he mounted the stairs.

“Sweetheart, see if you can get my wrists free. If I can use my hands, we have a better chance.”

“Mommy, you were bleeding really badly. It scared me. He closed the wound and stopped the bleeding, but he said if you moved around it would be really dangerous. He told me to just wait until help came. Maybe we should listen…”

Silver tried to move and realized that her head was worse than she’d originally thought. Even the slightest attempt to move blinded her with pain. Before she could argue, they heard the sound of Howard’s boots descending the steps and approaching.

“Sorry about that. So where was I?” he asked.

“You were telling me how the crisis was a deliberate event. Although I still don’t buy it – there are protections that would keep it from happening the way you say.”

“Really? You mean there are rules. Well, guess what – nobody enforced them. The people who were supposed to stop the barbarians at the gate were instead lining their pockets, looking the other way.” He retrieved his water bottle and took a final sip. “How can you tell a population that the system that’s supposed to protect it has allowed the worst miscreants in the world to plunge it into a depression that was a hundred percent engineered, and that it happened because not a single group that was supposed to do its job even tried? What would happen if the average person understood that? It would be anarchy. Nobody could get elected. People would stop paying their taxes. There would be massive social unrest. The only way you could maintain order would be to become China and start shooting anyone who didn’t follow your rules. It would be the end.”

“I just have a hard time believing any of this is possible,” Silver said.

“Of course you do. Because you were raised to believe that the systems are there to protect you. Why? Because you were told they were by the schools that teach whatever is printed in history books by the winners of wars. The media repeats over and over that the system works and that nobody is above the law, and because we want to live in a world that’s safe, we believe it. It’s a comfortable lie. It makes us feel good, so we’ll fight to insist it’s true.”

Silver had no rebuttal.

He gave Silver a hard look. “You’re a fed. You’re part of the machine that enforces the law. But what if you discovered that there was a whole system that didn’t obey it? What if you discovered there were two worlds – one where you had to obey the rules, and one where the people with real power ran the systems for their own enrichment and didn’t observe any of them? If you let that leak out, what would your job be like? How would you maintain control? Wouldn’t that create a society where you have to keep order with the point of a sword?”

“You’re describing a conspiracy theory. Not reality.”

“Sure I am. Anytime someone calls it like it is, it’s described as a kooky conspiracy theory – because the powerful understand that the best defense against understanding is to label the truth as nuttiness. Just have all your pundits say it’s nutty and absurd. Lenin knew that – he said to just repeat a lie until it became accepted as truth. That’s why a few small groups control the media and why this story will never, ever get printed. Because the same group that engineered the greatest transfer of wealth in history runs that machine, too.”

“So your solution was to kill these six men? How did that help anything? How did it change anything?”

“It cut off one of the heads of the hydra. One of the groups that carried it out. There are others. Much more powerful others. But I can’t get to them. I don’t have the time, or the means. But what I do have is my legacy. The ugly reputation of The Regulator. People will want to know why I killed these very rich men. I intend to explain why and to name names. That was the whole point. To create a set of events that would get even the apathetic titillated enough to want to read about why I did it. Why I killed these seven men, and how they were part of an evil that’s perverting the basics of the society we live in. Because as strange as it sounds, I believe in good and evil – and they were part of something that can only be described as evil.”

She looked at him strangely. “Six men. You’ve killed six men. You said seven.”

He glanced at his watch. “Did I? Well, when you take my statement downtown, I’ll tell you about number seven. Now let’s get you untied and properly armed so you can arrest me and stop this senseless killing spree, shall we?”

“You’re serious.”

“Absolutely. I surrender. You solved the case, you captured me dead to rights, and I will make a full and complete confession. Hold still, and I’ll snip the ties off your wrists. Sorry I had to do that. I needed to keep you out of trouble until your team could make it here.”

“My team?”

“Silver. May I call you Silver? Do I look stupid? Of course you have a team on its way. Now hold still, and I’ll give you back your Glock – loaded, of course – and if you don’t have a team coming, you’ll be free to call one and get it here. Time is running out for me, so there’s no point in delaying. I suppose if all else fails, you could call 911.”

Howard walked over to her and flicked open a pocketknife, then severed the ties with its razor-sharp blade before closing it and flipping it aside. She watched in dumfounded amazement as he walked out the door and returned a few moments later with her weapon and her purse. He handed her the gun, which she pointed at his head as he reached into her purse and withdrew her phone and a set of handcuffs. He dutifully placed them on his wrists and locked them before tossing her phone onto the mattress.

“There. Now let’s see if we can get me processed without getting shot by one of the good guys, shall we?” he said.

The sense of surrealism she had been experiencing intensified as she watched him calmly walk to the far corner and sit down, smiling as if without a care in the world.

“Honey, did he hurt you?” Silver asked Kennedy.

“No, Mom. Although he did make me read a lot.”

She squinted at him and then checked the Glock to verify it was indeed loaded.

“What do you mean, your time is running out?” she asked softly.

“I’m dying. I mean, we all are, but I’m dying a little sooner. That’s all. That’s why the rush.” He shrugged.

“You’re going to make it this easy? It’s over, just like that?” she asked unbelievingly.

“I was actually planning to go into your headquarters this afternoon and surrender. You just saved me the trouble. And this is more dramatic, I think you’ll agree.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“I gave your daughter some books. One of the favorite expressions of the hero, Sherlock Holmes, is also one of mine. Something to the effect of: when all other explanations are proved false, what’s left, no matter how unbelievable, is the truth. You’re out of all other explanations. Which leaves you with me…and the truth. Now make a call so we can get out of here. You look like shit and could pass out at any minute if you’re not careful. And I’m not getting any younger. Come on. Chop chop.” Howard smiled, and for a moment, she felt an altogether inappropriate emotion. “It wouldn’t look too good if I was brought to justice by a ten-year-old, would it? Call in the cavalry. I’m going to get a little rest while we wait. Kennedy, keep the ice on her head until we’re rescued. Don’t be a slacker.” Howard leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, a look of peace on his face.

She felt the ice bag press against her head a little harder as her daughter endeavored to be attentive.

Training her weapon on Howard’s now-resting frame, still dizzy from the concussion and Howard’s revelations, Silver powered on her phone and pressed her speed dial.

Eighteen minutes later, the first agents made it down the stairs.

Chapter 25

“How’s the head?”

Silver looked at Richard and Seth, standing by her bed as she waited for the doctor to arrive.

“Feels like a mule kicked me. And you don’t even want to know about my back. I have a hunch that bruise is going to be with me for some time to come.”

“It’s been a rough week to be your butt, hasn’t it?” Seth asked with a grin.

“Don’t you two have anything better to do than hang out pestering me in the hospital?”

“Not since you solved your daughter’s kidnapping,” Seth observed, “and ended one of the biggest serial-killing rampages in the city’s history. No, it’s been kind of dead today since that happened.”

“How’s Sam taking the news?”

“I don’t think this is quite how he saw his week finishing out,” Richard said diplomatically.

“I’ll bet,” Silver agreed, offering him a pained grimace.

“Brett is flying in this evening and will be stopping in to see you. He wanted me to tell you,” Seth said. “I think he’s going to offer you a knighthood or something. Do they do that here? Knighthoods?”

“I’ll settle for a raise.”

The door to the room opened, and a doctor walked in, trailed by a second physician.

“Am I going to live?” Silver asked.

“I think so,” the doctor said. “You sustained a concussion and lost some blood, but the stitches we put in fixed the bleeding, and a few days of rest should set the concussion right. No physical exertion for a few weeks, and we’ll want to keep you in overnight for observation to make sure there’s no hemorrhaging we missed on the CT scan. We’ll also keep icing your spine for the next six hours to minimize the subdural hematoma and inflammation.”

“Do I really have to stay here overnight?”

“I can’t hold a gun to your head, but it would be a good idea.”

“Is there any way I could get a cot set up for my daughter? I don’t want her out of my sight.” Kennedy was in the bathroom taking a shower.

“I think we can rig up something.”

After a few minutes checking her vitals, the doctor departed for the rest of his rounds.

“What’s going on with Howard?” Silver asked.

“The killer? He’s being processed,” Seth informed her. “He’s refused to give us a statement other than a perfunctory admission of guilt. Insists he’ll only talk to you.”

“He’s…different than what I was expecting,” Silver admitted, still puzzled by their entire exchange.

Seth nodded. “I know what you mean. He seemed almost serene when we took him from the scene. Weird – but not creepy weird – just weird.”

“Tell me about it.” Silver yawned, then raised her hand to the side of her head with a grimace.

“That’s our cue to let you rest,” Seth said. “We’ll be back later with Brett. Figure around seven this evening, if that’s okay…”

“Fine. Not like I’m going anywhere.”

Richard gave her a warm smile. “See you later,” he said.

“Plan on it,” she replied, doing her best to return the smile. She had every intention of calling him within an hour. Just as soon as he could get away from Seth and have some privacy. Kennedy could take another powder – Seth had brought Silver’s extra laptop computer from the office; she was sure her daughter could find a game or two online after her extended period cold turkey.

She closed her eyes and sighed. There was so much to think about. And her head felt like she’d been hit between the eyes with a brick. Which wasn’t far from the truth.

When Brett showed up that evening, he was positively glowing. The ache in Silver’s head had subsided to a dull throbbing, but she did her best to share in the celebratory mood. Brett, Seth and Richard stood like supplicants at the foot of her bed while Brett filled her in on the latest.

“Congratulations, Silver. This is an amazing achievement. I’m sure you’ll regale us all with the exact methodology you used to single-handedly capture New York’s most elusive serial killer in your written report, but for now, may I just say that speaking for myself as well as the Bureau, we’re all extremely proud of you.” Brett smiled. “And clearing two off the books in one fell swoop – a kidnapping as well as a serial…that’s some kind of superhero stuff we’re talking.”

“Yes, well, I got lucky. Right place, right time,” Silver said, uncomfortable with the effusive praise.

“Yeah. I’ll say,” Brett continued. “Lucky, huh? Luck took you straight to the perp’s house while the rest of the task force was chasing windmills? Somehow I think there’s more to it than that.”

“The trick is to find something that seems really difficult and then make it look easy,” Silver explained.

“I’ll have to remember that. Oh, and on another Silver Cassidy note, the investigation into the man who tried to kill you has come to a head. We know all the details now and have a suspect in custody.”

“I can’t wait to hear all about it. I’m going to try to make it into work tomorrow, at least for a few hours. I understand Howard is refusing to talk to anyone but me?” Silver gave Seth a sidelong glance.

Brett nodded. “That’s correct. He admitted to the killings, but he said that he’ll make a full confession to you, and only you. Normally I’d say that you should take a week off, but if you can come in without putting yourself in jeopardy and take his statement that would help us wrap this up.”

“Let’s plan on ten tomorrow morning. I’m hoping I can get a ride to my flat from someone,” she gave Richard a pointed look, “and then once Kennedy is taken care of, I’ll come in and do the interview. One thing, though. He mentioned seven victims. Not six. Has he said anything to you about that?”

“No, he didn’t,” Seth said. “He just made a statement acknowledging that he was responsible for the killings, beginning with the Boca Raton financial advisor, giving just enough detail to confirm that he was telling the truth. Also, he told us where in his house to find the murder weapons. He wasn’t trying to hide any of it. It’s just very, very strange…”

“Then let’s plan on tomorrow, and you can fill me in on the hit attempt on me once I’m done with our boy. Is it safe to assume that I’m no longer in danger?” Silver asked, beginning to visibly tire.

“You’re out of danger,” Brett assured her, “but just in case, I’m stationing an agent on the ward floor while you’re here.”

“Good to hear. Guess I won’t need to sleep with my Glock as a pillow anymore…” She shifted her gaze to Richard. “Thanks for coming. I’ll live, and I’ll see everyone tomorrow. Richard, can I have a moment?”

Brett and Seth took the hint and discreetly exited the room, leaving Richard standing by the foot of her bed.

“Are you going to stay all the way over there?” Silver asked, and he edged over to the bedside, near the vital signs monitors.

“I can’t tell you how relieved I am that you’re okay,” Richard started, but she shushed him.

“We don’t have much time until Kennedy comes out, so let’s make the most of it. I had a lot of time to think while I was holed up at home, and I want you to know that what happened between us was one of the best experiences of my life. I don’t know that it means anything, or what it could lead to, but I want you to know that I’d like to find out, if you’re game.” Silver’s eyes searched his expression.

Richard smiled and moved closer, taking her hand. “After everything that happened, I wasn’t even sure you remembered it all. But the feeling’s mutual. Very mutual.” He leaned over and kissed her gently on the lips.

The bathroom door opened, and Kennedy stepped out, hair dripping, wearing a clean set of clothes.

“Whoa,” she exclaimed.

Richard stepped away from the bed with a guilty look, but Silver squeezed his hand.

“So when did all this happen? Nobody tells me anything.”

“Something about you being kidnapped. Out of the loop,” Silver replied.

Richard seemed to grapple for something to say. Kennedy set her hygiene bag down on the chair by the bathroom and approached the bed, then took Richard’s hand and looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes.

“Are you my new daddy? I want a pony for Christmas. And a hundred bucks for games to keep me from going stir-crazy while I’m here in the hospital,” she cooed in her most angelic voice.

Richard looked like a deer caught in oncoming headlights. Silver threw Kennedy a look.

“She’s fu– she’s messing with you, Richard. She’s not five years old, or retarded. Although sometimes I have my doubts…”

Kennedy smiled sweetly. “I thought you said you didn’t think he was cute?”

“I never said tha–”

“Well, I’m just a kid, so what do I know about all this? You two carry on. I’ll try to dry my hair with paper towels in the bathroom.” Kennedy about-faced and returned to the door, swinging it open after offering a mischievous smile.

“Did I mention my kid is Satan’s spawn sometimes?”

“You left that out.”

“I hope it doesn’t scare you off. It would scare the hell out of me.”

“I don’t scare easily.”

“She’s actually not a bad kid. Just too smart for her own good.”

“I know the kind,” Richard said, then leaned over and kissed Silver again.

For a few moments, everything was right in the world.

~ ~ ~

The next morning, Richard waited for the hospital to discharge Silver so he could take her and Kennedy home. Her head was still aching, and her spine drove spikes of pain through her whenever she moved too suddenly, but all in all, she was far better than when she’d been admitted.

As Richard drove at a sedate pace, she felt the back of her skull, probing tenderly at the stitches, and realized that she’d been lucky the injury hadn’t been more serious. She could have easily bled out without attention – the odds had been fifty-fifty that she would have had a cerebral hemorrhage from the blow. And fortunately, the scan of her spine had revealed no fractures, which was a concern given how hard she’d hit the concrete.

Once at the flat, Richard carried their bags upstairs as she made her unsteady way behind him, taking care to grip the bannister securely. She’d had it with falling down stairs, and wanted to ensure that it never happened again.

A half-hour after arriving, she’d taken a shower and put on a new outfit, and Kennedy was ready to spend the day with Miriam. She still had the books Howard had given her and seemed committed to finishing them, which was strange knowing her love of all things computer. Maybe she had discovered the joy of books? There were worse things, Silver supposed.

Miriam was ecstatic to see Kennedy, and hugged Silver cautiously, careful not to cause any further damage.

“We’ll be back in three or four hours,” Silver said. “Keep her out of trouble, please.”

Miriam nodded, eyeing Richard waiting in the car.

“I like your chauffeur, sweetie,” she commented dryly.

“I know. He’s a perk for solving the case. I understand he does a Chippendale’s dance later if I request one.”

“You just sold me a ticket.”

They both laughed, then Miriam suddenly kissed her cheek.

“It’s good to see you both back, Silver. I was so afraid for Kennedy…she’s okay? No ill effects? I would imagine an ordeal like that is traumatic…”

“She seems fine, although I’m going to take her to therapy later today in case something is lurking below the surface. No, to hear her tell it, the kidnapper was a perfect gentleman.”

“Do you believe her? Could she be lying to protect herself from having to face something ugly?” Miriam whispered.

“You know what? I do believe her. I met the kidnapper, and it was odd. He wasn’t…it wasn’t like you would think. I’m sure nothing happened.”

Miriam seemed skeptical. “Well, I’ll let you know if I see anything unusual. Right now, the challenge is to put all this behind her and let her get back to being a normal, healthy kid.”

“Good luck with that. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

Back in the car, Richard pulled into traffic as Silver fastened her seat belt.

“You want to talk about anything in particular?” he ventured.

“I think I’d like to save any discussion about us until after we get done with the interview.”

“We? We get done?”

She looked at his profile. Definitely a good-looking man.

“I want someone who’s up on financial stuff to hear what he has to say. He had a long list of reasons for killing his victims. The creepy part was that as far as I could tell, he was making perfect sense. I need someone who knows the industry inside out and can ask questions or challenge his statements.”

“What kinds of statements did he make?” Richard asked, his intellectual curiosity now aroused.

Silver gave him a rundown of the basics – a loosely affiliated group of terrorist groups, criminal syndicates, unfriendly nations and foreign intelligence services had worked together to collapse the U.S. economy for fun and profit. She told him as much as she could remember, and when she finished, they had almost reached the office.

He whistled, low and long. “Wow. I can see why you’d want me in the room. That’s the most incredible story I’ve ever heard. Although big parts of it are consistent with what I know about the crisis. I recall seeing news about the heads of some of the biggest banks blaming manipulative short selling for destroying their companies.”

“Are you saying that it’s likely he’s telling the truth and accurately explaining what happened?”

“Without hearing it all, I can’t say for sure, but what you’ve described so far is not only plausible, but is one hundred percent consistent with what I know about the crisis and the way the markets work. If he’s right and you take this to its logical conclusion, then yes, it’s possible that the entire financial crisis was deliberately triggered. I mean, it would require tremendous capital to achieve, and you’d have to have the biggest players in the world helping you…but if they were making money doing it, I could see that as possible. That’s one of the things I’ve learned. Anything’s possible when the money gets big enough.”

They pulled into the garage next to the office, and Silver stared at Richard for a few beats.

“How come I’ve never heard about any of this before this case?”

“Who’s going to risk their livelihood telling people the truth? The media isn’t. And the regulators and politicians are going to swear that they’re honest as the day is long. The banks are just going to sneer and act like anyone telling the truth is crazy, and the entire machine will go along with their spin. For most people, reality is whatever the headlines say is reality.”

“Now you’re starting to make it sound like The Matrix.”

“I know. Believe me, I keep this stuff to myself most of the time. But you asked. The truth is that the system pretends to be honest, but isn’t. And it probably never has been. I think that’s a comfortable lie that makes it easier to sleep at night. Trust me – I’ve seen things that would make you question how much of any of our perception of the truth is actually real. Sounds like our killer may have taken the red pill. I hear that can drive you crazy.”

She studied his profile as they rolled to a stop. “How do you go to work every day, Richard, if that’s how it is?”

“Simple. What’s the alternative?”

They both absorbed that.

“Speaking of which, we have an interview to conduct.” Silver drew a few deep breaths, her head reeling, and mentally prepared for her interrogation with the man who had kidnapped her daughter and taken the lives of at least six men.

Chapter 26

Silver moved uneasily in her chair and glanced at Richard before returning to regard Howard, who sat opposite, his face a picture of calm. The last hour had involved a painstakingly detailed description of each killing, filled with information only the killer could know. They now had enough to bury him under the jail.

Silver took a sip of water and then reviewed her notes. “Howard, you mentioned you’re not well. Is that correct?” she asked.

“I did? No, I think I mentioned I am dying. Not well to dying is like comparing a paper cut to being fed into a wood chipper.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Three months ago I was diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer. It’s inoperable. They tried dabbling with chemo, but I didn’t do well with it and decided to abort the treatment – the doctor leveled with me and told me that it wouldn’t change my survival outcome, and I didn’t want to spend my last days on the planet with poison running through my veins.”

“How long do you have to live?”

“What time is it?” Howard cackled a dry hack. “Seriously? If I’m lucky, maybe two months. I feel like shit most days, but I’m still strong. As long as I can keep swinging, I guess there’s some fight left in me.”

“Would it be fair to say that your illness played a large part in your decision to become The Regulator?” Richard asked.

He sneered. “Is this stupid question day? Of course it did. I watched my wife, my daughter, my friends and neighbors, everyone I knew or cared about get flattened by the financial destruction perpetrated by this group, and then I find out I’ll be dead in under six months…you bet your ass it played a part. I did the math. Nobody would ever prosecute any of them. They’re untouchable. So I decided to make a difference. To punish those who thought themselves above dealing with the consequences of their actions.”

“That’s why the methodology of the killings changed,” Silver observed, “because of the significance of the deaths to your loved ones.”

“Asked and answered. We already covered that.”

Silver shifted gears. “Howard, can we go through the stuff we discussed about the crashing of the system? I’ve already taken Richard here through what I could remember, but I wanted him to hear the finer details from you.”

Silver and Richard had agreed that they would pretend ignorance during the interrogation so they could hear Howard’s story.

Richard regarded him. “Silver told me your theory – that the crisis was deliberately caused by a group of like-minded interests working together. And I understand that the mechanism to make the money as the market tanked was credit default swaps and naked short selling – I’m more than familiar with the massive bailouts the government stepped in and gave to AIG and others who wrote the swaps and couldn’t pay them. I remember the debate at the time – that all the government would have had to do was declare all swaps null and void, and there would have been no need for the bailouts – but the big banks would then have not made their windfall profits, so that was shouted down. But there are a few gaps, and I’m interested in hearing how the crash was achieved – the nuts and bolts.”

Howard nodded. “How much do you know about the 1929 crash?”

“A fair amount. I studied it in school. Market manipulation was one of my areas of interest.”

“So you know that it and the ensuing Great Depression were the greatest transfers of wealth in history.”

“I know that a lot of money was made by a small number concentrated in New York and Europe, and the majority of the planet lost almost everything.”

“Right. But it’s not like that wealth disappeared. It went somewhere. As an interesting data point, did you know that the federal government emerged from the Great Depression four times wealthier than when it started? Put simply, at a time when twenty-five percent of the population was starving, the government quadrupled its wealth – in just its gold holdings alone. Doesn’t that strike you as odd – that the government made windfall profits at a time when mothers were feeding their babies from the teats of dogs because they were too starved to do it themselves?”

“Roosevelt made some horrendous mistakes. That’s historical fact.”

“But were they mistakes? Why is it that when I make a mistake I lose, but when the banks and government make a mistake, their wealth multiplies exponentially? Ever wonder about that? Ever wonder how, at the start of the Depression the government had limited power, and by the time it ended it had become a massive social engineering machine that regulated every aspect of an individual’s life?”

“Roosevelt was trying to build a social net for the disadvantaged.”

“Really? He wouldn’t have needed to if he hadn’t devalued the currency forty percent overnight after confiscating all the population’s gold, tightened margin requirements for banks to the point where there was no cash in the system, and insisted on tariffs that made necessary goods incredibly expensive for a population that was starving. You sure those mistakes weren’t so his buddies could steal the nation’s wealth? Most don’t know that he grew up with the wealthiest aristocracy in New York – I’m talking the Astors and the Rockefellers. He despised the common man, but publicly he was their champion. Isn’t it awfully coincidental that his social circle increased its riches unimaginably from his ‘mistakes’ at the direct expense of those he detested? And that his government increased its power in ways that a decade earlier would have been impossible?”

Richard wanted to steer the discussion back to specifics of the 2008 crash. “I won’t argue history with you – this could go on all day. Why don’t you walk me through the exact mechanism that was used to crash the system this time? Because that’s what’s unclear. Let’s say I buy the idea that it was orchestrated. I understand anything can be, in theory. But how, specifically, was it done?”

“Like I said, you get all the biggest banks to create batches of mortgages – securities – and create derivatives based on their performance. They made fortunes selling the securities to the world as AAA-rated paper, so they were delighted to do it.”

“I get that. They take nice, safe mortgages and create pools of them, where they’re intermingled, then sell securities backed by the performance of those mortgages.”

“Right. So what they did was create a mechanism to create garbage loans to pour into that soup of good ones, which is step one. They had their mob-controlled lending companies stuff the pipeline full of crap nobody sane would want – but because the securities were rated investment grade, nobody cared. The pools were performing well even with the junk in them because the terms on the first few years of the loans were ludicrously easy for any borrower to pay – they basically gave borrowers free money on home values that were double their true worth. The mob set up tons of appraisers who committed fraud by inflating values and encouraged the mortgage brokerage industry to commit fraud by lying about everything, using the logic that everyone was doing it. Within a few years, the entire real estate industry was one big fraud, and property values were doubling as if by magic.”

“But how did they crash it?”

“Easy. They own the company that rated the mortgage securities. When it decided to drop the ratings one day to where the AAA paper was suddenly no longer investment grade, that triggered a massive landslide of demands for alternative collateral, and the whole dirty system collapsed in a matter of weeks, because everyone was using the same crap paper for assets and had leveraged themselves through the roof.”

“I don’t understand,” Silver said. “How do you control the rating of an entire class of holdings like mortgages?”

“Can’t you guess? Your broker buddies create an index that trades based on the value of a basket of mortgage securities. One morning your rating agency downgrades the rating of the securities, and kaboom. Instant crisis. Your rating agency decides the twenty-eight securities comprising the index are junk instead of AAA, and simultaneous to that anonymous parties start short selling the hell out of the same twenty-eight securities on the index, and within two weeks the value of all real estate securities are down thirty to forty percent. Or maybe someone at the rating agency just lets slip to you what the securities in the index are, and you short them into the ground, tanking the ratings. In the end the sequence is meaningless. It's the result that counts. The banks that used the suddenly worthless paper to collateralize all their borrowing are insolvent. Nobody wants the toxic securities, even if most are actually good. Because the ratings now say they aren’t. You know the outcome…”

Richard’s face changed. He got it.

“Oh my…That would work. If you controlled the rating agency and knew when it was going to downgrade, you could short sell like mad and take huge positions in advance with credit default swaps…”

“Or you could short the specific securities and cause the ratings to drop, creating plausible deniability. That’s exactly what happened. Did you know the index used to rate mortgage-backed securities was created in 2007 by the same broker that allowed the hedge funds to create toxic pools guaranteed to fail – just in time for the index to get established as the weighing machine for the whole market? And did you also know that the company that rated those securities is based in England, and is privately owned by nobody knows who?”

“I can’t believe you discovered all this, but nobody in law enforcement has,” Silver said.

“Now you’re sounding like me,” Howard said, leaning back in his chair.

The discussion went on another ten minutes, by which time Howard looked drawn. Richard exchanged a troubled glance with Silver, and she decided to move to their final agenda item.

“Howard. There’s one thing I don’t get here. You mentioned that you’ve killed seven people. I count six. Here’s my question. Who’s the seventh victim?”

Howard’s eyes danced with merriment. “Ah. I was wondering when you’d ask. Take down this address and get a hazmat team there as soon as possible.” He recited an address in mid-town Manhattan. “The penthouse.”

Silver stared at the note she’d scribbled. “What will we find? A body?”

Howard laughed. “Nothing that dramatic. You’ll also need to instruct the team to bring a Geiger counter and radioactive material handling equipment.”

“Radioactive material?” Silver’s mouth dropped open, and she shook her head. “Howard. What have you done?”

“Don’t worry. It’s not a suitcase nuke or anything like that. What I did was go to work at my part-time job yesterday after I shot victim number six to death – the miserable prick blubbered like a baby and pissed his pants when he saw the gun, by the way. All of these masters of the universe are the same – ruthless and brave until it’s their own asses in the balance, then they mewl like kittens about to go into the river. Anyway, I went to work, and ran a morning errand I’d been planning for a long time. Left a present for one of my favorite people.”

“What present, Howard?” Silver asked again.

“You’ll see. I waited until after the maid had finished with the bedroom, and then slipped in and left something under the master of the house’s bed. He sleeps there every weeknight. I know. I’ve been working there for almost a year. All cash under the table. Not a bad gig – maintenance and custodial work, mostly. Anyhow, by now it’s done its job, so might as well get it out of there before anyone else gets hurt.”

“What is it, Howard?” Richard asked.

“Cobalt, Richard. Radioactive material. Prolonged exposure is lethal for humans. It’s in an open lead box I made myself. Put the lid back on, and there should be no leakage.”

“Cobalt. Where did you get cobalt in New York?” Silver demanded.

Howard chuckled. “Don’t be silly. You can’t get cobalt in New York.” He coughed twice. “I had to go to Jersey for that.”

“What are you talking about?”

“There’s a hospital in New Jersey that I read about closing down a year ago. Then I saw a few months back that they were auctioning off the equipment and furniture, so I went during the preview days and look around. I got to talking to one of the security guards from the auction company and asked him about the machines in the basement – big machines. Linear accelerators. CT scanners. An MRI. And some other goodies. He said that they would be sold off separately, but that some of the systems required special handling because they had radioactive material in them. Which was music to my ears.”

“Music? Why?”

“I’d been trying to figure out how to kill the final victim – the head of one of the big banks that created the crisis and profited. I couldn’t imagine any sort of death that was bad enough. Then, coincidentally, at my last exam, the doctor told me what my final weeks and days would be like, and a light went on. I knew whose death to use as the model for his.” Howard shifted his gaze to Silver. “Mine.”

“What did you do, Howard?”

“Theodore Dendt, the chairman and CEO of Grisham Caldren, spent last night sleeping the untroubled sleep of the all-powerful on his sumptuous, custom-made, king-size bed, which exposed him to enough radiation so that he’ll be dead within three days, tops. There’s nothing he can do to stop it. No cure. Money won’t help. Nothing anyone can do will slow it. He’s already as dead as if I’d blown his head off. Only now, like me, he has to get up each remaining day and spend every second thinking about how little time he has left. How his life has been terminated by someone he’s never met, for no other reason than because he was accessible. A target of convenience, you might say. Kind of a ‘shit happens’ thing, just like shit happened to me. It seemed fitting.”

Both Richard and Silver stared at him in horror.

Richard leapt up and pounded on the door. A second later it opened, and he disappeared, clutching Silver’s note as a guard entered the cell in his place.

Howard yawned. “How’s the head?”

“How do you think?” She slipped her pen into her jacket pocket. “You’re…you’re acting like you’re a monster. But you’re completely logical and aware of what you’re doing. I don’t understand it. How can a decent man do such things?” she asked, as much to herself as to him.

“Silver, Silver. I’m not a monster. That’s the worst part about this. I’m not insane – at least, not in the textbook way. I don’t hear voices. I don’t believe I’m pursuing God’s hidden plan. I’m not delusional. I’m simply a man without much time to live, who identified a way he could spend the remainder of his life doing some good.”

“Doing good?”

“Yes. I’ve rid the world of seven parasites who brought with them misery and sadness and suffering. Their actions, and the actions of their like-minded colleagues, have ensured that the quality of life for countless people who never did anything wrong will be diminished. I simply did what the government and the law refuse to do. I brought accountability into the equation.”

Richard returned, dismissed the guard, and resumed his position at her side.

Silver glanced at the mirror along the far wall and exhaled with frustration and fatigue.

She looked at Richard. “Do we have enough?”

“I’d say so.”

She turned back to Howard. “What are you going to do now? You keep saying you had a reason for doing all this that goes beyond revenge. What’s the grand plan, Howard?”

“I’m writing a book. I’ll have to write fast, I know. But I figure that the memoirs of The Regulator will be interesting reading to a public with a short attention span, and I can document what was done and name the names of those even more deeply responsible than the few I exterminated – then perhaps there will be sufficient awareness so more action takes place. At the very least, it will be impossible for the system to pretend it doesn’t know what was done, or by whom. That’s my final gift. My legacy.”

“Then this was all a publicity stunt for the book?”

“I suppose if you were cynical you could say so. I prefer to say this was a way of ensuring people were interested in receiving a message they need to hear.”

The interrogation lasted another fifteen minutes. After it had concluded, Howard was taken away, leaving Silver and Richard alone.

“You hungry?” he asked her.

“Not really. I think I lost my appetite for the rest of my life.”

“Want to watch me eat? I’m sloppy, and I make noise.”

“You do know how to lure the ladies in.”

“I hear my belching is irresistible.”

“Then lead the way.”

~ ~ ~

“They sent a team to the penthouse. We both know what they’ll find,” Richard said as he scanned the menu of a little Italian place two blocks from headquarters.

“Can you imagine what it would be like to find out you’re going to die in another two or three days? In agony?”

“I’d say that’s what Howard is looking forward to, only in another few months. I don’t know which is worse.”

“He’s so calm. Do you think he’s a sociopath?” Silver asked.

“You know, I really don’t. He shows regret and obviously cared about others. He even seems to care how you’re doing. It could all be an act, but I don’t think so. I think Howard is something different. I’m not sure there’s a word for it. He’s a man who’s simply seen too much.”

“That’s what creeps me out. He’s so normal. And he makes it sound so rational.”

Richard didn’t say anything. The waiter came, and he ordered cannelloni. She opted for a salad.

“It’s a hard one, Silver. I have to say I’m glad I’m not going to be on the jury.”

“We both know he’ll never live long enough for this to go to a jury.”

“It’s really the perfect crime.”

“You sound like you…like you understand him.”

“I sort of do,” Richard admitted.

“But you can’t condone what he’s done. It’s wrong. You can’t just kill everyone you think has been bad. That’s what the law is for. The system.”

“Yes. I know. But he does raise an interesting question. What do you do when the system is broken?”

“Obviously, you need to work within the system to change it.”

“Sure. But if your research has shown that change is impossible? That the bad guys are just going to get away with it because the system itself is so flawed meaningful change is impossible?”

“I don’t know, Richard.”

“If someone broke into your house and raped Kennedy, and then you discovered that it was the mayor’s son, and because it was him, that he’d never be prosecuted…what would you do? No, even better, if you discovered that he did it all the time and had never been stopped and never would be?”

“I don’t like that kind of question.”

“I know. But that’s the question he’s forcing us to consider. It’s very much like that. We know who committed the crime, we know they’ve done it before, we know they’ll do it again, and we know nobody is ever going to stop them. So what’s your responsibility in that case?”

Their food came, and they ate in silence.

After a while Silver said, “I suddenly don’t like the world I’m living in.”

“I know. Me neither.”

“Then what’s the solution? What’s the right answer?” Silver asked, putting her fork down disgustedly.

“I don’t think there is one. I think there’s just a right answer for you. I think the hard part is when you remove all the rules and have to decide what’s right, not because you’re afraid of being punished or caught, but because of what you’ve decided. For me, I think all we can do is try to be happy and be glad we’re not in Howard’s position.” Richard took another bite of pasta.

“That’s it? Try to be happy? That’s your solution?”

“I didn’t say it was a complete solution. But it’s the only one I’ve come up with. So I’ll keep going to work every day, put one foot in front of the other, put a bad guy in jail every now and then, and try to focus on the good in my life – of which you are one of the big things at the moment.”

“The good?”

He nodded. “The best.”

“Is this where we talk about us?”

“I think we just did. You want a chocolaty dessert?”

Chapter 27

The guards moved with Rob through the prison corridor, his feet shuffling due to the hobbling from the restraints around his ankles. His wrists were likewise bound, and the two huge guards escorting him towered over his lanky frame.

He had been pulled out of his cell at seven a.m. with no warning or explanation other than that he was being transferred to a new facility. No reason had been given, but he knew when he heard the words super max that his life was about to change for the worse.

The larger of the two guards grinned his enjoyment of Rob’s predicament. “Hey, buddy, I hear you’re headed to Southport. That should be fun, huh? Rest of your life in an eight by twelve box. If you’re good, you get one hour a day in the yard. Rest of the time you’re in solitary.”

“I’ll be back before you know it. They got no grounds to move me to super max,” Rob said with confidence.

“I won’t be putting any money into that pool. I hear you pissed off the wrong people.”

Rob struggled vainly against the four point restraint system as he was led to the prison loading dock, where a truck much like an armored car waited to ferry him to his new home. Three guards stood impassively by as he was manhandled into the back of the truck, which was a specially constructed vault designed for prisoner transport. The driver signed a sheaf of forms, and the back slammed shut with a heavy thud. A few moments later, they were moving.

After several hours on the road, the truck lurched to a halt, and the door opened. Four guards stood waiting, and a fifth signed the paperwork, taking receipt of the former motorcycle gang chief. He glared at them. The guard that had signed for him moved into his field of vision. Rob noted that part of his face had burn scars on it.

“Hello, douchebag. Welcome to Southport. This is your new home until the end of time. There are some rules you’ll need to learn, and I’ll let the boys fill you in about them. But I’m here to let you know about the only ones you need to remember. You are not here to be rehabilitated. You are not here to improve your mental health. You are not here to operate a criminal enterprise, or network with others, or piss anyone here off, or you will find yourself in an absolute world of hurt. Contrary to what you might believe, you have no rights. You have no expectation of fair treatment. You live and you will die by however I feel, and I’m usually pissed-off that my life consists of looking after scum like you. That makes me very angry on a good day. You do not want to test that anger. It is sudden and swift, and it will land on you like a piano dropped from a twenty-story building if I even imagine you’re giving me problems. I’m the head of the day shift on your block. The night guy is not as patient or compassionate as I am. You will sit in your cell and rot until you die, which for me can’t happen soon enough. I won’t bother asking you if you have any questions because I don’t care. You are nothing. A zero. So begins the rest of your miserable life, which my sole aim is to make as unpleasant as humanly possible.”

Rob blinked at him without expression. The man nodded at his fellow guards, who jerked him into motion.

A solitary figure in a suit stood watching the procession at the far end of the receiving facility and nodded when the head of the day shift approached him.

“If there’s anything you can do to make his life worse than it will be just by virtue of being here, think of it as my special request for you to do so. He put out a contract on an FBI agent. We’ll keep him here until that works its way through the system, or until he dies – whichever occurs first,” Agent Heron said.

“People die all the time. He doesn’t look particularly healthy.”

“No, I suspect he isn’t.”

“Consider it my pleasure, then. You need an escort out?”

“I was never here.”

~~ ~

Silver adjusted the cushion at the base of her spine and swiveled the chair a little as she tried to get comfortable. The headaches had receded over the last three days, but the back was still prone to aching. Her doctors had assured her that in time it, too, would fade; as far as she was concerned, it couldn’t happen fast enough.

This was her first full day back at work, and she studied the pile of paperwork with loathing. A week off and she’d accumulated enough on her desk to require a month of her time just to get even. The good news was that she didn’t have much else to do – with Howard in custody, the task force had wound down, so she was between assignments at present.

Sam avoided her as much as possible, which was fine. If she never had to deal with him again that would be too soon. He’d taken her success in apprehending Howard almost personally, as a deliberately contrived sleight, and had been moping all morning after coming in and giving her a desultory, obligatory congratulation.

Some people were just magnets for bad karma. Sam was clearly one of those.

Whatever – it wasn’t her problem.

Dendt had died the prior morning from radiation poisoning. She’d deliberately avoided paying too much attention to the descriptions of his decline. Perhaps he was a malignancy, as Howard had posited, but still, nobody deserved to go that way.

Seth knocked lightly on her door jamb. She looked up from her pile with relief.

“How does it feel to be back in the saddle?” he asked with a smile.

“Like being a third grade teacher with five hundred homework assignments to grade.” She gestured at the mounds of reports.

“Hey, at least it’s over, and the good guys won again,” he said as he sat down. “And you’re now an official legend in Bureau history. I think taking a serial into custody while flat on your back and on leave is a first. I’m not sure how you top that.”

“I’m not planning to. Besides, that was mostly luck.”

Seth gave her a disbelieving look. “I sort of figured.”

“Sam doesn’t look too happy about it,” Silver observed.

“Yeah, well, he was gearing up to hang the whole thing on a Muslim fundamentalist terror cell, or the mob, or both, and you spoiled his party. It would have made quite a name for him if that had turned out to be right.”

“I was thinking exactly the same thing when I didn’t win The Big Spin again last night. If only…”

They both chuckled, then Silver raised an eyebrow in warning.

Brett’s suited form filled the doorway, causing Seth to jump to his feet.

“I was just leaving,” he said.

Brett nodded.

Once Seth had departed, Brett closed the door behind him and took a seat in front of her desk.

“How are you doing?”

“Not bad. Tough to get back into the swing of things, but then again, I was never much for pushing a pencil.”

“I know the feeling. I’ve put you in for a commendation, by the way. I’m pretty sure it will be a laydown.”

“Thank you for that. It means a lot to me.” Which was true. Recognition of her excellence on the job was one of the ways she measured herself, and it never hurt to hear you were doing a good job.

“I read the interrogation transcript. Pretty heavy stuff. Anything you want to talk about?”

Silver considered her words carefully. “What did you think about it?”

Brett leaned back in the chair and stared at the ceiling. “We live by rules and conventions, Silver. You know that. They aren’t perfect, and God knows we’ve all had moments where we wish we could take matters into our own hands. But what keeps everything from breaking down is that we don’t. As flawed as things are, they’re better than a lot of other places in the world, so even if I conceded that he has some valid points, which I’m not saying he does, what are the alternatives? In the end, he got what he wanted, which is notoriety, and you did what you had to do, which is your job. That’s why you show up here every day.”

“I suppose so. But would it be stupid or naïve for me to ask whether anything will ever come of his claims? If he’s even half right this was the crime of the century.”

“I’ll run it up the flagpole, but I don’t expect much. You know how things work. We’re very good at tracking a bank robber or a killer. Not so great at trying to build a case against, well, most of the big names in the world of high finance. Where do you even start?” Brett shook his head.

“With most crimes, you start at the beginning.”

“I know. But white collar crime isn’t the same. It’s frustrating for that reason. There are a lot of gray areas…”

“And a lot of very powerful people with their congressman’s home phone numbers on speed dial. I get it. But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that it’s one of the more frustrating cases I’ve had.”

Brett nodded as he got to his feet. “No disagreement there. But all we can do is mush on and live to fight another day. Right?” He walked to her door and opened it.

“That will have to do.”

~ ~ ~

Ben welcomed Silver into his office and gestured at his receptionist to bring her a bottle of water. He beamed at her as she sat down.

Once the woman had returned with the drink, he motioned for her to shut the door.

Silver gave him a quizzical look. “What’s the news?” she asked.

“Do you believe in Santa Claus?”

“Not since I was eight. Why?”

“Because from where I’m sitting, it’s Christmas in April.”

“Spit it out, Ben. I don’t think I can afford the humor. You’re too expensive by the joke.”

“Well, I can give you the long version or the short version. Seeing as you’re so testy, I’ll stick with the short. Your ex is no longer a problem. He’s pulled his motion, and I can’t see him being an issue for you anytime soon.”

“What? You’re kidding!” she exclaimed. “Tell me you’re not kidding, Ben.”

“You’re not kidding, Ben.”

Silver winced at the lame joke. “What happened?”

“Ah, so the longer version is suddenly of interest? Fine. Remember all those expensive private detectives you’ve been paying for? Well, they’re worth it. One of them was able to find a twenty-year-old intern who claims that your ex forced her to perform a whole slew of deplorable sexual acts while she was working for him, and that she ultimately quit because of the constant harassment. Apparently some money changed hands, so she never filed any charges, but she still holds a grudge. To make a long story short, even a hint of that would kill Eric’s chances of running for public office, so when we approached him for a friendly chat about it, he suddenly expressed fatigue over the toll that his custody battle was taking on everyone.”

“Yes, I imagine that signing the complaint was exhausting.”

“I commiserated with him and pointed out that we could probably make the entire thing go away without raising any problems with the current arrangement if he was willing to cover your accumulated legal expenses to date. That seemed fair to him.”

Silver nodded. “I hope you triple-billed him.”

“That wouldn’t be ethical. But there were quite a few items that I’d somehow omitted from our calculations for your fee the last time we spoke. That’s why I’m an attorney, not an accountant.” Ben’s face could have been carved from granite. He opened a highly-polished burled walnut box on his desk and withdrew a rectangular slip of paper, then handed it to her. She took it, and her eyes got large when she read the script.

“That’s a hundred percent of your retainer back, plus a little to help compensate for the fees you must have incurred when looking at selling the flat. It’s not my place to probe too deeply, but I hope that will be satisfactory?”

Silver folded the paper and put it into her purse. “More than satisfactory, Ben. You do great work. As always.”

“Just trying to keep the world safe for single mothers, Silver. Today I did my small part.”

“On behalf of single mothers everywhere, I thank you.”

“I saw you in the paper yesterday, by the way. Congratulations. That’s a big achievement. You must be very excited.”

“I thought the photo made me look kind of…heavy.”

“Nonsense. You’re perfect. The camera always adds fifteen pounds. You looked stunning.”

“You’re very kind. So what now? Do I need to do anything more?”

“I’ll ask you to stop on the way out and sign a few documents putting this episode behind us. Beyond that, you’re done.”

Silver stood and extended her hand. “Thanks for everything, Ben. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I hope I never have to see you again.”

He nodded and smiled as he shook her hand. “Believe it or not, I get that a lot.”

~ ~ ~

The sommelier brought the bottle of wine to the table and presented the label for Richard’s inspection. He nodded his approval, and the man made a big show of opening it and pouring a little for him to taste. He swirled it around in his mouth, then made an approving noise and gestured to Silver’s glass. She watched as the deep purple liquid filled the bottom fifth of the goblet. Once the man had left, they raised their glasses in a toast.

“All’s well that ends well,” she said.

“Bottoms up,” he suggested, then took a sip.

“Mmm. This is really good,” Silver enthused. “Better than the one we had the last time we were here.”

“I agree. Australian Shiraz. Big, bold bruiser of a mouthful.”

“G’day, mate,” she intoned in an exaggerated accent.

They bantered easily as they enjoyed each other’s company. Richard was sliding his hand over to hold hers on the tabletop when they were interrupted by the waiter’s arrival with their entrées – they had both ordered the ostrich special.

She took another taste of the wine.

“I really can’t believe how much I like this wine,” she said.

“It will go well with your ostrich.”

“Doesn’t everything go well with my ostrich?”

“Why, Agent Cassidy. Are you flirting with me?” he asked in a low voice, fixing her with a troubled look.

“It’s sexual harassment I was shooting for.”

“You don’t have to threaten me to get me to admire your ostrich.”

“Admiring it wasn’t what I had in mind, but it’s a start.”

They sipped their wine contentedly. Silver stared off at a distant table, losing the moment for a split second, then she picked up her fork, as did Richard.

“You still have him on the brain?” Richard asked.

She returned her focus to him. “Hard not to, isn’t it?”

“I’m with you there. But there’s no point in dwelling on all of it. We did our jobs. Our part is over.”

“I know. But I can’t completely let go of it. Kind of like a fixation. Once you know a little, you want to know more. Pretty soon you’re spending a lot of your time doing research that doesn’t lead anywhere good.”

Richard nodded. “I understand. In the end, though, it sort of is what it is. Neither you nor I can change the world. The best we can do is try to leave it safer for our stay on it. If I can manage that, it’s a good day.”

“You ever wish you didn’t know some of the things you know?”

It was Richard’s turn to stare off into the distance. “All the time, Silver. All the time.”

“Kind of sucks, doesn’t it?”

“It’s a highly imperfect world. Always has been. But yes, it does suck.” He took a large swallow of wine and then picked up his knife.

Under the table, her foot traced along his calf, settling the matter for the moment.

“You have a nice ostrich, too,” she purred.

“Did you know that an ostrich can hit a top speed of over forty miles an hour?” Richard asked conversationally. “Compare that to a human, who in perfect shape might hit high twenties.”

She took a bite and smiled. “Wanna race?”

Chapter 28

Silver sat at the window, waiting for the inmate to arrive. Howard moved slowly and appeared to have aged fifteen years in the last month. He seemed surprised to see her, and then his face composed itself into its customary tranquil expression. He picked up the telephone handset, and she did likewise.

“Well, this is an unexpected surprise,” Howard said. His voice sounded strained, and something else. Thick.

“I’m full of them, Howard.”

“Yes, I suppose you are. How is Kennedy?”

“You got her hooked on Sherlock Holmes. She spends half her time now either reading stories or reading about him on the web. I had no idea there were so many sites devoted to a fictional sleuth.”

“He was always a favorite.”

An uncomfortable pause stretched until she broke it.

“How’s the writing coming?”

“Good. I actually got an agent, and we have a book deal. Big advance, too. Quarter million bucks. Too bad I can’t spend it in here.”

“That’s great, Howard. Sounds like you’ll get the word out.”

“That is what I’m hoping. The agent says they don’t put up that kind of money these days unless they plan to push it.”

“How far along are you?”

“About three-quarters of the way through. I’m now tackling the Federal Reserve. Most people don’t know that it’s a privately-owned bank that was created by the most powerful bankers of the era in 1913. Rockefeller, J.P. Morgan, Warburg, Lehman…”

She let that go by, preferring not to get into another disturbing discussion about the financial system.

“How are you doing, Howard?”

“I better write the last quarter fast.”

There wasn’t much more to say to that. They both knew he’d never stand trial for the killings.

“At least you have three squares a day.”

“If I wasn’t dying, the food would do it. It’s a really cruel and unusual punishment.”

They bantered a little more, and then the guard approached on Howard’s side of the glass, signaling that the visit was over.

That was the only time she ever went to see him. Silver had been hoping for some kind of closure, but in the end, she was only left with more questions.

~ ~ ~

Kennedy gripped Silver’s hand as they got out of the taxi, the anticipation palpable in her excited gaze at the grounds of the Metropolitan Opera House. Outside, huge banners celebrated the spring season of American Ballet Theater, including a full-length version of Giselle, which was their destination tonight.

They were half an hour early and already had their tickets, so as they watched the crowd of festively-dressed urbanites make their way to the theater, they played one of their favorite games, which involved guessing the story of a randomly selected person and then describing in great detail the specifics of their life.

Kennedy nudged Silver and gestured discreetly at a young woman with a dramatic, long, black dress, dyed black hair cut in a rough shag and full-sleeve tattoos on both arms proudly displayed as she walked with a young man wearing a stylish brown velvet suit cut in a zoot fashion.

“Her name is Alexandria. Alex for short,” Kennedy started.

“She’s a pitcher for the Yankees, but she–”

“Mom!” Kennedy protested.

“Sorry. Alex is an international spy working for the Bolivian secret police, who’s used her fame as a Latin pop singer and soap opera star to gain access to her real target, Antoine Duperry, the world famous clothes designer who is a favorite of the president’s wife, as well as a frequent guest judge on a number of second-rate talent shows.”

“Antoine, who moonlights as an usher for off-Broadway plays, uses performances of ABT as his launching point for his more wild designs,” Kennedy continued without missing a beat.

“Alex knows that Antoine has grown suspicious of her, but she is committed to gathering intelligence for the top secret Bolivian takeover plans of North America.”

Kennedy paused, pulling Silver to a stop next to her. “Time out. Where is Bolivia? Are you making that up?”

“No, Bolivia is where bowls come from. Hence the name. Bowlivia.”

“Like Latvia. Where lattés come from?”

“No, that’s Starbucks. Don’t you know anything?”

They exploded into giggles, both feeling more than slightly silly.

“Here, honey, let me straighten your outfit. It looks kind of like you fought your way out of the closet by putting on clothes. Did you even brush your hair?” Silver kneeled down in front of her, adjusting her top, which had shifted in the cab.

A shadow swept over them, created by the spotlights mounted on the front of the theater as they pointed down at the crowd. Kennedy’s eyes moved over Silver’s head, and Silver finished her emergency fix, ending by smoothing Kennedy’s hair with one hand before standing and facing the new arrival.

“Took you long enough,” Silver said to Richard, who was wearing a tuxedo in honor of the special occasion. “Although you’re forgiven because the penguin suit shows special creativity and effort.”

“Could I have the check, please?” Kennedy added helpfully.

“Be careful when you’re parking my car,” Silver added.

Richard smiled good-naturedly and took them both by the hand. “At these prices, it better be the best basketball game I’ve ever seen, or I want my money back.”

Afterword

Silver Justice contains a number of observations and opinions about financial history, the Great Depression, the 1929 and 2008 crashes, and the general state of the economic system as well as the regulatory and political systems. While this is a work of fiction, readers are encouraged to research for themselves where the truth ends and invention begins.

Those interested in the background of the Federal Reserve should read the landmark work by G. Edward Griffin, The Creature from Jekyll Island, about the true events surrounding its creation and its functioning.

The conspiracy surrounding the 2008 financial crisis described in the novel is largely drawn from fact – mostly tamed-down fact, as the truth is too unbelievable to be plausible to the average person. Numerous articles in the Financial Times, Rolling Stone Magazine, and a host of websites devoted to the capture of the media by financial interests document the incredible story of the looting of the nation. Of particular note are the events surrounding the demise of Bear Stearns, as well as the alumni active in the government, then and now, from one of the largest, and some would claim most malevolent, investment banks on Wall Street. It cannot escape mention that several of that firm’s biggest competitors were destroyed during the crisis and now no longer exist.

In a 2010 report to Congress, Admiral Dennis Blair, the U.S. director of national intelligence, described one of the most significant threats to the economic wellbeing and national security of the U.S.. He noted that transnational organized crime syndicates are closely aligned with foreign intelligence services/governments that are considered to be hostile to the United States. He observes that: “…the nexus between international criminal organizations and terrorist groups [including, but not limited to Al Qaeda]…presents continuing dangers…” The national intelligence director then warned that these same transnational organized crime syndicates are “…undermining free markets…” and “…almost certainly will increase [their] penetration of legitimate financial and commercial markets, threatening U.S. economic interests and raising the risk of significant damage to the global financial system…”

Bernie Madoff ran the largest Ponzi scheme in history, for decades, while enjoying remarkable influence with the nation’s security regulator – the SEC. Madoff’s contribution to the regulatory environment includes the now famous “Madoff Exemption,” which enabled market makers to create virtually unlimited amounts of non-existent stock and sell it as though it was legitimate. An Internet search of the term Madoff Exemption yields fascinating illumination of the true state of the U.S. regulatory and market system. The SEC was warned about Madoff on numerous occasions over a period of years by Harry Markopolos, a prominent whistleblower who provided the agency with copious evidence of wrongdoing. Nothing was ever done.

For a breathtaking deconstruction of the U.S. economic system, including the 1929 Crash, Mercantilism and the ascendance of Keynesian economic theory in the operation of the U.S. government’s economic policy, the Great Depression, and countless other necessary pieces of knowledge any informed citizen should have, read The Fruits of Graft by Wayne Jett – essential reading for anyone interested in why things operate the way they do.

To read about how Wall Street operates, and has operated since it first started trading, I recommend Once in Golconda, by John Brooks, and The Hellhound of Wall Street, by Michael Perino - a marvellous account of Ferdinand Pecora, who ran the Pecora hearings in 1933 that exposed the biggest firms on Wall Street as criminal enterprises routinely involved in fraud, market manipulation, and every imaginable sort of larceny. It is arguable that nothing has really changed.

Excerpt from King of Swords

King of Swords

A THRILLER BY

Russell Blake

Copyright © 2011 by Russell Blake

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, contact Books@RussellBlake.com.

King of Swords is a work of fiction. Any resemblance between the characters and real people, living or dead, is coincidental. Having said that, the backdrop and historical context of the novel is based in fact. The drug war in Mexico has been an ongoing confrontation between government forces and the ever-strengthening cartels – now the largest illegal drug trafficking networks in the world, whose primary target market is the United States.

Thousands of police and soldiers have been killed in the last decade, as the war has intensified due to a crackdown by pro-U.S. administrations. Cartel members slaughter one another by the thousands every year, as well as huge numbers of innocent bystanders. The brutality of the turf wars that are a constant and ongoing facet of the trade is stunning; well over a thousand children have been butchered during Mexico’s ‘lost decade’, as have countless family members of traffickers, killed in retribution or as a deterrent.

The last two Secretaries of the Interior for Mexico died in suspicious air crashes. The Mexican cartels are now the largest narcotics trafficking networks in the world, with revenues that exceed those of many nation states. Roughly ten thousand people per year die as a direct result of cartel violence in Mexico.

The Sinaloa cartel is real. The Knights Templar cartel is also real, as is the Gulf cartel, the Tijuana cartel, and the Zeta cartel. New cartels pop up when the heads of the old groups die, and the names change with some frequency. The only constant is the bloodshed; the natural consequence of the economics of trafficking in an illegal substance that generates in excess of fifty billion dollars a year, wholesale, for the cartels in Mexico; a country where the average person makes a hundred and sixty dollars a month.

A Description of the Tarot Card, ‘The King of Swords’

In full regalia, the King of Swords sits proudly on his throne – with a long, upward-pointing, double-edged sword clutched in his right hand, and his left hand resting lightly on his lap. A ring adorns his left Saturn finger – representing power and commitment to responsibility. The King’s blue tunic symbolizes a desire for spiritual enlightenment; his purple cape symbolizes empathy, compassion and intellect. The backrest of his throne is embellished with butterflies, signifying transformation, and crescent moons orbit around an angel situated by his left ear, positioned, perhaps, to lend a delicate guidance. The backdrop of the sky has very few clouds, signifying pragmatic mental clarity. The trees dotting the landscape stand still, with not a rustle – reflecting the King of Swords’ stern judgment.

King of Swords Reversed

The reversed King of Swords depicts a man who is ruthless or excessively judgmental; when reversed, the King of Swords suggests the misuse of mental power, authority and drive. The reversed King of Swords can represent manipulation and persuasion in order to achieve selfish ends. He is a very intelligent character who likes to demonstrate to others his superiority, either verbally or through actions. It is best to be wary of this type of person because, although he may be charming and intelligent, he is remorseless and can do only harm. He has only his personal interests in mind and will do whatever necessary to achieve those interests, even if it means destroying others.

Introduction

Three Years Ago

Armed men lined the perimeter of the large contemporary home on the secluded stretch of seashore just above Punta Mita, twenty-three miles north of Puerto Vallarta. The stunning single-level example of modern Mexican architecture sat on a cove, where the heavy surf from the Pacific Ocean flattened out over the shallow offshore reef a hundred yards from the beach. Nine foot high concrete walls ringed the compound, protecting the occupants from prying eyes and would-be intruders. Not that any were in evidence. The property and the coastline for a quarter mile in each direction belonged to the house’s secretive owner – Julio Guzman Salazar, the Jalisco cartel’s chief, and the eighth richest man in Mexico, although his name didn’t appear on any roster other than the government’s most wanted list.

The building’s Ricardo Legorreta design boasted thirty-eight thousand feet of interior space, with nine bedrooms in the main house, separate servant’s quarters adjacent to the twelve car air-conditioned garage, a full sized movie theater with a floating floor, its own solar and wind power generation system, and a full time domestic staff of eleven. An Olympic-sized swimming pool with an infinity edge finished in indigo mirrored glass tile created the illusion of water spilling into the deep blue ocean.

The white cantera stone pool-area deck took on a pale cosmic glow as the last sliver of sun sank into the watery horizon, making way for the dark of a late-November night. The armed men encircling the house were hardened and efficient, exuding a palpable air of menace as they roamed the grounds, alert for threats. The security detail, which traveled with Salazar everywhere he went, consisted of eighteen seasoned mercenaries who were proficient with the Uzis they held with nonchalant ease.

Motion detectors provided an early warning system outside of the walls, where infrared beams crisscrossed the expanse between the beach and the house, ensuring that nothing could penetrate the elaborate defenses undetected. Salazar could afford the best security money could buy, and his private army comprised not only Mexicans and Nicaraguans and Colombians, but also two South Africans and a Croatian. All had seen more than their share of combat, either of the civilian variety in the ongoing drug skirmishes between rival cartels, or in full-scale armed conflict in the Balkans or Africa.

At seven p.m. precisely, the bright halogen headlights of expensive vehicles began making their way down the long road from the coastal highway that connected Puerto Vallarta with Mazatlan, and through the enormous gates of the opulent home. Each car was allowed inside to drop off its passengers, after undergoing scrutiny from the men charged with Salazar’s protection, who inspected the SUVs inside and out. During the next hour, seven Humvees and Escalades discharged their loads before pulling back out of the compound and parking in a brightly-lit area designated for the purpose. Two armed guards patrolled the flat expanse, guns loaded and cocked.

In the constant drug wars that were the norm on mainland Mexico, every minute held the possibility of instant death for those in the trade, and so the men on the security team were in a constant state of readiness for attack. Their vigilance had paid off many times over the past decade, when rival factions had attempted to challenge Salazar’s stranglehold on the Jalisco trafficking corridor. He’d emerged victorious from that series of ever-escalating brutal engagements, the last of which had culminated in nineteen corpses beheaded or shot execution-style in Culiacan over a three month period.

The Sinaloa cartel was the most powerful one in Mexico, and for some time had nurtured its aspirations of expanding its lethal tentacles into Jalisco, the neighboring state to the south – Salazar’s home turf. The Sinaloa cartel controlled much of the marijuana produced in Mexico and had grown to be the largest cocaine and heroin trafficking entity in the world, handling over seventy percent of all Colombian product that made it into the U.S.. Salazar’s operation was considerably smaller, but the brutality of his tactics made him a difficult adversary to encroach upon; after ten years of unsuccessful attempts to execute him, an uneasy truce now held sway.

The lush, planted areas of the compound were lavishly appointed. The beachside pool deck’s verdant landscaping was circled with the flicker of tiki torches – placed there for the big event that was just getting underway. An eighteen-piece mariachi band in full regalia had assembled by the massive palapa over the hotel-sized outdoor pool bar. They aired their traditional music for the guests, who were almost exclusively children and their mothers. It was Salazar’s oldest son’s seventh birthday; the party was an important event. Attendees had come from as far as Mexico City to honor Julio junior’s big day. There was a giddy sense of privilege and wealth in the festivities – the boy had been presented with a pony, along with every imaginable video game and technological miracle a young man could wish for.

Clowns and acrobats japed and tumbled around the sidelines, performing astounding feats of dexterity and contortionism amid long bursts of yellow flame from a troupe of fire-breathers. Peals of adolescent laughter punctuated the melody of strumming guitars and blaring horns and violins, while the women circled the children’s area clutching piña coladas and daiquiris in their lavishly bejeweled hands. All the guests knew one another – Salazar’s social circle was small and exclusive.

Off to the side, Salazar and a handful of his closest male friends and associates stood beside a fifteen-foot diameter fire pit, smoking Cuban cigars and drinking five-hundred dollar tequila from brandy snifters as they discussed business in hushed tones, occasionally glancing a watchful eye over their wives and offspring. Salazar was easily distinguished from the group due to his height and distinctive beard – he was barely five four, and sported a Lincolnic beard in the fashion that his father had affected until he’d died in a car crash when Salazar was nine years old.

Two female dancers in traditional folk garb approached the specially erected stage with a male dancer in the classic Mexican vaquero outfit, who executed a series of exhibition tricks with a lasso, dancing with the whirling rope to the delight of the assembled children. When he was finished, the trio remained on the stage. A spotlight flicked on. From a newly-pitched tent adjacent to the pool, a man in a black suit emerged, flamboyantly brandishing a large sombrero. He bowed to the arc of enraptured kids before finally placing it onto the head of the birthday boy.

The crowd laughed and clapped in mutual surprise – this was one of Mexico’s most beloved singers, popular for two decades before Salazar’s son had been born. He swiveled and moved onto the performance area with a practiced ease and began singing one of his most famous ballads, a perennial favorite with young and old alike. The adults sang along and clapped, as did the children, who were captivated by the theatrical production numbers and the pomp of the event.

~ ~ ~

A small prop plane meandered along the coastline at an altitude of nine thousand feet, its lights extinguished, its radar off and its radio silent. The pilot held up a hand with two fingers extended, and then watching his digital timer, made a curt gesture, signaling to the man in the rear that it was time. The passenger, dressed head to toe in black and with a balaclava covering his face, nodded and gripped the lever of the sliding door on the fuselage’s side, twisting it and forcing it open. He was instantly buffeted by a blast of warm air which tore at his clothes and burned his eyes, until he pulled a pair of night vision goggles into place and hurled himself into the dark, rushing void. The wind clawed at him as he tumbled through the night sky. After counting to twenty, he pulled the handle of his specially-configured parachute harness and whumped to a near halt, the straps straining at the arrest of his descent.

A black rectangular glider-parachute billowed above him as he manipulated it with two handles, until he quickly got his fall under control and directed himself at the glowing patch of coastline where the party would now be in full swing. He glanced at the luminous hands of his oversized military-blackened Panerai watch and smiled under the woolen mask. So far everything was going according to plan.

A few minutes later, through his night vision goggles, he could make out the flat roof of the main house, where three armed sentries watched the proceedings by the pool and scanned the beach for threats. He was now barely fifteen hundred feet above the compound. Even at that altitude, he could hear the music and singing, and make out the shrieks of glee from the children as they chased each other around the party tables to the bouncing melody of the band. As he’d hoped, the volume of the musicians drowned out any hint of flapping from his chute. The rooftop security men were engrossed with the show, so were unlikely to look up.

He connected the right control cable handle to a clasp on the harness, which made steering more difficult but was essential to momentarily freeing up his hand. From a strap on his chest, he grappled with the grip of a MTAR-21 compact assault rifle; a small, evil-looking weapon with a handmade silencer and flash suppressor. The gun was affixed to the harness with a three foot nylon rope to prevent an inadvertent loss during the nocturnal descent. He groped until he felt the familiar pistol grip and trigger guard, and flipped the safety off. He was now two hundred feet above the roof at the far end of the house – the three sentries were still on the beach side of the roof, watching the entertainment and scanning the surf line.

When he was twenty yards above the men, his weapon belched two short bursts, catching all three guards unawares and ending their lives before they could register any surprise. His feet alighted on the waterproofed concrete surface next to them, and he immediately reeled in the chute, securing it in place with one of the guard’s guns after shrugging out of the harness.

Eighty feet away, on the far end of the roof, a gathering of gulls stood with a black bird – a raven or crow – in their midst, silently observing the new arrival from the sky. A sound from below startled them, and the gulls alighted. The black bird remained, as if undecided, and then with a squawk also flung itself into the night.

He stole his way, catlike, to the corner of the house nearest the beach and carefully unpacked the contents of his small backpack, extracting two spare 32-round magazines for the gun, a black nylon rope with a grappling-hook, three grenades and four smoke grenades, a fiber optic scope on the end of a black aluminum telescoping rod, a heavily modified sniper rifle with a collapsible stock, a silencer and ten-round magazine for it, and a waterproof camera. He slipped one of the magazines into a pocket on the side of his pants, along with the camera, and turned his attention to the sniper weapon.

Inspecting the rifle and confirming it was intact, he drew several deep breaths, preparing himself for what was to come. He carefully threaded the silencer onto the barrel and unfolded the carbon-fiber stock, then inserted the magazine and silently eased back the precision-machined bolt, chambering a round. Ready now, he flipped the night vision headgear up and out of his line of sight and peered through the telescoping fiber optic lens at the festivities below. He quickly located the group of male guests and confirmed Salazar was among them. Satisfied that his quarry was in his kill zone, he surveyed the rest of the deck and spotted three security guards unobtrusively standing in the shadows at the base of the portable lighting towers that illuminated the party. Returning his attention to Salazar, he calculated the distance and the strength of the light breeze – not that it would make much difference on a shot that was no more than forty yards; it was force of habit.

One of the fallen sentry’s radios crackled as a coarse voice intruded, demanding a status report. He reached over and turned the volume down, then returned his focus to the celebration, this time peering over the edge of the roof through the scope of the rifle.

Salazar was gesturing at the famous singer like an orchestra conductor, singing along with him, obviously well on the road to inebriation, when the top of his head blew apart, speckling his entourage with bloody shards of bone and brains. A second ticked by as the shocked group registered what had happened, even as the band continued playing, unaware that the party had just come to an abrupt end.

The farthest security guard lurched backwards, dropping his gun as he died, and then the screaming from the crowd began. The other two sentries swiveled around with weapons in hand, searching for assailants. A slug tore the second guard’s throat out as it sheared through his spine, and the third guard’s chest erupted blood even as he wheeled around to his fallen associate. Pandemonium reigned as the women ran crying towards the house with their terrified children in tow. The band fell silent and hurriedly made for cover behind the concrete pool bar, instruments clattering against the deck stone as they took flight.

A large exhibition light exploded in a shower of sparks, then the other three quickly followed suit, and finally the spotlight shattered, leaving only the torch flames and a few indirect wall sconces on the house. Salazar’s friends had rushed to their families and were herding them to safety inside, leaving the pool deck empty save for the band and the trembling entertainers.

On the roof, the uninvited guest tossed the rifle onto a dead guard’s chest and methodically lobbed the grenades over the front of the house, not looking to see where they landed, their detonations ample evidence they’d found a mark where the rest of the guards had been stationed. He raced back to the beach side of the roof, pulled the pins on the smoke grenades and threw them onto the right side of the pool deck, allowing the breeze to waft a dense fog over the area. Satisfied with the effect, he wedged the steel hook into the concrete roof rim and tossed the line over the side. He scanned the walkway that ran along the wall’s edge to confirm there were no armed assailants immediately proximate, and swung his legs over the side, sliding down the rope to the ground, where he landed in a crouch.

From the plants at the side of the deck, the dead guards’ radios crackled with panicked orders as he moved through the smoke to the fire pit, where Salazar’s corpse lay sprawled face down on the white cantera in a pool of blood. He hauled on a shoulder and flipped the body onto its back, then fished in his pants for the tarot card that was his signature. Carefully balancing the image of a crowned man holding a sword on the cartel kingpin’s mangled face, he took two pictures with the little camera before returning it to his pants pocket. He reached down and stuck the card in Salazar’s gaping mouth so that he could be sure it wouldn’t blow away during the ensuing action. Peering through the billowing clouds that largely obscured the house, he pulled the tab on his last smoke grenade and tossed it onto the sand, enveloping the beach with an impenetrable haze.

A hail of bullets tore a chunk of stone from the deck a few feet from him; he swiveled in a crouch and fired a few short bursts from his silenced assault rifle in the direction of the barking male voices. Another bullet ricocheted off the fire pit, signaling that it was time to make his departure. The surviving guards from the front of the house were closing in, and even he was reluctant to take on over a dozen armed men in a wide-open gunfight.

He unclipped a final grenade from his backpack chest strap and pulled the pin, flipping it roughly twenty feet towards the house, and then unclipped the MTAR-21, emptied the magazine in the direction of the approaching guards and tossed it aside, satisfied with the screams of pain from their direction. He wrenched the night vision goggles off his head and threw them as far as he could towards the house before turning to run for the beach. The grenade’s concussion delivered yet another delay for his pursuers – the shrapnel from the explosion would stop any chase long enough for him to get a thirty second lead, which was all he needed. He sprinted to the water line across the luminescent sand and without hesitation dived into the mild surf, swimming energetically as he strained towards the mouth of the cove.

A beam of light played across the water from the beach, and he sensed bullets shredding through the waves around him as he plowed further from shore. Counting to himself, he swam submerged for twenty seconds at a time, coming up for gulps of air before plunging into the safety of the deep.

Once he was past the rocks at the mouth of the cove he angled to the right, and within a few moments reached a slimy outcropping of rocks a hundred yards from the angry killers on the shore. He fumbled around in the dark until he found the smooth fiberglass side of the black jet ski he’d secured there the night before and hurriedly tore the camouflage fabric from its sleek hull and freed it from the rocks. The tide had risen to the point where the small watercraft slid easily onto the waves, and within seconds the engine fired and he tore off into the sea, jumping easily over the surf that roiled atop the reef line.

A few bursts of distant rifle fire chattered across the water but he was already out of range – the shooting was little more than a lament from the thwarted security. Savoring the adrenaline rush as he flew over the small swells at forty-five miles per hour, he reached beneath his chin and pulled the soaking balaclava over his face, jettisoning it into the sea as he plotted a course south, where a vehicle waited on a lonely stretch of beach for his nocturnal arrival.

Tonight would be the stuff of legends, he knew. In a business where money flowed like water, he’d just pulled off the impossible in a spectacular and flamboyant manner. After this, he’d be able to command whatever fee he wanted, and there would be an international waiting list of eager clients. He’d left the card in Salazar’s maw to seal the deal and continue to build his reputation. It had started years ago, as an idea he’d gotten from an article he’d read about the American war in the Middle East, where the kill squads assigned playing cards to each target they were hunting. He’d liked the idea, but had taken it one step further. When he’d begun his career as contract killer, he’d made a point of leaving a tarot card with a depiction of the King of Swords on it, and he’d adopted a nickname that now struck fear into the hearts of those he targeted.

King of Swords. El Rey de Espadas. Or as the press had taken to calling him, El Rey.

It might have been a little melodramatic, but nobody was laughing now that his legacy of impossible kills was the stuff of front page headlines. Not since the days of Carlos the Jackal had an assassin gained such notoriety, and he’d carefully selected the contracts he’d taken for maximum publicity value, in addition to the money. He’d quickly developed a reputation as a phantom, an invisible man – a contract arranged with him was as good as putting a bullet in the target’s brain at the time the deal was negotiated.

El Rey was a star, a legend, and even his clients approached him with a certain trepidation when they required his services. These were generally men who butchered whole communities to make a point, but who deferred to El Rey out of respect.

He’d earned that respect the hard way, by taking the sanctions that were considered impossible and then delivering. In his circles, respect was earned at the edge of a knife blade or the barrel of a gun. It was blood currency. And now, he could name his price. Tonight’s logistics had cost him just under a hundred thousand dollars – the contract price had been two and a half million. Not a bad evening’s work. But after this, his rate would start at four million and quickly increase from there, depending on the level of difficulty.

Off to his left, the lights of Punta Mita’s expansive coastline sparkled in the overcast night. Some of the homes along that stretch of beach cost well over five million dollars, he knew. Rich Gringos and successful narcotraficantes were the only ones who could afford them, and with a little luck, soon he would be part of the elite that called the area home. But he’d need to do a few more jobs before he could hang up his tail and horns and call it quits, and he was in no hurry to retire. El Rey loved the adrenaline rush of the kill; the more planning involved and the greater the level of challenge, the better.

He glanced down at the dimly illuminated compass he’d mounted beneath the handles and made a small adjustment to his course, musing at the direction his life had taken as he sliced through the inky water, effortlessly making his escape into the warm tropical night.

Prologue

Two Years Ago

The central square in downtown Puebla was typical of larger Mexican towns; a cultural hub for the community as well as a gathering place. Tourists from all over Mexico traveled to visit the cathedral adjacent to the square; the area was one of the most picturesque in the region. A steady procession of cars cruised around the city center, although traffic was kind in the early afternoon. A light breeze rustled through the trees that sheltered picnickers from the harsh sunlight as they languished on the freshly trimmed grass.

Rosa sat at one of the quaint cafés with her daughter, Cassandra, eating fresh fruit sorbet. It was summer, so school was out, and they were visiting Rosa’s parents for a week – a refreshing break from the press of humanity in Mexico City, which was among the largest cities in the world, and the place she reluctantly called home.

The weather was hot, but not punishingly so, and free from the oppressive pollution that sat like a blanket over the valley where Mexico City resided. Some of the air quality problems were a function of geography, and some were due to the virtual absence of any emission control on cars until recently. The capital of Mexico was surrounded by hills, which prevented the thermal layer of un-breathable toxins from dispersing. It was one of nature’s cruel tricks that so many people lived in an area where breathing the air was the equivalent of smoking a pack of cigarettes a day.

She wished that they could move, maybe to Guadalajara, where the weather was usually nice and the verdant region of Lake Chapala was little more than an hour away, but her husband’s job wouldn’t allow for that. She hated that they were locked into living in their little three bedroom row house in Toluca, near the airport, in a neighborhood that seemed chronically victimized by crime; but life wasn’t always fair or easy and they were doing the best they could.

Rosa had a decent career as an insurance agent for her own small agency, and between her income and her husband’s they did as well as they could expect, but sometimes she was affected by a sense of melancholy, especially as she watched her eight year old daughter growing up in less than ideal conditions. Cassandra had been a miracle baby; Rosa’s doctor had convinced her that she would never be able to carry a baby to term due to a host of chronic immuno-deficiencies, but a strong faith in God and skilled care at the hospital had brought Cassandra howling into the world, where she’d been Rosa’s pride and joy ever since.

Glancing at her daughter, Rosa brushed Cassandra’s hair out of her eyes, and using a corner of her napkin, wiped away a smudge of strawberry from the little girl’s upturned lips. Cassandra – Cass – gave Rosa a look of embarrassment and hastily rubbed her forearm across her face. Rosa smiled at the gesture. That was another way to do it, she supposed.

A policeman on patrol tipped his cap to the pair as he strolled by; she returned his smile out of courtesy. A striking example of classical Mexican beauty, with flashing eyes the color of espresso and black hair that shimmered like silk against her café-au-lait-complexioned skin, she was accustomed to admiring attention from men, even though she’d long ago pledged her heart and soul to her husband – the love of her life.

Cass had inherited her stunning features, but with an unexpected twist of dirty blond hair – a testament to her father’s partial German lineage several generations back. Even now, barely an adolescent, she was a gorgeous child, and Rosa knew she was destined to break hearts when she blossomed. It was not out of the question that she could be a model once she hit her teens; a few of Rosa’s friends had already said as much.

As they watched the cars go by and the kids playing on the square, both mother and daughter felt happy to be relaxed in a place that was safe and relatively unspoiled. They’d just finished lunch at a small restaurant at the base of one of the old hotels facing the church, enjoying the best chicken Mole Poblano Rosa had tasted in years. Mole sauce was more of an art than a recipe, and each region had its own take on the dish. In Puebla, the sauce was nearly black, as thick as liquid tar, redolent of chocolate and clove and thirty-something other spices and ingredients. It was a rich and heady dish, and few restaurants could pull it off as well as the one they’d dined at. Puebla was one of the Meccas of Mexican culinary accomplishment, and Mole Poblana was a signature Pueblan specialty.

Cass had busied herself naming the pigeons that paraded and strutted across the street in the square, and one particularly unctuous example of male avian belligerence had captured her attention. She’d announced to Rosa that his name was El Guero – the pale one. The bird was almost blindingly white and had a remarkable presence; a swagger in each step and with chest puffed out, he fanned his wings and tail feathers in a display of mating finery. The smaller gray females were clearly impressed with his moves, as was Cass. Back and forth he swooped, cooing loudly as he pranced, the bird king of the Puebla park holding court for his admiring subjects.

Finished with their post-prandial treat, they left the vicinity of the square and made their way to the parking lot where they’d left their car – a Peugeot that had never seemed to run correctly since the day they’d bought it new, on payments that amounted to twenty percent annual interest. Rosa hated the little blue beast; they were counting the days until it was paid for so they could sell it and get something more reliable.

Two blocks from the square, a Ford Expedition pulled to the curb beside them, and two men who had been following a few yards behind abruptly grabbed the pair and forced them towards the rear door. Rosa screamed, as did Cassandra, who also kicked and tried to bite her assailant’s arm. One of the men punched Rosa hard enough to break her nose in an effort to stop the yelling, before he manhandled her to the vehicle. There was sparse pedestrian traffic on the sidewalk, but the few people who saw the altercation stopped walking, frozen in place. Kidnappings were an unfortunate and all too regular feature of some larger cities in Mexico, and the armed gangs that specialized in it were not to be trifled with. Shootouts were not uncommon, because those drawn to the profession were typically violent and desperate, with nothing much to lose.

The man who had punched Rosa pinned her on the rear seat while the other man lifted the struggling, screaming Cassandra and stuffed her next to her mother. One kidnapper got in back with the pair; the other climbed into the front passenger seat. The truck roared off down the street in a cloud of exhaust and a squealing of tires. It had no license plate, a not particularly rare occurrence for those who didn’t want to pay registration fees, so there were no immediately identifying marks other than a description of a large white Ford SUV.

The man in the rear seat slapped duct tape over Cassandra’s mouth, then reached over and did the same with Rosa. The abductor in the passenger seat trained a pistol on Rosa’s head, convincing her quickly that creating further havoc could be a fatal miscalculation. Cassandra sobbed into the tape, terrified of what was happening and what was likely to come.

Twenty-five minutes after being snatched off the street in broad daylight, their assailants threw Rosa and Cassandra down a flight of stairs into a basement with a filthy mattress and a broken sewer line evacuating into one of the corners. The stink was overpowering, and once the tape had been torn from their mouths, Cassandra vomited all over herself, infuriating the four men who descended the stone stairs a few minutes later. The largest of them slammed her against the far wall and issued angry instructions to one of his subordinates, who quickly returned with a hose from the garden immediately outside the basement entrance.

Rosa attempted to shield her daughter, but the large man grabbed her by the hair and punched Rosa in the stomach, knocking the wind out of her and crippling her with pain. She collapsed on the floor, helpless, and two of the men alternated kicking her with their pointy-toed cowboy boots. After a few blows, she mercifully slipped into unconsciousness. Even so, the men continued to rain kicks on her abdomen and back until they tired of the sport and turned their attention to the young girl.

A stream of cold water struck Cassandra in the face. The men laughed as she screamed in fear and rage at the shock, as well as the vision of her mother’s inert form in the filth on the dank basement floor. Once the vomit had rinsed clean, the large man approached her huddled shape as she shivered, soaked and terrified, and tore her dress off, ripping the thin fabric as though it was tissue. Grunting, he lifted her like a rag doll and threw her onto the stained mattress. Stunned, she cried in panicked horror as the men circled her in preparation for the afternoon’s diversion. The large man fumbled with his belt, and the others smiled in anticipation as Cassandra’s unholy shrieks reverberated off the uncaring walls of her private hell.

~ ~ ~

Two days later, a package arrived at Rosa’s husband’s work with his name written carefully on the label in black felt pen, with a return address in Puebla – that of Rosa’s parents. A local courier brought the box in and the receptionist signed for it, then instructed the mail boy to take it to his office, where he was hosting a staff meeting for his immediate subordinates.

No one working that day would ever forget the screams of horror and grief that emanated from his office when he opened the special delivery. Inside, wrapped in plastic and surrounded by crushed newspaper, were Cassandra’s and Rosa’s heads, neatly severed at the third cervical vertebrae, with their eyes crudely sewn shut. Each had the brand of a scorpion seared into their foreheads, and the tail of a scorpion protruded from each of their mouths, where the predatory arthropods had been lodged as calling cards.

~ ~ ~

Four Months Ago

The crowd broke into a rousing cheer as Hector De La Silva took the podium at the rally in Durango. Long one of the more popular governors in Mexican history, his term had passed without him seeking re-election – his aspirations for the presidency as the likely successor to Mexico’s highest office quite obvious. He’d already begun the convoluted and colorful campaigning that made Mexican elections something of a spectacle – the fiery rhetoric and accusations vivid and damning, the promises lofty and inspiring. Nobody actually believed anything the candidates said – history had shown that no matter who was in power, the campaign promises were immediately forgotten as soon as the voting was over, but the process was celebrated for the showmanship and sense of theater.

Hector, or ‘El Gallo’ as he was known – the rooster – was in his element; a consummate performer from decades of holding political office, he knew how to play to a crowd like a virtuoso. He was famous for slamming his forehead into the podium when his speech reached its climax, underscoring the sacrifice he was prepared to make on behalf of his constituency – the head-banging routine was now as popular and expected as the flip off the top rope in the Mexican wrestling matches; the Lucha Libre, where masked wrestlers-cum-gymnasts performed amazing feats of physical dexterity as they pretended to fight each other. Nobody believed that was real, either, and yet it was hugely popular, trailing only soccer for entertainment value.

The assembled spectators waited in quivering anticipation as El Gallo mounted the stage, clad in an everyman cowboy shirt and sporting a cowboy hat. This was a man of the people, a member of the masses, he assured them, even as his four hundred dollar ostrich-skin boots gleamed in the sunlight. Never mind that his brothers were among the wealthiest landowners in the region, or that his father had been a household name in building low income housing. Forget all that, his demeanor seemed to demand. Here was a humble, simple man, who reluctantly would shoulder the considerable burden of steering the nation back onto the path of righteousness; having somewhat lost its way – though certainly not because of the actions of his political party, which was also the current president’s. No, the country was in mortal peril because of a crisis in morality, exemplified by the surge in popularity and power of the drug cartels.

He cleared his throat and began to speak, a deep baritone long bent to the artifice of holding an audience’s attention, well-modulated, passion and intensity obvious in every syllable without any evidence of stridency. This was a man’s man, a leader and a visionary, a man capable of finally, after centuries of oppression, delivering to the Mexican people the promise of their legacy.

“Look at the prosperity Mexico has enjoyed over the last eleven years. Under the party’s leadership, a new, burgeoning middle class has been created, and poverty has been eradicated in many of its most pervasive forms. Our economy is the eleventh largest in the world, strong and resilient, like the Mexican people, who have triumphed in the face of adversity and built a better future for our children!” El Gallo proclaimed, emphasizing points by stabbing at the air with his hat.

The crowd burst into well-choreographed spontaneous applause, led by party agitators who were in attendance to galvanize cheering at the appropriate points. The television cameras tracked over the thronged celebrants – one could hardly watch the outpouring of enthusiasm without being moved.

“I love my children, and I have taught them to love God, and Mexico. I like to think I’ve shown them the difference between right and wrong, between good and evil, between a road with promise and one that leads to purgatory. Children are the country’s future, and so we must do everything in our power to build a safe environment where they can excel. They shouldn’t have to worry about drug cartels shooting up the streets, or pushing their poison in our schools. We cannot give in to their terrorism. Not because it’s the right thing to do. Not because it’s the easy thing to do. But because of the children. We must do what it takes, for the children, for Mexico’s bountiful harvest of talent and hope!”

~ ~ ~

The hunched figure adjusted the tripod of the high velocity rifle, watching as the oration hit full stride and the gathering of citizens applauded again. The actual words were lost on him because he was behind the speakers, in the tower of the church three hundred yards from the optimistic assembly. He was invisible to the security forces in place around the rally, the rifle recessed in the small rectangular openings of the tower’s pinnacle.

The gunman watched the red balloons that framed the stage for clues as to the amount and direction of any wind. He was in luck. The late spring gusts were nowhere in evidence. It would be an easy shot.

He was startled by a car backfiring on the road below. Several security men ran in the direction of the percussive blast, accompanied by six soldiers. They watched as the ancient farm truck rolled down the street, straining under its load of hay. At the next intersection, the engine backfired again; the group of gunmen exchanged relieved looks, laughing with merriment at their defense of El Gallo from a poorly tuned V8. The sentries returned to their positions as the great man continued to paint his verbose vision of a bright new future.

A crow landed on the balustrade of the tower, and fixed the man with its beady stare. For a reason he couldn’t define, he was momentary chilled; the hair on his arms standing erect. He wasn’t a believer in omens or symbols, but lurking somewhere in his schooldays the crow was deemed a foreteller of bad luck. An impression from his past nagged at him, tried to surface, but he shrugged it off – he didn’t have time to waste on being spooked by a bird. The man grinned at his own imagination – allowing a crow to throw him. It would be a day of bad luck, all right, but not for him.

The crow bobbed its head several times, then pecked at the stone it was standing on before giving up on its project and flying away.

He reached into his pants pocket, extracted a pair of dense foam earplugs and set them in front of him, along with a digital watch displaying the time. He had thirty seconds. Checking to ensure that everything was in place, he compressed the plugs and inserted them into each ear before returning his attention to the florid man pontificating on the stage. He seemed to be reaching a crescendo, and the gunman couldn’t help but smile again. This was going to be a funny one, if there ever had been. He couldn’t wait to see the papers tomorrow.

~ ~ ~

El Gallo was building his intensity, railing against the cartels as the embodiment of Satan crawling over the planet in human form. The words were powerful, and the emotions high as his voice increased in volume.

“These scum are a cancer on the body of the state; they are toxic purveyors of poison and suffering. They accommodate the demands of the rich Gringos, who buy their products even as their own country collapses from the weight of its own excesses. They have turned Mexico into their whore, and its children into their slaves. We suffer so that pimps and rich socialites can snort the devil’s dandruff during their orgies. I would send a message to these traitors who suckle at the tit of the false God to the north. I would send a telegram. The message is, no longer will we be your burros or your lapdogs. No more will you use our blood to lubricate your war machine. We are Mexican, and we are tired of being the back yard where you dump your problems, where you come to turn our daughters into prostitutes and our sons into groveling peasants. Your time is over, and we will now reclaim the bounty that is our birthright! We are strong and proud. And most of all, we are Mexican. We are family – and we will be free!”

The bells of the church began ringing, announcing the arrival of the noon hour, and El Gallo, in fever pitch, slammed his head forward onto the podium in his now-famous trademark move. The crowd burst into a spirited and hearty applause.

It was only when he slumped to the floor with blood spreading over the back of his hand-stitched white silk cowboy shirt that the screaming began.

~ ~ ~

The young novitiate moved with easy determination to the doors of the church as the pealing of the bells trumpeted God’s grace and presence in everyday life. An ancient woman crossed herself as he passed, her weathered face momentarily glowing with a devoted smile. He turned when he reached the door and genuflected, his cassock brushing the ground as he crossed himself before the vision of an unfortunate savior crucified so that humanity could be saved, movingly depicted in the statue that dominated the wall above the altar. The sun streaked through the elaborate stained glass windows over the door, bathing the interior in a dazzling multi-colored glow; the nearly empty chamber radiating a tranquility that was regrettably absent from the cruel world just outside the doors.

With bible in hand, and fingering his rosary, he exited the house of worship and crossed the street; a pious man on a mission to save the world.

~ ~ ~

Twenty minutes later, the bodyguards and soldiers crept up the stairs to the tower top, guns at the ready as they strained their ears for any hint of threat. The huge bells had fallen silent, and the only sound besides the scream of the sirens from the square across the street was the cooing of amorous doves taking refuge in the tower rafters.

The leader of the team held up a hand in warning when he spotted the rifle, still on the tripod, a single spent shell casing lying by its side. He softly moved towards it; the blood drained from his face as he saw the item held in place by the votive candle.

The stern countenance of the highly-stylized rendering of the royal presence seemed to sneer at the intruders, the brandished sword proclaiming to one and all the regal superiority of the seated man.

He approached the card as if in a trance, then reached down and retrieved the tattered rectangle, holding it up for his men to see.

The King of Swords had struck again.

Purchase King of Swords

Excerpt from Fatal Exchange

Fatal Exchange

A THRILLER BY

Russell Blake

Copyright © 2011 by Russell Blake

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, contact Books@RussellBlake.com.

Chapter 1

A shriek ripped through the bunker, then slowly tapered off to a moan punctuated by congested gasps and feeble gurgling. At first it was hard to tell the gender of the screamer by the timbre of the emanation, but then the moan gave it away.

It was a man.

The noise was coming from a room at the end of a dimly lit hallway, concrete construction, everything painted a sickly olive-green and reeking of disrepair. Behind the chamber’s steel door stood two men in brown uniforms of the Republic of the Union of Myanmar. A third man wearing a short-sleeved pleated dress shirt sat at a metal table upon which rested an old wooden box with a hand crank, and what looked like a weathered carpentry kit, with all the usual tools present. There were other, more arcane instruments strewn over a small rolling stand, and a tray containing rubber gloves, an apron and a Dremel.

The floor sloped gradually to meet the drainage grid in the far corner, where an old faucet intermittently dripped water. Illumination was dim on the periphery but brighter in the middle of the space, where a large lamp hung from the ceiling, housing a bank of hundred-watt incandescent bulbs.

The air was putrid and stank of sewage, and ventilation was poor – they’d needed to improvise a facility on relatively short notice. As the building had originally been a holding cell for prisoners offloaded from returning naval ships, powerful climate-control and air-moving machinery had never been deemed necessary.

All three men had their attention focused on a naked Asian man in his late thirties, strapped to a metal chair directly below the lights. His head rested on his chest, where a thin thread of saliva and blood slowly trickled down his concave ribcage. The screaming had stopped, replaced by sobbing and whimpering, high pitched and eerily reminiscent of a cat in heat.

The smaller of the uniformed men approached the seated figure, carefully avoiding the pool of fluids around the chair. He leaned in close and spoke softly in Burmese.

“Where is it?”

The man in the chair moaned. The uniformed man tried again, reasonably.

“Where is it? We know you took it.”

The subject didn’t register the words. Annoying. The officer had so many more pleasurable things he could be doing. Right now he was running late for a rendezvous with one of the young ladies he favored with his charms, as well as the odd food voucher or handful of coins.

He pressed onward. “We don’t wish to make this last any longer than it has to. It would be a shame to have to bring your family into it, but you’re leaving me no choice. How old are your two daughters? Eight and ten, I believe? Think of them. Answer the question. For them.”

The man slowly raised his head and regarded the officer with his remaining eye. The other had been ruined earlier in the discussion. The pain had to be excruciating.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I swear.” The words ran together in a hoarse mumble, due to the obliteration levied upon his face.

The officer shook his head and sighed noisily. His tryst would have to be delayed; this was going nowhere. Shrugging his shoulders, he reached into his pocket and retrieved a pair of white foam earplugs, then turned to the man in the short shirtsleeves and nodded.

Without hesitation, the man cranked the handle on the old wooden box. The victim shrieked again, an otherworldly sound that bespoke unimaginable horrors. A pair of worn blackened wires ran from the old hand generator to the seated man's naked form. The smell of burning hair and flesh mingled with the other noxious odors.

“Where is it? What did you do with it?”

More gurgling.

The taller officer removed his round wire-rimmed glasses, cleaned the lenses carefully with a handkerchief, and addressed the man in the shirtsleeves.

“Use the drill.”

The shirtsleeved man nodded and removed from his bag a device resembling a dog muzzle, with straps on the back terminating in metal hooks. He clawed his hands into the man’s head, forcing his face into the contraption. The front section had a hinged mechanism controlling two short metal rods now plunged inside the man’s mouth. The rods were grooved, worn by the many previous sets of teeth which had ground them.

He secured the metal hooks to the chair back and tightened the straps so the man couldn’t move his head. Then, with a practiced twist, he turned the lever on the side of the mechanism, forcing the man’s mouth open, allowing access to his dental plate.

Pausing for a moment, the shirtsleeved man considered his shoes, now soiled with the accumulated expulsions. Aggravating, but there was nothing to be done about it. He hoped they’d wash clean.

Turning, he donned a plastic apron with an incongruous faded image of a dancing crab, and selected the Dremel, a tiny high-speed jeweler’s drill used for polishing and grinding work. He inserted the bit—a small tapered cone with serrated edges running from the tip to the base, useful for boring holes in stone or metal—and tightened the shaft.

The victim’s eye went wide as the screech of the high-pitched motor filled the space.

“So, my friend, is there anything you want to tell me before we start?”

Overhead loudspeakers blared flight arrival and departure information in Korean as well as in Japanese, Chinese, and English. The terminal was congested, even though its ultra-modern interior was designed specifically to accommodate heavy traffic, and the din of conversations battling with the ceaseless announcements created a kind of low-grade pandemonium. Seoul was a major hub for travel into China and the Far East, and on any business day there were a lot of busy people with important places to go, most of whom apparently had to do so while having animated discussions on their cell phones.

Seung waited restlessly in the ticketing area, half an hour early for his meeting. Thin, fashionably punk haircut, and a studied air of disinterest affecting every mannerism, he was dressed in jeans and leather jacket, in defiance of the brooding heat outside the airport’s doors.

Fuck, he hated crowds. Airports were the worst. The noise and bustle were grating on his already raw nerves.

Fidgeting with his black briefcase, he scouted his surroundings and spotted a men’s restroom icon. He studied the crowd, quickly glanced at his watch, then moved towards the facilities. Of course there was a line. Forced to wait a few minutes for a toilet to free up, he passed the time imagining he was boarding one of the big 747s on the tarmac and flying to Fiji or Bora Bora. Maybe one day. One day soon.

The end stall vacated and he entered and locked the little compartment door, exhaling a sigh of relief to be out of the throng. After confirming the latch was secure and there was no visibility through the door joints, he pulled a small zippered wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket and carefully opened it, using his briefcase as an ad hoc table.

He painstakingly emptied half the contents of a tiny plastic bag into an old metal spoon, and with a trembling hand clutching his cigarette lighter he melted the powder in the spoon bowl. Very slowly, he returned the lighter to his jacket pocket and removed a disposable syringe from the wallet. Gripping the orange plastic cap with his teeth, he freed the little needle and sucked the liquid into the syringe.

The tricky part concluded, he replaced the cap and held the syringe in his mouth while he repacked the kit, taking care to reseal the bag’s tiny zip-lock top.

Seung rolled up his left jean leg, exposing a network of bruised discolorations which marred the larger veins in his ankle. He removed a length of surgical tubing, tied off just below his calf and slapped at the vein. That one looked good for another week, then it would collapse like the ones in his right leg.

Oh well. He’d have to still be alive next week to care. There were no guarantees.

He popped the cap off the needle again and slid the metal into his ruined vessel, drawing blood into the syringe and mixing the amber fluid with the viscous crimson from his vein. Satisfied, he depressed the plunger, emptying the contents into his bloodstream. This was only half a hit, really just a maintenance dose—he didn’t want to nod off on the job. He released the tubing and felt a warm rush through his entire system, running up his leg to his heart, then into his throat and up to his head.

It was heaven.

Even half a hit made life bearable, at least for now, and he could focus better if he wasn’t jittery and jonesing. His eyes began to close and it was only with tremendous effort he kept them open. He drifted, his lids getting heavier, heavier.

The neighboring stall door slammed and abruptly jolted him back to full consciousness.

Think. Put your shit away, stand up, and get busy.

He looked at his oversized steel watch; his meeting was in five minutes. Fuck. He fumbled, stuffing the kit and syringe into his breast pocket, then blotted the blood on his ankle with some toilet paper and slapped himself in the face several times.

He flushed the toilet, grabbed his briefcase and exited the stall, flipping on a pair of sunglasses to lessen the impact of the lights on his dilated pupils as he approached the ticketing area.

Ah. There was his target, a fifty-something man with a suit bag draped over his shoulder, carrying an identical briefcase.

Seung caught his eye, set the briefcase down on the floor next to his right foot, and pretended to play with his cell phone. The older man walked over and asked if he had the correct time, which Seung made a display of providing. He admired the younger man’s phone, and put his bag and briefcase down next to the other briefcase, asking to see it. Seung showed him the most compelling features—it really was unbelievable what they could do these days with technology.

Smiling, the older man retrieved his suit bag and the younger man’s briefcase, and thanked him for the demonstration.

Seung made his way to the terminal exit while the older man quickly made his way through customs, his diplomatic passport ensuring he was waved through security.

He was right on time for his flight: Korean Air to San Francisco. Settling himself comfortably in the first class seat, he placed the briefcase in the small dais at the base of his pod, which reclined into a bed for the long trip over the Pacific.

As was his custom, he got some water from the stewardess before take-off and took a small white pill—Xanax, to ease his nerves during the flight—and closed his eyes. The hard part, getting his hands on the briefcase, was over. Now he just had to keep his meeting and he’d be golden, three hundred thousand dollars richer. Not a bad day’s work.

The stewardess made her final passage through the cabin, checking to ensure everything was secure, and within minutes they were hurtling down the worn tarmac and up into the cold grey sky.

Chapter 2

Traffic sucked. It was getting late, and rush hour started at about three-thirty in downtown New York.

Tess dodged a cab pulling out of a space on her right and swerved around a bus offloading its passengers. She was pedaling hard; she had ten minutes tops to get to her last stop of the day. Horns honking were just part of the incessant background music of the city streets. She’d learned to tune it out to keep her mind on the immediate objective: getting from point A to point B in as little time as possible without getting flattened.

Right now, her goal was a building on West 22nd off Avenue of the Americas , sixth floor, and she’d just gotten out of the Village—which meant making it by the time the company had guaranteed delivery was going to be a stretch.

The last drop had been to a jerk-off who’d wanted to chat her up. It happened more often than not with single-partner attorney firms: a powerful, relatively successful, relatively young guy would see her walk through the door with his deposition draft, and what should have been a one-minute stop would often turn into five or six minutes of trying to extricate herself. And those minutes were her edge on making the next stop on time.

She really hated the single-partner law firms.

Tess had been at work since seven that morning. She always deliberately kept her appearance low-key. No makeup, loose knee-length cargo shorts, and spandex tank tops with baggy t-shirts seemed to minimize undesired attention from horny men in suits. She wasn’t looking for a dating service when she was on the job. She had packages to deliver; that was the gig, and all that she wanted to focus on.

And she was way behind schedule.

She cut across Union Square Park and up Broadway, figuring she would cruise down West 23rd to Sixth Avenue—usually an easier run than battling all the way up Sixth—and with luck she’d be no more than five minutes late. She’d found she could wiggle about five minutes of leeway out of customers if she explained it was a traffic issue. If the recipient was female, she’d tell the truth: the asshole at the last office had drug out the signing process to flirt, setting her timeline back.

More than five minutes late and customers didn’t care what the excuse was. They weren’t paying top dollar for a messenger so things could be late. Her issues weren’t their problem.

She was almost taken out by a double-parked van on Broadway that backed up just as she was swinging around it, and then narrowly missed a roller-blader shooting out a side street—a bald sixty-year-old man wearing silver spandex bike shorts and suspenders, bopping along to something blasting in his headphones.

What a city.

Steam blew out manholes, road crews worked in the middle of intersections, jaywalkers were fearless, and yellow and red lights were more suggestions than imperatives.

She never felt more alive than when she was on the job.

As she rolled onto the sidewalk, panting from the sprint, she glanced at her watch. One minute to spare. Damn, she was good. She locked her bike, adjusted the messenger bag on her shoulder, and ran for the closing elevator door. A hand shot out and held it. She laughed when she saw who it was: Paco, another one of the Red Cap crew.

“Whatchu doing here, girl?” Paco asked.

“606, deposition. One minute to spare. You?” Tess replied.

“905, drawings. Better late than never. I got held up by a cop, nabbed me running a red. He let me off, but that ate ten minutes. Prick.” Paco was clearly annoyed.

“No biggie. What are you doing after work?” Tess genuinely liked Paco, an impossibly handsome, somewhat effeminate twenty-two-year-old Puerto Rican man built like Adonis.

“I’ll probably stop at the Corral for a beer, then go find myself Mr. Right-Now in the Village. You going tonight?” The Corral was a dive bar near the messenger depot on Spring Street.

“Yeah, why not? I’ll probably catch you there.” The elevator opened at the sixth floor. “Be good, Paco.”

Paco pursed his lips and gave her a “yeah, right” look.

Tess approached the reception desk with the package and sign-off sheet. Two men in their late twenties were having a discussion by one of the offices. They stopped when they saw her.

“Delivery from Red Cap. On time for four o’clock. Please sign here,” she announced to the girl behind the desk, who dutifully scribbled on the release and dropped the package into a wire basket. “Is there any way I can get a glass of water?” Tess asked. “I’m dying here.”

“Sure, just go back by the kitchen area.”

Tess moved to the water chiller at the rear of the small suite and filled a small paper cup. She drained it quickly. Again. And again.

She removed her helmet and shook out her hair, enjoying the respite from the blistering summer heat. After blotting her face with a paper towel, she lifted her long black mane to reveal a tattooed sun at the base of her hairline and a well sculpted, tanned bicep. She closed her eyes and relished the air conditioning on her skin. Flashing a smile at the two, she offered a glimpse of white teeth and a silver tongue piercing.

Re-hydrated and refreshed, Tess returned to the front desk and thanked the receptionist before exiting the office. She was parched at the end of another brutal day on the streets, and it was a nice gesture to let her cool off before she went back into the swelter. Not everyone was so accommodating to messengers.

The two men exchanged a look and shook their heads. The younger one, an intellectual property attorney, let out a low whistle.

“Don’t even think about it. She’d chew you up and spit you out before you knew what hit you,” the taller man, a litigator, advised.

“Yeah, but what a way to go.”

Across town a figure stared at the output of his computer printer, tracking the movements of eight different currencies, looking for trends. At 46, Gordon Samuels was at the top of the heap of currency speculators and commodity traders. Well, almost at the top. He wasn’t George Soros, but he was wealthy by virtually any standards, closing in on a net worth of over sixty million dollars. His firm, Meridian Trading, specialized in currency arbitrage and commodities brokering for high-net-worth accounts, and he controlled many billions of dollars for his clients. He had two royal families, an ex-president, and seven governments as trusted investors, not to mention three of the Forbes top-ten list.

His phone rang.

“Gordon, there’s been a wrinkle. We lost control of a test batch—almost perfect, but still with a few microscopic imperfections. We’re working on location and containment as we speak.” The caller spoke in a singsong Asian-accented English, with an almost feminine tone to it.

“Why are you telling me this? How does this affect our plan?” Gordon didn’t like surprises.

“We want you apprised. No other reason. We’re not worried; we believe we are only hours away from solving the problem.”

“You know what’ll happen if anything hits the market with a flaw? Especially before we’re ready? Game over.” Gordon sounded menacing, which was intentional. He’d put his entire fortune on the line for this play. It had goddamn well better go off without a hitch—he was already counting himself among the planet’s billionaires, and he was not, repeat not, going to let anything stand in his way.

“Of course. Which is why we’re handling this with the utmost seriousness. Again, this is a courtesy call. Nothing more.” Everyone had a lot at stake here.

“Keep me posted and let me know if you need anything. I’ve already started positioning the oil futures for next month. Let’s not blow this.” Gordon disconnected, deep in thought.

His ingenious and hugely risky venture involved oil, the integrity of the U.S. economy, and most importantly, his personal fortune multiplying exponentially. One play, three or four months tops, and he’d net over a billion dollars, while his clients amassed many more billions. He’d have to stay on top of this; those idiot peasants couldn’t be trusted not to fuck up the simplest things. Christ. How hard could it be?

Robert Gideon wheeled down the arrivals ramp at San Francisco International Airport. Back on terra firma, he made his way to the first class lounge, which was appropriately outfitted for airport meetings. Airport wheelchairs were terrible but at least they got the job done. He’d brought no luggage but a carry-on bag, holding it in his lap as he sat in the lounge lobby area waiting for his customer.

This was a big sale, one of the largest in his life.

The client had contacted him over the Internet, through his store, and expressed interest in several extremely expensive pieces: four Patek Philippe wristwatches from the 1950s and 1960s, complicated moon phase models that were hot on the auction market. The whole deal had come to $1.1 million dollars; after haggling they’d agreed on a purchase price of one million for all four watches, and to meet in San Francisco. The customer, a collector with an appreciation for fine timepieces, was flying in from Korea for the transaction.

Gideon Watch Gallery was one of five premiere previously-owned watch shops in New York, and one of very few in the country with multiple pieces of that rarity and price range. He’d been surprised when the collector had agreed to take all four watches, but not that surprised—in the good old days of the early eighties, when the Japanese yen had been king, he’d routinely had customers buy two- and three-hundred-thousand-dollar watches while on vacation. Lately Korea was a hot spot for fine timepieces, as was China . He’d been in the business long enough so that very little surprised him anymore.

Robert sat patiently awaiting the arrival of Mr. Kiu, a member of the diplomatic team from South Korea . Kiu’s credentials had checked out and he’d indicated he’d bring cash.

That had caused Robert a bit of pause.

Dealing in cash used to be routine, but ever since the Clinton administration had commenced the steady criminalization of using cash in the U.S. in any quantity, he had dealt mostly in wire transfers. The Chinese loved their cash, though, as did the Russians, and he supposed a million dollars was beer money to a wealthy industrialist from Korea .

An older Asian gentleman walked into the lounge and looked around, eyes finally settling on Robert. Evidently Mr. Kiu, as he approached and introduced himself.

“Mr. Gideon?”

“Mr. Kiu, I presume.”

“Yes. I apologize for running late, but the flight experienced some head winds and we were delayed. Shall we find someplace private?” Mr. Kiu hadn’t batted an eye over Robert’s being in a wheelchair. Then again, he was a politician, or at least a diplomat, so he probably had a good poker face.

“I reserved a small meeting room. I trust you’re ready to consummate?” Robert wanted to make sure the deal was closed.

“Of course. Lead the way.”

They entered one of the smaller rooms and closed the door. Robert pulled four dark wooden boxes out of his carry-on bag and placed them on the table.

“You’ll note they’re in mint condition, with full paperwork and histories. One million is a very good price—I can’t imagine any other collector having this combination.” Robert liked to reassure customers of the astuteness of their selection. No one ever minded being complimented on their acumen.

“Yes, yes, I’m pleased to have been fortunate enough to find them.” Mr. Kiu opened each box and looked at the watches for a few minutes. He nodded, and then placed his briefcase on the table. “They appear most satisfactory, Mr. Gideon.” He opened the locks and raised the lid, turned the case so Robert could see the contents. Stacks of hundred-dollar bills, neatly arranged in rows.

“Well, congratulations. Let’s begin the counting, shall we? I presume you won’t have any objection if I verify the authenticity of a few bills at random?” Robert planned on stopping at one of the currency exchange booths to have the bills checked.

“Not at all. Be my guest.” Mr. Kiu was smiling amenably.

Robert extracted a portable currency counter, plugged it in and loaded the first stack. All he had brought with him was a bottle of water, some pills, a small fabric valise for the watches, and the currency counter.

He was scheduled to return to New York in two hours. The counting took less than ten minutes. One million dollars. All there.

“Would you be kind enough to accompany me to the currency exchange?” Robert replaced the four watch boxes in the small fabric satchel and returned it to his bag. He handed the cash-filled briefcase back to Mr. Kiu, while holding several bills in his hand.

Robert wheeled himself to a small currency exchange window several hundred yards from the entrance of the club, accompanied by the Korean. He’d felt comfortable doing the transaction at the airport because of all the protection; there were police everywhere. It was safer than a bank, and no one made it to the club area unless they carried a ticket and cleared security.

Robert handed the clerk four crisp hundred-dollar bills, and asked for Euros. The agent behind the counter scrutinized the cash, ran an iodine pen across each, held them up to the light, compared them to others in his drawer. He extracted the appropriate sum in Euros, and passed them through the slot at the bottom of the bullet-proof glass window.

“Here you go. Anything else I can help you with?” The clerk was bored.

“Nope, I think we’re done. Thanks a million.” Robert couldn’t resist.

They returned to the lounge area, where Robert extracted the fabric bag and swapped it for Kiu’s briefcase. They shook hands and exchanged pleasantries—nice meeting you, etc.

“I must return to my delegation, Mr. Gideon. The watches are beautiful; I shall treasure them. Thank you again.”

Robert wheeled himself back to his departure gate and bought himself a vodka tonic. He’d just made almost two hundred and forty thousand dollars on one deal; he figured a little celebration was in order. He had the time, and heck, he had the money.

But something about the transaction was nagging him. Kiu hadn’t examined the watches the way an aficionado would have, and his eyes hadn’t lit up like a covetous collector’s. He was probably buying them for investment. Not a bad one, either, Robert mused.

Oh well.

A deal was a deal.

Chapter 3

A row of police cars blocked the alley on East 123rd Street, the forensics van active as the crew prepped for duty. The NYPD had pretty much seen it all, but this was a strange one even by their standards. Female, mid-twenties, Hispanic, cause of death unknown, stuffed into a dumpster in back of a Cuban Restaurant. She’d been there at least one night, possibly two. It wasn’t pretty—the rats had gotten to her.

They’d run prints and were waiting for a preliminary ID, but who knew how long that could take? Her eyes had been cut out, she’d been scalped, and her breasts were gone—cut off, crudely but efficiently. Sex crime? No indication of rape. Trying to make a routine murder look weird? Anything was possible.

The forensics team was carefully swabbing her fingers, going over the scene, as the detective in charge spoke with their director, Amy Silva.

“What do you make of it? Psycho? Boyfriend trying to fake a crazy? Or a girlfriend?” Detective Ron Stanford had been with homicide for nine years, and in that time had seen enough death for a whole career. He enjoyed catching the bad guys, but hated the bodies.

Especially the girls. And really, really especially in summer, when it got hot and decomposition was almost instantaneous.

“Don’t know what to think. We need to determine the cause of death. I’ll tell you one thing, she was in remarkable shape. Almost solid muscle, like a gymnast or a dancer or something.” Amy had a world-weary air to her. So many bodies. So much tragedy. So much violence.

They walked over to study the corpse again. Amy knelt down and peered at the chest area.

“I’d go with psycho for now. Everything’s been removed very carefully. Definitely a very sharp instrument. Maybe surgical. Our boy’s been practicing and sharpening, thinking about this for a long time.” She stood up. “I think he’s collecting, taking trophies. Eyes, breasts, scalps. Question is why, and has he done this before, and will he do it again…”

“What do you think?” Ron hated to even ask.

“Oh, I think it’s safe to say if it’s a psycho he’ll do it again. Like I said, he knew what he wanted and what he didn’t. I’d say he’s a collector.” She considered the mutilated corpse. “I hope I’m wrong.”

Ron glanced at the body, rubbed his face, and sighed.

“I hope so, too.”

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Go back to CONTENTS

Table of Contents

About the author

Excerpts from Russell Blake’s novels

Foreword

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Afterword

Excerpt from King of Swords

Introduction

Prologue

Excerpt from Fatal Exchange

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Table of Contents

- About the author

- Excerpts from Russell Blake’s novels

- Foreword

- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20
- Chapter 21
- Chapter 22
- Chapter 23
- Chapter 24
- Chapter 25
- Chapter 26
- Chapter 27
- Chapter 28
- Afterword

- Excerpt from King of Swords

- Introduction

- Prologue

- Excerpt from Fatal Exchange

- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3