They went back to their meals. Then the NYPD man resumed the conversation. “You’ve really been at the Yard thirty years?”
“Just finishing thirty-four, actually.”
“I haven’t been in this job half that time. I can’t imagine doing it that long.”
“Things are different over there.” Grant finished the last bite and indicated his empty plate. “Places like this, for instance. The fact this city never seems to stop—twenty-four-seven as you say. That pace has to take a toll. Things move a bit more leisurely in England.”
“I haven’t been to London since I went with a few buddies after college. We spent most of it drunk in pubs, but I remember it being a happening place. I hear it’s even more so these days.”
“It’s there if you want it. Just not in your face every single moment.” Grant shrugged. “I’m perfectly content curling up with a good book or sitting across from my brother getting my hide fleeced in our weekly chess match.”
“I hope you get a chance to return to that.” Frankel deposited his plate with Grant’s in a nearby trash can. They headed back for the sedan.
A few minutes later, Frankel pulled up in front of the London.
“I talked to Harris right before we left Far Rockaway,” Frankel said as he placed the car in park. “He’s arranged with Little for a press conference at eleven in the morning. They’re insisting the two of us be there.”
“Inevitable, I guess.”
“It’ll be a shit show for sure. Starting with your friend Ferguson, I imagine.”
“I haven’t heard a peep out of him since we found Leeds.”
This time it was Grant who was rubbing his stomach, wondering what had just hit it. He unbuckled the seat belt and thanked Frankel for the ride and late-night meal.
“Hope it doesn’t keep you up,” Frankel told him.
“I’ll be asleep before my head hits the pillow.”
Of course, two hours later he was still wide awake.
It hadn’t been the chicken and rice roiling around keeping Grant from falling asleep. Whenever they would treat themselves to a five-course meal at a fancy restaurant, Allison used to marvel at how Grant could just roll over and be out before she could even utter “good night.”
Grant knew it was the enormity of the case and its rapidly increasing body count that was causing this bout of sleeplessness.
His first mistake had been turning on the television and catching the tail end of a local newscast reporting the discovery of Timothy Alan Leeds’s dead body. The anchor informed Grant’s fellow insomniacs that NYPD was conducting a press conference later that morning and the station would be there to cover it live with all the other networks.
So much for the idea of sleep coming any time soon.
He spent a half hour scrolling through news blogs and internet sites to see what was being reported. No one had any more information than the newscast. Ferguson, the British tabloid writer, was curiously silent. This worried Grant—he couldn’t imagine Monte staying on the sidelines knowing what he already did about Leeds. It was only a matter of time before Ferguson dropped some bomb—the only question was how and where it would detonate.
By three in the morning, he had come to terms with suffering through this night by himself. He suddenly realized it was past eight in the morning in London. He picked up the phone and dialed a particular number. It rang once, and the call was picked up with a distinct click.
“I was wondering when I’d hear from you,” said Everett.
“How’d you know it was me?” Grant asked.
“The wonder of caller ID. Who else would call me from America at—what is it over there—half past three in the morning?”
“Don’t remind me.” He glanced at the digital alarm clock by the bed. It was actually 3:39 A.M. “Why would you expect to hear from me?”
“The morning shows over here have been reporting a fifth murder.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t call to gloat about your theory being right.”
“In the middle of your night? Don’t be daft.” He could tell Everett was doing his best not to chuckle aloud. “Though I probably would’ve done so later if you hadn’t.”
Grant proceeded to bring his brother up-to-date with Leeds’s murder and what they had found on the walls of the abandoned hospital in Far Rockaway.
“Perhaps it’s time you and your New York policeman stop hanging on to the Commandments and let the public know what they’re dealing with.”
“All that will do is cause a full-fledged panic.”
“Sounds like you’ve already got one on your hands,” Everett said. “It might actually help matters. If you haven’t killed someone or committed adultery, it would put you at ease, don’t you think?”
“I guess you could look at it that way. But say you had? Killed someone or had an affair. Then what?”
“You’d worry a bit more. At the same time, it would make it a little harder for your fellow to get at these people if they were more aware as to what was going on.”
Grant chewed on the thought. He could see pluses and minuses. “I’m not sure, Everett. The carving marks are the one thing that would separate the pretenders from the genuine article when it comes to a confession.”
“So, hold back on them. Going public with the Commandments doesn’t mean you have to reveal the other.”
Grant told his brother he’d given him something to think about.
Everett then asked about his breakfast with Rachel.
“At least she didn’t walk out the moment I arrived,” Grant told him. “Though I could tell she was considering it.”
Everett asked if Rachel had given him an inkling as to what was causing the rift between them. Over the past year, Grant had brought it up to his brother, hoping he could help get to the bottom of it with his niece. But Everett hadn’t been able to make any headway and remained as perplexed by it all as Grant.
“I made a point of staying clear of the subject,” Grant said.
“Next time perhaps.”
“If there is one. She does seem open to it though. Which reminds me—I’m supposed to get her number from you.”
Everett was happy to provide it as they continued chatting to well past four. Everett finally told Grant to stay in touch and hoped that he got some sleep.
But he was still wide awake. He crawled into bed anyway and started flipping around various stations, trying to avoid any newscast, knowing it would just aggravate him further.
He finally came across Notting Hill playing on a movie channel. It had been one of Allison’s favorites—one in a series of movies that she kept on the DVR. She used to say they would lull her to sleep, like comfort food, in the sense that they were “lovely bedtime tales” that didn’t require much deep thinking and she would drift off to sleep sooner than later.
Grant had paid little attention to these films.
At least so he thought.
Over the years he’d heard them so often from the other side of the bed that Grant realized he was able to practically recite them word for word himself—and they became a sleeping tonic of sorts for him as well.
So he settled in and began watching it.
He didn’t realize he’d fallen asleep until he got to the part of the movie where Julia Roberts tells Hugh Grant that she’s “just a girl trying to find a boy who would just kill her.”
That was when Julia turned around to reveal dozens of Roman numerals carved into her forehead.
Grant bolted up from the nightmare, barely able to catch his breath.
He glanced over at the window. The morning light was trying to slip through the slight separation in the curtains.
Lovely.
11
The room was packed.
Grant couldn’t imagine squeezing in another soul. The space was normally used for roll call or an occasional closed-door meeting between detectives and their superiors. The NYPD media liaison Little had dragged in fifty more chairs to accommodate the gathered
press. Grant hoped they’d be so crammed in they’d be unable to raise their hands when it came time for questions.
He sat up front with Frankel behind a long rectangular desk. The other two seats there were occupied by Little and Lieutenant Harris. With the local networks broadcasting live, the session started right on time.
“I know it’s crowded in here,” said Little. “If you want some breathing room, we’ve got a live feed going in the room next door.”
Grant and Frankel exchanged glances. Grant was certain his colleague was thinking the same thing. He’d gladly be in a different room. For that matter, a different building.
Little introduced Harris. The lieutenant’s opening remarks didn’t offer up anything new. He vowed that the “NYPD’s finest men and women” were working day and night to bring the case to a rapid conclusion. “I’m now going to turn things over to our lead investigator, Detective First Grade John Frankel.”
More like throw him under the bus, thought Grant. Wasn’t that the American expression? Grant figured he’d be joining him under it in a matter of minutes.
Frankel confirmed that it was Leeds’s body that had been found in the shut-down Far Rockaway hospital. He acknowledged that they believed Leeds to be the fifth in a series of murders that began in London. Frankel named the other victims, reciting dates and the locations where their bodies had been found.
Grant could hear dozens of styluses tapping iPads and fingers clacking on laptop keyboards.
Frankel urged the public to remain vigilant and calm. It was a standard request that Grant knew Frankel was wasting his breath on. If anything, the Manhattan citizenry would just panic further. Frankel opened the floor to questions.
For the next thirty seconds, everyone called out at once.
Little let loose a shrill whistle, regaining a semblance of peace. Grant wondered if this ability to bring sudden order to chaos was what had landed the man his job. Little started calling on the journalists one by one.
The first question, from a New York Times stringer, was not unexpected. The bald reporter, who’d been covering crime in the five boroughs since Ed Koch occupied Gracie Mansion, asked what made them certain the five crimes were connected to one another and committed by the same person.
“There is a similarity in method to all five,” Frankel answered. “I’m not going to go into detail. Per usual, we need to keep certain information to ourselves.”
It was the answer they had all agreed on giving to the question they knew they’d be getting. This didn’t stop the next half-dozen reporters trying variations of the same query. Grant was impressed watching the detective sidestep each volley with a slightly different response that amounted to the same thing—they’d let everyone know more once they caught the person they were looking for.
The questions settled into such a monotonous pattern that Grant was caught unaware when a familiar voice sounded from a few rows back.
“I have a question for Commander Grant?” came a polite British voice.
Ferguson.
The Mail journalist rose and stared directly at Grant. “Isn’t it true that you had reason to believe Mr. Leeds was going to be the next victim?”
The crowd stirred.
“It was one possibility we were considering,” Grant replied. He glanced back over at Frankel, who gave him a tacit nod of approval.
“Then why wasn’t he afforded police protection?”
Grant started to respond but Frankel beat him to the punch. “Because by the time Leeds was on our radar, he’d already gone missing and we had to locate him.”
“Well, you certainly did that,” Ferguson pointed out.
This produced enough chortles from the crowd that Little had to issue another reprimand. “You’re point being, Mr. Ferguson?” pushed Little.
“That this isn’t the first time during this case that Commander Grant has been late on arrival,” answered Ferguson. The reporter stared at Grant with a gleam in his eyes.
Here we go.
“Didn’t you spend last weekend shutting down churches all over London because you feared for clergy’s safety?”
A rumble of reactions circulated through the room. Grant took the microphone and attempted to quell the spreading uneasiness. “It was a supposition we were working on at the time . . .”
“A supposition?” Ferguson mimicked. “It proved to be more than that. Only trouble was you missed it by a whole continent. At least with Leeds you narrowed it down to the proper city.”
Grant lifted a hand to quiet the room that was on the verge of exploding. “Besides pointing out what you see as my shortcomings, Mr. Ferguson, what exactly is the question you’re asking?”
“I’m wondering if you’re ill-equipped to be running this investigation. Your track record is hardly comforting,” said Ferguson. “You and Detective Frankel are obviously holding on to information giving you a line on the victims but not following through on time. The public deserves to know what that is exactly—as you’re not keeping them safe and none have a clue as to what—to use your colleague’s own words—they are keeping vigilant about.”
Frankel gave Grant a slight shrug. He might as well have been saying, “Whatever you come up with will be as good as anything I can.”
“It’s the Ten Commandments, isn’t it?”
Grant was shocked to see Rachel stand up in the next to last row.
“Your killer is murdering people according to the Ten Commandments,” she clarified. “Timothy Leeds was number five and the person you’re searching for isn’t stopping until he reaches ten. Unless someone gets him first.”
That was when the room erupted into the shit show Frankel had predicted.
“Your daughter,” Frankel simply said.
The implications in the two words were multifold. Not only hadn’t Grant mentioned Rachel to Frankel, he’d neglected to say she was a reporter who resided and worked in Manhattan, and with whom he’d discussed the case at length the previous morning at breakfast at the Surrey.
“I thought the two of you knew each other,” Grant said to Rachel, trying to calm the situation.
“I said we’ve crossed paths a couple of times,” reiterated Rachel.
“But I didn’t realize she was your daughter,” repeated Frankel.
The three of them were in Grant’s cubbyhole of an office after extracting themselves from the near riot that had once been a press conference.
After Rachel dropped her bomb among her fellow Fourth Estaters, Frankel and Grant huddled with Harris in an emergency sidebar. They quickly decided it would be pointless to deny the Commandments connection to the killings.
Grant then walked the press through the victims and parallels that could be drawn between them and the first five of the Lord’s laws. By the time he got to Leeds and the theory that the killer had punished him for crimes committed three decades earlier, the press was hanging on his every word.
Grant had purposely withheld how they’d tumbled to Leeds, claiming it was the result of thorough police work. Informing the media that the killer was leaving messages for the cops in the stomach lining of dead priests and all over the walls of abandoned insane asylums would only add to the feeding frenzy.
With everyone checking their smart phones to consult the Old Testament, it was only seconds before Grant and Frankel were assaulted with questions about the Sixth Commandment.
Thou shalt not kill.
“Do you think the killer is targeting another released murderer like Leeds?”
“What if it’s someone who’s committed a murder you don’t know about yet?”
Grant had said these were things they were considering.
He didn’t bring up that the sixth victim might already be out there and that they were also now also searching for a cheating spouse.
The questions had moved on to the killer. Did they know for sure it was a man—could it be a woman? Was it some religious fanatic?
Lieutenant Harris, who up until that poin
t had been quietly steaming in his seat watching the presser dissolve into a free-for-all, got to his feet. He said the department was working on a psychological profile for the killer and left it at that. Grant knew a profile was in the works, but highly doubted it would ever be handed over to the media.
At that point, Harris had mercifully brought the press conference to an end, citing the need for the NYPD and other agencies (“of which Scotland Yard is one of many”—a dig that wasn’t lost on Grant) to bring the perpetrator to justice.
The second it was over, Grant had moved into the dispersing crowd of journalists to find Rachel. He was relieved to see she hadn’t tried to slip out a door in the rear.
She’d started speaking right away. “Dad, I was only . . .”
He’d cut her off with a look. “Right now, I need you to come with me. There will be plenty of time for talking—but not here.” Grant couldn’t remember having used such a firm tone with his daughter. But he also couldn’t recall where he felt it necessary.
That was when Harris had descended on the Scotland Yard commander.
“What the hell is going on here?” Harris had demanded.
“Please give me and Detective Frankel a few moments to get to the bottom of this,” Grant had requested.
“See that you do,” ordered Harris, already being pulled by Little back into the fracas to rework a new statement on the case.
While escorting Rachel to his cubbyhole, Grant had also been able to commandeer Frankel. Once he locked the office door, Grant had made the proper introductions, which seemed to make Frankel’s head spin.
“I thought the only reporter you’d been talking to was Ferguson.”
“Rachel and I only had breakfast yesterday.”
“And we don’t talk that much,” Rachel added. “In fact, that was the first time in over a year.”
Frankel looked at them in disbelief. “But you managed to lay out your entire case over tea and biscuits—including the connection we’ve held back from everyone, particularly the media, of which your daughter happens to be a card-carrying member.”
“It’s something we’ve always done. I’d share what I was working on and Rachel would listen, then usually offer up fresh insight.”
The Last Commandment Page 10
