“We did when you and Hawley unearthed him. His psych profile was nil—nothing indicated a criminal mastermind who could pull this off.”
“Holed up for twenty years with just a Bible, his thoughts, and a taste for revenge? The man had nothing but time to cook it up.”
“I suppose,” said Grant.
“And I suppose you have time for breakfast?”
Grant dredged up a smile. “Eggs Benedict à la Grant?”
“I wouldn’t dare compete with the master. But in case you’ve forgotten, I do make a mean stack of hotcakes.”
“Lead the way,” Grant said and got up from the desk.
A half hour later, the commander shoved himself away from the table with a contented sigh and a scraped-clean plate. “I had no idea I was that hungry.”
“You barely touched your dinner last night.”
Her Mother Bear concern caused Grant to crack a half-smile. “Have I reached that time of life where the children and parents flip roles?”
“Hardly. But I still worry about you every now and then.”
Granted reached across the table for Ferguson’s article again. He could see Rachel rolling her eyes. “Maybe I’ll have a clearer perspective on a full stomach.”
“I know better than to try and stop you from torturing yourself.”
“And believe me when I say I appreciate that.”
But in that moment, his obsession with the newspaper took a back seat as he watched Rachel move about the kitchen with the same ease that Allison had their entire marriage. The thawing over the past week of their chilly relationship had left Grant willing to let whatever promise Rachel was holding on to for her mother keep until she was ready to tell him.
“What are you smiling about?” Rachel suddenly asked.
“I was just thinking how nice it is to have you back home.”
“It feels good to be here.”
“Any idea how long you’ll be staying?” he asked, trying to keep out of his voice the desperation that went with the idea of her leaving.
“I’m not sure. With the investigation over, I figure John will need to head back to New York soon—probably right after New Year’s.” She sat down across from him. “Speaking of which—have you thought more about Everett’s offer?”
“Five thousand feet above sea level isn’t exactly how I’d choose to start my retirement.”
“But it would be nice for us all to be together, wouldn’t it?”
Grant couldn’t deny the warmth of that notion. “This thing between you and Detective Frankel is getting serious, isn’t it?”
“I really like him, Daddy.”
“I do too.”
He saw her eyes drift toward the folded newspaper. “I know things didn’t turn out the way you expected. But something good came out of all this, right?”
She reached and took his hand. Grant felt his heart warm as it began to rise in his throat. “Most definitely,” he replied.
“Then you’ll think about us all going to Switzerland together?”
“Of course I will.”
But that didn’t mean he was going to stop thinking about what the hell had happened to Monte Ferguson.
“I wish I had more news, but I really don’t,” said Randolph Michaels from behind his desk at the Daily Mail. “Not the ideal way for a newsman to begin a conversation, but there you have it.”
“Don’t you find it odd not hearing a word from the man since he filed the biggest story of his career?”
“I’d expect him to be crowing about it, that’s for sure. Most definitely odd.”
“So how do you explain it?”
Michaels shrugged. “Fear of having charges leveled against him, impeding a police investigation? It’s the only thing that comes to mind.”
Grant was considering another line of thought but wasn’t ready to share it with Michaels lest he think he’d become a conspiracy theorist. But it was the main reason he headed to the newspaper instead of starting his final Friday of work at the Yard.
“I’d like to get to the bottom of this myself,” continued Michaels. “I’ve got management wondering what happened to their star reporter and if they’re going to be held accountable by Scotland Yard for anything.”
“You’ve been completely forthcoming. You’re safe in telling them they’ve nothing to worry about on that count.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Perhaps I could look through Ferguson’s desk? See if there’s a clue where he’s gotten himself off to? Of course, I could always obtain a warrant . . .”
Michaels waved away the notion. “The sooner we put a lid on this mess, the better for everyone concerned.”
Moments later, Grant was seated in Ferguson’s small cubicle.
To describe Ferguson’s desk as resembling the aftermath of a small tornado would be an understatement. He’d obviously never heard of a filing system. Clippings, photos, and paper were strewn everywhere—atop the desk, stuffed in drawers, and crammed into cubbyholes that served as shelves.
Every single item had to do with the Commandment killings.
Grant found himself looking at a vivid record of his investigation spread out in the most haphazard of fashions; Old Testament excerpts with verses highlighted using a fluorescent marker, photos of the crime scenes, mostly featuring Austin Grant, and rival tabloids’ stories on the murders.
Of particular interest was the single item on a corkboard that separated Ferguson’s space from a sports journalist on the other side of the wall.
A printed out list of the Ten Commandments, with a red checkmark by the first seven. Only the last three remain unmarked—Thou shalt not steal; Thou shalt not bear false witness; Thou shalt not covet any thing that is thy neighbor’s.
This made total sense to Grant as Prior Silver had still been alive when Ferguson had gone to meet him at the East End warehouse and the reporter had been missing ever since.
Grant took his time sorting through the mess, but in the end, it was literally old news— there wasn’t anything that the Scotland Yard man didn’t already know.
It just fed that gnawing sensation in Grant’s brain, something that Michaels inadvertently added to when his head appeared over the partition seconds later.
“Rather obsessed, wouldn’t you say?”
“To say the least,” replied Grant. He pointed at the Ten Commandment list on the corkboard. “Do you recall when he put that up there?”
Michaels shook his head. “It’s not like I make a habit of checking on the idiosyncrasies of my reporters. But I don’t recall seeing it before he headed off to New York and that was the weekend before last, right?”
“The priest was murdered on a Sunday night,” said Grant. “Ferguson would have gotten to New York after that.”
“No, he was actually there that same morning. A total coincidence as it turned out. I’m surprised Monte didn’t tell you about it.”
Grant suddenly remembered the reporter being evasive when he ran into him in Saint Patrick’s and asked how Ferguson had gotten there so fast. The gnawing sensation intensified.
“No, he actually neglected to mention that,” said Grant.
The first time he had encountered Ferguson on the case was when Grant left the Yard on the Saturday night prior to the Great London Church Clearout. That was when Ferguson had confronted him about the killings and Grant had promised to call him after the weekend. But Grant had neglected to do so when all hell broke loose in Manhattan and he had to hop a transatlantic flight on Monday morning.
The next time he’d seen Ferguson was in Saint Patrick’s on that Tuesday morning.
It was certainly worth having Morrow run a quick search of the airlines and Ferguson. By the time he got to the Yard, the tech had done just that.
Monte Ferguson had taken a plane out of Heathrow first thing on Sunday morning December 15th—arriving before noon in the States, at least eight hours before Father Adam Peters met his fate.
&n
bsp; According to Michaels, Ferguson had gone to Manhattan because he’d gotten an emergency text; a relative had been in an accident and was on death’s door in an upstate New York hospital, and he’d taken the first plane out to the States. He had told the editor someone got their signals crossed because when he arrived Ferguson learned no accident of any sort had occurred—but Divine Providence had put him in the proper spot and time to pursue the developing story.
“He actually said ‘Divine Providence’?”
“Something to that effect,” Michaels had responded.
Interesting choice of words, thought Grant as he sat behind his desk staring at the airline data. He leaned back and let what had been gnawing at his brain unfold.
Was Ferguson’s explanation for his sudden trip plausible? Perhaps. But it also could have been a complete fabrication.
Ferguson had been the only person outside the Yard to connect the first three crimes. He had been on the verge of tumbling to the truth each time he’d crossed paths with Grant. Was it possible his obsession in besting the Scotland Yard man could have led Ferguson to unearthing Prior Silver and setting him up as a suspect in the string of murders? One thing for sure—wherever Monte Ferguson was right now, he’d just scored the story of his life and left Grant’s reputation in ruins.
Grant finally let the gnawing question festering in his mind ever since the crate had arrived on his doorstep take full bloom.
Was Monte Ferguson crazy enough to kill eight total strangers and Stanford Hawley, then pin it on Prior Silver in a made-to-look-like-suicide if the reward was worldwide fame?
“That’s preposterous,” said Deputy Commander Franklin Stebbins.
Grant had considered running all this by Frankel first, but knew he’d be going out on a limb in presenting it to his superior. Grant’s career was basically over—no reason to let Frankel crash as well when Stebbins jettisoned his theory.
Like he was in the process of doing this very minute.
“It’s a working supposition,” Grant said.
“And what about the interview? Prior Silver confessed.”
“Ferguson could have made the whole thing up. He poisons Silver, makes it looks like a suicide, and then files the story.”
“And the text conversations between the two men?” asked Stebbins, who was becoming increasingly exasperated.
“Ferguson could have manufactured those as well. If he killed Stanford Hawley, he would have had both phones and just texted back and forth with them.”
“Are you listening to yourself?” Stebbins shook his head in disbelief. “I know the man is a muckraker you’ve butted heads with, but he has no record of having ever run afoul of the law. On the other hand, you have Prior Silver, a man who got twenty years for vicious bank robberies, then in prison became a religious maniac and actually confessed to all the murders and subsequently killed himself!”
“I understand . . .”
“No, you need to understand me,” insisted Stebbins. “The investigation is officially closed. We have our killer and a confession. I know that neither you or Detective Frankel are pleased it was literally gift wrapped and dropped on your doorstep, but I speak for the Yard, and millions of Londoners and New Yorkers, when I say we are happy to put this to bed and enjoy a happy and safe new year.”
The deputy commander rose and his anger seemed to dissipate, as a look of genuine concern and compassion appeared on his face.
“I know this isn’t the end you had in mind, Austin. But it doesn’t diminish all the incredible work and dedication you’ve shown the past three decades.”
Stebbins placed a hand on Grant’s shoulder.
“It’s time, as the poet doesn’t say, for you to go ‘gently into the night.’ I’m sorry if it’s with a few lumps you hadn’t planned on. But you need to know there are a lot of people here who look up to you and want to wish you well.”
Grant began to feel embarrassed. “It’s not necessary for you to say that.”
“But it’s the truth. You’ll know that once you arrive on the fourth floor in a few moments . . .”
“Excuse me, sir?”
Now, it was Stebbins who appeared flush. “A going-away party, Austin, which I’m supposed to hand deliver you to in about twenty minutes. So, make sure you act surprised—and let’s keep this other nonsense to yourself, huh?”
Grant wasn’t sure if he pulled off looking surprised or not. Hardly in the party mood and not one for spontaneous outbursts of joy, looking dumbfounded would certainly not be listed among his top ten talents.
But it didn’t seem to matter.
With Prior Silver dead and the case behind them, the staff at the Yard was ready for any sort of celebration, especially with a new year about to arrive.
There were balloons and champagne, trays of appetizers prepared by the lunchroom staff that Grant dare not risk eating lest it begin a new death-by-poison investigation, and a large yellow cake with thirty-four candles (one for each year he’d toiled at the Yard) with a chocolate icing inscription: Good Luck Commander!
He had to endure close to a hundred people singing “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” in four different keys at the same time and then attempt to blow out trick candles—which most found hilarious but just added to Grant’s frustrating day.
After accepting well-wishes from more colleagues than he knew he had, Grant sat a corner table with Rachel, Everett, and Frankel, who had all shown up for the occasion.
“You could’ve said something at breakfast,” Grant told his daughter.
“I was sworn to secrecy,” she told him.
Everett and Frankel pleaded guilty by association and it was only then that Grant took a sip of bubbly and acknowledged a toast from the three of them—the people in the room who mattered to him most.
After much urging, Grant stumbled his way through a “thank you” speech, specifically expressing gratitude to Stebbins and those gathered at his table, only wishing that Allison and his trusted Sergeant Hawley could share the moment.
When he sat back down, Rachel gave him a nudge. “It’s a party, Dad—you really should try and enjoy yourself.”
Grant took that opportunity to recount his day and relay how Stebbins handed him his hat and pretty much a dismissal slip on the way to the party.
“I wonder if I’ll still get my pension,” Grant mused.
“Don’t be silly, Austin. Look at this turnout,” said Everett.
“Amazing what people will show up for if there’s free food and booze.”
Everett indicated a barely touched plate of appetizers. “Have you had the misfortune to sample these delicacies?”
Frankel nodded. “I think you guys here share a kitchen with the one in my precinct; Chef N. Edible?”
That brought the first hint of a smile to Grant’s face.
“They’re all here for you, Dad—like it or not,” Rachel pointed out.
“But your Monte Ferguson theory deserves a toast,” said Everett, raising a glass. “For originality if nothing else.”
“I guess it does sound a bit ridiculous when you hear it said out loud.”
Rachel finished off her champagne, then held a hand to her head.
“You okay?” asked Frankel.
“That’ll teach me to drink on an empty stomach,” she answered a little woozily. She looked around the room. “Anyone else up for a cup of coffee?”
“Why don’t we go find some?” asked Everett. He helped Rachel out of the chair. “Hold down the fort lads, and discuss anything except the case.”
“I wish you’d called and said something before you took that Ferguson stuff to Stebbins,” said Frankel the moment Rachel and Everett were out of earshot.
“I guess I had to get it out of my head and have someone tell me I was crazy.”
“I would’ve been happy to do that for you.”
“I’m sure I would’ve run it by him anyway.”
Frankel laughed, then noticed Grant watching his brother escort
Rachel across the room. “That’s a pretty special relationship they have.”
“Rachel and Everett have always been close. Even these past few years.”
Frankel nodded. There was a moment of silence between them while music more suitable for a descending elevator poured from the speakers.
“I know it’s been difficult since her mother died,” Frankel finally said. “For both of you.”
“She’s told you about that I expect.”
Frankel nodded. “We’ve gotten pretty close in a short period of time.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
There was another beat of silence and more bad music.
Frankel smiled. “Is this the part where I’m supposed to tell you my intentions?”
“I don’t know, Detective. Do you have intentions?”
“I’m hoping to spend a lot more time together. But the last thing I want you thinking is that I’m trying to take her away from you.”
“Why would I ever think that?” asked Grant.
“Well, we both live in New York . . .”
“And with a lot of time on my hands, I can now come for a visit or two.”
“I’m sure Rachel would love that.”
“If that’s really true, I think I have you to thank.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“Wasn’t too long ago I thought she couldn’t stand the thought or sight of me.”
“I think that might be overstating things,” said Frankel.
“You weren’t in her life these past couple of years. Things have been rather strained—to say the least. I’m sure she’s told you as much.”
Frankel nodded. “A bit, yes.”
A pang went through Grant. He realized that though Rachel had known Frankel a short time, he already knew things about his daughter he didn’t.
“And what she promised her mother not to tell me?”
Frankel raised an eyebrow. “You know about that day, then?”
Day?
Grant took a somber moment to compose himself. And then gave Frankel the most honest response he could think of.
The Last Commandment Page 27
