by Steven James
“Not yet. Collins and her team are analyzing their computers, but the files are encrypted, and it’s not looking like it’ll be an easy process getting into them.”
“And the people we arrested aren’t helping?”
“Not at all.”
Last night I’d thought about contacting Marcus Rockwell, the CEO of Krazle, to find out if there was anything he could do to help us track down the Matchmaker through the use of that compromised Krazle account. Now, while we waited for SWAT to move in, felt like as good a time as any to give him a call.
It took a little work to track down his personal assistant, but when I told her who I was, she informed me that she would pass my contact information along to Mr. Rockwell and have him reach out to me “at his earliest convenience.”
“Convenient or not, I need to speak with him as soon as possible.”
“I’ll let him know,” she replied matter-of-factly and then, to my irritation, ended the call before I could reiterate how pressing this was.
I said to Ralph, “I mentioned this to DeYoung, but I want the team to focus on finding the guy who escaped from the basement before the electricity went out. He might be the actual Matchmaker.”
“Maybe we’ve gotten ahead of ourselves.”
“Yes. Maybe we have. Also, based on his limp and the interconnected nature of the rest of this case, I’m wondering if he might be the man I chased into the subway tunnel.”
“You’re not sure?”
“I’m trying to be careful with assumptions.”
Apart from the subway cameras, which hadn’t yielded anything, I tried to think of a way to verify if he was the same individual, but at the moment, I couldn’t come up with anything definitive.
* * *
+++
SWAT went in and, less than a minute later, called for us to enter.
“She’s in the bedroom,” Agent Raudsepp informed us grimly. “And she’s not gonna get up. Ever.”
Expecting to find Julianne Springman’s body, Ralph and I entered the room, but it wasn’t Julianne that we saw. Instead, Sasha MacIntyre’s corpse lay on the bed.
Still clothed, missing only her shoes.
The plastic bag still cinched lethally over her head.
Even a cursory look around made it clear that she had not died here. The video of her suicide had been filmed in an office with different flooring and a desk in the background. There was nothing like that in this bedroom.
Obviously, she’d been moved, brought here to Julianne’s apartment for reasons I couldn’t even begin to imagine.
“Where does this leave us?” Ralph said quietly.
“Let’s get NYPD to canvass the neighborhood. Maybe someone saw something that’ll help us identify who brought her in here. CCTVs, personal cell phone videos—whatever we can get.”
“These guys are good. I’m not holding my breath.”
“Neither am I.”
While we waited for the Evidence Response Team to show up, Ralph and I took a careful look around the apartment, searching for any clues as to Julianne’s whereabouts.
Nothing appeared unusual or all that revelatory: her clothes were arranged neatly in the closet, the dresser drawers hadn’t been rifled through, the papers on her desk were all in order.
No calendar, date books, or daily organizers.
No notes on her fridge that gave anything away.
The computer needed a password, but I was no hacker, so that wasn’t going to happen.
However, beside the keyboard lay a pile of printouts and articles about the novelist Timothy Sabian.
I flipped through them as Ralph came up with a well-worn copy of Sabian’s novel Cold Clay.
“It looks like Julianne is a real fan of this guy,” he said.
“That’s the author that Tessa went to see last night.” I had no idea what to make of that. “I think we should pay him a visit.”
When the ERT showed up, we heard from DeYoung that the senator was going to be swinging by the Field Office at eleven to see about the progress of the investigation into his son’s death. I still wasn’t sure why he’d acted so strangely after I spoke with him at his house—calling the press conference and offering that reward.
Maybe it wasn’t strange after all. Maybe it was just desperation.
Regardless of his reasons, now we had to deal with the ramifications.
It would be close, but eleven o’clock might just give us enough time.
I suggested to Ralph that we find out what we could from Mr. Sabian and then go have a chat with the senator.
“You read my mind, bro.”
* * *
+++
Christie checked her messages and saw a text from Pat regarding the status of his friend Calvin Werjonic. Pat noted that Calvin would be glad to see her, if she had the chance to get over there.
He suggested she might swing by at lunch, and if she had a productive morning, that just might work.
If she could take an early lunch, depending on how the subway lines were running, she could probably make it to the hospital by noon.
65
When Timothy Sabian opened the door, Ralph and I identified ourselves as federal agents, and then, without missing a beat, Ralph said, “Mr. Sabian, do you mind if we come in?”
But even as he was asking the question, he was moving forward and, though Timothy didn’t look very excited about us joining him inside the house, he appeared even less excited about getting on Ralph’s bad side, and he mumbled, “I’d rath—um. Sure.”
He stepped back, and we entered the living room.
The house smelled of disinfectant.
Ralph wrinkled up his nose. “Doing a little cleaning?”
“Cleaning?”
“Smells like a hospital in here.”
“Oh. Yes. The bathroom. You have to take care of things every once in a while or they get out of hand.”
“Right,” Ralph replied slowly.
“Did you have a good book signing last night?” I said. I decided not to mention that my stepdaughter had been there.
Timothy eyed me carefully. “Yes . . . how did . . . ? How can I help you two gentlemen?”
“We’re looking for a woman who might have attended it.”
His face blanched. “Did something happen to her?”
“To who?” I said.
“The woman. The one at the signing.”
“And which woman would that be?” Ralph asked.
“I didn’t do anything. I swear. She just burst in and started yelling those things.”
Ralph and I exchanged a look, and then I said, “What, exactly, did she yell?”
“That I hurt her daughter. But I didn’t.”
I eyed him quizzically. We had no knowledge that Julianne Springman had any children. “Her daughter?”
Ralph pulled out his phone and scrolled to a photo of Julianne, which he showed to Timothy. “Is this the woman who was yelling those things?”
When Timothy saw the photograph, he swallowed and almost imperceptibly edged away from us.
“Are you alright, Mr. Sabian?” I asked.
“Maybe you should go.”
“Do you know this woman?” I pressed him. “From the book signing or not—have you ever seen her before?”
* * *
+++
Timothy heard the voice.
These men are here for a reason. Something led them here. Don’t deny meeting Julianne or they’ll know you’re lying.
“I didn’t know her well,” he told them. “I just met her briefly. We spoke over the weekend. She told me about her website. She was looking for a partner. She wasn’t at the signing, no.”
How do you describe the sensation of bugs skittering across your skin? Think of a spider on your neck, then thin
k of a dozen, then think of a thousand, but not just on your neck—scuttling all over you. The light touch of tiny feet, the running scurry of invisible bugs.
Tiny mandibles clawing at your skin. You have to dig those bugs out. You have to. You can’t leave them alone or they’ll multiply more and more and more.
But you can’t dig them out now. No. Not when people are watching. Not when—
“A partner?” Agent Hawkins said, and Timothy was back in the moment, his drifting attention refocused again.
“Financial. Sometimes when people think you’re rich or famous they come looking for you to invest in their pet projects or donate to their charities. It’s amazing how many peculiar and necessitous people come out of the woodwork once there’s a Wikipedia page about you.”
* * *
+++
“May I use your washroom?” I said, in order to get an excuse to have a look around. Plain view doctrine would come into play, but as long as I was on my way to a bathroom and was simply looking around—range of sight—we would be alright.
“Oh . . . yes. Just down the hall.”
As I walked toward the bathroom that I didn’t really need to use, I heard Ralph follow up with Timothy. “You said it was a website. What kind of site is it?”
“It’s a little troubling, actually. She would photograph dead babies in the arms of their mothers.”
He said “would photograph,” not “photographs.” Past tense. What does he know?
While the young novelist explained that Julianne’s site was set up to help mourning mothers cope with the loss of their children, I scrutinized the house, keeping an eye out for any sign that Julianne had been—or was still—here, but saw nothing.
When I came to the stairs leading to the second level, I noted that I was out of sight of Ralph and Timothy.
It might not be a bad idea to have a quick peek up there.
“And did you see her again after that?” Ralph was saying. “After she asked you to partner with her?”
I started up the stairs.
It smelled like Timothy had done most of his cleaning up here rather than in the bathroom on the first level.
When I reached the top of the stairs, I saw that the doors were all open at least a crack.
Excellent.
I began to peer into the rooms one by one, making my way down the hall.
* * *
+++
Timothy wasn’t sure what to think.
He wanted these men to leave, yes, of course he did. But he also wanted them to know the truth and to finally have everything out in the open. And if it was true that he was a killer, then they should arrest him, stop him, keep him from hurting anyone else.
From killing.
From killing anyone.
Dead is dead is dead.
But then the desire for self-preservation kicked in and—
“Agent Hawkins.” The voice came from upstairs, interrupting Timothy’s thoughts. “Bring Mr. Sabian up here.”
The big man beside him gestured for him to head to the stairs. “After you.”
66
10:02 A.M.
4 hours left
Ralph and Timothy appeared at the doorway, and I indicated the nightstand beside the bed in the master bedroom. “That’s a nice Beretta you have there.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you use it to hunt with?” Ralph said, which was a bit of a strange question considering how hard it would be to hunt with that type of handgun, but I figured Ralph was trying to feel him out, see how familiar he was with guns.
“Target shoot, mainly.”
“Really? Which range?”
“I . . . used to do it more before I moved to New York City. It’s harder to find a good range here.”
“But yet you keep your gun beside your bed. Is it loaded?”
“I don’t . . . Yes.”
“You don’t what?” Ralph eyed him. “Do you have a permit for this handgun?”
“Yes . . . somewhere.”
“Somewhere.”
“Yes.”
“So if we looked up the serial number, we’d find that it’s a legally registered firearm under your name. I mean, you didn’t borrow it from someone and just forget to return it?”
Timothy shook his head. “It’s my gun. I’m sorry. I wish I could help you two more. I just don’t know what to tell you.”
“Your mirror in the bathroom is broken,” I said, noting what I’d discovered before I invited them upstairs.
“Yes. I was careless. Slipped and hit my head.”
He tipped his hair aside and showed us a bump high on his forehead.
I motioned toward the open window. “Airing things out?”
“The smell can be a lot. Of the cleaning agents.”
“The rain is supposed to turn to snow later today.”
Timothy walked over and closed the window authoritatively. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks. Now if you don’t mind, I need to get back to work.”
* * *
+++
Outside Sabian’s house, I said to Ralph, “Well, what did you think of that?”
“He’s a lying son of a . . . biscuit.”
“Nice save there. Swearing off swearing, I mean.”
“Thanks. That guy knows more than he’s telling us. He’s hiding something, and I want to know what it is. He referred to Julianne’s website in the past tense.”
“I noticed.”
“I doubt that Beretta is even his. I should have checked the serial number before we left.”
“Don’t worry.” I pulled out my phone. “I did—before I called you two up. Let’s run it and see what we get.”
* * *
+++
Timothy was just glad Blake’s men had shown up when they did to take Julianne’s body out. He didn’t know where they might have taken it, and frankly, he didn’t want to know.
That was over.
That part of his life was done.
At least with Julianne gone, she wasn’t talking to him anymore. At least there was that.
Gone is gone is gone.
Dead is dead is dead is dead.
Yes.
Whatever else might be up in doubt, at least that much was true.
And the agents were gone. Thankfully thankfully thankfully that was taken care of too.
Now, he just needed to pick up where he’d left off before Julianne Springman tracked him down in the first place and turned his life inside out.
Writing. Surviving. Making the bugs go away.
And the first step in returning to normal was getting his journal with his notes about Emily back from that girl, Tessa, who’d helped him get out of the bookstore last night after Miranda’s mom showed up.
* * *
+++
Tessa wasn’t the best person in the world at checking her phone’s screen without getting caught while she was in class, but she wasn’t the worst either.
However, she still hadn’t found out anything about who disappeared after Timothy Sabian’s last signing.
While doing her best to avoid letting her teacher see her using her phone, she received a message from the very person who was foremost on her mind.
The novelist wrote to her:
Thank you for helping me make my escape last night. So very cloak and dagger.
Also, those words on the church bulletin: “The waters of this moment rush over my head. I drink in the truth and find that it tastes like tears just as I suspected.”
Did you write that?
It’s good.
I never got the chance to sign your book yesterday. The next time our paths cross, I will. If you’re interested, that is.
Then he included a snail mail address in Ozone Park so she could send h
im the journal, but he also suggested that if she wanted to meet somewhere instead, if that was easier for her, and so that she wouldn’t have to pay for postage, he would be glad to do that.
She messaged him back, Yeah, no problem. Thanks for saying that about the poem. Means a lot. And yeah, I’d love to have my book signed. What if I brought it by in person?
The reply was slow in coming, but it did come: That would be fine. I should be here all day.
Huh. It must not have registered with him that she had school. Maybe he thought she was older, in college or something. She tried to figure out if he was being flirty or forward or inappropriate, but in the end she decided that he was most likely just a little clueless and not very socially adept.
Okay, so she could visit him after lunch.
After she’d found out all she could about the missing woman that he claimed not to have killed.
* * *
+++
The Beretta was registered to Julianne Springman.
Another wrinkle in the case.
Or maybe things were finally starting to get smoothed out.
“What do you think?” Ralph said. “Go back in and have another talk with our friendly lying neighborhood novelist?”
“Let’s look at what we know—Julianne was working with Dylan in Detroit. After his death, she moves here to New York City. Somewhere along the line she takes an interest in Sabian, visits him, and now she’s missing and he has her gun.”
“And Sasha’s body is in her apartment.”
“Yes.”
We both considered the implications, but the connection between Julianne, Sasha, and Timothy remained elusive to me. The first two had ties to Blake, but how did Timothy fit into the mix?
“Alright,” I said, “here’s what I’m thinking—we stake out his place and hers. Let’s see if she shows up at either location, and if he leaves his house, we’ll have an undercover team follow him.”
“Works for me. For now. But I don’t like that he lied to us.”
