He had been stabbed straight through the chest and had bled to death. The blade had nicked the heart, causing the pool of blood in the basement and the mess of dried and sticky blood in the dumpster.
Olav Blom had been forty-eight years old, in good physical condition. He had not been drugged. The lab was still working on his clothing and the items found with him in the dumpster, and they were still going through the contents of the basement.
Dr. Layton promised to call them immediately if there were any further discoveries.
“I’m just sad to say that...that I don’t have more to say,” Layton told them. “I thought we might find he had been drugged, or he’d been tasered. It would be good to have an explanation of how he met his death, and then wound up in a dumpster a few blocks away.” He flushed suddenly. “Sorry—I’m the medical examiner. You two are the investigators.”
“With us, your opinion is always welcome,” Craig said.
“Do you think...” Layton began, and then fell silent.
“Do we think what?” Mike asked.
“Well, whoever killed him might have been his friend? Someone he trusted.”
Craig nodded. “Quite possible,” he said.
As they left, his phone rang. It was Egan. The assistant director had gotten search warrants for every apartment in the building, the guard station, and any vehicles associated with the apartment.
A massive search was being carried out as they spoke.
“Are Simon Wrigley, Joey Catalano, and the entire roster of the security personnel there?” Craig asked. “Despite the killer going after Olav Blom, one of the guards might have been involved—down to ‘losing’ their master key for a while and making sure not to mention it.”
“We’re going through everything and everyone. Simon Wrigley’s roster looks clean enough to send his employees off to work for the Pope. But we’re still looking for what might not be on someone’s records. We have a man going through computer data on social platforms, so if there’s something off, they’ll report. We’re also cross-referencing any associates of Charles Mayhew and Olav Blom.”
Craig asked, “Anything interesting yet?”
“Still working it. On your end, now. Any autopsy results?”
“By supposed friend, stranger, or foe. Blom was taken by surprise. Nothing that even begins to resemble a defensive wound on him.”
“So where are you going from here?” Egan asked.
“I think Mike and I should drop in on Nicholson’s sons, and then maybe his wife. Kieran recently interviewed her. She didn’t know her husband was killing, but even if she had known, she wouldn’t have come forward. Her husband was like a prophet in her mind. Holier than regular men, and only acting on what was dictated from...from whatever his ‘higher power’ might be.”
“I’ll keep you advised of any connections we can discover, and, of course, if anything is found at the apartments.”
Craig ended the call. Mike was looking at him.
“Onward to see the sons?” Craig asked.
“We have to start somewhere. Sounds as good as any place. I’ll drive.”
“You hate driving,” Craig reminded him.
“Yes, but you’re too preoccupied. I’m a New Yorker. I hate driving in the city, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know how.”
“We’re both preoccupied.”
“You more than me. I can see your mind working.”
“How can you see a mind working?” Craig demanded as they got to their FBI issued sedan. It was true that he did most of the driving. If Mike wanted a turn behind the wheel, fine. They weren’t heading into a car chase. They were heading to an apartment in the East Village.
Thomas Nicholson’s home was a second-floor apartment in a small building. The first floor of apartments—the ground floor—was home to a florist’s, a bodega, and a children’s shoe shop.
They called up; Thomas Nicholson answered his buzzer with a cautious voice. Once Craig announced who they were, they heard a sigh, and then the door buzzed.
The older Nicholson boy, at twenty-four years old, was lean and cut a good appearance; he met them in a shirt that advertised an eighties rock band and a pair of jeans. He was neat and clean, hair cut moderately short, clean-shaven, and possessed dark, keen eyes and an easy manner.
He offered a hand to each of them, saying, “Would God—any god—allow that I could change my name and disappear. Thank God I do have some good friends. I’m a pariah to most people. Anyway, how can I help you?”
He indicated they should sit on the sofa. His living space, like his appearance, was contemporary, neat, and clean. He had prints of paintings by famous artists on the walls, with a penchant, it seemed, for the medieval, and posters put out by rock bands for New York performances. He had a computer at a desk by the far wall, a wide-screen TV, and certainly seemed to have the taste of just about anyone his age getting by in the city.
“Please, sit down. I don’t know what I can do for you. I swear I had nothing to do with my father’s escape, and I sure as hell didn’t kill anyone. I wish there was something I could do. I was serious—I’d give about anything to change my name and start life somewhere I wasn’t known as the son of a crazy serial killer. And feared,” he added softly.
“We’re hoping maybe you can point us to someone who might have helped your father. Friends from the past, from his church perhaps, who might have taken what he saw as your father’s mission to heart,” Craig said.
Thomas had taken a seat in a chair at an angle to the sofa. Mike and Craig waited across from him. He appeared to be thoughtful, and he finally shook his head, upper teeth biting into his lower lip.
“I’ve been no-contact with my family for a long time,” he said quietly. “The day I turned eighteen, I was out of my house. They say any minister’s or pastor’s children go through some kind of rebellion at some point, and then they might return to their church and their parents’ religion. Not me. Not John. You can’t imagine what it was like growing up in that house. Once, in high school, my mother found out I’d bought roses for a girl I had a crush on for Christmas. She whipped me with the roses—thorns and all. I think my back still bears a few scars. No presents for anyone ever. I know there are other religions that don’t recognize holidays, that don’t allow for dancing, singing, or any form of enjoyment or entertainment, but my parents took it to extremes that were unendurable.”
He took a deep breath then continued, “John and I were in public schools, and it was hard for me to believe my friend Micah Kaufmann, following the Jewish faith, was going to go to hell. He was the guy who stood up for the weak kids, who helped anyone disabled. In fact, he’s one of the best human beings I’ve ever met. The more I looked at the world around me, the more I turned against my father’s fanaticism. Dad and I had a huge fight. I told him he had the right to believe whatever he wanted, but so did everyone else in the country.” He paused. “I wonder if I should have known then. I wonder if I could have done something.”
“What could you have done?” Craig asked him gently. “You didn’t know what he was doing. Your mother didn’t know what he was doing.”
“I was out of the house by the time he was...killing people,” Thomas said. “But...when we had that fight, he told me only a few were chosen, and sinners could see the light if they opened their eyes, and that...that they should burn for all eternity. They were blind, and they had no truth to speak. If I would have begged someone for help...”
“Nothing could have been done. There’s nothing illegal about being a religious fanatic,” Mike said.
“But it was illegal for your mother to beat you so that you bled,” Craig said. “I’m sorry you went through that.”
“Ah, my mother! She’s just...she was normal, once. I think. But then she embraced everything my father said and did. She thought he was a great leader. A prophet, even. On a
par with Christ or Mohammed. I don’t know. I left home and I didn’t look back. And the day my brother turned eighteen, I knew he’d show up—and he sure did. He arrived at my dorm. I’d been smart enough to skip classes that day, so I could wait for him. He showed up—and he cried for hours. John was more torn up than I was. He hated being disloyal, but he couldn’t bear living so harshly anymore either. I’ve been gone six years now. John has been gone four years, give or take.”
“How did you get through school? I believe you went to an expensive university, and John is at a prestigious college right now,” Craig said.
“Scholarships and working,” Thomas told him. He grinned self-consciously. “I won a scholarship that paid my entire tuition by writing a paper and entering it in a contest. I worked as a dishwasher to pay for my dorm, and I was then able to get a job through the school as a reading and writing tutor. You’d be amazed how many kids get into college—even a place like NYU—with the reading level of a grade school kid. All you need to do is finagle some grades and test well. I have friends who got through some of the tests simply by randomly picking answers A, B, C, D, or E. After that, I was able to help John. Now, I have a job with an online newspaper. I’m getting by, and I’m helping John. We honestly didn’t know what my father was doing, but learning he was the Fireman wasn’t a complete shock.” He stopped speaking, assessing the agents’ reactions. “I’ll be honest. My father is such a fanatic he could come after John or me. Neither of us is going anywhere alone or walking by ourselves at night. I’m worried about Johnny. I thought he should pull out for the semester. He doesn’t want to, and I’ve warned him, but... I can’t make him do anything.” He hesitated. “You...you really have nothing on getting my father back into custody?”
Craig could have misled Thomas, to reassure him. He didn’t.
“Not a damned thing to go on. We know how he managed his escape, and we believe he had help. And now two more related murders have taken place,” he said.
“Yeah. I read the news.” He leaned toward them, folding his hands together. “Well, I’m afraid. As I said, God knows if my father hasn’t fingered me or John as a witch. But we know him, and we’re on the lookout for him. He’s not a big guy in the least. He’s tricky—that’s how he gets around people. I’m sure he made those prostitutes think he was a john. He probably had the student thinking he was a visiting teacher—he would have given the fashion designer the belief that he was an incredibly rich man, wanting to create a fantastic new line. He’s a chameleon, when he chooses to be. But...”
“But what?” Mike encouraged gently.
“It’s as crazy as can be, but even when I lived with my parents...he would point people out. Say they were evil. I was supposed to avoid them, but never, never, never, harm an innocent person. He believes these things. If he killed Charles Mayhew, he thought the man was a witch, someone who would hurt the innocent. Ordered to do so by demons, or something. Or even living with a demon inside him.” He shook his head. “Again, I haven’t spoken to my mother or father since the day I turned eighteen. Those two guys working for him, they’d know my father better than me at this point.”
“You remember them—they worked for your father a long time?” Mike asked.
They already had that information, of course. It was in the copious file they had on Nicholson. Though neither Mike nor Craig had interviewed the men personally.
“Bart, great guy. He must be close to seventy now. He used to slip me candy or cookies. We weren’t allowed treats of any kind at home, right? He lost his wife to cancer and spent his free time visiting his grandkids. He knew how to entertain young ones, as my father never did. Mark was quieter, but nice enough. Both of them would try to keep my brother and me free from our father’s wrath anytime we were down in the shop. Good men. They weren’t part of my father’s flock, but yeah, you should talk to them. They saw him five days a week every week.”
“Anything else you can tell us?” Mike asked.
“Anyone else you think we should see?” Craig added.
“Axel Cunningham. Reverend Axel Cunningham. He got my dad going—until my dad turned on him. He left our old church about six years ago to form his True Life sect when he left his ‘mainstream’ house of worship. Reverend Cunningham was wishy-washy, in dad’s mind. He wasn’t saving his people. He was easy on them, and because of that, they might all go to hell.”
Thomas Nicholson frowned. “And he went into that coffee shop every day. Every single day. The rest of us could go without indulgences like that, but he was the breadwinner. Dad deserved the best every morning. Good coffee and a full meal. I think, when we were little kids, it had a different name. An uncle owned it or something. For the last eight years or so, it’s been owned by the niece, and she calls it Annie’s Sunshine or—”
“Annie’s Sunrise?” Craig suggested.
“Yeah. I think he kind of knew people in there—and Annie herself, of course. I guess he was a good customer. We got stale, no-name cereal. We weren’t breadwinners. We didn’t work. Even my mom got stale cereal. Well, she never did get fat—she stayed in great shape. Half-starving will do that for you, I guess. Anyway, sure, see my brother. Maybe he remembers something that I don’t. But definitely talk to his coworkers, Pastor Axel, and Annie and her crew. Maybe, just maybe, one of them will be able to help you. Would God that I could.”
Craig and Mike stood, ready to leave.
Thomas Nicholson followed them to the door.
Craig turned to thank him. Thomas nodded bleakly. “Think I’ll ever get to live a normal life? Do the kids of serial killers ever have happy lives? Is it even possible?” he asked, his tone all but dead.
“Maybe you can get a legal name change, move somewhere else,” Mike suggested.
“Yeah, well...at least here, I have a job. Though maybe, since it’s an online publication, I could keep it and go remote...my employers don’t mind who I am. I go by a different byline, anyway. Nick Thomas. Started that long before the world knew my father was a serial killer.” He was quiet a minute. And then he grinned weakly. “I’ve encouraged John to switch things up, too. He could become John Thomas, and that way, we could still be brothers.”
“If you see or hear anything about your father, anything at all...” Craig said, handing him one of his cards.
Thomas accepted the card. “Oh, I will. You can bet I will,” he swore.
Craig and Mike took the stairs down to the street.
Once there, Mike looked at Craig. “Okay, out to Princeton, New Jersey, next? Or a hop on over to Broadway, near the pub and your place? Shall we take a break to get it all together on a Sunday afternoon?”
Craig hesitated; if Thomas Nicholson was right, his brother wouldn’t have much to give them.
But he might also be in danger.
“I’m going to call Egan. Get him to talk to the cops here and in New Jersey. I think we should be watching these young men—Nicholson’s sons. They might be in real danger. We’ll get someone on it, and then...”
“Annie’s Sunrise,” Mike said.
Craig agreed. “Now, finally, we’ve got a plan I like.”
Moving briskly, Mike headed for the car. He’d apparently done all the driving he wanted to do. He walked straight to the passenger’s side.
Grinning, Craig headed to the driver’s side.
He paused, looking back at Thomas Nicholson’s building.
Before getting into the car, he pulled his phone out to make his call to Egan.
If the kid was telling the truth, he could well now be at the top of his father’s hit list.
CHAPTER TEN
“I’M KIND OF surprised we’ve never been here before,” Danny said, looking around the little coffee shop and appreciating the bright cleanliness of the place.
Picture windows looked out to the street and let sunlight pour in. The tables were clean, most in a line aga
inst the windows. Little jukebox machines on each table allowed patrons to pick out tunes for a quarter. Behind the counter, two servers hurried along the expanse of swivel stools, catching orders from the gleaming metal shelves that connected to the kitchen.
The place was cheerful in shades of red and yellow; Broadway posters were set at angles about the walls. Kieran did like it—she thought she had been in, years before sometime, when she’d been a child. Her dad, she thought, might have been friends with the old owner.
But she knew, too, why they probably hadn’t been in the coffee shop forever—or why Danny might never have been in it at all.
“We own a pub,” she told her brother.
“And that means we never eat anywhere else?” Danny demanded.
She laughed. “No, it means when we’re in this area, we’re usually heading in to meet up or work, and so we wouldn’t be thinking, wow, let me grab something to eat quickly before I go into the pub.”
Danny shrugged at that. “I like this place, though.”
“I do, too. Very cute. And clean. Declan would approve.”
“So, is one of those people Annie?” he asked, pointing to the servers behind the counter.
Annie wasn’t their server, for sure. They were being helped by a young man of about twenty-two or twenty-three.
A college student, Kieran thought. And if they asked him, she was sure he’d tell them he was an actor. New York was filled with actors. Luckily it was also filled with eateries where actors could earn a living while they attended auditions and vied for roles.
Kieran studied the two people behind the counter. One woman—round, dark-haired, with a great smile—looked to be about fifty. The other woman—tiny, lean, and wiry—might have been about ten years younger.
“I don’t think so,” Kieran said. “I think Annie’s closer to our ages...maybe she’s thirty-two or thirty-three, in there somewhere.”
“So, if we don’t see her, how do we talk to her?”
The Final Deception Page 14
