“Hey,” Leonid said to one of the officers patrolling the cordon. “Tell Rudin that Boykov wants a word.”
The officer crossed the street and spoke to one of the three men, a gray-haired hawkish figure with the two-star epaulets of a lieutenant colonel.
“We worked a few cases together,” Leonid told Dinara. “He’s a pompous ass, but he’s honest.”
The gray-haired lieutenant colonel approached with the female officer who wore the three-star insignia of a full colonel. She had a chubby, chalk-white face and unfriendly black eyes.
“How’s life in the private sector?” Rudin asked in what was an unmistakably mocking tone. His face was pockmarked by old acne scars. “You a billionaire yet?”
“Still working on it,” Leonid replied. “You got a cause?” he asked, nodding toward the restaurant.
“I am Colonel Alena Stanika, and I am in charge of this investigation. Any questions you have will be directed through me,” the woman said.
“No problem,” Leonid replied insolently. “You got a cause yet?”
“What’s your interest here? Who are you?” Stanika asked.
“We’re from Private Moscow, the investigation agency. We think one of our clients might have been inside,” Dinara replied.
“This is Leonid Boykov,” Rudin told Stanika. “He used to be with MUR.”
“I’ve heard of you,” Stanika said with a frown. “And of Private. You must be Dinara Orlova. Who was your client?”
“Piotr Rykov,” Leonid replied.
He was a very good liar and if Dinara hadn’t known better, she would have believed they really had such a client.
“We don’t have that name on the reservation system,” Stanika replied.
“He could have been a walk-in or a guest,” Leonid observed. “So, do you have a cause?”
“No,” Stanika replied. “Could have been a gas explosion.”
“The pattern is wrong,” Dinara said. “Looks like a high-
explosive blast.” She indicated the marker flags. “Debris is scattered too far for gas.”
“Really?” Stanika remarked. “And are you a forensic expert? Or an explosive specialist?”
“Just a concerned citizen trying to help,” Dinara replied dryly.
Stanika eyed them both. “I know what you are, Colonel Dinara Orlova, formerly of the FSB’s Counterterrorism Division.”
“Then maybe you should listen to her,” Leonid jibed.
“If you’ll excuse us, we have an investigation to attend to,” Stanika said as she walked away.
“That’s the Boykov I know. Always winning new friends. Good to see you,” Rudin added without a shred of sincerity before following his superior.
“What do you think?” Leonid asked as he and Dinara watched the police commanders walk away.
“They don’t know anything,” she replied. “Which means we can’t learn anything useful from their investigation. At least not yet.”
“So we’re on our own?”
“Looks like it,” Dinara said. “Let’s see what we can find out about Yana Petrova.”
She stepped away from the warmth of the bright lights, and Leonid followed her into the frozen night.
CHAPTER 20
IT WAS MID-AFTERNOON by the time we arrived at the Leonard branch of the Brooklyn Public Library. The drive from Long Island had been treacherous; for a city that was regularly hit by snow, New York was home to far too many people who didn’t know how to handle the conditions. Drivers without snow chains or winter tires, driving too fast, making no allowances for the poor visibility caused by the falling snow. It wasn’t quite a whiteout, but it was close, and we saw at least a dozen minor collisions and one major accident on our way to Brooklyn.
Mo-bot had spent the journey going through the library book I’d been sent, looking for markings or codes, but the well-thumbed copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland yielded nothing.
The library was a single-story redbrick building located on the corner of Leonard and Devoe in Williamsburg. It looked like an oversized water-pumping station, but there was beauty in its functional symmetry, and a sign by the door informed us of its historic landmark status. Inside, the large open-plan space was warm and peaceful. I could see half a dozen people browsing the shelves which lined the exterior walls. Others were sitting by desks or low tables, reading. The librarian was a young African American woman who was sorting books at a crescent-shaped service counter.
“Can I help?” she asked as Mo-bot and I approached.
“My name is Jack Morgan,” I replied. “I’m a private investigator.” I showed her my credentials. “We’re looking for information on the man who borrowed this book.”
Mo-bot reached into her bag and handed over the copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. The librarian examined it and opened the front cover. “It was borrowed two days ago,” she said. “I think I remember the guy. Yeah.” She moved to her computer and scanned the book. “Karl Parker.”
I nodded.
“Jeez, he’s the one who was shot yesterday, right?” the librarian said. “I served him on Thursday. I recognized him from the television.”
“He was a friend,” I said.
“I’m sorry,” the librarian replied sympathetically. “I’m not sure what I can tell you. He borrowed the book at three oh six p.m. I don’t have any other details.”
“What about the shelf it came from?” I asked.
“Classic children’s literature,” she replied as she emerged from behind the counter.
She led Mo-bot and me to the children’s section and took us to a shelf that was packed with well-known books.
“It normally lives right here,” the librarian said, pointing at a spot on the second shelf down on the five-foot-high unit.
“Thanks,” I said. “Do you mind if we take a look around?” “Sure. Let me know if there’s anything else I can help you with,” the librarian said before she returned to her station.
I searched the books around the space, leafing through the pages, looking for notes or messages, but there was nothing. Mo-bot did likewise, searching the books on the shelves above and below, but she too drew a blank.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” the librarian asked when we went back to the counter.
I shook my head.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
I looked around, puzzling over why Karl had sent me the book. My eyes settled on something attached to the library ceiling.
“Does that work?” I asked, pointing at a surveillance camera mounted to the wall.
“It does,” the librarian replied. “We don’t get much trouble, but the cops recommended we had them installed a few years back.”
She turned her screen so Mo-bot and I could see it, and she switched from the lending system to a camera archive.
“Could you show us footage of the time Karl Parker borrowed the book?” Mo-bot asked.
“Sure,” the librarian replied. She clicked on Thursday and cycled through the footage, searching for 3:06 p.m.
“The book is meaningless on its own,” Mo-bot observed. “But the borrowing record ties Karl Parker to a location and a time.”
The librarian found the right moment and I watched my friend on screen. He looked perfectly normal, all smiles and friendly chatter.
“You know, now I think about it, he also asked me about the cameras. He wanted to know whether they really worked and how long they kept the footage for. Said he was in the tech industry and was interested in that kind of thing,” the librarian told us.
I felt a pang of grief as I watched Karl. He seemed so real, but he was nothing more than a ghost of binary stored on a hard drive. On screen, he pushed the copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland across the counter, and when the librarian leaned toward her computer, Karl looked directly at the camera and brought his hands up to his face.
“What was that?” Mo-bot asked. “Play it again.”
The librarian co
mplied with her request, but I didn’t need to see the gesture a second time.
“That was the Marine Corps hand signal for file formation,” I explained. “It also means follow me.”
CHAPTER 21
“YOU WERE RIGHT,” I said to Mo-bot. “Karl has intentionally given us a time and place. Can you access the neighborhood traffic cameras?”
“You think he’s left a trail?” she asked.
I nodded.
“I’d better get started. My machine is in the trunk,” Mo-bot said. “What time do you close?” she asked the librarian.
“Five.”
“Can I use your Wi-Fi?” Mo-bot asked.
“As long as you’re not doing anything illegal,” the librarian replied.
Mo-bot smiled, but didn’t reply. “Give me the keys,” she said to me.
I handed them over, and she went outside. My phone rang and when I pulled it out of my pocket, I saw Justine’s name flash on the screen.
“Go ahead,” I said when I answered.
“Albany Police found the wreckage of a chopper upstate. The tail number matches the aircraft you saw leaving Manhattan Heliport. Looks like a high-impact crash. Three dead, no survivors.”
“They identify any of the victims?” I asked.
“Not yet. The remains have been badly burned. It’s going to take some time.”
I thought for a moment.
“Jack, are you there?” Justine asked.
“Yeah,” I replied. “Just trying to figure out the odds of a bird crashing with an assassin on board.”
“I’m not buying it either. Too neat. Someone is trying to cover their tracks,” Justine said. “Albany PD are blaming it on the bad weather, pending a full NTSB investigation.”
“See if you can pull any surveillance from the heliport,” I said. “The shooter was disguised, but the pilot and his accomplice might not have been. If we can get a picture, we might be able to ID them.”
“Will do,” Justine replied. “You find anything?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Karl Parker borrowed a book from a library. He gave us a time and date to pinpoint his location. I think he wants us to use the local camera network to follow him.”
“Clever,” Justine said. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”
“Will do,” I assured her. “And Justine …” I hesitated. “Thanks for coming out here. Thanks for doing this.”
“It was Sci’s idea,” she said.
I stayed quiet.
“OK, it was my idea,” she confessed. “I knew how much Karl meant to you back in the day. If it was one of my old friends, you’d do the same for me.”
“I appreciate it,” I told her. “Stay in touch.”
As I hung up, Mo-bot entered the library with her laptop case. She kicked the snow off her boots and made for one of the vacant tables.
“Over here OK?” she asked the librarian, who nodded.
“It’s bitter outside,” Mo-bot said as I joined her. “Give me a moment to warm up.”
She took off her gloves and blew on her hands. Once her circulation had returned, she got out her laptop, sat in front of her machine and went to work.
CHAPTER 22
IT WAS SNOWING heavily when I left the library. I was wearing the Arc’teryx jacket I’d found in the Nissan’s trunk and had the hood up, but the chill still bit me. Williamsburg was eerily quiet. I could see lights in the apartment buildings that lined Leonard Street, but the road itself was empty and the snow was piling up quickly. Deep drifts formed against the wall of a dairy warehouse. Even when I reached Metropolitan Avenue, there were hardly any cars on the wide street. Snow deadened the sound of the few that passed and sidewalks were empty as people avoided the worst of the storm. The sense of otherworldliness was high-lighted by the presence of a ghost on my phone. Mo-bot and I were connected via Zoom and she was simultaneously sending me pulled footage from neighborhood police and traffic cameras that showed Karl’s journey from the library. I was tracing the steps he’d taken two days earlier.
“He went west along Metropolitan,” Mo-bot said. “Let me pull up the next camera.”
I looked at my screen and saw the footage change to show Karl walking along Metropolitan Avenue. There was snow on the ground but it was nowhere near as thick as it was now, and there were people all around him. Every so often, he’d glance in the direction of the camera. He’d deliberately chosen a location that was well monitored by cameras, but why had he gone to such lengths to conceal whatever it was he wanted me to know? His message had clearly been designed for one person. The book had been addressed to me. The Marine hand sign was something only leathernecks would recognize and there were few people in the world who would have the resources and skills to hack the neighborhood cameras. Whatever he wanted me to know, Karl Parker had gone to great pains to ensure no one else would find it.
I pressed along Metropolitan Avenue through snowfall so thick it was settling on my eyebrows and lashes. I wiped my face and pulled my hood tighter as I passed a large store that sold vaping gear. Two men were inside, puffing on their machines, indistinct shapes beyond a steamed window. A short while later, I came to the intersection with Lorimer Street and stopped outside a bagel store that was filling the cold air with the scent of warm dough.
“Which way?” I asked.
“Just checking,” Mo-bot replied.
She’d spent almost an hour hacking various camera networks and setting up her system to relay to my phone. I understood the big-picture theory of what she’d done, but was in awe of people who could manipulate the digital world so effortlessly. Mo-bot and people like her were the architects of the future.
“Got him,” she said. “North along Lorimer.”
The image on my phone changed, and I saw Karl walking up Lorimer Street, past the medical center and subway station. I followed his route past the low-rise, traditional apartment blocks. There were no chains or fancy stores in this blue-collar neighborhood, just a bunch of local businesses struggling to survive. The weather wasn’t helping. At the next corner I passed a dry cleaner that was open but empty. The man at the counter mimed shivering when he saw me and gave a sympathetic nod as I went by.
I continued along Lorimer Street, following my friend’s footsteps. I couldn’t stop wondering why he hadn’t done more. If he’d known his life was in danger, why hadn’t he done something to stop his murder? Why hadn’t he spoken to me? Why leave a trail that was clearly designed only to be used after his death? I thought I knew Karl and understood how his mind worked, but this didn’t fit with the straight shooter who’d trained me, a man who had never been one for manipulation or subter-fuge. This trail was the product of a cunning, possibly paranoid mind, and I didn’t recognize my friend in its thinking. I questioned how well I really knew him if he’d been keeping a secret that required this level of concealment. A secret big enough to get him killed.
As I continued along Lorimer Street, I started to see subtle changes in the neighborhood. Graffiti marred the walls of the apartment buildings that lined the street, and some of the store signs had been tagged. When I crossed Skillman Avenue, I noticed many of the stores had barred windows. I could see the outline of the Brooklyn–Queens Expressway cutting across Lorimer Street a block down. There were hardly any vehicles on the high overpass, but those that I could see were moving incredibly slowly.
I looked at my phone and saw we’d reached the very limit of the traffic camera’s capabilities. Karl Parker came toward me, a tiny speck who’d materialized on screen somewhere near the overpass.
“You got another camera?” I asked.
“I can’t find any by the Expressway,” Mo-bot replied. “Can you see any from where you are?”
I squinted through the snow and searched the surrounding lights for signs of cameras. I hurried past a bike-repair store and a Catholic veterans’ mission to the spot where the last camera had picked up Karl, a short way beyond the intersection with Jackson Street. I glanced
around and checked the buildings. The storm made it difficult to see, and it was possible there were security cameras concealed by the snow that covered the tops of lampposts, signs and rooftops.
“I can’t see any,” I told Mo-bot. “Why would he go to all this trouble and then let the trail run cold?” I stamped my feet and rubbed my sides. “I’m going to keep heading in the same direction. See if I can find anything.”
I was very close to the Expressway now. The abandoned store on the ground floor of the two-story apartment on the corner of Jackson was covered in graffiti. I studied the tags, looking for some clue, but there was nothing, so I moved up the street. I could see a few cars parked beneath the overpass, and drifts of snow blown by the swirling winds had piled beside them. The building next to the apartment block was a single-story redbrick warehouse that stood on the corner of Meeker Avenue, directly below the Expressway. It was accessed by a steel roll shutter, which was closed. I walked to the corner and looked left and right. A tiny garage protruded from the side of the warehouse, covered by another shutter. I scanned for clues.
And then I saw it. Hidden in plain sight, amidst all the graffiti near the top of the roll shutter. A series of seemingly random shapes scored into the brickwork. Light pink etched dots and lines. Anyone familiar with Morse code would have recognized they formed the word “inside.”
CHAPTER 23
“I THINK I’VE found it,” I told Mo-bot, and I used my phone’s camera to show her the message.
“I’ll be there in five,” she said, before hanging up.
I glanced around, and then, seeing there was no one watching, I took a running jump, kicked off the warehouse wall, grabbed the garage roof and hauled myself up. I ran across the roof and jumped into a yard that was full of high drifts. I could see lengths of scaffolding and metal protruding from the mounds of snow. It looked like some kind of junkyard. A narrow snow-free gully had been created on the leeward side of a graffiti-covered fence and I hurried down it, past the piles of metal to the back of the warehouse, where I saw a steel door that stood beside a tiny, barred window.
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