He heard footsteps. Loud, fast. The police were here. Ali heard pounding on the door, the wood splintering, and his barricade scraping the floor as it was shoved aside.
“Hey, can’t you read?” Ali called out. “The sign says ‘do not disturb.’”
He chuckled a little at that, then he lit his lighter and tossed it onto the makeshift barricade, setting it ablaze. He heard a scream. Hopefully, someone was burned badly.
Ali turned back to the window and aimed his gun again, searching for other targets, when a searing blow struck him in the shoulder. He did a pirouette and hit the floor on his back.
A sniper. Ali hadn’t even considered that. He was quite shocked at how much it hurt. How many movies and television shows had he seen where the hero takes a bullet to the shoulder and keeps fighting, claiming, “It’s only a flesh wound.”? Ali’s shoulder burned, and he was already so weak that he could barely move. He couldn’t even sit up.
As he lay on the floor, he heard the hiss of fire extinguishers and his barricade being dismantled. There was nothing else Ali could do. With his last ounce of strength, Ali raised the gun lying across his chest and said in a weak voice, “Allahu Akbar.”
A bullet to the head prevented him from pulling the trigger that one last time.
CHAPTER THREE
Mary Jordan took off her jacket and draped it casually over the back of a molded, plastic chair. She then did the same with her blouse. Then her bra. A cheerful young woman in pale blue scrubs attached three electrode pads to her torso: one over her right breast, one over her left breast and one underneath, where her belly met her ribcage.
“Okay, hop up here.” The woman in scrubs patted the examination table. Mary wasn’t even certain what the woman’s function was. Was she a nurse? A medical assistant? For all Mary knew, this woman worked in the lunchroom. She thought about asking, but decided against it. Once Mary was on the table, the woman in scrubs said, “Lie on your left side, please.” While Mary tried to get comfortable - difficult to do while topless in front of a stranger - the woman wheeled over a cart with an intimidating contraption on top of it. She positioned it next to the table. The machine had a handheld wand connected to it by a wire. The woman in scrubs applied some sort of clear gel from a tube onto the wand and said, “Okay, now. You shouldn’t feel a thing.” She pressed the device to Mary’s chest.
I’ll have to disagree with you there, Mary thought. She did feel something: humiliated. Also, cold. Where did they keep that gel, in a freezer?
For the next forty minutes, the woman maneuvered the wand around Mary’s bare chest, manhandling her left breast as if it were an inconvenience, in the way. Which, Mary supposed, it was. Occasionally, the woman would give instructions like, “Lean a little forward, please. Lean a little back, please. Breathe in. Now hold it. Now breathe out.”
Mary couldn’t see the machine from her vantage point, but she could hear the whump-whump-whump of her heartbeat through the speakers. As the woman relocated the wand around her body, the volume and pitch would change. Sometimes her heartbeat was loud and booming, other times it was soft and barely audible.
Finally, the ordeal was over. The woman in scrubs said, “Okay, you can sit up, now.”
Mary obeyed. She tried not to wince at the pads were removed from her chest. “So, how is my heart? Everything look okay?”
“Dr. Miller will contact you in a few days with the results.”
“Oh.”
The woman handed Mary a paper towel. “You can get dressed now.”
“Uh, thanks.” Mary wiped gel off her chest and started maneuvering into her bra. She remembered the days when she could just slip into it and fix the hooks in the back in seconds. These days, she had to bend over and push the girls into position before straightening up and hooking the back. Mary glanced at her examiner while she performed this operation. The woman was too busy filling out paperwork on a clipboard to notice Mary’s discomfort.
She was buttoning her blouse when her phone rang. She answered, “Sergeant Jordan.”
A male voice on the other end said, “This is Lieutenant Baxter. I’m sorry to bother you on your day off, but we have a situation and Captain Oakes wants you to be a part of it.”
“What’s happened?”
“A sniper just killed almost a dozen people in Union Square not half an hour ago.”
Mary could only think of one reason Captain Oakes would specifically ask for her. “Terrorism?”
“That has yet to be determined.”
“I’m on my way.”
“Actually, I have a team heading to the perp’s apartment.” The lieutenant gave an address in Harlem. “I was hoping you could meet us there.”
“I’ll be there as quick as I can.” Mary hung up and stuck the phone in her jacket pocket. She looked down and swore. “Damn it.” She hadn’t quite gotten all the gel off her chest, and now there were two wet spots on her blouse. She buttoned up her jacket and hoped nobody would notice.
CHAPTER FOUR
Ali Nasir, the man whose name Baxter had given Mary over the phone, had apparently lived alone on the fifth floor of a pre-war walk-up. After hiking up five flights of stairs, Mary stopped for a moment and tried to feel her heartbeat. It seemed normal to her. That doctor was crazy if she thought anything was wrong with her. Hell, she wasn’t even breathing that hard.
Lieutenant Baxter appeared in the doorway. “Thank you for coming, Sergeant.” He was wearing latex gloves and didn’t offer a hand. “This is Nasir’s apartment.”
“I’m not entirely sure why I’m here.”
“Captain Oakes insisted. If this ends up classified as terrorism, we’ll have to inform the FBI. As I understand it, you have a pretty good working relationship with the Feebs.” His expression darkened at the word. Like many police officers, Baxter obviously found it hard to hide his resentment toward the FBI.
“I heard a little on the radio on the way over. Weren’t the suspect’s last words ‘Allahu Akbar’?”
“That translates as ‘God is great.’ That’s all. Despite being a favorite tagline of terrorists, other people say it, too.”
“I was listening to the news reports and they’re already calling it an act of terror.”
“Of course they are. Random psychos with guns are too commonplace these days.” Baxter said. “They don’t get enough interest. Terrorism is the one buzzword that still pulls in the ratings.”
“With the press already calling it terrorism, we may have to classify it as such just to avoid the usual accusations of a cover-up if we don’t.” Mary looked around the small apartment. It was sparsely furnished, but the furniture that was there was clean and in good shape. “So what do we know about this man?”
“He worked at an art gallery in midtown.”
“An art gallery.” Mary was surprised, although she wasn’t sure why.
“He was an administrator. He arranged showings, called the press, booked the caterers, et cetera. I guess he made a decent living at it. He could afford an apartment in Manhattan, after all.”
“Did you talk to his employer?”
“Yes. They said he was pleasant enough, but a bit of a loner. He had no real social life to speak of, which made him perfect for the job. They kept him working odd hours and called him in on short notice if there was a crisis like some artist throwing a temper tantrum. In the last couple of months, he’d become less available than he used to be. Especially in the evenings. They thought maybe he’d gotten himself a girlfriend.” Baxter checked his notepad. “Then, last week, he stopped showing up for work all together. They called him, but he never answered and never called back.”
“Did he ever say anything about his religion or politics in the workplace?”
“Never. His employer didn’t even know what religion he was. When he applied for the job three years ago, he filled out one of those census things. Under religion, he put ‘none.’”
“So if he did become a religious or political fanatic, it w
as a recent change. Or, he was trying to hide it. We need to find out who he’s been in contact with in the last few months. The important thing now is to figure out if this was a lone-wolf attack or if he was recruited by someone.”
“His phone is already on its way to the lab. We’ll get a list of phone numbers shortly.”
“I don’t see a computer. Do we know if he had one?”
“We haven’t found one.”
Mary opened her mouth to reply but was cut off by the sound of the apartment door opening. She jumped a little.
“Excuse me.” A patrolman burst into the room with a panic-stricken look on his face. “I think we have a problem.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Mary saw the scene outside Ali Nasir’s apartment building. “Damn.”
It had been over a decade since a handful of dour, angry young men murdered three thousand people and irrevocably altered the Manhattan skyline, but New Yorkers have long memories and any reminder of those days risked bringing out the bigoted, irrational underside of the otherwise famously liberal city. Word of the sniper attack, now labeled ‘“Islamic terrorism’” by the media, had spread across the streets of New York. Residents were anxious for something or someone to focus their anger on. The police department was primed to be ready for acts of vigilantism. New York’s Muslim population would be on guard, having lived through this many times before. Not just Muslims, either. Anyone of Middle Eastern descent or, indeed, anyone who “looked” Muslim, would be thinking twice before stepping out alone. Mary remembered several Indians being attacked by idiots who didn’t know the difference between a Muslim and a Sikh.
A small, dark woman wearing a traditional Muslim headscarf and a look of wide-eyed terror stood in the street. She was flanked on either side by a patrolman, each with a hand on his sidearm, holstered but ready to go at a moment’s notice. Mary judged there were maybe three dozen people lined up and down the block, all glaring at the terrified woman. The crowd wasn’t acting overtly hostile as yet but Mary knew it would take little to set off a riot.
Mary asked, quietly, “What the hell is going on?”
The patrolman on the woman’s left said, “This is Shehat Nasir, the suspect’s sister. She said this crowd has been following her for the last five blocks, getting bigger and bigger all the time.”
“Shit. We have to get out of here. Which squad car is yours?”
He nodded to the nearest car.
Mary said to the young woman, “We have to leave now. Do you understand?”
The woman nodded silently. Mary took her by the arm, opened the back door, ushered the woman inside and then climbed in after her. The patrolman took the driver’s seat. A bottle smashed against the window just as the door closed.
That was it. That was all the trigger needed. The crowd rushed in and surrounded the car. Now fists were pounding on the windows and voices were shouting slurs and threats.
“Get us out of here.” Mary commanded. Easier said than done. There were people standing in front of the car and in back. The car couldn’t move without running over someone. The patrolman hit the siren and flashing lights. Then he leaned on the horn. It had no effect. He tried gunning the engine. It didn’t faze the crowd.
Some in the crowd were now rocking the car. Shehat Nasir shrieked and buried her head in her hands.
Mary leaned forward. “Gun.”
The patrolman unholstered his sidearm and aimed it at the windshield. The people directly in front saw this and wavered, then tentatively stepped aside. Now that there was a hole in the crowd, the patrolman hit the accelerator and peeled out, sending the crowd scattering. “I hope I didn’t hit anyone.”
“Relax. You did fine.” Mary turned to the young woman. “Okay, Ms. Nasir. I need to ask you some questions. First, what are you doing here?”
The young woman looked at Mary for just a moment, then turned away. Mary noticed she had a black eye, just beginning to fade. “I saw what happened on the news. I came to see my brother.”
“But if you knew what happened, then you knew your brother couldn’t be home.”
“I thought … I hoped … maybe it was a mistake.”
“I’m very sorry. There is no mistake.”
Shehat put her head in her hands and began weeping. Mary gave her a couple of minutes, then, “I’m sorry, but I have to ask you some difficult questions now. Do you know why your brother did this thing?”
Shehat lifted her head but didn’t answer.
Mary tried again. “We have to know, Ms. Nasir. Did your brother kill those people because of his religion or his politics?”
She looked down and said nothing.
“Was your brother always religious?”
Shehat shook her head. “On the contrary. He hadn’t been to a mosque in years, despite our parents’ pleading. He said he wasn’t interested. He just didn’t believe.”
“But something changed.”
“Yes. A few months ago he started going to the mosque with the family again. He had finally come back. We were so happy … at first.”
“At first?”
“He went overboard. He began getting into fights with the family.”
“What sort of fights?”
“Political fights. Especially with father. Our father works for a department store. The owner is a Jew and, suddenly, my brother couldn’t stand it. He actually demanded my father quit. He said a real Muslim would never be a part of the Zionist conspiracy. He was ranting. I’d never heard him talk like that before. Then he called the entire family posers and stormed out. He hasn’t been back to our parents’ house since.”
Mary pointed to her eye. “Did he do that to you?”
Shehat nodded. “I was going out with some friends. Nasir didn’t approved of the way I was dressed. He said I dressed like a whore and he demanded I go home and change. When I refused …”
“What you are describing is a drastic change in a very short period of time. That doesn’t happen from nothing.”
“Don’t you think I know that? That’s how it happened. It was like he was brainwashed. He became a different person overnight. I don’t know why.”
“Could he have been under the influence of someone, fallen in with a bad crowd perhaps?”
“Well, obviously.” Shehat snapped angrily. “Someone did this do him. This was not my brother.”
“Can you give me the names of his friends?”
“Yes, but that won’t help you. Most of them aren’t Muslim, and anyway, he stopped hanging out with them when he changed. If there were new people in his life, I don’t know who they are.”
“Did he have a girlfriend?”
“Yes, but he wouldn’t talk about her. He never even told me her name.”
“I need you to go to the station and give a statement. Can you do that?”
“Yes.”
Mary leaned forward again and rapped on the plastic shield that divided the front seat from the back. “Take us to One Police Plaza.” She leaned back and another question occurred to her. “Did your brother have a computer?”
“I assume so. We Facebooked from time to time so he must have.”
Mary wondered when Facebook had become a verb.
CHAPTER SIX
The meeting was brief. Brief and awkward.
Leopold Blake was dressed casually. At least, as casually as possible for a man of his wealth and stature. He wore a perfectly tailored blue blazer over a black turtleneck, blue jeans, and Italian loafers made by a cordwainer in Milan. Not a single article of clothing on his body cost less than one hundred dollars, including his socks and silk underwear.
Leopold hadn’t felt the need to dress up for the meeting. He had known Raymond Lance for years. Ray Lance was just about the only man who ever worked for Leopold’s father that he actually trusted, mostly because Lance walked out on Blake Investments, Inc. when he no longer trusted the elder Blake. When Leopold took over the company, one of his first acts was to rehire Lance. These days, Lance’s
job title was Director of Special Projects. Leopold had made diversifying into a number of different fields a priority, and Lance was put in charge of what he called “side projects,” operations that Blake felt were important, but didn’t have the time or knowledge to properly manage. Lance worked well independently, and anything he didn’t know, he knew how to find out. Leopold trusted his opinion, and it was rare that they didn’t see eye to eye.
This was one of these times.
“I don’t understand why we’re doing this.” Lance said. The subject was the recently acquired subsidiary Atlantic Health Management, now renamed Blake Health Care. It was originally purchased to provide medical insurance coverage for Blake employees. Leopold wanted to expand the business to outside customers.
“The population is growing older.” Leopold explained. “People are living longer and the need for health care is growing daily. It is the definition of a growth industry and the only one we can be sure that won’t suddenly dry up.”
“Okay. Let me rephrase that. Why are we doing this now?” Lance asked. “Republicans are threatening to overturn the Affordable Care Act. We could spend millions trying to meet all the rules and regulations only to have them overturned when we get a new president. Shouldn’t we at least wait until the election?”
“Everyone is thinking the same thing. That’s why now is the perfect time to strike. The ACA won’t be overturned. Republicans are right about one thing. Once an entitlement program gets started, it’s almost impossible to get rid of it. That’s why they were so desperate to prevent it in the first place. Now that it’s in place, it’s too late.”
Lance shrugged and didn’t argue further. There was no point in arguing with a billionaire, he told himself. Billionaires usually knew what they were talking about when it came to money. That’s how they got to be billionaires. “Anything else?”
“Yes. We need to do something about the losses to fraud and abuse. I’ve seen the numbers and they are unacceptable.”
Broken: A Leopold Blake Thriller Page 2
