“Don’t the police have translators?”
“I didn’t want to wait.”
“So what did it say?”
“The short version is that every problem in the world, especially the oppression of Muslims in India and everywhere else, is the fault of America’s military industrial complex. There was a lot of ranting against evil corporations run by evil millionaires and billionaires.”
“Like Leopold Blake.”
“Not just me. Everyone from Warren Buffett to Donald Trump. Basically, if you have money, you deserve to die.” Leopold said. “I think you were right from the beginning. Waris Khan didn’t target me. He had it in for anyone rich. He just saw me on the street and decided to take advantage of it.”
“So you agree this has nothing to do with you?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say that. It may have been a crime of opportunity, but he did try to kill me.”
“But, surely, there’s no reason for you to get involved. This is just some angry kid who decided to take his anger out on the rest of the world. It’s not some grand conspiracy.”
“Now I wouldn’t say that, either. What about Ali Nasir?”
It took Jerome a moment to place the name. “The Union Square sniper? What’s he got to do with this?”
“I don’t know. I just think it’s strange, two acts of terrorism in the same city. What are the odds of that?”
“Very good, actually. Lone wolf attacks often come in spurts. One angry, disaffected loner sees an attack on TV and gets inspired.”
“Or maybe they were both inspired by the same people.”
“You mean the people who write The Uprising?”
“Mary is investigating the Union Square shooting. Why don’t we ask her?”
The two men went searching and located Mary at a desk, on her phone. She held up a finger as they approached. “Hold on a sec.” She set the phone on the desk and pressed the speaker button. “I have Leopold Blake here. He’s consulting with us. Tell him what you told me.”
A voice on the phone said, “Hello, Mr. Blake. I’m Johnny Chavez with the FBI. I understand you’re interested in The Uprising. We’ve been monitoring them for about six months now.”
“By monitoring, you mean spying?” Leopold asked.
“Spying is such an ugly word.” Agent Chavez said. “Ugly and accurate. There are six of them, and they meet once a week in the back room of a bar in Staten Island. Your boy Kahn hooked up with them two months ago.”
“How did he learn about them?”
“No clue. He just showed up one day. They were definitely of the same mind, though. There was a lot of talk about the violent overthrow of governments.”
“What governments?”
“Any governments. They hate America and India, Christians and Hindus. They’re equal opportunity haters.”
“So, exactly the sort of people who might radicalize an angry young man like Waris Khan.”
“Yes.” Chavez said. “Except they didn’t.”
“What do you mean, they didn’t?”
“I’ve been reading transcripts of the conversations the Bureau recorded and translated. Three days ago, at their last meeting, Waris Khan told them it was time to stop talking and take some action.”
“What sort of action?”
“He never said. He never got that far. The rest of the group shot him down and tossed him out, not willing to take the risk. It turns out they were all talk.”
“Could we meet in person? I’d like to discuss this further.”
“Uh, that’s a bit of a problem. I’m not actually in New York at the moment. I’m in New Haven.”
Leopold was surprised to hear this. “New Haven, Connecticut?”
“That’s right.”
The name hadn’t registered with Leopold at first but the mention of New Haven triggered a memory. “Are you the same Chavez who cracked the Meridian Blue stock market scam?”
“That’s me.”
“That was one hell of a piece of detective work. Don’t you usually deal with white collar crimes?”
Chavez coughed, then, “Uh, usually.”
“Then why are you involved in something like this?”
The agents handling the surveillance asked me to look into The Uprising’s finances. There was some concern they might be fundraising for radical groups or maybe buying arms.”
“So what did you find?”
“Nothing. Those boys are flat broke. They can’t even afford the paper their so-called newsletter is printed on.”
Mary had been quiet, listening to this exchange. Now she spoke up. “I’d like to ask a question, Agent Chavez.”
“Shoot.”
“You keep saying ‘boys.’ Were there any women involved with this group?”
“Nope. That would be unusual for a bunch of radical Muslims, don’t you think?”
“Unusual, but not unheard of. Thank you for your input, Agent Chavez. We’ll call you if we need anything else.”
“Happy to help. Bye.”
Mary disconnected the call. “The Uprising was all bark and no bite. Whatever it was that made Waris Khan a killer, it wasn’t them. Frankly, it sounds like he was ready to blow someone up before he even met them.”
“I agree.”
“Oh, good,” Mary said. “I’m always glad when you validate my years of experience as a detective.
Leopold ignored the sarcasm. “You think his girlfriend had something to do with it?”
“Why?”
“You asked if there were any women in the group.”
“Just covering all the bases.”
“Why don’t we look at another base? Ali Nasir, for example.”
Mary waved a dismissive hand. “All the evidence we have says Ali Nasir was a lone wolf. He doesn’t have anything to do with this.”
“Maybe he …” Leopold didn’t get to finish his thought.
Captain Oakes had sidled up to the group. “Can you come into my office for a moment, please?”
All three started to follow, but the captain said, “Just Mr. Blake.”
Jerome wasn’t happy about having his employer out of his sight, but Leopold tried to reassure him. “Relax. I’m in the middle of a police station. How much trouble could I get into?” Jerome started to respond, but Leopold held up a finger. “Don’t answer that.”
He disappeared into the captain’s office. Jerome sat down in a chair next to the desk to await his employer’s return. He pulled a paperback book out of his pocket and started reading.
Mary read the cover: “Siddhartha” by Herman Hess. “You have very eclectic reading tastes.”
“Do I?”
“Last week, you were reading some western by Louis L’Amour, and before that, didn’t I see you with The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy?”
“I like good writing. I don’t especially care what genre.”
Mary’s phone trilled. She put it to her ear. “Sergeant Jordan.” Forgetting her phone was still set to speaker, she was startled when a voice loud enough for the entire squad room to hear announced, “This Dr. Franklin’s office. The results of your ultrasound are in.”
“Shit. Hang on.” She fumbled with the phone, switching off the speaker. She left her desk and Jerome to find a private corner where she could talk with minimal risk of being overheard. “Okay. What about the test, is it good news?”
“The doctor would like you to make an appointment to discuss it.”
“Can’t you just tell me what the results are?”
“If you’re in a hurry, the doctor has an opening at two this afternoon.”
“This afternoon? I’m on a case.”
“Would another day work better?”
“Can’t you just tell me?”
“I’m not a doctor. I can’t do that.”
“Can you get the doctor on the phone?”
“The doctor won’t be available until two. She would rather see you in person.”
“You’re not going
to tell me, are you?”
“So how about two?”
“Two is fine.”
“Great. See you then.” Click and the phone went dead.
Mary let out a long sigh and stomped back to her desk.
Jerome was still reading. When Mary sat down, Jerome asked, without looking up from his book, “So, are congratulations in order?”
“What? Congratulations?” It took Mary a moment to realize what he was asking. Once she did, Mary snatched the book from Jerome’s hands, grabbed him by the lapel, and drew the big man close to her. She whispered, almost hissing, “They use ultrasound for things other than pregnancy. If you start a rumor that I’m pregnant, I swear to God, I’ll rip …”
“I was just asking.”
She let the man go and tossed him his book. “Well, don’t.”
Jerome casually opened his book and resumed reading. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Captain Oakes closed the door to his office. He didn’t sit and he didn’t offer Leopold a seat. “What were you doing at the Khans’ house today?”
“I didn’t do anything. I was just there.”
“That’s the problem. You shouldn’t have been there.”
“A man tried to kill me. I’m investigating the crime.”
“You are the victim and you showed up at the house of the suspect’s parents. Did you even tell them who you are?”
“No. I thought it might be awkward.”
Now Oakes was shouting. “Of course it’s awkward, you ass!” With visible effort, Oakes got control of himself. Quieter, he continued, “You had no business insinuating yourself into this ongoing investigation, especially when you happen to be part of the crime.”
Leopold was fairly certain Oakes was misusing the word “insinuating,” but decided it would be impolitic to correct him. “I happen to be a consultant for the NYPD.”
“Nobody consulted you about this case. You weren’t there in any official capacity.”
Leopold smiled. “That can be fixed very easily.”
“Oh, yes. You’ll call one of your country club buddies and, five minutes later, the mayor will be on my phone telling me, ‘We need Leopold Blake on the case. Only the great detective himself can solve this mystery.’“Oakes' voice dripped with sarcasm. “You think the rules that we mere peons have to obey don’t apply to you? Well, a man of your wealth and power, I guess they don’t. But do you know who they do apply to? Jordan, that’s who.”
Leopold’s smile wavered. “Mary didn’t …”
“Sergeant Jordan is the investigating officer and she let the victim into the house of the suspect’s parents. That’s grounds for a reprimand, at minimum. It certainly puts her judgment into question.”
“Now, wait a minute.”
“No. Maybe the rules don’t apply to you, but when you’re done playing Sherlock Holmes, the rest of us are left to clean up the mess. Jordan used to be a by-the-book cop …”
“She still is.”
“Not any more. Not when you’re around, and I’m not the only one who’s noticed. The thing that really galls me is that I actually encouraged this relationship. Her relationship with you has put her career in jeopardy, and I’ll be damned if I’ll let you do the same to mine.”
Leopold opened his mouth to respond but then closed it again without making a sound. He had worked with Oakes before, but had never heard him talk like this. Was this resentment against an outsider interfering in police business built up over time, or was Oakes under some new pressure? More importantly, was Oakes right? Leopold played fast and loose with rules, but he got results. He always just assumed that was enough. Had he unwittingly put Mary’s career in jeopardy? Oakes was furious, but he was also Mary’s boss. Leopold couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t antagonize Oakes further, so he settled for, “Is there anything else?”
“Yes. You may own the mayor, and probably a couple of senators and congressmen as well, but you don’t own me or this department. Now get out of my office.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
A surly, red-faced man in a dark suit stomped past Jack, bumping into him and nearly knocking him off the subway platform, and onto the tracks below. The surly man didn’t stop, or apologize, or even look to see if Jack was still standing.
Was everyone in New York City an asshole?
No, Jack thought to himself, not everyone. At least one person in New York City isn’t an asshole: me.
Jack had been having a bad week, and anyone who knew about it would probably forgive him for a bit of assholish behavior. On Sunday, sewage backed up into his bathtub. On Monday, his girlfriend broke up with him. On Tuesday, the project at work he’d spent six months preparing for had been canceled. On Wednesday, he’d learned he wasn’t getting a raise this year because “times had been tough for the company,” at least, according to his asshole boss. On Thursday, some jerk had nearly knocked him off the subway platform and onto the tracks below.
Despite, or perhaps even because of these tragedies, Jack had decided it wasn’t going to get to him. After all, none of these tragedies were especially tragic when taken on their own individual merit. It was only the cumulative effect that made them seem, well, tragic. Instead of allowing these misfortunes (which is all they really were - not tragedies), Jack had decided to turn over a new leaf. He wasn’t going to devolve into the typical New York asshole. He was going to appreciate what he had, and he was determined to be cheerful about it. After all, he was living in the greatest city in the world (Sorry, London, Paris, and L.A. You know it’s true).
Jack stood on the platform, smiling and humming to himself, waiting for his daily train to arrive. He felt the whoosh of hot air in his face announce the arrival of the train even before he heard the squeal of the wheels on metal tracks. The train huffed to a stop, and the doors opened with a pneumatic hiss. He stepped onboard and saw the car was almost half empty. Plenty of seating available. How great was that? Jack sat down and decided this really was going to be a good day. Jack looked down one end of the car and saw several men in gray suits and maroon ties, lawyers and stockbrokers and businessmen all heading downtown to make deals and make money. At the other end were half a dozen Hasidim from Brooklyn. The broad black hats and flowing sidelocks were familiar sights to any New Yorker. One had the Talmud open and was reading. He was an older man with streaks of gray in his beard. Surely, he must have read his Talmud cover to cover many times by now, yet here he was, reading it again. Jack couldn’t imagine reading the same book over and over. He wondered how many of them just pretended to read it.
The train slowed to a halt, and the doors hissed open again, letting a new group of people on, then moved on.
At the next stop, a few people got off. More people got on. A young man in blue jeans and red hair sat down next to Jack. He smiled at Jack. Jack smiled at him. They were the only two people on that train who smiled. Jack decided he must be a tourist. He was carrying a canvas bag. He set it on the floor and pushed it under his seat with his feet.
Now all the seating was occupied, and the most recent arrivals had to dangle from the overhead handholds, swaying as the train sped up and slowed down, trying not to bump into each other. At the next stop, an old and very fat woman got on, supported by a solid wooden cane. She wore a long wool skirt and a gray headscarf. Jack thought they belonged somewhere in Eastern Europe, not New York City. Both Jack and the redheaded tourist stood up, offering her a seat. She was so wide, she needed both.
Another stop. This time, a man with a saxophone stepped aboard. A few of the riders groaned the moment they saw him, knowing what was coming. As soon as the train pulled away, the man put the instrument to his lips and started to blow. Jack recognized the tune. It was “Harlem Nocturne,” the theme to the old Mike Hammer TV show. The redheaded tourist seemed to be the only one enjoying the show, grinning widely and bopping his head along to the music.
The train slowed to a
stop once again, and the doors hissed open. No one got on. No one got off right away. Just as the doors started to close, the redheaded tourist leapt through the doors, just as they sealed. Jack decided the man had been so engrossed in the music that he had almost missed his stop.
The train was moving again. Jack noticed the bag under the seat. It belonged to the redheaded tourist. He forgot it. Well, Jack thought, if you are serious about not being a typical New York asshole, you better do something about it. He reached between the old woman’s flabby legs and pulled the bag out from under the seat. The bag was shapeless and Jack had to turn it over in his hands a couple of time before he found a zipper. Hopefully, there was something inside that could help Jack identify the owner and return his lost property. He gave the zipper pull a tug.
The explosion killed fourteen people.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Fifteen minutes. Mary slumped in her chair, fuming. Fifteen goddamned minutes.
Mary looked at her watch again. It was two fifteen. Her appointment was for two. She had arrived on time. Early, in fact. Then she had spent ten minutes in the waiting room, and another five in this damned examination room. Why do doctors even bother making appointments when they never show up on time for them?
Mary looked at her watch again. It was 2:16.
At 2:17, the door opened, and Dr. Beth Franklin entered the room. “And how are you doing today?”
Mary sat up. “I was hoping you could tell me.”
“Well, your echocardiogram came back fine. No enlargement. No sign of arterial disease. The ultrasound looks very good.”
“That’s good news.” Mary didn’t let on how relieved she was. It shouldn’t have surprised her, she thought. After all, she was a young woman in excellent shape. The idea that she had any kind of heart disease was ridiculous. The echocardiogram had been a waste of time.
Apparently reading her thoughts, the doctor said, “We’re just being thorough. Now that we’ve eliminated all other factors, we can deal with the real problem.”
Broken: A Leopold Blake Thriller Page 4
