Broken: A Leopold Blake Thriller

by Gordon Hopkins

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “There’s only one number on that phone and I’m never calling it again.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Leopold Blake made his home in a massive, Park Avenue penthouse. Its locale and sheer size would have made it the envy of even the wealthiest Manhattanite. It would have aggravated those same wealthy Manhattanites no end if they saw one of the most enviable properties in the world treated like a giant college dorm room. There were stacks of books all over the floor. Some stacks were knee-high, others nearly the height of a man. Leopold seemed to drop books wherever he happened to be when he finished reading. Papers were scattered everywhere. His filing method seemed to be based on the rules of golf. Specifically, play it where it lays. Leopold was always researching, and all his research eventually ended up here. If there was a method to the madness of Leopold’s apartment, no outsider could hope to discern it.

  The latest acquisition to the maelstrom of paper was a copy of the case files for the recent terror attacks. Leopold was going over and over the same information, trying to find the connective tissue that linked Ali Nasir, Waris Khan, and Donald Ronkowski.

  His phone rang. Like all rich men, Leopold had several telephone numbers. The one that rang now was a number he gave exclusively to friends with whom he had no business dealings. In recent years, he had become aware of how the number of times that line rang had dwindled.

  He answered, “Hello.”

  “Hi, Leopold, it’s Davis.”

  “Good God, Davis. I haven’t heard from you in ages.”

  “Three years, to be exact. I, uh, didn’t catch you at a bad time, did I? I know you’re a busy man.”

  “Is that why you haven’t called in three years?”

  “Hey, you know where I was. You could have called me.”

  “Fair enough. What can I do for you?”

  “I hate to be one of those guys who only calls when he wants something, but …”

  “You want something.”

  “Just some professional advice.”

  “Professional? Which profession? I wear a lot of professional hats, you know.”

  “You still work with the FBI, don’t you?”

  “Sometimes. What’s the problem?”

  “Can we meet? I’d rather not discuss it over the phone.”

  “Now you’re starting to sound a little paranoid.”

  Ansara laughed at that. “I’m a politically active Muslim, and you’re a billionaire. What are the odds that neither of our phones are tapped?”

  “Good point.”

  “Look, maybe I’m overreacting. I don’t want to get her into trouble if I misconstrued something she said.”

  “How about we meet for dinner tonight. Say, Le Bernardin.”

  “Le Bernardin? Isn’t that place usually booked months in advance?”

  “Don’t worry. I know a guy.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “I’ll see you tonight.”

  “Thanks, Leopold.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Larry Hendricks had always wanted to be a cop. It had been his dream since he was six years old. After high school, he had applied to the academy, and was promptly shot down. His eyes weren’t good enough. He had developed early onset arthritis in his knees and, frankly, he couldn’t handle the studies. The book learning had been a lot harder than he had anticipated. It just ’wasn’t his strong suit. After all, he’d barely graduated high school. Still, he handled a gun well (at close range, anyway), and had stamina, so he had applied to one of those schools that trained security guards. A year later, he was a security guard at Atlantic Financial. He had worked at that bank for thirty years, until it closed its door after the most recent economic downturn. He didn’t have enough money to retire, so he took a job at the university. It sucked. At the bank, he was guarding money. A lot of money. It was an important job. He’d lived through several robberies, and even got a commendation after taking down an armed bank robber. He wasn’t a cop, but he was the next best thing.

  The university was a different story. What was he protecting here? The chalk? Hell, they didn’t even use chalk and chalkboards any more. Now they used whiteboards and those foul-smelling markers. Dumb kids probably sniffed them to get high.

  As he walked yet another long, dark corridor, his knees began to ache. That was another thing he missed about the bank job. He stood in one place most of the day. Here, he walked up and down hallways, making sure the students didn’t pull any pranks. Big deal. These rotten kids did all their pranking on the internet anyway. Nobody did any cool pranks, any more. Back in his day, college kids used to take cars apart and put them back together in the dean’s office, or fill the big fountain with laundry soap, sending a glorious tidal wave of soap bubbles all over campus.

  Larry saw a figure at the other end of the hall. He saw a dark, female face and one of those pale blue smocks the nighttime cleaning staff wore. She carried a plastic bucket filled with bottles of cleaning solutions in one arm. With the other, she used a mop handle to push a larger, metal bucket on wheels, filled with soapy water. He approached her and realized he didn’t recognize her. “Hey. Where’s Maria?”

  “Qué?” The woman said.

  “I need to see your pass.”

  “Qué?”

  Larry spoke louder and slower. “Me … need … see … pass … pronto.”

  “I clean.” She mimed mopping the floor.

  “Oh, for God’s sake.” He saw the pass clipped to her belt. He snatched if off, nearly tearing a couple of belt loops in the process. He shined his flashlight on the plastic card. “Rosita Gutierrez.” He handed the card back to her. “Don’t speak any English, do you?”

  “No English. I clean.”

  “Hey, Chiquita. Joo wanna banana?”

  “Qué?”

  “I gotta big banana for joo, Chiquita.”

  “Qué?”

  “Oh, just get to work, wetback.” He waved her on. “When you’re done, you can go home. Back home to that one-bedroom apartment you share with fifteen other illegal immigrants.”

  As soon as he turned his back, she aimed her middle finger in his direction. She’d had no doubt the idiot security guard would let her go. One brown face is just like another to these white American assholes. Actually, color didn’t matter. Black, white, yellow, red, brown. All Americans were racist.

  Racist and stupid.

  He walked down the hall, turned a corner, and disappeared. As soon as he was out of sight, she pulled a key from her pocket and unlocked the door to Professor Ansara’s office. She quickly slipped inside and closed the door behind her. She didn’t turn on the light. Instead, she used a small flashlight to find his desk. She sat down and tried the main drawer. It was locked. She tried the other keys on the keyring but none of them worked. With no alternative, she took out a blade and pried the drawer open. The lock was metal, but the drawer was wood. The wood splintered with a crack, and the drawer opened. She held her breath and listened for footsteps. When she heard none, she breathed again. She found the professor’s laptop and removed it. She dropped it into the bucket of water. Then she added some more soap and plunged her hand in, swirling the water and frothing it up. Soon, there was enough foam to hide the computer completely. She did a quick search for any additional electronic devices. Finding none, she opened the door a crack and peeked out. The hall was empty. She stepped out, closed the door behind her, and shuffled down the hall with her buckets.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  A squad car pulled up to the entrance of a dark alley. There were three other police vehicles already parked, red and blue flashing lights illuminating the street. Mary exited the car and walked into the darkness between two brick towers. Trash cans lined the brick walls on either side, shadows of the buildings keeping the alley in perpetual darkness no matter the time of day.

  A uniformed police officer held a spotlight on the body lying face down on the concrete. A plainclothes detective saw Mary and put
out a hand. “I’m Detective Ibrahim. Thank you for coming. I’m sorry to call you in on this. I realize you’ve got a full dance card already, but I thought you really needed to be told about this.”

  Mary took the man’s hand and shook. “I know your name. Aren’t you with the hate crimes task force?”

  “That’s right. There have been several assaults against Muslims ever since that sniper and the bombings. This looked like another reprisal attack. That’s why I was called in. Now, I’m not so sure.”

  “Why? The victim was Muslim, wasn’t he?”

  “That’s right. His name is Davis Ansara. He taught at Lennox University.”

  “Do you know what he was doing here?”

  “A lot of people from the university cut through this alley on the way to the subway.”

  There was a hole in the back of the dead man’s head, filled with blood and matted hair. “A single shot to the back of the head. Execution style?”

  “Nope. The entry would is angled upwards. I think the killer shot him from a crouching position.” Ibrahim pointed to a row of trash cans. “He hid behind those and waited for Ansara to pass by.”

  “Does the university have many Muslim students?”

  “A few.”

  “So the killer might have been waiting for professor Ansara, or he might have just been waiting for anyone and Ansara just happened to be the unlucky one. Why don’t you think this is a hate crime?”

  “We got a call from the university. The professor’s office was broken into last night. Someone stole his laptop.”

  Another vanished computer. Mary had no doubt that this murder was somehow related to the terror attacks. The question was: how? “Any indication he might have been involved with religious extremists?”

  Ibrahim shook his head. “On the contrary. He was openly critical of Islamic religion and political leaders for not doing enough to stop terrorism. In fact, a bunch of people at the university were trying to get him fired, accusing him of being an anti-Muslin extremist.”

  “Was he? An anti-Muslin extremist, I mean.”

  Ibrahim shrugged. “I don’t think so. Mostly, he was just a big mouth.”

  The professor seemed an unlikely candidate for domestic terrorism. Still, the missing computer meant there was a connection. She just had to figure out what it was. “Do you think this is somehow related to the terror attacks I’m investigating? Is that why you called me?”

  “Uh, no. Someone called the police last night, saying professor Ansara was missing.”

  “Do you know who the caller is?”

  “Leopold Blake.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Mary was not surprised to find Leopold waiting for her when she arrived at the university. Crime scene techs were going over the professor’s office, so they talked in the hall.

  “How well did you know Professor Ansara?” Mary asked.

  “We went to school together. Same college. We didn’t exactly keep in touch after graduation. We talked or met up once in a while, but it was sporadic.”

  “You were supposed to meet last night and he didn’t show?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did he have any enemies?”

  “Yes, he had enemies. No, I don’t know who they are,” Leopold said irritably. “Why don’t you ask what you really want to ask me? Why were we meeting last night?”

  “Okay. Why?”

  “He told me he had a problem and wanted my professional opinion on how he should handle it.”

  “What problem?”

  “Somebody said something to him that made him suspicious. Before you ask, he didn’t tell me what it was. All he said was that he was thinking about reporting it to the FBI.”

  “You can’t tell me more than that?”

  “I don’t know any more. I’m sorry to be so vague, but Davis was very cagey about the whole thing.”

  “You have no idea what this unnamed person said that made your friend so suspicious.”

  “I just said so, didn’t I?”

  “But it was a woman, right?”

  That caught Leopold by surprise. “How did you know that?”

  “Because he was killed by the same person who killed Ronkowski, and I know she was a woman.” Mary nodded towards the professor’s door. “His computer is missing. Stolen.”

  “Just like Ronkowski and Nasir and Khan.” Leopold didn’t try to hide the smugness in his voice. “But wait. There is no way Davis would have been involved in domestic terrorism.”

  “I think you’re right, but maybe our killer didn’t know that. I don’t think Ronkowski and Nasir and Khan were lone wolves. They didn’t become killers on their own. Someone put them up to it. Now suppose this same person tried to recruit Professor Ansara.”

  “Davis never would have been a part of something like that. Davis was killed to keep him quiet.”

  “Exactly my thinking.”

  “But why are you so sure it’s a woman behind this?”

  “Because of the short time it took to turn Nasir and Khan.” Mary said. “People don’t become ideologically driven fanatics in the space of a few weeks or a few months. There’s only one thing that can turn a man into a completely different person in so short a time.”

  “A woman.”

  Mary looked down the hall and saw Jerome nearby, trying to look as nonchalant as a six-foot-seven man with a gun under his jacket can. Other than that, the hall was empty. She leaned in close to Leopold and spoke softly. “Can I ask you another question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Are you mad at me?”

  “No? Why would you think that?”

  “I tried to get you in on the Ronkowski investigation and you didn’t seem interested. Usually, I can’t get rid of you.”

  Leopold shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “Well, I didn’t think I could, uh, add anything of value to the investigation.”

  “Add anything of value? I get suspicious when you talk like a businessman. You only slip into business double talk when you don’t want to be straight with me.”

  “I’m beginning to think maybe I don’t know the difference between helping and just getting in the way.”

  “There usually isn’t a difference with you.” Mary said. “Is this about what Oakes said to you?”

  “You know about that?”

  “I heard. Hell, everybody heard. The man has a voice like a fog horn. Oakes isn’t my father. He doesn’t look out for my best interests. I do that. Understood?”

  “Understood.”

  Mary saw that a young woman had parked herself in front of Jerome and was talking a mile a minute at him. “I think we’d better go rescue your bodyguard.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  The young woman stood almost toe to toe with Jerome. She was barely five feet tall and she stood so close she had to stare almost straight up to look Jerome in the eye, which meant Jerome had to look almost straight down. She wore an oversized flannel shirt, a denim skirt, DayGlo orange sneakers and slanted, “grandma” glasses. “You’re not a cop, are you?”

  “No, I’m not.” Jerome quoted the same answer he’d given many times before. “I’m assisting the police with their inquiries.”

  “You have a gun.”

  “Have a permit.”

  “Are you a bodyguard or something?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “My name’s Frances, but people call be Frannie ‘cause I hate Frances. What’s your name?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Is that Leopold Blake over there? I’ve heard of him. He’s rich enough to have a bodyguard.”

  “I think you should leave now.”

  “I go to school here. I have more right to be here than you do.”

  Their toes were nearly touching. “You don’t have a very good sense of personal space, do you?”

  “I’ve been told that before.” She said, still not moving or taking her eyes off Jerome. “Anyone ever tell you that you look like Vi
ng Rhames?”

  “Nobody.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “I find you hard to believe.”

  “I’ve been told that before, too. I hope you find who killed professor Ansara. He shouldn’t be dead.”

  “Did you like the professor?”

  “He was cool,” she said. “A lot of people around here hated him, but I thought he was funny.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Now you sound like a cop.”

  “I don’t mean to.”

  “I saw him yesterday afternoon, after his date.”

  “Do you know who his date was?”

  “Nope. I think he was pissed that I even knew about it.”

  “How did you know about it?”

  “He was wearing a tie. He never wears a tie to school. I don’t think it went well. He sure wasn’t going to see her again.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “When he gave me his phone, I reminded him to transfer all his phone numbers. He said, and I quote, ‘There’s only one number on that phone and I’m never calling it again.’ Sounds pretty final to me, doncha think?”

  “Why did he give you his phone?”

  “You sure do ask a lot of questions. You sure you aren’t a cop?”

  “Positive. Now what about the phone?”

  “Recycling. The school has a recycling program for all electronics. Computers, cell phones, everything. They all go into the bins, and a truck comes by once in a while to pick it all up.”

  “Can you tell me where the bins are?”

  “Sure. Just go out the front, turn left and head about halfway across the campus. They’re right next to the Admin Building. You can’t miss them.”

  “When does the truck come next?”

  “Today. I just saw it.”

  “Damn.” Jerome sidestepped the woman and bolted down the hall.

  Frannie waved after him. “Bye. Nice talking to you.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Mary and Leopold had no clue where Jerome was going or why he had run out in such a hurry. They followed. By the time they exited the building, Jerome was already halfway across the campus. He paused briefly by the Administration Building, apparently to look at some refuse bins. Soon, he was moving again. There was no chance they could catch up to him. All they could do was keep him in sight. He reached the end of the campus and continued, running into the busy street. Mary and Leopold were huffing and puffing, nearly a block behind him. He seemed to be chasing a white van, but it was too far ahead of him and heading for an on-ramp.