06 Double Danger

by Dee Davis

  “That sounds familiar,” Nash said, exchanging a look with Drake.

  “Yeah, the Consortium is up to its old tricks. They’ve definitely got hierarchy down to a science.”

  “What about the backpack?” Hannah asked. “Was there anything inside?”

  “No.” Avery shook his head. “It was completely empty. No fingerprints. Nothing.”

  “Maybe it was meant to be a decoy?” Nash suggested.

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” Simon said, blowing out a breath in frustration. “Nothing these guys do makes any sense.”

  “What if these weren’t terrorist attacks at all?” Tyler mused. “What if they’re something else altogether? It’s not uncommon for a criminal to use overkill to hide something much more specific.”

  “You’re suggesting that this could be about taking out a particular person.” Nash leaned forward, his brows drawn together into a frown. “Someone who was at the hospital and escaped and then was present again at the seaport.”

  “I already thought about that,” Hannah said, with a shake of her head. “And I ran a cross-check against the list of witnesses from the seaport and the people present in the hospital the day of the crash. Except for Simon and Jillian, there are no matches.”

  “How about Dearborn’s old apartment?” Simon asked. “Did the forensics folks find anything?”

  “No,” Drake said. “Lester was right about the apartment being cleaned. There wasn’t anything at all to tie it to Dearborn. And they even checked the drains for hair. Not a damn thing.”

  “And the super’s place?” Nash asked.

  “Sanchez.” Drake nodded. “Only he was the building owner, not just the super.”

  “Either way,” Nash shrugged, “did the techs turn up anything?”

  “Again, that’s a negative,” Drake said with a frown. “The blood was Sanchez’s, and there weren’t any prints besides his and a couple of tenants who’ve already been cleared. They did retrieve the bullet, and they’re checking against the one they found in Wilderman. But even if it turns out to be the same, they ran it through the databases, and there was no match to a gun.”

  “Have we established time of death?” Avery asked.

  “Not yet. The ME is working on the autopsy, but definitely less than twenty-four hours. Which puts him in the bloody middle of all of this.”

  “Anything in his background that might link him to the other players?” Tyler asked.

  “Besides renting to Dearborn, there’s nothing,” Hannah said. “He wasn’t exactly landlord of the year, but he wasn’t in any trouble either. And there’s nothing in any of his records that would signal involvement.”

  “My guess is that he just got caught up with the wrong people, and they took him out. Another loose end.” Simon leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “And considering he’s the one that posthumously pointed us to the apartment by the seaport, I’d say they were right. We’re just lucky they didn’t find that Duane Reade bag.”

  “So has it occurred to any of you that maybe we’re being played?” J.J. sat back, her gaze encompassing the entire group. “I mean, hasn’t this all seemed just a little too easy?”

  “You wound me,” Drake said with mock severity. “We make it seem easy because we’re so damn good at what we do.”

  “I know.” She smiled. “Believe me, the unit’s reputation precedes you. But seriously, it’s almost like we’ve been playing connect the dots. First the watch, and then the dead guy in the Dumpster, and then identifying Dearborn. I mean, usually these kinds of cells recruit unknowns. Idealistic kids who are trained to be martyrs. But Dearborn doesn’t fit that image at all. And then there’s Dearborn’s second apartment, the one that was coincidentally rigged to blow. The address was on a sticky note.”

  “She has a point,” Simon said, warming to the idea. “It’s almost as if they wanted us to walk into that apartment.”

  “And get blown to bits.” Drake was frowning now. “Wouldn’t be the first time the Consortium’s tried to get rid of us.”

  “We don’t know that it’s the Consortium,” Avery cautioned. “But I agree that something here doesn’t feel quite right.”

  “So if the plan was for you guys to walk into the apartment on Fulton and get blown up,” Hannah queried, “then why was the bomber still outside?”

  “To make sure the job got done,” Simon said with a shrug.

  “Or maybe the point was to get us to follow him?” J.J. suggested, clearly not buying into the idea.

  “That doesn’t make any sense either.” Simon shook his head. “The guy was definitely not waiting around for me. He was running full out. His intention was quite obviously to leave my ass behind and get on with the business of detonating his bomb.”

  “Maybe it was a two-part equation and the first half went wrong,” Tyler said. “Maybe they did want to take you out with the apartment. But you got there too soon, so the guy didn’t have the chance to get out fast enough.”

  “But why take the risk?” Hannah asked. “Why involve us at all if there’s a chance that we could succeed in stopping the bomber?”

  “Because they like playing games,” Drake said, clearly still thinking about the Consortium.

  “Everything we’re saying is feasible,” Avery said, “but unfortunately, all we know for certain is that we’ve got two attacks on the city. One successful, one not so much. And although I can’t prove it, I can’t shake the feeling that, whatever the reason, this wasn’t the endgame.”

  “So we need answers.” Simon dropped back into his chair, frustration rising.

  “Maybe I can help with that,” Harrison said, looking up from his computer. “I can’t shed any light on what the ultimate plan might be, but maybe I’ve just gotten us a step closer to who is behind it. I’ve been digging around in Wilderman’s computer, trying to find something that might help nail the people behind the attacks.”

  “But I thought the thing had been wiped clean,” Drake said, one eyebrow shooting up in question.

  “It was. But as I’ve said before, it’s not that easy to completely erase a hard drive. And with the right tools and a little tenacity, it’s still possible to find pieces of the original configuration.”

  “And you’ve found something,” Avery said.

  “Yes.” Harrison nodded, a little smile playing at the corners of his lips.

  “So go on and tell us already.” Simon hadn’t meant to sound so harsh, but he’d damn near been blown to hell only a few hours ago, so he deserved to be cut a little slack.

  “I found a key logger.”

  “A program that remotely mirrors keystrokes,” Drake said, remembering no doubt when one had been used to gain access to his whereabouts in Colombia.

  “Right. But they can also be used to remotely access a computer.”

  “To make a reservation,” J.J. said, her expression triumphant. “You found an IP for the person who made the helicopter reservation.”

  “I did.” Harrison grinned, clearly enjoying the moment.

  “And did that lead to an actual name?” Simon asked, still fighting aggravation.

  “Yup,” Harrison said, sobering. “According to my research, the IP connected to the key logger is registered to Norman Lester.”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  CHAPTER 9

  That was Drake,” Simon said, flipping his phone closed as they rounded the corner, approaching Norman Lester’s gallery. “Lester wasn’t at the apartment. And everything was pretty much the way it was when the forensics people left. Except that now his computer is gone. Along with the cat.”

  “Damn it.” Nash stopped as they neared the gallery’s door. “If he took the cat, I’m guessing that means he’s making a run for it.”

  “And assuming he left right after the techs,” Jillian said, “he’s got a pretty substantial lead.”

  “Well, it’s still worth checking the gallery.” Simon shrugged, shooting a glance at Nash, who nodded his
agreement. “There’s always a chance he came here after clearing out. To pick something up or maybe to get rid of incriminating evidence. And even if he’s not here, there might be something that will point us in the right direction.”

  “Okay, so how do you want to do this?” Jillian asked, her gaze catching Simon’s, her heart leaping to her throat as she quickly looked away. It was the first time she’d actually met his eyes since the kiss. And just for a single second, all she wanted to do was kiss him again. Feel the heat of his mouth against hers, their breath mingling as their tongues tangled together. She blew out a sharp breath, forcing herself to clear her mind. What she needed to do was quit thinking with her fractured heart and concentrate on the here and now. On finding Lester.

  “I’ll take the back,” Nash said. “You guys go in from the front. If we’re lucky, we’ll catch him by surprise.”

  “Copy that.” Simon nodded as Nash sprinted around the corner for the alley running along the right side of the building. In some former incarnation, the place had been a factory. The windows were oversized, and the building was fronted with cast-iron ornamentation that marked it as mid–nineteenth century. Above the arched doorway, an awning was adorned with the word Passions, the name of Lester’s gallery.

  “You ready?” Simon asked, as he reached out to push open the front door.

  “Actually, I think I might be getting used to this kind of thing,” Jillian said, surprising herself with the pronouncement, her fingers moving to the gun tucked into her waistband. “So let’s do it.”

  On the other side of the door, they found themselves in a small vestibule painted a soft mauve. A second arched opening led to the main gallery, a cavernous space broken up by artfully lit half-walls draped in scarlet velvet, each adorned with a series of paintings.

  The walls, set at obtuse angles, were broken up with narrow mirrors in elaborate gilded frames, each of them supported by the elegant rise of the building’s cast-iron pillars. The result was an illusion of motion, the lighting designed to invoke the flicker of candles, the walls fading into each other as their reflections soared upward into the shadowy recesses of the vaulted ceiling, the pillars the only things seeming to keep them grounded.

  “Jesus,” Simon breathed. “This place reminds me of a surrealist version of some kind of Victorian whorehouse.”

  “Actually, there were brothels in this area once. So I guess the idea isn’t too far-fetched. It’s like we’ve stepped through to the other side of the mirror,” Jillian whispered. “But someone’s got to be here, right? The door was open, and the lights are on.”

  “Yeah, well, if Lester’s somewhere in here, I’d say he’s got the advantage.” Simon drew his gun, his eyes sweeping across the room. “It’s like a fucking maze. Nash, you getting this?”

  “Roger that,” Nash replied, his voice echoing in Jillian’s ear. “Kind of sorry to be missing it actually. I’ve got nothing at all interesting back here. No vehicles and no sign of life.”

  “What about the Dumpster?” Simon asked, shooting an apologetic look in Jillian’s direction.

  “Nada. It’s completely empty. As is the alley. There’s a loading dock back here, but it’s locked tighter than a drum.”

  “Well, that’s certainly never stopped you before,” Simon said.

  “True,” Nash answered, a hint of laughter coloring his voice. “So we’ll see who gets to Lester first.”

  “If that’s a challenge, you’re on.” Simon smiled, already moving toward an opening between two of the blood-red walls near the center of the room.

  Little boys and their games. Jillian followed Simon into the gallery, moving cautiously, the paintings seeming to jump out at her as she moved deeper into the exhibition. The artist, whoever he was, had a penchant for the macabre, the stark simplicity of the images making them all the more frightening. Whatever else Norman Lester was involved in, he knew his way around an exhibition. The paintings had been hung for maximum impact, forcing viewers into the artist’s world whether they wanted to be there or not.

  “This place gives me the creeps,” Simon said, as they hit a dead end, a painting of a decapitated doll reflected against its red-velvet backdrop in one of the mirrors.

  “Right there with you,” Jillian agreed, moving slowly, gun raised, every instinct on high alert as she surveyed the area. As she turned back, Simon disappeared as he moved behind one of the mirrors. She followed, but when she rounded the pillar, he was gone.

  Panic threatened for a moment, and then Jillian reminded herself that she had chosen this profession. If for no other reason than to prove to herself once and for all that she could handle anything that life could throw at her.

  Squaring her shoulders, she sucked in a breath and moved farther into the maze of paintings and mirrors, her mind repeating the mantra that had gotten her through the darkness of the past few years. She’d never cower from anything again. Not ever.

  “You guys there?” she whispered into the comlink, heart still pounding despite her resolve. There was a burst of static, and then nothing. Tightening her fingers on the gun, she looked up at the ceiling, using it as a guide to point her in the right direction. Simon would be heading for Nash, and he was coming in from the rear. So that’s the way she’d go, too.

  She rounded another corner, this time confronted with a giant canvas, the tortured souls captured there reaching out as if imploring her to rescue them. If nothing else came of this little exercise, she’d certainly discovered a skilled artist. Twisted maybe, but nevertheless still talented.

  Ahead of her, just beyond a mirrored pillar, she heard someone moving. “Simon?” she said, careful to keep her voice low, afraid that anything louder would only alert Lester if he was indeed somewhere within the gallery.

  “Over here,” came the whispered response from just beyond the mirror, and she sighed with relief, only to find the area empty when she rounded the corner.

  “Damn it, Simon,” she spoke into the comlink, “this isn’t funny. Where the hell are you?” Again static filled her ear, and the finger of fear returned to trace its way up her spine. Something behind her skittered across the floor, and she swung around, pointing her gun, her eyes searching the flickering gloom for some sign of Simon.

  But everything had gone deadly quiet again.

  “Nash?” she whispered, her heart beating a tattoo against her ribs as she took shelter behind the solid strength of one of the cast-iron pillars. “Can you hear me?”

  “Roger that,” Nash replied, his voice in her ear seeming abnormally loud after the silence. “I was afraid the comlink was down.”

  “I think maybe it was,” she acknowledged. “But at least now it’s back.”

  “Simon there with you?” Nash asked.

  “No.” She shook her head, even though he couldn’t see her. “He was just ahead of me. But I lost him in this damn maze. Whoever set up this exhibit wasn’t interested in casual visitors. There’s no easy in or out. It’s like being in a funhouse. Between the crooked pathways, the spooky lighting, and the ghostly reflections, it’s hard to figure out which way is which.”

  “I’ll second that,” Simon said, pushing out from behind a swath of velvet, still leading with his gun.

  “You okay?” Jillian asked, hating herself for sounding like she cared. There was no place in her life for emotion. At least not the kind that Simon seemed to bring out.

  “Yeah, just got twisted around. To be honest, I’m not exactly sure how I got back here. But I’m glad I did.” His smile was warm, and for a moment, Jillian let herself forget the things that lay between them, grateful just to have him nearby. “Any sign of Lester?” he asked, his question meant for Nash as well as her.

  “No sign of him back here,” Nash said, “but I’ve only just made it through the loading bay.”

  “I haven’t seen anything either.” Jillian leaned against the pillar. “But I heard something.” She lifted her hand to point behind her. “That way. I would have said it was you
, but you came from over there.” She nodded at the velvet-covered wall to her left.

  “All right,” Simon said, “then we’ll follow the noise. But I think we’ll be better off with radio silence.”

  “Copy that,” Nash said. “Signing off for now.”

  There was another burst of static and then silence. “You think he’ll be okay?” Jillian asked, still spooked by the noise she’d heard.

  “He’ll be fine. And we can always break the silence if there’s an emergency.” They started forward, Simon in the lead again. “Take note of the paintings. It’s the only way to be sure you’re not just going in circles.”

  “Wonderful.” Jillian sighed as she followed him. “Nothing like some guy’s nightmarish depictions of death to mark the way.”

  For the next few minutes, they walked in silence, trying to stay to the left—a trick she remembered from childhood to help traverse a maze. The gallery was eerily quiet. And Jillian’s nerves stretched tight in anticipation each time they rounded a corner.

  They passed a small table set in front of a canvas covered with roiling skeletons rising into a fiery sky. Something glistening caught Jillian’s eye, and she stopped, bending to pick it up off the floor, but her fingers came away empty, covered instead with something wet.

  Jerking her hand back, she lifted it to the flickering light, her stomach seizing as she recognized the liquid for what it was.

  Blood.

  She opened her mouth to speak, but realized too late that Simon had moved out of sight again. Although she was tempted to use the comlink, she knew that she risked being overheard. So instead, she inched her way around one of the mirrors, still keeping to the left, and then stopped, her stomach leaping into her throat.

  As if it were springing from the canvas hanging on the velvet-shrouded wall, the body of a woman lay at the foot of a pillar. Cloudy blue eyes stared upward as if fascinated with the soaring ceiling above. But the blood pooling beneath her head made it clear that these eyes would never see again.

  Jillian braced herself as she reached down to touch the woman’s throat, already certain of what she’d find. No pulse. Whoever the lady had been, she was dead, the blood spattered, black-edged hole near her temple matching those Jillian had seen on both Sanchez and Wilderman.