The Fibonacci Murders

by Dale E. Lehman

  “Well, there’s nothing here. What time is it?” He glanced toward the living room, where he could hear Dumas talking.

  Montufar checked her cell phone. “Nearly five-thirty.”

  “Do you think we’re missing something?”

  She looked out the window at the dimming light. “Yes. But it might not be here to find. He might have taken it with him.”

  “And we have no way of knowing where he went.” He nearly jumped when his phone rang.

  It was Captain Morris. “I just got a call from Tom Kaneko’s wife. She says he’s gone missing. He was apparently playing a hunch based on some information he’d gathered on his own. You’ll never guess who he went to see.”

  “Oh no. Freiberg?”

  “Right the first time.”

  “But how did he know?”

  “Long story. You might look for evidence that he was there, though.”

  Peller rushed to the living room with Montufar close on his heels, no doubt wondering what was going on now. Dumas was looking out the window, listening intently to whoever was on the line with him. Scrutinizing the furniture and the carpet, Peller shook his head. “We’ve been through this place thoroughly a couple of times. If he was here, he must have left again without leaving any clear traces.”

  Montufar stepped in front of him and mouthed, “Who?”

  “Tom.”

  “My God.”

  Dumas said, “Thank you,” snapped his phone shut and spun on his heel. “Whatever that is, it can wait,” he told them. “We have to get to the Holiday Inn. Right now.”

  ∑

  It was growing dark in the woods—dark and noticeably colder than it had been when Freiberg had left Kaneko bound and gagged by the tree. At first the mathematician had drifted in and out of consciousness. By now the pain in the left side of his face had dwindled to an incessant throb that he could sometimes ignore. Until he moved. Then it came hammering back.

  Kaneko had been waiting a long time for Freiberg’s return. He had no sense of how long, except that the sun had moved considerably, judging from the angle of the feeble sunlight diffusing through the leafless trees. He willed himself to concentrate. Three hundred sixty degrees in a circle. The earth rotated once every twenty-four hours. Thus it turned through fifteen degrees every hour. The angle from horizon to zenith was ninety degrees. How far had the sun moved? At a rough guess, a bit more than a half of that, a bit over forty-five degrees, a bit more than three times fifteen. He’d been alone in the woods for over three hours.

  At least he was alive and not in immediate danger, but he foresaw two problems.

  The first was, what might happen when Freiberg returned?

  The second was, what might happen if Freiberg never returned?

  It seemed to Kaneko that his best bet was to get away while he could. If he could. He couldn’t move his arms or legs much, but he might be able to roll himself along the ground. Yes, that seemed likely. He could roll back the way they had come. There had been a road or a path or something there. Sooner or later someone would find him if he could get that far.

  He took a deep breath and wrenched his body rightward. Bark caught at his hair and shirt as he crashed to the ground. Something sharp jabbed his face, probably deadfall from the tree, but he focused on the task at hand. Roll. His entire body screaming, he managed one rotation. Another. Over he went, slowly, painfully leaving behind the oak. Roll again.

  Again.

  So much pain.

  Agony.

  Endure.

  Roll again.

  He lay gasping on the floor of the darkening woods, staring up into the canopy. A breeze stirred the leaves.

  He tried to roll again and failed.

  Somewhere above and to his left, an extraordinarily bright star peeked at him through the leaves. Kinsei, he thought. The metal star. It is here to give me strength.

  He tried to roll again.

  ∑

  At exactly five fifty-five, a well-dressed Lucas Freiberg picked up the duffel bag containing his assembled and loaded assault rifle, left his room, checked that the lock had engaged, and walked to the stairwell. He went down the stairs at a leisurely pace. On the first floor he strolled through the lobby to the wing housing the meeting and banquet rooms, where he located the venue for tonight’s event.

  He pulled his invitation from his suit coat pocket just in case, but nobody was at the door checking for them, so he went in. The room was filled with a dozen large round tables set for eight; at the front, a long table held room for ten. White tablecloths and burgundy runners draped the tables. The entire room smelled of roses. A few guests had already arrived and were chatting happily.

  His invitation had indicated he would be seated at table four, which he found near the front of the room. He slid his duffel bag under his chair and sat, adopting a relaxed pose.

  He watched people arrive, but he said nothing. He didn’t know anyone here.

  Not anyone who had shown up yet.

  ∑

  The sun was dipping below the western horizon with Venus shining brilliantly well above it as the detectives, with Montufar at the wheel and a red light flashing in the rear window, sped towards the hotel.

  Peller called for backup and gave Captain Morris an update, then asked Dumas to fill them in on what he’d learned.

  “This guy Gutierrez is a Marine. He’s throwing a big birthday party for his girlfriend this evening.”

  “Did you talk to him?” Peller asked.

  “They’d already left for the party. I talked to an uncle of hers. He has some medical issues and needs help getting around, so they have a couple of rooms at his place. He answered the phone and told me where they were going. Once I’d convinced him I really was a cop, that is.”

  “What’s his connection to Freiberg?”

  Tires squealed as Montufar took a sharp left.

  Dumas hung on and waited for the g-forces to subside. “The uncle didn’t know. But he verified that Gutierrez uses return address labels like the one on the envelope.”

  “A birthday party, presumably hosted by a friend,” Peller mused. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “So what has made sense up to this point? Everything fits, at any rate. A big gathering, a military connection. The envelope must have held an invitation. Plus, he tossed the envelope but not the invitation, so presumably he’ll be there.”

  They arrived moments later. Montufar whipped through the parking lot to the entrance and screeched to a halt. The three of them were out of the car almost before it stopped. Approaching the front desk, Peller flashed his badge at a pair of startled employees. “I need to see the manager right away.”

  The concierge began to stutter something. Montufar and Dumas headed for opposite ends of the lobby, checking down the hallways. Before the clerks could respond, a turbaned man dressed smartly in a gray three-piece suit came through a door at the left end of the desk. “How may I help you?” he asked calmly, glancing at the detectives and at Peller’s badge.

  “You have a birthday party scheduled here tonight,” Peller said.

  “Yes, the Gutierrez event.” The manager’s British-accented voice was cultured, as though he had been taught English by grandparents schooled under the Raj. “Is there some problem?”

  “Very likely. We believe one of the guests may be armed and dangerous. We need you to keep the lobby and corridors clear. A number of officers should be arriving shortly. What’s the layout of this place?”

  The manager produced a map from beneath the counter. Peller imagined a bomb could go off next to the man without rattling his composure. “The party is here. From the lobby you’d go to the right and down this way.” He traced the route with his finger. “There is access to the outside from here, and the kitchen staff will come in this way.”

  “I’ll depl
oy the forces,” Dumas said. Peller nodded his okay, and Dumas rushed out to meet the squad cars that were assembling swiftly and silently.

  “Not to sound sexist,” Peller told Montufar, “but you get back to the kitchen. Keep the staff out of that room and cover the door until the officers arrive.”

  “And you?”

  “I’m going in.”

  “You sure that’s a good idea?”

  Peller grinned—rather wildly, Montufar thought. “No. But he made this a personal contest between us. It’s just possible my presence might change things.”

  She squeezed his shoulder, then hurried toward the kitchen.

  Peller looked at the manager and found him gazing back levelly. Peller thought that the man gave a whole new meaning to the expression “stiff upper lip”. He looked positively serene. Somehow, Peller took comfort in the man’s confidence. As he made for the banquet room, he thought that the Sikh gentleman was wasted on the Holiday Inn. He should be working for the Waldorf Astoria.

  ∑

  By six-twenty every table was fully occupied, except for the head table where the two middle chairs stood empty. A steady murmur of conversation filled the atmosphere. Off to one side, a DJ had set up his sound equipment and was playing tunes suited to the younger members of the gathering. The dance floor awaited the conclusion of the meal.

  A curtain hung behind the head table, and behind the curtain Amber Janetta, bouncing nervously on the balls of her feet, held hands with Arturo Gutierrez. Gutierrez peeked around the edge of the curtain and motioned to the DJ, who cut off the song, switching to a jazzy rendition of “Happy Birthday.” The couple stepped out from behind the curtain to thunderous applause and cheers.

  Gutierrez helped Janetta into her seat, then held up a hand for silence.

  “I want to thank you all for coming,” he said. “My beautiful Amber turns twenty-eight today. We’re going to make it a really special evening for her.”

  More cheering and applause followed his announcement. Janetta laughed and hid her face behind her hand in embarrassment. Then Gutierrez held up his hand again and silence fell once more.

  “Now, all of you are family or friends of one or both of us. And a lot of you are in the military.”

  Someone in the back cheered and got a general laugh from the rest of the gathering.

  “So I want to ask for a moment of silence to remember our troops around the world.” He bowed his head and waited for about fifteen seconds before resuming, “Now, does anyone want to offer a toast to Amber before I do my own long, drawn-out, and badly rehearsed one?”

  In the laughter that followed, someone called out, “We don’t have anything but water to toast with!”

  A look of confusion crossed Gutierrez’s face as he realized the champagne he’d ordered wasn’t on the tables. He looked toward the side door for some sign of the hotel staff, then noticed the man standing alert by the main doors, eyeing the tables near the front. Who is that? I don’t recognize him.

  A man stood up at table four. “I’d like to say something, Arturo. I think I can do it without alcohol.”

  Gutierrez, still confused, turned to face the man. “Luke? Well, hi, Luke! I’m glad you could make it. It’s been awhile.”

  The man at the back began sidling toward the side of the room.

  Who are you?

  Gutierrez pointed to Freiberg. “Probably none of you knows Luke, Lucas Freiberg. We were in Iraq together. You got a toast for us, Luke?”

  “Not precisely,” Freiberg said. He bent down, pulled a duffel bag from under his chair, and slung it over his shoulder. The man from the door was behind him now, about fifteen feet back. He seemed to stiffen when Freiberg picked up the duffel, as though expecting to be seen.

  “I wanted to apologize. What happened wasn’t your fault, and certainly wasn’t the fault of the rest of these good people. But you did play a role in it. Because of that, it has to end this way.”

  Clearly none of the unwitting partygoers had any clue as to what he was talking about, but Gutierrez did. A wave of panic poured through him. Freiberg cradled the duffel bag as though it were a weapon.

  He has a gun. The knowledge flashed through Gutierrez’s brain. Or did he plant an IED? We’re all going to die. “Luke,” he said, dry-mouthed. “Don’t do this. I’m not the enemy.”

  The newcomer behind Freiberg called sharply, “Put it down, Lucas.”

  Freiberg’s face transformed into astonishment as he spun around. “Lieutenant Peller! Well, well. I was worried you weren’t half as clever as I’d thought.”

  The bag and its contents were now trained on the man named Peller. A few people near the door took advantage of the distraction to slip out unnoticed by the gunman.

  “It’s over,” Peller said. “There’s no point in further…” He glanced around at the gathering. “Action.”

  “Of course there is,” Freiberg told him. “This is the culmination, the point of the proof if you will. Until this is done, the result is not obtained.”

  “What result?”

  “You don’t know?”

  Peller locked eyes with Freiberg. Gutierrez thought absurdly of rival sorcerers in a showdown. “It can’t be that,” Peller said at last. “It’s too simple.”

  “Say it.”

  Peller shook his head. “You’re much too complex for that, Lucas.”

  “Say it!” Freiberg screamed.

  “You’re just after attention?”

  Freiberg made as if to throw the duffel bag to the floor, but maintained a firm grip on the strap nevertheless. “No! Not attention! Recognition!”

  He spun about, shouting at the now-immobilized gathering. Even the music had gone silent, the DJ frozen in place behind his equipment. “If you knew what I’d done for you! If you only knew! I sold my soul to keep you safe! And what do I get in return?” His glare slid to Gutierrez’s face. “Betrayal. That’s what I get, Arturo. Betrayal! Betrayal at the hands not just of superiors, not just of fellow soldiers, but of friends. Of brothers.”

  Gutierrez saw that Peller was moving again, silently closing the gap between himself and Freiberg. “Luke, it doesn’t have to be like this,” Gutierrez risked saying. “Who has betrayed you? I wouldn’t betray you. Not after everything we’ve been through.”

  “It doesn’t matter anymore,” Freiberg said. “Because after tonight, all wrongs will be righted. I don’t expect to be alive to savor my victory, but I will have it.”

  Peller lunged at Freiberg, knocking him off his feet. Together they crashed onto his chair, which flipped and spilled them onto the floor. Freiberg was younger and stronger, but the duffel bag still wrapped around his arm pinioned him. Peller slammed his fist into Freiberg’s face, but was thrown aside as the other twisted violently beneath him. He rolled away and started to come to his feet just in time to receive the full force of the duffel bag and its metallic contents on his left temple. He staggered, righted himself, and took another swing, but Freiberg slid out of the way.

  A chaos of screams and trampling feet told Peller that the guests were abandoning the party. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the DJ dive from behind his table and scuttle across the floor to the exit.

  And then the duffel bag was pointed at him like a weapon. “I can fire this whenever I’m ready,” Freiberg said around gasps for air. Blood poured from his mouth.

  “But you won’t,” Peller said confidently. “Not at me. I’m not part of your pattern.”

  Puzzlement creased Freiberg’s face. “No. No, you’re not. Thank you for reminding me.”

  He swung the bag around to train it on Amber Janneta.

  “No!” Gutierrez bellowed, throwing his fiancée to the floor and covering her as a spray of automatic gunfire erupted, deafening Peller. For the first time Freiberg’s shots were aimless, erratic, gouging holes in the walls and riddlin
g the table linens as though his objective was to destroy everything, living or not. Any guests who had not already fled dropped beneath their tables or collapsed to play dead. At least Peller hoped they were playing dead, and hadn’t actually been struck.

  A resounding crack split the air. Freiberg dropped the duffel bag, stumbled, and crashed facedown to the floor.

  His head ringing, Peller turned to see who had fired the final shot. Montufar stood just inside the doorway, a police sniper at her side. A dozen officers were behind her, the emergency medical team crowding close. He grinned weakly. “Good timing, Corina.”

  The silence was deathly. Peller couldn’t tell how long it lasted. A pair of EMTs huddled over Freiberg’s inert body while others checked on the guests and the crime scene unit photographers commenced their work. The remaining partygoers quietly gathered their belongings and dispersed. As he went out the door, one Marine, with a trembling blonde clinging desperately to his arm, called out, “Helluva party, Art. Can’t wait to see what you do next year.”

  Chapter 18

  The proverb says, “When you have completed ninety-five percent of your journey, you are only halfway there.” By the end, I had acquired a new appreciation for that morsel of wisdom. ∑

  Lucas Freiberg wasn’t quite dead, but he didn’t last long.

  The EMTs determined that, miraculously, none of the partygoers had been injured. Then, while one of them checked on Peller’s injuries, the others did their best to stabilize Frieberg and rolled him away to a waiting ambulance.

  Montufar waded into the scene. “Rick, are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I think so,” he answered. At her look of concern he said, “I’m fine, Corina.”

  Dumas appeared as if by magic, asking the same question. Peller gave him the same answer.

  The hotel manager entered and looked around at the demolished banquet room. “I’ve given all the guests a free room here tonight,” he said, “for what it’s worth. Perhaps it will help.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “Such is the state of the world. Never in my days did I expect to see such a thing.”