Sachs said, “The basement’s a clue. My guess is he’s avoiding his father as much as he’s avoiding Forty-Seven. We bring him in, he can’t escape Dad.”
Thom offered to take his coat but Ackroyd said he couldn’t stay; he had a meeting with another client.
The Brit said to Sachs, “So you met his family. Surely they must have some idea where he’s gone. Friends, other relatives.”
“They gave me a few names but nothing panned out. Vimal didn’t share much with anybody in the family. Dad offered five hundred dollars as a reward and the son of a diamond cutter Vimal was working for turned him in.” A shrug. “I suppose the father’s doing the same thing again. Maybe that’ll give us a lead. And they’ll contact me, if they hear.”
“You’re sure?” Rhyme asked. “They won’t try to lock him up again?”
“I waved the obstruction-of-justice flag. I think they’ll toe the line.”
Ackroyd told them that he himself was making little headway. “The diamond rough your unsub, the Promisor, stole at Patel’s has just vanished, which bears out that he’s a mad man and hoarding the stones. No one else has reported any calls from him, asking about the apprentice. And people are even more reluctant to talk than ever. He’s scaring everyone. I’ve heard anecdotes that the sales of engagement rings are down twenty percent.”
Well, Unsub 47 may have been psychotic but, if his goal was to make a statement about the sanctity of diamonds, he was pretty damn effective.
“Now, I could have called that in, of course. But I wanted to stop by. Brought you a present.” He was speaking to Rhyme. He reached into the plastic bag he held and extracted a box about six by nine inches, glossy, pictures of some electronic product on the top. He stripped off the plastic wrapping and extracted what seemed to be a tablet device. He set it next to Rhyme’s chair and pushed a button on the side. It came to life and a menu appeared. “Electronic crosswords. These are cryptics. There’re over ten thousand, all different levels of difficulty.”
Rhyme explained to Sachs that Ackroyd and his husband competed at crossword tournaments. And he gave her a brief description of how cryptics worked.
She was even less a game person than Rhyme but admitted that she found the idea intriguing.
Ackroyd said, “And this unit? It’s voice-activated. Made for…”
“You can say ‘crip’ or ‘gimp.’ I do.”
“I was going to say ‘handicapped.’ I don’t think that’s correct, however.”
“My response is what is a four-letter word starting with ‘s’ and completing the sentence, ‘I don’t give a…’?”
Ackroyd laughed briskly.
“Well, thank you, Edward.” Rhyme was truly pleased. He played chess some—and had tried Go, an Asian board game that was even more complicated. The cryptics seemed more up his alley. He loved words and how they fit together. The puzzles would be a good way to keep his mind active, a shield against his worst enemy: boredom.
After Ackroyd left, the team received a call from Rodney Szarnek. He said that Vimal’s phone had been detected. “He’s out of the area. GPS puts him on an expressway in Pennsylvania. Headed west. Doing sixty miles an hour or so. He’s driving or on a bus.”
“Bus probably,” Sachs said. “The family only has one car and my security team’d spot him if he snuck back to take it.”
“Maybe a friend’s driving him,” Cooper suggested.
“He made that call from the Port Authority on Saturday,” Rhyme pointed out. “Maybe he was checking out bus schedules then. I’d go with bus. You and Lon Sellitto set up a tracking operation. Get in touch with the state police in Pennsylvania.”
When he disconnected, Rhyme called Lon Sellitto to arrange to intercept the vehicle.
The doorbell rang again and Rhyme glanced at the security video screen. A short, round balding man stood there. He didn’t recognize him but had a pretty good idea who he was.
Thom slipped a glance toward Rhyme, who said, “Go ahead, let him in.”
A moment later the man was in the doorway. He glanced around the lab. He seemed impressed—and pleased—more than surprised.
“Captain Rhyme.”
Rhyme didn’t introduce him to the others. He said “Let’s go in the den. Across the hall.”
If Sachs or Cooper was curious about the visitor, their interest didn’t show and they went back to their work. Just as well.
What would they think if they knew…?
Chapter 38
Antonio Carreras-López wasn’t as portly as he’d seemed in the security video, though he was a solid man. Rhyme wondered if he’d been a weight lifter or wrestler in his youth. Now apparently in his late fifties, he still seemed quite strong though some of the weight was gone to fat.
His black hair, what remained, that is, was swept back and fixed in place with spray or cream. He wore glasses with thick tortoiseshell frames, perched atop a fleshy nose. His eyes were amused. Quick too.
The men were in the small formal room, across the entry hall from the parlor. Three walls were lined with bookcases and on the other hung four muted prints of pen-and-ink drawings of New York City in the nineteenth century. The guest said, “As I told you on the phone, I represent Mr. Eduardo Capilla—El Halcón—though I’m not admitted to the bar here in the United States. I am, however, supervising his defense.”
“Who are the lawyers representing him here?”
Carreras-López mentioned three names—all lawyers from Manhattan, though the trial was in the Eastern District of New York, which included Long Island, Staten Island, Brooklyn and Queens. Rhyme knew of the lead trial attorney, a high-profile and respected criminal defense lawyer. Rhyme had never testified in a case involving any of his clients.
He wasn’t sure this would have been a conflict, but the situation was certainly fraught with the smoke of impropriety so he thought it best, if he proceeded, that there be no connection with El Halcón’s legal team. The prosecutor on the other side was Henry Bishop, and Rhyme knew he hadn’t been involved in a case he’d prosecuted.
“Now, Captain Rhyme, as a first matter…”
“I’m retired and, please, ‘Lincoln’ is fine.”
“And I am Tony. Now the first thing. I will give you this.” He pushed an envelope toward Rhyme. “It’s a one-thousand-dollar retainer. Which makes you a contractor with the defense team. The attorney-client privilege extends to you now.”
So they would not have to speak hypothetically any longer.
Carreras-López hesitated as he held out a receipt, his eyes on Rhyme’s arm.
“I can sign,” Rhyme said, and he took the pen the lawyer offered and jotted his signature on the document. “Now. The details?”
“Yes. In essence: My client came into the U.S. illegally. We admit this. He flew to Canada on a commercial flight and entered legally into that country. But then he flew in a helicopter to Long Island, entering illegally. Yes, the craft flew under the radar, but that is not illegal in a helicopter. There are no minimum altitude requirements. So there is no FAA violation. El Halcón was met by a bodyguard who worked for the owner of a warehouse that El Halcón was going to buy. While the pilot waited, they drove to this complex so Mr. Capilla could look it over and discuss the purchase with the man.”
“Any controlled substances anywhere in this scenario?”
“No, sir. Absolutely not. The warehouse was solely for a transportation company that my client wanted to start up in America.”
“Aside from this, any warrants on your client?”
“None.”
“Then why enter illegally?”
“The answer is that my client’s profession in Mexico is well known. It is suspected that he is responsible for the influx of large quantities of drugs into the U.S. He was concerned that he would be detained at Passport Control on technicalities. Perhaps imprisoned on trumped-up charges.”
“Go on.”
“At the warehouse my client met with the owner of the facility—”
“His name?”
“Christopher Cody. They discussed the terms of the deal and my client took a tour. Now, it happened that Cody was under investigation on some weapons charges. Completely independent of my client. El Halcón did not know this. A local police officer was conducting some surveillance. When my client and the bodyguard showed up he grew suspicious. He thought these might be arms dealers. He sent a picture of my client to his office, which alerted the FBI. They identified my client, checked with Border Protection and learned he had entered illegally. A team of FBI and some local police hurried to the warehouse. A gunfight ensued. Mr. Cody and his bodyguard were killed, and one FBI agent and the local officer who had taken the photos were badly injured.”
Facts Rhyme was aware of.
“The prosecution claimed what?”
A shrug. “What they always claim. That officers and agents approached, calling for surrender, and the men inside opened fire.”
“And your client’s story?”
“The officers fired first without identifying themselves and the men in the warehouse returned fire. They believed it was a robbery or hijacking. In any event, my client did not participate. He was in the restroom at the time. On the floor, hiding, so he would not be hit by a stray bullet. And, quite frankly, terrified. There he stayed until the firing stopped. He came out, saw what had happened and was arrested.”
“Did the other men with him, inside, give any statements?”
“Mr. Cody was killed instantly, a shot in the head. The bodyguard survived for a day but never regained consciousness.”
“Tell me about the tainted evidence.”
“You see, when my client was being arrested he was placed facedown on the floor of the warehouse. At one point, an agent or officer—he couldn’t see who—came up to him and searched him. But then my client felt something pressed against his hands and clothing. It was cloth. He is sure the officer was transferring gunshot residue he’d lifted from Cody’s hands. When he asked what the man was doing, my client was told, ‘Shut the fuck up. Two of our guys’re shot to hell. You’re going away forever.’”
Rhyme said, “So the prosecution claims that after Cody was killed, your client picked up his gun and shot the officer?”
“That’s right.”
“Friction ridges—fingerprints—on the weapon?”
“Only Cody’s, not my client’s. There were no gloves or rags nearby he might’ve used to hold the gun but the prosecutor’s position is that he undid his shirt cuff button and held the pistol in the sleeve. That would explain the gunshot residue and the absence of fingerprints.”
“Clever theory. What are the exact charges?”
“The illegal entry into the U.S.—it’s called ‘entry at improper time or place’ under the statute. The charge carries a fine and imprisonment of up to six months. A federal misdemeanor. The other charges are what you’d expect: weapons, assault on a law enforcement officer, attempted murder of a law enforcement officer, Cody’s death—felony murder. We admit he was in the country illegally and he is willing to plead to that. So, now, that is our situation.” He eyed Rhyme closely. “You said you were busy. Working a big case.”
“I am, yes.”
“I am asking you is it possible to take some time and look at the evidence, see if you can find proof that the officers at the scene planted that residue?”
Rhyme’s head eased back. He gazed at the ceiling for a moment. Thoughts swirled.
Finally he said, “I’ll need all the forensic files. Yours and the prosecution’s.”
Carreras-López said, “I’ll have copies of the files sent over. A half hour. Gracias, sir. God bless you.” He pulled on his coat and left.
Rhyme placed a call to Ron Pulaski. He would have liked to pursue the El Halcón tainted-evidence matter on his own but that wasn’t possible. There’d be some fieldwork.
“Lincoln.”
“Need you to do something for me.”
“Sure. This about Forty-Seven?”
“No. A different case. There’ll be a box of files over here in a half hour. I’ll need you to collect it and take it home.”
“Home?” the officer asked. “As in home-home?”
“Exactly. I need a complete analysis of all the firearm, clothing, electrostatics and surface trace from the scene.”
“Sure, Lincoln.”
“Then I need you to do something else.”
“What’s that?”
“Keep quiet. Don’t say a word about this to any other living soul. You got that?”
Silence.
“You got that, Rookie?”
“Yes.” Pulaski was whispering, as if speaking any louder would itself be a breach of the rules.
Chapter 39
Another earthquake.”
Rhyme glanced toward Mel Cooper, who’d just delivered this news. The tech’s eyes were on the TV.
He followed the man’s gaze. On the screen, news cameras were filming an apartment in Brooklyn, engulfed in swirling flames and smoke. The cause was, as with the others, a gas line rupture, which had followed on the heels of the second quake.
Now the scene shifted to a press conference at City Hall. Rhyme read the closed-captioned account of the mayor’s words: In light of the second quake, the city had decided to reject Northeast Geo’s request to resume its geothermal drilling even on a limited basis. The talking heads appeared again: Ezekiel Shapiro—the bearded activist leader of the One Earth movement; Dwyer, head of Northeast Geo; and C. Hanson Collier, CEO of Algonquin Power.
As they spoke, the scene shifted to the blazing apartment building, surrounded by the clutter of fire trucks and emergency vehicles.
The text at the bottom reported three fatalities. The victims had been engulfed by flames.
The door buzzer sounded. Thom was out, at the store; Rhyme looked at the security camera screen. It was Lon Sellitto. Didn’t he have a goddamn key? After all these years? They should have one cut for him. Rhyme buzzed him in.
“Okay. Are you ready for this?”
Rhyme sighed and lifted an eyebrow.
Sellitto nodded at the screen, on which were stark images of brawny, spiraling flames, a black torrent of smoke.
The crawl at the bottom of the screen: Multiple fatalities.
The detective said, “Linc, that wasn’t from the quakes. All the fires were arson—just staged to make it look like the earthquakes caused ’em.”
“What?” Mel Cooper asked.
“That latest quake, the second one? Right after, this woman at home by Cadman Plaza—it’s near where the epicenter is—smells gas really strong. She thinks the quake broke the line and it’s gonna blow. She’s home with her kid, a baby. But the good news is she’s got a broken ankle. I mean, a totally fucked-up ankle. She falls and breaks it again and passes out.”
Good news…?
“But then she wakes up a few seconds later and she’s trapped. So what’s she do?”
“Move it along, Lon.”
“She has a brainstorm. She can’t get out, can’t walk, but maybe she can keep the gas from blowing up. She opens the access door in the bathroom, the door to the pipes, you know? And she turns a handheld shower sprayer on full and douses the basement, hoping to hit the pilot light of the water heater and put it out. While she’s spraying, she’s screaming her head off and somebody hears and gets the fire department and police there. They shut the gas off outside and get the woman and her baby out, and the other tenants.”
Rhyme glanced at the TV screen, the cyclone of fire. “So that fire was a second one.”
“Yeah.” Sellitto added with a grimace, “Three fatalities. It was a couple blocks from Claire’s.”
“Who?”
“Claire Porter. That shower thing. She was really thinking on her feet.” Sellitto winced. “Bad choice of words. She’s in emergency surgery right now for her ankle. Anyway. A marshal goes down to the basement to check out the leak. Guess what he finds?”
&nb
sp; Rhyme lifted an eyebrow.
“If looks could talk,” Sellitto said.
“They can. Mine did. Let’s keep going.”
“IED on the gas line.”
Now Rhyme’s full attention settled. An improvised explosive device. He said, “Set up to cut through the line and let the gas flow for, what, five minutes then ignite it?”
“Ten minutes.”
“And the water she sprayed disabled it.”
“Bingo, Linc. Sometimes you do catch a break. The device was plastic and housed in a thermostat casing. If it works right and ignites the gas, there’s virtually nothing left and even if the fire marshal finds something, it’ll look like a melted, burnt-up thermostat, sitting in the rubble. Perfect arson. No evidence. No accelerant.”
The door buzzer again. It was a solid man in a black suit, holding a large carton. Rhyme hit the intercom. “Is that from Tony?”
Carreras-López: El Halcón’s lawyer.
The man leaned close to the speaker. “That’s right, sir.”
The case files he’d asked for, regarding the evidence-tampering claim. He glanced at Sellitto to see if he was paying any attention. But, no. The detective and Cooper were staring at the scene of the fire on the TV.
“Just leave it inside the front door. On the table.”
“Yessir.”
Rhyme hit the door lock, and the man set down the box of the El Halcón case files and left.
He turned to Sellitto. “Fire marshal’s gone back and checked out the prior fires?”
“Yep, every fire that started after the first and second earthquakes? There’re the shells of fake thermostats. Just like at Claire’s.”
Serial fires with sophisticated IEDs. What’s that about?
“As if that wasn’t interesting enough, here’s the juicy part. As soon as it was labeled arson the fire marshal called RTCC to pull the nearby video cams from the past few weeks.”
The Cutting Edge Page 24
