Heart of a Killer

by David Rosenfelt

  The onboard computers had taken over from Whitaker, and simply did not let him regain control. It’s as if he had put it on automatic pilot, and that automatic pilot subsequently refused to relinquish command. Of course, in this case the automatic pilot had decided to become a mass murderer. It would be up to the scientists to discover how Tammy had managed the hacking feat, and they were counting on the recovered black boxes to help them.

  The “why” was even more bewildering. Tammy had demanded money, which was the only thing about the case that could be considered standard procedure. But the truth was that she had set up the incident so that there could never have been enough time for money to be paid, even in the unlikely event that an immediate decision was made to do so.

  To Janssen it was as if the perpetrator conducted the whole operation as a way to demonstrate his or her power. Since money was the expressed purpose, it seemed logical that money was the ultimate goal. But if a planeload of people was not considered enough of a prize to be selling, something bigger was coming down the road.

  Which was why each of the many times Janssen listened to the recording, a chill ran through him at Tammy’s last line of warning:

  “Next time you better listen to me.”

  Novack should not have had the pancakes. Not just because it felt like he had eaten two manhole covers, but more because Cindy was making an anniversary dinner for them that night. She was making chicken parmigiana, his absolute all-time favorite, and he was going to be called upon to eat a prodigious amount.

  They celebrated the date of their divorce, rather than that of their marriage, since it was because of the divorce that they seemed able to live happily ever after. Novack always spent the entire anniversary night at her house, unless he started driving Cindy crazy, in which case she had the right to throw him out, as per the rules they had long been following.

  Of course, the amendment to that anniversary rule was that before she could throw him out, they would make love. That was a rule they were both inclined to enforce.

  Another rule that was in place on anniversary nights was that Novack not talk business. Cindy just wanted a break from hearing about graphic crime scenes, or families decimated by drugs. The problem was that on some nights, she could tell that Novack couldn’t take his mind off those things, even if he obediently prevented the thoughts from working their way into the conversations.

  This was one of those nights.

  “You thinking about Sheryl Harrison?” she asked.

  “During our anniversary dinner? Are you nuts? No chance. Sheryl who?”

  “You’re full of shit, Novack.”

  He shrugged. “What else is new?”

  “Tell me what’s going on,” she said. “This is one that I’m interested in.”

  “Why?”

  “I want her to be able to save her daughter’s life. And it’s a weight I want lifted off your shoulders.”

  “My shoulders are fine. It’s a case, Cind. That’s all.”

  “Did I mention that you were full of shit?” she asked. “When cases bother you, you get sarcastic and annoying. I can tell how much they bother you by how sarcastic and annoying you get, and by how long you get that way. I have a ten-point scale I rank it on.”

  He smiled despite himself. “And when I arrested Sheryl Harrison?”

  “Ten point five,” she said. “Off the charts.”

  So he told her the story, and she came to the same conclusion as Jamie Wagner, that it had to be about money. “Money that Charlie didn’t get because he was killed.”

  “Or maybe he got it and they took it from him,” he said.

  “I doubt it,” she said. “You probably would have found some record of it somewhere. And you said his boss told you the party was the night before, and he referred to it as money Charlie was going to get. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “From what you’ve told me, it sounds like Charlie was the type that if he had money, he’d flaunt it.”

  Novack nodded. “I think that’s true. I also think the money was tied into Beverly’s brother’s death. That’s if his brother really died. And if he and his brother really existed.”

  “Maybe he was suing whoever was responsible for the death,” she said. “That would explain his believing he was going to get big money, but not having it yet.”

  “Then why was he killed, unless Sheryl really did it? He would only be valuable to anyone after he got the money, and lawsuits take a lot of time, even when the insurance company settles. Killing Charlie eliminated his value.”

  “He must have had some value already,” she pointed out. “Someone kept wiring him fifty thousand dollars, even if it was from a company that didn’t exist. Just like those people didn’t exist.”

  “You’re pretty smart,” Novack said. “And not bad looking. Why did I divorce you?”

  “As I recall, I dumped you, and said I wanted nothing more to do with you.”

  “Right,” Novack said, nodding. “I knew there was a reason. But you hit on the key point. However Harrison was using Beverly’s identity to make money, it’s very likely he was doing it all along, maybe with different people. Because someone was sending him that cash long before Beverly’s brother supposedly died.”

  “So you need to find out who was sending him the money, and why.” She smiled. “No big deal.”

  “Do I have to do it tonight?”

  She looked at her watch. “Yes, and you better hurry. I’ve got a date, and he should be here any minute.”

  “I’ll wait for him,” Novack said. “I’m glad I brought my gun.”

  Cindy smiled. “Let’s go upstairs. I’ll give you your anniversary present.”

  “Well, the big-time lawyer returns to his small-time roots.”

  Ken Bollinger had seen me at the bar, and had gotten up from his table to come over. “It’s about time you reentered the real world.”

  I smiled. “It’s only a brief visit. I’m picking up a couple of burgers to take back to the fake world with me.”

  “Well, change your plans, big guy. Don’t stare too hard, but take a look over at my table.”

  I looked over and saw that Ken had been sitting with two young women, of the attractive variety.

  “See the one on the left?” he asked, talking in a low voice, though there was no possibility they could overhear us. “Her name is Maggie. She and her friend came over to me because they heard we’re best friends. You believe that? They’re impressed that I know you. I’ve spent the last five years being ashamed of it, and they’re impressed.”

  “Why were they impressed?”

  “Are you kidding? You’re on TV more than Oprah Winfrey. You’re a celebrity, and celebrities get women. As do friends of celebrities.”

  I smiled. “I can’t believe these words are coming out of my mouth, but I’m working tonight.”

  “Well, put them back in your mouth, asshole. Because with you joining the party, my chances improve geometrically, in case you didn’t study geometrics at Harvard.”

  “It’s called geometry.”

  “That’s good … big words like that will impress them even more. Come on,” he said. “I’ll introduce you.”

  “Ken, I’ve got to be in court in two days. And tomorrow I’ll be at the prison, meeting with Sheryl, so…”

  He interrupted. “You’re meeting with Sheryl? You’ve got a chance to take Maggie back to your apartment tonight, but you can’t, because you’re going to the prison to meet with Sheryl tomorrow? You got a thing going with Sheryl?”

  He had quickly crossed the line from amusing to irritating. It was a line he rarely crossed, which might have been a reflection of the fact that I was drawing it in a different place than I used to.

  “Yeah, I’ve got a thing,” I said. “I’m trying to save her daughter’s life. So tell Maggie I’m sorry, but not tonight. I’m getting my burgers, and then I’m going to work.”

  The words came out a little harsher than I would have l
iked, but not so much that I wanted to say anything to soften them. It wasn’t Ken’s fault. The truth was that the events of the past days had already changed me, but Ken hadn’t gotten the memo, because I hadn’t sent one out.

  Burgers and beer in hand, I went back to my apartment to receive good and bad news. The bad news was a call from my mother, telling me that she and my father wanted to have dinner with me over the weekend.

  “We’ve been reading about you in the papers,” she said, a dig at the fact that I hadn’t been calling and bringing them up to date on my life. “It all sounds very exciting.”

  The good news was the mail, which brought a copy of my direct-deposit pay, which had gone from the firm to my bank on schedule. Apparently, I hadn’t been fired, even though the pay stub made me remember that I had not officially told anyone there of Sheryl’s decision to keep me as her attorney.

  So far, in my dealings with the press, I hadn’t mentioned Carlson, Miller, and Timmerman, thereby saving them from what they perceived as embarrassment. Which meant that maybe my not being fired wasn’t such good news; I probably could have gotten a terrific termination package from them, in return for my going quietly and not bringing them into the publicity fray.

  As I was thinking about this, I realized I had already made a momentous decision, without having consulted with myself about it. I do that a lot; my thoughts go in a logical progression, and they take me to a place where I feel like I have already been, without realizing it. It almost feels as if I haven’t decided something at all, but rather that I’ve been let in on it.

  The revelation this time was simple and obvious; I was going to quit the firm at the conclusion of this case, win or lose.

  There was plenty I could do. I could write a book; I could even read a book. I’d never done the former, and it had been a really long time since I had done the latter.

  Having decided my future, or at least what my future would not be, I set out to work on the present. That meant finishing the brief and readying myself for the hearing less than thirty-six hours away, in which I would try and convince a judge that Sheryl should be allowed to die.

  I would also have liked to be preparing for another, possibly more important hearing, that of the parole board. But I had nothing to tell them yet; that would have to wait for Novack to come up with something. And no matter what it was, it would ram smack into Sheryl’s confession.

  I stopped at around eleven, and turned on CNN to see if our case was anywhere to be found. We did get a brief mention, focusing on the upcoming hearing. But for the most part the news was all about the plane crash in Charlotte.

  The authorities were remaining tight-lipped as to the cause, and public pressure was building. Families of the victims were being trotted out to complain about the lack of information they were receiving. They were being told what everyone else was being told; the investigation was in its early stages, nobody wanted to jump the gun, blah, blah, blah.

  Unidentified sources were reporting that the FBI had taken over as the primary investigating agency, with the NTSB in an unaccustomed second position. Novack had said that was the thing to watch, and it was obviously significant if true. If the cause was simply something like failed equipment or pilot error, the FBI would not have to play a major role.

  Apparently also revealing was the report that FBI Special Agent Mike Janssen was assigned to head the investigation. I had never previously heard of him, probably because he didn’t hang out in bars on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, or get involved in much arcane corporate litigation.

  But those in the know referred to him as an expert in domestic counterterrorism, which meant that there was a strong possibility that was what they were dealing with.

  I watched for a half hour, then put in another hour of legal preparation. I would compensate for my inexperience with hard work, and I took some emotional refuge in the understanding that no one had experience in a case of this kind.

  Very few lawyers try to arrange their client’s death. That led me to another belated understanding that I had not been in touch with, but which seemed to represent the ultimate conflict of interest.

  I was fighting for Sheryl Harrison’s death, but I sure as hell did not want her to die.

  Ray Hennessey was following Novack. He wasn’t sure why; he had simply been assigned to do so by Nolan Murray. His instructions had been to report back on everything Novack did, everywhere he went, and everybody he talked to.

  So he had followed him to King of Prussia, and noted his various stops there. He had dutifully told that to Murray in detail, but Murray had listened impassively, not revealing to Hennessey if the information was of any significance to him.

  Which it certainly was.

  This particular morning brought something that even Hennessey found interesting. Novack went to a branch of Citizens Trust Bank, where he met Jamie Wagner, who Hennessey knew was Sheryl Harrison’s lawyer.

  While Hennessey was being extra careful tailing Novack, since the cop could be expected to be savvy in that area, he took a chance and went into the bank after them. When he got inside, he saw them talking to a manager, presenting the woman with some papers. She then led them into the safe-deposit room.

  The two men were inside that room for almost fifteen minutes, and when they came out Novack was carrying a manila envelope that he hadn’t had when they entered.

  Hennessey quickly left, got in his car, and waited. When Novack and Wagner came out of the bank, they each got back in their own car, but both drove out to the prison where Sheryl Harrison was an inmate.

  The two men were in there for almost two hours, during which time Hennessey contacted Nolan Murray. He repeated exactly what he had witnessed that day, leaving out nothing. When he finished, Murray had very few questions about the events that Hennessey had related.

  Instead, he asked, “What kind of car does Novack drive?”

  “A Ford Taurus.”

  “What year?”

  “I’m not sure, but it’s not more than a year or two old.”

  “Confirm that. If you’re wrong about it, I want to know it immediately.”

  Hennessey knew better than to ask why Murray wanted the information. “Anything else?”

  “Where does he live?”

  “In a high-rise in Edgewater.”

  “So he parks his car in an indoor garage at night?”

  “Yes. But he’s spent the last two nights at his ex-wife’s house. She lives in Fair Lawn. My guess is he’ll be back there tonight.”

  “Where does he park when he’s there?”

  “On the street.”

  “Can you enter the car without setting off an alarm?” Murray asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Good. Call me tonight if he is at his ex-wife’s house, and you believe he has settled in for the night, and I’ll give you further instructions.”

  Once he was off the phone, Murray had to decide which of his two colleagues would be most capable of handling the assignment. He realized with some satisfaction that either could do it with relative ease, but he decided on Daniel Churchill.

  He had more of a comfort level with Churchill, and though he knew he could also rely on Peter Lampley, Churchill was usually his first choice. He called Churchill in and explained it to him, then was not surprised when Churchill asked a couple of obvious questions, and then said it would be no problem.

  Novack was proving to be more annoying each day, and though there was still little danger that he could ultimately pose a threat, there was no sense sitting idly by and waiting for that possibility to develop. And then there was the matter of the safe-deposit box, which Murray had not realized existed. There was no way to know what was recovered from that box, but the fact was that both Novack and the lawyer were now familiar with it. And they wouldn’t have taken it with them if it did not have any significance.

  Even with Novack about to be effectively removed from the picture, Murray was feeling that it was time to move th
ings along. He had wanted to give the authorities time to let their worry grow to panic as to where and when he might strike again, and he had done that.

  The time seemed right to move forward.

  “I hear you think I’m innocent.” That was the first thing that Sheryl said to Novack, when he and I were brought into the room. She said it as if it were amusing to her, but I was getting to know her better and better, and I don’t think she was amused at all.

  I think she was scared.

  Novack shook his head. “I had thought it was possible, but now I have my doubts.”

  “Really?” she asked. “Why is that?”

  “Because you obviously would be willing to die to save your daughter. Yet if you’re innocent, it means you’re sitting on information that could do just that. Doesn’t make sense.”

  Sheryl didn’t say anything, but it was clear that Novack was hitting home in a way that I couldn’t. Finally, she asked, “Why are you here?”

  “He has a few questions for you, Sheryl,” I said. “As we discussed.”

  “Does anyone else know you’re here?” she asked Novack. It seemed like a strange question, and Novack obviously thought the same.

  “Who are you worried about?” he asked.

  “Nobody. Ask your questions, and then you and Harvard can get the hell out of here.”

  Novack turned to me. “You went to Harvard?”

  “Yes.”

  “No wonder,” he said, and then turned back to Sheryl. “Have you ever heard of William Beverly?”

  Sheryl thought for a moment. “No. Not that I can recall.”

  “Daniel Shaw?”

  “No.”

  “Craig Simmons.”

  “No. Who are these people?”

  “Your husband had identification, with his picture, for each of these people. The Beverly one was in his wallet when he was killed. He was pretending to be Beverly, and I suspect the other people as well. Do you have any idea why that would be?”