The good news was that the killer hadn’t managed to slip away as cleverly as planned. The bad news was that the potential list of suspects for this murder, besides being much longer than usual, included some names that the NYPD certainly did not want to bother without a damn good reason.
As an eternal “optimist”, Rob focused mainly on the bad news.
“Jenna has been begging me for years to go on early retirement,” he said meekly. “Maybe it’s time I do it. I’ll surprise her with a weekend of wine tasting in Napa Valley,” he continued mumbling to himself. “Jenna likes wine. Yeah, that would be nice . . .”
“Rob, get a grip. You and I are not going anywhere,” Sharon took control, “at least not right now. Before that, we have a killer to catch,” she announced firmly.
“You’re right,” Rob uttered the words Sharon would hear only on rare occasions. “The commissioner has been calling me every day to keep up with the details of the investigation; I guess it would be only fair to call him back and tell him about this new and very interesting development . . .” The more he kept talking, the louder his voice grew, and he returned to his impatient and authoritative self. “And you, Davis, what are you still doing here?” he asked with aggravation. “I thought you and Marshal Stanton were supposed to supervise the progress of the Mitchell-Webber case!” he barked at her. Such collaboration between the authorities was rare, and now, more than ever, it was an invaluable opportunity to prove that the NYPD was certainly fit to play in the big leagues.
“Oh, right, I’m on my way,” she replied in confusion at the sharp change in Rob’s temper and hurried toward the exit – not before stopping by the coffee pot, pouring the hot dark brew into a paper cup, and taking a big sip.
Less than an hour later, she arrived at Rebecca’s house in Brooklyn. A while after, the doorbell rang, announcing the arrival of a “special” delivery. Jacob and Sharon questioned the delivery man, but he wasn’t able to provide any useful information regarding the package’s origin. Sharon assumed that the sender had probably deposited it in one of the dozens of branches of the post office and had paid in cash to avoid being traced. The only clue they had left, therefore, was inside the package.
Sharon donned white latex gloves and opened the box carefully. The detective noticed that Becky’s face turned pale even before she untied the knot. A quick glimpse gave her the confirmation she needed to call the forensics team over to collect the evidence.
They waited in silence for a few more minutes until Becky’s cell phone rang. The screen displayed in big letters: Blocked number. Sharon noticed Becky’s hands were trembling.
“I know it’s hard but try to keep him on the line as long as you can,” said Jacob and placed his hand on her shoulder in a fatherly manner. He signaled the tech guy sitting beside him to get ready.
Becky pressed the speaker button and answered in a frightened voice, “He..hello?”
“I missed your voice, darling,” said the hoarse voice from the other side of the line. “What’s new, my little pussycat?”
Jacob signaled Becky to continue the conversation.
“Noth.. Nothing–”
“Well, enough with the chit chat,” he interrupted her bluntly. “You know what’s waiting for you in the package I sent over, right?”
“Yes,” she answered quietly. A large tear ran down her cheek and landed on the cell phone screen.
“Now, what I don’t understand,” the man’s tone was low and menacing, “is why the hell are you making me turn your dad into an amputee. Do I need to remove bigger organs so you’ll get the message? I want my fucking money, bitch!”
Becky began to weep and dropped the phone onto the carpet. Sharon hoped that the fabric muffled the sound of the fall so that the speaker wouldn’t notice and hang up. The technician signaled that he needed more time to complete the trace.
“Do you understand, you little motherfucker?!”
Becky fell onto her grandmother’s lap as she disengaged from what was happening around her. Rebecca stroked her and tried to soothe her.
“Do you hear me?!”
It was clear to the two cops that Becky couldn’t continue the conversation. They were about to lose him; that is, until a new package arrived the next day . . .
Sharon marched quickly and picked up the cell phone from the carpet.
“I hear you loud and clear.”
CHAPTER 30
September 16, 2013. Brooklyn, New York
“Do you hear me?!”
“I hear you loud and clear.”
The menacing voice paused for a moment before continuing. “Who is this?” he demanded.
“My name is Katie; my last name could be Couric, as far as you’re concerned.”
“Katie fucking Couric. Are you a cop?” His tone was tense.
“Hell no!” Sharon’s voice sounded confident, but she knew she had to find a plausible explanation and fast, or she had just doomed Max’s fate.
“So, who are you exactly?”
“I’m a bounty hunter.” She kept unfolding the conversation in her mind to predict the next question.
“And who are you hunting for?” The voice still sounded doubtful yet somewhat intrigued.
“Not who, rather, what. I’m looking for your money.”
“You fucking piece of trash, bitch . . .”
“Relax, the money is still intended for you. Well, minus a small fee,” she added teasingly.
“Listen to me carefully, Katie Couric, I’m losing my patience here,” the voice threatened.
“The Grandma hired me to find your damn money. After I take my ten percent finder’s fee, you can do whatever you want with it. You can choke on it, as far as I’m concerned.”
“If that’s what you’re supposed to be doing, then why are you in their house, sitting on your fat ass, instead of finding it?”
“Because I was in the mood for a cup of tea . . . What do you think?!” she replied defiantly. “I came to meet the granddaughter to get some info before I go out to that shit-hole in Oklahoma, but the crap you’re pulling is really hurting her concentration.” She took a deep breath and continued playing “Katie”, “And while we’re on the subject, your next delivery better be my expenses instead of these damned fingers.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” His voice was sharp and irritated.
“The old lady doesn’t have enough money to cover my expenses. A last-minute flight ticket isn’t cheap, you know.”
“And why is that my business?”
“It’s your fucking money, isn’t it?” she answered without any hesitation, exactly the way she thought a real bounty hunter would answer.
“Listen, bitch, if you think I pay you even one cent . . .”
“No, you listen, fucker. You’re running out of fingers, without a single lead to go on for finding your money,” she cut him off as part of the bounty hunter character. “I, on the other hand, am a professional, and I don’t need to hide from anyone. I can find your money, but you need to give me something to work with.” She paused for a swift breath before she continued, “You have a lot more to lose than me. My two hundred grand are practically nothing in comparison to the two million you’re about to lose forever . . .” Sharon let the taunting words roll off her tongue.
The menacing voice paused. Everyone in the living room waited silently for his answer. The technician was close to finalizing the trace but still needed more time. Although Sharon added her demand for expenses to sound credible, she was afraid she might have gone too far. Would he get mad and hang up? With these types of people, you never know.
“Someone will drop by with the money later today,” he gave in. “But God help you and the filthy Jews if you’re screwing around with me.”
Sharon gave Jacob a surprised look and smiled. Their big, fat fish took the bait. With a little bit of luck, perhaps they could trace the money back to him in case the cellular trace hadn’t worked.
“Thanks for yo
ur cooperation,” she replied with an exaggerated sweetness; he snorted in response. “Just one last thing,” she added, “lose the fingers. The girl here doesn’t want her father to look like a Mr. Potato Head missing some pieces. Don’t worry, you’ll get your money in ten days,” she tried to stall.
“Eight fingers, eight days,” he said, reestablishing control, and hung up.
CHAPTER 31
September 16, 2013. Brooklyn, New York
Sharon was sitting on the sofa in Rebecca Hershenberg’s living room, cradling a warm coffee mug with her hands. Her lustrous hair was gathered into a golden bun, hidden under a black cap. A pair of dark sunglasses, with oval lenses, was placed on the coffee table next to her. She took a big sip from the hot beverage and hoped that the reviving effect of the caffeine would start kicking in soon. Her left foot started tapping on the woven carpet, as it always did in situations of inaction. Sharon wondered if it were possible that her lower limbs had some sort of ADHD.
Tracing the call had led to a dead end. Sharon had been able to keep Helborgen on the line for a few more minutes, but the triangulation between the cellular antennas, through which the call was channeled, hadn’t managed to reduce the radius sufficiently. The only information the technician could retrieve was that the call had been made from the New Jersey area. He explained that the caller must have used a burner phone, which was much harder to trace.
Nevertheless, despite the fact that they couldn’t decipher Helborgen’s whereabouts, Katie’s interjection had created access to Ray. For now, he expected Katie to retrieve his missing money in exchange for Max’s life. If they could arrange a swap meeting, they would be able to save Max and stop the mobster. Helborgen didn’t seem to be suspecting them; he even sent one of his soldiers to deliver to “Katie” the travel expenses she’d asked for. Jacob took Becky and Rebecca somewhere safe until the transfer was carried out. Sharon remained alone in the house, retracing in her mind the events of the morning that had occurred just hours ago.
“Damn Helborgen,” called Jacob when the conversation between Sharon and the intimidating man had ended.
That name sounded too familiar to Sharon. “You don’t mean . . .?”
“Exactly. The head of the biggest crime family in New York.”
“Wait a minute, then it means that . . .”
“Becky’s father was the accountant who managed to get Nick Helborgen thrown in jail,” concluded Jacob.
Sharon’s eyebrows were raised in surprise. She was just a kid when all of this happened, but she remembered the commotion and excitement that had revolved around it: the teachers whispering right before they’d go into the classrooms; the morning her father ran down the stairs to be the first one to read the paper; her mother riveted to the television screen, the telephone receiver pressed to her ear, exchanging speculations and conjectures with her friends about the prosecution’s chances of locking away the notorious mobster once and for all.
“Becky’s father was the prosecution’s secret witness,” explained Jacob. “We couldn’t convict Nick Helborgen without him. You see, Max Webber was the chief accountant of the Helborgen crime empire. He oversaw the organization’s finances, both legal and illegal. The problem was that he worked in a very sophisticated manner and left no traces that would allow us to incriminate Nick. Eventually, and quite unexpectedly, we caught him on tax evasion for the organization’s legal businesses. It was just the tip of the iceberg of all the crimes that Helborgen’s organization had committed, but it was enough for an indictment.”
“Just like Al Capone,” chuckled Sharon.
“If it worked in Chicago, why not in New York?” smiled Jacob.
She responded with a short nod.
“We offered Max a deal,” explained Jacob. “Instead of eight years in prison, we’d make him a state witness: we put him in the Witness Protection Program and give him and his family a new beginning – in exchange for his testimony, of course,” he emphasized. “Obviously it wasn’t as easy as it sounds . . . but eventually he was convinced. Max helped us nail Nick Helborgen, the boss of the family back then, and he also passed us a list of Nick’s hidden assets listed under the names of deceased relatives to avoid being traced.”
Sharon listened carefully while trying to integrate this new information with what she had already known.
“Old Helborgen almost crapped his pants when they showed him that list; it had cost him nearly thirteen million dollars. Maybe that’s why no one bothered to check the discrepancies thoroughly between the financial reports and the Helborgens’ property evaluation, which indicated a gap of two million dollars.” His lips curled into half a smile. “The Helborgens denied it, even when we confronted them with the financial statements that showed the money was missing. We didn’t have concrete evidence to confirm our speculations; our hands were tied. Although, between you and me, I don’t think anyone was too eager to defend the financial rights of a crime organization,” he snickered.
“I think the real reason the Helborgens didn’t admit that anything was stolen,” continued Jacob, “was so they could catch whoever did this themselves. This way, they could get their money back without involving the authorities and, at the same time, satisfy their overly developed drive for revenge. I’m sure that’s the money Ray is talking about, and he is sure that Max is the one who stole it.”
“Why is all of this happening just now?” wondered Sharon aloud.
“Ray was relatively young when he stepped into his uncle’s shoes as the new boss of the family,” answered Jacob. “In a way, nothing has changed because old Nick Helborgen was running his nephew from behind the scenes like a puppet on a string. Ray worshiped him. But then, three years ago, Nick was attacked in prison by members of a rival gang. They slit his throat and injured two of his soldiers. By the time the guards intervened, it was already too late – he died within minutes. I wouldn’t be surprised if Ray blames Webber for his uncle’s tragic death and has been wanting revenge ever since.” Jacob paused, slightly shaking his head. “What’s absurd is that with all the conflicts and the constant need to settle the score existing in this family, who knows if he would have survived longer on the outside.”
“You’re probably right,” agreed Sharon.
“And still, it seems that ever since his uncle was killed, Helborgen has been determined to find Webber at any cost.”
The sound of the doorbell interrupted her thoughts. Sharon put on her dark sunglasses and studied her image in the mirror on her way to the door.
Not Jackie O, but close enough . . .
At the doorway was standing a well-built fellow wearing an overly tight shirt. He handed Sharon a thick envelope.
On the envelope it said, To Katie Fucking Couric.
Sharon looked up and noticed the man was staring at her with an appraising look. His boss probably told him to report back on every little detail. She had to be very cautious.
“I hope you’re not expecting a tip,” she tried to adapt to the “Katie” character in the flesh – the same spunky and brazen attitude she had shown on her talk with Helborgen.
The man squinted and turned to leave without adding another word.
Several moments later, Richie knocked on a different door on the same block. He handed the old woman who stood in the doorway an even thicker envelope.
“Ray says thanks for your cooperation,” he nodded to Lydia Chesterfield. “You should keep an eye out for your neighbor. It could pay off even more than usual.”
Lydia opened the envelope and ran her fingers along the bills with satisfaction. “I’m sure we’ll be in touch soon,” she said with a smile painted in dark orange.
CHAPTER 32
September 17, 2013. Manhattan, New York
The next morning, Sharon arrived at the precinct earlier than usual. The normally crowded wing, always bustling with police officers, was now remarkably quiet. She noticed Rob behind the transparent glass walls of his office. He was sitting in a slightly crouched
position, neglecting the comfortable backrest of his ergonomic office chair, trying to get a closer look at the pile of documents on his desk. A moment later, he lifted his head and their eyes met; he gestured with his hand for her to come inside. Sharon nodded agreeably, but she first went to the kitchenette and poured two cups of freshly brewed coffee.
“And what’s your excuse, early bird?” he asked her when she finally came into his office.
“My flight leaves first thing tomorrow morning, so I wanted to try and close as many loose ends as I could in the Navarro case before I leave.” She placed one mug next to him and sat on the chair in front of him, sipping from the other mug.
“And the marshal, is he coming too?”
“His name is Jacob, and yes.” She felt the warmth of a blush spreading across her cheeks but still tried to keep a straight face.
Rob gave her a long, appraising gaze. “Well, as much as I’m glad for the productive cooperation between the agencies, and that you and the marshal, er, Jacob,” he emphasized with a shrewd grin, “are getting along so well . . .” He paused for a brief moment before continuing, “Bottom line is, our cases, and not those of the Marshals Service, need to be your first priority. Especially now when we have such a high-profile one.”
“I came in early, didn’t I?” she asked defensively. “And believe me, Boss, if we can’t catch Helborgen now, this case will soon be transferred to us with a side-order of cold, dead body. And then, people will start whispering about blatant disregard and negligence on our part – and that’s the last thing you want, am I wrong?” She couldn’t help smirking, pretty damn pleased with herself.
The False Mirror Page 9
