“Pretty brazen of her,” Zia remarked. “Almost like she’s taunting us to come and get her.”
“That’s exactly what I thought,” he said. “It’s like she wants to make sure we know she’s taking a cab to Union Station.”
“Just like a lot of criminals, she’s got cocky because she thinks we’ll be stymied there.”
“We will be. Sorting out faces from the station crowd will tie us down for a lot longer than what was achieved at O’Hare because we have no point of reference.”
Cole’s eyes bored into the screen, seeking answers. Was Dresden employing smoke and mirrors to deflect their attention elsewhere? Why? Why hadn’t she hidden her face? Was it because she was hiding something else in plain view?
“Do we have footage of the O’Hare terminals servicing departing domestic flights?”
“I know they sent through footage from all exit points,” Zia confirmed. “Let me see. Here we are. Domestic flights depart from terminals one to three.”
“Can you bring up the footage from those areas, ten to fifteen minutes after the time Dresden was filmed leaving O’Hare?”
She shot him another curious stare, but complied.
“What are we looking for?” she asked as they watched taxis, chauffeured town cars and personal vehicles stop to disembark passengers, with streams of men, women and children of all ages passing through the concourse.
“I have a wild hunch that Dresden didn’t finish that cab ride to Union Station. I think she doubled back, so while we’re concentrating on Union Station she’s actually left Chicago via O’Hare.”
After fast forwarding through an hour’s worth of footage for Terminal 1, at Cole’s request, Zia switched the view to Terminal 2. Ten minutes later, Cole stabbed the screen with an excited finger.
“Stop right there!”
Zia enhanced the view of someone in a light-weight hooded jacket alighting from a cab. This time there was no face-flaunting. Instead the woman kept her head lowered away from the camera, merging with a crowd that passed through the sliding doors into the main concourse.
“Isn’t that the same brown bag over her shoulder that Dresden had?” he said. “That could be her. See if you can pick up the view from inside the terminal.”
Cole waited with impatience until Zia could find the correct camera view.
It showed the woman coming in with the crowd, before peeling off towards one of the airline desks. Cole screwed up his eyes, trying to discern the logo.
“Can you read that? Is it United Airlines?”
“I can’t make it out. She’s passing out of camera view. Let me get another angle.”
While Zia’s fingers flew over the keyboard, Cole worked his phone.
“A United Airlines flight left Terminal 2 at 3:50 p.m. yesterday for New York,” he said, a sudden chill freezing his veins.
“That’s the right time frame and isn’t New York on your list of medical facilities?” Zia commented. “Ah, here we are. She’s still keeping her face lowered but I recognize the bag over her shoulder too. And she’s still wearing the black slacks. There’s only one reason a woman would keep a hood over her head inside and that’s to hide her identity.”
“Rewind the footage and see if you can grab the taxi license plate from earlier so we can check the cab records for where he picked her up. I’ll also see if we can talk to the driver of the first cab to determine if he let Dresden out before Union and she paid him to continue on with the fare.”
“You’ll have to talk to Fausch. This information changes everything, Cole.”
“I’m on my way to Fausch’s office now.” Cole had difficulty getting the words around his thickened tongue. If Dresden had traveled to New York, then Cole needed to convince Fausch he was the right agent to send overseas. He needed to locate Dresden before she discovered Bex was in the same city.
Chapter 14
ShangriLa Motel, New York
Tuesday, 24 April
Two blocks off Broadway, the ShangriLa Motel welcomed its guests into a lobby that still maintained its original 1970s decor. On a faux leather sofa in one corner a woman’s folded body sobbed quietly. Half empty plastic soda bottles littered the side table beside the sofa. Bags and battered suitcases were piled on a birdcage luggage cart left by an elevator door boarded over with an “out of order” sign.
Without a badge to back her up, Bex put on her most officious tone to bluff the desk clerk into handing over Karen’s room number, but he wouldn’t budge. In the end it was Neil snaking a fifty-dollar bill across the counter that had the clerk turning his back so they could view the computer register.
They took the one elevator that was still working to the third floor. Stains preceded their way along the carpeted corridor to room number 324. Neil stood to the side out of view while Bex rapped on the door. On the way over to the motel, they had discussed their tactics. Neil thought Karen would be less intimidated by seeing a woman, provided she hadn’t already seen a photo of Bex.
“Yeah? Who is it?”
The voice from behind the door rasped with more guttural seduction than Bex had been expecting. She held a large manila envelope in front of her face.
“I have an urgent message from Attorney Augustus Dickerson. We need a signature from you before tomorrow’s proceedings.”
The name of Karen’s lawyer had been listed on the court proceedings documents together with her address in New York.
“How come Gus didn’t call me?” Karen’s voice betrayed suspicion.
Bex thought quickly. “He’s down at the precinct with a client who’s being held in custody. This will only take a few minutes of your time.”
When the door opened, Bex lowered the envelope to face Karen. She stuck out her right hand.
“Karen Wynter? I’m Rebecca Wynter. Can we talk?”
As Karen moved to slam the door, she shoved her shoulder against it, forcing it open. As they struggled, a young man approached, glaring over Karen’s shoulder.
“Kristian?” Neil moved out of the shadows. His eyes watered. “Kristian, my boy?”
“Oh, for Chrissake, this is not a family reunion!” Karen screeched. “Help me shut the damn door, Ty!”
The women tussled with the door, but Karen’s thin, raw-boned frame was no match for Bex’s sinewy strength. The door held open.
“Karen if we can reach a compromise before court it will save a lot of time, effort and money. I just want a few minutes to tell you how Zane’s money is funding a halfway house to help teens who have been in trouble with the law but are trying to straighten out their lives.”
“You mean you’ve spent it?” Spit flew from her mouth as the words erupted.
“Not spent, exactly. The money’s in a trust fund —”
“That’s why Gus got an injunction to freeze your accounts so you can’t spend any more!” Her shrill voice carried the length of the corridor. Bex could feel curious eyes staring from peepholes in neighboring doors.
“Yes he did. That means we can’t cover the running costs for the house. Karen, can we come inside and discuss this in private?”
“I don’t care about some damn house!”
“Wait, I want to hear,” Kristian interrupted. He tugged his mother’s grip off the door and jerked his head at them.
Without waiting for a more formal invitation, Bex hooked an arm through Neil’s, dragging him forward. Once inside, Neil closed the door and rested his back against it.
The small hotel room was stuffy with the leftover scent of take out burgers, as evidenced from the discarded brown bags on the faux-wood table that held a television with a cracked black screen.
With a last sour look in their direction, Karen squeezed past one of the twin beds to the mini fridge, unscrewing the top off a tiny bottle of bourbon to down the contents. The bed squeaked when she sat on its edge, the only part of the coverlet that didn’t look stained.
Stone-faced, Kristian stood in the middle of the dirty carpet, arms crossed ti
ghtly over his chest, in a stance designed to look intimidating, Bex decided. He wore camouflage pants slung low on his hips with a muscle T-shirt. He had no visible tattoos, no piercings. Half his head was shaved, while a brown mop straggled over his eye on the other side. The eyes staring back at her were assessing rather than suspicious and looked so much like Zane’s it left a burning pain in her chest.
“Go on then. Tell us about the house.” His voice was as guarded as his look.
She handed him her phone to show him a series of photos of Zane Wynter Halfway House, the boys who resided there and the facilities provided, including a gym that Walt had set up.
“More than a dozen boys live there right now. Three of the boys have enrolled in community college, two more have jobs which they’ve held for nearly six months now. Four of them have gone into trade apprenticeships. The others are kept busy doing maintenance work around the building for a bit of pocket money so they can buy personal items to keep themselves clean and tidy while they go for job interviews,” Bex repeated the information Walt had fed her.
Kristian listened silently, his eyes following the photos.
“We’re not falling for your sob story,” Karen snarled.
Kristian ignored his mother. “And you run the house?”
“No, your father’s best friend, Walt Slusarczyk manages the boys and the day-to-day running. The boys who are working pay board that helps cover the food costs, but the running of the place is actually paid for from the trust fund I’ve established with the money from Zane’s, your father’s, insurance payout.”
“Where is it?” He handed the phone back to her.
“We took a lease on a rundown hotel on West 94th. Zane’s colleagues chipped in their time and tools to help me renovate it. Nothing fancy, just enough to make it livable.”
“Unlike this place!” Karen snarled. “You see the type of dump Kristian and me are reduced to living in because you’ve taken my husband’s money! And what have you done with it? Wasted it on a bunch of losers. Shit, I hope you can get out of that lease otherwise you’ll have to turn the place into a brothel to make your money back!”
Her voice was so icy it stung.
“Karen, please, not in front of the boy.” Neil’s voice quavered in response.
“Shut up, old man! You never did approve of me, did you?”
“My son loved you. He would have given you the world because you gave him Kristian.”
Kristian’s eyes widened as he suddenly made the connection that the old man was his grandfather.
Karen’s eyes narrowed as she regarded Neil.
“Given me the world? That’s bullshit. He forced Kristian and me out of our home and on the run so we’d be safe from him.”
“Zane would never have hurt a hair on your head!” Bex’s temper flared.
She and Karen sized each other up. Karen’s emaciated body and face, the slight depression in the bridge of her nose, her haunted eyes, all screamed her cocaine abuse. In comparison, Bex judged Kristian to be the low-key one, the steady shoulder that Karen obviously leaned on.
“I don’t believe Zane would ever hurt a woman or child,” Bex repeated more calmly.
Karen stood, her thin arms hugging herself as she screamed at Bex.
“He tried to take my son away from me! What worse hurt can a man impose on a woman? I’ll never let my son go! Now get out! Both of you, get out! Before I call the police. You have no right to be here, harassing us! Get out! Get out! Get out!”
The violence in the high-pitched words rained down like blows.
Bex knew that if Karen called the police, it would seriously harm her case in court. She had blown her chance with Karen. Instead of losing her temper she should have stayed diplomatic.
Holding out shaky hands, Neil moved towards the center of the room. “Don’t take Kristian away again…”
Karen moved swiftly to bar Neil’s advance, cutting off his approach to his grandson.
“Both of you, get the hell out of here now!” she hissed. She glared at Bex. “As for you, I’ll see you in court, you gold-digging bitch.”
Karen shoved Neil so that he tumbled backwards into Bex. She braced herself to catch his frail frame and help him stumble towards the door. As they backed outside, she threw a last desperate glance into the room. Her eyes connected with Kristian’s before he twisted his head away.
Chapter 15
FBI Offices, Federal Plaza
Wednesday, 25 April
“Agent Nicholas Mackinley? I’m Special Agent Eisley Gillespie.” A slim woman shook Cole’s hand with a firm grip as she met him in the reception area. She had a slight but athletic build and she projected a relaxed and friendly, yet totally professional demeanor.
Cole liked his first impression of her so he gave her his lop-sided smile and said, “Call me Cole, please.”
He liked her even better when she responded with a long cool look and simply turned to lead him along a corridor and past an open plan office filled with the hum of busy men and women.
“Did you have a good trip?”
“I would’ve preferred business class with my legs, but I survived.” Cole had managed to grab a couple of hours sleep on the overnight flight, ending up with a crick in his neck when the plane landed at JFK just after eleven o’clock local time. He had caught a cab, giving the driver the hotel name he had been booked into back at NCA. The hotel was based in Manhattan, close to Federal Plaza and the FBI offices. With his body clock out of whack, he had been awake since 3:00 a.m. going over his notes, checking and double-checking the facts that had brought him here:
1. Confirmation from the first cab driver that Dresden had disembarked before Union Station, but paid for him to continue the trip as though she was still on board.
2. Video footage of the woman identified as Dresden boarding the United Airlines flight to Chicago. After painstaking backtracking, the Bluebird team had managed to match Dresden to a Passenger Name Record for Stephanie Kirkland who had produced an Indiana driver’s license as ID.
3. More video footage of Dresden boarding the Airtrain from JFK.
A short cab ride this morning had delivered him to Federal Plaza and the majestically tall, glassed structure that served as a home to the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He’d gone through a number of screening procedures before being released into Eisley’s care.
Eisley ushered him into a long, narrow space that looked like a meeting room. An oblong table seating two chairs either side, with several more chairs pushed against the walls, took up most of the room. Through windows filtered by blinds, the sun had been swallowed behind the canyons of buildings facing their high rise. Two flat screen monitors were mounted on one wall, framed photographs of men and women were spaced along the other walls.
Eisley took a seat across from him and opened the briefcase she carried.
“I’ve been told you’re with an organization called NCA and I’m to provide you with FBI cooperation,” she said. “I’ve worked with MI5 before, but I haven’t heard of NCA. It sounds like Britain is as fond of three lettered government institutions as America. Something we have in common perhaps. What does NCA stand for?”
“If you ask the public they’ll tell you it stands for National Chaos Agency, but officially it’s Crime.”
An impatient hand combed through shoulder-length hair as she gave him an obligatory smile. “I’ve been told I work for the Federal Bureau of Insanity. Sounds like a good mix. Please sit down, Cole, and let’s share what information we have.”
Cole pulled out a chair and placed his own briefcase and laptop bag on the table in front of him. He had read his notes so many times he knew them off by heart, and gave her the bare bones of their findings.
“Security footage from O’Hare and JFK Airports confirms that wanted serial killer Sophie Dresden boarded a United Airlines flight to New York on Monday. I believe her connection to New York is through a medical research company called Quest Biorobotics Enterprises which ma
y be treating her husband, Lander Dresden, for his long term paralysis,” he ended.
“Your agency asked mine to check QBE’s financial records,” she confirmed. She pushed a thick wad of papers across the smooth surface towards him. “Here are the details.”
Cole slapped a hand on top of the pile. “I’d appreciate a quick summary to save my eyestrain, if you could.”
This time her mouth quirked with genuine amusement, but when she answered her voice remained steady.
“In a nutshell, QBE is a privately funded arm of Columbus General Hospital. It’s a separate wing but attached directly to the hospital building. Funding is via a trust company so they’re not obliged to reveal sponsorship deals or donations. What we do know is that two hundred million dollars was injected into QBE’s research based on Dr. Wyatt Tomei’s announcement a year ago of a clinical breakthrough in the treatment of brain-controlled prostheses for stroke-affected patients.
“They filed patents for software engineering that enhances the number of neural connections made by patients’ brains to control light-weight robotic exoskeletons.”
“That’s exactly what the Dresdens would be interested in,” said Cole.
“There are rumors that QBE is on the verge of another breakthrough, but that’s only speculation at the moment. Your agency requested that FBI not approach QBE directly, but I’ve managed to source a personnel list for you. It’s included in the notes.”
“Our trail for Dresden goes cold after she boards the Airtrain out of JFK so I need to build evidence to link her to QBE. Do you have anything else for me, Eisley?”
“We’ve checked through QBE’s sponsorship and donation program, but the list of published names doesn’t match any of the aliases you provided. That still leaves nearly thirty percent of donations in the anonymous category, so we backtracked. We were able to trace the name Stephanie Kirkman to a bank account that had transferred three large transactions to Columbus General Trust, which provides funds to QBE.”
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