by Jason Dean
He checked under the Lexus’s wheel arches. The first three gave him nothing. But at the rear passenger side he found a black, magnetized transmitter. It was about the size of a matchbox and he knew exactly what it could do. Somebody was using it to keep track of Bishop. Jenna, too. And obviously not someone who wanted him caught, as a phone call to the cops would have been simpler and cheaper.
Bishop walked over to a storm drain and dropped the device through the grate.
He had mixed feelings about the transmitter. On the one hand, it told him he was on the right track. Obviously an early warning system in case he was getting too close. Which he clearly was. But with Jenna’s car also under surveillance, it meant he was putting her in danger as well and that was the last thing he wanted. She’d already helped enough and he wanted her out of the way and safe while he handled things alone from now on. But first, he needed to get rid of the other transmitter.
FIFTY-FOUR
Jenna gave a huge sigh as she switched off the engine, unconsciously matching her breathing to the ticking of the muffler as it cooled down. She knew how it felt. As usual, the Holland Tunnel had been the worst. Rush hour, too. It wouldn’t have been so bad if she’d had the radio to listen to, but that annoying high-pitched tone in the background merely stressed her out even more.
At least Mandrake’s address had been easy to find. Metroblade was a two-storey building with a small car park out front at the end of a gently curving cul-de-sac off Newark Avenue, near the turnpike bridge. The left-hand side of the road was taken up with a vast auto salvage business. The other side was taken up by a noisy recycling site.
Jenna got out, locked the vehicle, and walked over to the portico entrance. Inside, the reception area was filled with comfortable chairs arranged in circles of four. Framed enlargements of aerial views of the city covered the walls. The place felt subdued and relaxed. Two couples sat in one of the circles, deep in conversation with each other. They looked like tourists waiting for their ride. None looked up at her entrance. Directly ahead, a bespectacled woman with dyed-blond hair sat behind a large desk working on her computer. There was no name plaque, but Jenna guessed this was Alex.
The woman saw her approach and said, ‘Help you?’
‘Hi, we spoke on the phone. Jenna Falstaff. Here to see Art.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ Alex said, looking her over. She rose from her chair, leaned over the desk and pointed a finger towards the wide hallway to Jenna’s right. ‘Down there, honey, and up the stairs. First right at the top is Art’s office, okay?’
Jenna thanked her and walked down the hallway, then up the stairs. At the top, she rapped her knuckles against the door with Arthur Mandrake’s name on it, and a voice said, ‘Come in.’
The room she entered was longer than it was wide, with a row of shuttered windows along one side that overlooked the car park. A long, rectangular conference table took up much of the central floor space. At the far end, a smiling Art Mandrake rose from behind his computer and came around his kidney-shaped desk with hand outstretched. ‘Jenna,’ he said.
She walked over and took his hand. ‘Hello, Mr Ma— Sorry. Art.’
Art stood at around five-nine and wore a well-tailored black suit. He looked about seventy and his face contained deep lines and creases that Jenna figured resulted from a life spent closer to the sun than most. The skull was almost entirely free of hair, apart from a few white wisps above the ears but the clear, brown eyes held a sparkle that was ageless. Jenna couldn’t help smiling back.
‘Anything you’d like, Jenna?’ He went over to a small refrigerator next to his desk and said, ‘I’ve got water and soft drinks, or I can get Alex to bring you up a coffee if you’d prefer.’
‘Water’s fine,’ she said and waited as he filled two glasses with Evian and ice. He motioned for her to sit down in one of the chairs surrounding the conference table. ‘Thanks. This is a little out of the way for a tour company, isn’t it?’
He sat down next to her and crossed his legs. ‘It’s worth it for the cheaper rent. Besides, a large part of our business comes from high-level executives who believe avoiding New York traffic is worth almost any price. We’ve got three helicopters that rarely stay on the ground for very long. Two of them are due back soon, in fact. You’re even prettier than I imagined, Jenna. If there’s a man in your life, I hope he appreciates you.’
She felt herself blushing at the compliment. ‘I’m not sure what he thinks. The strong silent type, you know?’
‘Hmm. If he’s not careful, he’ll develop an ulcer.’ He brushed some imaginary lint from his sleeve and said, ‘So how can I be of service?’
She took a sip of water and said, ‘Well, it has to do with a visit you made to the Cavendish Hospital in San Francisco in late 1969.’
Art looked at her for a few moments. ‘What makes you think I was ever there?’
‘Your name was mentioned in a private diary belonging to their night man at the time. Here.’ Reaching down into her bag, she pulled out the 1969 book, opened it to a page marked with a Post-it note and placed it before him.
He pulled his spectacles from his shirt pocket, perched them on his nose and read the entry without touching the book. When he reached the end, he took them off and sat back. ‘I think if we are to proceed,’ he said, ‘I need to know what your interest is in this. Do you think that’s fair?’
Jenna had known the question was coming but still hadn’t come up with a decent answer. And Art would see through the usual snow job in a second. She cleared her throat and took another sip of water. The truth, then. As far as possible. ‘That man in my life you mentioned?’
‘Yes?’
She kept her attention on the glass of water in front of her. ‘He’s . . . well, he’s in a lot of trouble. Please don’t press me for specifics, but we’re both trying to find the person responsible for putting him there. One way to do that is by finding out what this person was actually after and why. Our digging so far has led us to a patient who stayed at Cavendish Hospital forty years ago. And from there to you.’ She turned to Art and smiled. ‘Could I be any vaguer?’
Art took a sip of his own drink and said, ‘This man of yours sounds intriguing. I’d be interested in meeting him.’
‘I don’t know. He’s got a lot on his plate at the moment.’
‘Of course.’ Art placed his glass next to hers and said, ‘Do you know, Jenna, I was an agent for the Bureau during the last ten years of Hoover’s life and in all that time I met him only the once, and even that was one time too many. He was not an impressive figure, either as a human being or as a boss. Nevertheless he was my boss, and when he called me in to his office in late ’69 and assigned me to fly down to San Francisco to visit this hospital, I did as I was told. Once there, I was to inspect the billing records of each patient and write a detailed report of my findings. For Hoover’s eyes only.’
‘And that’s all he told you?’
He smiled and rubbed a hand over his bald pate. ‘If you’ve read anything about Hoover you’ll know he was a man with issues, not the least of them being his pathological distrust even of the people under his command. I certainly didn’t need to know why I was to do it. The verbal order from the great man himself was deemed reason enough.’
Jenna heard the sound of rotary blades and turned in her chair. Out of the window, she saw a helicopter heading towards the city. ‘Final trip of the day?’ she asked.
‘A brief journey to see the sights during magic hour.’ He squinted at a speck in the distance. ‘And here comes Mr Rafe Stevenson, if I’m not mistaken. Returning from another profitable day at the exchange.’
He had good eyes. Jenna saw the speck gradually turn into another copter and asked, ‘So did you find anything?’
‘I found out who paid the bills for each patient and took photocopies, or what passed for them in those days. Then I typed up my findings and sent it all off to Hoover’s office. If you’re asking whether I found anything suspicious, then no,
I didn’t.’
‘But Hoover must have. He sent you back there.’
‘My, you have done your homework. Well, whatever Hoover found he didn’t let me in on the secret. He just sent me one of his infamous memos and ordered me to go back and find out everything I could about one patient in particular, including a thorough search of his room when the opportunity arose.’
‘Timothy Ebert in room eleven.’
He arched his eyebrows at her. ‘Not bad. Yes, Timothy Ebert. Well, I inspected the man’s medical records – something I’m not too proud of when I think about it now – and discovered he’d been admitted two years before, in 1967. He’d been diagnosed with an extreme form of manic-depressive illness. My youngest daughter works in a hospital and I’ve learned this is now referred to as bipolar disorder. Back then, though, they really had no idea how to treat it.’
‘Isn’t that like schizophrenia?’
Art shook his head. ‘A common misconception. Bipolar disorder’s a disease caused by a chemical imbalance and characterized by intense mood swings. Some patients suffering from the disease in its most extreme form can experience full-blown psychosis where they feel they’re on a special mission, but it’s actually treatable with the right medication. True schizophrenia, on the other hand, is quite rare and is based around continual hallucinations and delusions. Much harder to treat because the patient simply stops taking his medication if one of his hallucinations tells him to.’
‘Okay. So who was footing the bills? His folks?’
‘No, not his parents. Do you know, I can’t quite remember the person’s name. Although I do recall it was quite a mouthful. Maybe that’s why it didn’t stick.’
‘Shame,’ she said. ‘The night man wrote that you were interested when he told you about Ebert going AWOL.’
‘Of course I was. Any behaviour that was out of the ordinary got my attention.’
Jenna pulled her notebook from the bag at her feet just as her phone sounded a message alert. ‘And he gave you the dates Ebert went missing?’
‘Certainly,’ Art said. ‘But if you expect me to remember . . .’
‘No need,’ she said. ‘He wrote them down himself. There were six in all. Here.’ Jenna turned to her notebook’s most recent page and handed it to him as she pulled out her phone. Art studied the dates before looking up at her with a blank look on his face. ‘They don’t mean anything to you?’ she asked.
‘Should they?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, experiencing uncertainty for the first time. ‘I was hoping . . .’ She paused. What was she hoping for, exactly? That he’d remember every detail from an obscure assignment four decades ago and wrap everything up for her in a nice little package? Yeah, right, Jenna. Good plan.
She glanced down at her phone and saw she’d received two messages, not one. Both were from Bishop. After asking Art to excuse her for a moment, she opened them up. In the first, he’d given her a web address to check. In the second, he told her to remain at Metroblade and that he’d meet her there. She frowned, wondering what had caused him to risk exposure by coming here. Although it couldn’t be too serious or he would have said so. Oh well, she’d find out soon enough when he arrived. But she could check the link right now. Maybe he had gotten somewhere.
‘Well, it looks like you might get to meet the man in question, after all,’ she said.
‘He’s coming here?’
She nodded and looked at Art’s PC. ‘That thing’s connected to the web, right?’
He followed her gaze. ‘Naturally. Why?’
‘You mind giving me a few minutes to check on something?’
‘Go right ahead.’ He slid the 1969 diary over and opened it to a random page. ‘I can amuse myself with this gentleman’s private thoughts in the meantime.’
Grabbing her cell and notebook, Jenna walked over and sat in front of the monitor. Just beyond the keyboard, under a shapeless chunk of polished glass, lay a folded copy of today’s New York Times. With the three-year-old mugshot of Bishop in plain view. After a quick check to see if Art was watching, she picked up the paperweight and turned the newspaper over. Right now, Bishop needed all the help he could get. Then she grabbed the mouse and opened a web browser, keyed in the web address from her phone and pressed Return.
And as sudden as a car crash, there it was. A big, fat piece of the puzzle laid bare right in front of her. The whole timeline from 1968 through 1969. Bishop had found it. She fell silent as she speed-read through the text, her heart beating faster with each sentence. Occasionally she glanced at her notes to compare the dates and marked each one with a tick or a cross where appropriate. When she reached the end, she leaned back in the chair and stared at the ceiling as she digested the information. Or tried to.
After a while she looked over at Art. From between the pages of the 1969 journal, he’d extracted one of the letters Bishop had found at the Brennan house and was reading through it slowly.
‘You better come take a look at this, Art,’ Jenna said, standing up. She waited as he rose from his seat, still holding the letter in his hand, and came round the desk to join her.
He sat down, looked at the screen and said, ‘Is that . . . ?’
‘Why don’t you compare the dates in my notebook before you ask questions? I copied them down earlier from the two journals.’
He dropped the letter next to the newspaper and began reading through the onscreen text, referring to Jenna’s notations as he navigated down the page. She watched his face in the light of the monitor, and when he reached the last line she couldn’t tell if he’d gone pale, but thought it likely. She gave him a few moments to take it all in.
He eventually looked up at her and said, ‘Well.’
‘In a word,’ she said. ‘Now you can understand why Hoover wanted you out there.’
‘Yes.’ He licked his lips and tapped the notebook. ‘Four of the dates Ebert went missing . . .’
‘. . . match up with the dates of the murders,’ she said. ‘You should feel good, Art. Now you know what Hoover knew all along. After all this time, you’ve finally discovered the identity of the Zodiac killer.’
FIFTY-FIVE
As he made his way down Canal Street towards the Holland Tunnel, Bishop wondered how he was going to get around Mandrake. It didn’t matter how old the guy was, it was a good bet he’d make Bishop the moment he saw him. And since Jenna couldn’t very well claim ignorance of Bishop’s fugitive status, she could face prosecution for associating with a known felon if Mandrake decided to go down that route.
He decided the simplest solution was to wait for her outside reception and avoid Mandrake altogether.
Once again, his thoughts returned to what he’d found on the website. He felt sure there was still a piece missing. There had to be. With the exception of Jack the Ripper, the Zodiac was modern history’s most notorious serial killer. Even now, forty years later, Bishop had no doubt one of the major media corporations would pay big money for actual proof of his identity. But enough to warrant a massacre? When there were already millions for the taking in Brennan’s vault? Bishop thought it unlikely.
Which meant it came back to Timothy R. Ebert himself. Clearly, the guy was still walking around as nobody would be too interested in a dead man, unless there was a family connection of some kind. Bishop considered the distinct possibility that he was somebody known to both Cortiss and his partner. Somebody well off, financially. And prepared to pay a hell of a lot more than five million to ensure his secret remained hidden. But who was he?
Still too many questions and not enough answers.
As he joined the small queue of vehicles waiting at the tunnel’s westbound entrance, Bishop looked up into the darkening sky to see a helicopter in the distance heading in the same direction as himself. Metroblade couldn’t be far now.
FIFTY-SIX
Standing at the window, Jenna watched the approaching helicopter steadily grow in size and thought about Timothy Ebert. And why his identific
ation as the Zodiac had proved so costly to so many people. At least she wasn’t short of questions to ask Art now. When the chopper finally passed by overhead, she turned to see him still engrossed in the website, and nodded her head at the ceiling. ‘That your other exec?’
‘Yes,’ Art said, frowning at the screen. ‘Interesting.’
Jenna came over and perched on his desk. ‘You find something else?’
‘Do you know anything about the Zodiac’s ciphers, Jenna?’ he asked, turning to her.
‘Some. He’d send coded messages to the papers, demanding the front page, right?’
‘In a nutshell. In late July 1969, he sent the first one to San Francisco’s three main newspapers, claiming it would identify him once decoded. It didn’t, of course; just more gibberish about being reborn in paradise with the victims as his eternal slaves. But the code ended with a series of eighteen seemingly random letters that have puzzled cryptologists to this day. Take a look.’
She came to his side and read through the translated cipher. There, right at the end, were the letters EBEORIETEMETHHPITI.
‘It’s a stretch, I know,’ he said, ‘but if you kind of read it backwards . . .’
Jenna stared at it for a few seconds and then turned to him with her mouth open. ‘Pity Timothy Ebert.’
He nodded. ‘Not exactly conclusive. But if you know where to start and don’t mind bending the rules a little, it does contain a signature, of sorts.’
‘Or a call for help,’ Jenna said and looked down at the letter Art had been reading. It was the one from Willow Reeves. She reached over and picked it up. Turned it over. And of course the nine vowels and nine consonants written on the back were the same as those on the screen.
