The Wrong Man

by Jason Dean

  But Thorpe never forgot that his main reason for being there was to find the vault. He knew it was somewhere on the property, but after three months had failed to find any sign. Until Natalie just came out with it one day, as they were lying next to each other after a particularly energetic session. About how her father had the vault built shortly after his purchase of the property. Right in the space between his third-floor office and the bathroom. Thorpe was amazed he hadn’t noticed before and had to tip his hat to whoever did the interior design.

  The next day, Thorpe placed a motion-activated camera in the ceiling of Brennan’s office to catch the combination the next time he accessed it. He also placed another one in Natalie’s den for his own enjoyment, and two more in the kitchen and living room as a precaution.

  Thorpe stepped things up after that. The visit to the Queens apartment Natalie believed was his and the accompanying photo session was easy. Thorpe knew Bishop only ever stayed at his apartment in between jobs, so the chances of his noticing their presence were non-existent. He took the opportunity to plant the evidence on Bishop’s hard drive at the same time. The fake IDs for Cortiss and his Romanian team took a little more work, but he got them in the end. Then, with less than a month to go before their planned assault, Danny sent word they’d gotten footage of Brennan entering the vault. And the combination was clear enough to make out.

  A few days later Thorpe was able to check for himself. Inside the vault he found over five million in cash, plus hundreds of sensitive files that were probably worth even more. But the one he wanted wasn’t among them. The Zodiac file simply wasn’t there. He couldn’t believe it. All their work and planning for this?

  It took an extreme effort of will to rein in his anger and think clearly again. If it wasn’t here, it had to be elsewhere. Somewhere not on the property. Once this mess was behind him he could concentrate on the elsewhere, but right now they had to stick to the plan they’d already set in motion. And they’d still end up with a million and a half apiece after depositing the two million in Bishop’s fake account, so it wouldn’t be for nothing.

  When Friday, October 15 finally came around, Thorpe spent the early hours dismantling the safe room’s control system and emptying the vault of all Brennan’s files for later study. The money he left. The files went over the electrified fence for Danny to pick up later. Then he inserted a remotely activated jamming device in the kitchen capable of disrupting Bishop’s communications.

  After that, it was just a matter of waiting. At 5.35 p.m., Thorpe left his post, climbed the tree next to the garage and accessed Natalie’s room. She was on the bed listening to her iPod with her eyes closed. He still remembered her surprised expression when he suddenly inserted a syringe into her neck and depressed the plunger. And then the mild sedative kicked in and she was quiet.

  The rest happened exactly as he’d imagined it. First, their cautious, stumbling journey to her father’s office, followed by Thorpe’s demand that Brennan face the bookshelves or his daughter died. Then the red fountain as Thorpe slit his throat from behind, tying Natalie to the chair and taping her mouth while the old man’s life poured out of him. Then his opening of the vault door in preparation for Cortiss’s arrival. Sending that message to Oates’s pager, ordering him to get Brennan to the safe room immediately without alerting the others. The look of shock when Oates showed up thirty seconds later and saw the blood. The look of total disbelief when Thorpe showed him the silenced gun and fired three rounds into his chest. It all went just beautifully.

  After erasing the message from both pagers he checked his watch and saw he still had plenty of time. From his pocket he unfolded a thin polyethylene disposable coverall and put it on. The next part would be messy, but necessary. He stood in front of Natalie and tore the shirt from her body. Then he made the first slash across her chest and heard her muffled scream under the tape. He watched her eyes pop and her body arch and jerk as she fought against the bonds holding her down. He slashed again. And then again.

  By the time Thorpe was finished a couple of minutes later, he was breathing heavily and his knife was sticking out of the girl’s belly. Her chin lay on her chest and she was rocking her head from side to side, uttering meaningless noises in her throat. Everything below the neck was crimson and there were far more cuts on her body than could be accounted for by a controlled attack. But that was okay. It would just look like Bishop had let his emotions get the better of him while cutting his girlfriend up.

  Thorpe plucked the blade out and ripped the duct tape from her mouth. Then he moved behind her and pulled her limp head back by her hair . . .

  He flinched at the sound of a vehicle door shutting and returned to the present. He saw Danny come through the doorway and drop the other mattress on the floor. Thorpe turned to Jenna. She was dozing. Her head slumped forward, just like Natalie’s after he’d slit her throat.

  Luck had been with him for the most part that day. Outside, he’d activated the jammer, set the charge on the rear door and made for the gazebo. It would have been perfect cover had he actually reached it before one of Cortiss’s goons got two lucky shots off.

  A lesser man would have gone down when he took the shots in the arm and shoulder. But Thorpe remained conscious and kept the kitchen window in sight at all times. Waiting for the exact moment when Bishop began running towards the rear stairs before blowing the charge on the door, knowing Cortiss would take care of the rest.

  Thorpe stood up, brushed the dust off his pants and made a hand motion to Danny to signal he was leaving. He looked down at Jenna and said, ‘But it’s those moments that separate the winners from the losers, isn’t it?’

  SIXTY-SIX

  Cornell Mandrake leaned forward on his chair in the Palisades Medical Center waiting room and watched the figures of Deputy Marshal Delaney and Agent Wagner until they turned right for the elevators and disappeared from view.

  Wherever Bishop was, Mandrake didn’t envy him.

  Delaney seemed to know everything about the guy from his birth on up, and it had only taken a couple of minutes in her presence for Mandrake to realize failure wasn’t part of her vocabulary. Her younger male colleague, Wagner, clearly idolized her and not just because of her looks. Mandrake had found himself answering every question with an attention to detail he hoped would cause her to think well of him. And that wasn’t like him at all.

  Except he hadn’t quite told her everything.

  A movement of white in his peripheral vision brought his head around. The slim, bearded Dr Akhtar was approaching the waiting area with his hands in his coat pockets. Mandrake stood up and walked over, meeting him halfway.

  ‘Is your sister still here, Mr Mandrake?’ the doctor asked, looking around as he adjusted his glasses.

  ‘Lisa’s had to take the kids to her ex-husband’s for the night. She’ll be back soon.’

  ‘All right. Well, there’s been no change as yet, I’m afraid. Your father’s out of ER and stable, but it’s still too early to tell how seriously the blow’s affected him, although the coma is not a deep one, so it’s possible he could wake tomorrow, or it could be weeks from now. We’ll conduct more tests through the night and probably know more in the morning.’ He looked up at the clock on the wall. The shorter hand was just edging past the twelve. ‘Later this morning, I mean.’ He gave a weak smile.

  ‘But he will wake up?’

  ‘Guarantees are worthless currency in a hospital, I’m afraid, but he’s strong and otherwise healthy for a man of his age and it was called in quickly. I feel positive; more than that, I cannot say. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .’

  Mandrake nodded. ‘Thanks, doctor. I’ll be here all night, so if you can keep me updated . . .’

  ‘Of course. And if I don’t, one of my colleagues will.’

  The doctor turned and walked back the way he’d come. Mandrake went back to his row of empty chairs, sat down in the same warm seat and thought about tomorrow. Or today. The police had assured him they’d
clear the crime scene before daylight, but had asked him to shut the place down for the next couple of days until they were sure they had everything they needed. That was fine by him. He didn’t feel much like flying at the moment. He’d just lost three people he’d known for years, and his father was currently in a place where nobody could reach him. Christ. All this within a few hours. It was almost too much to take in. He closed his eyes, rubbed his hands over his face and considered getting a cup of coffee from the machine down the hall.

  ‘How’s he doing?’

  He jerked upright. Bishop was looking back at him from the next chair. Damn, Mandrake thought, how did he do that? The guy was as silent as a ghost. He was wearing chinos, a jacket and a baseball cap. He looked like a regular Joe rather than America’s Most Wanted.

  ‘He’s still unconscious,’ Mandrake said. Glancing around, he added, ‘Look, no offence, but why do you care?’

  ‘I care about finding the man who put him there,’ Bishop said. ‘Good enough?’

  Mandrake shrugged and leaned forward again, an elbow on each knee. ‘I guess so. What’s it matter what I think, anyway? Look, I was going to get a cup—’

  ‘Her name’s Jenna Falstaff.’

  Mandrake turned to look at him. He knew exactly to whom Bishop was referring. He said, ‘I’m sorry about your friend, but I’ve seen three of my own—’

  ‘They’re dead,’ Bishop said. ‘You can’t do anything for them now and your old man’s under the care of professionals.’

  ‘Yeah, thanks for the update. Look, as far as I’m aware they don’t know anything about this Jenna and they believed me when I told them the Honda was my girlfriend’s, but I’ve got enough . . . How’d you find me, anyway?’

  ‘Wasn’t difficult. I called every hospital until I found one that held a Mandrake. I figured you’d be here, too, and just waited until Delaney and her sidekick left.’ Bishop leaned forward so they were level. ‘I came here for your help, Cornell.’

  ‘Nobody calls me Cornell except Art when he’s in a patronizing mood. And wasn’t getting you across the river help enough?’

  ‘Only you can answer that. Were they rough on you?’

  ‘The Marshals? Why would they be? I was an innocent victim held at gunpoint by an escaped murderer.’ The brief grin he gave Bishop stopped before it reached his eyes. ‘She’s got a major hard-on for you, you know. Doesn’t seem to care that you were the one called 911 for Art, either.’

  Bishop shrugged.

  Mandrake took a deep breath and let it out slowly as he sat back in his seat and looked at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the hospital around him. It was mostly quiet now except for the occasional message over the speaker system, requesting a doctor’s presence in another part of the building. A nurse walked briskly past the open area with her arms full of pillows and sheets. Mandrake watched her until she was out of sight.

  Then he motioned his head towards the couple sitting three rows in front. ‘See those two? I’ve been here for hours and they were probably here long before me. Haven’t said one word to each other the whole time.’

  Bishop followed his gaze and said, ‘Somebody they both care about is sick. Maybe dying. Could be that’s the only thing they got left in common.’

  Mandrake nodded and looked down at the floor again. After another minute, he sat upright and said, ‘So which law you want me to break this time?’

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  ‘Look, let’s get one thing clear,’ Wilson said, stopping on the path and turning to Bishop. ‘I don’t know what you think’s gonna happen here, but if you’re expecting me to take part you got the wrong guy. I’m paying off my debt to Falstaff just by talking to you. And don’t expect me to have second thoughts at the last minute and decide to go for that one last job to prove I still got it. Ain’t gonna happen. A good friend of mine once told me my luck was gonna run out sometime and he was right. That last job was four years ago. I don’t miss it and my wife loves me for it.’

  ‘I wasn’t expecting you to come along.’ Bishop said. ‘I know your rep.’

  Wilson just looked at him for a few beats. Then began walking again. ‘Okay, just so you know.’

  On Bishop’s return from the hospital early this morning, Aleron had informed him he’d set up a ten o’clock meet with Wilson in Central Park, near the Alice in Wonderland sculpture. Bishop got to the statue fifteen minutes early to scout the area and saw only dog-walkers and joggers. At 10.03, a heavy-set man in his late forties wearing a thin raincoat approached from the east. Without slowing, he nodded once at Bishop and kept walking along the path.

  Bishop joined him and they strolled in silence for a while. The sun was already out, but there was a morning chill in the air. Good weather for walking. Seeing Wilson close up, Bishop added five years to his first guess. The man looked in his early fifties. His forehead was ridged with lines and the close-cropped hair a lot greyer than Bishop had noticed at first glance. But the grey eyes were clear and missed nothing.

  ‘I can’t even hook you up with someone in the game,’ Wilson said. ‘People in my line don’t work with amateurs. Especially when there’s no chance of a payoff at the end of it. No time for prep, either. Oh, yeah, and you don’t even know the make of the vault for sure.’ He shook his head. ‘Christ, it sounds even worse when you hear it out loud.’

  Bishop agreed, but didn’t bother saying anything.

  ‘Okay,’ Wilson said. ‘So your guy has his own private vault built somewhere on the top floor of his building, that right?’

  ‘Right. Probably a Ulysses, since they built the one in the basement. No way to know for sure.’

  ‘’Course not. I mean, why make it any easier for yourselves? So you wanna get inside, you got one of two ways to go. Wanna guess what they are?’

  ‘Drilling through or breaking the combination.’

  ‘Man knows his movies. That’s the one thing they got right. Manipulation of the lock also falls under the second category, but you can forget about that. You ain’t got the touch, but don’t slit your wrists over it; not many people do.’ Wilson nodded towards an empty bench coming up on their left. ‘Here, step into my office.’

  Bishop sat down at one end, Wilson a few feet away. With enough space between them to look as though they weren’t together. Wilson took a clear plastic baggie out of his raincoat pocket and started to unwrap it. On cue, a pigeon landed directly in front of them. Then another.

  ‘Friends of yours?’ Bishop asked.

  Wilson looked at him askance. ‘Let them get their own food. This stuffs too good to waste on dumb birds. Here, try one.’

  Bishop took a cookie from the bag and took a bite. Chocolate chip. It tasted wonderful.

  ‘Great, ain’t they? Just another reason why I love my wife.’ Wilson took a bite of one and said, ‘And you can forget about drilling through. That was my game and it took me years before I got it right. Plus, the kind of plasma cutters you’d need you couldn’t find in a week, let alone the next twelve hours.’

  Bishop leaned back. ‘So it’s finding the right combination or nothing.’

  Wilson grinned. ‘Simplifies things, don’t it? For high-paying customers, manufacturers will personalize your vault to your specifications, but what you’ll probably be faced with is an electronic lock where you gotta key in a code on a keypad. Usually just numbers. You’ll get three attempts and then it’ll kick you out for a few minutes before you can try again. They’re standard on most private vaults these days. I know Ulysses uses them on nearly all their models.’

  Bishop took another bite of his cookie as two young men passed by in front of them.

  Once they were alone again, Wilson said, ‘Now we got three ways to get that combination. One: every manufactured safe or vault comes with a factory-set code, usually six to eight digits, to allow the customer to get in so he can then set his own personal code. Thing is, a lot of customers use that pre-set one a few times until it becomes habit. “You know,” thinks Ted J. Poin
dexter, “this one’s got enough numbers in it to mean nobody’s gonna guess it, so why set a new code when I’ve already memorized this one?” Believe me, it happens more times than it don’t.’

  ‘I don’t have access to the factory codes.’

  ‘But I do,’ Wilson said. ‘Or I can get them. I’ll give you my cell number and when you’re in, you look until you see the model number or serial number and call it in. It’ll be somewhere in plain sight. Give me five minutes and I’ll tell you what the factory code is. That much I can do for you. Does your guy sound the type who’d be that dumb?’

  Bishop watched as the pigeons decided they had better things to do and took to the air. ‘To be honest, no.’

  ‘Well, you never know, it’s worth a shot. Okay, let’s move on to method number two. How good a guesser are you?’

  Wilson offered the bag again. Bishop grabbed a second cookie and said, ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Not so much since I retired, but I am about this. Look, if it ain’t the pre-set code, nine times out of ten it’ll be a number that’s important to the client. People often forget human nature where memory’s concerned. Don’t automatically assume the owner’s gonna come up with a series of random numbers just to fool you. Life ain’t Hollywood. He’s got enough on his plate with his Social Security number, bank account number, PIN numbers, passwords to his Big Booty porn sites and everything else in between. One more random six- or eight-digit number to remember he can do without, believe me.

  ‘You want to study up in the next few hours. The more you know about your guy, the better equipped you’ll be. We’re talking loved one’s birthdays, important anniversary dates – both personal and business related – and like that.’