by Tim Stevens
‘Beth.’
‘Beth. Right.’ The woman smiled again. ‘I’m Shelly, by the way. As my partner says, we’re part of the Missing Persons unit over on the East Side. We’re investigating the disappearance three days ago of Professor Leonard Lomax.’
‘Prof Lomax? He’s disappeared?’ Though she’d already guessed something wasn’t right with the Prof, Beth still felt a stab of alarm to hear it said out loud.
‘Yeah,’ said Gomez. ‘When did you last see or speak to him?’
Anderson shot him a look, as if to reproach him for being so blunt. To Beth she said, ‘You told the detectives earlier that you’d tried to phone Professor Lomax at his home, and a strange man answered. Right?’
‘Right.’
‘You’re quite positive it wasn’t the professor?’
‘Absolutely.’ Beth spoke with confidence. ‘I’ve known the Prof for over ten years. I’d recognize his voice anywhere. This was a younger man. Maybe in his thirties.’
‘And when did you see the professor last?’ asked Anderson.
Beth thought about it. ‘I met him... maybe six weeks ago.’
‘As long as that?’
‘Yes. We’re collaborating together on a research project, but a lot of the time we talk on the phone, or communicate by email. He’s busy, I’m busy. We were scheduled to meet tomorrow, though, to go over some of our work together.’
‘When did you last speak to him, or exchange emails?’
Again Beth considered. ‘That must have been two weeks ago. Yes, that’s right. I emailed him with a query about something, and he answered.’
‘Did he seem okay?’ asked Gomez. ‘Preoccupied in some way? Or scared?’
‘Not that I can recall,’ said Beth. ‘But it’s hard to tell from an email, you know? It was just about work-related matters, nothing more.’ She frowned, a thought occurring to her suddenly. ‘You said he disappeared three days ago?’
‘Yes,’ said Gomez. ‘Didn’t turn up for work. Colleagues tried to get hold of him but he wasn’t home, or answering his calls. We checked his house. No sign of him. Bu no sign of any break-in or foul play, either.’
‘But the university must have a database of work he’s involved in, people he’s collaborating with,’ said Beth. ‘My name would have come up. Why haven’t you already interviewed me to see if I had any idea where he was?’
She caught Anderson’s glance at Gomez, who shook his head.
‘What?’ said Beth.
Anderson seemed to debate with herself, then she said, ‘Look, Beth. We’ll need you to go over your story again. But we might as well come clean with you.’
‘Shel,’ Gomez growled. Anderson ignored him.
She went on: ‘We’ve been pulled off the case. Not just us, the whole department. Somebody else, the Feds or someone, has taken over. And we don’t like it. So we’re staying involved, Mike –’ she indicated Gomez with a thumb, ‘and I.’
Chapter 18
Venn found an all-night internet café off Columbus and took a booth where he could watch the door. He didn’t think he’d been followed, but there was no point in taking any chances.
On the way in he bought a large coffee and a bottle of mineral water. The clerk served him with indifference. Venn supposed he looked like any of a number of denizens of the night, with his bleary, bloodshot eyes suggesting alcohol or drug problems.
Rather than a recent Mace attack.
He used some of the water to wash out his eyes, then swigged the rest down before starting on the coffee. When he was feeling a little more together, Venn logged on to the computer.
The first thing he did was search Google Images for “Elizabeth Colby”.
He found her immediately. He hadn’t gotten the best look at her face, and it was contorted in fear when he did see it, but there was no mistaking the resemblance to the young woman smiling back at the camera on the screen. A looker, there was no doubt about it. Auburn hair, slightly wavy, tumbled around an intelligent face with blue eyes, a generous mouth. Great teeth.
Venn opened the image’s parent webpage. It was the Internal Medicine department of one of the city’s busiest and most famous hospitals. Dr Elizabeth Colby had her own blurb. The listing said she was a final year resident, and gave her qualifications and research interests.
Well, Dr Colby, now I know who you are and what you do, thought Venn to himself. I even know where you work. But what I don’t know is: where can I find you?
Venn clasped his hands behind his neck and rocked back in the office chair, stretching, trying to ease some of the tension out of his spine. Where would he go, in circumstances like Dr Colby’s? After first discovering a stranger in the house of your professor buddy, and then getting chased out your window and shot at by somebody else? To friends? Family?
Venn decided if it were him, he’d go to the cops.
Which left Venn with a problem.
He could, he supposed, Google every police station within a ten or twenty-block radius of Dr Colby’s apartment, then trudge around to each and every one, asking at the front desk if a Dr Elizabeth Colby had stopped by. Sooner or later he might hit the jackpot. The jackpot was likely to be a bunch of highly suspicious cops, who’d maybe recognize him from the description Colby had given them as one of her attackers.
They’d jump on Venn, arrest him, and he’d be in the shit.
Corcoran might, just might, bail him out. More likely, the guy would write Venn off as a loser, a waste of time and effort, and would simply throw him to the wolves.
No. Doing the rounds of the police stations was not an option as far as Venn could figure out.
But if using some other method he could just find out which one she’d gone to... that might give him a fighting chance. He might be able to stake out the station, see if she emerged, and follow her. If she had a police escort, he’d have to figure out some way round that.
If Dr Colby had gone to the cops, their first stop would be her apartment. To check out the scene, search for evidence of the mystery assailant or assailants.
That was where Venn would head. If he got lucky, he might be able to move in close enough to any uniform cops there to catch their badge numbers. He could then run a check and see which precinct they were operating out of.
Venn logged off, got himself another coffee, and headed out into the night once more.
Chapter 19
Marcus Royle took the buds out of his ears and folded the earphones away into the pocket of his coat.
For a moment he stood with his eyes closed, savoring the after-effect of the music he’d just been listening to. It was Stravinsky’s The Rite of Spring, the revolutionary composition which at its premiere in Paris in 1913 had caused riots in the concert hall.
Sometimes music was all that could help Royle center himself.
He was standing in a doorway a few blocks from the Colby woman’s apartment. After the failed hit (yes, that’s what it was – there was no point in pretending otherwise), after the woman had run off, leaving the other man on the street below, clutching his face, Royle had disappeared back down the stairs. He half-expected to see a squad of police in the lobby, but there was nobody there except for the dead doorman behind the desk.
Royle moved swiftly round the rear of the building, his hand on the Sig Sauer pistol in his pocket, but the other man was gone too.
He strode off, thinking as he went.
Who had the other man been? The one who’d fired up at him, and messed up the hit, just when he had the woman in his sights? Royle had been tempted to vault down the fire escape, killing the man on the ground and going after the woman, but he couldn’t be sure he wasn’t walking into a trap. There might be more of them down there, and he’d be a sitting duck on the fire escape.
Now, it seemed the other man had been alone.
Was he police? But if so, how had he gotten there so quickly? And why had he been there at all?
It was possible the other man was a second assass
in, sent along as insurance. But Royle was pretty sure the man had been shooting at him, Royle, and not at the woman.
Royle felt no self-disgust at having failed in the hit. It was mildly annoying, that was all. But he had no doubt he’d succeed. And soon.
He stepped into a doorway which looked like it wasn’t in use, and pressed deep back into the shadows so that the sweeping headlights of the cars passing on the street didn’t catch him in their beams.
The first call Royle made was to the number Rosetti had given him.
It wasn’t Rosetti who answered, but then Royle hadn’t expected it would be. She’d have some flunkey manning the phones for her.
A young man’s voice: ‘Yeah?’
‘This is Marcus Royle.’
‘Yeah?’
Clearly the man at the other end was of limited vocabulary. Royle said, ‘Tell your boss target number three survived. I shall despatch her shortly.’
He also told the man to keep any competition out of the field, or they’d die too.
Then he killed the call.
Some people wouldn’t have bothered to call in. They’d have been too embarrassed or scared to admit they’d failed. But Rosetti had asked for a call as soon as Royle had made his move, and he was nothing if not conscientious. He wanted his clients to respect his reputation for reliability.
Plus, if there was a chance that the man who’d shot at him was a second assassin sent by Rosetti to make sure Dr Colby was terminated, Royle wanted Rosetti to be quite clear that he didn’t approve.
Quite clear.
The second call Royle made, standing there in the doorway, was to an international number. One in London.
‘Hello?’ The voice at the other end was clipped, upper-class English. And only slightly fuzzy with sleep.
‘Peter. This is Marcus Royle.’
‘Marcus! How the devil are you?’ All trace of sleepiness was gone from the voice. The man sounded genuinely delighted to hear from him. Royle pictured him. Sir Peter Greening, white hair tousled and little eyes unfocused as he groped on the dresser for the spectacles without which he was nearly blind.
‘I’d appreciate a favor,’ said Royle.
‘Of course, of course.’ Sir Peter sounded as jovial and accommodating as if Royle had come to tea and asked for the sugar to be passed.
Sir Peter Greening was an old associate of Royle’s from his days in MI6, the British Intelligence Service. Royle had learned, and honed, his assassin’s skills in the service of his Queen and country, and had only left because the pay fell short of what he felt he deserved. But he’d maintained his contacts in the Service, and he’d done enough favors in his time that he felt justified in calling them in occasionally.
‘I’d like to find a girl.’
‘Wouldn’t we all,’ Sir Peter said, a leer in his voice.
Royle gave him Dr Elizabeth Colby’s name, date of birth and address.
‘Leave it to me,’ said Sir Peter, and Royle hung up.
He spent the next half hour listening to the Stravinsky recording on his phone.
Soon after the music finished, the phone rang.
It was Sir Peter.
‘Done,’ he said triumphantly.
Sir Peter had telephoned a contact of his in the US National Security Agency, who’d taken Dr Colby’s details and identified her cell phone number. Within minutes, the contact had put a satellite trace on the doctor’s phone.
Sir Peter gave Royle the web link and access codes for the tracking site.
‘Thanks,’ said Royle.
‘Not at all,’ guffawed Sir Peter. ‘You’ll have to come and visit next time you’re over this way. Do some pheasant shooting.’
‘I’d like that,’ said Royle, who couldn’t think of anything duller.
He found the website on his phone and entered the code. Within seconds, a soft, pulsing beacon appeared, superimposed on a street map of Manhattan.
Royle zoomed in. The beacon was stationary. Several blocks away, to the west.
A police station, by the look of it.
Chapter 20
Beth settled herself in the back of the detectives’ car. It was a Crown Victoria, the kind of vehicle she’d often seen but never ridden in. They were in the basement parking lot of the precinct house.
The two detectives, Anderson and Gomez, were up front. Anderson took the wheel, Gomez next to her.
Before she started the engine, Anderson turned to look at Beth. Her face was full of concern.
‘You sure you’re up to this, honey?’
‘I’ll be fine,’ said Beth. ‘Besides, I want to see what these people have done to my apartment.’
It was a little after three in the morning by the dashboard clock. A thin drizzle had started, just enough to wet the air, bringing a spring freshness to the hot city streets.
Anderson had explained to Beth that they’d gotten the tip-off about her from the local cops at the station house an hour earlier.
‘Like I said, we’ve been pulled off the Lomax missing person case,’ said Anderson. ‘But when the cops here heard you’d called his house and a stranger answered, they contacted us. They’re good guys, and they know we’re burning to find this guy. So Mike here and I agreed to take over your whole case. Find out who tried to kill you in your apartment, and maybe it’ll lead us to Lomax.’
‘Why are you so eager to find him?’ Beth asked. By now she’d relaxed a little, and was starting to like these two detectives. Anderson – Shelly – especially, with her friendly pixie-like manner, but even Gomez, whose surliness Beth thought masked a gruff decency.
‘Because,’ said Shelly, ‘we don’t like being patronized. Because we don’t like being treated like some hick sheriffs in Nowheresville, told to step aside as soon as the big boys, the Feds, ride into town. Because this is our city, our turf, and if somebody goes missing here, it’s our business first and foremost. Not the Feds’.’
‘But why were you pulled off the case in the first place?’ said Beth.
Gomez answered this time. ‘My guess is, your Professor Lomax has been kidnapped. He’s a scientific researcher, isn’t he? Maybe he was working on something that’s important to national security.’ He eyed Beth. ‘You said you were collaborating with him. Maybe you could enlighten us about the work he was doing.’
‘Mike,’ said Shelly. ‘Maybe later? Our priority now is to help Beth. Find out who attacked her.’
The detectives proposed visiting Beth’s apartment. A bunch of squad cars had already been to the area, alerted by reports of gunfire out back, and the forensic team was doing its work outside, gathering shell casings. But so far, the cops hadn’t been in the apartment itself.
‘They found a body, though,’ said Shelly. ‘The doorman.’
Beth closed her eyes. Herman. She’d liked him, liked his cheery manner, the way he regarded the occupants of the building as his charges, to be protected at all costs.
Gomez said to Beth, ‘You’d better come with us.’
Shelly looked at him. ‘What? No. Beth’s just been through a major trauma. She needs to stay here and rest.’
‘She can tell us if anything’s missing or out of place,’ he said.
Beth nodded. ‘Detective Gomez is right. I’ll be okay, Shelly. I’d like to come.’ She tried a smile. ‘Besides, I’d feel safer with you two than I would here at the station.’
Shelly found Beth a raincoat that was a little on the large size, and insisted she wear it.
As they drove through the streets, which were still alive with people and traffic despite the lateness of the hour and despite the fact that it was midweek, Beth felt fatigue threaten to smother her once again. She’d had a handful of hours’ sleep in the last two days, and the extra alertness the adrenalin had given her after the recent attack was fading fast. All she wanted to do was curl up on the backseat and give herself up to the embrace of beautiful, blissful sleep.
But she couldn’t.
Her life was in danger.<
br />
And her friend and colleague, Prof Lomax, was missing.
Then Beth realized she’d forgotten about the other things that had been preoccupying her. Earlier in the day.
The death of her friend, Luisa, and the death of the man in Queens, Lawrence B. Siddon, whom she knew but couldn’t quite place.
Unexpected deaths, disappearances, and attacks. It was all too much to process, even for somebody like Beth who was accustomed to absorbing and making sense of large quantities of information on a daily basis, in the line of duty.
She sat and gazed out the window, the glass blurred by the rain that was starting to come increasingly thick and fast. They were drawing nearer to Lincoln Square and her home.
Though she didn’t know if she could call it home anymore.
Home was supposed to be a place where you could feel safe.
Ahead, Beth could see flashing red and blue lights. As Shelly turned the corner a crime scene came into view. The street behind Beth’s apartment block was cordoned off with police tape. Squad cars, their cherrytops flickering, blocked access to the street just in case the tape didn’t make the message clear enough. A horde of figures swarmed over the street.
Shelly pulled in at the curb and beckoned a uniformed cop over. He nodded at her and Gomez, glancing with mild curiosity at Beth in the backseat.
Gomez told the cop who they were, and who Beth was, and that they’d be going up to the apartment to check it out.
Shelly drove them round to the front of the building. There were only two squad cars parked outside. Through the glass doors, Beth took in the familiar sight of the lobby. What was unfamiliar was the knot of cops and CSI techs roving about within.
‘They’ve taken his body away already,’ said Shelly, as if reading her thoughts. ‘The doorman’s.’
Shelly killed the engine and they got out. Beth shivered against the rain as she stepped from the car. She hadn’t had time to put a coat on. But then she’d left her apartment in rather a hurry.
And then it happened.
Gomez and Shelly were facing the entrance of the apartment building, Beth behind them, when she felt the arm slide in hard across her throat, choking off the scream that rose instinctively in her chest.
