Panic (A Leopold Blake Thriller)

by Nick Stephenson

  Another round of general questions followed, all of which Coleman answered as vaguely as possible. After ten more minutes, Coleman thanked his audience and left in a hurry. Leopold waited until the crowd of journalists began to make their way out of the door at the front of the room, and then slipped out of the rear exit while the security guards were distracted. He managed to catch up with Coleman making his way back to his office.

  “Special Agent Coleman, just one second,” said Leopold, matching Coleman’s long stride.

  Coleman turned, still maintaining his pace. “Who are you?”

  “Leopold Blake. Pleasure to meet you.”

  He held out his hand. Coleman ignored it.

  “Blake? What are you doing here? I gave specific instructions to keep you out of the press conference.”

  “Yes, I figured Bradley would phone ahead, so I came a little early. Nice to finally meet you, by the way. I wanted to see for myself whether you had taken my advice or not. It appears you haven’t.”

  “I’m busy, Blake. There are bigger things going on today that I have to sort out, and I don’t have time to worry about this case. Tell me why I shouldn’t have security throw you out.”

  Leopold took a step forward. “Because there are two dozen of the city’s most influential journalists in the room next door, just itching for some more dirt on one of the biggest stories of the year. So, if you really don’t want to talk, I can always schedule a conference of my own.”

  Coleman’s face hardened and Leopold could see the muscles in his jaw bulge as he clenched his teeth. “My office. Now.”

  Leopold followed Coleman to his office and sat down on the spare seat with his back to the door. The room was modestly sized, and almost every spare surface was crowded with plaques and trophies engraved with Coleman’s name. The special agent took the chair on the other side of the desk and sat partially silhouetted by the light coming in from the tall window behind him. On the right side of the window hung the blue and gold flag of the FBI, and on the left side hung the stars and stripes. Leopold chuckled softly and imagined himself on a corny television show.

  “Something funny?”

  “No, nothing. Nothing at all.” Leopold wondered whether the man was wearing FBI socks and slept with a picture of J. Edgar Hoover under his pillow. He held back another chuckle.

  “You said you wanted to talk. So talk.”

  “You told the journalists out there that you hadn’t determined cause of death,” said Leopold. “Why lie to them like that?”

  “Cause of death can’t be determined, to any degree of certainty, until evidence comes to light that can prove it beyond a reasonable doubt. That’s how we work here.”

  “Yes, that’s the official line. I’ll catch the evening news for your sound bites. But you and I both know these three deaths were murders. And we both know they were committed by the same person.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Coleman, scowling.

  “I was there. I know a serial killer’s work when I see it.”

  The FBI agent leaned forward in his chair and jabbed his index finger at Leopold.

  “Now listen here. The NYPD might have every faith in your abilities, but as far as I’m concerned, there’s no place for amateurs in a murder investigation.”

  Leopold reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a selection of photographs. He turned the first one face up and slapped it onto the table. “State Senator Wilson. Killed earlier this week. Single gunshot wound to the head. Made to look like a suicide, but the killer got sloppy.”

  “Yes, I’ve read the –”

  Leopold slapped a second photo down. “State Senator Carrera. She was found hanged in a hotel room with no signs of a struggle. Another suicide note, this time with a signature. I also found rope fibers on her wrists, which made me wonder how she managed to untie her hands and dispose of the cord after her death.”

  “This isn’t necessary.”

  A third photo.

  “State Senator Hague, found dead in his garage. This is my favorite. He had apparently hooked up a hose to his car exhaust and committed suicide by inhaling half a tank’s worth of carbon monoxide. Problem is, he died with both hands gripping the steering wheel, which is very difficult to do if you’re in the process of gradually passing out.”

  Coleman didn’t respond.

  “In short: three senators plus three murders plus three staged suicides equals one killer. And you’re right.”

  “Right about what?”

  “There is no place for amateurs in a murder investigation.”

  Coleman leant back in his chair again and held his hands together in his lap. “Like I said, Blake, there’s no evidence to suggest homicide, let alone a serial killer. This isn’t police work, this is just your particular brand of conjecture.”

  “I was at all three scenes. There’s a consistent M.O. and a consistent demographic of targets. What more could you possibly need?”

  Leopold’s voice caught the attention of one of the office interns as she passed by carrying a tower of paper files. The special agent waved her away and let out a long sigh.

  “We need forensic evidence putting the same person at each scene, a credible witness who is willing to make a statement, or even a sensible motive that fits all three victims. We currently have none of those things, so until such evidence materializes, there’s no need to cause unnecessary panic by suggesting there may be a serial killer at large.”

  Leopold looked Coleman in the eye and smiled. “And that’s it, isn’t it?” He continued, “You want to keep this as quiet as possible. You know as well as I that these deaths are connected, but you don’t want to admit you can’t figure out why. Better to blame the whole thing on a lack of evidence, I suspect. You need to trust me, I know you want to get to the bottom of this before any more bodies start surfacing.”

  Coleman broke eye contact shuffled uncomfortably in his chair. “The FBI will not release statements of record that are based on the opinion of one consultant,” he said, in a tone that clearly signaled the end of the meeting.

  “You’re making a mistake. There are people in danger.”

  “We’re done here, Blake,” grunted Coleman, gesturing toward the door. “I have work to do. I don’t have time to entertain these unsubstantiated theories. Come back to me with some solid evidence, and maybe we’ll talk. Please see yourself out.”

  Leopold nodded a brisk goodbye before stalking out of the office back to the elevators. He paused at the lobby desk and leaned over to speak to the middle-aged receptionist, whispering just loud enough for her to hear him over the television that had been bolted to the wall to keep visitors entertained as they waited. A news anchor mentioned something about stolen military weapons before the video feed cut to a busty weather girl for the day’s forecast. Talk about priorities.

  “Madeline, thank you again for your help this morning,” said Leopold, grasping her hand and smiling broadly.

  “Any time, Leopold,” replied Madeline, blushing slightly. “I hope the meeting went well. And thank you again for getting me this job. I can’t tell you how much it’s helped me out.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “And good luck this morning at the University.”

  Leopold kissed the back of her hand before saying goodbye and heading to the elevators. As he rode the thirty stories down to the ground floor, his cell phone rang.

  “Yes, hello?”

  “Blake. This is Bradley. I just got a phone call from Coleman and he’s not pleased. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “I needed to speak to Coleman in person, seeing as how he doesn’t return my phone calls.”

  “Can you blame him? How the hell did you get in?”

  “The secret to getting what one wants,” said Leopold, “is to have friends in high places.”

  “What the hell are you – ”

  He grinned and hung up.

  Chapter 6


  Mary eyed the clock on the wall of her office and groaned. It was nearly eight a.m., and she hadn’t taken a break since she’d been called out in the middle of the night. Her report glared at her from her monitor – yet another case with no leads. Nobody had witnessed the attack, and the area had been wiped clean, not so much as a speck of dust out of place. Which meant Mary had no blood spatter, fiber, or DNA evidence to work with. Which also meant that Captain Oakes would bust a blood vessel when he found out. Mary put her head in her hands and closed her eyes. Shit.

  She raised her head again and stared at the screen, watching the cursor blink impatiently. Her headache returned, throbbing behind her eyes and squeezing the inside of her skull like a vice. She reached for the coffee cup. Empty.

  “Jordan! What the hell is going on?”

  Captain Oakes burst into the room, slamming the door into the wall as he came. The cheap shutters on the windows rattled in protest. He crossed the tiny office in one step and slapped both palms down onto the edge of Mary’s flimsy desk. His considerable weight caused the whole thing to rock side to side. Oakes smelled of cigarette smoke and cheap cologne and wore a thick moustache that, at this range, Mary could see was stained with coffee. His fat face was red and sweaty, as it always was when he got angry about something. Which was pretty often.

  “I want answers, Jordan. Don’t tell me this is another dead end? It’s my ass on the line right now,” said the Captain.

  Bullshit, thought Mary. She resisted the urge to say it out loud, but she knew Oakes would hand her over on a silver platter the second he needed to escape blame himself. Instead, Mary drew a deep breath and composed herself.

  “Three victims were found dead at the scene. One Caucasian male was shot in the head, two Caucasian females killed by…” Mary paused. “Other methods. The ID checks at the club brought up details of another girl with them who wasn’t found at the scene.”

  “Suspects? Leads? Anything?”

  “Not yet, sir. But we’re working on it.”

  “Well, you’d better work faster. I’ve got enough with the commissioner up my ass about helping the FBI with this dead senator case, I don’t need this gang warfare shit hitting the papers as well.”

  “I don’t think it was gang-related, sir.”

  “I don’t give a shit what you think, Jordan. Just get me some answers. Find out who the girl is and get me some answers.”

  “We know who the girl is, sir. Christina Logan. Daughter of New York State Senator Logan.”

  “Shit. The FBI are going to want in on this one too. Get them on the phone.”

  “Already done, sir. They put me in touch with Senator Logan’s office. His assistant is setting up a call for later this morning.”

  “You better get me something solid, Jordan,” Oakes growled, “I can’t go back to the commissioner with another dead-end case. You’ve got until Monday to find me something useful or I’ll have your ass working the graveyard shift for a year. Understood?”

  Mary nodded. She was used to working weekends anyway. The Captain grunted something and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. The shutters rattled again and the room fell silent. Mary groaned and resisted the urge to punch the computer screen. Conjuring a solid lead out of thin air was going to be impossible, but she’d be damned if she’d work nights for a year. She had seen what that did to people.

  Mary flicked off the screen and screwed up her eyes in an attempt to relieve her headache. She picked up the phone and dialled Senator Logan’s office for the third time, praying she could get through to him before he had a chance to speak to the FBI and ruin any chance she had of finding some answers.

  Chapter 7

  The mid-morning New York City sun rose just high enough to peek over the tall buildings that surrounded Columbia University’s Morningside campus as ten thousand students, parents, and faculty members congregated on the lawn. The sea of light-blue caps and gowns bobbed up and down as the crowds milled about, waiting for the master of ceremonies to announce that everyone should take their seats. This Saturday morning in mid-May marked the 259th academic year’s Commencement ceremony, where the University would grant degree certificates, medals, awards, and honorary degrees to its students and prominent members of the community. The ceremony was due to last until the early afternoon, and tradition mandated that the entire event would be held outdoors on the Low Plaza lawns, come rain or shine.

  Leopold hoped for the latter as he pulled on his cap and gown and made his way toward the stage at the head of the gathering masses, just in front of the university’s statue of the alma mater that looked out over the entire north side of the campus. He climbed the shallow steps to the stage and took a seat next to an elderly woman, probably one of the senior faculty members, who nodded politely as he took his seat. Leopold sat quietly, watching the crowd gather, and wondered how long the ceremony would take.

  The view was impressive. The lawns were surrounded on all sides by the grand University buildings, including the dominating visage of Butler Library to the south and the dome of the Low Memorial building to the north. The disjointed murmurs wafting up from the crowd suggested nobody was paying attention quite yet, but the noise levels were beginning to rise.

  Leopold felt his cell phone buzz underneath his robe and reached into his jacket pocket to check who was calling. The name Mary Jordan flashed up on the screen and Leopold grinned. Finally.

  “Morning Mary, long time.”

  “I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time,” said Mary, barely audible thanks to a bad signal. “I need you to meet me as soon as you can. There’s been another move on a state senator.”

  The crowd began to take their seats and Leopold put a finger over one ear, trying to hear Mary’s voice through the noise.

  “I knew it! Another staged suicide? Or has our killer given up the pretense?” he said, cupping a hand over his mouth and trying not to shout.

  “Actually, it’s not a murder,” said Mary, “but we think it’s the same perp. This time we’re dealing with a kidnapping.”

  “Kidnapping? The police don’t usually ask for my help unless there’s a body to examine.”

  Leopold’s voice was loud enough that the elderly woman sitting next to him to raised an eyebrow. Leopold cupped his hand over his mouth again.

  “The police aren’t the ones who called,” said Mary. “Christina Logan, the daughter of State Senator Christopher Logan, was abducted early this morning, and two of her friends were killed outside a mid-town nightclub. The senator received a phone call demanding thirty-five million dollars in ransom in exchange for her life. Logan asked for you by name. It seems you’ve earned yourself something of a reputation.”

  Leopold leaned forward in his chair and took a moment to think. “I’m in the middle of something right now. Sounds simple enough for the police to handle,” he said, eventually.

  “Just hang on, I’m getting to the good bit,” said Mary, her voice getting more animated. “The senator received the ransom demand yesterday, two hours before Christina disappeared. Now he can’t get hold of the kidnapper to agree to an exchange.”

  Leopold sat up straight. She had his attention. “Okay, you’ve given me something to think about,” he said. “Tell Senator Logan I’ll take a look. When does he want to speak?”

  “The senator wants to meet you today. In two hours. I’ll text you the address; just meet me there.”

  “Good. I’ll make my way over there as soon as I can. There’s just something I have to take care of first.”

  Mary hung up. Leopold stood and walked to the front of the stage, where the Master of Ceremonies was checking the microphone and leafing through his script. He could feel the eyes of the elderly woman with the raised eyebrows on his back.

  “Excuse me.” he tapped the robed man on the back of the shoulder.

  “Mr. Blake, hello! Good to see you here bright and early! What can I do for you?”

  “Something’s come up, I’m afr
aid. Have to go. Please give my apologies to the Dean,” said Leopold, turning to leave.

  “Something more important than receiving a doctorate from one of the world’s leading universities?”

  “Honorary doctorate, actually,” he replied, “and yes, I’m afraid so. Please be kind enough to drop it in the mail. Thank you.”

  He walked briskly away before the old man had a chance to respond, and texted Jerome to come and pick him up. He made his way down the steps and onto the lawns, squeezing his way through the thick crowd of students and parents. After a few minutes of jostling, Leopold finally made it off the campus and onto the street. Jerome arrived thirty seconds later and pulled the dark Bentley Mulsanne to the side of the road. Leopold pulled open the rear passenger door and slipped inside. He updated the bodyguard on the conversation with Mary, and they set off toward the senator’s East Hampton address.

  “How do you know it’s the same guy?” said Jerome, turning his head.

  “Who else would target a senator’s daughter on US soil? There are definitely easier targets. This is clearly someone trying to send a message.”

  “What message?”

  “That’s the thirty-five million dollar question. I’ll know more after a chat with the senator. How fast can you get us there?”

  “It’s maybe two hours,” said Jerome, “but once we get out of the city I can probably make up for lost time.”

  “Good. Don’t be afraid to put your foot down.”

  Once free of the New York City traffic, the Mulsanne glided effortlessly through the Suffolk County back roads, lined on either side with green trees and a horizon specked with the occasional gated community and small town. Despite the ultra-high spec of the Mulsanne, Leopold hadn’t been able to help adding his own touches to the car’s cabin. In addition to the standard features, he had installed a wireless system that could sync directly with his cell phone and add extra functionality – such as call tracing, digital encryption, and satellite connectivity to ensure he always had a signal. Leopold always made sure he had the best equipment money could buy, and his money could buy a hell of a lot.