by D. F. Bailey
“Some. And at least two ounces of cocaine.”
“Two ounces?”
She studied his face. “Did you know she was using?”
“Coke? No.” Suddenly he felt betrayed, almost trapped.
“Did she mention any threat from dealers?”
“No. Nothing like that.”
Then in a moment of clarity a new question occurred to him. “Tell me something. Why are you two—the FBI—on this?” He waved a hand toward them. “Where’s the NYPD? Is there some kind of interstate crime involved?”
Vickers ignored the question, set his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Mr. Waterston, this is important. Are you aware of any kind of list that your sister might have been working on?”
“List? What list?”
Agent Cruz opened her bag and showed him a copy of the list which the crime scene team had found in Jayne’s purse at Klutch.
“This,” she said and pushed it across the table toward him with the tip of her finger.
He studied it carefully, read each entry until he reached his sister’s name. The pain of his loss was now turning to frustration with their plodding approach. “No. I don’t know what it means. You tell me.”
“We can’t disclose that just yet. When we can, you’ll be one of the first to know. ”
She adjusted her weight in the chair. Simon looked at Vickers who tipped his head, a gesture that deferred to Agent Cruz. The exasperation building in Simon began to simmer.
“Then how am I supposed to help you? You refuse to explain what’s behind your investigation. You won’t tell me what this fucking list is about. So if you want my help, you need to let me in on this. I work for the District Attorney for God’s sake. Tell me what’s going on!”
Agent Cruz tucked the sheet of paper back in her bag.
“Let’s talk about her neighbors,” Vickers said as he inclined his head toward the front door. “Did she mention anyone who’d bothered her? Someone who might have paid her too much attention.”
“No. Nothing!”
Simon clamped both hands over his ears and stood up. He walked in a tight circle, then turned his back on them and stared through the doorway to her bedroom. He could see that the forensics team had rifled her bureau drawers. Pulled the bed sheets and lifted the mattress.
“Mr. Waterston, please.” Agent Cruz spoke in a near whisper, her voice filtered with an undertone of sympathy. “I know this is traumatic, but….”
Simon shut his eyes and managed to suppress his rage. He turned to face Cruz and Vickers and instantly saw them in a new light. They too were damaged by his sister’s death. Damaged by legions of wounded and injured souls. How did they do it, day after day?
“Sorry,” he said. “I just needed a moment.”
He walked back to the table and sat in his chair. The interrogation continued for another hour, perhaps, two. He lost track of time. When they departed he took another hour to run an inventory of his sister’s belongings. The wall of clothing in her bedroom closet. The portfolio of photographs she’d taken years ago when photojournalism seemed to be her calling. The palm-size boxes brimming with costume jewelry, bangles and bows. Her medications, the dozens of lipstick tubes. The hidden sex toys. Cardboard boxes filled with research materials from the stories she’d written for The Village Voice. Her bag of golf clubs parked next to the front door as if she were about to depart for Chelsea Piers to knock some balls into the nets. Hundreds of books. And a new title lying on the coffee table: Who Shot the Sheriff? The sales slip from B&N still tucked under the cover flap.
When his aimless search was complete, he washed up and settled down on the futon. He’d slept on it three or four times before, and knew not to roll onto the steel bar on the right side.
Then he thought about her computer and cell phone. Last Christmas they’d traded passwords. “Just in case,” Jayne had said and jabbed his shoulder with an open fist. “One day you might need to access my millions.”
Her millions. “You lived your whole life in a fantasy land,” he said aloud as if she were here—still alive right now. He shifted onto his back and tried to find a comfortable spot on the mattress. “Well, today is that day, Jaynie. Show me your millions.”
He decided that when he got back to his apartment he’d log into her account to see what he could discover. She kept everything in the cloud; he wouldn’t need her confiscated laptop. If the FBI won’t disclose what this case was about, he’d figure it out on his own.
He yawned and just as sleep was about to take him he heard the knock on the door. Three light taps. He ignored it. Then he heard the metallic click of steel-on-steel. Someone picking the lock.
※
Finch slipped the lock picks back into their leather wallet and tucked the kit into his courier bag. Then he stood and tested the tension in the handle. He felt it click, but before it moved an inch the door swung wide open and tugged him forward. The momentum carried him into Jayne Waterston’s living room. Before him stood a half-dressed man with a golf club raised above his shoulder and ready to drive it into Finch’s face.
“Who the fuck are you?!”
“Whoa.” Finch raised his open hands and took a backward step.
“I said, who are you?”
A worried look crossed Simon’s face, an expression that betrayed a lack of resolve. Finch felt no need for a fight, and he kept his hands up in a gesture of submission.
“I’m Will Finch. I’m trying to make contact with someone who knows Jayne Waterston. I thought this was her apartment. Who are you?”
“This is her apartment. But what the fuck are you doing picking her lock?” He kept the golf club ready to strike and glanced at the wall clock. “At six in the morning for God’s sake.”
Finch studied the club—a four iron, he figured—and the man holding it. His opponent stood about five-foot-seven and probably weighed less than one-fifty. Finch had at least six inches and forty pounds on him. He looked young, maybe in his mid-twenties, and probably had never seen the inside of a serious street fight. However, the edge of the club face could open a nasty cut. Or worse. Finch pressed his hands forward slightly, a signal to back off an inch.
“Look. I’m sorry if I frightened you. I just flew in from San Francisco. I thought Jayne’s apartment would be empty.”
“Yeah? Why’s that?”
Finch hesitated. “Because of what happened.”
“You know what happened?”
Now that he had a conversation going, Finch realized the danger of violence had diminished. At least for the moment. He cleared his throat.
“Maybe,” he said. “I talked to Jayne yesterday morning. About a list. A list with her name on it. And mine. I’m a reporter at the eXpress. If you let me, I’ll show you my card.” He arched his eyebrows with a look that said, just give me a chance.
Simon nodded once and the tension in his jawline slackened a little. “All right.”
Finch passed him his card. Simon considered it a moment and glanced at the coffee table.
“Same guy who wrote that book?”
Finch spotted his book on the table. “Yeah. She told me she just bought it last weekend. From B&N.”
Simon narrowed his eyes and lowered the golf club. He’d already seen the bookstore receipt and the date of purchase. “All right. I’m Simon Waterston, Jayne’s twin brother. Close the door and tell me what you know.”
※
Within ten minutes Simon had dressed and prepared two cups of coffee. Meanwhile Will explained the little that he knew about the list and the growing number of victims. Simon listened in silence, a hand pressed to his lips as he assembled the facts into a coherent whole.
“So you sent this list to her yesterday morning?”
“By email. I only wish she’d taken the threat more seriously.”
“What makes you think she didn’t?”
Finch grimaced as if the answer was obvious. He decided to change course.
“Since we
’d both been identified on the list and we’re both journalists, I thought we could solve this thing together. But she wanted another day to consider it.” Since all of this was now impossible, he shrugged with a look of futility. “The list should be on her computer.”
Simon curled his lips with a hint of bitterness. “The FBI took her laptop at the cafe where she was killed. And her cellphone.”
“They were here, too?”
He nodded. “Until just a few hours ago.”
Finch glanced around the apartment. It looked to be about five hundred square feet. He could see a bedroom just past the kitchenette and an open door leading into a bathroom. A well-stocked bookcase lined one wall opposite a folded-down futon.
“Did they take anything else?”
“It’s hard to say. I wasn’t here at the time. They showed me a copy of the list and that’s about all they were willing to reveal.”
So she’d printed it out, Finch thought. That meant anyone else could have a copy, too. Not that it mattered since the eXpress was about to publish all the names.
“Tell me something, Simon. What do you do?”
“I’m a lawyer. Last year I joined the Manhattan DA’s office. Cybercrime and Identity Theft Bureau.”
CITB. It caught Finch’s attention. Although the feds had picked up the serial murder spree, there might be some crossover with the Manhattan DA. Likely Simon could access the DA’s database even if he had to do so covertly.
“And what about Jayne’s computer files. Any chance you can get inside?”
Simon weighed the question with a look of caution. “Why?”
“Look, I’m on a mission to track these bastards down. I’ve got to get them before they get me—or anyone else on their kill sheet. And the fact is, while the FBI may be relentless, they are ten steps behind in this race.”
He paused to consider his plans. “So here’s what I offer. I’ll give you everything I find if you do the same for me. And everything I’ve told you so far is the truth, straight up.”
Simon pondered this and then shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’m not crossing any lines set down by the FBI. I could lose my job. Or risk jail for criminal interference.”
Finch glanced away knowing that in Simon’s place he’d make the same decision. The safe choice. “All right. I get it. But let me ask you this. What have the FBI offered you so far? Have they told you ten percent of what I’ve told you in the last ten minutes?”
When Simon gave up a shrug Finch knew he’d hit a nerve.
“Have they even told you why they’re handling Jayne’s murder instead of the NYPD?”
He blinked and glanced away. “No.”
“Well then?”
“Let me think about it.”
“Okay. You’ve got my card, so call me if you need anything.”
“Sure.”
Finch waited a moment. “You got a card?”
Simon padded over to the coat tree where he’d hung his jacket, drew his wallet from a pocket and handed a card to Will.
Finch shrugged with a look of despondency. Perhaps this was the best he could do for now. But if he offered Simon something more alluring, information that no one else could access, then maybe they could strike an accord and he’d gain entry to the DA’s database. Maybe.
He decided to leave the offer at that, give Simon a few hours to rest and call him after they’d both had time to consider their options.
“All right,” he said and made his way to the front door. “Sorry I startled you. Get some sleep. I guess we could both use it.”
※ — FOURTEEN — ※
A LITTLE AFTER nine AM Will made his way over to the Hotel Pennsylvania on Seventh Avenue and checked into a twin-bed unit under the name Joel Griffin. Whenever he needed a pseudonym, Finch adopted that of one of his fallen comrades-in-arms during his tour in Iraq. Griffin and Finch were both in their early twenties when they’d met in the Baghdad Public Affairs Office assigned to handle the debacle of Abu Ghraib. They’d shared the same quarters, the same jokes, the same warm beers. Two important differences distinguished them. Griffin was an actual Public Affairs Specialist, while Finch had been assigned there as an undercover operative for Military Intelligence. The second difference was that Finch made it out of Iraq alive.
He tossed his courier bag onto the chair next to the window overlooking Seventh and studied the flow of traffic. The intensity of the morning rush hour had faded. He folded his jacket over the back of the chair and tested the bed closest to the window by pressing both hands against the mattress. He then ran a quick check of the bathroom and nodded his head in satisfaction; no sign of cockroaches, silverfish or bedbugs. He decided to put off a shower until he caught up on some sleep, and stripped off his clothes and settled into the bed. He pulled a pillow under his head and tried to imagine how he could convince Simon Waterston to collaborate with him. Soon his thoughts dissolved in the haze of his weariness and he fell into a dead sleep.
Just before noon his phone buzzed. As he scrambled to locate his Samsung, it took him a moment to realize where he was. He pulled the cell from his jacket pocket, saw Eve’s name and swiped a finger across the glass face of the phone. The battery indicator showed a three percent reserve and he realized he’d forgotten to charge it.
“Hey.”
“Hi. You awake?”
“Just,” he said and wiped a hand over his face.
“Good. We’ve had a break with the John Doe mugging in City Hall.”
“Really?” He stood up and walked to the window and pulled the curtain aside. Below, the traffic chugged south along Seventh Avenue. On the sidewalks he could see people dressed for another scorcher: the women in sundresses or sleeveless blouses, the men in shorts or cut-offs. Almost everyone wore sunglasses.
“With Jayne Waterston gone, the FBI has mounted a full-court press.”
“Yeah, well with four down and twenty to go, that had to happen.” Finch could barely hide the cynicism in his voice.
“Their first move was to review the CCTV tape outside the men's room in City Hall. I identified Toby Squire for them. Fortunately, he glanced directly into the camera. Even wearing the hoodie, you can’t miss him.”
Finch felt a dash of revival. For the first time, he sensed a way forward. He sat in the chair and studied the intricate patterns of swirls in the laminate surface of the table.
“What about Raymond Guzman?”
“Got him. After a few minutes, two other men followed Toby out of the bathroom. We used the polaroid picture to ID Guzman as the second man. The feds are trying to use facial recognition software to ID John Doe. So far, no luck.”
Finch stretched his back along the length of the chair. “Eve, I’ve got to see this tape.”
“I’ve already sent you the link. So in the scramble to break this open, the Bureau decided to go public. They’ve published the CCTV tape on the internet and are asking anyone who recognizes these guys to contact them. Wally pinned it to the top of the eXpress website this morning.”
As she spoke Finch drew his laptop from his bag and launched his web browser. He watched the connection wheel spin, then an error message appeared: No Internet Connection.
“Damn it, I didn’t get the Wi-Fi password when I checked in here. I’m going to have to get back to you on this.”
She paused a moment. Finch imagined she felt his frustration, too. A couple more rookie moves like forgetting to charge his phone and neglecting the internet connection could hurt him. He heard his phone beep with a low power alert.
“Look, my phone’s just about to crash. I’ll call you when I’m up and running again. What else do I need to know?”
“The FBI wants to talk to you again.”
“That’s good. I guess. Means they’re taking this seriously.”
“Yeah. That’s what worries me.” She hesitated as if she wished she could take her words back. “I told them you’re in New York. I imagine they’ll put their regional office onto you.”<
br />
“Again, that’s good, right?”
“I know. So one other thing.” She paused. “I still love you.”
“Yeah. I know.” He smiled at this. “And I love you, too.”
※
Finch plugged his phone into the charger and made his way to the bathroom. After a five minute shower, he brushed his teeth, shaved, and then put on his short sleeve shirt, hiking shorts and Ray-Bans. When he checked the cell battery level again he decided to leave it in the room and let it charge during his absence. He slipped his laptop into his bag and rode the elevator down to the lobby and walked through the exterior brass doors onto Seventh.
He immediately entered the swirl and mash of midtown Manhattan, an experience that always thrilled and surprised him—for about two minutes. After that he became just one more atom in the beast that churned incessantly beneath the concrete towers. When he found his bearings he crossed over to Madison Square Gardens and down to Penn Station. From there he entered the subway and made his way up to Klutch on Second Avenue.
To his surprise, the entrance to the cafe wasn’t blocked with crime scene tape. The barista who prepared his latte explained that the police had closed the restaurant immediately after Jayne Waterston’s collapse and that the FBI had completed their assessment yesterday evening.
“Everyone knows that crime’s bad for business,” she said as she passed him a coffee mug. “B-A-D,” she added, spelling the word for emphasis. “You linger on it, that’s no good for anybody.”
Finch didn’t doubt it, and after he asked where Waterston had been sitting, he walked over to her table and sat in the chair where she’d spent her last hour. He didn’t expect to see any evidence that might point to her killer, and there was none to be found. If nothing else, the FBI was thorough.
He opened his laptop, logged into the wi-fi network and settled in for the task ahead. He opened the eXpress link to the CCTV video from the San Francisco City Hall and began to study the images on his screen. A minute into the video stream he saw Toby Squire emerge from the men's room. Just as Eve had described the action, Toby carried the suit jacket draped over one arm. The sweatshirt—at least two sizes too small—was tugged over his stout frame and arms. With the hoodie up, it barely covered his ears. Then just before he exited the camera’s field of vision, he glanced at the ceiling, directly into the eye of the camera lens.
