Second Life (Will Finch Mystery Thriller Series Book 4)

by D. F. Bailey

  Might be nice to head out for a rap concert, he thought, and as he waited for the signal light to cross Seventh Avenue, he came close to turning about, buying a ticket from a scalper and entering the stadium. He could get lost in the crowd, spend the night splitting his head open on the raw sound of angry black men, all of them in a fury about the ongoing street murders by cops. Over the summer the national rage had reached a boiling-point, especially after five white cops were executed as “pay-back” in Dallas.

  But the reality of his weariness—and his whiteness—kicked in and he crossed the street, entered the Penn, passed under the marketing banner (“5000 Fully Renovated Rooms”), made his way to the elevator bay and up to the seventeenth floor. As he sauntered along the corridor to his room he checked for signs of anyone following him. No one. He walked three doors past his quarters, turned and waited with a look that would suggest to any passing strangers that he’d forgotten his room number.

  Convinced that no one had tracked him, he slipped into his suite and locked the door. Everything appeared to be as he’d left it. A dot of green light blinked in the corner of his cellphone screen. It was now fully charged.

  Before he could retrieve his phone messages a heavy thumping beat at his door.

  “Will Finch. FBI. Open up!”

  His heart lurched in his chest. Where had they come from? As he approached the spy-hole on his door he tried to think what to do. Through the convex eye he could see two people in the corridor; a white male, mid-forties, gray hair and a black woman of the same height, maybe five years older.

  “Let me see your ID,” he said through the door.

  The woman held her shield up to the eye. FBI.

  “And your face again,” he said.

  She stood up to the door and spoke in a low voice. “Mr. Finch, we are not here to arrest you.”

  Finch decided to take no chances. “Let me see your partner’s ID.”

  The male agent held his badge aloft and then stood up to the door. “We just have some questions for you,” he said.

  Finch wiped a hand over his face and opened the door. He took a step backward and the two cops slipped into his room.

  “I’m John Vickers and this is Agent Calinda Cruz.”

  They nodded in unison and walked past him. Finch closed the door and stepped towards the first twin bed.

  “We’ve been trying to reach you all day,” Cruz said with a sigh of exasperation. “Don’t you check your messages?”

  “Out of juice.”

  Finch pointed to his phone and sat at the round table next to the window. He realized that the phone had served as a homing beacon. Obviously they’d been granted a roving wiretap. He pointed to two chairs and when his guests settled beside him he attempted to put on convincing smile.

  “All right, I’m all yours. What can I do for you?”

  Agent Cruz set her phone on the table and indicated that she would be recording their conversation. Then she focussed her gaze on him and said, “Quite a lot, I suspect.”

  ※

  “So you’re saying you’ve already seen the CCTV video?” Agent Vickers leaned forward and set his elbows on the table as he spoke.

  “Uh-huh. My publisher sent me the link when the eXpress posted it on the company website this morning.”

  “And you can identify all three men in the camera?”

  “Yeah.” Finch looked from Vickers to Cruz. “I may be the only person to meet all three of them.”

  A brief silence passed between them.

  “All right. Let’s go through it together,” she said. She had the CCTV video on her iPad screen ready to roll. She touched the play button.

  Finch watched the video replay the same scene he’d watched at least ten times. As each of the men emerged from the washroom he identified them to the FBI agents. Toby Squire, Raymond Guzman, Jacob Bell. When they asked if he knew their background Finch provided all the details he could about Squire. But with Guzman he balked. Although he’d only spent a few hours with the man, he still felt an obligation to protect the one person who’d opened up to him. If Guzman had followed Finch’s advice, he’d be long gone.

  “What about Jacob Bell?”

  “This is where it gets interesting.” Finch planted his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “He killed Martin Fast, probably ten minutes before he got caught up in this clip.” He pointed to the iPad. When they pressed him, he explained his theory that Bell had pulled the hoodie over his suit jacket then followed Martin Fast after his debate with Kali Rood in the City Hall rotunda. That he’d used the guise of a bungled Market Street robbery to cover his assassination of Fast. Then he’d doubled back to City Hall, peeled off the hoodie and suit jacket just in time for the mugging by Squire and Guzman.

  “Really?” Vickers sounded skeptical. “The SFPD have Squire locked down on Fast’s murder. According to the chief, the case is closed.”

  “Come on,” Finch said evenly, careful not to jump at Vickers’s tone. “You know the numbers game they play. It’s all about tightening their close ratios. They closed three files when Squire died. Martin Fast, Squire himself and the woman he raped and murdered last year, Senator Whitelaw’s daughter, Gianna.”

  The two agents paused to consider this. After a moment Vickers said, “You covered that, right? The Senator’s suicide.”

  Finch nodded and looked away. He didn’t want their attention to drift from the case in hand.

  “All right.” Agent Cruz shook her head with a doubtful look. “And you know this Jacob Bell—how?”

  Again Finch leaned forward. “He’s Kali Rood’s assistant.”

  Vickers shook his head as if he’d now been introduced to one too many characters in a Russian novel. “And who’s he?”

  “She. The leader of Salvation Nation.” Cruz gave him a subtle look that said, where have you been?

  “Okay. And they are?” Vickers sounded sheepish, as if he knew he was playing catch-up.

  “Salvation Nation is a right-wing, quasi-evangelical, head-in-the-sand cult with tens of millions of dollars and thousands of ardent believers.” Finch recited this as if he were reading the profile Jayne Waterston had written of Kali Rood last fall. “If you’re a true believer appalled by things like genetic engineering or transgender surgery—Kali Rood and the Salvation Nation have a place for you. Especially if you can cover the thousand dollar annual fees.”

  The two agents nodded in unison. Will seemed to provide enough meat to satisfy their appetite. Thinking that he could now show them to the door, Finch made a move to stand up. But Calinda Cruz waved a hand to settle him back into his chair, an easy but firm gesture.

  “Let’s talk about other things,” she said.

  “Like?”

  “Like who is Joel Griffin?”

  Finch glanced at the wall. This was exactly where he did not want the conversation to go. To focus on him. However, he knew he had to answer their questions truthfully, otherwise he could be tossed in jail.

  “Joel Griffin was a hero of the second Iraq war. I met him during our stint in Baghdad in oh-four. He didn't make it home.”

  This statement had the impact he hoped for. A reverent pause.

  “All right. So you checked into the hotel using his name. And why are you impersonating him?”

  He took a moment to glance at his hands as if they held an answer that might satisfy them. “I’m not impersonating him. I’m here on assignment for my employer, the eXpress. I’ve been covering this story under my by-line from day one. In fact, I broke this story and I’m going to continue covering it until you people take these bastards down—whoever they are.” He could feel his temper bubbling as as he spoke. For a moment he thought he should check himself, then decided to level them with both barrels. “And until you do, I’m going to use every trick in the fucking book to work under the radar—including using my dead friend for cover—because as you might know—maybe, just maybe—that my name is on that Goddamned list, too!”

 
“All right, Finch. Cool your jets.” Despite his warning, Vickers seemed to enjoy Finch’s display of bravado. “Part of the reason we’re here is to assign you protection.”

  “Protection?”

  “One man. For the duration,” Calinda Cruz said. Her look said that it was a non-negotiable offer. “Until, like you say, we take these bastards down.”

  Finch hadn’t imagined this possibility. A bald, iron-pumping dick in a cheap suit with a wrist radio following twenty paces behind him through Manhattan.

  “No thanks, I—”

  Agent Cruz waved a hand to dismiss his objection before he could finish it. “You got no options, Finch. He’ll be here within the hour.” She checked her watch, then stopped the recording, slipped her phone and iPad into her bag and rose from the chair, tugging at a pant leg that had gathered around her crotch.

  Vickers stood up and smiled. He seemed pleased with the result of their discussions. They’d ID’ed everyone in the CCTV clip and drawn a fresh lead to Kali Rood. Furthermore, they were about to lock a clamp on Finch’s investigations.

  After they left, Finch stood at the door with his face pressed to the spy hole. He could see the two agents standing at the elevator bay talking, no doubt, about lining up an interview with Kali Rood. Was she at her headquarters here in New York or at one of the training centers in Oregon or Arizona? Soon it would be time for him to pay her a second visit, too. But not yet.

  Once they disappeared from his view he eased open the door to ensure the corridor was clear. Then he packed his belongings into his courier bag and slipped his cell phone into his pocket. Suddenly a new thought occurred to him and he plugged the phone into its charger again and left it on the table. Best to leave that in place, he told himself, just to assure the FBI that I’m still a sitting duck. He locked the room and rode the elevator to the second floor. From there he walked along the hallway to the east side of the building then descended an interior staircase and exited the building onto Thirty-third Street. The heat and humidity were still cooking the city and an unbroken stream of pedestrians ambled along at a crawl, their faces aglow with perspiration. He strolled along the shaded side of the street to the Empire State Building and got into a cab heading downtown on Fifth Avenue.

  “Where to, sir?” The cabbie had a whisky voice, raw with no soft edges.

  Finch had to think a moment. “Down to the Village,” he said. “Some place so noisy, it feels quiet.”

  ※

  He had no idea where to go next. Then he thought of the Village Vanguard, an iconic jazz hotspot started in 1935 and still under management by the founder’s wife, Lorraine Gordon. The thought of a night digging jazz made Finch think of Chet Baker’s tune “Let’s Get Lost” and that led him to the notion of faking his own disappearance. It was one thing to wander off the FBI’s radar. Quite another to escape the assassin stalking the next twenty victims on the kill list.

  By the time the taxi dropped him on Seventh in front of the Vanguard, his hunger had caught up with him. He stood under the red awning at the club entrance and peered through the doorway. He briefly wondered why the room was empty until he felt the waves of heat steaming up from the concrete sidewalk. No air conditioning. Of course, everyone in the city was trying to beat the heat. He walked a half block along Seventh to Waverley where he rolled into Morandi, an Italian restaurant with a few sidewalk tables set under the shade of an awning. He wandered inside, sat at a table next to the wall, ordered a bottle of San Pellegrino on ice and what he imagined would have been Eve’s choice for dinner, Cavatelli al prosciutto. The waiter provided him with a wi-fi password and as he waited for his meal he checked for incoming email on his laptop. Dozens of messages popped into his in-box. He checked the latest from Eve, the title in caps: WILL, THIS IS URGENT.

  The text of the message said, Call me.

  “Not so easy, my darling,” he muttered to himself. He realized that she didn’t want to commit a detailed message to email so he provided a brief reply: I have no phone. Are you there?

  He received no response until five minutes after he finished his meal. Just as the waiter delivered an iced coffee to his table his computer blinked with an incoming email from Eve. Go to Messenger. Should be secure.

  Of course. Last month Finkleman had convinced Wally that everyone at the eXpress should have a Messenger account so they could communicate through an encrypted channel when they needed heightened security. It wasn’t perfect, especially against the tools the FBI could muster to crack open their lines, but Finch knew it would keep most predators at bay and probably put Agents Vickers and Cruz off his trail for another day or two. He clicked on the app and began a text dialogue with Eve.

  Will: Did you get an ID on the license plate?

  Eve: Not yet, Wally may have a connection that will help.

  W: What about a profile on Jacob Bell?

  E: Stutz will have that together by noon tomorrow. Where’s your phone?

  W: Left the phone as a lame duck decoy. BTW, not now—but tomorrow morning—get someone to call into Hotel Pennsylvania and check me out of room 1773. Put the charge on the eXpress corporate tab. I don’t want to leave financial footprints on Joel Griffin’s VISA card. Then three or four hours later call back, and say I left my cellphone behind. Ask the reception desk to hold it in their lost-and-found. Also—what’s so urgent?

  E: Breaking news. Edmond Austen, #13 on list, was attacked with a knife in Paris yesterday. He’s in serious condition, but may survive.

  Finch pondered this as he tried to recall Austen’s background. He was the ordained minister from Toronto, notorious for announcing he’d become an atheist—but he refused to leave the church or stop preaching from the pulpit.

  W: What’s he doing in Paris?

  E: Attending an ecumenical conference.

  A new thought struck him. Austen had been attacked in Paris just after Jayne Waterston’s murder in Manhattan. He tried to put the sequence of events in order and realized he needed more information.

  W: What was the time of the attack?

  A pause followed then Eve replied: Two hours after Waterston’s death. Then she added, Can’t be the same perp.

  Exactly. For the first time Finch realized they were now caught up in an international murder conspiracy with at least two hitmen. The scope of the crimes had just changed by another degree of magnitude. A shudder ran through him as he considered the implications. Everything in his heart told him to flee, but everything he’d learned from experience told him the only way to survive was to move forward. He leaned over the keyboard and continued to type.

  W: Can you get me the name and address of the hospital in Paris?

  Another long pause followed and then Eve typed her final message.

  E: Don’t have it now, but will get it to you by the time you land. Be careful.

  Finch nodded. She understood his thinking and what had to happen next. She didn’t question it because she agreed with his assessment of the situation. Eve was perfect for him. With him. To him.

  He typed his last message to her — Don’t worry. Caution is my new mantra—then shut his laptop, paid his bill and flagged down a passing taxi on Waverly Place. Ninety minutes later he stood at a counter talking to an Air France agent in the JFK Departures concourse. The next flight to Paris was a red-eye.

  ※

  While he waited for his flight, Will found an empty place on a bench seat in the far corner of the Air France boarding lounge. He opened his laptop and sent a brief message via Messenger to Wally and Fiona.

  I’m on track with the case. Writing a profile of Jayne Waterston. Will email it to you ASAP. Understand Edmond Austen was attacked in Paris. Fiona, please provide bio on him. Clearly at least one other perp involved. Also, important to get name of owner / driver of NY state plate number sent to you earlier. Any way to break through on that? Finkleman maybe?

  Will considered the perfunctory message, wondered how he could soften it somehow and make it seem more personable.
Then he dismissed the notion and sent it on its way without a change.

  The thought of Finkleman hacking into the New York State Department of Motor Vehicles database reminded him of Oscar Pocklington, known as Sochi to his friends and comrades. Sochi would assign Rasputin, his quantum computer app, to the task and within a few hours, he would deliver the name of the Cadillac’s owner to Finch. Will could almost visualize it now: A light tap on his apartment door, then the greeting from the bearded, red-headed geek-Viking king. “Here it is,” he’d say. “Rasputin cracked the database in six hours, eight minutes and forty-three seconds. A little longer than I guessed, but wa-a-a-ay short of the record longest hack on NASA. Doubt anything will ever beat that.” He’d let out his horse laugh, the deep voice full of love for his own jokes. But Sochi was long gone, of course. Destroyed by his own folly.

  Finch set his remorse aside and continued his internet research on Kali Rood. Her organization occupied the top two floors of the building on the corner of First Avenue and East Eighty-ninth Street in Manhattan. She owned the penthouse, her private residence, which few people had ever visited. Did she have friends, relatives, lovers? No one could provide a satisfactory answer. One floor below the penthouse, a twelve-thousand square-foot office complex housed the international headquarters for Salvation Nation. The foundation employed eleven staff. As if she wanted to confound the notion of her sexual ice, she’d made a point of hiring men only. If they were privy to any company secrets, none had been betrayed. A volunteer board of six men and six women served to provide guidance and direction as the foundation grew its base from local supporters to a national organization. Over the past few years they had established an international platform to espouse its extreme conservative values. Some called it fascism, but Finch knew the foundation was defining a new form of human cynicism. Where it might lead was anyone’s guess.

  After Jayne Waterston’s profile in The Village Voice, the rumors of Kali’s chaste, secluded lifestyle purled through the media in a kind of anti-gossip. No one could point to an ex-husband, a boyfriend, a male companion. The media couldn’t find—and therefore, couldn’t leak—any photos or videos of hidden indiscretions. She’d endured no scandals, no lawsuits, no misdemeanors. Jayne Waterston had nailed it on the head. Kali Rood’s strange piety became her brand. She was the Virgin Queen.