He quickly checked the CCTV screen in the hall, fast-forwarding through the cameras. There he was! On the third floor, one above, sneaking down the hallway toward the music room. What was he doing? Cantucci would have thought he was dealing with a madman, except this intruder was moving deliberately—as if he had some sort of plan. But what? Was he going to steal the Strad?
Christ, that was it. That must be it.
His most prized possession: the 1696 L’Amoroso Stradivarius violin that had once been owned by the Duke of Wellington. That, and his life, were the two reasons Cantucci had installed such an elaborate security system in his brownstone.
He watched as the figure moved into the music room and shut the door behind him. Punching the button for the camera inside the room, Cantucci watched the figure move toward the safe that held the Strad. How was he planning to get into the safe? The damn thing was supposedly unbreakable. But of course the bastard had already overcome a sophisticated alarm system; Cantucci knew better than to assume anything.
Obviously the intruder had heard the shots: he must know Cantucci was armed and looking for him. So what was he thinking? None of this made any sense. He watched him stop at the safe, reach out, and punch in some numbers on the keypad. The wrong numbers, evidently. Now he took out a little silver box—some sort of electronic device—and affixed it to the front of the safe. In doing so, he laid down the bow and arrow.
Now was his chance. Cantucci knew where the man was and where he would be for at least the next few minutes, and he knew the bow and arrow were not in his hands. The man would be busy with that metal device and the safe.
Moving silently, Cantucci climbed the stairs to the third floor, peered around the corner, and saw that the door to the music room was still shut, the intruder inside. Sneaking along the carpeted hallway in his bare feet, he paused at the closed door. He could throw it open and gun the man down long before the would-be thief could pick up that ridiculous bow and arrow and let one loose at him.
In one smooth, purposeful motion he grasped the knob with his left hand, threw open the door, and burst inside, gun up and aimed at the safe.
Nobody. Room empty.
Cantucci froze, realizing instantly that he had fallen into some sort of trap, then pivoted around, firing madly into the room behind him, even as the arrow came flashing through the air, striking his chest and slamming him into the wall. A second and third arrow, fired in rapid sequence, pinned his body firmly to the wall—three arrows spaced in a triangular pattern piercing the heart.
The intruder, who had been positioned in the open door of the room across the hall, walked forward and stopped two feet from the victim, held upright by the three arrows, his head flopped forward, arms drooped. The killer reached out and turned on the light in the hall. He leaned the bow up against the wall and looked the victim over, slowly and with deliberation, from head to foot. Then he grasped the victim’s sagging head in both hands. He raised it and looked into the staring—but unseeing—eyes. With one thumb he pushed up the victim’s top lip, turned the head slightly, briefly examining the teeth, which were white and straight and free of cavities. The haircut was expensive, the skin of the face smooth and tight. For a sixty-five-year-old man, Cantucci had taken very good care of himself.
The intruder released the head, letting it fall forward. He was well satisfied.
6
AT FOUR O’CLOCK the following afternoon, Lieutenant CDS Vincent D’Agosta sat in Video Room B205 at One Police Plaza, sipping a cup of burnt, sludgy, stone-cold coffee and watching a blurry video recording from a security camera that overlooked the industrial lot in Queens where the body was found. It was the last of three lousy security camera feeds he had spent two hours going through, with no results. He should have assigned this one to a subordinate, but a part of him hated to inflict scut work on his people.
He heard a tapping on the open door and turned to see the tall, athletic figure of his superior, Captain Singleton, dressed in a sleek blue suit, his prominent ears sticking out, silhouetted in the dim light of the corridor. He was holding two cans of beer.
“Vinnie, who you trying to impress?” he asked, coming in.
D’Agosta paused the video and sat back, rubbing his face.
Singleton slid into a nearby seat and set one of the cans down in front of D’Agosta. “That coffee should be arrested and searched. Try this instead.”
D’Agosta grasped the ice-cold can of beer, pulled the tab, which made a welcoming hiss, and raised it. “Much obliged, Captain.” He took a long, grateful pull.
Singleton sat down and opened his own beer. “So what you got?”
“As far as the security videos, nada. There’s a major dead zone between these three cameras and I’m pretty sure that’s where the action took place.”
“Got any footage on the surrounding neighborhood?”
“This is it. Mostly residential—the closest store was a block away.”
Singleton nodded. “Anything to connect this killing with last night’s? The mob lawyer, Cantucci?”
“Other than the decapitation, nothing. The MOs in the two cases are totally different. Different weapons, different mode of ingress and egress. Nothing to connect the victims. And in the Ozmian case, the head was taken twenty-four hours after the victim was killed, while with Cantucci it was cut off immediately after the victim expired.”
“So you don’t think they’re related?”
“Probably not, but two decapitations back-to-back are a weird coincidence. I’m not ruling anything out.”
“How about the security feeds from Cantucci’s place?”
“Nothing. They weren’t just erased—the hard disks were taken. Cameras outside the house and on both corners of Third Avenue were disabled ahead of time. The guy who did Cantucci was a pro.”
“A pro using a bow and arrow?”
“Yeah. Could be a mob hit, meant to send some kind of message. This Cantucci was a real scumbag. Here’s a guy who brought down one family as AG and then went to work for a rival. He’s dirtier than the wiseguys he defended, twice as rich, and three times smarter. He had more than his share of enemies. We’re working on that.”
“And the Ozmian victim?”
“A wild kid. We had the CSU go over her room in her father’s place, just as a precaution—nothing useful. And we’re checking on her fast-living friends, but no leads so far. We’re still probing.”
Singleton grunted.
“Autopsy confirmed she was shot through the heart from behind, remained in an unknown location long enough to bleed out, and was then moved to the garage, where the head was taken about twenty-four hours later. We’ve got a ton of hair, fiber, and latents we’re working through, but I have a feeling none are going to pan out.”
“And the father?”
“Supersmart. Vindictive. Total asshole. He’s got a crazy temper, screams and yells and smashes stuff, then suddenly goes quiet—scary.” The man had been so quiet when he’d come to identify the body the previous afternoon—from a mole on her left arm—it had creeped D’Agosta out. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s got his people out there, quietly looking for the killer. I sure hope we get the guy first. Because if Ozmian’s people find him before we do, I fear the perp might disappear and we’ll never clear the case.”
“Isn’t he grieving?”
“Sure. In his own way. If his personal life is anything like his business life, seems to me his way of grieving would be to find the perp, whittle him alive, then make a bow tie out of his junk and hang him with it.”
Singleton winced, took another sip. “A billionaire vigilante. God save us.” He glanced at D’Agosta. “Any connection to the father’s business interests? You know, kill the daughter to get revenge on the father?”
“We’re looking into that. He’s been involved in a bunch of lawsuits, gotten his share of death threats. These dot-com people are like Vikings.”
Singleton grunted and they sat in silence for a few mome
nts, thinking. This was Singleton’s way of managing a case, to sit down late at night when the place was quiet and they could just shoot the breeze. It was why he was such a good cop and a great guy to work for. At last, he shifted in his seat. “You know this guy Harriman from the Post who’s been poking around, asking questions, harassing my guys? Is he any good?”
“He’s a prick, but he gets the story.”
“That’s too bad. Because this is already big and it’s only going to get bigger.”
“Yeah.”
“And the FBI? What’s their agenda—and how’d they decide it was a federal case?”
“I can work with them—don’t worry.”
“Glad to hear it.” Singleton rose. “Vinnie, you’re doing a fine job. Keep it up. Any support I can give, anyone you think needs a swift kick in the ass, you let me know.”
“Sure thing, Captain.”
Singleton left. D’Agosta tossed his empty beer can into the trash with regret and went back to the endlessly boring video feed.
7
LIEUTENANT D’AGOSTA PARKED his squad car in the taped-off area in front of the town house. He got out of the car, his associate Sergeant Curry emerging from the other side. D’Agosta took a moment to look up at the town house, built in pink granite, occupying the middle of a quiet block between Second and Third Avenues, lined with leafless ginkgo trees. The victim, Cantucci, had been the worst kind of mob lawyer there was, slippery as an eel. He’d been in their crosshairs for two decades, subjected to several grand jury proceedings—and they’d never even been able to take away his license to practice at the bar. He was one of the untouchables.
Except he’d gotten touched now—big time. And D’Agosta wondered just how the hell the killer had penetrated the town house’s formidable security.
He shook his head and walked through the darkness of the December evening and up to the front door. Curry held the door open and D’Agosta entered the foyer, looking around. It was some house, filled with rare antiques, paintings, and Persian rugs. He caught the faint scent of the various chemicals and solvents used by the CSU team. But their work was now complete, and he wouldn’t have to put on the usual booties, hair covering, and gown, for which D’Agosta was grateful as he breathed in the stifling air, the town house’s metal shutters still closed.
“All ready for the walk-through, sir?” asked Curry.
“Where’s the security consultant? He was supposed to meet me here.”
A man materialized from the shadows, African American, small, white hair, wearing a blue suit and carrying himself in a gravely dignified manner. He was said to be one of the top experts in electronic security in the city, and D’Agosta was surprised to see he looked at least seventy years old.
He offered a cool hand. “Jack Marvin,” he said, his voice deep, like a preacher’s.
“Lieutenant D’Agosta. So tell me, Mr. Marvin—how’d the son of a bitch get through this million-dollar security system?”
Marvin chuckled ghoulishly. “Very cleverly. Would you care for a tour?”
“Sure.”
Marvin set off, moving briskly down the central corridor, D’Agosta and Curry following. D’Agosta wondered why the hell Pendergast hadn’t shown up here in response to his request. This was just the kind of case that would fascinate him, and given the rivalry between the NYPD and the FBI, D’Agosta thought he’d been doing the agent a favor by extending him an invitation. But then, on the other hand, Pendergast had shown little interest in the case so far—just look at how reluctant he’d been to visit Ozmian.
“What we have in this house,” Marvin said, his hands moving constantly, “is a Sharps and Gund security system. Sharps and Gund is beyond state-of-the-art, the best there is. Favored by Persian Gulf oil tycoons and Russian oligarchs.” He paused. “There are twenty-five cameras distributed through the house. One there—” he pointed to an upper corner— “there, there, and there.” His finger moved swiftly. “Every square inch covered.”
He stopped and turned, sweeping his hands to one side and then the other, like a tour guide in some historic mansion. “And here we’ve got an IR break-beam fence, with motion detectors in the corners, up there and there.”
His gesture swept around to the elevator door, and he pressed the button. “The heart of the system is in the attic, in a reinforced locker.”
The elevator door—riddled with bullet holes—slid open, and they crowded in.
The elevator hummed its way up to the fifth floor and the doors reopened. Marvin stepped out. “Cameras here, here, and over there. More IR break-beams, motion detectors, pressure-plate sensors in the floor. Bedroom’s through that door.”
He pirouetted. “The front door and all windows are alarmed, and at sunset the place is sealed with steel shutters. The system has multiple redundancies. It’s normally powered by household current, with two independent sources of backup, a generator and a bank of deep-cycle marine batteries. It has three independent reporting methods to live operators standing by: via phone through the household landline, again through a cellular connection, and again through a satphone. Even if nothing happens, the system is designed to report a fair-weather signal every hour.”
D’Agosta gave a low whistle. He couldn’t wait to hear how this system was defeated.
“The system reports all anomalies. If a battery gets low, it reports. Power failure, it reports. Cellular interference, it reports. Lightning strike, power surge, spider building a web on an IR detector, it reports. Sharps and Gund has its own security teams that it dispatches, in case the police are slow or tied up.”
“Looks impregnable.”
“Doesn’t it, now? But like everything else ever designed by man, it just so happens to have an Achilles’ heel.”
D’Agosta was getting tired standing on his feet in the dark hall. An elegant sitting room with comfortable chairs beckoned at the end of the hall, and he’d been up for hours after less than ninety minutes’ sleep. “Shall we?” He motioned with his hand.
“I was planning on taking you to the attic. Here are the stairs.”
D’Agosta and Curry followed the spry man to a set of narrow stairs, which led into a half-height attic. When Marvin switched on the light, D’Agosta saw a space filled with dust and smelling of mildew. The air was stifling, and they had to crouch low.
“Over here,” Marvin said, pointing to a large, new metal cabinet, with the door open. “This is the central control of the security system. It’s essentially a large safe. No way to get in unless you have the code—and our perp did not have the code.”
“So how’d he get in?”
“Trojan horse.”
“Meaning?”
“The Sharps and Gund system is famous for being impervious to computer hacking. They accomplish this by partially isolating each security system from the Internet. You can’t transmit data into the system, ever. Not even the Sharps and Gund main office can transmit data to a security system. The security system is designed to send data only one way: out. Hackers cannot get in remotely.”
“So what if the system needs to be updated or reset?”
“A service technician has to physically go to the location, open the safe with a code that not even the owner has—that not even the technician has, it’s generated by a randomizer at the main office and orally transmitted to the tech when he’s on-site—and download new data into the system with a direct connection.”
D’Agosta shifted, trying not to bump his head against the ceiling. He could see a pair of rat’s eyes gleaming in a corner, peering at them. Even in a twenty-million-dollar house, you got rats. He wished Marvin would hurry up and get to the point.
“All right, so how’d the perp get around all this?”
“The first thing he did a few days ago. Out on the street in front of the house, he used a blocking device to interrupt the hourly fair-weather reports of the cellular. He could do this from a parked car, with a fairly inexpensive electromagnetic jammer. Just a couple
of random bursts of interference that blocked the cellular signal a few times. It fooled Sharps and Gund into thinking the unit was going bad and needed to be replaced. So they sent two guys—always two guys—out with a new unit. Normally they double-park and one guy stays with the van. But your perp used a couple of traffic cones to snag a really convenient parking space for the van. Just down the street. Very tempting. So they park there and both guys go to the house, leaving the van unprotected for about three minutes.”
“You worked this all out?”
“Sure did.”
D’Agosta nodded, impressed.
“Your intruder breaks into the truck, gets his hands on the cellular device, swaps out the SD card for one with malware on it, and puts it back. The repairmen return, collect their stuff, go into the house, open the impregnable safe with the code given them from the home office, install the new cellular device, and leave. Then the malware downloads itself into the system and hijacks it. Totally. That damn malware unlocked the front door for your killer, then locked it behind him. It turned off the phones. It shut down the IR beams and motion detectors and pressure-plate sensors while leaving the CCTV cameras functioning. It even unlocked the safe so the perp could take the hard drives when he left.”
“How could some anonymous perp possibly know enough about the system to create this malware?” D’Agosta asked.
“He couldn’t.”
“You mean, inside job?”
“Absolutely no question. The intruder must have decompiled the firm’s system software in order to write this malware. He knew exactly what he was doing—and he knew the company’s proprietary way of doing business. There’s no doubt in my mind that an S and G employee or ex-employee was involved. And not just anyone, but someone with a deep familiarity with the installation process—of this particular system.”
This was a damn good lead. But this attic was getting to D’Agosta. He was bathed in sweat and the air was stifling. He couldn’t wait to get back out into the December cold. “Say, are we done up here?”
City of Endless Night Page 4
