Hidden Order: A Thriller

by Brad Thor

  “What do you think?”

  “I think DeSalvo knew too many details about the crime scenes not to have been involved,” she replied. “Either he was the killer, or he knew the killers. Either way, it was good to get him off the streets.”

  “That was when, exactly? Early 1960s?” Harvath asked.

  “Yup. The murders started in June 1962 with the last one occurring upstairs with Mary Sullivan on January fourth, 1964. There were fourteen women, all between the ages of nineteen and eighty-five, murdered.”

  “DeSalvo got life in prison, right?”

  “Yes, but it was for the long string of robberies and sexual offenses he had committed before the Strangler murders. The police couldn’t find any physical evidence tying him to the murder scenes. Did he know some pretty impressive details that hadn’t been released to the public? Yes, but that wasn’t enough to charge him with.”

  Harvath shook his head. “Plus he had O. J. Simpson’s lawyer, didn’t he?”

  “He did. F. Lee Bailey. Bailey was representing the jailhouse snitch whom DeSalvo originally admitted being the Strangler to. When Bailey heard that, he scooped DeSalvo up. He tried to get a not-guilty on everything by reason of insanity, but the court didn’t buy it.”

  “But he did get life in prison.”

  “He did. He also escaped that same year, only to turn himself back in the next day. Six years later, though, he was jumped in the prison infirmary and stabbed to death. The killer or killers were never caught.”

  “At least justice was finally done and the people of Massachusetts didn’t have to foot his bill anymore.”

  Cordero nodded just as Harvath’s Spanish omelet showed up.

  “You sure you don’t want anything?” he asked.

  “I’m good,” she said. “I ate before I left the house this morning. Most important meal of the day, you know?”

  Harvath smiled. “That’s exactly what I was thinking this morning as I was cooking my eggs and the call came in telling me to get up here.”

  “Why’d you know so much about the whole Liberty Tree thing?” she asked, changing the subject. “And please save me the whole I paid attention in class response again, okay?”

  She was a very perceptive woman, an important trait for a homicide detective, or any detective, for that matter. You’d have to get up pretty early in the morning to put one over on her and even then Harvath was not sure how successful he’d be. That being the case, there wasn’t any reason to lie to her. He just needed to refrain from telling her the entire truth. It was something that was on a need-to-know basis and she didn’t need to know.

  “You said that the FBI told you that Penning was one in a string of kidnappings, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Well, what they didn’t tell you was that he wasn’t the first victim to be killed.”

  Cordero looked to make sure no one was listening to their conversation and then leaned in closer. “Another murder? When? Where did it happen?”

  Finishing what was in his mouth, he said, “Sunday night. A small island off the coast of Georgia.”

  “Same MO?”

  He had no idea how hungry he had been until he began eating and nodded as he took another bite. “The killer left a note there, too.”

  “What did it say?”

  “It was about the tree of liberty needing to be refreshed with the blood of patriots and tyrants.”

  “Another death-to-tyranny reference?”

  Harvath nodded again as he set his fork down and reached to take a sip of water. “Same skull and crossbones with the crown, too.”

  “The FBI wouldn’t say how the victims are related. Is it family? Personal relationship? Business? What are we talking about?”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss that specifically.”

  “What is it? Above my pay grade?”

  “Mine, too.”

  Cordero studied him. “I think you’re lying.”

  “Can you pass the pepper, please?”

  “Is this a joke? Because I can tell you right now, this is not a joke to me. And when you go back to D.C., this is still going to be the Boston PD’s case and the people of Boston are going to want resolution. They’re funny like that. Do you remember the marathon bombing? They expect us to do our job.”

  Harvath picked his fork back up and cut another piece of omelet. “I’ve seen a lot of bad things over my career, Detective, and I bet you have, too. I think you understand graveyard humor. I also think you understand having to answer to a command structure. I do what I’m told.”

  “And right now you’re being told to withhold information that may be critical to solving a murder.”

  She was frustrated and rightly so. “Listen, Lara. Can I call you, Lara?”

  “You can call me Detective Cordero.”

  “Fine, Detective Cordero, I’ll level with you. At least as much as I can.”

  “This ought to be good,” she replied, leaning back and folding her arms across her chest.

  There was no mistaking her body language. Any rapport he might have built with her was melting away. In any other situation, he would have let it go. Was she attractive? Exceedingly so, but he wasn’t in Boston looking for a girlfriend; he was here to find a killer and until he did, he was going to need all the help he could get, especially from the Boston Homicide Unit.

  The ball was in his court. He needed to make a significant overture to her. And against his better judgment, that’s exactly what he decided to do. Leaning forward, he gestured for her to come closer so no one could overhear.

  “This goes no further than us,” he said as she met him halfway over the table. “It doesn’t go into your report. You cannot tell your superiors. You can’t even mention it to your partner.”

  Flicking him away with her hand, she leaned back and looked at him like he was nuts. “Not going to happen. Sorry.”

  “Fine by me,” Harvath replied as he too leaned back and shoveled in another mouthful of eggs.

  They sat for several minutes in silence. She sipped her coffee as he ate his omelet. The waitress came over and, after warming up their cups, asked if they wanted anything else. Harvath said, “No thank you,” and asked to be brought the bill.

  As the waitress walked off, he looked at Cordero and said, “Is stubbornness a Brazilian trait?”

  “If you think just because I’m a woman you can come into my town and mess around with my investigation, you’ve got another thing coming.”

  Harvath grinned. “And whose insecurity is showing now?”

  Instead of voicing the foul remark she had in mind, she let one of her fingers do the talking for her.

  “That’s pretty good,” said Harvath. “If you can now count to two, I’ll let you have my toast.”

  Cordero stood up from the table. “I hope you enjoy the rest of your time in Boston.”

  Before Harvath could respond, she had turned and was walking toward the door.

  He pulled a wedge of cash from his pocket, peeled off what he thought would be enough to cover everything, and dropped it on the table. He looked at his half-eaten omelet and decided reluctantly to leave it. Grabbing his coat from the back of his chair, he went off after her.

  “Lara,” he said as he tried to catch up with her outside. “Lara. Damn it, Detective Cordero!”

  With that, she turned around on the pavement and stopped, both hands on her hips. “Quid pro quo, Mr. Harvath. That’s all I want. Quid pro quo. None of this mysterious cloak-and-dagger BS. Maybe that works with the Georgetown coeds, but it doesn’t work here, not with me.”

  Good God, she was frustrating, and obstinate. He wanted to bring her a little bit further into the light of what was going on, but she insisted on fighting him. She wanted everything on her terms. She acted just like . . . him.

  “Come over here,” he said, trying to steer her into the doorway of the building next door.

  “That’s not a very good idea,” she stated, taking his hand from her
arm. “If you have something to tell me, you can tell me right here.”

  The street was too crowded. “I’m going to tell you what you want to know, but come on. We can’t do it standing on a busy sidewalk. Not here. Not like this.”

  She looked at her watch, “I have something I have to do. If you want to come along, we can talk.”

  Harvath agreed and they headed back toward her car. As they approached, he figured they could talk as they drove, but she walked past the vehicle and kept going.

  “Detective Cordero,” he asked. “Where are we going?”

  “I’m killing two birds with one stone,” she replied, and that was all she said.

  They crossed Mount Vernon Street and took a left down the tree-lined, red and black bricked sidewalk. A block later, Harvath zeroed in on their destination.

  “I have an aunt who’s not well,” Cordero offered as they stepped inside.

  Having being sent to Catholic school as a child, Harvath had been inside plenty of Catholic churches. Boston’s Church of the Advent was an amazing structure. Unlike the churches he was used to, this one was built predominantly from brick, a feature its architects didn’t try to hide, but rather drew attention to by offsetting the brickwork with stone. It was actually a very beautiful combination.

  They had timed their visit well. The church was between masses and there was no one there except for an unseen organist practicing a song Harvath had not heard since grade school, Gibbons’s “Almighty and Everlasting God.” There was only one way to describe the notes as they floated through the church—mesmerizing.

  He had always been amazed at how religious composers could so perfectly create music that was absolutely brilliant for both the organ and church acoustics. Then, between high school and college, Harvath had met a very cool church organist—the elusive figure whom people always hear, but never seem to see. The pair had a discussion about music composed for church and the organist invited Harvath to come visit her at work, which Harvath did.

  The organist played Handel’s Messiah, César Franck’s setting to music of St. Thomas Aquinas’s “Panis Angelicus,” and then she surprised Harvath with an amazing performance of “America the Beautiful.” It was the first time Harvath had ever heard nonreligious music in a church and he was dumbstruck by how incredible it sounded.

  The woman played other songs for him as well, but the one that had stuck, besides “America the Beautiful,” was a song from the organist’s generation, “Whiter Shade of Pale.” She drew out all the notes with such soul and such feeling. After making sure no one else was in the building, she then transitioned into funk music. It was a genre that Harvath had heard of but knew very little about. The organist was a pious woman, and played only snippets of two songs she felt were appropriate. She did, though, mention several of the classics and encouraged Harvath to look into them, which he did. Funk ended up becoming one of his favorite styles.

  While Detective Cordero lit a candle for her aunt, Harvath continued into the church. He thought of Mukami, the Kenyan engineer who had been killed in Somalia, and decided to light a candle for him.

  After he was done, he walked in and sat down in one of the pews. Closing his eyes, he let the music wash over him.

  A few minutes later, he sensed that Cordero had joined him, but she was respectful and didn’t say anything while he continued to enjoy the music. When it stopped, he opened his eyes.

  “I wouldn’t have figured you for a guy who appreciates music,” she said.

  “You’d be surprised what I appreciate.”

  Cordero smiled and then looked at her watch. “My whole schedule has been turned upside down today. I need to get to the office, so what is it you want to tell me?”

  Harvath took a deep breath and quietly let it out. “You asked me what the victims had in common.”

  “Besides the notes from the killer?”

  He nodded. “Yes, besides those.”

  Cordero waited as patiently as she could for him to respond. Eventually, she said, “Mr. Harvath?”

  Harvath had made peace with the fact that he couldn’t hold back any longer. “Both of the victims were nominees for a government position.”

  It was a half-truth, because the Federal Reserve wasn’t really a government organization, but he didn’t want to get into all of that with her.

  “What kind of position?”

  “Management at an economic agency.”

  “Which agency?”

  “One that doesn’t want the publicity,” Harvath replied.

  “Is that who hired you?”

  Harvath nodded. “And they hired me because I’m serious about client confidentiality. If I could tell you, I would. But I can’t and I’m sorry. I hope you understand.”

  Cordero was silent.

  “Two of the kidnappings have turned into murders. That’s why I’m here,” he said. “I need your help. I don’t want there to be another one.”

  She was about to respond when her phone vibrated with a text message.

  Harvath watched her as she read. Slowly, her facial expression changed. “What is it?” he asked.

  “Another murder.”

  “Is it a bad one?”

  She looked at him. “Is there actually such a thing as a good one?”

  Depends who’s on the receiving end, he thought to himself, but he didn’t say it. Instead, he said, “Something about that text got to you. I can tell. What is it?”

  “The victim’s a prostitute. They just pulled her out of the Charles River.”

  “And?”

  “And whoever killed her, cut her off ears before dumping her in the water.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Cordero had no intention of allowing Harvath to tag along to an unrelated murder scene, but that changed as soon as he explained how Claire Marcourt’s body had been found with her ears removed.

  With her wigwags flashing and siren blaring, she raced through traffic toward the river. The Community Boating Inc. boathouse was located on the Esplanade, right in between the Hatch concert shell and the Longfellow Bridge.

  When they arrived, there were already multiple officers on the scene, including Cordero’s partner, Sal whatever-his-name-was.

  “What’d you bring him along for?” he asked upon seeing Harvath. “They don’t give swimming lessons here. This is a sailing school.”

  Harvath looked out over all the boats. “I always wanted a sailboat as a kid. I used to pray every night for one.”

  “Is that so? I’m all broken up.”

  “I was, too, until I learned God doesn’t work that way. So I went out and stole one and asked for forgiveness instead.”

  Cordero’s partner was a prick, but now that Harvath had had a little something to eat, he didn’t feel like riding the guy as hard. Besides, he always heard that the shortest distance between two people was either a good laugh or a smooth trigger pull. He figured he’d try the laugh route first. He watched pointlessly for any hint of a sense of humor in the man until Cordero jumped back in and changed the subject.

  “I brought him along,” she replied, “because we think there may be a connection to our other homicide.”

  “So the two of you are partners now?” he asked.

  “Lighten up, Sal. Where’s the body?”

  “This way,” he relented, waving them toward the water.

  The dock formed a long, narrow U shape large enough to pen about fifty sailboats, all of which appeared to Harvath to be small, Cape Cod Mercurys. There were at least fifteen officers present, including members of the Boston Police Rescue/Recovery Dive Team.

  Detective what’s-his-face stopped at a blue plastic tarp and lifted it up so they could see the body of the prostitute, along with the rope and anchors that had been used to weigh her down. As Cordero’s text message had read, both of her ears had been sliced off.

  Harvath examined the work. Though he was no expert, the cuts looked clean, similar to Claire Marcourt’s. “Where was the body found?�
� he asked.

  “Just on the other side of the corral. One of the staff had come down to open up and get the boats ready for the day. He was carrying a bunch of stuff and apparently dinking around on his iPhone at the same time. iPhone goes in the water, staffer goes after iPhone, staffer meets Kelly Davis and the rest is 911 history.”

  “Any idea how long she’s been in the water?”

  “Less than twelve hours.”

  “Was she dumped here or did she drift from another spot?” Harvath asked.

  “With those anchors tied around her like that? She didn’t move more than a couple of feet, if at all. Whoever dumped her, dumped her right here.”

  Harvath looked at the ropes that had been wrapped around her. Removing his camera, he took several photos. The killer had done a good job of tying her up. “Where did the anchors and all this line come from?”

  “The staffer says someone broke into a utility shed they have up at the boathouse. We’re pretty sure that’s where they came from.”

  “Anybody have any gloves?” Harvath asked, as he put his camera away.

  An evidence tech handed him a pair and he examined the body. When he was finished, Cordero remarked, “I take back what I said about you not looking like law enforcement. Spent some time around dead bodies in your past?”

  “One or two. I’m sure you’ll want to take a look.”

  “Why don’t you tell me first what you see?”

  “From what I can tell, it looks like she’s been strangled. I don’t see any trauma to the head, other than the ears, of course, so I’d be willing to say strangulation’s the most likely cause of death.”

  “You think she was dead before she went in the water?” Cordero asked.

  “I do, though an autopsy will look for water in her lungs, which would tell us if she was still alive when she went in.”

  “If there’s no water in the lungs, would that rule out death by drowning?”

  “Not necessarily,” Harvath replied.

  “Why not?”

  “Because the minute water enters your airway, your larynx seizes up. It doesn’t matter if you are conscious or unconscious at the time. It’s a self-preservation mechanism. The vocal cords slam shut and stop any more water from going down your windpipe. It’s called a laryngospasm.