by David Wind
Hyte dialed the CD.
“Is it important?” Philip Mason asked.
“Very.”
“I’ve got fifteen minutes before a meeting with the PC.”
“On my way.” He hung up and looked at O’Rourke.
“When I get back I want to speak with the detective who interviewed Katherine Sircolli. Make it ten o’clock.”
<><><>
“You fielded Leighton’s interview nicely.”
“She’s an egotistical twit.”
“But a necessary one,” Mason said. “What’s so important this morning?”
Hyte took a sip of coffee. “I picked up a pattern yesterday. I think I confirmed it last night. I’m waiting for a toxicology report before I make a formal commitment. There have been three homicides in three weeks in three boroughs. The MO is the same, and the probability is high that the murder weapon is the same.”
Mason’s face was unreadable. “What else?”
“All three victims were on the Trans Air flight that was hijacked last June. Two were crew members, one a coach passenger.” He explained about the three homicides and the connections between the victims. “Chief,” he said formally, “I want permission to look into this.”
“What do you make of it?”
Hyte didn’t like the guarded tone in Mason’s voice. “I’m not sure yet. It could be any of a number of things. Terrorists avenging the deaths of their brethren, a passenger who went over the edge, even some psycho who wasn’t involved at all but decided he wanted a taste of what happened. Christ almighty, I don’t think there’s a person in the country who hasn’t seen one of the television specials on the hijacking.”
“Ray—”
“I’m all right,” he said sharply. Then he sat back and made himself relax.
Mason continued to stare at him. “I’ll bring it up at today’s meeting.”
“Not yet. Let me dig a little deeper, get my facts straight. I need the toxicology report from Harry Lester. If it is poison, we’ll have to get corroboration from the other two M.E.’s.”
“If these three homicides have a set MO, can we afford to wait?”
“If the pattern we found is right, we’ve got four days.
Let me do the follow-ups. I need to speak with the borough medical examiners, homicide, and the PDUs.”
“Then why are you here now?”
“Because I thought you should know. And, I want to get a head start on setting up a task force if we need it.”
“Who?”
“Sy Cohen and Jimmy Roberts from the One-Nine. Cal Severs from Manhattan Homicide.”
Mason shook his head. “O’Leary just put in his papers. Severs is next up for captain. I want him where he is.”
Hyte knew the chief of detectives had to make his own department. Mason had inherited Captain O’Leary, who commanded the recently reestablished Manhattan Borough Homicide Squad. Now he wanted his own man there.
“Who else?” Mason asked.
“I’ll use O’Rourke. That should be enough for now.”
“Ray,” Mason began, “ever since—”
Hyte cut his boss off. “This has nothing to do with the hijacking, at least my part in it. This isn’t some fantasy I’ve come up with to salve my conscience.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Positive.”
The chief of detectives glanced at his desk clock. Hyte took the hint and stood. “Phil?”
“You have twenty-four hours to come up with something.”
<><><>
At five minutes to twelve, ten minutes after speaking with the assistant medical examiner, Hyte sat at the head of a long table in one of the seventh floor conference rooms. Sy Cohen, Jimmy Roberts, Sally O’Rourke, and Cal Severs were with him. While Severs would not be a part of the investigation, Hyte had wanted him at this meeting.
“I’ve talked with the M.E. The Samson death will be ruled homicide by poisoning. The fucking arrow was loaded with a puffer fish poison. The M.E. says the poison paralyzes the nervous system in forty to sixty seconds.” He gave them a moment to digest his words. “The poison is Asian, and very hard to come by.”
“That’s just great,” Severs said. “And those two other bolts are sitting with the property clerks. If they’re from the same perp—”
“Sally, when this meeting’s over, call the property clerks in Brooklyn and Queens and warn them about the bolts. Have them sent to Bert Hanson at the toxicology lab. When Hanson’s finished with them, I want to try for some sort of ballistics match.”
“If the poison is the same, won’t that do?” O’Rourke asked.
“I still want to know what kind of a weapon was used. I mean, did someone swipe a crossbow from a museum, or is it a modern version?”
When no one said anything, he looked at Cohen and Roberts. “You two come up with anything?”
Roberts spoke first, his voice low and steady. “I went over to Trans Air this morning. The last time anyone saw Elaine Samson was on Friday night, March twenty-sixth. She’d been working a Dallas to New York flight. She’d stopped working overseas flights after the 88 hijacking.
“The plane arrived on time; one-fifteen. She signed out at one thirty-five. That was the last anyone saw of her.”
“Why wasn’t there a check on her?”
“She was officially on a two-week vacation.”
Hyte jotted down a note: Could the killer be someone in the airlines? “Anything else?”
“No one on my squad came up with anything in the neighborhood,” Sy Cohen said.
“Cal?”
Severs shook his head. “Nothing on the license plates or the street canvass.”
“All right, gentlemen, and lady,” Hyte said. “I think there’s a good possibility we have an honest-to-God pattern killer on our hands. What I don’t know is if the killer has a scrambled brain or is out for revenge. What I do know is someone murdered two crew members and one passenger from Flight 88, which was hijacked last June. And I have a feeling this is only the beginning.”
“How do we find out?” Severs asked.
“By not having another killing on a Friday night,” Hyte said. “But we’ve got a few things to do first.” He looked at Sy Cohen and Jimmy Roberts. “Effective as of now, the two of you are on temporary assignment to the chief of detectives’ staff. I’ll clear it through your boss later. Sy, I want you to see if there’s a deeper connection between Samson and Flaxman, and if Kaliel was somehow involved in it. Don’t re-interview Katherine Sircolli. I’ll handle that.”
“Cal,” he added, “I asked the chief for you. He has other plans that you’ll be hearing about soon. You have anyone to recommend?”
“Tim Smith from the Queens squad, the one who caught the Flaxman case, is a good man if you can get him.”
“Okay. Thank you for coming in.” Hyte didn’t ask Severs to keep things to himself. He knew he would.
When the lieutenant left, Hyte turned to the three remaining cops. “Sally, I want the passenger manifest from Flight 88, addresses of the passengers, current status, and a rap sheet check. Also, do a teletype to the FBI and Interpol on similar MO.
“Roberts, we need the whereabouts of all the victims for the forty-eight hours prior to their deaths. Maybe a check will show a connection between the three.” He paused for a breath. “All of you, when you have a spare minute, try to figure out a way to turn up a weapon. Who the hell sells crossbows—hunting and sporting goods stores?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Cohen said, rising.
“One more thing.” The three looked at him silently.
“The chief has given me twenty-four hours to come up with something solid.”
“That’s magnanimous of him,” Cohen said.
“Sally, call Dan Carson and ask him to send over an unedited tape of the 88 hijacking. I think we’ll all need to look it over.” He paused and smiled at them. “I want everyone back here at six to go over it all again.”
�
��You want company when you go to Sircolli?” Cohen asked.
He gazed at the man who had been his first partner, the man who had taught him most of his street sense, and slowly shook his head. “I can handle it, Sy, thanks.”
<><><>
Hyte parked across the street from an impressive brick house, on a well-to-do street in Whitestone, Queens. The three-story house, red brick with white framed windows, dominated the street. So did the two men standing idly on the front sidewalk.
The men were part of a revolving contingent of bodyguards maintained by Tony the Fist Sircolli. Hyte knew one of the two from his undercover days. His name was Carl Betaglia. His street name was The Pin. At six-two, and weighing in at a hundred and sixty pounds, the hood had earned his nickname.
The second man was unfamiliar. He had a bullet head, no neck, and small dark eyes. Hyte decided the man’s street name would probably be Attila.
He got out of the car. The man he didn’t recognize turned away. Betaglia didn’t.
“Where you going, pig?” Betaglia snapped.
“Don’t push it, Carl,” Hyte said in a low voice.
“You got a warrant or somethin’?”
Hyte wasn’t worried about Betaglia or the other man; they wouldn’t do anything here. “Official business.”
“Don’t,” Betaglia warned, signaling his partner to block Hyte’s way.
Hyte grinned at the two hoods. “I said I’m here on official Department business. Now, if you want to push, I’ll have both your asses hauled in for obstruction as well as weapons charges.”
“We’ve got tickets for our pieces,” Betaglia stated. “O-fish-ell tickets!”
“Not as official as mine,” Hyte said, challenging Betaglia with a hard glare.
The hood broke eye contact. “Wait here.”
While Hyte waited, Attila glared. When Betaglia returned, he told Hyte that Mr. Sircolli would see him. Then the skinny hood held his hand out, palm up. “The piece.”
Drawing his revolver, Hyte opened the cylinder and emptied it into Betaglia’s hand. Then he walked past Betaglia and up the steps.
He found Tony the Fist waiting for him. Antonio Sircolli’s nickname came only in part by his reputation for ruthlessness. The other part was the size of his hands—slabs that could beat an opponent senseless. His face, though, was smooth and baby-like. His eyes, blackish brown, were intelligent; although brute force had won him his high position, his mind had kept it.
“Long time,” Sircolli said without offering his hand. “Never thought you’d have the balls to come here again.”
“Some things can’t be helped. I didn’t think sending one of my men would be the right thing.”
“You had me cold, back then. I trusted you; I believed you were who you said you were. And I never once made you for a cop.”
“I know,” Hyte said. When he’d been undercover for the OCCB, he’d played the part of the unhappy son of a dead cop to the hilt.
“Inside.” Sircolli led Hyte into an ornate living room.
Three of the four walls were blue flocked wallpaper. Centered on the fourth was a huge marble fireplace. The furniture was Italian, imported from Rome.
“Drink?”
Hyte shook his head. “It’s about the Flaxman murder,” he said. Hyte didn’t miss the flash of surprise in Sircolli’s eyes.
“Katherine’s made a statement already. Why is a lieutenant on the chief of detectives’ staff interested in this? Or is it because she’s my daughter and you and your boss have had a hard on for me for too many fucking years?”
Hyte ignored the question. “Tony, I want the truth. Did you have it in for Flaxman because he was having an affair with your daughter?”
Sircolli’s laughter caught him unprepared. “I never met Flaxman. I checked him out real good, but I never met him. Katherine has a mind of her own. She loved him. That’s all that mattered.”
Hyte believed him.
“What have you come up with?” Sircolli’s eyes narrowed.
“Nothing. Not a fucking thing.”
“Who the hell kills a man with an arrow?”
Hyte didn’t have an answer for the gangster, but Sircolli had answered one of his questions when he’d said arrow instead of bolt. “I need to speak with Katherine.”
“About what?” asked a woman. Turning, Hyte saw the grown version of the child he had known. She was no longer the skinny kid of his memory; rather, her limbs had filled out nicely. Her eyes, large and gray, dominated her face but no longer overpowered her other features.
“Hello, Katie,” he said.
“Hello, Lieutenant Hyte.”
“I have to ask you some questions about Richard Flaxman.”
Katherine nodded. “Go ahead.”
Hyte glanced at Sircolli. “Alone.”
“Why?”
Hyte’s eyes hardened. “Because I’m interviewing a witness.”
Sircolli smiled. “I forgot how good an actor you are. Don’t push her. Ray, if you need a hand on this, for anything, just say the word. It’s real personal…”
When Sircolli left, Hyte motioned Katherine to the couch, and sat next to her. “Tell me about Flaxman.”
Her eyes took on a look of loss and pain. “There’s not a lot to tell,” she said. “I met him when I was on vacation. We hit it off. We became lovers. Then I fell in love with him.”
“Was he in love with you?”
Katherine’s eyes flooded with tears. “The night he ... he was killed, was the first time he told me that he loved me. We’d been seeing each other for five months. He’d never said it before.”
“Did he say anything to you about someone being after him?”
“No. And I think if there was someone, he would have told me.”
“Flaxman had a reputation of being a ladies’ man.”
She surprised him by smiling. “He had, Lieutenant. I knew all about it. But something happened to him and he stopped playing.”
“What happened?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t you know? You were there.”
Hyte nodded. “I read your statement from the files. Is there anything else you can tell me, anything you forgot? Some small detail? An old conversation?”
She shook her head. ”After the first cop spoke to me, I spent days thinking back, trying to remember something Richard might have said. There was nothing. I only wish there had been.”
“Thank you,” Hyte said, standing.
“Lieutenant?”
He waited, gazing down at her.
“You find the bastard who killed my man.”
For a fraction of a second, she reminded Hyte of her father. “I will.”
Chapter Twenty
At five minutes to five, Hyte entered the Blue Room; a neighborhood bar situated diagonally across from Bellevue, and ordered two Scotch and waters.
Harry Lester came through the front door and ambled over to the stool next to him. He drained half the waiting drink, sighing, “God, what a day. Yes, the other two bolts arrived. My friends in Queens and Brooklyn thank you for the warning.”
Hyte studied the M.E. “Since you’ve become my specialist in medieval weapons, what about looking for a match? Is it possible?”
“The three bolts are from the same manufacturer. Whether or not they were fired from the same weapon, who knows?”
“Can we find out?”
“How? There are no barrel grooves, no powder, and no ballistics match points. The boys in the crime scene lab can look, but I wouldn’t hold out much hope.”
“Have you formed any opinions on the killer?”
“Using what for a basis? If it was a knife, I’d be able to get a possible height and weight by the entry of the blade. A crossbow? The only thing I can tell you is that the killer fired the bolt level with Samson’s shoulder.”
Hyte held his arm straight out. “You’re saying that the killer’s extended arm is the height of Samson’s shoulder? That would make the killer about the same
height as Samson—about five-six or five-seven.”
“It’s possible, but don’t take it as gospel. The killer could also have held the bow high if he’s short or low if he’s tall.”
“That’s modern forensic pathology,” Hyte murmured. “Accurate to a fault. So you have no ideas.”
The M.E. shrugged. “Opinions, uneducated guesses.”
“You’ve got an illiterate for a student. Go ahead.”
“To begin with, a crossbow’s bolt, unless it hits a main organ or artery, is not always fatal. The killer knows that; therefore poison to insure death. If the tip of the bolt penetrates the outer layers of the skin, there’s no chance for survival. A crossbow is a man’s weapon. A regular bow and arrow could be a woman’s weapon, but psychologically and historically, the crossbow has always been associated with a warrior, and a warrior is associated with a man.”
“Then you think it’s a man?” Hyte said.
“If I had to guess, I’d say yes. But that’s all it is, a guess.”
“What about the poison?”
“Just what I said. He didn’t want to leave anything to chance.”
“When will I get the complete tox results on the other bolts?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Early,” Hyte said. “I need to give the chief something by tomorrow.”
“First thing in the morning.”
“Thanks.”
Hyte fell silent, thinking that almost twenty-four hours after the discovery of Elaine Samson’s body, he had only three facts: She was on Flight 88 with Flaxman and Kaliel; she died by poison; and the odds dictated by the killer’s choice of weapon, favor the killer to be a man.
His job was now to connect the three assumed facts to one common killer. He knew he didn’t have a chance of stopping the next murder, if there was to be one.
<><><>
The sight greeting Hyte when he returned to his office stopped him dead in his tracks. Neatly lined up on his desk were two crossbows and a dozen bolts. He looked at O’Rourke. “Where?”
“Thomas Outfitters, off Centre Street.”
He approached the weapons and array of crossbow bolts.
“The gun shop?”
