by David Wind
“That’s one of the chances I have to take.” Prestone stood. “How do you intend to cover me?” Gone was his easygoing manner. In its place, Hyte faced the famous man who had controlled the Senate Arms Appropriation Committee for two decades.
“I’ll send you the route you’ll take to and from the fund raisers. You’ll go to a lounge of our choosing for your nightcap. You won’t see us, Senator. But we’ll be there. And you will leave your two bodyguards behind.”
Prestone smiled at Hyte. “Good.”
“Don’t carry that pistol tomorrow.”
Prestone’s eye flickered. “I didn’t think it showed.”
“Senator, you’ve stepped into the middle of a murder investigation, pulled myself and my team off stride. We now have to stop what we’re doing in order to babysit you. You either leave your weapon in the apartment, or stay there yourself. I won’t have someone injured because you want to play cowboy. Is that understood?”
Prestone smiled. “You should have been in politics.”
“That’s what my father always said. Good day, Senator.”
<><><>
When Hyte returned to the office, he called in the team for another meeting. He told them that Sy Cohen and Sally O’Rourke would be on duty Friday night, and that Smith and Roberts would be off.
The two detectives protested immediately.
“As you know,” Hyte said, looking at Smith and Roberts, “it’s against Department regulations for an NYPD officer to work out of jurisdiction without the knowledge, consent, and cooperation of said outside authority. However, if the two of you are off duty, no one can stop you from driving out to Long Island and looking at real estate, say in Bay Shore? I understand there’s a lovely estate that may come on the market. A Jack Mofferty presently owns it. Am I making myself clear?”
“Perfectly,” Smith said.
“Isn’t Suffolk providing protection?” Roberts asked.
“They are. You’re not looking to protect anyone; you’re there to see if Jack Mofferty skips protection.”
The two detectives glanced at each other. “You think it’s him?” Roberts asked.
“Just make sure you know where he is every minute of Friday night. I mean that literally. Sally, you’re going to be a third set of eyes on Joan Bidding. She’ll be the only victim in the city.”
Hyte spent the remainder of Thursday and all of Friday setting up the logistics of the Prestone stakeout. With Sy Cohen, he mapped the route, and worked out stations for the cops who would be watching.
At four o’clock, the long overdue phone call from Immigration came in. Cohen took the call in Hyte’s office. When he hung up, he said, “You aren’t going to like this.”
“On this case, what makes that an oddity?” Hyte said. Cohen laughed. “You were right about Immigration.
Cristobal and Estella Helenez entered the United States three months ago through the Juarez-El Paso border. According to Immigration, they have not left.”
He stared at Cohen. “Juarez? Why the hell would they come in that way?”
“To keep a low profile, I’d imagine.”
Hyte nodded. “Where are they now?”
“All Immigration says is that the Helenezes have an open visa, which means they could be anywhere.”
“That’s just fucking great!”
At five, Hyte sent Cohen over to the senator’s apartment with body armor and the command that the senator was to wear it.
He called in Schwartz, who had volunteered to stay at the office on phone duty and to coordinate communications between Hyte, the men in Long Island, and Sally O’Rourke in Queens.
Then he got ready to face the forty cops who were waiting for him downstairs. He needed them to believe that their killer might strike Prestone tonight, and knew that his voice and manner could not show his own feelings that they were wasting time, money, and manpower on the wrong victim.
Chapter Thirty-one
“Lieutenant?”
“Go ahead, Schwartz,” Hyte said, speaking into a hand-held radio from his position outside the Waldorf Astoria.
“Smith and Roberts report the subjects have not left the house since returning from Masters’. O’Rourke says there’s no action in Forest Hills. And, Emma Graham called.”
“Thank you Schwartz,” Hyte said, lowering the radio.
“Heads up,” came a different voice. Hyte turned to watch J. Milton Prestone exit the Waldorf Astoria. When he reached the sidewalk, he paused to speak with several reporters before walking uptown. With Prestone’s first step, phase two of the night’s operation went into effect. The former senator was on his way to a cocktail lounge off Fifty-Fifth Street. He would stay there for one or two drinks, and then proceed to the company owned Fifty-Seventh Street apartment.
“Here we go,” Cohen said.
Hyte spoke into his radio, alerting the forty cops hidden along the route. It was eleven forty-eight P.M.
<><><>
At eleven-fifty P.M., a figure wearing a long, shapeless overcoat slipped from the cover of a phone booth and sidled into the service alley of Crown Towers, a sixty-story building that was a mix of offices and apartments on Fifty-Seventh Street between Fifth Avenue and the Avenue of the Americas.
At midnight, a cab stopped outside the alleyway. The rear door opened and a woman wearing a light cape left the cab and started into the alley.
Samael blended into the shadows.
When the woman walked past, Samael’s right arm whipped out, jerking her backward. Samael’s left hand rose, holding a glistening steel needle. The hand fell swiftly, the needle passing through the cape and sleeve of the woman’s blouse, biting deep into the flesh of her upper arm.
Theresa Lopinta struggled in vain. Less than a minute after the needle had stuck, the woman was unconscious.
Samael dragged the body behind two garbage dumpsters at the rear of the alley, and took Lopinta’s cape and purse. Samael opened the purse and extracted a set of keys. Each one was marked. The third key opened the employee entrance.
Samael put on the woman’s cape and looked down at her.
Theresa Lopinta’s face was in profile, a brown mole was on her left cheek.
Samael put on and adjusted a brimmed floral hat. Using Theresa Lopinta’s keys, the Messenger entered the staff entrance of the building, paused to wave up at the surveillance camera, and turned slightly so the brown mole centered on Samael’s left cheek was visible.
The makeup and mole the Messenger applied, the wig, and the floral hat, were exact duplicates of Theresa Lopinta’s.
A buzzer sounded and the elevator door opened. Samael pressed the button marked PENTHOUSE.
<><><>
“He’s getting another drink,” came the crackling report from the radio’s speaker.
“He’s getting himself looped,” Hyte said, angry because he was letting Prestone’s antics get under his skin.
“Two drinks isn’t looped,” Cohen said.
“Damn it, Sy, we’re wasting our time,” Hyte said, wanting to make Sy understand his frustration. “Samael’s out there somewhere, and he’s either killed or is getting ready to kill. I feel it. He’s got his victim staked out. He’s going to kill tonight.”
“All the possible victims are covered,” Cohen said. “Relax.”
<><><>
Samael the maid moved toward the penthouse. The door lock was electronic—a miniature computer controlled access.
Once again, Samael dipped into the maid’s purse and withdrew a plastic key card. Skintight white cotton gloves pushed the key into the slot. When a barely audible click sounded, Samael pushed the door inward.
Darkness greeted the Messenger. Bending, Samael lifted the black crossbow from the shopping bag and stepped into the apartment.
Samael paused, listening for sounds. From Samael’s left came electrically amplified voices. Samael went right, toward the master bedroom. At the door, Samael peered inside.
The room was immense. Thick white c
arpeting covered the floor. Hand screened wallpaper decorated the walls. The bed centered in the room was below a skylight surrounded by mirrors. It held a single sleeping occupant.
Satisfied, Samael backed away and went in the direction of the voices. Peering through the open door, Samael saw the only light in the room came from a large rear-projection television.
Samael stepped inside. Naked bodies performing a choreographed orgy filled the screen. Samael searched the room. Seated in a leather wingback chair was Cristobal Helenez.
Samael lifted the cocked crossbow. The Messenger’s bolt was in place. Without haste, Samael stepped between the television and the Portuguese financier.
“Theresa! What are you—” He stopped in mid-sentence.
“Quiet! You know who I am.”
Cristobal Helenez’s eyes widened. He held his hands before him, palms forward in supplication. “Please,” he cried. “I’m withdrawing my interests from Israel. It takes time. Please, leave me alone.”
“Do you still think you can continue to outwit your death? No! It is your time.”
The twang of the string’s release went unheard against the rising cries of the orgy’s participants. A flash of pain sliced through Helenez’s chest.
Samael cocked the crossbow, turned the revolving magazine to bring a fresh bolt into place, and went to the master bedroom.
God’s Messenger of Death walked to the bed and tapped Estella Helenez’s shoulder, pressing the crossbow to her left breast.
Estella opened her eyes. “Cristobal?” she asked.
“No,” Samael whispered. “Good-bye.”
<><><>
Hyte got the call at five-eighteen A.M. He was sitting in his car. Sy Cohen was with him. They were parked in front of Prestone’s building, where they’d been since one o’clock, keeping an eye on the street and on anyone who went into the building. Prestone, Hyte was sure, had been sleeping for at least three hours.
Fifty-Seventh Street, between Third and Lexington, was deserted. Hyte turned to Cohen, about to say something, when his name come over the radio. His stomach twisted when the dispatcher said to call Central from a landline. The request could only mean one thing—a homicide. In a highly publicized murder investigation, a homicide is not broadcast in the clear.
“I’ll be right back,” he told Cohen, going into the building to use the house phone. Two minutes later, he was back in the car.
“The Helenezes have an apartment four blocks west of here. They’re dead.” He slammed his fist on the steering wheel. “Everyone’s got the fucking answer, don’t they? No one will listen! Everyone has to do it his way!”
Chapter Thirty-two
“I know you’re tired after last night, so let’s get the reports finished and you can go home.” Hyte scanned the team. “Roberts, you’re first.”
Jimmy Roberts looked at his partner for a moment. “We arrived in Bay Shore at seven. The Moffertys were having dinner. At eight, they drove to Dr. Franklin Masters’ home. They stayed until ten and returned home. Mrs. Mofferty read in the library. Mr. Mofferty watched television in his bedroom. Sonja Mofferty went to bed at one; Jack Mofferty went to bed at two-thirty.”
“How do you know what time they went to bed?” Sally O’Rourke asked.
Smith coughed. “We spent most of the night looking in the windows.”
“The Suffolk police didn’t object?”
“They didn’t know. They had one car parked on the street. Anyone could have gotten to the house, including our killer.”
“Sally,” Hyte said, “you’re next.”
O’Rourke opened her notebook. “Joan Bidding and her husband and two children left their apartment at six-eighteen P.M. They went to the Hong Chow restaurant on Queens Boulevard for dinner. They returned home at 7:49 and did not leave again. Detective Richard Flannery watched the rear entrance; Detective Arnold Seissman watched the front.”
He turned to the chalkboard, circling Joan Bidding’s, Sonja, and Jack Mofferty’s names. “They are now low priority.” He was disappointed his prime candidate appeared clean. “From this point on we concentrate on eliminating suspects. One of them is our killer.”
“How did Samael know where the Helenezes were when we couldn’t find out?” O’Rourke asked.
Hyte shook his head. “I’d give up a promotion for that answer.” He looked at Randal Schwartz. “Let’s hear your report.”
Schwartz studied his clipboard. “The Jersey police said Sylvia Mossberg stayed in her apartment after she returned from synagogue. I checked in with the Graham house every hour. Detective Grishold told me Emma Graham arrived in Westchester at seven P.M. Jonah Graham went to sleep around 8:00. Miss Graham was in the first floor office and worked until two A.M. She went to bed shortly after checking in on her father. She also called you at eleven-forty last night. The police officers from the One-Nine precinct assigned to watch the Desmonds reported that the Desmonds did not leave the building.”
“Which leaves us with nothing. There are six passengers and one crew member left alive, each of whom has an alibi.”
“Then it has to be someone else,” Roberts said. “A relative?”
Hyte grimaced. “Or it’s one of the people we watched last night, one who’s clever enough to make us think they were at home. In that case, the only two we are certain of, are Prestone and Graham.”
“We’re going around in circles,” Cohen said.
Hyte rubbed his eyes. “We’ve all been up for at least twenty-four hours. I want you to go home and get some sleep. Tomorrow... Sunday, go back over the Helenez apartment. Treat the murders as a fresh homicide case and follow all the steps. Now, get out of here.”
When he was alone, Hyte called Harry Lester and set up a meeting. Fifteen minutes later, he was sitting across from the assistant medical examiner, drinking coffee.
“You turn up anything new?”
“No,” the M.E. said. “The bolts are from the same manufacturer. I’m sure it’s the same poison.”
Hyte nodded but remained silent.
“What’s going to happen now?” the pathologist asked.
“We’ll find out soon enough. Phil’s in trouble. McPheerson’s been waiting for this; he’s going to pounce like a hyena.”
“Let Mason worry about himself. You concentrate on catching this guy. That’s why Mason’s out on a limb, so you can work freely. You figure out why Barnes was brought into the city?”
“I assume it’s because Samael wants each death to happen, or to appear to have happened, in New York.”
“Because the hijacking was here?”
“I don’t know,” Hyte admitted. “Harry, can a stroke be faked?”
The M.E. shook his head. “This is the age of the CAT scan.”
“What about a recovery?”
“That would depend on the severity of the stroke. Why?”
“Just chasing shadows.”
“You left the Helenez apartment pretty fast this morning. All you took was the maid’s statement. You find something you aren’t talking about?”
“Find what, Harry? Our man is slicker than anyone wants to admit. He knew exactly where the maid was last night. His makeup, duplicating the maid’s face, was good enough to fool the guard in the surveillance room. Why else would he have let Samael into the elevator? Our man’s no slouch. And Samael seems to have access to whatever he wants, from world-class poison and weapons to heavy sedatives.”
“What are you going to do?” the M.E. asked.
“Go home and get some sleep.”
<><><>
His phone machine was blinking with its customary urgency. The first message was from Emma, asking him to call her at her father’s house, and then Mason’s deep voice told him to call. There was a second call from Emma.
The intercom buzzed. He picked it up. “Yes?”
Phil Mason said, “It’s me.”
Hyte pushed the buzzer for the lobby door, opened his apartment door, and returned to the living room
. He poured two glasses of Scotch. When Mason walked in, he handed the chief one.
Mason went to look out the window. When he turned back, Hyte saw defiance in the set of his jaw.
“I just left the commissioner. He’s retrenching, covering himself and fighting the political pressures from the Helenez killing. Ray, we’ve been shut down.”
Hyte’s throat constricted. “He can’t do that.”
“He can and did. The Prestone trap was a mistake. You were right and I was wrong. I’m getting too old for this crap anyway.”
Hyte’s hand tightened on the glass. “What are you going to do?”
“Wait a few weeks and then turn in my papers. Arlene’s been after me to retire. She wants to travel.”
“Phil—”
“Let it go. The PC gave McPheerson the nod to set up a new task force. Conner will be in charge. I’ve already turned my paperwork over to him. You’re to give him whatever you have and go back to your liaison work. I’ll arrange for a good assignment for you before I go.”
“I can’t walk out in the middle of this.”
“I’m sorry, Ray, truly sorry, but I won’t be able to keep you on it. Neither of us has a choice.”
Hyte found it impossible to accept the way Mason was giving in. It wasn’t like him. Phil Mason had been a fighter all his life.
Mason drained his glass and turned to leave. “Monday morning you hand over what you have to McPheerson’s people.”
Hyte knew why Phil Mason was a cop. Underneath all the cynicism and thanklessness of the Job, the idealism that had brought Mason into the Department was still there.
He paced the living room, his anger growing. Samael was doing more than just killing people: he was destroying careers. For the first time since he’d uncovered the pattern, he found himself hating Samael as he had never before hated another human being.
The phone rang. Startled from his thoughts, he picked it up and spoke sharply.
“Ray, what’s wrong?” Emma asked. “I’ve been calling since... are you all right?”
