COPS SPIES & PI'S: The Four Novel Box Set

by David Wind

  “How many more are you going to...collect?”

  “There are six more. Six who thought they succeeded in outwitting death.”

  “Why don’t you come in and talk to me? We can—”

  “Don’t insult me. This is not a hostage negotiation. The next time we speak, it will all be over.”

  “Wait!” Hyte said. His answer was the dial tone.

  “Was it him?” Schwartz asked.

  “Yes, goddamn him!”

  “Lieutenant, I have it on tape. The tech set up a phone tap machine for the hotline.”

  Hyte smiled. “Good!”

  “What about Deputy Inspector Conner?” Schwartz asked.

  “Send him in,” he said, thinking that he had finally found a handle. The call had given it to him. Samael was challenging him openly. Samael wanted— No, Samael needed him on the case. All he had to do was figure out a way to use that knowledge.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Hyte’s excitement remained high throughout the day. He left messages for O’Rourke and Cohen to meet him at his apartment, then called Professor Alinski and asked him to join them.

  At five, with everyone assembled in his living room, he played the tape of Samael’s phone call. When it ended, he asked Alinski for his impression.

  “I couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman, but I believe my initial diagnosis was accurate. It is a paranoiac, and he—I’ll use he regardless of sex—who is challenging you, Raymond. In his delusional state, he believes himself invincible. I would imagine it’s because of the belief in the absolute rightness of the mission. And, Raymond, you know who it is.”

  Caught short by Alinski’s statement, Hyte stared at the professor. “I know him? In the philosophical sense?”

  Alinski ran a hand through his sparse white hair. “In the physical sense. Why else would he disguise his voice?”

  “One of the passengers I talked to,” Hyte thought aloud.

  “Perhaps,” Alinski agreed. “But without doubt, it is someone involved in the hijacking. His reference to the hostage negotiation is indicative of that.”

  “He also wants me to feel helpless.”

  “Is he succeeding?”

  “Too much. But I’m starting to understand him.”

  “Because he wants you to.”

  “Are you telling me he wants to be caught?”

  “No. If that were the case, he would have left more of a trail at the murder scenes. No, I believe it’s because you were at the hijacking. He wants you to be involved with the killings. Perhaps he has marked you as a victim as well, but I think that unlikely. Rather, he’s trying to show you he’s as capable as you are in managing events. He may be emulating you. After all, you killed two hijackers. Perhaps to Samael’s way of thinking, you ‘collected’ two people who thought they could outwit death. He’s trying to prove you’re not the only one who can mete out punishment.”

  Hyte considered this. “Do you know Franklin Masters?”

  Alinski nodded. “Good man. A shade ostentatious for my taste, but solid in his field.”

  “If Masters is certain that Mofferty cannot be a paranoiac, would you accept his diagnosis?”

  “Absolutely. He’s good enough to pick up the original delusion. Now, Raymond, I must leave. It was nice meeting you both,” he said to O’Rourke and Cohen.

  Hyte escorted the psychologist out and returned to the living room. “You two were quiet enough. What do you make of the tape?”

  Cohen shrugged. “Alinski said it. It’s a challenge. Samael wants you coming after him. I don’t like that.”

  “Sally?”

  O’Rourke took a deep breath. “I think it’s a woman. The inflection—”

  “—the synthesizer.”

  “Call it a hunch.”

  “Who?” he asked.

  “It could be anyone,” O’Rourke began. “Haller’s wife watched him die. Sonja Mofferty was brutalized. If that had been me—” she bit off whatever she was going to say. “There’s also the flight engineer’s widow—”

  “Who lives in California,” Cohen cut in. “You might as well put the Desmond girl into that category. Or Emma Graham. Her mother was killed.”

  “We’re going around in circles,” Hyte said. “Let’s try to straighten up. What did you two get accomplished today?”

  “I spoke with my contact at the phone company,” Cohen said in his usual calm manner. “She’s going to do a computer run on the numbers I gave her. We’ll have a full listing of all calls made since the hijacking, but it’ll take some time without proper authorizations.”

  “It won’t be a small list. And it’s going to be tedious as hell. What’s happening with the Asian connection?”

  O’Rourke fidgeted on the couch. “Since we can’t be open about what we’re doing, and I couldn’t walk into the Immigration and Naturalization Service and ask for a trace, I asked Jon Rosen for a favor. I said it was for you.” Hyte nodded but said nothing. “He knew about your being pulled from the investigation. I asked him if he could somehow get into the INS computer and see if he could match one of the names with their exit and entry records. He said he’d try.”

  Hyte knew the man who had helped him set up the program that found the match on the first two Samael murders would do more than just try. “You gave him the full list?”

  “Every first-class passenger, each crew member, all the relatives of the dead victims, and all coach passengers.”

  “What about the weapons?”

  Again, O’Rourke spoke. “McPheerson’s people took all the distributors lists before I could copy them. Sorry, Lou.”

  “What now?” Cohen asked.

  “We wait for the phone records and the INS check.”

  The lobby intercom sounded. Hyte rose and went to answer it. “Yes?”

  “It’s me,” said Emma Graham.

  He buzzed her in, opened the door, and went back to the living room. “We’d better get going,” Cohen said.

  Hyte motioned him to stay seated. “Let’s see what’s on the news.” He picked up the remote and flicked on the television set. Every night, at exactly six-fifteen P.M., Joan Leighton did an update on the Friday Night Killer.

  Emma stepped into the living room and took off her coat.

  Hyte went to her and kissed her lightly. “Hello, Sy, Sally,” she said with a smile that disappeared when she heard the anchorman announce Joan Leighton.

  “You’re not going to watch that bitch?”

  O’Rourke laughed. Hyte said nothing as the blonde reporter’s face filled the screen.

  “As most of you are aware, the task force investigating the Friday Night Killer has been reorganized. In this reporter’s opinion, it was none too soon. The ineptness of the handling of the case by Chief of Detectives Philip Mason, and his top aide, Lieutenant Raymond Hyte, became all too apparent last Friday night when Cristobal and Estella Helenez were murdered in their home, only a few blocks from where the police were guarding former Senator J. Milton Prestone.

  “However, the focus of the task force is changing, with Chief William McPheerson assuming overall command. High on the chief’s priority list are terrorist organizations. Earlier today, Chief McPheerson and his top aide, Deputy Inspector John Conner, gave this reporter an exclusive interview. For the first time, the actual murder weapon has been revealed.”

  The camera zoomed in on the crossbow. Behind Hyte, Emma gasped. “What’s wrong?” Hyte asked.

  Her mouth was taut. “Dear God, why didn’t you tell me what he was using to kill them?”

  Hyte remained silent, waiting for Emma to explain.

  “Ray, until seven months ago, the Graham International catalogue sold those crossbows.”

  “You said until seven months ago?”

  “We’ve been selling them for years. I’ve always considered them toys, like most of the things we sell. But when we started getting strong letters from gun control advocates I discontinued them.”

  “Did you sell
all the extras as well? The target and broad head bolts?” Cohen asked.

  Emma shook her head. “We offered only target bolts and the telescopic sight.”

  “Did you return all the stock to the manufacturer?” O’Rourke asked.

  “The catalogue business is different from retail. And the Graham buying method is even more refined than most catalogue companies,” Emma explained. “We have to keep a certain amount of stock, even when an item is discontinued, to service customers. Because we deal in large volume purchases, we get a lower price; at that price point, many items are unreturnable. When we have an overstock, we usually look for an outlet where we can dump it. “

  “What did you do with the crossbows and equipment you didn’t keep?” Hyte asked.

  “I’d have to go over the records and check with the warehouse.”

  “Every sale you make is recorded, isn’t it? There are no cash sales, are there?”

  “Not in the mail order division, but we’ve been opening stores. Still, we take names and addresses. Anyone who buys from our stores goes onto the mailing list.”

  Hyte started to pace. “Oh, it fits so well.”

  “What fits?” O’Rourke asked.

  “Think about it! Samael is obsessed with vengeance, but not an outright eye for an eye and the hell with an everything else form of retribution. Samael is devious, and everything he does has a purpose! He does the unexpected, uses things we would never consider. He wants what he deems his justice, which he extracts systematically. We always seem to overlook the obliqueness of his ways. Ten to one, Samael bought his crossbow from the Graham catalogue. He’s using a weapon one of his victims unwittingly supplied him with.”

  “But the bolts?”

  “Hunting bolts are available outside the city. It makes a distorted kind of sense. Emma, everything at Graham is computerized, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could you find every customer who bought a crossbow?”

  “Through the catalogue division, yes. We’ll have to go back to when we first started selling the bows.”

  “No, you can begin with the date of the hijacking.”

  Hyte saw understanding grow in her eyes. “I’ll get it started tomorrow morning,” she said.

  “I’d like to send Sy and Sally to your warehouse. I’d also like to check the inventory records against on-hand supply.”

  “There isn’t much inventory, if any.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” he told her as the phone rang.

  The call was for Emma. She spoke briefly, and then lowered the receiver. “Can I take it in the bedroom?”

  Hyte took the phone from her and, when she picked up the bedroom extension, he heard her say, “Mr. Tanaka, this is a surprise,” he hung up.

  “The modern executive,” Hyte explained to the two questioning faces. “Uses call forwarding.”

  Sy turned to stare at the bedroom door, his expression distant. “What is it, Sy?” Hyte asked.

  “I’m not sure. Probably nothing,” he said. “Ray, do you really think we’ll find something on the mailing list?”

  “It makes sense,” Hyte said. “I want the two of you working together on this.”

  “What about the phone number check?”

  “Give it to Schwartz.” He paused. “We don’t have much time to find our man, and, because we’re working covert, we have no manpower except ourselves. We’ll use my apartment for our base, and we’ll meet here every evening. So,” he added pointedly, “until tomorrow...”

  Fifteen minutes later, Emma emerged from the bedroom.

  “They’re gone?”

  “They’ll be by to see you in the morning. Hungry?”

  “Upset. It hurts to think that I might have supplied the killer with his weapon.”

  “Don’t worry about that. He would have gotten it somewhere else. If he did buy it from Graham, it’s because of twisted logic. There’s nothing you could have done. Let’s get something to eat.”

  “A quick bite. That was Ahiro Tanaka of Mitsakashi. I have a meeting with him tomorrow afternoon, to make some last minute changes in our contract. I’m afraid I’ll be working late.”

  He squeezed her hand. “No problem.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “No. Thank you. You may have given us a real lead.”

  Her voice surprised him with its fervor. “I hope so.”

  <><><>

  Hyte woke early on Tuesday morning. He let his mind wander. He had learned more yesterday than he had since the Samson death. He wanted to learn more today.

  He showered, dressed and, at ten past seven, poured his first cup of coffee and turned on the radio.

  “This just in. A private jet carrying former United States Senator J. Milton Prestone has crashed. FAA spokesman Mark Kamen has confirmed that the plane exploded while in route to New Mexico. Lentronics officials have verified that J. Milton Prestone, CEO of Lentronics, and two associates were the only passengers on the plane. There were no survivors.”

  Hyte’s stomach churned. “A splinter faction of the PLO has sent a message to the FBI claiming responsibility for the senator’s death,” the newscaster continued. “This is the same group of terrorists reputed to have been behind the hijacking of a plane Senator Prestone had been a passenger on last year. The FBI has not yet released the details of the message.”

  Hyte shut off the radio. His emotions were in flux. For all of Prestone’s egocentricities and orneriness, Hyte held a grudging admiration for the man. Abruptly, he promised himself he would not forget Prestone’s last act—his intervention to keep Hyte on the investigation.

  The two passengers with Prestone would have to be the two NSA agents. Although he had not been fond of them, Hyte felt a loss, as he did whenever a fellow law officer died.

  Samael? Had the Friday Night Killer reached out into the sky to kill Prestone? No, it wasn’t Samael’s way.

  Suddenly, he wanted to hear his daughter’s voice. He needed to hear the sound of innocence to help steady his own world.

  He dialed the number in Boston. His ex-wife answered the phone. “Hello, Susan.”

  “What is it, Ray?” she said, her voice cool and curt. Tension knotted the muscles in his neck. Bad idea, he told himself. “I thought I’d catch Carrie before she left for school.”

  “She’s not here. She spent the night with a friend.”

  He felt his sense of loss deepen, and had to work to keep his voice casual. “I see. Well, I just wanted to say hello.”

  “She’ll be disappointed to have missed your call. She was very disappointed when you canceled your weekend,” Susan said, accusingly.

  “How the hell do you think I feel?” he said, hanging up.

  He felt foolish for having called without thinking it out, and angry that his ex-wife was taking every opportunity to find fault with him.

  Damn it, this has to stop! Susan wasn’t just hurting him with her accusations and reactions, she was hurting Carrie as well. He knew he would have to find a way to change her feelings before she did more damage to Carrie. As soon as I catch Samael.

  <><><>

  “Why did they go public with the weapon?” Hyte asked Mason, after bringing him up to date. “And all this terrorist crap as well.” He jabbed his index finger toward the newspapers across Mason’s desk.

  “McPheerson had to give them something after taking over the task force. The media’s been on his back. At least there was no mention of the poison.

  “Samael isn’t a terrorist. At least not the kind McPheerson and Conner are thinking of.” Hyte shook his head. “What about the cooperation from Jersey and Long Island?”

  “Nothing’s changed that I’m aware of. Do you really think this guy bought the crossbow from Graham?”

  “It fits the pattern,” Hyte said. “At least we’ll get a partial list of East Coast weapon owners.”

  “Get it to me. I’ll make sure McPheerson gets it and has his people check it out. We’ll get the resu
lts of the check, but he won’t know it came from us. I’ll make sure of that.”

  “Or from Emma.”

  “No problem. Shame about Prestone. I liked the man.”

  “It was Prestone who put the pressure on the mayor.” Hyte watched Mason’s face carefully.

  “You went to him, didn’t you?”

  “Can I requisition overtime for Randy Schwartz? He’s the clerical filling in for O’Rourke. I’m using him at home in the evenings,” he said, pointedly ignoring Mason’s question.

  “Send it to me. And thank you, Ray.”

  <><><>

  Hyte leaned against the fender of his car, a dozen feet from the Desmonds’ West Side apartment house. He’d arrived ten minutes before and asked the doorman to ring the Desmond apartment. The doorman said Mrs. Desmond was picking her daughter up from school and would return shortly.

  Following the tragedy of the hijacking, and during his own convalescence, Hyte had paid a visit to the Desmonds, to see how the little girl was doing. He had liked Harold and Theresa Desmond immediately, and later he and Emma had visited the girl together. However, he hadn’t seen Lea, or her adoptive parents, in almost six weeks.

  Hyte spotted Theresa and Lea Desmond turn the corner of Eighty-Sixth Street.

  Lea had changed since her arrival in America. Without the equatorial sun, her skin had lightened to a tawny hue. Her long dark hair hung freely down her back. Her clothing, green plaid skirt, white blouse and dark shoes, was parochial school standard.

  Lea saw him and waved: Theresa Desmond’s smile faltered. “Hi,” Lea said when she reached him. “Is Emma with you?”

  “No, she’s working. Can we talk for a minute?” he asked Theresa.

  She nodded. Hyte knelt next to Lea. “Will you wait for your mother in the lobby?”

  Lea glanced at her mother. “I’ll be just a moment,” Theresa promised.

  He watched Lea until she was inside, and then turned to Theresa. “She seems to be doing well. It’s as if the hijacking never happened.”

  “It happened and she still has nightmares but she’s getting better. Are you here because of that killer?”