by David Wind
“What do you do on Friday nights?”
“I certainly don’t go around killing people!”
He smiled apologetically. “No. I don’t think you do. That’s not what I meant.”
“Is this killer really after all the passengers?”
“Just certain ones.”
“Like Lea?”
He didn’t like the panic he heard edging into her voice.
“I have no hard proof, but I don’t believe Lea is in danger.”
“We usually go out for dinner on Friday nights, and then for a walk. Sometimes we go to a show, sometimes we visit friends.”
“Is it the same restaurant each Friday?”
She laughed. “In New York? Really, Ray.”
“Until we catch this killer, please stay home on Friday nights. Tell Harold that there’ll be someone watching the building on Fridays.”
“But you said...”
“It’s just a precaution.”
“All right. We’ll stay home on Friday nights. When are you and Emma coming over for dinner?”
“Soon,” he promised before leaving. “Soon.”
<><><>
Hyte let himself into his apartment at four, just as the phone rang. He didn’t want to speak to anyone. On the second ring, the answering machine cut in and made its announcement. When the beep sounded, he heard Emma’s voice. “Ray, I’ll be tied up all evening with Tanaka. Call me at home later if you get a chance. Oh, my computer people say they’ll have the list ready tomorrow. I miss you.”
A moment later, the machine clicked off.
O’Rourke and Cohen arrived at five-thirty. They handed him the inventory sheets, a crossbow, and set of target bolts they’d borrowed from Emma’s warehouse.
Randy Schwartz arrived at exactly six, carrying the chalkboard. He handed Cohen a manila envelope. “This came in this afternoon.”
Cohen opened it and withdrew two computer printouts, which he passed to Hyte. “The Barnes and Mossberg phone calls for the last six months,” he said as he read the note. “The rest should get to me this week.”
Hyte looked at the papers, put them back in the envelope, and handed it to Schwartz.
“What am I supposed to be looking for?” Schwartz asked.
“A match of some sort,” Cohen said. “A call from one victim to another on a Friday night as well as any calls to Asia.”
Hyte took a sip of his drink. “Did anything else come across my desk after I left?” he asked.
“No,” Schwartz said, “but I had to bring that last box of reports up to Deputy Inspector Conner’s office. When I was there, I heard him talking on the phone. He said he was certain that the terrorist group who blew up Senator Prestone’s plane is responsible for killing the passengers from Flight 88. He said they’d narrowed their search to three terrorist factions, and the task force was going to concentrate on them.”
Hyte felt a sense of dread. If McPheerson and Conner were that single-minded about the direction of their investigation, it would give the killer even more freedom.
Hyte knew he couldn’t let that happen.
Chapter Thirty-five
Hyte walked toward Sylvia Mossberg’s apartment in the Palisades Seniors Village of Englewood, New Jersey. Maples were coming into bloom. Waist-high evergreen bushes lined the walkways. Hyte saw all the landscaping as possible hiding places for the killer. He had no doubt Samael would easily get past the two small security posts screening visitors.
He pressed the button for Sylvia Mossberg’s apartment. “Lieutenant Hyte, Mrs. Mossberg.”
The buzzer sounded and he went through the door. There were four doors on the first floor. The left front door opened. “Good morning, Lieutenant.”
The last time he had seen Sylvia Mossberg was when she left the plane, wrapped in a blanket and sobbing uncontrollably. The woman before him bore no resemblance to that terrified passenger. She wore a simple blue flowered housedress. Her short silver and white hair was neatly cut and her eyes tranquil. “Please, come in.”
It was a one-bedroom apartment with a combination living room dining room overlooking the front walkway. A floral settee and two ladder-back chairs with cushions of the same floral patterned material fit the room perfectly.
“I prepared coffee after you called,” she said, motioning him to the dining area.
He sat at an oak table where the elderly woman poured coffee into blue and white cups.
“Mrs. Mossberg, I know you’re aware of what’s been happening.”
“More than aware, Lieutenant. If you’re here to tell me to be careful, don’t bother. I don’t leave my apartment on Friday nights, except to go to temple.”
“The detectives I sent told me you agreed not to go out at all on Friday nights.”
“No, I told them I understood their concern and would act accordingly.”
“You don’t seem very worried.”
“After living a nice safe life for seventy years, I learned what the word ‘terrified’ truly means. When that plane was...” She faltered, and then pressed on. “When it was hijacked, I was never so afraid of anything, nor was I ever as ashamed of myself as I was for the way I acted.”
“It was a normal reaction.” He didn’t bother to tell her how many cops had had similar responses when faced with death.
“It was the reaction of a frightened old lady. I’m not that frightened person any longer. I’m not afraid of this Friday Night Killer. If it’s my time, so be it.”
“Has anything unusual happened since the hijacking?”
“The detectives you sent asked me that question. The answer is still the same. No.”
“Have you had any contact with the other passengers?” Sylvia Mossberg’s eyes became moist. “I went to see Mr. Graham when he was in the hospital. I went to his home a few months ago to visit him. I felt so guilty after seeing the tapes of the hijacking. I...His wife died because of my fear.”
“Anita Graham died because four madmen took over the plane,” he corrected her. “Mrs. Mossberg, have you ever been to the Orient?”
She smiled. “With Jake, in 1969. It was lovely. My husband was a clothing manufacturer. He had several factories in Hong Kong that produced his lines.”
“Your son-in-law runs the company now, doesn’t he?”
“Yes. He met my daughter when he came to work for us.”
“Do you still have the factories?”
“No. Jake sold them in the mid-seventies and transferred the manufacturing to Mexico. He said it was an easier place to keep an eye on things.”
“I see.” He stood. “Mrs. Mossberg, please be careful.
Don’t let anyone in from sundown Friday night until after nine on Saturday morning.”
“Who would I let in?”
<><><>
Hyte showed the Trans Air security guard his shield and asked to see Joan Bidding.
She was on a break in the recreation room, working out on a Nautilus machine. There were only two other people there, both men. When Bidding saw him she left the machine and wiped her hands and face with a towel.
She wore a leotard exercise suit. Her stomach was almost concave.
“You do this a lot?” he asked, guiding her toward a private corner.
“Every day. I have been ever since they installed the equipment. It helps me to keep in shape.”
“How are you holding up?”
“As well as can be expected.”
“Has anything new happened? Phone calls? Things like that?”
The stewardess shook her head. “The only thing that’s happened is that my husband has found someone else and asked me for a divorce.”
Hyte looked away from her. “I’m sorry.”
“I was expecting it. I haven’t been the best wife since….”
“Why haven’t you tried counseling?”
“I did. Trans Air has several psychologists available. They encourage all employees to see them.”
“It did no good?”
“A shrink is hardly public.”
“Not to Ron. Lieutenant, why are you here? I was under the impression you’d been taken off the investigation.”
“You could call it a personality quirk. I feel an obligation to make sure everyone is all right.”
Bidding smiled. “It’s a nice quirk. You said to make sure I didn’t go out alone on Friday nights. I’m working a week from this Friday. Whom shall I tell?”
“Ask to be taken off of Friday nights until this is over.”
He saw her shoulders rise defensively. “Lieutenant, I have two constants left in my life. My job and my children. I need them both. I’m a supervisor. It’s up to me to set an example for the people who work under me. One example is to be where I’m assigned, when I’m assigned.”
“I would consider the circumstances warrant a change. I think they’ll understand.”
“No. It shows fear, which is the one thing I can’t permit in my position.”
“I can’t stop you from going to work. I’ll let the proper people know. But when you go to work, make sure you’re very visible.”
“I will, Lieutenant. Thank you.”
“Joan,” he said, pausing at the door, “did you fly any of the Asian routes after the hijacking?”
She wiped perspiration from her face. “I stopped flying completely after the hijacking. I was on the Far East run—Japan and Hong Kong—for two years before switching to the Middle East. Why?”
“Curiosity.”
<><><>
When Hyte returned to his apartment, O’Rourke and Cohen were on the couch.
“I put coffee up,” O’Rourke said.
Cohen handed him a thin bundle of computer printouts.
“Emma came through and you were right,” he said. “Look at the fifth page.”
Hyte flipped through the pages until he spotted a name circled in red.
NAME: SAMAEL, M. D.
ADD: P.O. Box 3214,
ADD: Central Valley, New York
ORDER NO.: 1127866549 Product No.: BCBSA 1099
DATE: 8/12
PAID BY: M.O. # 13178556-96100066 Commercial Valley Bank
AMOUNT: $179.00
Being right did not make him feel any better, it made him feel slow. He was playing catch-up with Samael. “A blind drop?”
He saw the answer on Cohen’s face. “As soon as we found the name, we went to Central Valley—it’s just off exit fifteen on the Thruway. M. D. Samael rented the box at the beginning of August last. No one has any recollection of the person. He paid the box rental for six months. John Maddox, rents it now.
“We then went to the bank from which the money order was drawn. No one knows of an M. D. Samael, from the branch manager to the tellers. A zero, Ray, another dead end.”
“Not quite, I’m getting to know our killer better.”
A knock sounded at the door. Randal Schwartz came into the living room. He was carrying the phone company envelope.
“Did you find anything?” Hyte asked.
“Mossberg makes one long distance phone call every Friday night between six and seven. I checked the number. It’s her daughter. Michael Barnes made a ton long distance calls, but very few on Friday nights. None of the calls matched the numbers of the victims.”
“Thank you.” Hyte motioned toward the chalkboard.
“If we’ve interpreted Samael’s note correctly, five of the six remaining hostages are scheduled to die,” Hyte said. “Is the last name Samael, or is the note meant to mislead us? To find out, we have to eliminate as many suspects as possible. Sy, you rechecked the relatives and did backgrounds on the rest. Who will you clear?”
“All of them. None of them.”
“Sally?”
“I agree with Sy. They’re all clean, and they’re all suspects.”
“Not quite,” Hyte said. “I can eliminate a few. I saw Sylvia Mossberg today. She isn’t capable of killing anyone. Not because of age, physical size, or stamina, but because she has no motive. As far as Jonah Graham, I don’t consider him a suspect. The same goes for the Desmonds. I also talked with Joan Bidding today. She seems clean, but there’s a hitch... she did fly to Asia.”
“She could have access to the poison,” Cohen said. “But that was prior to the hijacking,”
“Her life’s pretty loused up right now. She’s losing her husband and she doesn’t fly anymore. She’s admitted seeing a shrink.” He paused. “And given the potential for personal disaster, she’s still going to work on her next Friday night shift.”
“A woman as the killer?” There was a hint of satisfaction in O’Rourke’s voice.
“Of the six people left alive, three are women. Allowing that neither Sylvia Mossberg, Jonah Graham, nor Lea Desmond are Samael, which leaves Sonja Mofferty, Joan Bidding, and Jack Mofferty.” Pausing, he turned to the blackboard. “Of the relatives, the only one we have who isn’t cleared, is Joan Bidding’s husband. Until we have more to go on, we’ll have to consider those four our best suspects. When we get the INS information, we may be able to narrow it further.”
“How do we play it?” Cohen asked. “We can’t put a plant on each one, not with only three of us.”
“I don’t know yet, but we’ve got two and a half days to work it out. In the meantime, Sy, I want you to find out about Ronald Bidding’s new girlfriend. See if either Ron or Joan Bidding is conning us. Sally, speak with the Trans Air shrink who saw Bidding. You don’t have to pry, just find out if the man thinks she’s capable of murder. I’m going to visit the Moffertys and see if I can rattle their cage. “
<><><>
Emma arrived late that night. When she entered the apartment, he took her in his arms and kissed her deeply. “That was nice. Are you all right?”
“Fine… a little tired.”
“Are you making progress?”
“Some. Drink?”
She nodded, and he made her a Scotch and water.
“Thank you for your help.”
“What help? I feel more responsible than helpful. Ray, Samael was on the list.”
“He was.” He cupped her chin and turned her to him. “The list helped. It showed me more of how Samael’s mind works.”
“How does it work?”
“Linear, it’s linear.” He watched a thin blue vein pulse beneath the translucent skin of her neck.
“I thought you said he was devious?”
“No doubt about that, the pattern is linear. A straight line defined by whatever propels the delusion. The first step was the choice of weapon. A gun is too loud for stealth. An arrow, or in this case a crossbow bolt, is silent. And the poison—”
Her brows furrowed. “Poison? You never mentioned poison.”
“Sorry,” he said. “It’s hard to let go of old habits.”
“I’m sorry, too,” Emma said. “I wish you could trust me.”
Her words, spoken so low, hit him hard. He reached out, took her resisting hand. “It’s not easy to break a routine that’s been part of my life for sixteen years. I have to learn to trust myself enough to talk to you. And you have to give me time to do it.”
He felt the tension ebb. “You’re right,” she said. “And I’m sorry. You’re trying and I’m pushing. Let’s just forget it.”
“No,” he said, suddenly determined to see this through.
“The poison was to make sure of death if the bolt wasn’t fatal. From the very beginning—from the conception of revenge—our killer followed a precise plan, with the goal being the deaths of all the first-class passengers and crew who lived through the hijacking. Samael has spent months, watching each of the survivors, tracking them, and putting their habits to his own use.
“When Samael knew all he needed about his intended victims, he began to kill. His biggest advantage is tha
t only he knows the order in which he’s decided to kill each victim, and I’m playing catch-up.”
“But you know who the victims will be. Doesn’t that give you an advantage as well?”
“I wish it did, but only Joan Bidding and Lea Desmond live in our jurisdiction. We can’t protect the others.”
Emma studied him. “What about the name? Doesn’t that help somehow—give you a lead?”
“I have my doubts about that. I think the killer is using the name as a smokescreen. Too many psychopaths hide behind biblical type names. Samael isn’t a psychopath, not in the traditional sense of the word. Yet...” His voice trailed off as he felt the familiar prickling of an embryonic thought.
“Ray?”
It took him several seconds to react. “Sorry.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know. I just can’t seem to get a grip on it.”
“Stop trying so hard. Ease up and it’ll come. I just might have a way to help you relax.”
Emma unzipped her dress, stepped out of it, and held her hands toward him. “Let’s go inside.”
Afterwards, Emma lay in the crook of Hyte’s arm, her left hand playing absently with the hair on his chest. “We’re good together, aren’t we?”
“We are.” He turned and smiled. “Emma, I love you. And I’d like to know how you feel about marriage to a cop....”
“Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Yes, I think marrying one cop in particular has future possibilities.”
His muscles all seemed to unknot at once.
“But they’re future possibilities,” she repeated. “You said it before. We both need time to learn about ourselves and each other.”
“There’s no rush,” he said. “What about children? Have you thought about that?”
To his surprise, her face went rigid. “Oh no, not me,” she declared. “Someone else can have that dubious honor. I’d never want another human being to go through what I have with my mother; my father…” Emma stared at him without blinking. “Think about what Carrie must have felt, must still be feeling, because she was told she couldn’t visit you anymore. So no, not me! Besides, I’m an executive, not the motherly type at all.”
