by David Wind
McPheerson’s gaze went to Mason. “And as far as you’re concerned, I won’t have you usurping my authority.”
“I have no intention of usurping anything. As I said, I would like to see your suspect, who may be involved in another investigation, and I require Lieutenant Hyte’s assistance.”
“All the evidence indicates our suspect is the killer. All of it!”
“No one’s arguing. We just want to speak to him. Bill, I don’t want to make an issue out of this. The lieutenant has some questions he needs answered. Come with us if you want.”
“Go ahead,” McPheerson snapped, jerking his thumb to the door behind him.
Hyte went past the chief of department and entered the first of the two rooms. Mason followed quickly. Inside, Deputy Inspector John Conner was hanging up the phone.
“What is it with you, Hyte?” Conner asked. “I thought you were smarter than this.”
“The prisoner?” Hyte said.
Conner led them into the high security room next door.
It was green, plain, and windowless. The suspect, cuffed to a metal chair set against the far wall, had dark skin and black pinpoints for eyes. His cheeks were sunken and pockmarked. Hyte thought he hadn’t reached his twenty-first birthday yet. However, he was able to see the resemblance between the prisoner and Rashid Mohamad in the nose and mouth.
“What’s his real name?”
“He says it’s Saad Aboul ben Mohamad,” Conner said. “His passport is in the name of Lester Smith-Henning. We’re waiting for word from Interpol.”
“Was it a decent forgery?”
“Average.”
Hyte went over to the prisoner. “I understand you claim to be Samael.”
He felt the hatred pouring from Saad Mohamad’s eyes as if it were physical. “I am the messenger of Allah, sent to avenge my people.” The man’s thick Semitic accent surprised Hyte. He’d expected the same upper class English that Rashid Mohamad had spoken.
“Do you know who I am?” Hyte asked.
“My enemy! The enemy of my people.”
“Why is that?”
“Because you are the police—the tool of the Zionists.”
“That’s all I am to you?”
Mohamad sneered. “That’s enough.”
“You are Rashid Mohamad’s brother?”
The dark-skinned man preened. “His half-brother. We share the same father. Rashid Mohamad was a great man.”
“Until he was killed.”
“He was made a martyr when the Zionist puppets murdered him.”
“Did you kill the six former hostages from Flight 88?”
“I am the Messenger of Death!”
“Then I’ll ask you again—do you know who I am?”
“You are a pig!”
“No,” Hyte said, his blood pumping fast, “not just any pig. I’m the pig who shot your brother.”
Rewarded by Mohamad’s stunned look, Hyte turned and walked out of the room.
“Well?” McPheerson asked. “Are you satisfied?”
“Do you consider this a good collar? Are you going to go with this guy?”
“That’s right,” McPheerson said.
“You’re shutting down the task force? Pulling the protection from the hostages?”
“Just as soon as the details are cleared up.”
Hyte’s hands shook with fury. “Chief, I think that would be a mistake.”
“Wasn’t the reason you were relieved of your duties on the task force, Lieutenant, because your way of thinking didn’t produce results?”
The vitriolic words turned Hyte’s anger cold. “Congratulations, Chief,” he snapped and walked into the elevator. Mason followed, the doors closing behind them.
“Phil, someone is going to die tonight,” Hyte said.
“McPheerson’s evidence is solid. He has a statement from a reliable witness to the planting of the bomb aboard Prestone’s private jet by Saad Mohamad. McPheerson also has Mohamad’s taped confession, admitting to the bombing of Prestone’s plane as well as calling himself the messenger of death. He claims it he did it to avenge his brother’s death. And McPheerson’s certain he’ll get a confession on the six killings.”
“That kid didn’t know me.”
“So?”
The elevator stopped. They went to Hyte’s office. “If Saad Mohamad was the Friday Night Killer, he would know me. I was on that plane that night. I killed that man’s brother.”
“Which means nothing.”
“Then try this out—he speaks with a thick accent. Samael is American.”
“How do you know that?”
Hyte smiled coldly. “I spoke to him.” From his desk drawer, he took out a tape recorder. In it was the tape Schwartz had made. He turned it on.
“You know that’s our man,” Hyte said when the tape was finished. “And even though the voice is disguised, there was no accent. It wasn’t Saad Mohamad!”
Mason moistened his lips. “Oh shit, Ray. Why didn’t you give this to me when you first got it?”
“I was too damned busy. Besides, I had it analyzed. There’s nothing. According to the lab, the synthesized voice was computer generated, not electronically distorted. Very sophisticated equipment. There’s no way to get an accurate voice match. We’re conducting a covert investigation. If I turn it over to McPheerson now, he sure as hell won’t accept it as valid. And there’s no way to prove when that call came in.” Hyte put his hand on Mason’s arm. “Talk to the PC,” he pleaded. “Explain what we have. Make him ask the mayor to keep the task force going.”
“I don’t know if I’ve got the weight to do that.”
“Fuck the politics. This killer is going to hit, tonight!”
“Then stop him. And, I’ll have to take that tape.”
<><><>
Hyte was back in his apartment by nine. He called Emma immediately, to tell her McPheerson had the wrong man, and to make sure she did not cancel the bodyguard for her father. She took the news pragmatically.
When Cohen and O’Rourke arrived, he explained what happened.
“How can he shut down the investigation?” O’Rourke asked.
“Because he’s the chief of department.”
“But he’s wrong!”
“And only we know it. I asked Mason to speak to the commissioner, but he doesn’t hold out much hope. All we can do now is wait and see what Schwartz digs up.”
“If they’re pulling the teams,” Cohen said, “we’re helpless. There are three of us, and five potential victims. Even though Jonah Graham is protected, we’re going to end up playing Russian roulette with one of the other four.”
Schwartz arrived, his expression confirming what they all feared. “All jurisdictions are pulling protective surveillance. The Bidding plant and the Desmond plant were canceled as well.”
Hyte watched O’Rourke and Cohen’s disbelief. “To compound things,” he said, “I’m in violation of departmental policy. I never reported the phone call from Samael or gave McPheerson’s task force the tape. I think it’s time for you two to pull back. Take the weekend off and report back to work on Monday.”
“Have we been taken off the covert investigation?” Cohen asked.
“That isn’t the point. McPheerson is going to be on my ass. I don’t want you two getting in trouble because of me.”
“Sorry,” Sy Cohen said, “but I’m not walking away from this. I was with you when it started last year, I’m here to stay.”
Hyte had expected no less from the man who had been his first partner, but still felt relieved. He looked at O’Rourke. “I have no right to ask you to stick your neck out any further.”
“I’m with you, Lou. All I ever wanted to be was a cop, and I put up with a lot of bullshit to become one. I sure as hell didn’t take the job to sit at a desk.”
He gazed at her, feeling the empathy her little speech stirred within him. “We have five people to cover, and there are only three of us. Thankfully, two of them live t
ogether. But we’re still one short. So, we have to try and outguess Samael by figuring out who the next victim will most likely be.”
“Joan Bidding or Sylvia Mossberg,” O’Rourke said. “They’re the most vulnerable.”
Hyte nodded. “If Joan Bidding isn’t Samael. Which brings up the secondary aspect of the victim surveillance—we’re also watching them to make sure that one of them isn’t the killer. Sy, I want you on Joan Bidding. Sally, I want you to watch the Desmonds.”
O’Rourke’s face showed disappointment. “Why? I thought we agreed that the little girl wasn’t a victim.”
“And I don’t think she is, but I can’t leave her unprotected.”
“What about Mossberg and the Moffertys?” O’Rourke asked. “I think I should be on one of them instead of Lea Desmond.”
“I don’t,” Hyte said. “I’ll be covering the Moffertys, because if something happens, my rank will help in a jurisdictional dispute. At least that’s in State; as far as Sylvia Mossberg is concerned, we’d be operating in New Jersey, which is way out of our legal jurisdiction. If we’re caught near her, we’ll face disciplinary action. We’ll have to go outside the Department for Sylvia Mossberg.”
“Private heat?” Cohen asked.
“In a way.” He took an address book from the dining room bureau drawer, found the number he wanted, and dialed.
“Mr. Sircolli, please,” he said to the woman who answered.
“Who’s calling?”
“Lieutenant Raymond Hyte.”
“Lieutenant? This is Katherine.”
“Hello, Katherine, is your father home?”
“I’ll see if he’ll talk to you.”
“It’s about your finance’s murder.”
“Yes. You caught the man. Thank you, Lieutenant. Hold on.”
A few moments later, Anthony Sircolli’s voice boomed out of the receiver. “What now?”
“I need a favor,” Hyte said.
Sircolli laughed. “You want the guy iced before trial?”
“Is this a clean line?”
“The line’s clean. It’s swept every hour.”
“It’s not him, Tony. McPheerson’s been scagged. I need two very cool heads.”
“For?”
“I want someone watched, very discreetly. One of the possible victims.”
“I’m listening.”
Hyte explained. He knew that Sircolli was too smart to accept anything less than the truth. When he finished, Sircolli agreed without hesitation.
“But, Ray, if my people get this scumbag, he’s mine. He pays for what he did to my daughter.”
“No, Tony. If they get him, they hold him for me. I need him alive.”
When he hung up and turned around, he couldn’t help but laugh at the expression on Cohen’s face.
“You’re nuts, Ray. You’re as crazy as everyone thinks you are.”
“I guess so. Randy, what about Immigration and Naturalization?”
“Sergeant Rosen wanted to know if you still wanted the INS search seeing that McPheerson caught the killer. I told him yes.”
“Good.” He swallowed. “It’s Friday evening. Let’s make it the last Friday we have to worry about. Randy, you’re our coordinator again. This time you work here. Everyone is to call in at half-hour intervals.”
He went into his bedroom and called Emma in Westchester. “Did you drive out?” he asked.
“No. I used the limo. Ray, if they’ve got the wrong person, why won’t they listen to you?”
“Because they think they’re right and I’m wrong.”
Emma hesitated. “And you’re going to try and prove it tonight, aren’t you? You’re going after the killer.”
“I don’t have any choice. The three of us are the only ones who have a chance to stop Samael.”
“You could wait until Samael makes a fool out of McPheerson.”
“You don’t believe I could do that, do you?”
“No, that’s not the way you’re made,” Emma said.
“Can I help somehow?”
“Possibly. Is the Jag in the garage?”
“Yes. Did your car break down?”
“No. I’ll be in Long Island and I’ll need a phone.”
“A...oh, I understand. I’ll call the garage.”
“Thank you. And Emma, please don’t worry.”
“I won’t,” she said, though he knew by the tension in her voice that she would be waiting anxiously for his call.
<><><>
Hyte reached Bay Shore as the sun set. Instead of going to the Moffertys’, he drove to Franklin Masters’ house.
As Hyte expected, he found Jack Mofferty’s Rolls parked in Masters driveway. He circled the block, looking for out-of-place vehicles. Then he parked across from Masters’ house. He needed to make sure Sonja and Jack left the doctor’s and returned home, together.
If only one of them was at Masters, he would have Samael.
On the other hand, if neither of them was Samael, Hyte thought, and if Samael followed his pattern, the Moffertys were in the greatest danger between the doctor’s house and their own. Samael liked ambushes.
He picked up the cellular phone. A few seconds later Randal Schwartz answered. “I’m in position,” Hyte said.
“Yes, Sir. Sergeant Cohen called in a little while ago.
Joan Bidding hasn’t left home. Sally says the Desmonds stayed in their apartment.”
“Thank you, Randy. If anything comes up, call me immediately. “
Hyte hung up and leaned back.
Would Samael come after the Moffertys tonight?
At nine-thirty, the front door of Masters’ house opened. Hyte watched Jack and Sonja say goodbye to Masters and go to their car.
Chapter Thirty-eight
At nine-fifteen, the parking lot of Temple Beth Israel was only a third full. From the synagogue’s open door, the sound of prayers reached the street.
In the synagogue’s parking lot, the Messenger of Death opened the rear door of Ethel Greenblatt’s car and slipped inside.
Samael’s timing was again perfect, and the Messenger of Death was keenly aware of that perfection. Samael had waited patiently outside Sylvia Mossberg’s apartment complex to see if any police were protecting the woman. The Messenger of Death saw two men, driving a black car, follow Sylvia Mossberg.
The black car had New York license plates. Samael guessed the men were either private detectives or New York policemen.
They were good, and they were careful. If Samael hadn’t known where Mossberg was going, and waited an additional minute before starting for the temple, the Messenger would have missed the men.
The black car was across the street from the temple. The driver had found a spot where the street lamps didn’t reach, which made it difficult to see inside the car’s tinted windows. Their position gave the men a clear view of the temple entrance and the parking lot.
They are good, Samael thought, but I am better. The men had not reacted to the ancient crone who had hobbled past them. Nor had they shown alarm when Samael, in the guise of an old woman, had dropped a cane. How could they know that when Samael stood again, a four-inch piece of wood with three large nails lay on a spot their front tire would pass over?
The sounds coming from the temple changed. A few minutes later Samael heard the echoes of feet coming down the marble steps. Car engines came to life. Voices bid each other a good Shabbos.
Ethel Greenblatt and Sylvia Mossberg reached the car. Greenblatt unlocked the door for her friend and, after Sylvia sat, Ethel slid behind the steering wheel and started the engine.
Samael caressed the crossbow. The safety was off.
Ethel started out of the parking space.
Samael raised up, the crossbow moving swiftly to the back of the driver’s head. “Stop.”
The driver stopped.
“Do not be afraid,” Samael said. “You will not be harmed.” The Messenger of Death looked at Sylvia Mossberg. “Do nothing and she liv
es.”
Sylvia stared into the masklike old face. She closed her eyes for a moment against the pounding of her heart. “I understand. Please don’t hurt her.”
“Drive. Make a right turn. Go slowly.” Samael dropped low, using the space between the bucket seats to hold the crossbow against the driver’s side.
Ethel Greenblatt, her knuckles white on the wheel, followed the command.
“Turn left at the corner, as if you are going home,” Samael said. “Drive slowly.”
When Greenblatt slowed for the turn, Samael levered up just enough to peer out the rear window. The black car had pulled to the curb beneath a street lamp. Both men were out of the car, looking at the left front tire. The driver angrily slammed his palm on the fender. The second man ran after Ethel Greenblatt’s car.
Samael faced front. “Turn left again at the next block. Go three more blocks and then-turn right. You will take the George Washington Bridge to the Harlem River Drive. If you say anything to the toll collector, you will never see your children again.”
<><><>
It took Sircolli’s men fourteen minutes to change the tire and drive to Sylvia Mossberg’s apartment. Both men were tight-lipped and anxious. They knew there would be hell to pay if they lost the woman.
They parked their car on the street and slipped unseen onto the grounds. One man walked past Mossberg’s window. The living room light was on. The bluish light of a television flickered through the drawn curtains.
When both men were seated in the car, the first man said, “I told you she’d be home.”
A half hour later, the television’s flickering ended and the living room light went off. A moment later, the bedroom light came on. The men breathed a little easier with the knowledge that Sylvia Mossberg was indeed home, and they wouldn’t have to face Tony the Fist’s rage.
<><><>
The car containing Samael, Sylvia Mossberg, and Ethel Greenblatt was parked beneath the Manhattan Bridge.
“Tie her hands behind her,” Samael told Sylvia, handing her a roll of two-inch adhesive tape.
Mossberg taped her friend’s wrists, and then looked back at Samael. “Her mouth, too.”
Sylvia’s fingers trembled as she tore off a small piece of tape and started to put it over Ethel’s mouth. “No,” Samael said. “Use a larger piece. Make it secure.”
