by David Wind
Joan Bidding’s eyes widened. The killer’s voice was no longer that of the pilot.
She tried to move back, but her car blocked her way.
Samael lifted the crossbow and pointed it at Bidding’s face.
Bidding saw her death in the pilot’s eyes. She lunged forward at the same instant Samael pulled the trigger. The bolt missed.
Five rows behind her, a car window shattered.
Bidding swung her hand at the pilot. It slipped along Samael’s made-up cheek.
Samael fell back.
Joan Bidding ran toward the exit ramp.
Samael revolved the magazine, cocked the bow, and sighted the cross hairs on the running woman’s back. Slowly, Samael pulled the trigger.
The surprised grunt from Joan Bidding, when the bolt struck her lower back, was loud, but not as loud as the sound her body made when it hit the floor.
Then Samael heard running feet.
“No,” the Messenger of Death whispered before fading into the shadows. Samael waited quietly, breathing calmly while Sy Cohen ran toward Joan Bidding’s car.
He stopped at the bumper of the Sentra, and turned in a slow three-sixty. When he stopped midway, Samael knew he’d spotted the motionless shape lying face down on the cement.
Samael waited. Cohen took a step forward, stopped, listened, took another step, and a third. Just as his left shoe touched the ground, Samael started back.
The leather of Samael’s shoe struck a discarded soda can. Samael saw Cohen freeze, spin, and start in the direction of the sound, his pistol pointed forward.
Samael ran behind a car. “Stop! Police!” Cohen called an instant before he fired the gun at the moving shadow.
The sound of the ricochet was loud, the shot just missing Samael’s left leg. Samael ducked behind a cement column and cocked the crossbow as Cohen approached.
“Don’t move,” Samael heard Cohen say. Quietly, the Messenger of Death faded further into the shadows, all the while keeping the crossbow aimed at the cop.
Cohen followed, his revolver tracking the Messenger.
“Stop!”
Samael accepted the impossibility of escape. Cohen was too good. The Messenger of Death sidestepped into the light, and stopped.
“Put it down. Slowly,” Cohen ordered.
The crossbow didn’t move.
Cohen advanced, his revolver held steady at Samael’s head.
Samael saw Cohen squinting past the crossbow’s barrel, sure the policeman had not recognized the true face of the Messenger.
Samael waited. The right moment would come soon.
“Lower your weapon,” Sy ordered.
“You know I can’t do that. There are still three more to be collected.”
It happened quickly—the recognition of who the Messenger was had come to Cohen when Samael spoke—and, using the split second of hesitation brought on by Cohen’s incredulity, Samael fired.
The bolt struck Cohen in the abdomen.
“Goddamn you!” Cohen screamed, firing.
The explosions were deafening. Two bullets struck the Messenger’s chest. Cohen staggered back, his head shaking as he fought to pull out the bolt. On Sy Cohen’s face was the understanding of why the Messenger was still alive, and the hatred Cohen bore for Samael.
Then Simon Cohen’s body stiffened, his breathing stopped. He fell.
Samael bent over him. “I am so very sorry,” the Messenger of Death whispered.
From behind, Samael heard a woman scream.
Samael went to Bidding’s car and started the engine as running feet echoed through the garage. A second later, the car charged out of the parking lot.
Chapter Forty-two
Sy Cohen’s eyes were closed. His features were peaceful. His head rested on a blue velvet pillow. The upper part of his body was framed by blue satin, the lower hidden by half of the pine coffin’s cover. Hyte stood at his side, unashamed of the tears streaking his cheeks.
He had arrived at the East Side Synagogue at nine-thirty, so he could have a private moment to say good-bye to his friend before the ceremonies that marked an inspector’s funeral began.
Turning from the casket, Hyte discovered he was not alone. Sy’s wife, Sarah, was in the first pew. He sat down and took her hand.
Sarah tried to speak, but failed. He drew her against him, and waited. “Sy loved you, Ray,” she’d said a few moments later. “He was always so proud of the way you played the game. He…” She paused, closed her eyes, and took several deep breaths. “He told me a long time ago, that one day you’d make chief.”
“Where are the kids?” Cohen’s three children were no longer kids. The oldest, Michael, was twenty-two, the youngest, Carolyn, was sixteen. To Sy, and to Hyte, they had always been “the kids.”
“In the rabbi’s study. They’re waiting for me.”
“Do you want me to stay with you?”
She shook her head quickly. “Michael says it’s important that you be a pallbearer. Sy...Sy would want that.”
When Sarah left, Hyte remained seated, his freshly pressed uniform stiff from disuse. The collar of the jacket rubbed fretfully on his neck. The chafing of the wool was nothing compared to the pain of losing his friend.
He should have been at the airport with Sy. He should never have given Mason his word.
Hyte temporarily set his anger aside as the synagogue began to fill. A moment later, a uniformed man sat next to him. He glanced sideways. It was Phil Mason.
“The commissioner has rejected the departmental charges brought by McPheerson and Conner. He has also authorized me to conduct a special investigation into Cohen’s murder. That investigation will take over from and supersede the covert operation. I brought the full crime scene report and all the statements.”
Hyte’s eyes narrowed. “It’s thirty-six goddamned hours too late to care about McPheerson’s charges...or about your authorization. My friend is dead because I did what you asked.”
“You’re walking away from it? Is that what you’re saying?”
Hyte didn’t look at Mason. “I’ll see you in hell before I quit.”
<><><>
Several hours after the funeral, Hyte sat on his couch, his uniform jacket off, his shirt open at the collar.
When the burial services were over, Mason had come to him. “It’s up to you now. You can go after Samael legally, or you can do it out of anger.” Mason thrust a large envelope into his hands.
Now, Sally O’Rourke was at the dining room table reading the contents of that envelope. They were the crime scene, task force, and PDU reports of Sy Cohen’s murder.
The Sunday Times lay on the coffee table; the Friday Night Killer was still in the headlines.
Emma sat next to Hyte. Her features drawn, dark half-moons beneath her eyes turned their deep brown almost black. Hyte saw how badly Sy Cohen’s death affected her. She’d flown home from Denver immediately after the deaths of Joan Bidding and Sy Cohen were reported by the media. She had a reservation to return to Denver later that day.
Emma hadn’t attended the funeral. Hyte understood why. It would be too much a reminder of her mother’s death.
“What now?” she asked.
His shrug was a gesture of weariness. “Find Samael. Stop him.”
On the ride home from the cemetery, Hyte’s anger had subsided enough for him to see past his own irrational reactions. Then, for a fleeting moment, he’d found himself glimpsing into Samael’s mind. He’d understood the depth of Samael’s need for vengeance.
It was a sobering insight, one that made him realize he had to take Samael legally.
Sally came into the living room carrying the crime reports. “I don’t understand how Samael got through security.”
“The pilot’s uniform. How many people take a close look at an ID photo hanging on a uniform jacket? The pilot who Samael waylaid never knew what hit him. He’d just come off a long flight. He was tired, went into a bathroom stall, dropped his pants, and got zapped with
a trank.”
“Heavy dose,” O’Rourke agreed. “He was out for six hours.” She flipped the pages of the report. “Ballistics is certain the three rounds they found were Sy’s. Forensic says body armor flattened two of them. The shots were fired from close range. Sy hit Samael point-blank. It confirms the witness’s report of seeing Sy and Samael standing close together.”
Hyte nodded. “Now we know that our killer doesn’t take any chances. He wears a bulletproof vest. Why did Sy go for the body? He was too experienced a cop for that. He should have gone for the head.”
“Maybe he wanted to take Samael alive?” O’Rourke said.
Hyte shook his head, thinking about the witness’s report.
The woman said she’d thought Sy and his killer were talking. A moment later Sy had staggered back and fired. “He was taken by surprise,” Hyte said. “Jesus Christ! Sy recognized Samael, and it must have been a hell of a shock. For just a second, Sy was too surprised to react. Samael shot him then. That’s why Sy fired point-blank in the chest. He had to be faster than the poison.”
“But how could he tell through the makeup?” O’Rourke said.
“It was smeared. Bidding and Samael must have struggled. Sy might have recognized him, or if they were speaking—”
“He recognized the voice,” O’Rourke finished. “Do you think they’ll be able to get a trace on the makeup from Bidding’s hand?”
“Unlikely.”
“What about the car? Maybe some prints will turn up.”
“If we can find the car,” he said. “That’s the only strange thing. Where the hell is the car?”
“Why is it strange?” Emma asked.
“Every time Samael has killed, the victim and the victim’s car have been left. The Barnes killing was a message to me. The Mossberg death was an attempt to get McPheerson booted from the case. Samael had a reason for taking the car.”
“Did you try the long-term parking lots at the airports?” Emma asked.
“Yes, it was done that night,” O’Rourke said.
“Everywhere, or just at Kennedy?” Emma asked.
Hyte smiled at Emma. O’Rourke went to the phone. A few minutes later, O’Rourke said, “They sent out the plate number to all borough parking facilities. I also called the Queens Borough Homicide Squad and asked the duty man to recheck the parking lots, especially the long-term ones. He said he’d call back as soon as he finished.” She paused, looked at the sixty-one report from the Queens Homicide dicks. “It says the two stewardesses with Bidding, when she got the call that sent her running, claim she called the man on the phone Officer Schwartz. Why did Samael use Schwartz’s name?”
Hyte stared past O’Rourke to the chalkboard. The first of the final three blank spaces had been filled in. “It was another message. Samael knows all of us.”
“Which confirms your hunch about Sy being taken by surprise.”
Hyte took Emma’s hand and held it firmly in the silence.
Her skin was cool, her hand unresponsive. Ten minutes later, the phone rang.
“Lou, this is Stetman in Queens. I just got confirmation on the vehicle. Your hunch was right. It’s in a long term parking lot.”
“Damn it!” Hyte shouted. “How the hell did they miss it?”
“They didn’t miss it. The car entered the lot Saturday afternoon, after they’d done the license plate check.”
“Get CSU to Kennedy. I don’t want a finger put on that car until I’m there. Is that clear?”
“Lou, it ain’t at Kennedy. That’s why they didn’t find it. When I called, they said it wasn’t on their sheet. So I decided to check around.”
“Where is it?”
“LaGuardia.”
<><><>
When Hyte and O’Rourke reached the parking lot, Stetman was waiting with two crime scene techs. At Hyte’s signal, the two men went to work.
Hyte found what he was looking for in the trunk. Pinned by a bolt jammed into the carpet was a note. Behind it was the discarded pilot’s uniform, discolored by smeared gobs of theatrical makeup.
He bent to read the note, which appeared written with a makeup pencil:
I do not want to hurt the innocent. When the last is collected, I will be gone. I cannot be stopped, as you now know. Please Lieutenant Hyte, do not let anyone else get hurt. Please, do not send any more people to their deaths. There are three more to be collected. You must not let anyone else die before their time. You are responsible for their lives.
“Jesus,” O’Rourke whispered. “I think it’s an apology for Sy.”
<><><>
At nine-fifteen Monday morning, Hyte and O’Rourke stepped into Dunsten and Thurmond’s reception area. “Lieutenant Raymond Hyte to see Mr. Theodore Bromberg,” Hyte said to the receptionist, flashing his shield.
“Do you have an appointment?” the receptionist asked, ignoring the badge.
The rage he had been working to contain since Sy Cohen’s death took over. He put his tin to within an inch of her nose. “Sweetheart,” he said in a tight and low half whisper, “call Bromberg and tell him we’re out here. Do it now!”
She made the call. “Mr. Bromberg’s secretary will be right out.”
Almost immediately, a middle-aged woman came through the door on the far side of the reception area. Hyte and O’Rourke introduced themselves. “Mr. Bromberg is in his office now. Come with me please.”
Theodore Bromberg was anything but what Hyte expected in an advertising executive. He wore a plain blue suit and had a half inch of gray fringe around his ears. The rest of his head was as slick as a bowling ball. He had small blue eyes, a proud nose, and the air of an efficient executive.
“Would you please clarify what this is about?” Bromberg asked.
“The Friday Night Killer investigation.”
“What does International Accessories have to do with that?”
“That’s what we’re here to find out about. Mr. Bromberg, I need to know why Sonja Mofferty was hired to do a layout that was never used.”
“Yes, Miss Franzman gave me that message earlier this morning,” Bromberg said. “When did she do this modeling?”
“September of last year.”
Bromberg nodded. “Andy Spivak was handling the account then. He moved out to the coast last December, just before International pulled the account. I’m afraid you’re wasting your time, Lieutenant, I can’t help you.”
“Perhaps you can. I need to know about International Accessories of Hong Kong.”
Bromberg knew little. The company manufactured a full line of contemporary fashion accessories, from costume jewelry to eyeglasses. The work the advertising agency had done was not geared to the public; rather, International Accessories sold to the trade. It was a custom brand company, a company that put other company’s names on their products.
Hyte asked for some samples of the advertising work Bromberg’s agency had done for International Accessories.
“I have nothing available,” Bromberg said. “It wasn’t a big account, nothing that would warrant being used in our client book. I can dig up samples from the files, but it will take a few days. Where shall I send them?”
Hyte handed him his card. “As soon as possible, please.”
He started out, stopped, and looked back at Bromberg. “Do you know if there’s any significance in the agency’s losing the account and the account executive leaving?”
“Not that I’m aware of, but in advertising, anything is possible.”
<><><>
Hyte glanced around his office. It was good to be back. Schwartz had brought the supplies from the apartment, including the chalkboard, poster board, and video tapes.
Hyte looked down at the copy of the note Samael had left in the trunk of Bidding’s car. As O’Rourke said, the note was an apology for Sy’s death. It confirmed that Samael only wanted to kill the passengers who had pleaded for life at another’s expense. Samael was letting him know that Sy Cohen’s death was his fault.
His office door opened and O’Rourke whisked in, her face and voice etched with annoyance. “The crime lab finished with the contents of Bidding’s car. They came up empty.”
“We knew they would.”
She looked at the note. “What is it, Lou? Something’s been bothering you since you found it. What did you read into it?”
“The identity of the last victim,” he said.
O’Rourke spun to look at the board. “Who?”
“Read the note again,” he said. He waited until she finished.
“I don’t understand,” O’Rourke admitted.
“Samael is collecting the people who outwitted death during the hijacking, right?” O’Rourke nodded. “To a troubled mind, those people would also be responsible for someone else being chosen to die.”
“Possibly.”
“Responsible, Sally.”
O’Rourke stared at him, and then at the note. “It can’t be.”
“It is. On Friday night, Samael is going to take out the Moffertys. And then Samael is coming for me.”
O’Rourke shook her head. “But you saved the hostages’ lives!”
“Not all of them. Rashid Mohamad told me I was responsible for the deaths of those who died during the hijacking. It was something he said repeatedly throughout the negotiations. There was one specific time when I was on the plane, delivering the money, when Mohamad pointed to me and said, “Look at the man who has sentenced you to your deaths!’ I’m the last victim, Sally.”
“What do we do?”
He smiled coldly. “There are two possibilities. Find out Samael’s identity before Friday night, or reverse Samael’s hit list and make me the next victim.”
“How?”
“By putting me between Samael and the Moffertys.”
“It’s that simple?”
“It’s that basic.”
Chapter Forty-three
Hyte poured himself a Scotch and sat back in the couch. It was the end of his fourth unproductive day. He had expected to find nothing, and he’d achieved his expectation
May seventh would be the last Friday. He took this for fact. He believed Samael did the same. He was certain Samael’s intention was to kill him and the Moffertys on the same night.
