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

by David Wind

  Hyte knew Samael’s mind now. From the very beginning, Samael had marked him as the last victim. Only one item remained. He needed to find out who made the decision to have Sonja Mofferty model for International Accessories. Schwartz had been checking with the Hong Kong company, but, so far there had been no results.

  He was positive that Samael was behind Sonja Mofferty’s job in Hong Kong. It was a part of Samael’s scheme to frustrate him. By using an Asian poison, Samael knew he would check on anyone with Oriental connections. Sonja Mofferty’s modeling job made her a prime suspect.

  Nevertheless, tomorrow night would bring him all the answers. He’d laid the groundwork. Yesterday he had arranged to have information leaked to McPheerson that Hyte had proof Samael would strike Jonah Graham next.

  Then he’d asked Mason to contact Suffolk County and have them pull their people off the Moffertys. He didn’t want any interference. Tomorrow he would learn if Mason had been able to get the surveillance shut down.

  He had no doubts that tomorrow night would be his night—His and Samael’s.

  <><><>

  It was just after midnight. Friday had arrived, and with it, Emma.

  “I can’t believe the plane was delayed for two hours because of a spring snowstorm,” she explained, kissing him and setting down her overnight case in the hall.

  “Drink?”

  “Bath first,” she replied. “Then a brandy.”

  “Done.”

  When she left, he poured two Martells, sat on the couch, propping his feet on the coffee table, and fell asleep.

  Later, he heard her call his name. She was standing on the other side of the coffee table, wearing a white negligee.

  “Brandy’s poured,” he said.

  Emma sat next to him. “It seems so long since we’ve been alone.”

  “Too long,” he agreed.

  “Will it be over soon?” she asked.

  “Tonight.”

  Emma’s eyes widened. “Tonight? Now?”

  He smiled. “It’s almost one o’clock. It’s Friday, Emma. Tonight.”

  She shivered. He drew her close. “My father—”

  “Your father is the safest man in the world. He’ll have at least three dozen policemen guarding him.”

  “Why?” she asked. “Is he in danger?”

  “No. I made McPheerson think Samael is going after your father. Only he’s not. He never was. Samael’s going after the Moffertys.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You will, tomorrow, when it’s over. And it will be, Emma, I promise you. I want you to stay with your father. He may not be able to speak, but he can see. And there will be a lot of activity around him.”

  Emma nodded. “What’s going to happen?”

  “What I said would happen. It’s going to end.”

  Emma wrapped her arms about herself. “I feel cold, Raymond. Cold and scared.”

  <><><>

  Hyte woke at six, calm and ready for the day. Emma was still asleep. He slipped from the bed without disturbing her, and went to shower.

  He emerged from the bathroom fifteen minutes later to find Emma sitting in bed, her back propped against the teak headboard.

  “Good morning.”

  She stared at the light coming in through the window. “I wish it hadn’t come.”

  “It had to, Emma.”

  He saw her throat working. “I can wish, can’t I?”

  He sat next to her and stroked her cheek. “Life will get back to normal soon, I promise.”

  She laughed hoarsely. “I don’t know what normal is anymore. I haven’t since the hijacking.”

  “It will be over tonight.”

  She nodded and pressed his hand. He bent forward and kissed her. It was a soft kiss, a gentle kiss. When he drew back, he saw the tears in her eyes.

  “I have to get dressed.”

  She released his hand. “Ray, use my car tonight. I…I need to be able to know that I can call you. I won’t. I just need to know I can.”

  <><><>

  He arrived at his office at seven-thirty. Sally O’Rourke slept on the couch; Randy Schwartz was at Hyte’s desk, his head cradled on his arms.

  Hyte cleared his throat. Schwartz’s head snapped up. O’Rourke struggled to a sitting position.

  “What the hell’s going on?”

  “We were working,” O’Rourke said. “It got too late to go home.”

  “What were you working on?”

  “The passenger manifests from last Friday night.”

  “I thought we agreed it was a waste of time.”

  “No, sir,” O’Rourke said, “you said you thought it would be a waste of time. You didn’t tell us not to work on it.”

  “It isn’t important; what is is for you two to go home and get some rest. I want both of you here by two. Sally, you and I are going to Bay Shore. Now, leave those manifests here and get out!”

  He went upstairs for his meeting with Mason. The chief of detectives was at his desk. He pointed to the low cocktail table by the couch. “I brought you coffee. Black.”

  Hyte took a sip. “Did you make those arrangements I asked for, with the Suffolk people?”

  “You’ll coordinate everything with Captain Neil Tanner, of the Islip PD. He’s agreed to keep his people out of the immediate area until you ask for them.” Mason paused. “Ray, what if you’re wrong?”

  “I’ve got a fifty-fifty shot at it. It has to be one or the other. We have the Grahams covered. Roberts and Smith are part of the stakeout. If Samael shows up there, they’ll know what to do. McPheerson won’t get away with anything.”

  “But you’re a little more than just certain that our man won’t show up there, aren’t you?”

  Hyte nodded.

  “I still don’t like you going it alone,” Mason said.

  “I won’t be. I’ll have backup.”

  “A lady desk cop isn’t my idea of backup.”

  “O’Rourke’s a good cop. She’s not a desk cop. When this is over, I want her to get gold and a good assignment.”

  “We’ll talk about it then.”

  Hyte cradled the coffee cup between his palms. “I want it done regardless of the outcome of this case.”

  “Okay…now I’ll tell you what I want. I want Samael alive. I want him to stand trial. And I want to rub McPheerson’s face in the bullshit he’s created, so he won’t do it again.”

  <><><>

  “Samael wears body armor,” Hyte said to O’Rourke and Schwartz the minute they’d returned to headquarters. “We will too.”

  He opened his middle drawer and withdrew a shoulder rig, which he handed to O’Rourke. “You ever use one of these?”

  O’Rourke drew the black 9-millimeter Beretta from its holster. “Just on the range.”

  “Don’t tense with it. If you find yourself facing Samael, dump the entire magazine. If the body armor can withstand the bullets, three or four hits will knock him off his feet.”

  O’Rourke popped the magazine. It was full. “All right.”

  “Sally, nobody knows for sure if a vest will stop a bolt.”

  “You’re positive about tonight, aren’t you?” she asked.

  “It’ll come down in Long Island. It’s the way Samael set it up from the beginning. Randy, I have Emma’s car. You still have that number in case you need me?”

  Schwartz nodded.

  “Then I guess this is it. Randy, except for Mason, you don’t know where I am. But after six, if McPheerson’s people hassle you, tell them I’m in Westchester. That should make them worry a little. “

  They walked slowly to the elevator. He pushed the call button, and then turned to see Schwartz running toward him.

  “This just came,” Schwartz said. “It’s the information from the advertising agency.”

  “Thanks,” Hyte said, taking the envelope.

  Schwartz stared at him. “It may be important. Aren’t you going to open it?”

  “Later.” He signal
ed O’Rourke to let the door close.

  Chapter Forty-four

  Hyte pulled the white Jag into the Moffertys’ curving drive and stopped by the steps leading up to the double mahogany doors. O’Rourke was at his side when he rang the familiar doorbell.

  Sonja Mofferty opened the door herself. “What now, Lieutenant?”

  “Talk,” he said, stepping inside before she could protest.

  He nodded toward O’Rourke. “This is Officer Sally O’Rourke. We need to see you and your husband.”

  “Lieutenant—”

  He cut her off. “It’s your turn tonight, Sonja. Are you ready to die?”

  Her pupils dilated. “Damn you!” she whispered hoarsely. “First you act like I’m the killer, then you tell me I’m going to be killed. Why can’t you just leave us alone?”

  “Because I don’t want you to die. Please take me to your husband and let me explain.”

  “Jack won’t listen,” she said. To Hyte’s relief, she led him and O’Rourke to the back patio where Mofferty sat at a gray slate table. The umbrella was open, shading him from the afternoon sun. He was on the phone, his back to them.

  They waited quietly until he hung up. “Jack,” Sonja called.

  Mofferty turned. When he saw Hyte, his expression darkened. “What the hell do you want now? You already cost me my help! After last Friday night, our servants walked out.”

  “You’ll find others. If you live through tonight.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just what it sounds like. I believe the Friday Night Killer means to kill you and Sonja tonight.”

  “Maybe he’d be doing me a favor,” Mofferty said.

  Hyte took a step forward. “Look, you selfish son of a bitch. You can wallow in all the self-disgust you want, but this lunatic has killed nine people, including my friend! I don’t really give a damn how fucked up your head is. I do care about stopping the person whose only goal in life is to put six-inch poisoned arrows into you and your wife!

  “Now, Officer O’Rourke is going to stay with you in the house. You and your wife will listen to everything she says. Everything!”

  “Who the hell do you think you are? What gives you the right to come into my house and dictate to me?”

  “Samael does. The Friday Night Killer is coming for you, and I’m the only thing between you and hell.” He looked at Sonja, intuitively counting on her help. “Do you have any objections to our being here?”

  “No,” she said.

  “This is my house!” Mofferty roared.

  Sonja whirled on her husband. “And it’s my life! They’re staying. If you don’t like it, go somewhere else. What can I do to help?” she asked Hyte.

  “You have two choices. Either go to a friend’s house—”

  Sonja shook her head, her eyes turning hard. “The second choice, Lieutenant?”

  “Stay here. If the phone rings, answer it so the killer knows you’re here.”

  “Which would you advise?”

  “I can’t advise you.”

  “Because you want us to stay, yes?”

  Hyte said nothing. He waited.

  “We’ll stay, Lieutenant.”

  <><><>

  The body armor was tight around the chest. The white cotton gloves were as close fitting as a second skin. Samael wore no makeup tonight, only a floppy rain hat, which, when tilted forward, hid the Messenger of Death’s features.

  Samael stood. It was time to leave. In the leather bag, the crossbow was set in the right position. The three poison tipped bolts were ready.

  Rashid Mohamad’s voice rose from the television speaker.

  Samael watched the terrorist toying with Sonja Mofferty. The Messenger listened intently as the model bartered for her life.

  Then Samael turned to the wall of photographs and looked at the picture of Sonja and Jack Mofferty. A target bolt was centered in Sonja Mofferty’s forehead. Next to that picture was one of Raymond Hyte.

  “Yes, Lieutenant, it ends tonight,” Samael promised.

  <><><>

  At six-thirty, Hyte was in the passenger seat of Emma’s Jaguar, which Sonja Mofferty had earlier put in the garage. He wore body armor, and carried a duplicate of Sally O’Rourke’s Beretta.

  Alone, finally, tension ebbed and flowed through him. He tilted the seat slightly back. He didn’t want to be seen, yet he needed to see.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw the white envelope on the back seat. He’d forgotten about it on the drive out. He had been too involved in detailing tonight’s work to O’Rourke.

  When Hyte picked up the envelope, he saw something hanging from it. He turned the large envelope over and found a smaller envelope stuck to the back flap.

  He separated the smaller one from the larger, realizing it must have been on the desk, beneath the advertising agency mailer.

  He read the handwritten address and his stomach twisted.

  It was addressed to Sergeant Simon Cohen, in care of the Nineteenth Precinct. It was postmarked the previous Friday.

  There was a notation in red ink to forward the letter to Cohen at HQ via interdepartmental mail. The letter should have gotten to the One-Nine on Monday. Hyte wondered why it had taken four days to reach his office.

  He opened the envelope and withdrew a single sheet of paper.

  Dear Sy:

  About the trace you requested. I’m sorry, but unless you can give me the originating telephone number, I can’t verify the forwarding. Even if we had the originating number, the only possible way to check is to compare the forwarded number’s calling time with the originating call. Also, the termination time of both phone calls would be almost identical.

  I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help, but without the numbers the calls originated from, it is impossible.

  Give me a call, you owe me dinner. Kiss Sarah and the kids.

  Lill

  The letter brought back the pain. What was Sy looking for? Why hadn’t he mentioned anything about it? He put the letter next to the thermos, and opened the advertising agency’s envelope.

  There was no letter, just brochures and photographs. The first one was a layout of seven watches. Two were black diving watches; the others were brightly colored accessory watches. Beneath the pictures, large letters proclaimed that your Company’s proudly displayed name or logo can be on the faces of any of the above watches.

  He looked through several more of the brochures. They told him nothing. He settled back to wait, knowing that time would reveal his enemy. His fingers drummed a tattoo on the car door’s armrest. He looked down and saw the white edge of a magazine sticking out from the map pocket on the door.

  Hyte took it out. It was the new summer Graham International catalogue.

  The cover showed a handsome couple holding each other in a loving way inside a hot tub. He wondered who would buy a hot tub from a catalogue. Then he wondered how much it would cost.

  He flipped the catalogue open, turning each page quickly, looking for the hot tub. He found it halfway through. It was thirty-seven hundred dollars—without installation.

  Hyte whistled, turned the page, and saw a picture of a familiar looking leather-covered cigarette case.

  Above the case, the bold print declared that you don’t have to rely on just your memory when it comes to big business deals. Use Graham International’s voice activated mini-Dictaphone.

  In the fading light, Hyte stared at the disguised Dictaphone. He read the fine print about its four-hour recording capability, as well as several other features. He closed his eyes and thought back to the hijacking. Jonah Graham had been tapping his shirt pocket. In the pocket was a cigarette case. He remembered Emma telling him her father never smoked a cigarette in his life.

  Hyte knew now, ten months too late, what Jonah Graham had been trying to tell him. Jonah had recorded the hijacking, from its inception. And he’d missed it!

  He felt the familiar sensation of having something lodged in his subconsci
ous but just out of reach. He glanced at the dashboard. It was seven fifty-five. No more introspection, he told himself. Just Samael.

  Hyte poured a cup of coffee from the thermos. He drank slowly, enjoying its warmth.

  He picked up another International Accessory brochure.

  This one showed a black tank watch with Roman numerals. It wasn’t a Cartier but it looked like one. In fact, it looked just like the watch he had given Susan for their first anniversary.

  Hyte turned the brochure over and froze.

  He had not looked at the back the first time. On it was a list of International Accessories’ clients. He brought the brochure closer, squinting in the low light, and read down the list. He stopped at the fifth name, unable to accept what the evidence was telling him. It was too sickening. He made himself think back to the Barnes killing. He went over the times in his head.

  He thought about the night of the Helenez killings, and everything fell into place.

  Walter Alinski had been right when he’d brought up Freud and paranoia. To Freud, the roots of all paranoia are in latent homosexuality.

  Harry Lester was right, too. The weapon was a man’s weapon, a warrior’s weapon. His mind rebelled at the truth that had finally broken through.

  A sharp pain lanced through his intestines. Hyte opened the door and threw up. Painful contractions squeezed through his stomach.

  He held on to the side of the car, his muscles straining. Then the car phone rang. Before he could answer it, the ring stopped.

  When the cramping eased, Hyte poured a half cup of coffee and rinsed his mouth out.

  The radio burst into life. “Lou! Goddamn it, Ray, where are you?”

  He wiped the back of his mouth and picked up the radio. ”Here. Use the phone.”

  A minute later, it rang. “JesusGodAlmighty,” O’Rourke said, “Schwartz tried to call you. He made Samael from the airline passenger lists of last Saturday night.”

  “I know who it is, Sally.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He couldn’t get rid of the sour taste of bile. “Too fucking sure. I just put it together. Keep a close watch in there,” he ordered and hung up.

  How would I try to take me out?