“Kate, we need to kill some time before tonight. I was wondering if you had any ideas.”
When he reached the doorway he found her standing beside the bed, wearing one of his shirts.
Only his shirt.
It’s unbuttoned to her waist.
In the half-light, she slipped it off her shoulders as he followed it to the floor.
He smiled widely.
“I guess you do.”
CHAPTER 11
The disaster James had left in his wake on the Merritt Parkway in Greenwich was now the responsibility of a police officer, and not one from the Greenwich Police Department, they were preoccupied with the “hostage” crisis at First Fidelity Bank. This was an officer from the nearby Westchester County Police Department.
A cowering Alec Specter had finally opened his car door for him.
“Are you alright, sir?” the policeman asked.
“I’ll live. Just get me the hell out of here.”
Visibly shaken, he quickly found the officer’s squad car and jumped inside. Specter was then driven to a hospital where he was examined thoroughly, the physician concluding it was anxiety, not bullet holes, the patient suffered from. He received medication to help calm his nerves and the facility released him.
Riding home in a police car, he arrived to find three police officers, already at their stations. His son had been pulled from a private school. Along with his mother, he huddled at the estate, which now resembled a fortress.
In downtown Greenwich, at First Fidelity Bank, efforts to persuade the phantom robbers to surrender had failed. The Swat Team fired tear gas canisters inside the building and stormed in. Having found no bandits on the premises, it was quickly determined that the “robbery” had been a ruse—a diversion to draw police officers away from the location of the ambush of Alec Specter. The Merritt Parkway was combed in search of evidence by a team including Greenwich police detectives, though none turned up—except for the rifle. By now, it had no evidentiary value owing to the sustained, searing heat of the coals.
By late morning, the Greenwich Chief of Police was ready to have a conversation with Alec Specter. A half-hour later, an unmarked police car turned off the road and drove through the gate at the Specter estate. Inside, the Chief was accompanied by the lead detective assigned to the case. They climbed the front steps and the detective was about to ring the doorbell when a woman, dressed neatly in a maid’s uniform, opened the door.
“Hello,” she said, “I assume you’re here to speak with Mr. and Mrs. Specter.”
“Yes ma’am, we are,” replied the detective.
They followed her through a large foyer. As they approached the drawing room, a heated argument ceased as the two men entered. The couple turned and noticed the lawmen, standing awkwardly in the doorway.
Clearing his throat, the Chief finally said, “Good morning. I’m George Brennan, Chief of the Greenwich Police Department.”
He pointed to the man beside him.
“This is detective Moody. He’s in charge of the investigation.”
The couple stood near a leather sofa opposite two chairs. Alec Specter waved a hand toward the chairs, offering no handshake.
“Have a seat.”
Mrs. Specter had shuffled out of the room before he could introduce her. Beyond the doorway, she leaned against a staircase wall, remaining close enough to eavesdrop on the conversation.
“I’d hoped we would be meeting under better circumstances,” the Chief began. “This must be difficult for you and your family.”
“That’s an understatement.” Specter was clearly agitated. Beads of sweat accumulated on his forehead, his tone accusatory. “You’re supposed to protect me. It’s your job, damn it!”
“Yes, sir. It is.” What a jerk, the Chief thought.
“Who did this to me?”
“If it’s okay with you, sir,” Chief Brennan replied, “I’d like to let detective Moody speak.”
“Speak!” To their ears, Specter’s voice was like fingernails, scratching against a chalkboard.
“Mr. Specter, we want you to know, we’ve put all our resources on this.”
“Great. I feel much better. Tell me what you have,” Specter commanded.
“Well, no leads, so far. Nobody saw anything, but it’s early in the investigation. We’ve covered the area surrounding the ambush with a fine-toothed comb. The only thing we found was a rifle, though the weapon has no value—in terms of evidence.”
“Why the hell not?”
“The sniper laid the rifle on a bed of burning coals.”
Specter raised an eyebrow.
“In doing so, any possibility of capture while in possession of the weapon had been eliminated. By the time we found the rifle, it was useless from the intense heat.”
The lawyer stared at his feet, shook his head. Shit.
“It gets worse,” detective Moody said. “This is the work the people who are capable of meticulous planning and coordination. More telling is the marksmanship. I doubt whether there’s more than a handful of men who could have fired those shots. The distance was close to a half-mile.”
The detective paused.
“This person has a lot of skill and talent.”
“Then why did he miss?”
“He didn’t,” the detective replied.
“Explain.”
“The bullets found their marks precisely as the shooter intended. The first shot, the one that blew out your tire and forced you into a stationary position on the shoulder—to accomplish this, the sniper had to make adjustments for the angle and the speed of the vehicle. As for the second bullet—the one that struck the seat just inches from your heart—to achieve this kind of pinpoint accuracy, many factors were taken into account, such as gravity, humidity, wind speed and the downward angle of the bullet after it made impact with the windshield.”
“Someone is trying to send a message. Is that it?”
The detective and the Chief shared a look.
“We think so.” He proceeded cautiously. “Mr. Specter, do you have any enemies you can think of who might want to hurt you?”
Specter barely caught himself before laughing in their faces. A complete list of his enemies would be longer than a phone book.
“Not off hand,” he mumbled.
Chief Brennan spoke in a serious tone. “Mr. Specter, what we’ve got here are highly trained men with military backgrounds, most likely Special Forces. The Police Department is assigning additional personnel to this case.” The Chief glanced over at the detective. “The officers outside are here for your protection. Another man will stay here inside the house if you wish. I advise you to stay at home until we can sort this thing out. Our job is to keep you alive.”
“Damn right it is.”
The detective leaned in, closer to Specter.
“They might try to make contact.”
The Chief caught a glint in Specter’s eyes.
You’ll be the first to know.
CHAPTER 12
A few hours before the chaos broke out on the parkway in Greenwich, the hunchback named Boris was driving a panel van into a church parking lot in Bethesda, Maryland. The affluent suburb, located eight miles north of Washington, D.C., consisted mostly of single-family dwellings. The hour was nearing three a.m. A cloak of low-lying clouds obscured the moon, providing excellent cover. Boris opened the rear doors of the van and removed a motorbike.
Attired in black clothing, he slung a backpack over his shoulder. Mounting the bike, he rode two miles before reaching a wooded area where he concealed the motorbike with a camouflage tarp. He covered the remaining distance of three hundred yards on foot before arriving at his destination—the home of Senator Edward Kowalski and his wife. Settled amidst a stand of mature trees, the red brick house provided a sense of privacy. Walking to one side of the house, he stood beside the garage, picking the lock on a box containing the control panel for the home’s security system. Opening the box, he steadied a
small flashlight between his teeth and shined it inside the panel. Examining the wiring layout, he made a comparison to one he held in his huge hand.
The two were identical.
Excellent. The Deacon has delivered on his promise.
He connected wires inside the panel to a small electronic devise at his side. Its purpose was to trick the system into thinking a signal had been sent to the security company’s monitoring center in the event a door or a window had been opened. This completed, he went around to the rear of the house and picking a lock on a French door, he slowly entered the living room. Quietly, he moved through the darkened interior and down a hallway that lead to the bedroom where he saw the Senator and his wife, lying in bed. There in the silence, he waited.
And waited.
Satisfied the Senator and his wife were both asleep, he removed his gear from a backpack. Slipping inside the bedroom, he placed a plastic mask very near the nose and mouth of the Senator’s wife. Attached to the mask was a tube supplied by a small tank lying on the floor. He held the mask in place and watched her chest rise and fall as she inhaled the gas, inducing a state of unconsciousness. In a few hours, the gas would dissipate, leaving no trace. Moving around to the other side of the bed where the Senator lay snoring, he repeated the procedure. The task now done, he directed his flashlight on Kowalski’s face. For a moment, Boris studied the man: mid-sixties, pale, overweight.
He pulled the covers down to the bottom of the bed, exposing the couple. Clicking his forefinger against a hypodermic needle, he spread two of the Senator’s toes apart. Finding a vein, he pressed the plunger, injecting an air bubble into his bloodstream. The bubble reached the Senator’s heart, and he began to convulse violently. Boris kept the flashlight beam on Kowalski, watched as the Senator gasped his last breath.
The body lay motionless, the struggle for life over.
Boris spoke in a low voice. “Into the pit of Hell you will go.”
Beside the Senator, a Bible lay on his bedside table and on top of the book sat a magnifying glass used as an aid for reading small print. Boris flipped through the pages, eventually finding the one he was looking for. He laid the magnifying glass atop the page, which contained one verse in particular.
MATTHEW 3:2. REPENT, FOR THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN IS AT HAND
He packed up his gear and walked to the other side of the bed. Mrs. Kowalski lay in a silk sleep-shirt that barely covered her. With his flashlight, he swept across her body, his expression animated. In her early forties, the woman was quite attractive. More than likely, theirs was a second marriage.
He peered down on her female form, his stare intensifying.
She lies here with this swine. A miserable wretch.
Lingering above her, Boris removed a knife from his pocket.
He then caught himself, replaced the blade.
The Deacon would have my head.
The humpback stood there in the darkness, not moving.
My work here is done.
He began walking toward the hallway and retreated from the house, resetting the alarm system and covering his tracks as he went.
Boris disappeared into the cool night air—like a ghost.
CHAPTER 13
By mid-morning, the story had broken in the media. The wife of Senator Edward Kowalski woke to find her husband, stiff as a board—dead of a massive heart attack. And the car wreck, not even two days had passed and still it was being reported as an “accident” by the press—a plausible one.
Before this morning, journalists had been dealing with a single event. Now, even though the preliminary facts pointed to a conclusion of Senator Kowalski dying of natural causes, the cynics and conspiracy theorists—far from convinced—were stirring the pot. Questions were being asked: When was the last time three Senators died within a forty-eight hour time frame?
One year? Five years?
Answer to all: Never.
And then there were the Bible verses, one at each of the scenes. But nobody could provide any explanations.
With speculation in D.C. rampant, reporters scrambled to keep pace. The coverage focused on the vacated Senate seats.
The Washington Post featured an online article explaining a procedure wherein the governor would appoint a successor from Senator Kowalski’s home state.
As for Senators Hill and Nelson, the New York Times posted a report detailing the process for filling the two seats through special elections.
The atmosphere had taken on a frantic, surreal tone. And now the whole country was abuzz with talk of Kowalski’s demise. Had these events occurred by chance, or design?
Again, there were more questions than answers.
Carter wasn’t having much luck at the FBI either. The case was a nightmare for the bureau. They were combing through Daniel’s background, looking for connections and hidden motives that might attach to him. Autopsies had been performed on the deceased Senators, but given the burned corpses the effort proved useless. The bureau was pursuing a theory of the Mercedes somehow being forced off the parkway, and persons of interest were being interviewed, anyone having a motive for doing away with the Senators.
Finally, the mangled and scorched Mercedes could not be expected to provide any meaningful clues.
Carter put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it. The pack was almost empty, and he had opened it just this morning.
If only we could get to the bottom of this.
CHAPTER 14
James had allowed Alec Specter to squirm before finally sending him an e-mail. The lawyer sat impatiently at his desk, noticed the message and opened it.
IF YOU WANT TO LIVE, FOLLOW THE ATTACHED INSTRUCTIONS, TO THE LETTER. ANY DEVIATION WHATSOEVER AND YOU’RE ALL DONE.
The attachment contained instructions, including the location of a package hidden in a wooded area adjacent to the estate’s motor court. He retrieved the package, a large zip-lock bag containing a type-written note and a mobile phone. Alone in his study, he began to read the note.
NOW THAT WE HAVE YOU’RE UNDIVIDED ATTENTION, BE ADVISED THAT WE REQUIRE YOU HAVE IN YOUR POSSESSION, NO LATER THAN MIDNIGHT, THE FOLLOWING:
The note went on to describe the form of payment. Round, brilliant cut diamonds, one-and-a-half to two carats in size, color D flawless, clarity F flawless, no less than 200 carats in total. No gem was to bear any laser inscription or markings of any kind. The note continued:
THE ENCLOSED MOBILE PHONE IS YOUR LIFELINE. IT WILL SERVE AS A MEANS TO FACILITATE THE DELIVERY. AT MIDNIGHT, HAVE THE GEMS ON HAND. WAIT FOR US TO MAKE CONTACT. IF YOU DECIDE NOT TO MAKE THE DELIVERY IN PERSON AND SOMEONE ELSE DROPS THE BALL, THE PENALTY IS YOUR HEAD.
Kate had discovered during her research that the bulk of Specter’s liquid assets were parked in a blind trust in the British Virgin Islands. This meant the account owner’s true identity could not be determined—not directly, at least. The account history reflected deposits and withdrawals tied to other accounts, one of them showing a withdrawal for the purchase of the SUV involved in the car wreck that killed Senators Nelson and Hill. James had decided that the only way of determining, with absolute certainty, the involvement of Alec Specter in the conspiracy was to blackmail him. James would demand a large sum of money, forcing Specter to withdraw funds from the trust’s bank account. He talked Kate into monitoring the account—over her objection—and wait for the withdrawal.
Specter finished reading the note, looked up and saw his wife, standing in front of his desk.
She tore the note from his hand. “What’s this?”
The words cut into her as she read the note. She immediately grasped its implications, having previously eavesdropped on the conversation between her husband and the policemen. Filled with rage, she picked up a book at her side, hurled it at him. Her pitching arm from the days on the high school women’s baseball team was evidently still intact—the heavy book bounced off his forehead. He stumbled backward.
“You’re despicable!” she shouted.
&nb
sp; He rubbed his hand across his forehead. “Calm down.”
“You got us into this mess. And I’m supposed to be calm?”
“There’s always a solution. I can beat these people.”
“Oh, sure you can. Because it’s just rotten enough. Have you even once thought about me . . . about our son?” she shrieked. “You greedy, miserable son of a bitch! The worst part is that you can’t see it. Now we’re all paying a price. I had a feeling something like this would happen.”
He pressed on. “Every problem has a solution. I’ll figure a way out.”
Her cheeks flushed with anger. “Have you lost your mind? Didn’t you hear what those policemen said?” She pointed a finger at him. “These men are trained killers. If you don’t pay, you are a walking dead man. Are you listening to me?”
He kept on with his condescending tone. “I’m hearing every word.”
She crossed to the doorway, brushed past him, spun on her heels. “By the way, you’re sleeping in the guest quarters.”
She turned and stormed out.
Bruised and chastised, Specter sat behind his desk, forwarded the e-mail with the demand note to George Brennan—Chief of the Greenwich Police Department who then sent the note along to the FBI.
Minutes later, the telephone rang.
“Yes?”
“Good evening, Mr. Specter. It’s George Brennan.”
“I’m assuming you’ve read the note,” he said, rubbing the lump on his forehead.
“I have.”
“I’m going to meet their demands. I have no choice. My wife is already thinking of ways to kill me.”
The Chief suppressed a chuckle. “I understand.”
“I want to make something clear. I don’t give a damn what you do after the drop. The diamonds you deliver are to be genuine. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
After ending the call, the swindler worked the phones, pulling out all the stops to gather the demanded gemstones in the allotted time. A few miles away, in the cottage, Kate sat before her laptop. She had hacked into the bank’s server and continued to monitor the account every fifteen minutes. An hour after the police chief left Specter alone in his study, Kate’s eyes grew wide as she peered at her laptop.
The Tangled Webb Page 4
