The Cipher

by Maldonado, Isabella

  Breck pulled the laptop back around and tapped the keys. “We were able to follow the van he used in the DC case onto the Dulles Toll Road. He exited onto Route Twenty-Eight and kept heading west until there were no more cameras.”

  “He drove me west from Alexandria to Chantilly when he’d kidnapped me,” Nina said. “In the same van or one just like it.”

  Buxton opened a leather portfolio embossed with the FBI seal and made a note. “We should check the same parcel of land where he took you before, but I doubt he’d be careless enough to build a new shed there.”

  “We could get satellite photos of the whole area,” Breck added. “Use the eye in the sky to spot any unauthorized structures on the property.”

  “I’ll make the request,” Buxton said, still scribbling.

  Breck nodded. “In the meantime, I just received a file from the task force video team. We’ve been working with visual data from both cases to create a better suspect composite.”

  Nina perked up. They hadn’t had enough to even attempt a sketch before. This was the kind of information that could crack the case. She put down her coffee and listened carefully.

  “We cleaned up the images of him from the alley in DC as best we could, considering the ball cap and facial hair. Nothing matches any face-rec databases, but when we superimposed the images with footage from San Francisco, we got enough definition to take a stab at a computer-generated composite.”

  Nina stood. “Can I see?” She stepped into the aisle and padded toward Breck.

  “What did he look like in San Francisco?” Wade asked.

  “He wasn’t hobbling around in California, so he must have altered his gait somehow in DC,” Breck said. Then added, “He wasn’t heavyset in California either.”

  Nina recalled the surveillance footage in DC of the chubby delivery man with a distinctive limp rolling the handcart with the oversize box toward the nightclub. She would never have pegged him for the muscular, athletically built man who had easily overpowered her. Now she knew why. The gut and the limp had been fake.

  “There’s tons of video of him at Pier Thirty-Nine.” Breck’s comment pulled her back from her musing. “He stole a dinghy, threw an oversize chum tank in the back, and motored out to the floating dock. He opened the lid, pulled the victim’s body out—hidden in a black garbage bag—and tied it to one of the pylons in the early hours before dawn. You can see him reaching down into the water with a knife to cut the bag away. No one thought anything of it at the time.” Breck tucked a curly red tendril behind her ear. “The place was deserted, and he was dressed in a gray sweat suit with a hoodie covering his head. He had a turtleneck underneath pulled up over his nose and aviator sunglasses covering his eyes.”

  “How did he transport the body to the pier?” Nina asked, sitting down next to her.

  “Parked a pickup close to the dock nearest to the dinghy, unloaded the chum tank, which had wheels on one end and a handle on the other, and wheeled it down the gangway.”

  “Damn,” Kent said. “Right out in the open.”

  “It’s part of the thrill for him,” Wade said. “Part of the game. Proves he’s so much better than we are.”

  “Any video of the unsub taping the envelope to that dumpster or walking through terminals in the surrounding airports?” Buxton asked.

  “Nothing so far.” Breck angled the screen toward Nina. “Take a look and see if you can add anything. There’s still time for me to tweak the image if it’s way off.”

  “My memories are out of date compared to what you have,” she said, giving Wade a side-eye. “And apparently patchy too.”

  She studied the image on the laptop. The man had a well-defined jawline and pronounced features, all regular. Breck had left the sunglasses in place. There was nothing striking about him. Nothing to set him apart except an indefinable sense that made her flesh crawl.

  “I remember that his eyes were blue,” Nina said after a careful inspection.

  Breck reached for the mouse. “Any particular shade?”

  Try as she might, she could not offer more. “Sorry.”

  “Easy enough.” Breck dragged the computer back. “I’ll give him a neutral eye shape and add in a medium blue to the irises. I’ll have it ready in two shakes.”

  “We’ll distribute it to law enforcement,” Buxton said.

  “Do we give it to the public?” Nina asked.

  Buxton frowned. “I don’t want to circulate it until we have a clearer image. With that heavy beard growth and dark ball cap, he looks like fifty percent of all white males between twenty and fifty years old in the US.”

  Kent nodded. “Given the publicity this case already has, we’d get tens of thousands of false leads.”

  “For the time being, we’ll just disseminate it to the officers detailed to the Freedom Trail this morning,” Breck said.

  Dreading the answer, she asked the question plaguing her since Kent had prodded her awake. “Has anyone posted a solution to the Cipher’s clue yet?”

  “Negative,” Buxton said. “We still have the advantage. If our luck holds, we’ll catch this guy without a public circus.”

  “There are more teams forming all over the country,” Breck said. “Some of them want to win the five hundred grand, some want to catch the infamous Cipher, and some are trying to do both.”

  Nina pulled out her cell phone. “I’ve been checking his social media sites. He’s set up a leaderboard on his Facebook page with the names of people or teams who are after him, listing the Brew Crew in the number two slot behind Julian Zarran. He’s making sure everyone knows about the reward too.”

  “He’s fueling the rivalry,” Wade said. “The public attention is enhancing the whole power dynamic for him. He’s driving the national conversation right now.”

  “Got everyone chasing their tails.” Breck nodded. “Third on the list is a group of sexual assault survivors who call themselves the Pink Wave. Fourth is a band of former Army Rangers. I can’t say much for his chances of survival if they get to him before we do. In fifth position is a group of students. He only lists the top five teams.”

  Nina rolled her eyes. “So not only are we hunting this guy, we’re in direct competition with a bunch of Scooby-Doo gangs from around the country who are chasing him as well?”

  “I know we’re watching the Cipher’s social media posts, but is someone monitoring the Scoobies?” Wade said. “The Cipher is the type who might try to insert himself into the investigation by posing as someone on a team and proposing solutions to his puzzles to either throw us off or manipulate us in some other way.”

  “The segment of the task force monitoring social media engagement is looking into the background of every team that gets involved,” Buxton said. “They send me regular updates.”

  Nina looked through the small cabin window at the city lights far below. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of civilians were wading into the investigation. There was no way to control what happened when they interacted with the psychopath who called himself the Cipher. He was reveling in the chaos. Stoking it.

  “The unsub is using the public to run interference,” Kent said, echoing her thoughts. “So far, it’s working for him. This is only going to get worse.”

  “Agreed,” Buxton said, bringing the conversation back around to logistics. “We’ve got to finalize our plan for Boston before we land. I’ve been in touch with the local FBI field office and the Boston police commissioner. They’ve done a soft activation of their EOC.”

  Nina didn’t like it. An Emergency Operations Center activation usually involved authorization from city management and pulled in multiple local agencies. “Won’t that call attention to—”

  Buxton held up a hand. “I emphasized that we need this operation to be as covert as possible and that if the unsub knows we’re onto him, he’ll switch up his plans.” He glanced at the lined notebook paper inside his portfolio. “They’ve reassigned all available plainclothes personnel to deploy along the Free
dom Trail. They’ll be augmented by uniformed officers on bikes, motorcycles, and on foot beats, but they’ll be scattered around so it doesn’t look like increased patrol.” He flipped a page. “That’s a total of roughly two hundred police to cover the length of the Trail, which is about two and a half miles long.”

  “Wall-to-wall coverage.” Kent gave Buxton an appreciative nod. “The bastard won’t be able to squeak out a fart without us smelling it.”

  “Where does the Trail start?” Breck asked.

  “First stop is Boston Common,” Buxton said. “It ends at Boston Harbor.”

  Kent let out a groan. “Another harbor. This guy likes the water. What’s the BPD doing about that?”

  “They have a Harbor Unit,” Buxton said. “The harbormaster is deploying everything that floats. They’ve also coordinated with the Massachusetts Port Authority. Massport has its own police, who work in conjunction with state patrol. They’ve been looped into the EOC to keep an eye on the marine terminals and everything else near the water.”

  “What about air support?” Nina said.

  Buxton glanced at his notes. “BPD doesn’t have helicopters. They rely on the Massachusetts State Police air fleet.” He looked back at Nina. “Another reason for the EOC. We’re coordinating air support there.”

  “Does the BPD have drones?” Breck asked.

  “They’ll be circulating over the area around the clock, and they also have a substantial net of cameras all over downtown, especially at historic landmarks along the Trail.” He allowed a rare smile. “Boston is sealed up tighter than a frog’s ass. We’re going to catch this guy.”

  Her supervisor’s enthusiasm was contagious. For the first time since the case began, Nina felt hopeful. “What are our orders when we land?”

  “We’ll meet up with our local field agents at the EOC.”

  She had no intention of sitting in a room full of video monitors watching the takedown. “I want to go out with the plainclothes BPD cops on the Trail.”

  “Thanks to that viral video, you’re famous, Agent Guerrera,” Buxton said, shaking his head. “You’d blow the whole operation.”

  She’d come prepared. “I packed an oversize hoodie. I’ll wear my Jackie-O sunglasses. No one will know who I am.”

  She noticed Wade giving her an assessing look and shot him a hard stare. He’d better not try to sideline her.

  “Actually,” Wade said slowly, “I think Guerrera could be useful in the field. She can pair up with a local plainclothes detective, and they would look totally natural strolling the Trail like a couple of tourists.”

  “I want to go out too,” Kent said. “Nobody knows who I am. I could take a different spot on the Trail.”

  “Fine.” Buxton raised his hands in mock surrender. “All of you can team up with a local and take a position.”

  The door to the cockpit opened and the copilot stepped into the main cabin. “Excuse me, sir, you have an urgent call from Public Affairs.” He held a satellite phone out to Buxton.

  Silence gathered around them as he held the device to his ear. “Buxton.”

  His face grew tense. “How long ago?” He nodded. “Let the EOC in Boston know about this. Tell them we’ll be on the ground in ten minutes.”

  Buxton handed the phone back to the copilot and turned to them. “The crew from MIT just posted the solution online,” he said. “Every damn Scooby east of the Mississippi and north of the Mason-Dixon is heading to the Freedom Trail.”

  Chapter 19

  Three hours later

  The Freedom Trail, Boston, Massachusetts

  Nina had to crane her neck to meet Detective Joe Delaney’s eyes. “How long have you been in Narcotics?”

  “’Bout four years,” he replied in a Boston accent as thick as his ginger beard.

  She had trouble picturing the big Irish cop in uniform. His red hair fell past his shoulders in a shaggy ponytail, and his beard reached the middle of his broad chest.

  “Must have thrown your razor in the trash the day you got your assignment.”

  He might have smiled. Hard to tell through the forest of whiskers.

  “Don’t like shaving,” he said. “That’s true enough.”

  They’d walked the Trail together, pretending to be a couple enjoying the sights, for the past two hours. Her hoodie compromised her peripheral vision somewhat, but she was certain no one had escaped their notice.

  They fell into conversation as they strolled. Delaney was a talker and filled her in on the city’s secrets as only a cop could. They ambled toward Faneuil Hall, renowned for its bustling shops and eateries.

  It was early, but restaurants were already in food-prep mode. “Something smells good,” she said.

  Delaney scented the air like a bloodhound. “That’ll be the famous Boston baked beans. They start early and slow cook them all day.” He glanced down at her. “But you need to be careful if you’re not used to eating them. They can make you fat.”

  She smoothed a hand over her flat belly. “Between the running and the workouts, I stay pretty lean.”

  “No,” Delaney said. “They make you fat. F-a-r-t. Fat.”

  She grinned. “Is that what passes for humor in Boston?”

  “It’s actually true either way,” he said, chuckling. “Beans are pure carbs.”

  It sounded like he said pure cabs.

  “Remember when we were introduced, and I asked about your current assignment? You told me you were a knack. I thought maybe it was BPD jargon for some specialty unit I hadn’t heard of. Took me a few seconds to realize you meant you were a narc.”

  He sent her a wry grin. “Is that what passes for humor in the FBI?”

  Touché.

  They walked between a bistro and a café toward the outskirts surrounding Faneuil Hall. The streets were becoming crowded, and Nina spotted people darting between pedestrians and jostling sightseers, their heads swiveling in every direction.

  “Scoobies,” she muttered.

  “Come again?”

  She blew out an exasperated breath. “The internet has brought out wannabe detectives. Everyone’s after the reward money or the bragging rights.”

  “Ah, the Scooby-Doo gang.” He gave her an understanding nod. “They’ll end up getting themselves hurt or screwing up the investigation.”

  She scanned the sights around her again. Was the Cipher here? Had he already come and gone? Was another girl fighting for her life at this very moment? Her hands bunched into fists. She knew all too well what he would be doing if they didn’t find a way to stop him.

  Delaney tapped the side of his head where his mic was hidden under a mass of hair. “I’m getting nothing. You?”

  “Nothing on our end either. I’m sure the EOC will hear about it first if anything happens.”

  They turned to start back toward the end of the Trail.

  “I usually like to see a city worker dedicated to the job, but not today,” Delaney said.

  She followed his gaze. A Latino man in a neon yellow Public Works vest was grasping a city trash can a block away from the Trail. She frowned. “I thought you guys requested no trash removal today.”

  “We did.” Delaney started toward the worker. “This guy obviously didn’t get the memo.”

  Buxton had asked the police commissioner to ensure every trash receptacle within three city blocks of the Freedom Trail remained untouched. The unsub had established a pattern of using dumpsters to deliver clues or dispose of bodies in the past. If he did it today, he would be on camera and under surveillance.

  She had to jog to keep up with Delaney’s ground-eating strides as they crossed the street.

  “Yo,” Delaney called out to the man. “Leave the garbage can alone.”

  Nina remained quiet. Delaney was in the awkward position of trying to intervene while maintaining his cover. She let him take the lead.

  The man straightened and turned toward them, pushing a thick mop of curly black hair from his dark face. “I clean,” he s
aid in heavily accented English. “I do trash.” He pointed at the can.

  “You’re not supposed to pick up the trash today,” Delaney said, enunciating each word slowly. “Didn’t your boss tell you?”

  The man gave him a puzzled look. He probably wondered why a red-haired giant was telling him not to do his job. “Was at my sister house. My ride no come, so I come myself.” He smiled.

  “No,” Delaney said. “You no come today. Understand?”

  She spotted a flash of white in the man’s gloved hand and addressed him in Spanish. “Qué tiene usted?”

  His brown eyes snapped to hers, widening. “I find,” he answered in English, holding up a sealed white business envelope with a piece of tape dangling from the edge. “Just now. On top of trash can.” He pointed again.

  Delaney snatched it from his grasp and flipped it over. He turned his back to the worker to face Nina. Without a word, he held up the envelope to show her what was printed on it.

  WARRIOR GIRL

  Pulse pounding, she lurched forward to grab it from Delaney. They looked at each other for a long moment.

  “Should we open it?” Delaney said in a low voice.

  “Hell yes.”

  The evidence techs wouldn’t be happy, but there might be something time-sensitive inside. She would take the ass-chewing later. Right now, they needed information. She slid a finger under the flap and pulled out a white index card. Delaney peered over her shoulder as she read.

  ONE IF BY LAND, TWO IF BY SEA

  Nina remembered the famous phrase from history classes. “That was from the night of Paul Revere’s ride, right?”

  Delaney nodded. “They were supposed to light one lantern if the British were attacking by land, two lanterns if they were crossing the Charles River.” He frowned. “Why would the Cipher bring that up?”

  “Paul Revere,” Nina said. “His house is one of the stops on the Freedom Trail. We’ve got to notify the EOC.”

  “Hold on a sec.” Delaney paused with his hand halfway to his earbud. “The lanterns were lit in the steeple of the Old North Church. Another stop on the Trail.”