He understood suddenly: There was no secret message. He's on his way. Look out--Luke 12:15. It was meaningless. The killer could've written any biblical passage on the note. The whole point was to have the police contact the phony reverend and give the man access to the lockup at the same time that Pease was there.
And I led him right to his victim!
Dropping the phone and pulling his gun from its holster, Silverman raced up the hall and tackled the reverend. The man cried out in pain and gasped as the fall knocked the wind from his lungs. The detective pushed his gun into the hit man's neck. "Don't move a muscle."
"What're you doing?"
"What's wrong?" Pease's guard asked.
"He's the killer! He's one of Doyle's men!"
"No, I'm not. This is crazy!"
Silverman cuffed the fake minister roughly and holstered his gun. He frisked him and didn't find any weapons but figured he'd probably intended to grab one of the cops' own guns to kill Pease--and the rest of them.
The detective yanked the minister to his feet and handed him off to the intake guard. He ordered, "Take him to an interrogation room. I'll be there in ten minutes. Make sure he's shackled."
"Yessir."
"You can't do this!" the reverend shouted as he was led away roughly. "You're making a big mistake."
"Get him out of here," Silverman snapped.
Pease eyed the detective contemptuously. "He coulda killed me, you asshole."
Another guard ran up the corridor from intake. "Problem, Detective?"
"We've got everything under control. But see if the lockup's empty yet. I want that man inside ASAP!" Nodding toward Pease.
"Yessir," the guard said and hurried to the intercom beside the security door leading to the cells.
Silverman looked back down the corridor, watching the minister and his escort disappear through a doorway. The detective's hands were shaking. Man, that was a close one. But at least the witness is safe.
And so is my job.
Still have to answer a hell of a lot of questions, sure, but--
"No!" a voice cried behind him.
A sharp sound, like an axe in a tree trunk, resounded in the corridor, then a second, accompanied by the acrid smell of burnt gunpowder.
The detective spun around, gasping. He found himself staring in shock at the intake guard who'd just joined them. The young man held an automatic pistol mounted with a silencer and he was standing over the bodies of the men he'd just killed: Ray Pease and the cop who'd been beside him.
Silverman reached for his own gun.
But Doyle's hit man, wearing a perfect replica of a Detention Center guard's uniform, turned his pistol on the detective and shook his head. In despair Silverman realized that he'd been partly right. Doyle's people had shot up the safe house to flush out Pease--but not to send him to the hospital; they knew the cops would bring him to the jail for safekeeping.
The hit man looked up the corridor. None of the other guards had heard or otherwise noticed the killings. The man pulled a radio from his pocket with his left hand, pushed a button and said, "It's done. Ready for the pickup."
"Good," came the tinny reply. "Right on schedule. We'll meet you in front of the station."
"Got it." He put the radio away.
Silverman opened his mouth to plead with the killer to spare his life.
But he fell silent, then gave a faint, despairing laugh as he glanced at the killer's name badge and he realized the truth--that the dead snitch's message hadn't been so mysterious after all. The CI was simply telling them to look out for a hit man masquerading as a guard whose first name was what Silverman now gaped at on the man's plastic name plate: "Luke."
And, as for the chapter and verse, well, that was pretty simple too. The CI's note meant that the killer was planning the hit shortly after the start of the second shift, to give himself fifteen minutes to find where the prisoner was being held.
Right on schedule . . .
The time on the wall clock was exactly 12:15.
THE COMMUTER
Monday started out bad.
Charles Monroe was on the 8:11 out of Greenwich, his usual train. He was juggling his briefcase and coffee--today tepid and burnt tasting--as he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket to get a head start on his morning calls. It brayed loudly. The sound startled him and he spilled a large comma of coffee on his tan suit slacks.
"God damn," he whispered, flipping open the phone. Monroe grumbled, "'Lo?"
"Honey."
His wife. He'd told her never to call on the cell phone unless it was an emergency.
"What is it?" he asked, rubbing the stain furiously as if the anger alone would make it vanish.
"Thank God I got you, Charlie."
Hell, did he have another pair of trousers at the office? No. But he knew where he could get one. The slacks slipped from his mind as he realized his wife had started crying.
"Hey, Cath, settle down. What is it?" She irritated him in a lot of ways--her incessant volunteering for charities and schools, her buying bargain-basement clothes for herself, her nagging about his coming home for dinner--but crying wasn't one of her usual vices.
"They found another one," Cathy said, sniffling.
She did, however, often start talking as if he were supposed to know exactly what she meant.
"Who found another what?"
"Another body."
Oh, that. In the past several months, two local residents had been murdered. The South Shore Killer, as one of the local rags had dubbed him, stabbed his victims to death and then eviscerated them with hunting knives. They were murdered for virtually no reason. One, following what seemed to be a minor traffic dispute. The other was killed, police speculated, because his dog wouldn't stop barking.
"So?" Monroe asked.
"Honey," Cathy said, catching her breath, "it was in Loudon."
"That's miles from us."
His voice was dismissing but Monroe in fact felt a faint chill. He drove through Loudon every morning on his way to the train station in Greenwich. Maybe he'd driven right past the corpse.
"But that makes three now!"
I can count too, he thought. But said calmly, "Cath, honey, the odds're a million to one he's going to come after you. Just forget about it. I don't see what you're worried about."
"You don't see what I'm worried about?" she asked.
Apparently he didn't. When Monroe didn't respond she continued, "You. What do you think?"
"Me?"
"The victims have all been men in their thirties. And they all lived near Greenwich."
"I can take care of myself," he said absently, gazing out the window at a line of schoolchildren waiting on a train platform. They were sullen. He wondered why they weren't looking forward to their outing in the city.
"You've been getting home so late, honey. I worry about you walking from the station to the car. I--"
"Cath, I'm really busy. Look at it this way: He seems to pick a victim once a month, right?"
"What? . . ."
Monroe continued, "And he's just killed somebody. So we can relax for a while."
"Is that . . . Are you making a joke, Charlie?"
His voice rose. "Cathy, I really have to go. I don't have time for this."
A businesswoman in the seat in front of him turned and gave him an angry glance.
What's her problem?
Then he heard a voice. "Excuse me, sir?"
The businessman sitting next to him--an accountant or lawyer, Monroe guessed--was smiling ruefully at him.
"Yes?" Monroe asked.
"I'm sorry," he said, "but you're speaking pretty loud. Some of us are trying to read."
Monroe glanced at several other commuters. Their irritated faces told him they felt the same.
He was in no mood for lectures. Everybody used cell phones on the train. When one would ring, a dozen hands went for their own phones.
"Yeah, well," Monroe grumbled, "I was here first. You saw me on the ph
one and you sat down. Now, if you don't mind . . ."
The man blinked in surprise. "Well, I didn't mean anything. I was just wondering if you could speak a little more softly."
Monroe exhaled a frustrated sigh and turned back to his conversation. "Cath, just don't worry about it, okay? Now, listen, I need my monogrammed shirt for tomorrow."
The man gave him a piqued glance, sighed and gathered up his newspaper and briefcase. He moved to the seat behind Monroe. Good riddance.
"Tomorrow?" Cathy asked.
Monroe didn't actually need the shirt but he was irritated at Cathy for calling and he was irritated at the man next to him for being so rude. So he said, more loudly than he needed to, "I just said I have to have it for tomorrow."
"It's just kind of busy today. If you'd said something last night . . ."
Silence.
"Okay," she continued, "I'll do it. But, Charlie, promise you'll be careful tonight coming home."
"Yeah. Okay. Gotta go."
"'Bye--"
He hit disconnect.
Great way to start the day, he thought. And punched in another number.
"Carmen Foret, please," he told the young woman who answered.
More commuters were getting on the train. Monroe tossed his briefcase on the seat next to him to discourage anybody else's sitting there.
A moment later the woman's voice answered.
"Hello?"
"Hey, baby, it's me."
A moment of silence.
"You were going to call me last night," the woman said coolly.
He'd known Carmen for eight months. She was, he'd heard, a talented real estate broker and was also, he supposed, a wonderful, generous woman in many ways. But what he knew about her--all he really cared to know--was that she had a soft, buoyant body and long, cinnamon-colored hair that spread out on pillows like warm satin.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart, the meeting went a lot later than I thought."
"Your secretary didn't think it went all that late."
Hell. She'd called his office. She hardly ever did. Why last night?
"We went out for drinks after we revised the deal letter. Then we ended up at the Four Seasons. You know."
"I know," she said sourly.
He asked, "What're you doing at lunch today?"
"I'm doing a tuna salad sandwich, Charlie. What're you doing?"
"Meet me at your place."
"No, Charlie. Not today. I'm mad at you."
"Mad at me? 'Cause I missed one phone call?"
"No, 'cause you've missed about three hundred phone calls since we've been dating."
Dating? Where did she get that? She was his mistress. They slept together. They didn't date, they didn't go out, they didn't court and spark.
"You know how much money I can make on this deal. I couldn't mess up, honey."
Hell. Mistake.
Carmen knew he called Cathy "honey." She didn't like it when he used the endearment with her.
"Well," she said frostily, "I'm busy at lunch. I may be busy for a lot of lunches. Maybe all the lunches for the rest of my life."
"Come on, babe."
Her laugh said: Nice try. But he wasn't pardoned for the "honey" glitch.
"Well, you mind if I come over and just pick up something?"
"Pick up something?" Carmen asked.
"A pair of slacks."
"You mean, you called me just now because you wanted to pick up some laundry?"
"No, no, babe. I wanted to see you. I really did. I just spilled some coffee on my slacks. While we were talking."
"Gotta go, Charlie."
"Babe--"
Click.
Damn.
Mondays, Monroe was thinking. I hate Mondays.
He called directory assistance and asked for the number of a jewelry store near Carmen's office. He charged a five-hundred-dollar pair of diamond earrings and arranged to have them delivered to her as soon as possible. The note he dictated read, "To my grade-A lover: A little something to go with your tuna salad. Charlie."
Eyes out the window. The train was close to the city now. The big mansions and the little wannabe mansions had given way to row houses and squat bungalows painted in hopeful pastels. Blue and red plastic toys and parts of toys sat in the balding backyards. A heavyset woman hanging laundry paused and, frowning, watched the train speed past as if she were watching an air show disaster clip on CNN.
He made another call.
"Let me speak to Hank Shapiro."
A moment later a gruff voice came on the line. "Yeah?"
"Hey, Hank. It's Charlie. Monroe."
"Charlie, how the hell're we coming with our project?"
Monroe wasn't expecting the question quite this soon in the conversation. "Great," he said after a moment. "We're doing great."
"But?"
"But what?"
Shapiro said, "It sounds like you're trying to tell me something."
"No . . . . It's just things're going a little slower than I thought. I wanted to--"
"Slower?" Shapiro asked.
"They're putting some of the information on a new computer system. It's a little harder to find than it used to be." He tried to joke, "You know, those old-style floppy disks? They called them file folders?"
Shapiro barked, "I'm hearing 'little slower.' I'm hearing 'little harder.' That's not my problem. I need that information and I need it soon."
The morning's irritations caught up with Monroe and he whispered fiercely, "Listen, Hank, I've been at Johnson, Levine for years. Nobody has the insider information I do except Foxworth himself. So just back off, okay? I'll get you what I promised."
Shapiro sighed. After a moment he asked, "You're sure he doesn't have any idea?"
"Who, Foxworth? He's completely in the dark."
A fast, irritating image of his boss flickered in Monroe's thoughts. Todd Foxworth was a large, quirky man. He'd built a huge ad agency from a small graphic design firm in SoHo. Monroe was a senior account executive and vice president. He'd risen about as far as he could in the company doing account work but Foxworth had resisted Monroe's repeated suggestions that the agency create a special title for him. Tension sat between the men like a rotting plum and over the past year Monroe had come to believe that Foxworth was persecuting him--continually complaining about his expense account, his sloppy record keeping, his unexplained absences from the office. Finally, when he'd gotten only a seven percent raise after his annual review, Monroe'd decided to retaliate. He'd gone to Hunter, Shapiro, Stein & Arthur and offered to sell them insider client information. The idea troubled him at first but then he figured it was just another way of collecting the twenty percent raise that he thought he was due.
Shapiro said, "I can't wait much longer, Charlie. I don't see something soon, I may have to cut bait."
Crazy wives, rude commuters . . . Now this. Jesus. What a morning.
"This info'll be grade-A gold, Hank."
"Better be. I sure as hell am paying for gold."
"I'll have some good stuff by this weekend. How 'bout you come up to my country place and you can look it over. It'll be nice and private."
"You got a country place?"
"I don't broadcast it. Fact is, well, Cathy doesn't know. A friend and I go up there sometimes . . ."
"A friend."
"Yeah. A friend. And she's got a girlfriend or two she could invite up if you wanted to come."
"Or two?"
Or three, Monroe thought but let it go.
A long silence. Then Shapiro chuckled. "I think she oughta bring just one friend, Charlie. I'm not a young man anymore. Where is this place?"
Monroe gave him directions. Then he said, "How 'bout dinner tonight? I'll take you to Chez Antibes."
Another chuckle. "I could live with that."
"Good. About eightish."
Monroe was tempted to ask Shapiro to bring Jill, a young assistant account exec who worked at Shapiro's agency--and who also happened to be the
woman he'd spent the evening with at the Holiday Inn last night when Carmen had been trying to track him down. But he thought: Don't push your luck. He and Shapiro hung up.
Monroe closed his eyes and started to doze off, hoping to catch a few minutes' sleep. But the train lurched sideway and he was jostled awake. He stared out the window. There were no houses to look at anymore. Only sooty, brick apartments. Monroe crossed his arms and rode the rest of the way to Grand Central Station in agitated silence.
The day improved quickly.
Carmen loved the earrings and she came close to forgiving him (though he knew full restitution would involve an expensive dinner and a night at the Sherry-Netherland).
In the office, Foxworth was in a surprisingly cheerful mood. Monroe had worried that the old man was going to grill him about a recent, highly padded expense account. But not only did Foxworth approve it, he complimented Monroe for the fine job he'd done on the Brady Pharmaceutical pitch. He even offered him an afternoon of golf at Foxworth's exclusive country club on Long Island next weekend. Monroe had contempt for golf and particular contempt for North Shore country clubs. But he liked the idea of taking Hank Shapiro golfing on Foxworth's tab. He dismissed the idea as too risky though the thought amused him for much of the afternoon.
At seven o'clock--nearly time to leave to meet Shapiro--he suddenly remembered Cathy. He called home. No answer. Then he dialed the school where she'd been volunteering recently and found that she hadn't come in today. He called home once more. Still she didn't pick up.
He was troubled for a moment. Not that he was worried about the South Shore Killer; he just felt instinctively uneasy when his wife wasn't home--afraid that she might find him with Carmen, or whoever. He was also reluctant for her to find out about his deal with Shapiro. The more money she knew he made the more she'd want. He called once more and got their machine.
But then it was time to leave for dinner and, since Foxworth had left for the night, Monroe ordered a limo and put the expense down to general office charges. He cruised downtown, sipping wine, and had a good dinner with Hank Shapiro. At eleven p.m. he dropped Shapiro off at Penn Station then took the limo to Grand Central. He caught the 11:30 to Greenwich, made it to his car without being stabbed by any knife-wielding crazy men and drove home to peace and quiet. Cathy'd had two martinis and was fast asleep. Monroe watched a little TV, fell asleep on the couch and slept late the next morning; he made the 8:11 with thirty seconds to spare.
At nine-thirty, Charlie Monroe strode into the office, thinking: Monday's over with, it's a new day. Let's get life moving again. He decided to spend the morning getting into the new computer system and printing out prospective client lists for Shapiro. Then he'd have a romantic lunch with Carmen. He'd also give Jill a call and charm her into drinks tonight.