Fatal Error

  He tried to guess where they’d taken it—on a street, in a restaurant?—but it was so closely cropped he couldn’t tell.

  What to do? How about stonewalling?

  “I’m not saying. Because the Order still hasn’t explained its interest in her.”

  Fournier shrugged as he took back the photo. “That is not my decision.” He held up the photo. “So . . . you are saying this is not your sister?”

  “Keep looking.” Eddie was ready to turn away when something occurred to him. “Oh, by the way . . . as I was waiting around at the Lodge, I overhead a couple of people talking about ‘Jihad.’ I thought that an odd thing for a couple of Kickers to be discussing.”

  Fournier frowned. “Jihad? I have not heard any talk of this. Just chatter, I am sure. I know of no Muslims who are Kickers. I do not think they would be allowed in.”

  “Well, no one can know everything about every Kicker.”

  “No.” He looked Eddie in the eye. “No one can know everything about anyone, n’est-ce pas?”

  11

  Munir paced his apartment, going from room to room, cursing himself. Such a fool! Such an idiot! But he couldn’t help it. He’d lost control. When he’d looked back and seen that man walk up to the paper bag and reach inside it, all rationality had fled. The only thing left in his mind had been the sight of Robby’s little finger tumbling out of that envelope last night.

  After that, everything was a blur.

  The phone began to ring.

  Oh, no! It’s him. Please, Allah, let him be satisfied. Grant him mercifulness.

  He lifted the receiver and heard the voice.

  “Quite a show you put on there, Mooo-neeer.”

  “Please. I was upset. You’ve seen my severed finger. Now will you let my family go?”

  “Now just hold on there a minute, Mooo-neeer. I saw a finger go flying through the air, but I don’t know for sure if it was your finger.”

  Munir froze with the receiver jammed against his ear.

  “Wh-what do you mean?”

  “I mean, how do I know that was a real finger? How do I know it wasn’t one of those fake rubber things you buy in the five-and-dime?”

  “It was real! I swear it! You saw how your man reacted!”

  “He was just a wino, Mooo-neeer. Scared of his own shadow. What’s he know?”

  “Oh, please! You must believe me!”

  “Well, I would, Mooo-neeer. Really, I would. Except for the way you grabbed him afterward. Now it’s bad enough you went after him, but I’m willing to overlook that. I’m far more generous about forgiving mistakes than you are, Mooo-neeer. But what bothers me is the way you grabbed him. You used both your hands the same.”

  Munir felt his blood congealing, sludging through his arteries and veins.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I got a problem with seeing a man who just chopped off one of his fingers doing that, Mooo-neeer. I mean, you grabbed him like you had two good hands. And that bothers me, Mooo-neeer. Sorely bothers me.”

  “Please. I swear—”

  “Swearing ain’t good enough, I’m afraid. Seeing is believing. And I believe I saw a man with two good hands out there this morning.”

  “No. Really . . .”

  “So I’m gonna have to send you another package, Mooo-neeer.”

  “Oh, no! Don’t—”

  “Yep. A little memento from your wife.”

  “Please, no.”

  He told Munir what that memento would be, then he clicked off.

  “No!”

  Munir jammed his knuckles into his mouth and screamed into his fist.

  “NOOOOO!”

  12

  Jack stood outside Richard Hollander’s door.

  No sweat getting into the building. The address in the personnel file had led Jack to a rundown walk-up in the far west Forties. He’d checked the mailboxes in the dingy vestibule and found R. HOLLANDER listed for 3B. A few quick strokes with the notched credit card Jack kept handy, and he was in.

  He knocked—not quite pounding, but with enough urgency to bring even the most cautious resident to the peephole.

  Three tries, no answer. Jack pulled out his bump key set and checked out the deadbolt. A Quickset. He found a Quickset bumper and inserted it. These were so much better than the standard rake-and-tension-bar method he’d learned as a kid. He was rusty at that anyway. Might have taken him up to a minute that way, and a minute was a long time when you were standing in an open hallway fiddling with someone’s lock—the closest a fully-clothed man could come to feeling naked in public.

  He took off his shoe, gave the bump key a gentle tap as he twisted, and the cylinder turned. He drew his Kel-Tec backup and entered in a crouch.

  Quiet. Didn’t take long to check out the one-bedroom apartment. Empty. He started to toss the place.

  Neat. The bed was made, the furniture dusted, clothes folded in the bureau drawers, no dirty dishes in the sink. Hollander either had a maid or was a neatnik. People who could afford maids didn’t live in this building; that made him a neatnik. Not what Jack had expected from a guy who got fired because he couldn’t get the job done.

  He checked the bookshelves. A few novels and short story collections—literary stuff, mostly—salted in among the business texts. And in the far right corner, three books on Islam with titles like Understanding Islam and An Introduction to Islam.

  Not an indictment by itself. Hollander might have bought them for reference when he’d been hired by Saud Petrol.

  And he might have bought them after he was fired.

  Jack was willing to bet on the latter. He had a gut feeling about this guy.

  On the desk was a picture of an older woman. Hollander’s mother maybe?

  He went through the drawers and found a black ledger, a checkbook, and a pile of bills. Looked like he’d been dipping into his savings. Paying only the minimum on his MasterCard. A lot of late payment notices, and a couple of bad-news letters from employment agencies. Luck wasn’t running his way, and maybe Mr. Richard Hollander was looking for someone to blame.

  Folded between the back cover and the last page of the ledger was a receipt from the Brickell Real Estate Agency for a cash security deposit and first month’s rental on Loft #629. Dated last month. Made out to Sean McCabe.

  Loft #629. Where the hell was that? And why did Richard Hollander have someone else’s cash receipt? Unless it wasn’t someone else’s. Had he rented loft #629 under a phony name? That would explain using cash. But why would a guy who was almost broke rent a loft?

  Unless he was looking for a place to do something too risky to do in his own apartment.

  Like holding hostages.

  Jack copied down the Brickell agency’s phone number. Might need that later. Then he called Munir.

  Hysteria on the phone. Sobbing, moaning, the guy was almost incoherent.

  “Calm down, dammit! What exactly did he tell you?”

  “He’s going to cut her . . . he’s going to cut her . . . he’s going to cut her . . .”

  He sounded like a stuck record player. If Munir had been within reach Jack would have whacked him alongside the head to unstick him.

  “Cut her what?”

  “Cut her nipple off!”

  “Oh, jeez. Stay there. I’ll call you right back.”

  Jack retrieved the receipt for the loft and dialed the number of the rental agent. As the phone began to ring, he realized he hadn’t figured out an angle to pry out the address. They wouldn’t give it to just anybody. But maybe a cop . . .

  He hoped he was right as a pleasant female voice answered on the third ring. “Brickell Agency.”

  Jack put a harsh Brooklynese edge on his voice.

  “Yeah. This is Lieutenant Adams of the Twelfth Precinct. Who’s in charge there?”

  “I am.” Her voice had cooled. “Esther Brickell. This is my agency.”

  “Good. Here’s the story. We’ve got a suspect in a mutilation murder but
we don’t know his whereabouts. However, we did find a cash receipt among his effects. Your name was on it.”

  “The Brickell Agency?”

  “Big as life. Down payment of some sort on loft number six-two-nine. Sound familiar?”

  “Not offhand. We’re computerized. We access all our rental accounts by number.”

  “Fine. Then it’ll only take you a coupla seconds to get me the address of this place.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that. I have a strict policy of never giving out information about my clients. Especially over the phone. All my dealings with them are strictly confidential. I’m sure you can understand.”

  Swell, Jack thought. She thinks she’s a priest or a reporter.

  “What I understand,” he said, “is that I’ve got a crazy perp out there and you think you’ve got privileged information. Well, listen, sweetie, that kinda thing don’t include Realtors. I need the address of your six-two-nine loft rented to”—he glanced at the name on the receipt—“Sean McCabe. Not later. Now. Capice?”

  “Sorry,” she said. “I can’t do that. Good day, Lieutenant—if indeed you are a lieutenant.”

  Shit! But Jack wasn’t giving up. He had to get this address.

  “Oh, I’m a lieutenant, all right. And believe me, sweetie, you don’t come across with that address here and now, you’ve got trouble. You make me waste my time tracking down a judge to swear out a search warrant, make me come out to your dinky little office to get this one crummy address, I’m gonna do it up big. I’m gonna bring uniforms and squad cars and we’re gonna do a thorough search. And I do mean thorough. We’ll go through all your files. But we won’t do it there. We’ll confiscate all your computers and storage devices and take them down to the one-two and keep them for a while, just to be sure we didn’t miss anything. And maybe you’ll get them back next Christmas. Maybe. And maybe when you do some information’ll be missing. And maybe an obstruction of justice charge as a kicker. How’s that sound?”

  “Just a minute,” she said.

  Jack waited, hoping she hadn’t gone to another phone to call her lawyer and check on his empty threats, or call the Twelfth to check on a particularly obnoxious lieutenant named Adams.

  “It’s on White Street,” she said suddenly in cold, clipped tones. “One-thirty-seven. Two-D.”

  “Thank—”

  She hung up on him. Fine. He had what he needed.

  White Street. That was in Tribeca—a trendy triangle below Canal Street. Lots of lofts down there.

  He punched in Munir’s number.

  “One-thirty-seven White,” he said without preamble. “Get down there now.”

  No time for explanations. He hung up and ran for the door.

  13

  “The Order may have found you.”

  Weezy felt her chest tighten at Eddie’s words.

  “What—what do you mean?”

  “They have a photo but weren’t sure it was you. I told them to keep looking.”

  “I’m confused. You’re saying they found me but may not be sure it’s me?”

  “Right.”

  “What does it all mean?”

  “I don’t know, but maybe you should think of moving back in with—”

  “Can’t do that,” she said, cutting him off before he could mention Jack’s name. Who knew who might be listening? “He needs his space and I need mine. Besides, I’ve caused him enough trouble. And you as well. Please drop this, Eddie.”

  “I can’t. Not till I find out why the Order is interested in you.”

  She begged, he refused, they argued, but Eddie wasn’t budging. Finally they ended the conversation.

  Weezy wandered her apartment, rubbing her suddenly cold hands. A photo of her—how? Where? When? Had they followed her home? She’d seen a number of new faces lately. The girl on the elevator yesterday . . . the guy looking for his dog . . .

  But the building was new and half empty and new people were moving in all the time.

  She went to the window to watch the Broadway traffic, then backed away. Someone could be watching her from an apartment across the street. She pulled the curtains, darkening the room.

  She hated this. She’d been so comfortable here, able to concentrate on the Compendium. All the disparate pieces were fitting together into a cohesive picture of the First Age and its secrets. And maybe . . . just maybe a way to stop Rasalom, referred to in the Compendium only as “the One.”

  She heard noise outside and hurried to her door. Through the peephole she saw men in overalls angling a new mattress through the door across the hall. That apartment had been empty since she’d moved in. Looked like someone had rented or bought it.

  The Order gets a photo of her and then someone moves in across the hall. For some reason, that didn’t sit right.

  She’d have to keep a careful watch.

  14

  The building looked like a deserted factory. Probably was. Four stories with no windows on the first floor. Maybe an old sweatshop. A NOW RENTING sign next to the front door. The place looked empty. Had the Brickell lady stiffed him with the wrong address?

  With his trusty credit card in his gloved hand, Jack hopped out of the cab and ran for the door—a steel leftover from the building’s factory days. An anti-jimmy plate had been welded over the latch area. Jack pocketed the plastic and inspected the lock: a heavy-duty Schlage. A tough pick, even with a bump key. Here on the sidewalk, with the clock ticking, in full view of the passing cars and pedestrians . . . no go.

  He ran along the front of the building and took the alley around to the back. Another door there, this one with a big red alarm warning posted front and center.

  Two-D . . . that meant the second floor had been subdivided into at least four mini lofts. If Hollander was here at all, he’d be renting the cheapest. Usually the lower letters meant up front with a view of the street; further down the alphabet you got relegated to the rear with an alley view.

  Jack stepped back and looked up. The second-floor windows to his left were bare and empty. The ones on the right were draped with what looked like bedsheets.

  And running right smack between those windows was a downspout.

  Jack tested the pipe. Not some flimsy aluminum tube that collapsed like a beer can, this was good old-fashioned galvanized steel. He pulled on the fittings. They wiggled in their sockets.

  Not good, but he’d have to risk it.

  He began to climb, shimmying up the pipe, vising it with his knees and elbows as he sought toeholds and fingerholds on the fittings. It shuddered, it groaned, and halfway up it settled a couple of inches with a jolt, but it held. Moments later he was perched outside the shrouded second-floor windows.

  Now what?

  Sometimes the direct approach was the best. He knocked on the nearest pane—two feet high, three feet wide, and filthy. After a few seconds, he knocked again. Finally a corner of one of the sheets lifted hesitantly and a man stared out at him. Dark, buzz-cut hair, wide dark eyes behind thick glasses, pale face in need of a shave. The eyes got wider and the face faded a few shades paler when he saw Jack.

  Jack smiled and gave him a friendly wave. He raised his voice to be heard through the glass.

  “Good morning. I’d like to have a word with Mrs. Habib, if you don’t mind.”

  The corner of the sheet dropped and the guy disappeared. Which confirmed that he’d found Richard Hollander. Anybody else would have asked him what the hell he was doing out there and who the hell was Mrs. Habib?

  Had to move quickly now. No telling what this gutless creep might do before he scuttled off.

  Bracing his hands on the pipe, Jack planted one foot on the three-inch windowsill and aimed a kick at the bottom pane.

  Suddenly the glass three panes above it exploded outward as a rusty steel L-bar smashed through, narrowly missing Jack’s face and showering him with glittering shards.

  Jack swung back onto the pipe and around to the windows on the other side. The bar retreated t
hrough the holes it had punched in the sheet and the glass. As Jack shifted his weight to the opposite sill, he realized that from inside he was silhouetted on the sheet. Too late. The bar came crashing through the pane level with Jack’s groin, catching him in the leg. He grunted with pain as the corner of the bar tore through his jeans and gouged the flesh across the front of his thigh. In a sudden burst of rage, he grabbed the bar and pulled.

  The sheet came down and draped over Hollander. He fought it off with panicky swipes, letting go of the bar in the process. Jack pulled it the rest of the way through the window and dropped it into the alley below. Then he kicked the remaining glass out of the pane and swung inside.

  Hollander was dashing for the door, something in his right hand—gloved hand.

  Jack started after him, his mind registering strobe-flash images as he moved: a big empty space, a card table, two chairs, three mattresses on the floor, the first empty, a boy tied to the second, a naked woman tied to the third, blood on her right breast.

  Jack picked up speed and caught him as he reached the door. He grabbed the collar of Hollander’s T-shirt and yanked him back. As the fabric ripped, Hollander spun and swung a meat cleaver at Jack’s head. Jack ducked, grabbed the wrist with his left hand—Hollander was wearing latex gloves—and smashed his right fist into the pale face. The leather glove cushioned the blow a little, but not much. The glasses went flying, the cleaver fell to the floor, and Hollander dropped to his knees.

  “I give up.” He coughed and spat blood. “It’s over.”

  “No.” Jack hauled him to his feet. The darkness was welling up in him now, whispering, taking control. “It’s not.”

  “ ‘Not’?” The wide blue eyes darted about in confusion. “Not what?”

  “Over.”

  Jack drove a left into his gut, then caught him with an uppercut as he doubled over, slamming him back against the door.

  Hollander retched and groaned as he sank to the floor again.

  “You can’t do this,” he moaned. “I’ve surrendered.”

  “And you think that does it? You’ve played dirty for days and now that things aren’t going your way anymore, that’s it? Finsies? Uncle? Tilt? Game over? I don’t think so. I don’t think so.”