“Why?” Hutch asked, taking the lead on this one. “Do you need the police?”
The guy shrugged. “I don’t know. I just read that a dead body was found in this alley. I figured if you were the cops, I’d talk to you. I might have some information.”
Hutch pulled out his ID. “Supervisory Special Agent Hutchinson, FBI,” he said. “What can you tell us?”
The guy blinked. “The Feds. Wow. This must be a big deal.”
“What’s your name?” Patrick asked.
“Jason. Jason Franklin. I live in that apartment over there.” He leaned over and pointed past the canopied overhang on Avenue B to one of the apartment buildings down the street.
“And what information do you think you have for us, Jason?”
“Maybe nothing. But I was out walking Rocco last night—” Jason indicated his dog “—and there was a big silver pickup truck blocking the sidewalk right where I’m standing now. There’s construction being done in the area, so I figured that’s why the truck was there—either to load or unload. Or maybe it had broken down, because there was no one in it. Either way, I didn’t give it much thought. Then I read about the body they found in this alley and I decided I should tell someone what I saw. I planned on calling the cops right after I walked Rocco. But now I’m telling you in person.” He looked at them. “Do you think the truck was here to dump the body?”
“I don’t know,” Hutch replied, pulling out his iPhone, ready to type in the information. “But you did the right thing, telling us what you saw. Do you remember anything about the truck, other than the fact that it was silver? A make? Model? License plate number?”
The guy shook his head. “I take the subway. I don’t know anything about cars or trucks. So I’m the wrong person to ask about specifics. The only reason I noticed the truck at all was because Rocco and I had to squeeze by it to take our walk.”
“Understood.” Hutch’s finger was poised over his phone’s touch screen. “Give me your address and phone number, Jason. That way a detective can contact you and ask any further questions.”
“Sure.” Jason provided the details they needed. “It’s creepy to have something like this happen in my own neighborhood. I hope you find the psycho soon.”
“We intend to.”
* * *
At seven o’clock that evening, Ryan’s basement lair became a flurry of activity.
Having set up his audio equipment, Ryan planted himself at his desk, swiveled his chair around and played back the voice recordings of each and every customer who’d been at the meat market that day. Leilah perched on the edge of the desk beside him, listening carefully to every verbal exchange. With each new customer, she indicated with a thumbs-up or a thumbs-down whether or not the customer was engaged in illegal money transfers using hawala—an international operation often used for money laundering. Ryan made copies of the thumbs-up recordings, along with the date/time stamp, and skipped over the others.
His work was meticulous, and not only for FI’s purposes. When this case was over, his intention was for the FBI’s New York field office to receive an anonymous email containing the audio files and a suggestion that they investigate the meat market on West 116th Street. That would take care of the illegal activities going on there.
Once in a while, as the tapes played, Leilah would throw back her head and laugh aloud in reaction to what she was hearing. Ryan would cock his own head in puzzlement, and wait for her to explain. She responded by translating. Twice, the exchanges involved cranky men, complaining about their wives—annoyed that they were asked to pick up meat for dinner when they already had enough on their agenda. One of those men confided in the butcher that the contents of the meat case were more lively than his wife in bed.
On the flip side were the wives who’d argue about who had the worst husband. One woman asked the other if she had a recipe that would insure that her husband choked on the meat she was buying.
That one even made Ryan chuckle.
Overall, the work was long and tedious. It was 10:00 p.m. before they reached the last few recordings of the day. Partway through, Claire walked in, giving Ryan an update on the police reports.
She hesitated in the doorway when she saw what was going on. “I’m sorry. I seem to be making a habit of interrupting you.” This time her voice was sincere. She’d come to grips with her infantile emotions. Ryan and Leilah were working. If they were doing more than that on their own time, that was none of her business, and she was just going to have to deal with it in a gracious way. “I just wanted to give Ryan a police update. But there are no major details. So it can wait.” She turned to go.
Before Ryan could respond, the day’s last verbal interaction at the meat market began playing on the tape—a woman’s soft voice, speaking English.
Claire stopped in her tracks, veering around to face them.
“What’s that you’re listening to?” she asked, pointing at the equipment.
“Voice recordings of everyone our bug picked up in the meat store today.” Ryan was taken aback by the intensity of Claire’s tone. “Why?”
“Because that voice—it belongs to Suzanne Fisher.”
Ryan shot straight up in his chair. “Are you sure?”
“Without a doubt,” Claire replied. “I was with Casey and Marc when we questioned her. We talked at length. I remember her voice. I’m positive that’s her. What’s she doing in the meat market?”
“Let’s find out.” Ryan rewound the tape and played it from the start of the conversation.
Suzanne Fisher was counting out five thousand dollars in cash, plus an additional five hundred for the transaction fee, and tendering it to the owner. “Would you please send that to my husband’s nephew in Brooklyn?” she requested.
“Of course,” the heavily accented owner replied. “It will be ready for him tomorrow morning.”
“Shit!” Ryan exclaimed. “She’s sending money to Glen Fisher’s dead nephew?”
“Clearly, he isn’t dead,” Claire said. “He’s alive and well and living in Brooklyn.”
“How could that be?” Ryan was livid—mostly at himself. “We all saw the death certificate. Which means the death was staged. But why would Jack stage his own death? Glen must have been involved the whole time. I’m such an asshole. I should’ve dug deeper and made sure the death certificate was legit. In the meantime, why is Glen transferring cash to Jack? Is he supporting him? Or is it more?”
“More as in working with him?” Claire asked. She swallowed hard. “Or even killing for him?”
“Anything’s possible.” Ryan had already grabbed his iPhone and was punching in Marc’s number on speed dial. “I’ll take a better look at Jack’s background later tonight. But for now, we’ve got to get to him—fast. We have no time to lose. When he collects his cash, we’ll collect him.”
Chapter Twenty
Marc groped for his iPhone and saw Ryan’s caller ID pop up on the screen.
“What now?”
Ryan’s brows rose. It wasn’t like Marc to sound so irked, and maybe even a little distracted.
It was a moot point, because Marc’s mood changed the instant Ryan told him about Suzanne’s impending money transfer to Jack.
“Tell me what you need,” Marc said.
“I need your help breaking into the meat market and planting Gecko. Tonight.”
“I’ll be at the office in an hour.”
Right before Marc disconnected the call, Ryan heard the distinct sound of a woman’s disappointed voice in the background. So Marc really did have a sex life. And Ryan had just screwed it up—at least for tonight. That explained his foul mood when he’d answered the phone.
Good thing Marc always showed such iron control. Otherwise, he’d probably kick Ryan’s ass.
* * *
There was a ton to do before Marc arrived—all of which had to be done without noise or interruption. Ryan was already inside his own head, oblivious to everything and everyone around him
.
Claire and Leilah took the hint, climbing the stairs to the first floor.
There was an awkward silence as they stood in the hallway together, neither of them quite sure what to say.
Finally, Leilah made a disgusted sound and rolled her eyes. “This is ridiculous,” she declared. “I admire you, Claire. You’re intelligent, you’re strong and you speak your mind. We’re not that different, except that you keep your thoughts private and I wear mine on my sleeve. I can’t speak for you, but I think we could be friends, if we could get past this absurd rivalry. One thing I’ve learned for sure—no man is worth it.”
Claire’s lips curved in a smile. “I like you, too, Leilah. And I apologize if I acted like a high-schooler. You’re right. We have a lot in common. As for Ryan, he is who he is.”
“Exactly.” Leilah glanced at her watch. “It’s still early. Why don’t you and I go out for a drink and you can explain to me the difference between a psychic and a claircognizant.”
“You’re on.”
* * *
Ryan’s first course of business was to double-check Gecko and make sure that his mechanical and electronic marvel was fully charged and ready for action. He needed his little critter’s mission-critical capabilities to pull this off.
There would be no second chances.
He connected Gecko’s USB port to his computer, fired up the diagnostic program that would run Gecko through a thorough analysis of all his subsystems, as well as calibrate his internal gyro, GPS sensors and servo motors.
While Gecko was undergoing his “physical,” Ryan turned to the next order of business—getting as much information about the meat market and the building it was located in as possible.
Ryan’s first digital stop was the Department of Finance’s Digital Tax Map online service. Once the site was up, he entered the address of the meat market and quickly found the block and lot number of the building. Exploring the public records available, he saw several building permits from a few years ago related to the heating and electrical system upgrades that had been performed. Since the building was owned by a Columbia University trust, a tier-one contractor, Gotham Mechanical, had completed the work.
Next, Ryan opened up another independent X window session on his computer, retrieved the hacking script he had written for just such occasions and began the process of circumventing the firewalls sitting between him and the Gotham Mechanical projects server. A few minutes later, Ryan was looking at the “as built” drawings of the upgraded HVAC system Gotham had modified just three years ago.
With a few quick mouse clicks, Ryan initiated the download of the AutoCAD files to Lumen, one of FI’s servers. There were three that made up the team’s expansive server farm: Lumen, Equitas and Intueri, named after the Latin words for light, justice and intuition—a perfect description of Forensic Instincts.
Ryan then immediately began to generate a 3-D file from the AutoCAD drawings so he could visualize the best place to introduce Gecko into the HVAC system, as well as how to navigate through the maze of ducts inside the building. It was important to minimize the number of changes in height and direction for Gecko to perform. The best solution was to cut an access panel in the supply ductwork located in the basement utility room.
Ryan had just started assembling the tools he would need when Hero’s bark and Yoda’s voice simultaneously announced Marc’s arrival.
* * *
Claire and Leilah strolled into Weather Up, a trendy bar on Duane Street in Tribeca, and settled themselves on stools. Bypassing the more elaborate drinks, they ordered glasses of wine.
There were a fair number of good-looking guys in the bar—all of whom noticed them, many of whom appeared to be on their way over for introductions.
Leilah eliminated the problem immediately. She turned her back to the rest of the room. Sipping her cabernet, she tossed her hair away from her face, and angled her head to gaze at Claire. Her body language was clear. She was having an intense conversation with her friend. Now was not pickup time.
The disappointed guys went back to their drinks.
“Why don’t we get the Ryan part of the conversation over with first, so we can actually talk?” Leilah surprised Claire by suggesting.
Claire found herself smiling. She brought her wineglass to her lips and drank a bit of her merlot. “You’re incredibly up front,” she said. “It’s not exactly a shock—I’ve watched you in action the past few days. But I assumed I’d find the trait annoying. Actually, it’s very refreshing.”
Leilah shrugged. “I hate playing games,” she responded. “And I refuse to circle around with you like a couple of cats. Let’s make it simple. I’ll tell you about Ryan and me, and you tell me about Ryan and you. Then we can dismiss the subject and go on, get to know each other.”
“Sounds fair.” Claire had never met anyone quite like Leilah. She couldn’t blame Ryan for being attracted to her—she was the whole package.
“Ryan and I met at a bar,” Leilah began. “We were both on the verge of career breakouts. But neither of us was totally settled in yet. So we decided to enjoy our free time while we still had some.” Leilah smiled, that glowing smile that lit up her whole face. “We spent most of our time in bed,” she stated honestly. “Ryan excels there, as I’m sure you know. But he’s also brilliant and funny and spontaneous. We did everything from long-distance marathons to holding shot contests together. Those were crazy, exciting days.” She paused. “Would I want to revisit them? Of course. Do I think that’s going to happen? Not anytime soon.” Leilah regarded Claire without a trace of jealousy or anger. “He’s crazy about you.”
Claire’s eyes widened. “He said that?”
“Of course not. He probably doesn’t even know it. And he wouldn’t admit it if he did. But, trust me, it’s true. I’ve never seen Ryan like this. He cares if you’re upset. He worries if you’re in danger. And he’s put up an emotional wall between him and me, because he doesn’t want to give false signals.” Another smile. “You must be quite a challenge for him. You two are like day and night.”
“You’re right about that part.” Claire sighed. “Most of the time, we annoy the hell out of each other. He has very little respect for what I do, and I don’t understand a word of what he does. We argue like teenagers. It’s ridiculous.”
“Except when it’s not?” Leilah asked.
Claire nodded. “Except then.” She took another sip of merlot, feeling as exposed as if she were under a microscope. “I’m sorry. I’m just not used to discussing my sex life.”
“You don’t have to. I can feel the pull between you and Ryan whenever you’re in the same room. Is it just the sex? Because I don’t think so.”
“No,” Claire admitted. “It’s not. There are genuine feelings involved. I’m just not sure what they are or what they mean.”
“Then why dissect them? Let them be what they are and unfold as they’re meant to.”
“That’s what Ryan and I have been doing. I don’t want to complicate things with labels and analysis. We are what we are. Which is already more than I can handle.”
Leilah chuckled. “I hear you. And I think that’s a good plan. Guys like Ryan are best taken a day at a time.” Pushing aside her wine, Leilah moved on, clearly done with the subject of Ryan. “Tell me about you. All I know is that you’re blonde, you’re gracious and you have a princess-in-a-tower kind of beauty. And I know that Ryan calls you ‘Claire-voyant’ and you call yourself claircognizant. What’s the difference?”
“You mean besides the fact that Ryan believes it’s all a bunch of crap?”
“Yes. Besides that. I’m intrigued. Fill me in.”
Claire hesitated. “Do you really want to get into this?”
“Would you prefer not to?”
Claire took another sip of her wine. “It’s just not something I normally discuss.”
“Because it’s private, or because people don’t understand?”
“Both.” Claire was frank. ?
??But mostly the latter. It’s not fun to be treated like some sort of witch.”
Leilah made another sound of disgust. “That’s sheer ignorance. I think spirituality is more grounding than reality.”
Claire looked surprised. “I didn’t realize you felt that way.”
“Well, I do. I believe there’s a world of power in things you can’t actually see or touch. So, please, share whatever you’re comfortable sharing. I’d love to learn more about your gift.”
There was something about Leilah that encouraged Claire to do just that—an open, nonjudgmental quality that was very rare.
Claire began with the basics. “Well, to start with, there are four metaphysical senses. Claircognizance, or clear knowing, is just one of them. Clairvoyance, or clear seeing, is another. Then there’s clairaudience, which is clear hearing, and finally, clairsentience, which is clear feeling. With claircognizance, your conscious mind is not in control of your thoughts. Those thoughts come to you at random. I don’t know how or why.”
Leilah seemed fascinated. “When did you discover you had this gift?”
“I was young,” Claire said. “In kindergarten. It’s hard to explain but I became attuned to things—things I’d have no way of knowing. It was a kind of inner awareness that told me what was happening or was about to happen. It scared me and it fascinated me, but I didn’t really understand it—not then. When I got older, I did some research and found a group of kindred spirits in upstate New York. We corresponded. They taught me how to channel my thoughts through meditation. Not only did my abilities become clearer, but the meditation made it easier for my thoughts to come through without all the noise surrounding them.”
“Wow. That’s amazing.” Leilah had propped her elbow on the bar and was leaning against her hand, hanging on to Claire’s words. “What about your family? How did they react?”
“Not well.” Claire felt that all-too-familiar twinge. Somehow the pain of rejection never really went away. “I’m an only child. I come from a well-respected, very visible family. They’re well-known in the community, and as traditional as they come. Their image is important to them. I didn’t fit that image. I tried. They tried. It didn’t work.”