“A friend of Mia’s.”
“Prove it.”
The man smiled. “Not an easy thing. I’m James Griffin, FBI forensics.”
“ID?”
Griffin shook his head. “Not on me.”
“Convenient.”
“Yeah, well, when I heard what happened, I rushed out to find you, spent the better part of the day looking. Been to your house, your office. I’ve been watching the Tombs for the last hour, figuring either you’d show up or the people who are after the case would make an appearance.”
Jack had heard of the man. Mia had spoken of Jimmy Griffin on occasion as one of those brilliant minds who should have been working in a think-tank or a pharmaceutical company, making ten times his FBI salary. She admired him for his passion and for not selling out like so many others.
“I know how scared she was of what was in that evidence case.” Griffin rubbed his left hand. “I know she said there was only one person she could trust with it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jack lied. He wasn’t about to confirm anything.
“I was with her on Tuesday.”
“Yeah,” Jack said. “Where was that?”
“Room 1408 at the Waldorf. A murder investigation.”
Jack remained silent.
“The contents of the evidence box, the things that Mia so desperately wanted hidden away, are the belongings of a Cotis priest.”
Jack’s heart nearly stopped. He looked around the deli, no one there except the two men behind the counter, who paid Jack no mind. He glanced at his left forearm, realizing that everything was even more connected than he had imagined.
“Do you know what’s in the box?”
Jimmy nodded. “You get that box, they won’t dare hurt Mia.”
“Who’s they?”
Jimmy shook his head. “Not sure of the players, but Mia and I knew there were some of our fellow FBI guys in the mix. Don’t really know who or how many. But I can tell you this, get that box, and they will, without question, trade it for her.”
“What’s in the case?”
“I don’t know everything, but there’s a ceremonial jewel-encrusted dagger, some prayer beads, two prayer books with some interesting notes etched in them, and some images.”
“What kind of images?”
Griffin paused, again rubbing his left hand. “The scary kind, the kind that makes your blood run cold and makes you wish you could forget ever seeing.”
Three days earlier, on Tuesday afternoon, Jimmy Griffin had opened the rear door of the hotel suite and quickly ushered Mia in, closing and locking the door behind them.
The executive suites at the Waldorf were decorated to resemble a home, designed to impart a warmth and comfort not associated with travel. The sofas were plush and deep, the leather wingback chairs comfortable enough to sleep in. The separate bedrooms were more like those in a ski lodge, with large four-poster beds, piled high with thick earth-tone pillows and comforters.
Mia had received the call a half-hour earlier and had rushed uptown, telling no one where she was going, adhering exactly to Jimmy’s instructions. His words in that deep, resonant voice were brief and exact. “Room 1408. Waldorf. I’ve got a murder. I need to see you now. Tell no one.”
Mia glanced toward the second bedroom. The curtains were drawn, the darkness covering all details.
Jimmy abruptly shut the door. “You’ve got to see this first.”
He led Mia into an elegant bathroom, white marble, a Jacuzzi and sit-down shower. But the grandeur was tainted, awash in gore. Once-white towels littered the floor, stained dark brown with dried blood. Haphazard hand-and fingerprints streaked the counters and shower walls. A pile of blood-soaked bandages lay on a soiled pair of pants and shirt in the corner.
A pocket knife and a single misshapen bullet were on the counter. Although it was deformed, an intricate pattern could still be discerned on the flattened, bloodstained casing.
Jimmy handed Mia a pair of rubber gloves. She picked up the bullet, rolling it around in the palm of her hand. The warped lettering was elaborate and detailed, not what one would expect to see on an instrument of death. The language was foreign, and even if she understood it, she doubted the twisted metal would reveal its true meaning. But as she continued to examine the bullet, what surprised her was not the etched verbiage or the fact that she was holding an object that had robbed a man of his life. It was a barely discernible pinhole in the tip and the minute black stain that ringed the tiny opening.
She looked up at Jimmy
“Yeah.” Jimmy nodded as he stepped from the bathroom. “Exactly what I thought.”
Mia put the bullet back on the counter and followed him out into the hallway.
“You know I’m not one for drama, Jimmy.”
“You have to bear with me on this.” Jimmy pursed his pale lips. There was an unnatural quiver to his voice, a stroke of nerves in the usually composed man. Mia had known Jimmy Griffin when he was still considered skinny; most people couldn’t believe the portly man could ever have passed for that classification. Over the last ten years, he was always her go-to guy when she ran into a wall. Jimmy had a knack for forensics and seeing the truth beneath the mystery. She had watched as the job literally aged him from a handsome, dark-haired man of twenty-eight to a balding, overweight, and prematurely gray man of thirty-seven. It was as if every crime solved and every arrest made took a year off his life, and she feared that what he was about to show her would shed at least a decade.
“Do we have an ID on the victim?”
Jimmy nodded.
“Wealthy?” Mia asked.
“No, he’s a diplomat.”
Mia’s concern grew.
“So you know, the windows are bulletproof, and he had no visitors.”
Jimmy opened the door and flicked the wall switch. As the light washed over the room, Mia saw a man of indiscernible age. He was laid on the four-poster bed in serene repose, his face relaxed and at peace. He wore white priestly robes that wrapped his body from shoulder to ankle, and while she was unsure, they seemed more Buddhist or Hindu than Christian. He lay atop the thick, downy covers, his hands folded on his belly, his feet bare.
As she circled the bed, she looked closely at his pristine skin, a hint of Asian descent in his cheekbones and eyes. His hair was closely cropped, its dark bristle yet to know the color gray. As she walked around, she looked at the soles of his feet, noting the thick calluses of someone who had frequently forgone shoes. Leaning in, she examined his fingers and recently groomed cuticles, which showed no hint of blood or grime. His entire body was almost antiseptically clean.
Mia had seen death on too many occasions to count; it always disturbed her, marring her mood not only for the moment but also for days to come. The victims were never people who had died naturally-they were always those whose last breath had been stolen away by another. But for some reason, this death was worse. She viewed the murder of a holy man as an affront to God. As evil and wicked as mankind could be, she thought there were some boundaries that should never be crossed.
“It was as if he prepared his own body for death, knowing it was inevitable,” Mia said softly as she continued to look at his body, at all sides of his head, his neck, his chest. “Where’s the fatal wound?”
Jimmy walked over and grasped the white gown in his gloved hands, slowly lifting it, parting its layers to discreetly reveal the man’s torso.
What Mia saw was not what she expected.
On the left side of his stomach was the torn flesh from where the bullet had been extracted.
“It’s his fingerprints on the knife and the bullet,” Jimmy said.
“He took it out himself?”
Mia examined the crosswise incision, where the skin had been peeled back by the victim. Mia imagined the pain was excruciating as he dug into his own stomach to pull out the bullet.