“Could you please ring Mr. Demming in fifty-two J?” Storm asked the man at the front desk, a paunchy, middle-aged gentleman in a gold-braided uniform with “CLARK LASTER” written in bold letters on a discreet name tag.
“Isn’t it a little late for that?” said the man.
“Yes, but it’s an emergency.”
Laster sighed and made a big show of opening a large book in front of him. “I’m sorry. But Mr. Demming has left instructions not to be disturbed after ten P.M. It says so right here.” Laster turned the book around so Storm could read it. Storm leaned in as if he intended to inspect the document like it was the Dead Sea Scrolls. Instead, he reached over the desk with his right hand and clamped down at the base of Laster’s neck, right over the collarbone.
The man tried to recoil, but Storm held firm. “Oww! Hey, what are you…”
The end of the sentence did not escape Laster’s mouth. The man was already unconscious.
“Sorry, friend, but I don’t have time to do things by the book,” Storm said.
Storm hailed an elevator, which took him to the fifty-second floor. It was quiet and hotel-like. Storm walked quickly to Unit J, all the way at the end of the hallway, and rang the buzzer. There was no answer. He rang again. Still no answer.
Demming was likely out. Wall Street types were known to entertain clients until the small hours. Storm decided the most advisable place to wait for Demming was inside his apartment.
He stepped back and looked at the door. It was reinforced steel, the kind that would be very noisy upon breaking. But the lock was operated by an old-fashioned, analog keypad. It took Storm exactly twenty-eight seconds to get it open. There were advantages to growing up with a dad who worked for a time in the FBI’s bank robbery unit. Learning how to crack safes was one of them.
Feeling smug, Storm opened the door and walked over the threshold straight into a bloodbath.
It was everywhere. On the walls. On the floor. On the couch. Even on the artwork. It almost looked like it had been coming out of a hose.
Even though he knew he was too late — a step behind Volkov, once again — Storm drew his gun. He entered cautiously, making sure not to step on any of the blood spatters but also keeping his eyes up, in case Volkov and his men were somehow still in the apartment.
They weren’t. Demming was. His body was behind the couch. What appeared to be a very large pair of dirty women’s under-wear had been stuffed into his mouth and tied there by pantyhose. A tuft of pink frill escaped from one side of the gag.
He was shirtless, revealing a series of bruises that made it obvious he had been badly beaten before his death. Ribs that had suffered compound fractures broke through the skin in several places. There were cigarette burns up and down both his arms. His nipples had singe marks above and below them, suggesting that diodes had been connected to them and current had been run through his body. And, of course, the fingernails on his right hand were missing.
The torture had been extensive. Demming had obviously suffered greatly before his death, much more so than the other victims. Someone had wanted Demming to feel pain. Lots of it.
Still, none of that was directly related to his death, the cause of which was quite clear: His throat had been slashed so viciously he had practically been decapitated. That explained all the blood.
Storm reached down and touched Demming’s exposed shoulder. The body was cold. So was any trail that might lead Storm from this apartment to wherever Volkov was now holed up.
Storm quickly swept through the remainder of the residence. He did this knowing there would likely be nothing left behind of any use. There hadn’t been at any of the other scenes. But he had to check.
Storm worked methodically, going room by room, willing himself to stay focused. Still, his mind wandered: Volkov now had all six MonEx codes. If he knew what to do with them — or had given them to someone who did — a financial tsunami could be heading for Wall Street at any moment. After all, ForEx didn’t close on business days. It was like knowing a huge landslide was coming and having no idea how to escape the base of the hill.
The apartment was, as Storm suspected, devoid of anything useful. He was preparing to make his exit when a pair of uniformed police officers entered the front door.
The first thing Storm said was “Before you overreact, I’m with the CIA and I didn’t do this.”
The lead cop took one look at all the blood, took one look at Storm, then drew his weapon, and aimed it at Storm’s chest.
“NYPD,” the cop shouted. “Let’s see those hands.”
Storm allowed himself to be handcuffed, even as he tried to explain to the officer that this was all just a big misunderstanding. Like the cop hadn’t heard that one before.
He was made to lie facedown in the hallway as backup was radioed in. Soon, what felt like half the officers in the New York Police Department’s Twentieth Precinct poured into Demming’s apartment.
As the next hour unfolded, Storm was allowed to shift to a sitting position, then shunted into the kitchen. Identifying himself as CIA had saved him a ride in a squad car and a trip to the Twentieth Precinct lockup, but it hadn’t exactly endeared him to anyone in a uniform.
From his place in the kitchen, he could hear the cops’ chatter. Clark Laster had awakened from his sleep hold–induced slumber no worse for wear but substantially pissed off. Laster called the police, who were sharp enough to assume that the man who had asked for Demming’s apartment had likely proceeded to… Demming’s apartment.
The early talk had Storm doing twenty-five to life at Attica, CIA or no CIA. Then the medical examiner, an attractive black woman, arrived and ruined the cops’ fun: time of death had been several hours before, meaning this burly stranger who only just showed up had not likely been involved.
Then the medical examiner made things interesting. Demming was actually a hermaphrodite. He appeared to be male, but had both male and female sex organs. Sure enough, the plain-clothes detectives going through the apartment found both men’s and women’s clothing, even though it was clear the apartment only had one inhabitant. This led to the theory that Demming liked be a man during the day, when it was convenient to be a member of the Wall Street boys’ club, but sometimes indulged his feminine side at night. It certainly explained the rather large pair of pan ties in his mouth and the hose that had been used to secure it there.
Storm was a mere spectator to their speculation. It wasn’t until an hour later that a woman flashing a detective’s badge approached him in the kitchen. She had dark hair, dark eyes, and was easily the most beautiful detective Storm had ever seen.
“Hello, Mr. Storm,” she said. “My name is Nikki Heat. I’m with the NYPD.”
“Hello, Nikki Heat,” Storm said amiably. “Didn’t I read about you in a magazine somewhere?”
“Yes. But if you like your head unsmacked, I suggest you don’t remind me.”
“Consider me advised,” Storm said, then jerked his head at a man who had appeared behind Heat, just out of earshot. “Who’s that?”
“This is Jameson Rook. He’s… he’s none of your concern.”
“Jameson Rook, the magazine writer?”
“Yes,” she said, like this annoyed her.
“I never knew he was so handsome,” Storm said.
“You really do want to be smacked,” Heat said.
Storm shrugged as Rook approached. “Excuse me, Detective Heat, but who is this?”
“This is our suspect,” she said.
Rook apprised Storm for a moment. “Not possible. He’s too good-looking to be a suspect.”
Heat threw her hands up in the air. “Before you ladies go off and get a room together, do you mind if I ask him some questions?”