The newly arrived Metro-North cop was obviously tech-savvy. He began setting up the laptops and connecting them to a power source under the table. I slid one over in front of me and turned it on.
“NorthStar hasn’t been around for that long. Does the same kind of thing as the old Blackwater. High-threat protection. I don’t think the government uses them much, but they provide security for a lot of business entities-like oil companies-that work in risky third-world countries or war zones.”
“NorthStar swabs their employees for DNA?” I asked. “For identification purposes?”
“Yeah, in the event any of the workers go DOA. Their profiles are already in the data bank. The military does the same thing.”
“So what else can we find out about Nicholas Blunt?” I said, typing his name into the search function.
Mercer sat down opposite me. “I’ll do NorthStar.”
It was Rocco Correlli’s turn for the landline. He called the head of the Metro-North police and asked his questions after the formalities were done. “I need an officer to be assigned to a prosecutor working in the situation room tonight. Pronto. Got someone for me?”
“I get the feeling I’m going to have a new best friend any minute now,” I said, scrolling down through all the Blunts whose names appeared on my screen.
“Excellent. I’d like that as soon as possible,” the lieutenant spoke into the mouthpiece.
“I can’t believe how many Blunts there are.”
“Nicholas?” Mike asked.
“I’m trying to eliminate by age. The people-finder search engine has more than thirty of them, and at first glance, nothing’s a match.”
I reached for the stack of papers again and tried to find the original submission request.
“So NorthStar opened its doors about eight years ago,” Mercer said. “Usual vague stuff on the website. More than fifteen thousand employees on missions around the world, mostly in Asia or Africa.”
“Would Blunt have needed military experience?” I asked. “We could get a load of information about him that way.”
“Not necessary, the site says. In fact, most of the employees don’t,” Mercer responded while writing numbers on a pad. “Could you get a man on military records, Loo? I’ll call NorthStar headquarters, though I’m not likely to get anybody at a corporate firm after hours on a Friday night. The feds will probably cut through that faster than we can.”
“This will help, guys,” I said. “Having a eureka moment.”
I stood up, waving the paper in my hand.
“What?”
“Surname Blunt. Given name Nikolay.”
“Don’t we already know that?” Mike asked.
“Father’s given name is Walter. Mother’s given name, Zoya. The spelling of Nicholas is eastern European,” I said. “Probably Russian. Zoya’s a Russian name, too.”
“And Blunt?” Rocco asked.
“Could be just plain old English,” Mike said. “Or Ellis Island neutral. Not everybody came through with all their vowels intact, Loo, like you did.”
“So?”
“So I’m getting from Coop the idea that we ought to look for a link between our Russian victim and Mr. Blunt.”
“That’s where I’m headed, Mike,” I said.
“That’s challenging, don’t you think? Lydia Tsarlev’s from Russia, and it’s possible this Blunt kid may have Russian roots. I can get that far. Next step is to see whether he’s got a psych history of any kind, or other witnesses who’ve heard about the voices in his head. The whole scenario could get really scary with a schizoid Soviet who’s been playing paramilitary enforcer. A Putin puppet with a grudge of some kind.”
“Slow it down, Mike,” I said.
“Hey, every one of those ‘Stans’ has some disgruntled former Soviets. I was mostly just relieved that the name attached to this DNA wasn’t Arabic.”
“The master of political incorrectness, Detective. The prosecution rests.”
“Strings, Coop. They’re all coming together for me. Hustler, hostler. Nicholas, Nikolay. Same bastard, whatever he calls himself.”
“You’re thinking the guy hearing voices in Lydia’s apartment is Blunt?” Rocco asked Mike and me.
“Better than a long shot,” Mike said. “We need a picture bad, Coop. We need to get the roommate to give us a scrip and to stick around to identify a photograph of him as soon as we get one. It can’t be a coincidence that the guy fighting with Lydia in her bedroom, trying to enlist her to join his cause-well, it’s got to be related.”
“Didn’t the roommate say he had no accent?” Rocco asked.
“Yes,” I said. “But who knows where he was born? Or his mother? I’m just telling you guys not to ignore that possible Russian background connection as we go forward.”
“Who asked me if there’s a plan?” Rocco said.
“I did,” Mercer said.
“Give it another five minutes. Then we go back downstairs to meet with Scully, who expects to be here before eight thirty. Get me everything you find online.”
“Here he is on Facebook,” I said. “Nik Blunt.”
“How do you know it’s our guy?” Rocco asked.
“There are a few others, but all spelled the traditional English way. And only one who listed the Animal Liberation Front as his favorite organization, Loo. How’s that for a start?”
“Does he have any friends, or did he kill them all?” Mike asked. “I knew putting you on Google was the right move. You’re a total geek, Coop.”
“This Nik Blunt hasn’t posted anything in two and a half years.”
“Not even photos that give an idea where he was then?”
“The Great Dismal Swamp.”
Mercer looked up from his laptop. “You got to be kidding. There’s such a place?”
Mike said, “North Carolina,” at the very same moment I said, “Virginia.”
“Which is it?”
“North Carolina,” Mike said. “Acres of swampland. Like a national refuge now. If there’s some kind of animal you never wanted to meet? It’s there. Blackwater set up headquarters in the Great Dismal to train their men, prepare them for conditions in Iraq, if that gives you any idea of how dismal it is.”
“The larger part of it’s in Virginia,” I said. “It’s probably where NorthStar trained its people, too. There are no clear faces in the photo, but lots of men in camo.”
“Suddenly stepping in on my military expertise?”
“It’s my literary bent, Mr. Chapman. The swamp was the subject of Harriet Beecher Stowe’s second novel,” I said, knowing the subject would interest Mercer. “The Great Dismal was a refuge for runaway slaves.”
“C’mon, guys,” Rocco said. “Anyone come up with a photograph of Blunt’s face yet?”
“Not finding one,” I said.
“What do the employee records show for his family’s address?” Mercer asked. “For the father?”
“He’s dead, and the mother moved somewhere upstate,” Rocco said.
“I want the address from when his father worked here,” Mercer said. “We can figure a high school location from that and maybe find a yearbook picture.”
Rocco flipped through the Metro-North employment file of Walter Blunt and found an address in Queens. “Looks like Forest Hills,” the lieutenant said. “Does that help?”
“I can give it a try.”
“Okay,” Rocco said. “Three minutes and we’re downstairs to meet Scully. We’ll take off as soon as an officer shows his face to hang with Alex. One of you see whether Motor Vehicles has anything on their site?”
“I’m hunting, but most of the official stuff like that is only going to be available to us Monday morning,” I said. “We’ll be stiffed for now on government records.”