Out in the corridor, I said, "Keep a twenty-four-hour stakeout on him, his family, and his sister, and so forth."
"Done."
"Make sure no one sees him leaving this building."
"We always do."
"Right. And send a few guys over to One PP and see if there are any more dead cabbies around."
"I already asked. They're checking."
"Good. Am I insulting your intelligence?"
"Just a little."
I smiled for the first time that day. I said to Gabe, "Thanks for this. I owe you one."
"Right. So, what do you think?"
"I think what I always thought. Khalil is in America and he's not hiding out. He's on the move. He's on a mission."
"That's what I think. What's the mission?"
"Beats me, Gabe. Think about it. Hey, are you Libyan?"
"No, there aren't many Libyans here. It's a small country with a small immigrant community in the U.S. " He added, "I'm actually Palestinian."
Against my better judgment, I asked him, "Don't you find this a little awkward? Stressful?"
He shrugged. "It's okay most of the time. I'm an American. Second generation. My daughter wears shorts and makeup, talks back to me, and pals around with Jews."
I smiled, then looked at him. I asked, "You ever get any threats from anyone?"
"Now and then. But they know it's not a good idea to whack a cop who's cross-designated as a Federal officer."
I would have agreed with that before Saturday. I said, "Okay, let's ask the NYPD and suburban cops to start running through the records of all car rental agencies, looking for Arab-sounding names. It's a long shot, and it's going to take a week or more, but we're not doing much else anyway. Also, I think you personally should go talk to the recent widow and see if maybe Mr. Jabbar confided in her. Also, start talking to Jabbar's friends and relatives. What we have here is our first lead, Gabe, and it may go somewhere, but I'm not real optimistic."
Gabe observed, "Assuming it was Khalil who killed Gamal Jabbar, then all we have is a cold trail, a dead witness, and a dead end in Perth Amboy. Dying in New Jersey is redundant."
I laughed. "Right. Where's the taxi?"
"Jersey State Police are going over it. Undoubtedly, we'll get enough forensic out of the car to use in putting a court case together-if we ever get that far."
I nodded. Fibers, fingerprints, maybe a ballistic match to one of the.40 caliber Clocks that belonged to Hundry and Gorman. Standard police work. I've seen murder trials where the physical evidence took a week to present to the jury. As I teach at John Jay, you almost always need physical evidence to convict a suspect, but you don't always need physical evidence to catch him.
With this case, we started with the name of the murderer, his photo, fingerprints, DNA samples, even pictures of him taking a crap-plus, we had a ton of forensic evidence to link him to the crimes at JFK. No problem there., The problem was that Asad Khalil was one quick and slippery sonofabitch. The guy had balls and brains, he was ruthless, and he had the advantage of being able to pick and choose his movements.
Gabe said, "We've been focusing on the Libyan community anyway, but maybe now with one of their people murdered, they'll open up a little." He added, "On the other hand, we may get the opposite reaction."
"Maybe. But I don't think Khalil has many accomplices in this country-not many live ones, anyway."
"Probably not. Okay, Corey, I got work to do. I'll keep you informed. And you'll pass this information on to the proper people, ASAP, and tell them a transcript of these interviews with Fadi is on the way. Okay?"
"Right. And, by the way, let's see that some of those Federal information bucks go to Fadi Aswad-for cigarettes and tranquilizers."
"Will do. See you later." He turned and went back to the interrogation room.
I went back to the ICC, which was still buzzing though it was past 6 P.M. already. I put down my briefcase and called Kate's apartment, but her voice mail informed me, "I'm not in. Please leave a cogent message."
So I left a cogent message in case she accessed her voice mail, then I called her cell phone, but she didn't answer. I called Jack Koenig's home number on Long Island, but his wife said he'd left for the airport. I tried his cell phone, but no luck.
I next called Beth Penrose at home, got her answering machine, and said, "I'm on this case around the clock. I may have to do some traveling. I love this job. I love my life. I love my bosses. I love my new office. Here's my new phone number." I gave her my direct number in the ICC and said, "Hey, I miss you. Speak to you soon." I hung up, realizing I meant to say, "I love you." But… anyway, I then dialed Captain Stein and asked his secretary for an immediate appointment. She informed me that Captain Stein was attending several meetings and press conferences. I left an ambiguous and confusing message, which even I didn't understand.
So, having fulfilled my requirement to keep everyone informed, I sat there and twiddled my thumbs. Everyone around me looked busy, but I'm not good at looking busy if I'm not busy.
I waded through more papers on my desk, but I was already overloaded with useless information. There was nothing for me to do out on the street, so I stayed in the Incident Command Center in case something popped. I figured I'd hang in there until two or three in the morning.
Maybe the President wanted to talk to me, and since I had to leave a forwarding number wherever I went, I shouldn't be caught at home, or in Giulio's having a beer.
I realized I hadn't yet typed my Incident Report, regarding everything that happened at JFK. I was a little pissed that some flunky in Koenig's office kept sending me e-mails about it, and rejected my suggestion that I simply sign a transcript of the tape-recorded meeting in Koenig's office, or the two dozen meetings in D.C. No, they wanted my report, in my words. The Feds suck. I addressed my word processor and began: SUBJECT-Fucking Incident Report.
Someone walked by and put a sealed envelope on my desk marked URGENT FAX-YOUR EYES ONLY, and I opened it and read it. It was a preliminary report about the shooting in Frankfurt. The victim was a man named Sol Leibowitz, described as a Jewish-American investment banker with the Bank of New York. I read the brief summary of what happened to this unfortunate man and concluded that Mr. Leibowitz was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. There are thousands of American bankers in Europe at any given moment, Jewish or otherwise, and I was certain that this guy was just a soft target for a third-rate gunman who bore a resemblance to Asad Khalil. But this incident had caused some doubts and confusion in the minds of people who thrive on doubt and confusion.
Two other important papers landed on my desk-two take-out menus-one Italian, one Chinese.
My phone rang, and it was Kate. She said, "What the hell are you doing there?"
"I'm reading take-out menus. Where are you?"
"Where do you think I am? I'm at the airport, John. Jack and I are in the Business Class lounge, waiting for you. We have your ticket. Are you packed? Do you have your passport?"
"No. Listen-"
"Hold on."
I could hear her talking to Jack Koenig. She came back on the line and said, "Jack says you must go with us. He can get you on without your passport. Get here before the flight leaves. That's an order."
"Calm down and listen to me. I think we've got a lead here." I briefed her about Gabe Haytham, Fadi Aswad, and Gamal Jabbar.
She listened without interrupting, then said, "Hold on."
She came back on the phone and said, "That still doesn't prove that Khalil didn't get on a flight out of Newark and fly to Europe."
"Come on, Kate. The guy was already at an airport, less than a half mile from the International Terminal. Within ten minutes of the Port Authority cops being alerted at JFK, the Port Authority cops at Newark were also alerted. It's an hour ride between JFK and Newark. We're talking about Asad the Lion, not Asad the Turkey."
"Hold on."
Again I could hear her talking to Koenig. She came back on the line and said, "Jack says the MO and the description of the assailant in Frankfurt fit-"
"Put him on."
Koenig came on the line and started getting pissy with me.
I cut him off and said, "Jack, the reason the MO and the description fit is because they are trying to trick us. Asad Khalil just pulled off the crime of the century, and he did not fly to Germany to whack a banker, for Christ's sake. And if he was going to Newark Airport, why did he whack his cab AmeiYieioieYie got 't'ttaeiel does not compute, Jack.^cw, you go to Frankfurt if you want, but I'll stay here. Send me a postcard, and bring me back a dozen real frankfurters and some of that hot German mustard. Thanks." I hung up before he could fire me.
I bagged the Incident Report, since I was probably fired, and I went back to my desk work, again wading through stacks of background stuff, reports from various agencies, all of whom had nothing to report. Finally I got to the half ton of paperwork that related to Saturday's incident-forensic, Port Authority police, an FAA complaint with my name prominently featured, photos of dead people in their seats, the toxicology report-it was indeed a cyanide compound-and so forth.
Somewhere in these piles of papers might be a clue to something, but so far all I saw was the work product of people with tunnel vision and access to a word processor with spell check.
Which reminded me that they'd hold my paycheck until I turned in a report, so I swiveled in my chair and again addressed my keyboard and monitor screen. I began my report with a joke about a French Foreign Legionnaire and a camel, then deleted it and tried again.
At about a quarter to nine, Kate walked in and sat at her desk facing me. She watched me as I typed, but said nothing. After a few minutes of being watched, I was starting to make spelling errors, so I looked up at her and said, "How was Frankfurt?"
She didn't reply, and I could see she was a little pissed. I know that look.
I asked, "Where's Jack?"
"He went to Frankfurt."
"Good. Am I fired?"
"No, but you're going to wish you were."
"I don't respond well to threats."
"What do you respond to?"
"Not much. Maybe a cocked pistol pointed at my head. Yeah, that usually gets my attention."
"Tell me again about the interrogation."
So, I went through it again, in more detail, and Kate asked lots of questions. She's very bright, which was why she was sitting in the ICC rather than on a Lufthansa flight to Frankfurt.
She said, "So, you think Khalil left the Park and Ride in a car?"
"I think so."
"Why not a commuter bus to Manhattan?"
"I thought about that. That's why people go to the Park and Ride-to catch a commuter bus to Manhattan. But it seems a little excessive to murder your taxi driver while you're waiting for the bus. In fact, I'll bet if Khalil had asked Jabbar to drive him to Manhattan, Jabbar would have."
"Don't get sarcastic with me, John. You're on thin ice."
"Yes, ma'am."
She ruminated a moment, then said, "Okay, so there was a getaway car parked in the Park and Ride. It wouldn't attract any attention, and would be relatively safe there. Jabbar drives Khalil to the lot, Khalil fires a single bullet-forty caliber-through Jabbar's spine, killing him, then gets in this other car. Is there a driver? An accomplice?"
"I don't think so. Why does he need a driver? He's a loner. He's probably driven in Europe. He just needs the keys and papers to the car, which he may have gotten from Jabbar. Jabbar, of course, has now seen too much, and he gets whacked. In the getaway car, or maybe in Jabbar's taxi, would be an overnight bag with some necessities, money, false identity, and maybe a disguise. That's why Khalil took nothing from Phil or Peter. Asad Khalil is now somebody else, and he's on the great American highway system."
"Where is he headed?"
"I don't know. But by now, if he drove with minimum sleep, he could be across the Mexican border. Or he could even be on the West Coast. Fifty hours' driving time at sixty-five miles an hour is a radius of over three thousand miles, and the square miles are-let's see, is that pi r squared?"
"I get the point."
"Good. So, assuming we have a killer loose on the highways, and assuming he wants to do something other than see Disney World, then we have to just wait to see what he does next. There's not much else we can do at this point, except to hope that somebody recognizes this guy."
She nodded, then stood. She said, "I have a taxi waiting outside with my luggage. I'm going home to unpack."
"Can I help?"
"I'll hold the cab." She left.
I sat there a few minutes, during which time my phone rang and someone plopped more papers on my desk.
I was trying to figure out why I said, "Can I help?" I have to learn to keep my mouth shut.
There are times when I'd rather face an armed homicidal maniac than face another night in a lady's apartment. At least with the homicidal maniac, you know where you stand, and the conversation is understandably brief and to the point.
My phone was ringing again, and in fact phones were ringing all over the big room, and it was getting on my nerves.
Anyway, as good as I am about getting into the heads of killers and predicting their moves, I am absolutely clueless about sexual involvements-I don't know how I get into them, what I'm supposed to do when I'm in them, why I'm in them, and how to get out of them. Usually, though, I know who the other person is. I'm good at remembering names, even at 6:00 A.M.
I'm also good at smelling trouble, and this was trouble. Also, I'd been straight as an arrow since my involvement with Beth Penrose, and I didn't want to complicate that relationship or complicate my life.
So, I made the decision to go downstairs and tell Kate I decided to go home. I got up, took my jacket and briefcase, and went downstairs and got into the cab with her.