Despite the commotion, Vail, DeSantos, and Uzi were absorbed in their conversation, cups of high octane java by their elbows and a plate of bagels with smoked salmon, capers, and cream cheese in the center of the table.
They each had a list of people whose safe deposit boxes were emptied. Notes were written across Vail’s copy. She was scanning the document a fifth time when DeSantos interrupted her thoughts.
“You got that name from Aksel.”
Uzi did not look up from the paper. “Yeah. I’ve been keeping him in the loop. He’s given me some valuable intel.”
DeSantos bit into his piled-high bagel and spoke while he chewed. “So you two have patched things up?”
Uzi lifted his brow. “I guess. I don’t know. We haven’t talked about it. Right now it’s a relationship of necessity. We’ve got a situation and we’re professionals trying to figure it out.”
“Good. I know he means something to you. I know it hurt when you thought he betrayed you.”
Uzi turned his attention back to the paper. “Depends on how you look at it. It’s complicated.”
“I know.”
Vail set her pen down. “So I’ve done an analysis—” She stopped and glanced at them. “Am I interrupting?”
“Go on,” DeSantos said.
“I’ve gone through the names and sorted them by ethnicity. By my estimation, and based on the info Tarkenton had in the database, twenty were Italian, fourteen were Irish, nine were Jewish, five were Greek, four were Hispanic.”
“So it’s a typical cross-section of New York.”
Vail shrugged. “I guess so. But that’s not what’s important.”
“Just means we’ve got a lot of people to interview.”
“It’s easier than that,” Uzi said. “It’s al Humat, right? They’re not interested in Italians, or Irish, or Greeks, or Hispanics—”
“Jews,” Vail said. She thumbed through the document again, going back to the first page. “Here. We’ve got one who’s a rabbi from Aleppo.”
“Syria?” DeSantos asked, scanning the page and finding the name on his list.
“Moved to Brooklyn twenty-five years ago. Another works at a camera store in midtown, and another is a registered nurse at Bellevue—” She stopped and paged backward. “But this has to be it. A former Syrian Jew? And an al Humat operative? I smell a connection. There’s something there. This is the guy we’ve gotta go see first.”
Uzi shrugged. “Seems right to—”
Vail’s phone rang. She pulled it and found Carmine Russo’s caller ID prominently displayed, along with his photo.
“Russo—”
“You still in New York?”
“Yeah. Just getting started.”
“Meet me in Times Square.”
“Times Square? Are you kidd—”
“Trust me, Karen. It’ll be worth your while.”
21
They arrived ten minutes later but had to stop two blocks short of the address Russo texted her because of a barricade of NYPD police vans and cruisers. A light rain had begun to fall and the sky had darkened, threatening a storm. It was not cold enough for snow, but the smell of it was in the air.
“You text Mo?” DeSantos asked as they exited their sedan.
“I did,” Vail said. “Told him we were on our way, gave him the address. He didn’t reply.”
Uzi gave DeSantos a concerned look.
“I’m sure he’s just following up on some things.” DeSantos hesitated, then said, “But it is very weird, I’ll give you that. Maybe his phone died.”
Vail displayed her credentials and pulled up her collar as they headed toward the north area of Times Square. They made their way through the crowd of officers at Broadway and 47th Street, where the humongous billboards flickered, changed colors, blinked, and rolled. The brightly lit Coca-Cola advertisement made Vail feel thirsty.
Ahead of them was an imposing fifteen-foot-tall statue of Father Francis Duffy and the aptly named Duffy Square, which consisted of rising stadium-style seating that canted over the roof of the TKTS discount Broadway box office. On a normal day, a video camera projected live footage of the people seated on the stands onto a large overhead LED screen.
It was not difficult to see where the focus of the crime scene was, as the camera was still transmitting.
“Shut that thing off. C’mon, dumbshit. Can’t be that hard to flip a friggin’ switch.”
It was Captain Carmine Russo, standing inside the crime scene barricade, a dozen feet forward of the imposing statue.
“Russo.”
He turned and saw Vail, then pushed past the men in his way. He gave her a hug. She made introductions and Russo shook their hands. “So you’re Uzi,” he said. “Thanks again for your help with Hades.”
“All in a day’s work.” Uzi gestured toward Duffy Plaza. “What do we got here?”
“We got us a friggin’ mess, is what we got. I’m talkin’ about the turf battle. FBI wants the scene. JTTF’s here, along with agents from the Field Intelligence Group and something called the foreign counterintelligence squad. Never knew you guys had a foreign counterintelligence squad.”
“I’ll see what I can do about the turf bullshit, but I have a feeling that’s gonna be something the commissioner and director are going to need to address.”
“I don’t see any signs of an explosion,” Vail said.
“No explosion.” Russo chuckled, then handed out booties. “Follow me. Got somethin’ for ya, Uzi.”
They walked single file past the statue toward the stairs that rose at a forty-five degree angle. Russo nodded at a couple of cops guarding the crime scene and tinned an FBI agent who seemed bothered by their presence.
Vail saw the problem immediately. About ten steps up, halfway to the top, a woman was reclining face up on the red Plexiglas and rubber surface, a wood-handled knife protruding from her chest.
DeSantos stopped a dozen feet shy of the body. “A woman’s been murdered. Why’s this relevant to our case?”
Russo glanced over his shoulder but kept moving. “Come see for yourself.”
As they gathered around the middle-aged Hispanic female, Vail gestured at a piece of paper pinned to the woman’s torso by the knife. “There’s a note.” She knelt down and kinked her neck to get a clear view. “Oh. Shit.”
For FBI agent “Shepard”: You are a liar. We know who you are Aaron Uziel and we have a debt to settle with you. First, a word of advice. There’s trouble in the first ward. Don’t say we didn’t warn you.
“First ward?” Uzi asked.
“Guy’s a friggin’ riddler,” Russo said. “No idea what he’s talking about. You?”
Uzi shook his head. “I’ll get one of my agents on it, see if there’s any place in the country that uses wards — Chicago?”
“I think there are parishes, but—”
“That’s a good start,” Uzi said as he tapped out a message to Hoshi.
“They killed a woman just to leave you a note?” Russo asked.
“They want to put people on edge,” Vail said. “And they’re trying to keep us guessing, off balance. That’s the reason for the riddle. Inject uncertainty, leave us chasing our tails. And give us a sense that we don’t know what’s coming next.”
DeSantos pivoted and looked at the distant streets, where throngs of people still moved about behind the police barricades. “How can something like this can happen in the middle of such a busy place?”
“Hey, it’s Times Square,” Russo said. “Tourist sees something weird, he figures it’s some kinda performance art and moves along. I mean, there are women parading around wearing nothing but two circles of paint the size of a baseball—”