“We can’t know for sure the sniper was there just for you,” DeSantos said. “They had no way of knowing you were even in New York.”
Uzi seemed distracted. “Yeah.”
“And the message on that note would’ve been delivered to you whether you were here or not.”
“I agree,” Vail said. “The sniper was there to pick people off. I don’t think they necessarily cared who. Cops, FBI, women, children. You, if you were here. But whether you were here or not, the shooter was going to take his shots. It fits the purpose behind all these attacks: induce terror and fear in the general population, leave them wondering what’s coming next. Each one of their attacks has been different in some way or other.”
Uzi was silent a moment, then walked up the steps and knelt at the murdered woman’s side. “Amsterdam.”
Vail and DeSantos, who had followed, looked at each other.
“There a reason why you just said ‘Amsterdam,’ Boychick?”
“Amsterdam, 2004. Guy by the name of van Gogh was shot in the middle of a crowded square, then a knife was driven through a note into his chest.” He gestured at DeSantos. “You’ve got gloves — check to see if she was shot before she was stabbed.”
Russo walked over while DeSantos examined the body.
“Any witnesses?” Vail asked.
“I’m sure there were plenty, but we only managed to get a couple. Conflicting descriptions of the perp, which—”
“Not surprising in stressful times. People don’t see what they think they see.”
“Exactly. The cameras will give us a better look.”
“Either of them say anything about the woman being shot before she was stabbed?”
“No.”
“Yes.” DeSantos looked up at Russo, shielding his eyes from the rain. “GSW to the chest, just above the stab wound.”
Uzi nodded. “So it fits. But what does it mean?”
“It means the sniper may’ve had an accomplice. He took the shot, woman goes down, his buddy stabs the note to her chest.”
“Who was the doer in the Amsterdam case?” Russo asked.
“An Amsterdam native of Moroccan descent, Mohammed Bouyeri. MO was very similar: high profile location, in the middle of a lot of people, dramatically staged with the knife and the note.”
“So what’s the connection?” Russo asked.
DeSantos rose from his crouch as the medical examiner’s vehicle pulled up to the edge of the plaza, in front of the George M. Cohan statue at the southern end of the square.
“Wanna give me that canon for evidence?” Russo asked, gesturing toward the Desert Eagle.
“Nope,” DeSantos said as he went about detaching the scope.
“I think we should just let it go,” Vail said, looking hard at Russo.
“Tell you what,” DeSantos said. “Take it up with Director Knox. He tells me you should get the gun, I'll hand deliver it.”
“Knox.”
DeSantos shrugged. “All I can say.”
“We’ve gotta follow up on something,” Vail said. “Keep us posted on what you find here?”
Russo’s brow bunched as he studied her face. “Anything you’d like to tell me? You know, share resources?”
“I’m sure the NYPD will be plugged into everything that’s going on,” DeSantos said.
Russo gave him a dubious look. “Yeah, right.”
23
Vail found the address for Menachem Halevi, the Aleppo rabbi and safe deposit box holder, on the way back to their SUV. He lived in the Borough Park neighborhood of Brooklyn, an Orthodox Jewish enclave bordering its Italian counterpart not far from the Verrazano Bridge.
“That’s a little surprising,” Uzi said on the ride over. “An Aleppo rabbi would live in Flatbush, on or around Ocean Parkway, not in Borough Park.”
“Is that some kind of rule?” Vail asked.
Uzi chuckled. “Borough Park is mostly Hasidim of European background. It’s unusual to find Syrian Jews here, but not impossible, I guess.”
They parked on 50th Street and walked to the corner at 14th Avenue where they found the seven-story brick apartment building that, by the look of it, dated back at least several decades. Signs above schools and storefront shops bore Hebrew and English lettering.
As they walked through the small courtyard formed by the two wings of the complex, a man in a black overcoat and matching felt hat was coming through the glass doors.
“Hold that,” Vail said, showing her FBI credentials.
The religious man averted his eyes, as the Orthodox are inclined to do around women, but stopped and kept the door from closing.
Vail, DeSantos, and Uzi entered the building and proceeded straight ahead to the elevator. Uzi pulled open the steel door and they stepped into the car.
“This is pretty friggin’ old,” Vail said. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen an elevator like this.” A tarnished penny was stuck inside the cross-hatching of the small glass window of the door that swung closed. She thought about taking the stairs instead, but DeSantos shouldered her aside.
“Deal with it. It’s a short ride.”
A moment later they arrived at the fifth floor. They found the apartment at the end of the hall and pushed the chime. There was a ruckus inside, the sounds of young children playing and roughhousing.
“Good thing today’s Sunday,” Uzi said. “Saturday, the elevator wouldn’t have been working and no one would’ve answered the door.” He apparently noticed DeSantos’s inquisitive head tilt, because he said, “The Sabbath.”
Vail knocked firmly — the weak “ding-dong” was no match for the yelling kids — and seconds later a man in his forties appeared.
“Yes?”
As Vail studied his face, formal dress, and demeanor, she had a feeling he looked older than he probably was.
“I’m Aaron Uziel, FBI. We’re looking for Rabbi Halevi.” He held up his credentials for the man to peruse — which he did, with a backward tilt of his head so he could view them through the reading portion of his glasses.
“What does the FBI want with him?”
“We’re following up on the bank robbery eighteen months ago. We’ve got some questions.”
The man lifted his brow. “You found him. Come in.” Leaving the heavy gauge metal door open, he turned and proceeded into the apartment. Well worn olive carpeting led to a dining table wedged along the left wall. Directly across was a living room of modest size, about a dozen feet wide and fifteen long. Five children, ranging in age from what Vail estimated as three to nine, were running around, slashing at each other with fake swords and jumping off plastic play structures.
“Sorry to bother you on a Sunday,” Vail said, “but these questions couldn’t wait.”
Car horns — loud and long — blared outside on the street.
Halevi sat on a chair near the knot of children. Vail, Uzi, and DeSantos sank into the couch against the long wall. The youngsters seemed unfazed by their visitors and kept playing as if they were not there.
One of the boys stopped suddenly and looked at Vail. In fact, he was staring at her. He pointed and said, “Is that a real gun?”
Vail looked down — and quickly brought her jacket around, covering the protruding handle. “It is. I’m a police officer.”
“Police officers protect people,” he said. “Can I see your gun?”
“Isaac,” Halevi said, “don’t bother the nice lady. Go back to playing.”
A woman a few years younger than Halevi walked in, wearing what appeared to be a wig, but as with her husband, her style and demeanor gave the impression of someone senior to her true age. “We have guests, Menny?”
“This is my wife, Miriam.” He handed her a box of crayons from the coffee table. “They have questions about the robbery. At the bank.”