The Final Deception Read online

  CRAIG HAD GOTTEN only two hours of sleep and was surprised he felt better for it. He’d thought maybe he’d just stay up, start the 8:00 a.m. interviews, and then join the task force meeting at headquarters scheduled for 11:00.

  He looked at Kieran and smiled. She knew him so well. He rose on an elbow. She hadn’t asked the obvious questions; she was waiting. That was one of the things he loved about her; she knew when to give him space.

  And so he answered without the questions being voiced.

  “Yes, the murder method was the same. Did Nicholson have time to escape and get there? Possibly. But if so, he’d planned on killing Mayhew before. There are all kinds of complications with the building—guards, keys programmed for only one floor—anyway, there’s footage...lobby footage, front door footage, that kind of thing. Same burned and mutilated body...but it doesn’t feel right. Don’t know if I believe anything Nicholson says anymore.” He studied her face. “Kieran, you’re good at what you do, and I know it. Did you believe him?”

  She thought about it for a minute; she had truly questioned herself. “Yes.”

  “But the whole time he was talking to you, he was planning his escape.”

  She nodded. “Yes, and it’s possible he played me, but he still didn’t deny what he did. He was ready to face whatever, certain in his own mind he was righteous—he had done what a great higher power had told him to do.”

  He studied her, remembering the hours he and Mike had spent out at Rikers. Then he told her how it had apparently gone down.

  “Soon after you left him, he doubled over, screaming about pain in his abdomen. Apparently he studied someone having acute appendicitis somewhere along the line, because he feigned it perfectly. They brought him to the infirmary. He was chained to the bed, but when he was going in for certain tests, metal had to be removed. They have plastic cuffs and ankle cuffs, but in between, he somehow managed to drug the guard and the nurse working with him while he was in a waiting vestibule. After that he donned a guard’s uniform, cap, and badge. And took his gun. But he didn’t hurt anyone—he just walked out.”

  Craig paused, letting out a long breath. “Thing is, in an escape, someone usually gets hurt or killed. Nicholson had it all figured out. He got hold of the drugs somehow before he went to the infirmary, hid them, and used them. He knew right where to be and when. There was barely any time in which he could pull off knocking someone out cold with drugs, and then leave a naked guard in his place under the sheets while he was walking out calmly. Someone said he was whistling. Naturally, they’re all over themselves out at the island—not trying to lay blame on one another or the system, just trying to figure out how the hell they failed. They were watching Nicholson. It’s almost as if he had help, though everyone involved with him has been grilled, and they all remain at a loss.”

  “Interesting,” Kieran murmured.

  “In which way—or all ways?”

  “I’m thinking about the fact he didn’t kill or cause any real harm to anyone,” she said. “It’s almost as if he took as much care not to hurt others as he did to get out.”

  “Okay.”

  “Well, it does suggest he had help. And...”

  “And what?”

  “I’m wondering if the voice he hears is real.”

  “You mean he has demons in his head?” Craig asked skeptically.

  “No more than we all have our demons,” she said. “No, I mean...makes me wonder if he has been put up to all this by someone else. He didn’t kill the guard or the nurse because he believed they weren’t evil. But he got out because...”

  “Because he was being told someone else needed to be killed. Charles Mayhew? If he was helped somehow by someone on the island, who had visited the island...that same person might have been the one to make the plans to get him into Mayhew’s apartment to kill him.”

  “Possibly. Otherwise someone else killed Mayhew but wanted to make sure Nicholson was out to take the blame.”

  Craig nodded and glanced at his watch. He had to get back to Mayhew’s apartment complex to speak to the other residents.

  “So...?” Kieran said, watching him rise.

  “Stay here. I’ll come back for you. We’ll go down to headquarters together. I’ll let Egan know what is going on.”

  Kieran nodded.

  Craig hurriedly showered. As he dressed, he was glad Kieran had gone downstairs and was no longer lying in bed, reminding him of where he should be.

  He ran down the steps.

  “Kevin still sleeping?”

  “Yep. I’ll let him sleep.”

  “I’ll be back within two or three hours.”

  “I’ll be here,” she promised.

  As he left, Craig made a point of checking that the alarm was set. Kieran watched him. He turned to see she was smiling.

  “What? An alarm system is a good thing.”

  “Oh, I agree. Honestly, guess what I was thinking? That it’s great to be living with an FBI guy.”

  “Marrying him,” he reminded her.

  “Yeah, yeah, we’ll get to that,” she said.

  “Hey!”

  “Just kidding—we’ll get to it soon, I promise!”

  He headed out, wondering if it was good for her to be living with an FBI guy. Or if it just always put her too close to the action.

  * * *

  It would have been nice to go back to sleep; Kieran knew she wasn’t going to do so.

  As soon as they went to the FBI offices, she would be in the hot seat: she had visited a killer just before his escape, and she hadn’t gotten so much as a whiff of his plans.

  Then again, anyone who had worked for any amount of time with criminals knew they often came in wily, slippery, and capable of feats that boggled the mind.

  She still felt anxious about it. She hadn’t seen the most recent crime scene, but she hadn’t seen any of the other crime scenes either, not firsthand. The pictures had been enough.

  Once dressed, she pulled out her computer. She had files filled with notes on the sessions Fuller and Miro had spent with Raoul Nicholson as well as interviews conducted with his family members, coworkers, and even acquaintances at his favorite coffee shop.

  Interviews with his sons had shown what might be expected—it seemed they both loved him, but years of living in his repressive household had also made them long to live their own lives.

  More normal lives. Both asked first if their words were in confidence—neither wanted their father or mother knowing what they had to say.

  Amy, Nicholson’s wife, on the other hand believed fervently in her husband. She hadn’t known about his “missions,” but she believed if he said he was commanded to kill by a higher power, he was telling the truth. And no matter what the outcome of his confession, trial, or plea deal, she would remain by his side.

  Kieran sat back, thinking about Nicholson’s words when she had interviewed him, and then went back through the notes made by her colleagues.

  He had never mentioned what specific evil he perceived in those he was after. Were they going to kill someone else? He’d briefly said something about those who were diseased—and perhaps about to kill others through careless sex. Such could be the case with sex workers.

  But...a student, a fashion designer, and an accountant?

  And now a very rich philanthropist?

  She wasn’t sure what it would help or change, but when she was at headquarters today, she meant to find out if there was any possible veracity to Nicholson’s claims.

  * * *

  Mike Dalton was waiting on the corner when Craig pulled up for him.

  “How are you doing?” Craig asked his partner as Mike got in the car.

  “Great. That two hours of sleep I wasn’t expecting...magnificent!” Mike said cheerfully before looking at Craig and adding, “Not!”

 
Craig shrugged. “We have to get him, Mike.”

  “We will. But we can’t stay up all night every night.”

  “I don’t intend to. It all just broke yesterday.”

  Mike let that slide. “We’ll have to divide and conquer our interviews if we’re still going to make it to the task force meeting.” He pulled up an email on his phone that had details of the building’s residents.

  “All right.”

  “You want anyone in particular? I’ll take the couple—Toni and Teri Mobley. They’re the eighth floor, one above Mayhew’s apartment, the highest. Mayhew’s place is on the seventh. Sienna Johnson, the single rich girl, is on floor six. I don’t mind talking to her. According to this, Yolanda and Derek Ramirez are not in residence—they’re on vacation in Mexico. So that’s the fifth floor absent. You can start with the fourth floor—Mr. Olav Blom. And Ruff.” Mike shook his head. “Little terrier—Ruff. Small dogs never like me.”

  “Ah, but does that speak well of your personality?” Craig asked.

  “Hey, the big dudes like me fine.”

  “I’ll deal with Ruff and his owner and also take floors two and three—ground level is the lobby. Who are the others?”

  “Julian and Bernadette Chalice have floor number three. He’s in comics and movie production. She’s... She’s just married to a rich guy, I guess. She helps out with struggling theaters.”

  “Sounds good. And what about floor number two?”

  “Two women who made a mint in web fashion—Lindsey Trent and Abigail Wyndham,” Mike said. “They partnered with a clothing manufacturer, apparently saved them, and make a bundle on ‘clothes for every woman.’ They make bathing suits for ladies who want long bike short things for a bottom with choices of tops, and suits that have long sleeves—in case they don’t like their arms. They’re kind of like modified sheer dive skins. I checked out their website. Pretty cool.”

  Craig laughed. “I’m so glad to see you’re enjoying fashion!”

  “Hey, I have a friend I can’t get to come to the beach because she has a scar on her left thigh. I’m going to get her onto their site—well, as long as they prove not to be horrible and heinous murderers,” Mike amended.

  When they reached the posh apartment/condo building on the Upper East Side, it was apparent that Simon Wrigley had stayed up all night, too, or perhaps taken a nap on the small cot in the guard’s office.

  He’d also seen to it that Joey Catalano had stayed.

  Catalano looked the worse for wear. He was cradling a large cup of coffee in a paper cup and blinking a lot. He offered them a weak smile that quickly faded. He was obviously wondering if it was all right to smile when a murder had taken place on his watch.

  “Joey will escort you men up,” Wrigley informed them.

  “Thank you. The residents are expecting us?”

  “They are,” Wrigley said grimly. “That’s Nathan on the door this morning—his regular shift. Joey is at your disposal. I’ll give you two our call boxes. They’re like little walkie-talkies, light and easy to use, but you can reach Joey, or each other, on any of the floors.”

  “That’s great. Thank you,” Craig told him. He and Mike took the small call boxes—about the size of cell phones though their function was more like walkie-talkies. Joey pointed out the keys on the gizmos, and Mike and Craig both thanked him.

  “We’ll be heading to different floors,” Craig said. “Joey, you can drop me and then Mike. I’ll work my way up from two, and Mike’s working down from the top. We won’t be long. I know the residents have already spoken with police officers.”

  “Yes, they have,” Wrigley said pointedly.

  “Sorry. We have the lead on this case. FBI and NYPD are task-forcing it together with other agencies involved as well, but Special Agent Dalton and I are where it all stops, so please bear with us,” Craig said.

  “Sure,” Wrigley told them. His expression was tight; he wasn’t going to argue with them, but was still annoyed. He felt his clients were being victimized—when one tenant had already become the ultimate victim.

  “Hey, don’t mind Mr. Wrigley,” Joey said when they were alone in the elevator. “I think he’s trying to be cooperative. He got a divorce not long ago—third time. He’s a hard man, but a fair man. And I know this whole thing is really bothering him.”

  “I don’t blame him,” Craig said. “But we do have to find answers.”

  “Yeah, answers. Good for everyone.”

  The two entrepreneurs on the second floor were waiting for Craig, standing at the entry, anxiously holding hands.

  He wondered how long they had been there waiting.

  He smiled; he always started off pleasantly. The FBI was not out to make enemies with the public, but rather encourage the public to come forward when they had information or needed help.

  “Hi. I’m Special Agent Frasier. Ms. Wyndham and Ms. Trent?”

  They were an attractive pair, both appearing to be in their midthirties, slender, and almost the same height. One was pale-skinned, blond and blue-eyed, and one had sepia skin, dark brown eyes and soft curling hair that was nearly jet black.

  “I’m Abigail Wyndham, and this is Lindsey,” the blonde said. They both still stared at him.

  “Come in, come in...please!” the dark-haired woman, Lindsey, urged.

  “Thank you.”

  He was led to the living room, architecturally the same as Charles Mayhew’s. The design was different. Mayhew’s place had been filled with heavy leather sofas and chairs. The women had a lighter touch. Drapes in an elegant royal blue threaded with gold covered the windows, and the sofa was a sectional with matching pieces that grouped around a circular coffee table and faced a handsome entertainment center.

  “Sit, please. Can we get you something?” Abigail asked anxiously.

  “No, no, I’m fine, thank you,” Craig said, indicating that he couldn’t sit until they did.

  They perched, close together, on the sofa.

  “This is so dreadful,” Abigail said.

  “I’m sorry. How well did you know Charles Mayhew?” Craig asked.

  “Oh, not really at all,” Lindsey said.

  “We shared the elevator once,” Abigail told him.

  “I understand he did most of his business from his home,” Lindsey added. “He’d go away sometimes, but we really only knew that because one of the doormen would mention he was gone. We always report our comings and goings—oh, and if we’re going to have guests.”

  “We’re so sorry, of course, to hear that...that he’s dead,” Lindsey said.

  “Murdered,” Abigail put in.

  “But we’re so scared now!”

  “I think you’re going to be okay. I don’t think this killer will strike again here. He had a plan and it involved Mr. Mayhew. But...did you see or hear anything at all last night?” Craig asked.

  “We were watching old Burt Reynolds movies,” Abigail said.

  “We were watching television and...we didn’t hear anything. Anything at all. We were laughing at Smokey and the Bandit while that poor man was being killed,” Abigail said.

  “Which is why we didn’t hear anything,” Lindsey explained, as if he might not understand.

  “Burt Reynolds was a very good-looking man,” Abigail said.

  “With a sense of humor about himself,” Lindsey said, and then apologized with, “I’m so sorry. We’re not helping you at all.” They seemed to be in perfect unison with one another, each woman adding on to the other’s words at every point. “No, no, you’re fine,” Craig assured them. “Did either of you misplace or lose a key?”

  “No!” Abigail said.

  “Oh, no!” Lindsey agreed. “But if we had, it wouldn’t matter. Well, I mean it wouldn’t have gotten anyone into Mayhew’s apartment. Each key only goes to the floor where that particular resident
lives. Did you know that?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “The only keys that go to every floor are those held by the security men,” Abigail said thoughtfully. “I guess you knew that.” She sat up straighter. “If a guard lost a key...”

  “That would put us all in danger, wouldn’t it?” Lindsey asked.

  “Apparently there are only two master keys, one locked away, and one that is passed from guard to guard.”

  Lindsey looked at Abigail. “Do you believe that?” she asked. And before Abigail could answer, she looked at Craig. “Do you believe it?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll see to it the system is reset, whatever we discover,” Craig assured her. He produced one of his cards. “If you think of anything—anything you might have seen earlier in the day, anything suspicious, or out of the ordinary—will you let me know?”

  Both women nodded grimly.

  Craig rose and thanked them, and they rose as well, walking him to the elevator.

  “You will let us know...if you catch him,” Abigail said.

  “Of course,” Craig assured her.

  “Was it...was it the Fireman?” Lindsey asked.

  “Why do you ask?” Craig asked in return.

  “The smell of smoke,” Lindsey said softly. “We didn’t smell it right away...not until the policemen came in here.”

  “And we let them search. There are fire-escape stairs just outside the windows there...and a stairway by the elevators. That, however, is kept locked unless there’s a power outage or an emergency. You have to keep them locked—oh, they open with the same key as the elevator. But for us, it’s just one flight down, one flight up. For the people at the top? Eight flights up or down, and no chickening out once you’re committed. Keys only open there, by the elevator. And only on the floor where a resident lives.”

  The killer could have taken the stairs, stopping anywhere, if he had a master key.

  Maybe there were more than two keys. There had to be a way to duplicate the keys, and that seemed to be the only plausible explanation for what had happened.

  Still, the security footage showed no one who didn’t belong come in—or go out.