The Final Deception Read online

  “We don’t know much at this time, but please know that we’ll be doing everything humanly possible to find this killer.”

  “The Fireman,” Lindsey said gravely. “We did smell the smoke, and we saw on the news he had escaped.”

  “We don’t know,” he repeated. “Ladies, thank you.”

  He used the small walkie-talkie device he’d been given to summon Joey Catalano.

  The elevator arrived. Joey was grinning when Craig stepped in, looking a bit better than he’d looked before.

  “What is it?”

  “Special Agent Dalton said you’re a slowpoke. He’s already moved on to his second interview.”

  “That’s because Special Agent Dalton drank too much coffee this morning—turned him into a speed demon and he’s talking double-time.”

  “Bringing you to floor number three,” Joey said, apparently far more at ease than he had been.

  “Thank you.”

  Just as the women had been waiting in the vestibule right off the elevator, so were Julian and Bernadette Chalice.

  They appeared to be in their early sixties. Bernadette was a very attractive woman with swinging, chin-length silver hair that was cute and smart. Her eyes were large and blue; she was slim and handsomely dressed in workout clothing she evidently really wore to work out. Julian was balding, with keen eyes, a medium build, and a slightly receding hairline.

  Craig introduced himself and explained that the FBI needed any help they could receive.

  “We talked to the cops,” Julian said. “We let them search our apartment.”

  “Thank you,” Craig said. “I’m just doing a follow-up. We are still trying to figure out how Mr. Mayhew’s killer got into his apartment.”

  “Nothing to do with us!” Julian said indignantly.

  “I wasn’t making such a suggestion,” Craig assured him. “But we are trying to find out if maybe you noticed anyone watching the building, watching Mr. Mayhew...not just yesterday, but in the days or weeks before yesterday.”

  Bernadette let out a soft sigh. “That’s so hard to say. People do stare at this building. It’s an attractive building.”

  “Did you notice anyone in particular?”

  “Oh, gosh... I don’t know,” Bernadette said, looking to her husband.

  Julian shook his head. “I’m busy... I don’t notice strangers, I’m afraid. I believe in a world in which we all do as we need to do—as long as we don’t hurt other people.”

  “Julian is always preoccupied,” Bernadette said, smiling and placing a hand on her husband’s shoulder. “He wouldn’t have noticed a large gorilla on the sidewalk when he was coming or going.”

  These people weren’t killers, Craig thought. Nor did he believe they would harbor a killer. He also didn’t think they had any useful information.

  He handed them his card just in case, thanked them, and called for Joey Catalano.

  As Craig stepped out on the fourth floor, Joey’s walkie-talkie beeped.

  “Paged by Special Agent Dalton,” Joey said.

  “Go get him,” Craig advised lightly.

  This time, there was no one there to greet him in the vestibule.

  He called out, “Mr. Blom? Special Agent Frasier, FBI.”

  There was no reply. Frowning, Craig waited a minute. “Mr. Blom!” he called again. There was no reply. “Ruff?” The dog had to be there somewhere.

  He headed through the apartment; it was the same layout as Mayhew’s.

  The little dog, Ruff, had his own bedroom. There was a dog bed in it, and the walls had been covered with pictures of dogs at play.

  Ruff was one beloved pooch.

  Craig had seen the dog and his owner return to the building on the security footage last night. Where could they be now? How had they left the building without being noticed by the security guards? “Ruff?” Craig called loudly. “Here puppy, puppy!”

  If Ruff was hiding somewhere, he might well come out and bite. Little dogs could be protective and in that, fierce and vicious.

  But he wasn’t worried about being bitten; he was worried about the fact he couldn’t find the dog or his owner.

  “Ruff, here Ruff. Are you hiding somewhere?”

  He didn’t hear the dog and couldn’t find the dog, and he sure couldn’t find Olav Blom. At least not in any obvious place.

  He began a methodical search of the place, starting in the dining room and looking under the table and into the hutch. A man couldn’t be in the hutch, he wouldn’t fit in the hutch, but Craig meant to leave no stone unturned.

  As he searched under and behind every piece of furniture in the living room, he called Joey Catalano.

  “Joey, did Mr. Blom go out this morning?”

  “No, sir. No one went out,” Joey replied.

  “I thought Simon Wrigley spoke with all the residents, telling them we would be here early to talk with them. Blom isn’t here.”

  “Special Agent Frasier, you saw him come back in yesterday. None of the residents have left since last night. I don’t think Mr. Wrigley spoke with them all. He sent messages.”

  “Well, Blom isn’t here.”

  “I don’t see how that’s possible, sir. I saw him come back in last night. No one has left since then. I mean, I wasn’t on the door, but I was here. I never left. Slept awhile on the couch.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “By the elevator, waiting on Special Agent Dalton.”

  “When he’s done, get him, and come on down to the fourth floor.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Craig went through every cabinet in the kitchen.

  He’d covered the entry, the dining room, living room, and kitchen.

  There were three bedrooms. He started with Blom’s bedroom, going through the closet and every drawer. He didn’t see a wallet. Wherever the man was, he must have that on him. But there was no sign he had left for any amount of time. The closet was filled with clothing, as were the drawers.

  The next room was a guestroom—neat, tidy, and ready for a guest.

  The closet there was filled with sheets, towels, bath soap, shampoo, toilet paper, and paper towels.

  Frustrated, he searched both bathrooms—no sign of a disruption anywhere, no sign of blood. Nothing ill had happened to the man here.

  He headed back into the dog’s room. He’d already opened the closet there, but he hadn’t pried into the boxes.

  He started pulling out boxes marked as having come from a gourmet pet shop.

  He began to hear a whining sound, punctuated by a weak growl.

  He dragged out a box; from the back of the closet, the fuzzy little terrier suddenly sprang at him, teeth bared.

  Craig leaped back. “Hey, hey, it’s all right,” he said, backing away to hunker down and stretch out an arm. The terrier growled nervously, and then stepped forward to sniff his hand.

  Apparently he passed inspection.

  Craig heard the elevator arrive and Mike call out to him.

  “Craig, where are you?”

  The call frightened the dog. He couldn’t have weighed more than fifteen pounds, but when Ruff catapulted himself into Craig’s arms in fear, he almost knocked him over.

  “Here, Mike, here. First bedroom on the left.”

  “You found Blom?” Mike called as he came down the hall.

  “No. No Blom. But I did find Ruff.” He hesitated, rising with the little dog in his arms as Mike entered the room.

  The poor dog was shaking uncontrollably. As Mike entered the room, Ruff began his quiet, nervous growling once again.

  “Careful!” Mike said. “The little guys can be fierce. You might get bitten.”

  “I’m not going to get bitten. He’s fine. Just let him sniff you.”

  “Sniff me?” Mike repeated indignantly. />
  “Your hand, Mike,” Craig said.

  Mike slowly stretched out his arm, bringing his fingers close to Ruff’s nose. The dog sniffed and edged closer to Craig’s chest, no longer growling.

  “Any suggestion where Blom might be? Under a bed or somewhere?” Mike asked.

  “I looked everywhere. In and under everything. No Blom, no sign of disturbance, and no sign of him taking a trip anywhere. Besides, I don’t think this guy would have left his dog. Hell, the dog has his own bedroom. I don’t have a good feeling about this,” he told Mike.

  “You think this man, Blom, was the killer?”

  “He either is the killer or he’s dead somewhere. But either way, a question remains. How the hell did he get out of the building?”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “HE GAVE ABSOLUTELY no sign he was planning an imminent escape,” Kieran said.

  The task force meeting would begin in less than an hour; Egan had just her, Mike, and Craig in his office, questioning her before they were to begin. Egan perched on the corner of his desk. Since Kieran had taken the visitor’s chair, Craig and Mike stood to the side.

  “If anything, he seemed entirely earnest, trying to convince me he had been justified in what he did. Which, naturally, makes me wonder. He was telling me his victims had been evil, and they would kill others. By the command of Satan. This is something that never came up in other interviews—to my knowledge at least. The first two women Nicholson killed were prostitutes. I didn’t see anything in the reports, but after my conversation with Nicholson, I’m wondering if they were HIV positive.”

  Egan looked surprised at her deduction. But when he glanced over at Craig, Kieran knew it was true.

  “We held tight to a lot of information. We didn’t need vigilantes on the street, or prostitutes being punished by their pimps or a rash of johns killing sex workers,” Egan said. “They’ve got it hard enough as it is.”

  Kieran stared at Craig. He hadn’t even told her. But then her info about the case had come from the media and Drs. Fuller and Miro. Craig hadn’t talked much about it. She’d known when the murders had been happening and known Craig was investigating. And she’d known when he had been the one to apprehend Raoul Nicholson.

  “How would a man like Nicholson—in his church every day, fully committed to his wife, lest he burn in hell—know about a prostitute’s health?” Egan murmured.

  “Actually, cases have gone many ways, but people have been charged with murder for the conscious and malicious spread of AIDS,” Kieran said.

  “Gretchen Larson, the first victim, had quit the trade,” Craig said. “She was cleaning toilets. She knew her diagnosis, and she stopped seeing men. A few of the women with whom she’d been friends told me she’d been to a clinic where they tried to trace the virus to no avail. But all that information is locked away.”

  “What about the second young woman?” Kieran asked.

  “That was something we looked for right away, she was not infected,” Mike told her.

  “And the student from NYU—straight flyer, super grades, and an amazing future ahead for her most probably,” Craig said.

  Kieran sighed. “Okay, here’s what I’ve wondered from my talk with Nicholson. The voice—he couldn’t really pinpoint it. He said it came to him in different ways. I’m wondering if someone fed him information and, maybe, even turned him into a serial killer with one particular victim in mind. If you were cold-blooded yourself but didn’t want to get caught, and you were totally careless of other lives, why not find someone gullible, already close to the edge—like Nicholson—to do your dirty work?”

  “You’re suggesting someone out there is really the voice that Nicholson hears?” Egan asked her.

  “It’s only an idea,” Kieran said. She shrugged unhappily. “He believed what he was telling me, and I trust my judgment on that. He seemed to accept whatever fate came his way. He didn’t want his defense to be that he was crazy. His attorney, Cliff Watkins, was the one who kept pushing for him to be seen by psychiatrists. When he talked about Satan commanding people, Watkins got nervous. It was the only time he stopped him from saying more. I couldn’t be sure—no one can ever be sure about another person’s mind—but through training and experience, I’d have sworn Nicholson was telling the truth—as he saw it.”

  “His attorney was pushing hard for insanity,” Egan said.

  Kieran felt almost as a prisoner might—being interrogated by the three.

  She wasn’t at any fault, she knew. But it was still an uncomfortable feeling. She wished Nicholson would have said or done something—the slightest thing—to suggest he intended to escape.

  Egan looked over at Craig. “Who else was in to see Nicholson yesterday?” he asked.

  “Just his attorney, and he was only there to watch over the proceedings with Kieran. And his wife. According to the records, she came every day,” Craig said.

  “What’s your take on the wife?” Egan asked Craig.

  “She stands by her man. She doesn’t deny he did what he did, but she swears if he says he was commanded to kill by a higher power, then it was so,” Craig said.

  “You want to have a go at Amy Nicholson?” Egan asked Kieran.

  “Me?” Kieran asked, surprised. “I’m sure either Dr. Fuller or Dr. Miro—”

  “I’d like to hear what she says to you. I believe I can get her down here. She’s afraid with him on the loose. She knows she’s being watched, and she knows a score of officers would love to come upon her husband with a weapon, shoot first and ask questions later. I think she’ll believe you’re trying to help her—and her husband.”

  “I don’t know—” Craig began.

  “I don’t know if he ever said anything to his wife,” Kieran said, “but he didn’t think I was a witch. That could give me some leeway with her. But what do you think I can find out?”

  “If she helped him escape in any way, if she knew he intended to escape, and if she has any idea of where he’s gone now, and...” Egan paused. “And if he killed Charles Mayhew. Will you talk to her, Kieran?”

  “I, uh, of course. If you think I can be of any help.”

  “I’ll see if I can get an agent to bring her in here after the task force meeting,” Egan said.

  “We should be on the street looking for Blom,” Craig said.

  Egan looked at him. “Word is out. Anyone on patrol or on the streets is looking for him. If we don’t find him in a matter of hours, we’ll get an APB out on him. You think he might have been the one to copy Nicholson and kill Mayhew?”

  “I think he’s dead,” Craig said.

  “Mayhew is dead and Blom is missing,” Egan said. “Doesn’t that make him look suspicious? The method of killing may be the same, but it’s still a stretch to believe Nicholson broke out of the infirmary, made it to the building on the Upper East Side, got in, killed Mayhew, and got out.”

  “I went back over the security footage,” Craig told him. “You never see Blom’s face.”

  “But you said the dog was terrified, hiding in a closet. In the security footage, you see the dog walking calmly on his leash,” Egan said.

  “The man who we assumed was Blom was wearing a hoodie. You never see his face in the images. He barely waves at the guard, who hardly looks up from his newspaper,” Mike said.

  “Wherever he is, we’ll find him,” Egan said with assurance. “Task force meeting first, then you can get back out there yourself. Kieran can interview Amy Nicholson and see what she discovers. And...” He lifted a hand before Craig could interrupt. “I will then escort Kieran to Finnegan’s. I’m in the mood for a really excellent shepherd’s pie tonight.”

  Craig nodded. “Did you get the blueprints for the building?” he asked.

  “They’re in tech now. Feel free to go take a look. We’ve pulled everything we could from city hall. There have been many cha
nges throughout the years.”

  Craig turned toward the door; Mike followed.

  Kieran didn’t intend to be left behind, and she quickly rose.

  Craig turned back to her. “Kieran, you’re not really an agent on this case,” he reminded her.

  “I can still...look,” she said.

  He nodded, acknowledging he was being unreasonable. She knew he didn’t want her involved with Nicholson, his family, or his case anymore. She understood.

  “You’re down to about forty minutes to study the plans,” Egan said.

  “Then we’d better see what we can get done in forty minutes,” Craig said.

  Kieran followed Craig and Mike to the elevator; they headed up to tech.

  She could see the young man who had the blueprints; he was taking pictures of the plans with a digital camera, muttering to himself as he did so.

  “Marty, hey, are those the building plans for the Mayhew case?” Craig asked.

  “Yes, and wow, what a building!” the man he’d called Marty said, looking at Kieran curiously.

  “Kieran Finnegan, Marty Kim,” Craig said.

  “Ah, your reputation precedes you!” Marty said with a big grin.

  “In a good way, I hope,” Kieran said.

  “Oh, the best,” Marty assured her.

  “We’re here to take a look at the blueprints,” Craig said. “Sorry, but the meeting is coming up, so we’re in a rush. You’re taking the pictures with a special lens?”

  “Yes. There are several sets of blueprints, and I’m taking pictures to overlap. There was so much construction done on the building through the years. The Tower Building—completed in 1889—was, in most opinions, our first skyscraper, and certainly the first built with a steel frame. The first high-rises, nonsteel construction, started going up a bit before. The design was taken from the concept of putting a bridge up vertically. Anyway, this building started out at four floors. The higher levels came at the turn of the century. But as you can imagine, any tall building needs a good foundation. The basement was shored up time and time again to assure, of course, that the upper floors would be strong. The most recent lift the building was given had to do with more cosmetics as every floor was designed with the same flow for weight management. Reworked plumbing and electric—and cable, of course.”