The Path of Silence (28 page)

“Playing a hardball with these guys is dangerous.” I pointed out what he must have already known. But what he did was understandable under the circumstances. Blank would know his reputation as someone who would not back down. What he was doing was very much in character and perhaps even expected. Still I feared we’d feel the consequences of it soon enough—maybe even in the next twenty-four hours.

“It would be expected of me,” he said, confirming my assumption.

“Blank would anticipate it and you don’t want to give him any reason for thinking otherwise.”

“Blank knows that I’ve halted the project. That’s as far as he meant to push me. He would also know that once I’ve given orders to halt work on the system, I would retaliate in some other way.”

“An old trusted friend who knows you well,” I sighed.

“Now and then, you have to trust someone, no matter what line of business you’re in. Otherwise, you’re not going to survive.”

“So you don’t worry about any fallout as a result of freezing those accounts?” I tested.

He sighed this time. “There’s more than two billion dollars frozen in those accounts. It would be too idealistic to expect that there won’t be something—a counterstrike of sorts.”

I was about to ask him to speculate what the backlash might be when my cell phone chimed—and so did Ken’s and Field’s.

We looked at each other before answering. It was just as well. As I listened to Olsen’s breathless voice, my concentration swam out of focus.

Chapter 33

“J
azz sweetie, Jenny and Melissa have to go home. I have to take you next door to Mrs. Devon’s.” I felt guilty having to throw out my daughter’s friends but I had no choice.

“Aw, Mom,” she moaned but went to pick up her school bag since I would probably not make it home before morning.

“Let them stay,” a voice said behind me. “I’m not doing anything tonight. I’ll stay here and baby-sit, all night if need be.”

I must have stared at him as if he was an apparition because my father shook his head, laughing. “I won’t kidnap her, if that’s what you’re worried about. She’ll be all right. I’ll test my constitution with three ten year olds. Who knows, I might even live to see the morning.”

“Coming?” Ken stuck his head in the front door, shouting.

I opened my mouth, worked it and closed it when nothing came out.

“Go.” He grabbed my shoulders and spun me around, then turned to Jazz. “I’m your mother’s friend, an old friend from work. She has to go, duty calls but I’m willing to stay here and look after you. It means your friends can stay until their parents come to get them. What do you think?”

“An old friend?” Jazz asked. I saw the look on her face and didn’t like what she was thinking.

“Very old,” he confirmed, mouth puckering in a whimsical smile.

“That’s your limo out there?”

“Sure is. If you promise not to break any of the gadgets inside, I’ll let you and your friends play in the back. Go, for heaven’s sake,” he waved at me. “I have five briefcases in the car and two laptops. I’ll work on your kitchen table. I won’t tie up your phone. You can call in any time to check on things.”

“All right.” I found my voice though it creaked. “Thanks.” I managed what I hoped was a smile and rushed outside.

We wouldn’t be able to identify the victim for days, unless someone reported him missing.

“Pieces,” Ken murmured and flinched when he lifted the plastic sheet. Field took a longer look, then moved aside. I stepped up.

“It’s the next phase,” Ken murmured again. I knew what he meant.

Kingsley and Dale was a major downtown intersection. The northwest corner had been roped off but there were not enough police to disperse the crowd that had gathered behind the yellow barricades. They had to use a bullhorn to warn people to stay away. The cleanup squad was still busy, collecting remnants. I saw firemen, ready with a hose. The sidewalk looked like a butcher’s block.

“Christopher Palk, age seventy-four.” I heard Olsen’s voice and turned. He motioned at the gurney. The paramedics had attached side supports so the remains would not scatter when they moved it.

“How did you find out so quickly?” I asked.

He motioned at one of the ambulances. “Alvin Murphy, his friend is in there. They’re treating him for shock. They were heading for the park and decided to use a cash machine first. Murphy forgot his PIN number and went to use the public phone further down the street. He was talking to his daughter, looking this way, when it happened.”

“Was he able to describe it?”

“He got a few words out before they gave him a shot. He said his friend burst apart.”

“Exploded?”

He moved his head uncertainly. “He couldn’t say much. He was shaking. What’s on that gurney has to be a result of an explosion but he said it wasn’t the regular kind. He only heard a slight noise, a crackle.”

“A silent explosion?”

“Not really. The ambulance already took away three bystanders. They were close to him when it happened. They weren’t hurt, just splattered. They said they thought a glass fixture had fallen down and broken.” He lifted his head and looked to where the news vans had parked. “That’s all we need, live coverage to spread the panic.”

He took out a notebook, scribbled the victim’s name and address and tore out the page, handing it to me. “They already sent someone to talk to the next of kin but I think he lived alone. Murphy said that his friend was a widower, no children.”

I took the note, thanked him and said we would share whatever additional information we gathered, then waved at Ken and Field.

Palk lived alone, five blocks east, in an efficiency unit in a seniors’ low-rise complex.

“I didn’t know him. We have four-hundred and thirty residents living here,” the complex manager said, opening the door. We asked him to show us Palk’s unit. He wanted to get back to his TV set and didn’t like the interruption.

“How did he pay rent?” Ken asked, when we entered the small, neat room. There were no walls. The space was portioned off into different living areas by bookcases and furniture.

“I don’t collect rent,” the manager mumbled. “Everything’s electronic these days. We use direct withdrawal from people’s accounts.”

“What do you do?” I asked, not hiding what had flashed through my mind.

“I fix things,” he said with a dark frown.

I motioned around. “Did you ever fix anything in this unit?”

“Maybe, I don’t know. We have four-hundred and—”

“I know.” I interrupted him. “Then you have maintenance records?”

His memory improved. “Nah, the guy who lived here was a fixer.”

“You remember him then.”

He shrugged. “A month ago a light burned out in the corridor. I came to fix it. It wasn’t just the bulb. There had to be a short in the system. He was coming in, saw me and said he could take a look.”

“Did he?” I asked pleasantly.

He grimaced. “Yeah. He rewired the whole floor in a couple of hours.”

“So he was handy. Did you pay him?”

“I’ve got to go. The office is empty. Make sure the door’s closed when you leave,” he said, hurrying out.

Palk was a neat man and another victim without family. Other than a few pictures of his late wife, dated on the back, we didn’t find anything to suggest that he had relatives. He was an avid reader, mostly sports and history. He was seventy-four and retired but we didn’t know where he’d worked. If he knew how to do electrical wiring, he’d be in the trades.

“Olsen will get that from Murphy,” Ken said.

Field kept looking around. He picked up articles, examined them and put them down.

Other than two shelves filled with books, Palk did not have many personal possessions. The fridge was half-empty, the cupboard sparsely stocked. He had two sets of plates and utensils, a few cooking pots and a toaster oven. He had a pullout couch, a chair and a TV. The unit was less than five hundred square feet. True economy.

Field opened up a closet. He stared into it for a long time.

“What are you looking for?” I came and stood beside him. The closet was tiny. Other than a coat, two jackets, a parka and two pair of shapeless shoes, there wasn’t much inside.

“Tools,” he said.

“Right,” I intoned softly. “He should have tools.”

On our way out, we stopped by the manager’s office. He cracked the door open. Field asked him to step outside. He started to refuse, reconsidered and came out.

“Did Mr. Palk have a car?” Field asked.

“I don’t know. We have four—”

“Did he use your tools when he fixed the lighting or did he use his own?” Field interrupted.

“He had all the shit in a box. I didn’t have the tools with me. That’s why I couldn’t fix it right away.”

“What kind of tool box was it?”

“I don’t know…red, I think. I had to help him get it. It was damn heavy.”

“We didn’t find any tool box in his unit,” Field said, taking out a notepad.

“I didn’t take it,” the manager bristled. “He probably took it back.”

“Back where?” Field asked quickly.

“The plaza where he did that shit on the side.”

“What plaza?”

“I don’t know. We have—”

Field cut him off. “We’re investigating Mr. Palk’s murder. It’s important that you remember. Of course, you said you have maintenance records.”

“A plaza in Brooklyn somewhere that closed down.”

“The name?” Ken took out a pen and offered it to Field.

“Greek, Helen something.”

“Hellenic Plaza?” Ken threw me a guarded look.

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“That plaza closed down two months ago,” Ken said. “How could Mr. Palk have brought home a tool box from his job a month ago, if…”

“It could have been a couple of months ago. I don’t remember.”

“That’s understandable,” Ken nodded. “We must take a look at your maintenance records.”

An hour later, the manager was still looking through the mess in his files. Someone knocked on the door. He grunted and went to open it.

“Ah, Mrs. Libby,” he said, raising his voice. “Do you remember when the lights went out on your floor?”

“That was way back in January, when it was still dark. We needed those lights on even during the day. The window at the end is still boarded. You said you would get someone to fix it. That was in February.” He shut the door and came back.

“Four months ago,” he said, looking relieved. “My tenant remembered. I guess time flies.”

“Yes it does,” I told him, heading outside. “Especially when you watch TV instead of doing your job.”

Palk was retired and probably picked up short-term contracts to keep busy.

“That has to be the connection to Creeslow,” Ken said, as we headed for the morgue. “Palk could have done a wiring job for the limo service.”

Ken drove. Field sat beside him, while I sat in the back. They discussed motive and why Palk had been chosen. They noticed I was quiet. Field turned around.

“Troubled?” he asked softly.

I was, for many reasons. “He was a seventy-four year old retired tradesman,” I said. “He didn’t have much money or anything else. Why do that to him? He was no threat to anyone. He was just…handy,” I finished heavily and lowered my head.

“They are ruthless,” he said.

I moved my head from side to side, not lifting it. “It’s more than that, Field. They’re inhuman.”

“Someone’s really twisted. Whoever it is has total contempt for life,” Ken said, briefly glancing over his shoulder.

“Someone’s playing God,” I answered.

Chapter 34

“U
nless you brought dinner, there isn’t much else to do here.” Joe welcomed us gloomily. He hadn’t bothered to greet us but stood over a table, hands planted on either side of a heap covered with plastic. He kept his head lowered as he spoke.

“You can have this job. I’m ready to retire. I might as well become a mortician. It’s a damn lucrative business. I could open up a chain of funeral parlors and laugh all the way to the bank. It’s a warning, of course,” he said furiously and smashed his hands down on the table.

I felt uncomfortable and didn’t know why. Joe was moody and temperamental. We had often seen him throw things when he was frustrated. I thought him capable of fury, rage, sarcasm or indifference but not defeat. I’d never heard him sound so bitter and dispirited.

“Warning about what?” Ken asked. Field started to look around, examine all the gadgetry that Joe had installed in the morgue.

Joe smacked his hand down on the table again. “Who was he?” he demanded hoarsely.

“Christopher Palk, a retired tradesman—” Ken started to say.

Joe cut him off with the swish of his hand. “Who was he?” he repeated grittily.

Ken looked at me, not sure what to say.

I understood. “No one,” I said. “He was just handy.”

“Precisely!” Joe straightened up and turned to face me. He motioned at the remains that had been transferred to the table, still wrapped in drawstring plastic. “When you execute someone who is no threat to anyone, it has to be a warning.”

“So it’s the same situation as with the waiter,” I said.

“The waiter served,” he said cynically.

“Each of these four deaths—executions—served a purpose, Joe,” I told him. I already knew what purpose the latest murder served and hoped Ken and Field would not share this information with Joe. The state he was in, he’d pick a fight with a colleague in Hopkins at the drop of a hat.