Darkness Calls (5 page)

Ryder had had both built during the fifties, at the height of the Cold War. The mason who had done the work had seemed to understand why Ryder wanted another avenue of escape in the event of a nuclear attack. The man had been paid well to do the work and keep the secret of the tunnel's location and the fact that Ryder had a hand in the corporation that owned the building.

The building was just one of the many properties in which Ryder's company had an interest. After his “death” he'd recovered some of the funds he'd hidden before the Civil War, leaving the bulk of the money for his wife. With his funds, he'd bought real estate and with the earnings from the real estate, he'd invested in other things. Little by little, his holdings had grown and now money was not a concern.

He stepped into the tunnel and secured the door behind him. The smell and heat in the tunnel was always bad and only slightly better in the winter. Thankfully, it was just a few yards to a similar entrance into a maintenance tunnel for the Sixty-eighth Street subway station. The subway would deposit him at the Brooklyn Bridge/City Hall stop. From there it was a short walk to Federal Plaza. Not enough exposure to the rays to do much damage, especially since the fedora helped shade most of his head and face and the sunglasses in his pocket protected his acute eyesight from the worst of the sun.

Once out of the tunnel, he was in a little-used passage to the main subway entrance. He walked to the turnstile, pulled out his Metrocard and swiped it through the reader.

Walking to the edge of the platform, he looked uptown into the tunnel, but there was no sign of a downtown train. Despite that, his body registered the subtle vibrations and sounds of something approaching. A few moments later, the rush of air from the tunnel confirmed the imminent arrival of the number six.

With the hiss and squeal of brakes that grated on his sensitive hearing, the train lurched to a halt. Except for a number of younger people, clearly students on their way to Hunter College, few passengers got off. Most were headed to the main commuter stations like Grand Central and Times Square, where they would make the necessary connections to other trains. Ryder packed onto the crowded car and the scents and sounds of the mass of people attacked him. He closed his eyes as he always did and began a mantra he had learned many, many years ago from a Japanese man interred at a California camp during World War II.

As always, the mantra soothed the anger of the animal within and brought him some measure of peace.

Holding on to the pole, he swayed and bounced as the train rocketed to his destination. Once there, he raced up the stairs, slid on his glasses and did what he could to avoid the direct rays of the sunlight until he was finally in the cool interior lobby of 26 Federal Plaza, home of the New York City branch of the FBI. Tranquilly, he got in the line necessary to clear the security barriers, and, after waiting almost interminably, he was allowed through and directed to someone who would take him to the interrogation room.

When he arrived, Diana was waiting by the elevator, her partner beside her. They were like the eternal yin and yang. Light and dark. Good and, well…still good but with a lot of other things thrown in that weren't necessarily so straight. Things that roused something dark within him. He nodded and acknowledged their presence.

“Latimer. Nice to see you're finally here. Where's your Mr. Ruggiero?” Diana said icily, and beckoned him down the hall.

“I didn't think his presence was demanded,” Ryder answered, sensing that her anger was simmering beneath the calm she was trying to present. “I have nothing to hide.” Well, at least, nothing pertinent to the investigation.

Diana shot him a glance that clearly said she thought otherwise and then opened the door to one of the rooms. Inside, two other men waited.

He walked in, and she quickly introduced Jesus Hernandez, the assistant director in charge, and a tall, very Irish-looking man by the name of Peter Daly, who was the lead detective from the NYPD homicide squad that was assisting with the case.

A moment later he was invited to sit and the interrogation began.

R
yder answered questions about his background—a fictional account of his life in New Orleans and elsewhere before he moved to New York. It was well rehearsed after years of practice. The narrative was one that had enough detail to satisfy but nothing that could be tangibly verified. No colleges attended or professional degrees earned despite the fact that at one time he had been a physician. Those details would only force him to create a tangle of lies that would trip him up and have the authorities wondering why he was being evasive.

Detective Daly seemed to notice the lack of detail, for on more than one occasion he jumped in to ask a question that might lead Ryder on a path to that tangle. Ryder deftly avoided those inquiries, but it was clear the detective was not happy.

Like Diana, this NYPD cop was not all that he seemed. Beneath the calm and observant exterior, there was a determined mind that would not be satisfied until he had the answers he wanted. Answers Ryder was not giving him.

As the three FBI representatives moved on with the questioning, the detective said nothing more. He just sat back and whittled away at the explanations Ryder gave. When talking about the club it was easier for Ryder to go with the full truth, for it was a real establishment with real people. Plus, he ran a clean business and no investigation, no matter how deep or invasive, would find otherwise.

His willingness to elaborate and cooperate seemed to mollify the investigators, although Diana and Detective Daly were not totally convinced of Ryder's intentions. It made sense. His intentions had only a little something to do with finding the killer and a lot more to do with protecting himself and his way of life.

He was smooth, Diana thought, observing Ryder as he answered another question about his past even though a moment before they had been discussing the club's bouncers and any possible altercations they might have had with the patrons.

Ryder leaned back in the chair and adopted a very casual, laid-back stance. If he was nervous, there wasn't a thing to give it away. His pupils were wide and open. His facial muscles relaxed. “As I said before, Detective, my mama home-schooled me—”

“In your place in the bayou?” Daly finished, but Ryder just shook his head.

“You Northerners don't seem to understand, we don't all grow up in the swamps, Detective. As I said before, my family lived in a small place on the outskirts of the French Quarter. That's in New Orleans, if you didn't know,” he chastised, adding a slow drawl to his voice that made the city's name sound like Nawlins. Again, she had to admire him. He was either telling the truth or he was an exceptionally good liar. And his drawl…it made her think of sultry Southern nights and…She stopped herself from going there and concentrated again on the interrogation.

“And your mother—” Daly began, but Ryder cut him off.

“My mother was a waitress in various establishments, but died when I had just turned thirteen. I ended up on the streets, living however I could. Moving around a bit until I decided to leave for other opportunities,” he replied, his voice hardening as if it was painful to recollect that part of his life.

She couldn't picture him as a street urchin. He was polished in a way that came from breeding and not from trying to prove he had made it in the world. The clothing he wore spoke of a man with innate taste, from the soles of his Gucci-clad feet to the Jhane Barnes suit and what she was certain was a hand-tailored Egyptian cotton shirt. This was a man used to elegant things and yet…There was a hardness under that graceful facade that only came with seeing too much of life. She had that same harsh aspect deep inside herself and recognized a kindred spirit. Maybe that was why she was drawn to him.

As he finished his explanation and met her gaze, he gave her a chagrined look as if he realized that she saw through all the polish and shine. She started to smile back, then reined it in. She was supposed to be investigating, not commiserating.

After a few more questions, the ADIC took charge. “Mr. Latimer, we thank you for your cooperation and hope you will have time to assist Special Agent in Charge Reyes and her colleagues with whatever they may need at your club or—”

“I'd be delighted to show Ms. Reyes around tonight, if she wishes. We're closed, and it would be the perfect opportunity for her to get a feel for the place. Plus, we can discuss how I can assist with the investigation.” He gave her a devastating smile that warmed her with its intensity.

It was that response that had her hesitating to go anywhere alone with him, but she nodded at her ADIC and Colleagues. “That would be acceptable, although Special Agent Harris and Detective Daly have other plans for tonight.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Ryder replied, although she sensed he was pleased. Did he think that by cutting her away from the others he might be able to gain some advantage? Maybe even charm his way out of any further role in the investigations? He'd be unpleasantly surprised to find otherwise. She intended to stick close…for business reasons only, she clarified to herself.

“Well, I think it's time we all got moving,” she said, and rose.

She bid everyone in the room goodbye, and Ryder followed her out of the interrogation room and down to a smaller office at the end of the hall. Once inside, Diana slipped off her jacket and tossed it on the sofa near the door. She held out her hand, offering him the chair in front of her desk, and he sat, crossing one leg over the other and slouching down slightly.

He glanced around her office, his gaze sharp as if taking inventory and sizing her up. Diana wished her space was a trifle neater rather than boasting its usual clutter of files and papers. She refused to apologize for it, even though she detected condemnation.

“Comfortable?” she asked instead, slipping into her own chair, removing her holstered gun and locking it into her top desk drawer.

“No, but this will have to do, won't it?” he challenged, finally vocalizing some of his displeasure over his involvement in the case.

Diana held back her comment, dug a fat manila file from a small pile on the side of her desk, and plopped it onto the desktop between them. Opening the folder, she rotated it so he could examine the contents as she began to fill him in on the background of the case. Of course, the folder was missing what few key pieces of information they had. Call it a test, she thought, wondering whether he would slip up and give away anything that might implicate him.

He didn't. On the contrary, as they discussed the case his intelligence and observations impressed her as did his willingness to offer information on his various employees and, at times, himself. She stored away each nugget of information, using them to construct a better picture of the man sitting before her.

He was a loner. A man who had experienced great loss and still bore the weight of it in a heart that sought respite. She understood such loss. She had experienced it herself and, like Ryder, still carried scars within her that hadn't healed. And, like Ryder, a part of her hoped someone would help ease the burden and heal the wounds. But two injured people…it didn't bode well for a happy ending, she thought.

“Any ex-employees who might harbor a grudge? Maybe want to hurt you and the club by choosing its patrons as targets?” she asked, trying to pull away from what she was feeling and return to her role as investigator.

Ryder shrugged. To have enemies one had to have friends. Ryder had neither, only his companion Melissa Danvers. His employees were just that and nothing more, as were his lawyer and other business associates. “No one. I try to be fair, Ms. Reyes.”

Tired of her questioning, he asked, “What do you think this killer is like? What makes him tick?”

Diana leaned back in her chair, considering him as if she wasn't quite sure if she could trust him. But he also sensed something else…interest. Unwanted attraction on her part. Her eyes narrowed and then she began her explanation. “He obviously has a lot of anger toward women. He acts out that anger by ritualistically torturing his victims.”

Ryder nodded. “I noticed the cuts from the pictures,” he said.

“Mmm. He likes hurting them,” she continued. “I think he makes sure that they are aware of what he plans to do. That gives him power. That gives him the ability to…He probably can't function sexually without that.”

“Not much of a man,” Ryder intoned, and stood, stretching out the kinks in his back from the hours of sitting. “Please continue,” he said. She described the motivating force for the killer, the likely age of the suspect and how she believed he spent time choosing his victims before he finally took them away to be tortured and killed. As she spoke, he walked away from her and paced the small open space to the right of her desk. His movement took him past the window, which faced the water and provided a view of the East River and the Narrows. At night, it would give her a glimpse of the Statue of Liberty and the ferries going to and from Staten Island. He suspected she had been there more than one night to see those sights.

On the ledge of the window there was an assortment of orchids, some in full exotic bloom. Fussy, fragile flowers. Not at all like their owner. She was strong and capable. Resilient and yet…wounded, he thought. He wanted to understand those hurts. Help heal them, he thought as he continued to listen to her report.

“Mr. Latimer?” she questioned. He realized she had asked him a question that he had obviously missed during his musings.

“First of all, let's make it Ryder if we're going to be working together,” he said, wanting to break down some of the barriers between them.

She hesitated but finally relented. “Ryder it is then, as long as you call me Diana.”

“I'm sorry, Diana, for ignoring you, but I think I need a break.”

“I asked if you wanted to get some dinner. There's a little Italian place two blocks away where we can grab a bite and then head to your club.” She rattled off the name of the restaurant.

Ryder nodded, although the bite he intended to grab was way different than what Diana had just proposed. “I just need to make a call first,” he said, and she offered the use of her phone. He declined. “It's personal.”

Her expressive gold-green eyes widened, and she surprised him by giving him an amused grin. “Sorry to make you cancel a hot date. I need to freshen up, anyway, so I'll be back in a few minutes.” She rose and left the room, leaving Ryder in privacy, but not to cancel a hot date. On the contrary, he needed to make plans for an ice-cold bag of blood.

He reached to his side, removed his cell phone from the clip on his belt and picked up the framed snapshot of her family. Her mother, father and brother stood close to a younger Diana. All were smiling. He replaced the frame on her desk, depressed the number one on his phone and held it until Danvers answered with a soft, almost annoyed “Yes, Ryder.”

“I need you to bring a snack.” He gave Melissa the name and address of the restaurant. “I'll try to stall for about half an hour or so to give you time to get there. Beep me when you're ready, and I'll meet you inside the men's room.”

“Oh, come on. Not the men's room again,” Melissa complained, but Ryder just laughed and reiterated his request.

“Yeah, although I think I should get paid extra for the men's room,” she joked. Over the years of servitude Ryder had not provided visible remuneration to the various Danvers who had assisted him. They served Ryder as a family tradition and out of friendship. Occasionally Ryder provided funds for things like Melissa's schooling.

“I'll put something extra in this week's envelope,” he answered, and heard her laugh before her tone turned serious.

“So how was she—” A knock at the door precluded any additional discussion. “Gotta run,” Ryder said, and pushed the end button on the cellular, cutting Melissa off midsentence. Diana waited hesitantly by the door until he motioned her in.

She entered, went immediately to her desk, unlocked her drawer, removed her holster and gun, and slipped them onto the back waistband of her pants. As she reached behind her, the fabric of her shirt pulled against her breasts, and Ryder couldn't help but appreciate that though she was slender and petite, she managed to have curves in all the right places.

As her gaze met his, she colored a becoming shade of pink and quickly dropped her hands to work at tucking in the hem of the soft cotton top. Without saying a word, she stalked to the door and grabbed her coat, leaving Ryder to follow her hurried flight down the hall and toward the elevator.

She angrily punched the down button and waited, her foot tapping the floor in irritation. Her arms were crossed against those very enticing breasts, and Ryder couldn't resist baiting her, intrigued by her passion. “Angry at something?”

“Mr. Latimer—”

“It was Ryder a few minutes ago, Diana.” She shot him a glare over her shoulder.

“Ryder,” she started, her tone brusque, “I don't appreciate you ogling me, especially if we're going to be working together.”

“Darlin'—” he began, but she cut him off by raising her hand.

“I am not your darlin', or sweetheart, or whatever else it is that you good ol' Southern boys call your lady folk.”