Flawless (16 page)

An agent?

Craig Frasier?

Kieran looked at her cell. He hadn't called her. He had driven her to the office that morning, and he hadn't left until she was inside with the door double-locked since it was too early for anyone else to be there.

But he'd been distracted, grim. No surprise. As soon as he left her he was on his way to the scene of a crime.

The murder of a twenty-two-year-old woman.

These people killed without blinking, and she couldn't help but be afraid that she was on their radar.

After all, she'd been on the news after the robbery, and then she had been the “any decent person” to lend a hand to the girl on the tracks.

The girl who might have been there in her place.

She sat at her desk and began jotting down questions she might ask the thieves that afternoon.

It suddenly seemed more imperative than ever that the killers be caught as swiftly as possible. So many lives might well be at stake.

Including her own.

CHAPTER
NINE

AS LONG AS
he had been in the field, Craig still had a tough time when it came to viewing victims of violent crime. It was hardest to bear when
it was a child, when the crime had been particularly heinous or when torture had been involved—even when death had been a blessing after torture had been inflicted.

Maria Antonescu lay in the narrow little alley behind a row of jewelry stores, faceup. She'd died with her eyes open; they seemed to mirror shock and confusion.

Why?

She lay on her back, knocked down by the impact of the bullet.

Death had been quick, at least. They'd shot her straight through the heart.

Young, so young. Pretty, a little bit round, and working as a cleaning woman to stay in the United States. They'd checked immediately to discover if any of the other stores that had been held up used the same service, but none did.

Craig felt a momentary rage rip through him; he couldn't begin to comprehend the callousness that allowed these men to kill people as easily as they swatted flies.

He hunkered down by the body. Despite his feelings, it was necessary. The medical examiner was there; he'd determined time of death to have been between 11:00 p.m. and 1:00 a.m.

“Her equipment was packed, vacuum back in the closet, along with her brooms and mops,” Craig said, looking at Mike, who'd been waiting for him at the scene and had stayed with the ME. “She was almost finished here. If she'd left five minutes earlier, she'd still be alive. The owner's been using the same cleaning service for over twenty-five years. All diamonds are locked in the vaults at night, and all workers—his own staff and contractors like Miss Antonescu—are bonded. That's why she was allowed to work through the night with no one else present. They've never had an incident before. The alarm never went off, so she must have shut down the system while she was working.”

“Or she turned it off because she was on her way out,” Mike said.

“Either that, or...” Craig murmured.

“Or?”

Craig hesitated. The dead girl was stretched out before him, that look of horror still in her eyes.

“Or she was involved and she let them in.”

“But how the hell did they know the combination to the safe?” Mike demanded. “She wouldn't have known that, and the cops who were first on the scene said it hadn't been forced.”

Craig shook his head. “That I don't know,” he said. “What I do know is that they dragged her out here and...” He rose to demonstrate what he thought had happened. “My guess is someone had her by the arm, forced her out the door and pushed her forward. Then someone else shot her at point-blank range. With something powerful. A .44 Magnum, I suspect.”

“New gun. The others were killed with a .45,” Mike commented.

“Different shooter?” Craig suggested.

“Please tell me you don't think we have
another
copycat group.”

Craig shook his head. “No, I don't think you'd get another group together like this—organized and cold as ice, and all willing to kill hostages who pose no threat. It's true, I don't want to admit the possibility. But also, logic backs me up.”

He nodded at the medical examiner, who assured him that Maria Antonescu would be a priority case.

“Anybody find her cell phone?” Craig called.

Someone called out, “No cell.”

“Let's take a walk through the store again,” Craig said to Mike, and headed to the still-open back door.

The display windows were still blocked by the heavy shutters that were pulled down every night, and the front doors were locked.

The showroom was filled with glass cases. Two rooms stood off to the side, private spaces where special clients could be taken, and past them, a hall with three offices. The safe was set into the wall between two of the offices.

In the back was the diamond cutters studio, behind that a storage area, and a small room with a few chairs, a microwave and a small refrigerator—and the door to the alley.

Like the other stores that had been held up by the copycats, the rear exit led to a small alley that was open at both ends but was too narrow for vehicle traffic. This particular building dated from the end of the nineteenth century, but even then, no carriage would have been able to navigate the alley.

“These thieves definitely know the layouts of the neighborhoods they hit,” Craig said to Mike.

Detective Peter Mayo had overheard their conversation and walked over to join them. “You think?” he asked.

Craig liked Mayo, who was with the major crimes unit. The years he had spent in the unit showed on his deeply creased face. He was nearing sixty, probably nearing retirement. Craig was going to be sad to see the day Mayo left the force.

Mayo was a true old-style detective. He was grateful for any help received from computers and technicians, but he always said that people perpetrated crimes and people had to solve them.

He hadn't been sarcastic when he spoke, and now he was looking at Craig thoughtfully.

“The original group wasn't as careful about alleys. There weren't any at the first two stores they hit. Each time the killers have struck, there's been an exit onto an alley,” Craig said.

“We're sure we know who did which stores?” Mayo asked.

Craig nodded. “We can see differences in height and build on the surveillance tapes.”

“Yeah, I read that in the reports,” Mayo said. “Just wanted to make sure you agreed with it. I've been assigned lead on this now that the killers have hit the city, along with my new partner, Joey. Not sure you know Joey. I was working with Liz Grable, but she decided to take early retirement and live out her golden years sailing the world with her husband. Can't blame her. Joey's a little wet behind the ears, but he's a good kid. Still, gotta train him before I retire myself.”

Mike laughed. “I know the feeling.”

“You're just a kid yourself,” Mayo said lightly, though his face was so creased, it was hard to tell a smile from a frown.

“So what are you seeing?” Mayo asked, returning to business.

Craig and Mike went over their earlier conversation. Crime-scene techs were everywhere, looking for prints, for fibers—for anything. The NYPD had cordoned off the street. Neighboring business owners were out on the sidewalk, simultaneously complaining that they were losing business for the day and thanking God that it hadn't been them.

“This place is owned by a Harry Belvedere,” Craig said. “I'm going to have a conversation with him now.” He hesitated. “My gut says this has to be an inside job.”

Mayo nodded. “Because the safe wasn't hacked? Yeah, someone knew something. You take Belvedere. I'll take Joey and start with the employees. Five of them, not counting any other cleaning crew who've been here recently. The dead girl...that look in her eyes. Can't believe she was in on it, but who knows.”

Mayo went off, leaving Mike and Craig to head into Harry Belvedere's office.

Craig almost wondered if you had to be a distinguished-looking older man to own a diamond store.

Belvedere was wearing a pin-striped suit, pink shirt and gray vest. He had steel-gray hair cut short and combed back.

He was sitting at his desk doing nothing, just staring ahead into space. The uniformed cop who had been watching over him nodded briefly to Mike and Craig, then left them alone with the owner.

“Mr. Belvedere,” Craig said quietly.

The man didn't respond.

Craig said his name again, louder this time.

Belvedere winced and looked at him at last. He seemed pained to have been brought back from wherever his mind had taken him.

“That girl... I only saw her once or twice. She started late, but sometimes I was still here. She had another job in the afternoon. Wanted to make enough to stay in school,” he said.

“She knew the code for the alarm system?” Mike asked.

Belvedere nodded. “I've used Clean Cut Office Services for twenty-five years. Their people are bonded.” He hesitated. “And there's nothing out at night. The stones are all moved into the safe. I change the combination frequently.”

“You must tell someone, write it down somewhere,” Craig said.

Belvedere shook his head, a humorless smile curving his thin lips. “No. I have ten grandchildren. I use their birthdates. Different kid each time, no order to it.”

“Who knows you do that?” Mike asked.

Belvedere shook his head. “No one. Not even my kids, and they're not local anyway. My son is career army, deployed to the Middle East, and my daughter is with the Red Cross. She's in Haiti right now. The grandkids are scattered across the country.”

“So if something had happened to you, no one would have been able to get into the safe?” Craig asked.

“They would have had to contact the manufacturer,” Belvedere told them.

That was impossible, Craig thought. Someone must have known something.

Belvedere sighed. “That poor girl. I found her, you know,” he said softly. “I want to do whatever's necessary. I want to help her family. I want to see that she's buried.”

“I'm sure that can be arranged,” Mike told him. He and Craig glanced at one another. They didn't tell him that they suspected Maria Antonescu had let her killers in—whether accidentally when leaving or on purpose.

“We need you to help us catch her killer,” Craig said. He handed Belvedere a piece of paper. “I think no matter how discreet you believed yourself to be, you said something somewhere that eventually led to the killers being able to figure out your code. If you could give us a list of friends you've talked with, of places you've been in the past couple of weeks, that could be very helpful.”

Belvedere nodded and picked up a pen.

Craig watched as the man wrote, then took a look at the list he handed over. Belvedere had attended a gala at the Kennedy Center, seen a Broadway show, dined at a dozen restaurants.

One in particular stood out.

Finnegan's on Broadway.

* * *

Jake knocked on Kieran's office door, calling out to her. He didn't wait for her to respond, just popped his head in.

“FBI's here for you,” he said cheerfully.

Given everything with her brother and the diamond, she couldn't help feeling a twinge of unease, as if the FBI was there to take her in, not just talk to her.

She rose as Jake opened the door wider, expecting Craig.

But it wasn't Craig.

It was assistant director Eagan himself.

“Assistant director,” she said. She managed a smile. “Whatever's going on must be important to get you to leave your office.”

“This is...” He trailed off, took a breath and said, “I'm here to take you to Rikers. I'll keep an eye on you while you speak with our thieves.”

“Of course,” she said, wondering why she suddenly felt as awkward as a newborn filly. “Let me just grab my jacket and my bag. Oh, and my notes.”

“Cheerful sort,” Eagan said, after Jake sent them off with a big smile and a bright “Good luck!”

“Sometimes too cheerful. But Jake is great. He sets people at ease.”

Eagan had come for her in person, but he wasn't doing the driving. A car waited for them on the street.

* * *

Since this was Kieran's second time at Rikers, she knew the procedure.

Soon they were through security and seated in the same stark visitors' room as last time. In a few minutes, the first of the thieves, Sam Banner, was sitting across the table from her. Eagan—just as Craig had done before—stationed himself a few feet away, leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, watching.

They'd been allowed to question the men without their attorneys present because the questions didn't involve their own charges and nothing that was said could be brought up in court.

“Hi, Sam,” Kieran said.

“You're back,” he said, sprawling into the chair, looking over at Eagan, then back to her. “I thought the computer proved we weren't murderers. Plus I heard there's been another murder.”

“That's true,” Kieran said.

“So what do you want from me? We were telling the truth. You know that.” He gave a little shudder. “Although the other inmates were afraid of us when they thought we were killers. Now... I guess we gotta get used to prison life anyway, huh? We may not be killers, but I guess we're in for a while.”

“I would imagine,” Kieran said. “Armed robbery.”

“With squirt guns.”

“The point is—”

“Yeah, yeah, we've all talked with our lawyers,” Sam said.

“Sam, here's the thing,” she said flatly. “The killers are following what you guys did to a T. That means they know a lot about you and your MO.”

“Yeah,” he said glumly.

“Think about it. How could they have known? How did they know how many of you were involved? How did they know what you wore and how you operated once you were inside a store?”

He looked at her blankly. She was pretty damned sure that he hadn't even thought about that before.

“Huh. I don't know. The news reports? They showed actual footage of our robberies.”

“Okay, let's start here. Girlfriends, boyfriends. Any of you have one and talk about what you were doing?”

“No. Never. That was the thing—say nothing. Not to your girl, your mother or the priest in the confessional. That was the agreement we had.”

“Okay, let's try another angle. Where did you meet to plan your jobs? Where did you talk about what you were up to?” she asked. “Did you meet in public? At someone's apartment?”

“The gym, sometimes. Franchise place downtown on Broadway. They keep the music too loud for anyone to overhear. And other places, too. Bars and restaurants. Never the same one twice. At the end of a haul, we'd pick a place to meet next.”