The Dark Hour (6 page)

“Your name came up in a couple past investigations we’ve been following. In this case, your skills at bending the rules seemed . . . like an asset.”

The only other investigations worth noting that he’d been involved in of late had to do with Sydney Fitzpatrick.

Which told him everything he needed to know.

This was no ordinary murder.

Well, these days the act of murder might be ordinary.

The victim sure as hell wasn’t.

“When do you want me to get started?’

“I’d like you on the first flight out you can get. I’ll clear it with your boss.”

“The report?”

“I’ll e-mail it to you now. And I’m sure it goes without saying, this is one rule that doesn’t get bent. Tell no one.”

“I’m on it.” Carillo disconnected, just as Michael “Doc” Schermer walked up. “Well, look who’s here. No one.”

“I’ve been called worse,” Schermer said, running his fingers through his white hair.

“Gonna have to cancel those dinner plans we had.”

“We didn’t have any plans.”

“Well, if we did, they’d be a moot point right now. I’m on my way to HQ.”

“For what?”

“Can’t tell you.”

Doc grinned. “Wouldn’t be connected to your visitors at lunch, or maybe a certain wayward agent’s impending trip to Europe, would it?”

“Hard to imagine it’s not,” he said, checking his e-mail. His new investigation had ATLAS written all over it, he thought, opening the attachment containing the report. CIA, the capital, a murder being looked into by the FBI’s counterintelligence squad, and Sydney Fitzpatrick’s little jaunt to Amsterdam? He’d bet a month’s salary she’d soon be knee-deep in whatever this was. What didn’t make sense was the senator’s murder being part of this package. “One important note,” he told Doc, “should anyone ask, you didn’t hear anything from me.”

“Carillo. Silent as the grave.”

“Hand me that report,” Carillo said, nodding toward his printer.

Doc leaned over, grabbed the stack of papers, flipping it over to read the top line with the victim’s name, his brows rising just before he handed the documents to Carillo. “Okay, then. Glad you’re not telling me about any of this.” He crossed his arms, eyed Carillo. “You’re not like Fitzpatrick, are you? Gotta call at all hours of the night?”

“Why would I call? You’re not supposed to know what I’m doing. And, unlike Sydney,” he said, dropping the crime report into his briefcase, “I can tell time.”

Chapter 9

December 5

Schiphol Airport

Amsterdam, The Netherlands

S
ydney cleared customs, then strode toward the exit, where a driver was supposed to be waiting. A strong feeling of being watched came over her and she stopped, looked around. Sure enough a man approached. “You’re the artist?” he asked.

She nodded, then introduced herself.

“Detective Paul Van der Lans, KLPD,” he said, shaking hands with her. “You have only this one bag?”

“This is it,” she said, patting the soft-sided carry-on slung over her shoulder, which contained her sketchbook, pencil case, and a change of clothes. “Quick trip. In today, out tomorrow.”

He led her through the airport to where his car was parked. The air was chilled, crisp. Snow covered anything not moving, and she pulled her coat tight, glad she’d packed gloves and a scarf.

“Have you a hotel?” he asked. “My wife has invited you to stay with us.”

“Actually, my partner recommended a bed-and-breakfast. De Zeven Kikkertjes,” she said, pronouncing with some difficulty the name of the establishment that Carillo had texted to her.

“Your Dutch is excellent!” He grinned as he opened the car door for her. “A nice place near a not-so-nice place. The famous red-light district. You have heard of it?”

Figured Carillo would direct her there. “I have.”

“Our witness’s home is not too far from your hotel. Just over a couple of canals,” he said, getting into the car and starting it up. “Perhaps a ten-minute walk.”

The drive into Amsterdam took about twenty minutes, and the farther in they traveled toward the city center, the more the city’s charm became apparent. Snow rested on the spires of churches and the gables of tall brick houses that graced the canals and streets. Some of the rooflines were built like steps, others scrolled in elaborate curlicues. As he drove, Van der Lans acted as temporary tour guide. “Do you see the hooks at the top of each house? They are used to haul up furniture because the buildings and stairways are too narrow.”

“That would be enough to keep me from moving very often.”

“I feel the same.” Van der Lans skillfully negotiated the car around some bicyclists who apparently didn’t mind the cold. Eventually he drove over a bridge that arched across a canal bordered on either side by narrow streets, lined with tall houses, their brick façades contrasting darkly against the snow. He parked beneath a bare-branched tree, his car separated from the icy waters only by a low guardrail.

Sydney gave a dubious look at the barrier as she got out of the car and followed Van der Lans to a brick building opposite. Above the entrance was a blue diamond-shaped sign that read
POLITIE
. “The police station,” he said. “My apologies, but I need to run in and pick up some paperwork. And I shall be able to offer you hot coffee and a quick breakfast in the café next door if you so desire.”

“Coffee sounds wonderful.”

An hour later they were back on the road, a ten-minute drive to the witness’s home. Van der Lans slowed his unmarked police car, pointing to a street on the left. “The famed red-light district. You can see some of the women in the windows. Even when it snows they have customers.”

Sydney caught a glimpse of a woman, barely draped in black lace lingerie, posing inside a window glowing with garish red neon lights. A man walking by eyed her, but apparently wasn’t interested and continued down the street.

“Not too far away,” Van der Lans continued, “is where your hotel is. The Zeven Kikkertjes, Seven Frogs.” They drove over yet another bridge and he pointed. “There.”

Sydney looked down the tree-lined avenue and the tall row houses, thinking that Carillo hadn’t done too badly after all. Old world charm right on the edge of the red-light district. Give her something to talk about when she got back to the States.

A few blocks farther, Van der Lans double-parked in front of a narrow gabled structure with tall windows—typical of the area—about four stories high, red brick with cream-colored trim. A corner house, on one side it overlooked a bridge that crossed the canal, and on the other side, the street in front of the canal.

“This is where our witness Petra lives,” he said. “It was her uncle who was killed.”

She wondered if he knew about Griffin’s involvement in the case—not that she was about to bring up the subject. As far as Sydney was concerned, she was merely there to do the sketch. Nothing else mattered, she thought, getting out of the car, throwing her bag over her shoulder, then shoving her hands into her coat pockets as the snow drifted down in large, feathery flakes. She followed the detective to the front door. He knocked, and a moment later, it was opened by a young woman with short blond hair and a narrow face. Her blue eyes were red and puffy, her skin mottled from crying. Van der Lans introduced them, and Sydney shook hands, offering her condolences.

“Thank you,” Petra replied. She stepped aside, allowing the two of them to enter. “I thought we could work in my office,” she said. “There is a fire to keep us warm.”

“Unfortunately,” Detective Van der Lans told her, “I have an interview I need to take care of. How long do you think you will need for the sketch?” he asked Sydney.

“About two to three hours.”

“I’ll come back then. Petra has my cell phone number.” The detective apologized once more, then left, and Petra closed the front door after him. She led Sydney down a dark hallway into an oblong room with windows at one end overlooking the canal. A gleaming parquet floor bordered a large intricately patterned Turkish carpet, and Sydney noticed that smaller carpets of similar design were draped across the tabletops. Their rich crimson contrasted with the mahogany paneled walls, which were lined by shelves of leather-bound volumes. Dominating the long wall opposite the entrance was a gigantic mantelpiece which framed an inset of blue and white Delft tiles. In front of these a gleaming black wrought-iron stove radiated heat. Two scarred leather chairs, facing each other, had been drawn up in front of it. A massive desk occupied one corner of the room, its surface covered with papers and books. Petra directed Sydney to the other corner, where she saw an antique card table, topped in brown leather with gold trim and four high-backed chairs placed around it.

Sydney pulled her sketchbook and pencils from her black overnight bag, which she hung with her coat over the back of her chair, then looked around, admiring the warmth of the space, the dark beams that crossed the ceiling, and the richness of the paneled walls. “I love the woodwork. This is an amazing house.”

“The room has quite a history,” Petra said, taking a seat at the table, looking around as she fidgeted with her handkerchief. “There are hidden doors in the paneling. One opens to a closet that the former owners made good use of during the war, hiding resistance fighters and Jews from the Nazis. The other panel merely leads to the back hallway and the bathroom.” Petra gave a small smile. “But you are not here for the history, are you?”

Sydney smiled in return, opened her sketchbook. “I know this can’t be easy. But I need to walk you through the events leading up to the murder.” She tried to think of the best way to describe the cognitive interviewing process to explain why she’d be asking about information that had nothing to do with the actual crime, and then dissecting what Petra had no doubt gone over ad nauseam with the police. “Even the tiniest things, the weather, noises you heard, what you were thinking. This process helps to recreate the events in your mind. Helps you remember more salient details about the man you saw.”

“It all happened so fast,” Petra said, looking down at the small square of cloth she held. “I’m not even sure if the man I saw is the killer. And even if he was, I didn’t see his face all that well. He was wearing a hat pulled very low. But Zachary Griffin seemed interested in him. Worried, even.”

“Why? What was the man doing?”

“Nothing really. Smoking a cigarette,” Petra said. “I really had a better look at his wife. At least I assume she was his wife, since she asked for his credit card.”

“What were you doing just before you first saw them? Let’s start with, say, about an hour before you arrived. Everything you remember.”

And Petra described her walk to the restaurant, the weather, the things she saw, where she was to meet Griffin, then encountering the man and woman, the man asking her if she could recommend the restaurant. Their conversation was brief, and then Petra left, crossing the street, just as the woman asked him for his credit card. “And that was all. Maybe twenty seconds of conversation. He might have been American. I could be wrong.” She wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. “He was standing on the opposite corner from where my uncle was walking. I don’t know what made Griffin notice him, or why he thought the man was involved.”

Sydney had learned that Griffin’s sixth sense was something that shouldn’t be ignored. “Can you describe him?”

“As I explained to the police, to everyone,” she said, appearing frustrated, “I really did not see his face. Only his nose and his mouth. He wore his hat very low, and he also wore a scarf around his neck, which covered his chin.”

Sydney wasn’t sure what she could do with half a face, and wondered if anyone realized the futility of attempting a drawing. “What about the woman?”

“The woman?”

“Could you describe her?”

“I—well, yes. But I thought they wanted the man’s picture.”

“Maybe if we identify her, we can find out who he is. We could do a sketch of her, and when that is done, maybe what you remember of him?”

Petra seemed to relax at the suggestion, and nodded. “I think I could describe her. She was tall and thin. She had a square face, wide-set eyes, and a thin nose. Pretty. Like a model. And her hair was short, like mine. But dark brown.”

Sydney jotted notes in the top left corner of her sketchbook to reference later, then, using a soft pencil, proceeded to sketch the shape of the face, showing it to Petra. “Is this what you mean by square face?”

Petra gave a doubtful glance at Sydney’s preliminary sketch. “I guess. But not her jaw.” She reached out, traced the jawline with her finger. “More like this,” she said. “More round at the chin. Softer-looking.”

Sydney erased the original jawline and sketched in the correction. They continued on in the same manner, Sydney pausing every so often to show her progress to Petra, asking what changes she would make, careful to keep her questions open-ended. Petra responded, sometimes specifically describing a change, other times showing Sydney by applying her finger directly to the paper. Sydney held it up one more time, and Petra narrowed her eyes, tilting her head. “I think the nose is wrong. Too straight. Hers had a bump on the bridge, like it had been broken,” she said, touching her own nose to show Sydney. “But on her it added character to a too pretty face.”

Sydney sketched the small knot at the bridge, and Petra nodded, saying, “Better.”

About two hours passed, the drawing was nearly complete. Everything was done but the shading of the hair and the planes of the face, a process that was slow and tedious while Sydney sketched. And as she ran her pencil across the paper, she glanced up, saw Petra’s eyes welling with tears.

Petra turned away, her tears spilling onto the brown leather tabletop. “I’m sorry. I—I just need a moment . . .”

“Maybe this would be a good time for a break,” Sydney said, lowering the sketchbook onto the table, then standing. “I could use the bathroom right about now.”

“Of course.” Petra stood, walked over to the far paneled wall, and pushed. Sydney heard a faint click as the panel swung open, and cold air rushed into the room. Petra started to close the panel. “There’s another bathroom upstairs. It’s warmer. I can show you—”