The Hypnotist (5 page)

The book of Baudelaire’s poetry had cost thirty-five dollars. Its edges were worn, its cover stained and torn. It lay on the black laminate worktable in the foundation’s library, surrounded by conservation tools, pads of paper, jugs of pencils and a dozen other books from the mid-1800s about different methods of inducing past-life regressions—books Malachai had been studying the last time he’d been here, before the Viennese trip. Tonight only the Baudelaire held his interest.

He used a razor blade to cut along the edges of the red-and-gold marbleized endpaper, then peeled it back to find a folded sheet of plain white paper that had cost one woman’s life and one hundred thousand dollars. Whether or not it would prove to have been a worthwhile investment was yet to be determined. All he knew was that he was finally in possession of the only known list—even if it was only a partial list—of Memory Tools. The real trick now would be figuring out how to find them.

He started to read:

1. Pot of fragrant wax
   
2. Colored orb
   
3. Reflection sphere
   
4. Bone flute
   
5. Word holder
   

Malachai heard keys jangling and looked away from the paper he hadn’t finished reading and over to the door just as it swung inward. Beryl never came down here. With her MS it wasn’t easy to navigate the steep steps—but now he watched the tip of her ebony cane precede her.

Over the past year she’d never wavered in her support of his claim of innocence, but she blamed him for bringing scandal to their front door. The fact that the police had investigated the co-director for more than eighteen months in a robbery and murder case had tarnished the foundation’s reputation, a reputation Beryl had nurtured for years. She worked to gain respect from the scientific community, not derision. It was one thing to see patients in a therapeutic situation; quite another, she said, to go off in search of ancient treasures with mystic properties.

She had a dim view of her nephew’s obsession with the Memory Tools and had been angry when he’d gone to Vienna looking for yet another one. It would be better if she didn’t find out about his decision to take up the quest again.

Malachai withdrew a deck of antique cards from his jacket pocket and started shuffling. Their gilt edges gleamed. He had more than three dozen packs in his collection and he always carried one with him. They were excellent distractions.

“Beryl, how are you? Frances said you were at the doctor, and—”

His aunt wasn’t alone; a man followed a few steps behind her. He had close-cropped russet hair and a broad nose that looked as if it had been broken once. His gray slacks and navy blazer were store-bought and made of inferior cloth.

“This gentleman was waiting outside when I got home,” Beryl said in a voice tinged with frustration.

“I’m Agent Matt Richmond from the FBI.” The man flashed his credentials.

“Good evening, Agent Richmond.” Malachai smiled sociably, as if he were welcoming a guest into his home. “It’s late for a visit, isn’t it?” There was a very slight mocking tone to the question.

“I’d like to talk to you about your recent trip to Vienna.”

“Tonight?”

“Is that a problem?”

“Well, I just returned to work for the first time in quite a few weeks. I’d prefer to schedule something for later in the week.”

“We’d prefer to do it now.”

Malachai smiled again. “If that’s the case, I’d be happy to submit to your inquisition. Would you like to sit down? There are some extremely comfortable chairs in the reading room.”

“I’m fine standing.”

“Beryl, are you planning on staying?” Malachai asked his aunt. “Would you like me to get you a chair?”

“I’ll stand, too.” Her face was impassive, but her voice was sharp.

“Very well,” Malachai said. “Agent Richmond, the proverbial floor is yours.”

“Were you in Vienna on Saturday, May third?”

“Obviously you know I was, or you wouldn’t be here.”

“Where exactly were you on that Saturday?”

“In the hospital, as you must also know. Recovering from a gunshot wound.”

“On that evening there was a robbery, and a woman was killed. Did you hear about it?”

“No. I’m afraid I was floating on a sea of narcotics. What was
stolen? Who was killed?” Malachai was aware that his heartbeat was quickening and concentrated on slowing it down.

“Dr. Alderman, the director of the Memorist Society. Did you know her?”

“No. I knew the previous director. I’m sorry to hear that, though. Can you tell me what was stolen?”

“A piece of ephemera. Are you familiar with the term, Mr. Samuels?” Richmond asked.

“Dr. Samuels,” Malachai corrected him as he held out the playing cards he was still holding. “I collect ephemera. These are nineteenth-century, from England. Purchased at Sotheby’s.” As he offered them, they slipped from his grip. Gold, red, white and black cards spilled across the table, landing at haphazard angles and creating a random but not unpleasant design. “What kind of ephemera was stolen in Vienna?” Malachai asked as he set about picking them up.

“An ordinary piece of paper with a list of items on it written in blue ink.”

Malachai looked up. “Not much detail.”

Richmond didn’t answer as he moved closer to the table. “We’d like to know if by any chance anyone has contacted you offering to sell you that sheet of paper while you were in Vienna or since your return.”

As Malachai continued his cleanup effort, moving books and papers out of the way to find the errant cards, he shook his head slowly. “No. What was on it?”

“I’m not at liberty—”

“To say? How can I help you if I don’t know what it’s a list of?”

“Either someone contacted you or they didn’t,” Richmond said.

“No one has contacted me.” Done, Malachai shuffled the cards back into a pack, cut them and shuffled them again. The sharp slapping noise they made was the only sound in the room.

“What’s down here?” Richmond asked after a few seconds.

“Our library. We have several thousand volumes, many of them rare books. It’s the most complete library on reincarnation in the world. Would you like to look around? Just dial me upstairs at extension twelve forty-three when you’re done and I’ll come down to let you out.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary. You’re certain you don’t know anything about the list we’re looking for?”

“No,” Malachai said. “I don’t. And if that’s all you were here to discuss, allow me to see you out now.” He walked over to the door, opened it and held it open. “After you,” he said.

Beryl went first and the two men followed. Even though he’d expected the climb to be difficult, Malachai was still surprised by the amount of pain the simple effort generated. He was moving more slowly than his aunt.

On the main floor, he escorted the agent down the hall and through the foyer. “Good night,” he said as he opened the door for Richmond, but the agent remained where he was.

“The cards.” He nodded at the deck. “You do tricks?”

“I do. Yes, since childhood. Is that a crime now?”

“Not at all. It’s just something I’m interested in.”

“Have you studied, Agent Richmond?”

“Just for fun.”

Malachai held out the deck. “Care to show off?”

Richmond shook his head. “I’d embarrass myself.”

“Then indulge me.” He held out the deck. “Pick a card.”

The agent did.

“Now look at it but don’t let me see it.”

Richmond carefully lifted a corner and glanced at it.

Malachai fanned the cards out in his hand. “Now slip it back. Anywhere in the deck.”

After Richmond had replaced the card, Malachai shuffled the deck.

“That man’s a master at obfuscation,” Lucian said from his vantage point across the street, standing at the window in a fourth-floor studio apartment. The room was sparsely decorated with a battered card table and four chairs but overwhelmed with equipment. Doug Comley was sitting at one of those chairs nursing a diet soda. Using a state-of-the-art ultra-directional microphone trained on the foundation, the agents had been listening since Richmond had gone into the building, but he’d been out of range for most of the visit.

ACT had set up surveillance in this apartment during the memory stone case, when Malachai Samuels had first come under suspicion. When no evidence had surfaced after almost a year, Comley had been ready to close down the operation and let go of the apartment. Then they found out that Malachai was on his way to Vienna in search of a new Memory Tool—and then Lucian had been attacked.

The case was reopened, the apartment was operational again, and there was yet another capital offense to add to the list of unresolved crimes that all connected, tangentially, to the reincarnationist.

“Malachai never lets his guard down,” Lucian said, impressed and irritated at the same time.

“Richmond doesn’t, either.”

“No, but I’ll bet even Matt is surprised by how smooth Malachai is.” Using binoculars, Lucian watched the reincarnationist cut the deck and shuffle the cards again. “He’s hiding things we’re not going to find out from talking to him or from going in with a warrant. We’ve got to get deep inside that place. Malachai’s not just dangerous—he’s desperate.”

“I told you, there’s no way you’re going in there.”

“I didn’t say anything about me going in there.”

“You didn’t have to. I know you, and I’m telling you no in advance.”

“What if James Ryan, an art appraiser who works for Sotheby’s, had a reason to visit a reincarnationist?”

“No. Two little letters.
N-O.
That simple enough for you? I don’t want you in there as Lucian Glass or as James Ryan or as my aunt Edith. You understand?”

“I understand why Lucian Glass can’t go in, but what’s wrong with Ryan going?”

Doug shook his head.

“You afraid of a little revenge energy?”

“You’re not capable of being objective about this. I don’t blame you. No one would be.”

“Objectivity is overrated. Passion is much more productive.”

Across the street, Malachai cut the deck once more, removing the top card from the bottom half. Then, smiling at Richmond, he revealed what it was. Based on Richmond’s reaction, it must have been the card he’d chosen.

Lucian was about to continue to argue his case for going into the foundation undercover when Malachai’s mellifluous voice filled the room.

“Do you believe in reincarnation, Agent Richmond?”

“Nope, I was raised a Catholic.”

“I ask everyone. It’s an occupational hazard.”

“Do you believe?” Richmond asked.

“I do believe, with all of my being. I believe that we return over and over to experience all the different facets of human behavior, learn from them and become complete in the process.”

“And you’re searching for a way to prove that, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You’d probably do anything to prove it, wouldn’t you?”

Malachai’s sarcastic laugh filled the room. “Now, you don’t expect me to fall for that, do you?”

“I wasn’t trying to trap you. I wasn’t even asking. I was just realizing it. You
would
do anything to prove it. I know that now in a way I didn’t before. Good night, Dr. Samuels.”

Even though Lucian wished he were the one across the street instead of holed up here doing surveillance, he admired his partner’s aplomb. “He did great,” he said to Comley as Richmond turned, walked down the steps and headed east, away from the Phoenix Foundation.

“When there’s a will…” Comley said, using Richmond’s own signature line. The agent repeated it so often he never bothered with “there’s a way” anymore.

Lucian kept the binoculars trained on the man who was still standing on the stone steps of the brownstone, watching Richmond walk away, the laughter on his face metamorphosing into…worry? Or was it determination?

Before he left for his morning run, Vartan Reza stopped in his daughter’s room and kissed the still-sleeping six-year-old on the forehead. She was a miniature of his wife. Both had strawberry-blond hair, high foreheads and finely arched brows. It was lucky that Gala was such a perfect reproduction of her mother. Better to have inherited her delicate looks instead of his swarthy skin and heavy features. Since 2001, the geopolitical situation had worsened, and he didn’t want his little one to suffer for her heritage.

Out in the hall, he rang for the elevator and stretched while he waited for it to arrive. When the doors opened Reza stepped into the perfectly polished wood-paneled cage and said good morning to the elevator man. Living in a luxury Park Avenue building was proof of Reza’s achievement, the visible reward of relentless effort. Early in his career he’d started taking on the tough cases that no one else had wanted, knowing they’d deliver the highest visibility if he won them. To date, he’d lost only two, but he feared he might be facing his third loss with Hypnos. The sculpture wasn’t going home unless he could figure out a new approach. Discovering that the bill of sale was forged had
made him suspect every other piece of evidence the Iranian government had given him, and despite Hicham Nassir’s insistence that they were all legitimate, Reza was in the process of testing every document now.

Reaching the lobby, Reza thanked the operator and strode off across the black marble tiled floor. No, he wasn’t going to spoil his morning run by thinking about this now—he had Central Park to look forward to.

Reza stepped out onto the still, dark street into a steady rain. Not even a downpour would make him skip his run. He was too addicted to the high. Leaning on the streetlamp, he finished his stretches and then set off, jogging west across Park Avenue, to Madison, then to Fifth Avenue; then he turned north and ran the five blocks to the park’s Ninetieth Street entrance.

The path was empty, as it often was this time of day. That was one of the reasons Reza ran before six—he liked the solitude. No one needed him here; no one interrupted him. Nothing bothered him.

Before he knew it he’d passed the 102 Street Transverse on his left, and the Lasker Pool and Rink on his right. The rain wasn’t affecting his pace at all. Two miles farther in, he reached the north end of the park and took West Drive. After about 3.75 miles he came to the Seventy-Second Street Transverse and, running in place, peered through the downpour to see if the road was clear.

Going over seventy miles an hour, the vehicle hit the lawyer and flipped his body eight feet up into the air. His eyes were open when the paramedics found him; one of them thought the dead man looked as if he were staring up into the overcast sky, trying to ask a last question.

A husband and wife who’d also been out jogging had witnessed the accident, but the rain was too heavy and they were
too far away to identify the make of the car or even be sure what color it was.
Dark
was all they could offer. Black? Navy? Deep green? They just didn’t know for sure. Neither of them remembered any numbers or letters from the license plate.

The driver slowed down as soon as he exited the park on Eighty-Fourth and Fifth and drove carefully east to Lexington and south to Seventy-Eighth Street, where he parked in front of a fire hydrant, left the keys in the ignition and walked into the Starbucks on the corner, where he ordered an espresso.

Sitting uncomfortably at one of the small wooden tables, sipping the bitter coffee, Farid Taghinia watched as a slight, dark-haired man carrying a briefcase got into the charcoal-gray Mercedes, turned the key in the ignition and drove off.

Only then did Taghinia allow himself to relax, proud of how well the operation had gone. The driver would leave the car, per his instructions, in a garage near Lake Placid, where it would be cleaned and painted and the plates would be changed.

Taghinia was absolutely sure no one would ever discover that it had been used as a murder weapon—so sure that he hadn’t noticed that even though it was late May and seventy-two degrees out, Ali Samimi had been wearing leather gloves when he got into the car.