The Observer (Derek Cole Suspense Thriller Book 3) (3 page)

The note was signed J. Cortez.

“Dead?” Derek said, then checked to see if anyone was within earshot of hearing him.
“You may be dead after I read this note? What did I get myself into?”

After shredding the note and using the three different garbage cans spread out along the front of the strip mall to throw the note away, Derek returned to his car. A sense of foreboding spread across his body. He didn’t feel comfortable sitting in such a public, and therefore, vulnerable spot. Without hesitation, he started his car, pulled out onto the road and headed south.

“Why would Cortez write
me
a note?” he wondered as he started to follow signs to Manhattan. “That guy acted like he hated me.” His instincts told him to contact Henderson to tell him he had made a mistake and didn’t feel that this case was right for him.

“After much thought and deliberation,”
he thought to himself,
“I’ve decided that my services are not well suited for this case. While I appreciate the offer, I have decided to return home and to catch up on some other casework. Thank you again. Now, if you can just let me know where I can return this highly confidential case information, I can arrange to meet you at whatever location best fits your scheduled. And, of course, I double pinky promise not to tell anyone about this whole case.”

As he headed south on the Henry Hudson Parkway, Derek knew that there was no going back. He knew that there would be no calls to the FBI to tell them he had changed his mind. He wouldn’t be able to just “sit this one out” and watch how things unfolded. Though he didn’t question his skills as a private investigator nor his love for his country, he knew he was already in way over his head.

After making the 35-minute drive into Manhattan, Derek followed the signs to the Port Authority Parking garage. Once his car was parked in the long-term parking area, Derek headed on foot east on 55
th
Street. He walked several blocks until turning south onto the Avenue of the Americas that would lead him to Bryant Park. Derek kept the manila folder shoved tightly and securely under his right arm and was careful to check its position every few steps. He didn’t think that Bryant Park would be a safe area to study the contents of the folder, but it was the only park, besides Central Park, that Derek was familiar with. He also knew that Bryant Park was directly behind the NYC Library.

Though it was nearing 8:30 PM when Derek arrived, the park and the restaurants on its grounds were bustling with activity; the mid-August Sunday evening’s weather had drawn out residents and tourists. The park was a short walk from Times Square and was a popular spot for tourists, local residents and those who lived on the margins of society. Discovering that the library had closed at 6 PM, Derek walked through the small park to collect his thoughts before heading towards Times Square to find a hotel.

As he passed others walking in the park, people sitting together on the park’s benches or enjoying a meal on one of the outdoor patios, the realization of what Derek was doing in the city startled him. He saw no worry in the faces of those he passed, no concerns over the information he had clutched between his arm. No one displayed a hint of fear as he passed by.

“Innocent people, all of them,”
he thought to himself.
“But not innocent enough to whomever or whatever is behind this terrorist plan.”
 
He felt guilty as he passed them for not alerting them to some planned event that could very well take their lives. He wanted to tell everyone he saw to “be careful for the next few days,” or to “avoid populated areas.” But he knew that his warnings would be passed off; included in the myriad of dire warnings residents and visitors to this city had become immune to. He could show them the pictures and the notes on the case to prove that something was being planned. Maybe those would persuade a few to leave town or to at least take precautions. And if he could convince just one person, others would follow.

“If it saves just one life,”
Derek chuckled to himself. He always hated that expression, one used by politicians and activists. “If our actions today can save the life of just one person, the actions taken will be worth it.” It was a rock-solid argument that few would ever argue against. Saving a life was important and anyone who suggested otherwise would see their career in public service ended. But what the tired and overused expression didn’t account for was all the lives the action could end in its mission to save just one. It didn’t allow for debate over any of liberties and freedoms that those eventually affected by the action would be forced to sacrifice.

Derek knew that he couldn’t tell anyone about the case. Not yet, anyway. Not until he knew what exactly what he was up against, how to prevent it and if unpreventable, how best to mitigate the damage.

As he made his way to Times Square and passed a thousand nameless faces, he wondered how many people he could convince of the threat. Would it be possible to reach a critical mass of people: to hit a tipping point and to create a mass exodus from the city? He stood in the center of Times Square, surrounded by flashing neon lights, barker calls from minimum wage workers desperate to hand out their quota of pamphlets and swathed in the artificial lights pouring out from the unofficial epicenter of commercialism. He stood and realized that he was impotent in getting anyone to leave. No matter how compelling he crafted his warning, no one would listen. His voice would only blend into the dissonant cacophony of harsh and brutal sounds that formed a union; that somehow created a symphony.

He turned his mind and thoughts away from trying to persuade people to leave and towards stopping the attack. He wondered, as he made his way towards the Marriott Marquis, if any attack was planned at all or if something was about to happen, if he’d have any ability to prevent it. As he entered the expansive and opulent lobby of the Marquis, Derek’s thoughts were centered on Special Agent Juan Cortez. During their brief meeting, Cortez made no attempt to hide his dislike of Derek’s involvement in the case, yet the note seemed to be written by someone who cared about his safety.

“Mr. Cole,” the desk clerk said, “you have enough member points to pay for a two night stay. Would you like to use your points for your stay with us?”

“Sounds good,” Derek replied. “Can I reserve the room for a week and either shorten or extend it if needed?”

After racing his fingers across the computer’s keyboard, the clerk responded, “Mr. Cole, just let us know, and we will accommodate you. Here is your room key,” he said as he handed Derek a white envelope, “and instructions on how to use our wireless network. Can I get someone to help you with your baggage?”

“All set, just tell me where I can get a bottle of scotch around here.”

Derek was less interested in the incredible view of Times Square that the floor to ceiling windows in his hotel room afforded than he was in drawing the blinds shut and setting up his room. Derek unzipped his computer bag and removed two silver pens. Pulling the tops of both, he placed one on the desk pointing towards the bed, and the second was placed on the top shelf in the closet nearest the door. He quickly retrieved his laptop, connected to the hotel’s WiFi, then entered a secure IP address into his browser. Within seconds, the tiny cameras located in each end of the pens he had positioned began streaming a low res video of his hotel room to his computer.

“Perfect,” he said softly.

He then turned the TV on to a local sports channel, messed up the bed, dampened a few towels which he then tossed onto the bathroom floor, before leaving the hotel room. Though he was on the 23
rd
floor, he took the stairs down to the first floor — which was one floor beneath the main lobby — exited the hotel towards west 45
th
Street and headed towards the liquor store the front desk clerk gave him directions to.

After purchasing a bottle of the cheapest scotch he could find, Derek headed up towards 7
th
Avenue until he reached the Sheraton Times Square Hotel. After checking in and paying cash for five nights, Derek drew the drapes closed, connected his laptop to the WiFi, and checked the stream from his other hotel room.

“Still perfect,” he said.

On of the first things that Derek's assistant, Crown, persuaded him to do was to invest $40,000 into updating the office technology. Though Derek was intelligent and could learn new things quickly, he believed that technology was stealing away humanity's ability to communicate and connect with one another.

"You aren't in this business to become all buddy-buddy with people," Crown scolded him when he suggested that investing $40,000 into technology would make his agency less people friendly. "You're in it to make money by solving cases. You can arrange a big group hug with all your clients every year if you want, but if you want to really provide an unbeatable service, you need technology on your side.
 

"You may be right, but $40,000 is a hell of a lot of money."

"That's just the start of it. The first 40 grand will just get you into the 21st century. A server with VPN remote access, a few tools to use out in the field and, of course, I need the newest iPhone to keep track of your ass. We also need a new laptop for you, one for me, and one for your new investigator."

"I'll make a decision about hiring another investigator when I get back," Derek replied.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?"

"To see a friend of mine, Ralph Fox, out near Albany."

"Vacation or work?" Crown asked.

"Not really long enough to be a vacation. Ralph saved my life during one of my cases a short while ago. I'll be back in the office in two days. Think you can handle things while I'm gone?"

"Don't be surprised if I make some changes while you're gone," Crown replied. "Still a lot of shit that needs to be done before we become a world-class operation."

"Not interested in being world-class," Derek said as he headed for the door. "Just want to keep doing the best job we can for our clients."

"When are you leaving?" Crown asked.

"Day after tomorrow. That work with your schedule?" Derek asked, pouring out as much sarcasm as he could muster.

"I'll make it work. If you're leaving, we need to go shopping, now. Bring your credit card. You should probably buy me lunch while we're out as well."

"Crown," Derek said as he retrieved his wallet and car keys from the top drawer of his desk, "I really wonder who owns this agency of mine sometimes. I really wonder."

***I***

As he watched his laptop screen display the streaming video feed from his room in the Marquis, Derek pulled out his iPhone and called his assistant Crown's personal cell.

"Those spy pens are working great," he said.
 

"Thought you were having lunch with an old friend? What the hell are you using the viewing devices for?"

"Got called in for a case in Manhattan. Can't tell you what it's about or who the client is. Just know that I won't be back in the office tomorrow. May be down here for a few days."

"Surprised you didn't call me asking for step by step instructions. Hope you remembered to give the pens a full charge before you activated them?"

"Listen," Derek said, ignoring Crown's question, "this case has a lot of potential to it. Some bad and some very, very good. I can't tell you too much about it, but am pretty sure that I'm going to need your help."

"That's what you pay me for. Help. Right?"

"I guess," Derek said. "Is there a secure way I can send you the IP address that the pens are transmitting over?"

"Text me the IP address. I took the liberty of installing an encryption software pack on your iPhone when you were taking a nap in the office last week. Pull up my contact name and send the text using the app called 'BuryMe.' It's secure as hell.”

"I was wondering what that icon was doing on my screen. Ok, I'll send it over in a bit."

"Open the app and use the dialing features if you need to call me as well. It encrypts the call, and the software on my end decrypts it. We'll sound like a couple of robots talking but no one else will be able to eavesdrop."

"Sounds good. Thanks."

"What the hell have you gotten yourself into, Cole?" Crown asked.

"I'm not sure yet."

***I***

Derek poured himself a taller drink of scotch than what he would normally take while working a case, sat down in the lounge chair that was crammed into the corner of his room, and began reading the case file.

Each of the three pictures in the folder were of men of middle-eastern descent. Beneath the images, names were written by a thin, black marker. The first picture showed a middle-aged man sitting in an arm chair, smiling broadly for the camera.
 

“Abdul Fattaah Huda,” Derek read. “What have you been up to?”

There was a short paragraph written on the back of the photograph of Abdul.

“Abdul is imam of Shrine of the Island Mosque in Manhattan. Large following. Known to produce radicals. Lives on the upper east side. Originally from Iran. Affable and talkative.”

The address of the mosque was scribbled in the same thin, black marker beneath the short note. Derek pulled out his Moleskin notebook and wrote down the imam’s name and the address of the mosque.

“I think I’ll visit Mr. Huda tomorrow,” he whispered before picking up the next photograph. It showed a man dressed in a long, black kurta and a black, felt cap. His beard showed traces of white, and his eyes held a kindness that drew Derek in. Beneath his image was written “Badr Irani.”

“Irani is imam at mosque in financial district. ***UN sponsored*** Irani is from Pakistan and has been back and forth to Pakistan and Syria 11 different times in last 16 months. Politically active and well known for his negative stance on American culture. Concerning position taken on 9/11 attacks.”

After jotting down Badr Irani’s name and the address of the mosque that he served as imam, Derek wrote down “UN sponsored?” in his notebook. He assumed that “UN” stood for the United Nations, but wasn’t aware that the UN did or could sponsor mosques.