The Observer (Derek Cole Suspense Thriller Book 3) (7 page)

“Now what?” he said softly. “Go back and have another run with Badr or Abdul? Maybe get into that side room of Abdul’s and leave a spy pen behind? What the hell should I do next?”

Before he could grow more frustrated over having no idea what his next step in the investigation should be, Derek was shocked out of his thoughts by the sudden eruption of several police sirens. Though he hadn’t noticed them, there were three police cruisers within 100 yards of where he was sitting, and all three had flipped on their sirens and light bars and began tearing down towards the direction of Times Square. As soon at the cop cars were far enough away, Derek could hear several other sirens in the distance and all seemed to be headed towards Times Square or had already arrived at their destination .

He knew that if something major had happened or was happening in the area, the police would immediately clear the area of civilians and block off as much of the crime scene as possible. He leaped from his sitting place and began sprinting towards the direction of the sirens, believing that if he could get there before the police began cordoning off the area, he could be inside the cordon and have first-hand access to whatever had or was happening. As he sprinted towards Times Square, he continued to hear more sirens racing towards Times Square. He pushed himself despite knowing that he could be rushing to see nothing more important than one of the amateur Times Square performers causing trouble with a group of tourists. Still he ran and still he heard more sirens screaming their urgency into the heavy Manhattan air.

***I***

“Tell me why he visited you?”

“I told you already, I don’t know why he came to see me. He said my name was on a list.” Abdul’s face was already swelling to the point that seeing out of his right eye was becoming a challenge. He tasted his own blood as it trickled down his throat; the iron-tasting warm liquid turning his stomach sour as soon it finished its gravity-led descent. “I didn’t tell him anything. I told you exactly what I said to him.”

“It is not what you did or did not say,” the man said as he stood over Abdul, “it is the fact that he came to visit you that concerns us.” The man walked away from Abdul, who was seated in the only metal fold up chair in the warehouse. He had no concerns of Abdul trying to get away for the armed accomplices that brought Abdul to see him stood no more than six feet from his captive. “You said this man, this Derek Cole, was not the first to pay you a visit and to ask so many questions. Is that what I heard you say?”

“Yes,” Abdul replied, desperate to find the words that would save his life. “He was the fifth who came to me. All asking about an event. I told him that I have no knowledge of any planned event.”

“Again, dear Imam, what you said is not what concerns us. You have served us well these past few years. Though you failed at molding your candidate, your efforts have not and will not go unrecognized." The man turned and began walking away from Abdul towards the door at the far end of the warehouse. When the man reached the door, he stopped and called to Abdul. "You have children, yes?”

Fear ripped through Abdul’s body, tearing away any remaining hope that his life would be spared. “I have two boys,” he said submissively. “Two young boys, devout in their faith.”

“And these two boys of yours,” the man said, his hand grasping the door handle, “you want them safe, yes?”

“What do I need to do?”

***I***

Derek reached Times Square before the police had finished cordoning off the area. Instead of finding yellow police tape, Derek saw that several NYPD officers were aggressively moving people away from the TKTS bleachers that sat in the triangle of Times Square and directly across from Derek’s first hotel, the Marquis. The people who weren’t pushed or shoved away from the area, retreated to a safe distance as soon as they saw the cause of the commotion. As others moved away, Derek moved closer.

He was kneeling on the ground; the vest, clear to see. His head hung low and his right arm and hand were held high enough for any in the area to see. Though Derek was not familiar with a bomb-vest nor how they worked, he could tell that the kneeling man was wrapped in a vest that, if exploded, may not cause substantial damage to the surrounding structures, but would certainly kill the vest wearer. In the man’s hand was a small trigger, its red plunger fully depressed.

Derek stood less than 100 feet away, studying the scene with an intense curiosity. If this was the planned attack that the FBI had hired him to help prevent, they grossly overestimated the possible collateral damage. The vest the man was wearing seemed more typical of what a suicide bomber would employ when trying to kill someone up close and personal. The explosives strapped to this man’s body were small in size and, though Derek’s knowledge of explosives was limited, he believed the small pack of C4 explosives would provide just enough of an explosion to kill the vest-wearer and anyone within ten feet.

As Derek moved closer to the vest-wearer, the man slowly lifted his head, revealing his bruised and bloody features.

“Abdul,” Derek whispered, then shouted, “Abdul!”

Abdul slowly turned his head towards Derek’s direction. Derek could see the tears streaming down Abdul’s face. His shouting of Abdul’s name attracted the attention of two NYPD officers who quickly approached Derek and began shoving him to a safer distance.

“I know that man,” Derek protested. “He is the Imam at a mosque in town. I interviewed him this morning.”

“Good for you,” the officer said, clearly unconcerned with what Derek might have to say.
 

“Derek Cole,” Abdul screamed, creating an eerie silence throughout the normally loud Times Square area. “Derek Cole,” Abdul screamed again. “You have killed me.”

Derek pressed against the officer who was still directing him away from the bomber. “I am Derek Cole,” he insisted. “I’m a freelance detective hired to uncover a planned attack in this city. I have to believe you’ve heard about something being planned. I need to speak with that man. His name is Abdul.”

“Stay right here,” the officer said, then jogged off towards three men dressed in white shirts, ties and dark dress pants.

As Derek watched the officer speaking to who Derek assumed to be a detective or an NYPD officer, he saw the officer pointing in his direction. A few seconds later, the officer waved for Derek to join them.

“I’m Detective Patrick Connor,” the man said. “Tell me who you are and what you know about our friend in the vest.

Derek gave a brief overview of the case he was hired for. Though he couldn’t tell Detective Connor who his clients were, the Detective seemed to understand Derek’s involvement.

“I get that you can’t tell me who hired you. Trust me, I understand,” Patrick Connor said. The way he told Derek he understood his inability to reveal his clients was concerning for Derek. He wondered if Mark Henderson had lied about Derek being the only private investigator hired by the FBI to investigate this case. ”Tell me what you know about this suicide bomber.”

“His name is Abdul Fattaah Huda. He is the Imam of a mosque here in Manhattan. His name and his mosque were on a list that my clients gave me to investigate. I met with him this morning.”

Derek and Patrick’s conversation was interrupted by Abdul’s yelling. “I want to speak with Derek Cole,” he yelled.

“You stay at least 30 feet away,” Patrick said to Derek. “The charge he has strapped to his body isn’t strong enough to hurt you from that distance. I’ll be right beside you.”

As Derek and Patrick walked closer to Abdul, they could hear a mixture of sobs and laughter. “Your visit has killed me, Derek Cole. You owe me.”

“How did my visit put you in this position?” Derek asked.

“Make sure my sons are safe.”

Before Derek could respond, Abdul slowly lowered his head until his forehead was pressed against the concrete's cool, hard surface. He began whispering in Arabic, then released his thumb’s hold of the plunger.

***I***

It was the suddenness that ripped through Derek’s soul. The brief, tearing sound of the thunderously high pitched explosion caused others around him to shield themselves, in fear that the explosives were more powerful than the bomb squad experts had estimated. But Derek stood motionless. The wisps of rising smoke, the putrid smell of burnt flesh and boiled blood, and the splattered remains were all that were left behind. The certain, single accusation followed by a plea made by a desperate man however, would remain in Derek’s thoughts well after the area was scrubbed clean and all traceable memories were collected, bagged and erased from the concrete’s telling history.

“You okay?” Patrick Connor asked Derek, his voice much calmer than Derek though appropriate.

“Fine,” Derek stammered. “What the hell just happened?”

“You need to come with us. Gotta get you cleaned up.”

It was then that Derek felt the foreign warmth on his face. He wiped his brow with his open palm then stared at the congealing blood clots, tufts of hair and matter he dared not try to identify. Within seconds, Derek felt both his arms being grabbed as he was lead away from where Abdul’s life had ended. He found himself sitting on the bumper of an ambulance as paramedics quickly cleaned Abdul from his face, hands and torso. The skilled paramedics quickly assessed their patient before giving a thumbs up sign to whomever was standing to the right of their ambulance.

“No injuries,” Derek heard one paramedic say. “Some possible debris in his eyes that we can flush out in a second.”

“Good,” the unseen voice responded. “Finish cleaning him up, get him something to drink. I’ll be back in five.”

 
It was as if he was an observer to the activity around him. As the paramedics asked him questions, Derek heard himself answering in a disturbingly calm voice. He felt the warm solution as it was poured into his eyes but the liquid seemed unable to cloud his vision. He was still seeing Abdul, bowing his head to the concrete and imploring that Derek keep his sons safe. His sons.

“We need to find Abdul’s sons,” Derek snapped from his observer role and back into the role he was much more familiar with. “He asked me to make sure his sons are safe. Where’s Detective Connor?” Derek snapped.

“He’s on his way back here,” a paramedic with the heaviest New York City accent that Derek had ever heard said. “Hold on a minute, would ya? Gotta get some stuff out of your eye.”

“Can you tell me what just happened?” the other paramedic questioned.

“I can tell you what I saw, who it was that you just cleaned off my face but, if you’re asking me what r
eally
just happened, I got nothing for you.”

“Good enough for me,” the paramedic said. “Detective Connor is headed back our way. You sure you feel okay? Nothing hurting or burning?”

“Nothing at all,” Derek answered after scanning his body to be sure there was no hidden spot of pain waiting to erupt once discovered. “Just hoping that wasn’t an extreme way to spread ebola.”

“Hadn’t thought about that. Thanks for putting that in my head.”

“It isn’t the best coffee but it’s free.” Detective Connor handed Derek a Styrofoam cup filled with black coffee. “You sure you don’t want something in your coffee to kill the taste?”

“No thanks,” Derek said. “Black is fine. Just need something to clear my mind up a little.”

“Well that coffee will do it. I’ve seen doctors put that coffee in a dead man’s IV and watched it bring people back to life.”

Derek smiled then took a small sip of the miracle coffee. “Holy shit balls,” he said. “This is horrible.”

“Want that cream and sugar now?”

“I want my tongue removed from my mouth first. Damn,” Derek said, looking at the cup of coffee in his hands, “someone really has to try hard to make this taste as bad as it does.”

Derek was sitting with Detective Connor in a small interrogation room located down the hallway from the detective's bullpen. The door was left open, and Derek was assured that no one was watching him through the two-way glass. “And we’re not recording anything you tell us,” Detective Connor said. “We just want to ask you a few things about what just happened in the Square.”

“I’ll tell you everything I can,” Derek said.

“And while I know you can’t tell me who your clients are, if I guess who hired you and you were to, um, I don’t know, take another sip of coffee, then I can assume that we are on the same page.”

“You can ask but I am sure as hell not going to take another sip of that coffee. It tastes worse than whatever was blown into my mouth when Abdul exploded.”

“That’s a pleasant thought,” Detective Connor said. “Special Agent Mark Henderson’s name ring any bells?”

“I am not drinking any more of this coffee,” Derek said as he shot a quick smile across the table to Patrick Connor.

“Henderson briefed our department last week,” Connor continued. “He informed us that intel had picked up chatter that referenced an ‘event’ being planned for Manhattan. Didn’t tell us too much about it as he admitted that the FBI and all of DHS didn’t have much to go on. Henderson did tell us that the FBI was outsourcing some feet on the street to aid in the investigation. They must be really scared shitless if they started hiring private investigators. No offense.”

“None taken,” Derek said. “I felt and still feel the same way. I’ve been a freelance detective for a few years now and have never been contacted by any federal agency for my services. It didn’t make sense to me when they hired me and makes even less sense now.”

“Why is that?”

“Henderson told me that I was the only outsourced investigator they hired but when I met with Badr Irani, he told me that I was the fifth person asking him questions. I assumed that Henderson was included in that count and maybe someone from the NYPD, but I am thinking that I’m not the only private eye working this case.”

“You’re not,” Connor said as he stood, walked over to the door and closed it. “As far as I can tell, you’re among 12 others.”

“Twelve? Are you kidding me?”

“Afraid not. My department is heading up this co-investigation, so all calls regarding activities around mosques are filtered through me and my team. We’ve been receiving calls from Imam’s all over the city. If you were told to visit Abdul and,” Connor paused, “who was the other guy you mentioned?”