There’s concern in London and Paris that the weapons may be there, but my gut tells me they’re headed here.” She paused and looked around. “My superiors don’t agree. Homeland Security is holding the threat level at yellow, and we still have a POTUS visit in three days.” She scowled when she said this as if POTUS was a communicable disease. “I don’t know what the other Project Seahawk districts will decide, but as of now we’re going to Condition Red, meaning double shifts on all port and ship inspection teams. I’m sorry, people, but I believe we have no other choice.”
“If this is such a big deal, how about pulling our guys off the POTUS security teams,” somebody suggested.
“Already tried,” Jenkins snapped. “Request denied.”
Muffled groans came from several of the Ports Authority cops in the back row because Jenkins’ announcement meant they’d get almost no sleep for the next few days. Maggie glanced over her shoulder, giving one of the men—the father of a new set of twins—a sympathetic grin.
Beside her, Kosinsky snorted. “She’s just climbed out on a skinny limb,” he muttered.
Maggie shrugged. In spite of the inconvenience she felt a grudging admiration at how Jenkins had just taken full responsibility for an unpopular decision. “You have to give her credit. She’s got a set of brass balls.”
“Balls don’t look good on women,” Kosinsky whispered.
He groaned a second later when Maggie’s elbow caught him in the ribs.
TWENTY-SEVEN
NEW YORK, JUNE 29
BRENT BROKE THE CONNECTION, DROPPED his cell phone on the passenger seat, and glared at the stagnant river of brake lights ahead. He wasn’t sure what to think. It wasn’t like Maggie to make phony excuses.
He glanced toward the passenger seat where Harry slouched against the door and gave him a disgusted look.
What you expect, bro? Harry asked. You had your chance. She’s a beautiful woman. You think she’s gonna hang out for a bonehead who won’t commit?
“It wasn’t gonna work anyway,” Brent countered. “She wanted kids.”
So?
“So, bad idea.”
Bullshit!
“Okay, then why didn’t you get married?”
Harry shook his head. Sooner or later you always bring it back to Mom.
“I didn’t even mention Mom, but as long as you bring her up, I guess women who try and toast their own kids are completely normal?”
She was trying to kill herself, idiot! She wasn’t thinking about us!
“Okay, you made my point for me. Lucases never think about their families. What did you think about when you ran up those stairs? What did Dad think about?”
Are you just stupid on purpose?
A horn sounded behind him. Brent blinked and saw the cars ahead already moving. He threw a glance at the empty seat beside him and, feeling a fresh blast of resentment at his brother for letting himself get killed.
After a half mile, he exited the highway at West 136th Street. Southbound traffic on Riverside Drive was light, but he took his time. He’d already made up his mind that he wouldn’t go along with the FBI’s gag order. However, he’d hoped to talk it through with Maggie before he actually went to Dr. Faisal. Now there’d be no chance.
Twenty minutes later, he looked up at the dark windows of his client’s house. It appeared no one was home, but he went to the door and rang the bell. He waited then pushed the button a second time, hearing the muted chimes through the thick, barred glass. A security camera looked down from just overhead, and he tilted his face so anyone inside could see him.
He rang a third time, then put his face to the bars and saw a glimmer of light coming from the back of the house. As he pushed against the door, it moved slightly.
He looked around instinctively, but the sidewalk was empty—no dog walkers or pedestrians, no one watching. He pushed the heavy door, and it swung inwards a few inches. “Hello?” he called, as he stepped into the darkened entrance, half expecting an alarm to go off or someone to start shouting, but there was only silence. He tried to tell himself that someone had simply been careless, but people in Manhattan never left their doors unlocked, especially people in ten million dollar townhouses.
“Dr. Faisal?” he called. His voice echoed back out of the emptiness. He stepped through an inner door then inched his hand along the wall until he found a light switch and flicked it on. An overhead chandelier lit the room and drew his eyes to the jagged smear of dried blood on the marble floor.
His pulse began to hammer. He touched his belt, but he’d left his cell phone on the car seat. He considered going back, but he’d parked nearly a block away. Instead, he pushed the outer door closed and followed the blood trail into a dining room with a long formal table. Light and the sound of a TV came from a doorway to his right.
He crept ahead and looked through the butler’s pantry at a pair of legs splayed on the kitchen floor. He moved closer, seeing the body of an Asian woman. She was wearing a white cook’s smock, her head in a pool of congealed blood. Her eyes were open, staring, her skin almost the color of paste.
He took several steps back through the butler’s pantry, and when he turned he spotted a hand sticking out from behind one of the tall dining room doors. He walked around the door and saw that the second corpse was a middle-aged man with a gaping wound at his throat.
He braced his hands against the wall and sucked air into his lungs for a moment then went back to the entry hall and forced himself up the marble staircase. He found a light switch on the second floor landing and moved through a pair of double doors into a large formal living room, toward the lighted doorway at the far end.
His pulse thundered in his ears as he came around the corner and spotted Dr. Faisal in an overstuffed chair, an open book at his feet. A reading lamp behind the doctor’s head carved a bright circle of light and highlighted the bloodstains on his white shirt and the two holes in his forehead.
Brent stared, unable to move, his mind filled with wild conjectures but also a feral outrage that anyone had done this to an old man who’d spent his fortune making peace.
Finally, full of fresh fear that Dr. Faisal’s granddaughter might also be there, he went back to the landing and climbed to the top two floors. He walked through a large master suite with an office and small sitting room as well as four other bedrooms. Thankfully, they were empty.
As his brain slowly calmed, one question remained. Was this some terrible coincidence, or was it somehow connected to the seizure of the doctor’s account? He was sure he knew the answer—there were no such things as coincidences.
He was walking down the stairs when it hit him. His hands! He’d touched everything—doorknobs, light switches, the wall in the dining room, woodwork and banisters! He’d even looked into the security camera when he rang the bell. Was his face on film?
His mind began to race as he walked out of the house and down the sidewalk toward his car. He was bonded like everyone in the financial industry, his fingerprints filed with the FBI. The minute the police dusted the house they’d have a match. What if the real killers had been more careful and left no trace? If that was true—since there was no sign of forced entry and since he’d known Dr. Faisal—he would be the only suspect.