"They told me you were in a meeting," Pyon said. "I waited."
Flack nodded.
"You thought of something?" asked Flack.
It was Pyon's day for golf, but he knew from the moment he went to bed the night before that he would not be taking the train to the golf course, not practicing his strokes before placing his tee at the first hole. He would not be losing himself in concentration on the game. He would probably be in jail.
"I did not tell the truth," said Pyon.
Flack didn't answer, so the shorter man continued, "The sketch I gave you did not resemble the man for whom you were looking."
"Why did you do it?"
"He threatened to kill me and my family. He was very convincing. Here."
Flack opened the envelope Pyon handed him and pulled out a pencil sketch that looked nothing like the Hispanic man the shopkeeper had drawn the day before. This sketch looked very much like Arvin Bloom.
"You may have to testify in court," said Flack.
Pyon nodded in understanding and handed Flack the paper bag.
"I was very careful with it," said Pyon.
Danny opened the bag, inside of which was a plastic bag containing what looked like a paper towel.
Flack looked up.
"That is the paper towel the man you are looking for used in my bathroom after he had threatened to kill my family," said Pyon. "I retrieved it when he was gone."
"Why?" asked Flack.
"You can get DNA from it, can you not? He…"
Pyon hesitated, looking for the right word. He mimed blowing his nose.
"He blew his nose on the paper towel?" asked Flack.
"Blew his nose on the paper towel. I heard him. Blew his nose, came out and walked past without looking at me. The man threatened my family," said Pyon. "I wanted to keep something that…"
Pyon hesitated.
"Something you could tell him would go to the police if anything happened to you or your family," said Flack.
"Yes," said Pyon with resignation. "Then I realized it would not stop him. I saw it happen in North Korea. He would torture my daughter, my wife in front of me till I gave him the paper towel."
"Thanks," said Flack, bag and sketch in his hand.
"I am free to go?" asked Pyon.
"Have a good day," said Flack.
Flack turned to head back to the room where Stella and Aiden were still meeting.
From behind him, Pyon said, "He spoke Korean to me. Perfect Korean."
Flack looked down at the sketch of Bloom and for the second time in the last hour, Flack asked himself, Who is this guy?
The killer had just learned that Joshua had not killed the priest. He had phoned Joshua the day before, told him where to find the tote bag. Joshua had failed, but it might serve the same purpose, assure the police that they had their killer. It was buying him time. The police might come back to him. How much evidence could they get from what they had gathered?
There had been collateral damage. Couldn't be helped. Compared to what he had seen and done around the world, particularly in Asia, this had been a minor setback, but still, he, like all things on earth and in the heavens, was aging.
He would have been gone by now, duffle bag in hand, if there hadn't been a delay at the bank. He had seethed at the ineptitude of the assistant bank manager, but had shown nothing but pleasant patience and understanding.
Though he would have preferred not to, he would now have to make a call to the person who could get him out of this. It had been years since he had called him. It was possible he had been replaced or had retired. Whoever he talked to, he would tell them what had happened. If he didn't they would find out anyway.
Had he forgotten anything? Possibly. He would check again. There wasn't much to get rid of. He had accumulated little and had thrown away what was left in large green plastic bags in Dumpsters blocks away.
If necessary, he would have to lie convincingly. He was well prepared to do so and he was confident he was better at doing it than those who would be coming were at detecting it.
Besides, all he needed was a little more time.
He had two more things that had to be done. Should he first take care of getting rid of what was on the bed above him? Possibly, but he could do that in less than five minutes.
He moved to his computer. He would not just erase everything but remove the hard drive and take it with him. Time to start. He had just typed in the name of his bank, his account number and password when he heard the shop door open.
12
"MAC," COLONEL ANTONIO DENTON SAID, sitting upright behind his desk in full dress marine uniform. "Give us the evidence and we'll take care of the problem."
The investigation was really Stella and Aiden's, but the connection to Colonel Denton brought Mac into the picture. Besides, he wanted to give both Jacob Vorhees and Kyle Shelton time to think before talking to them again.
The Manhattan office of Colonel Denton was polished walnut from chairs, to floors, to walls, to desk. There were only two photographs on the wall, both signed, one by the first President Bush, the other by a marine private who had signed the full-color photograph of himself and Denton in neat letters: To Captain Antonio Denton on his birthday, with thanks from a grateful grunt. Semper Fi. The signature belonged to no one famous, but it was a name both Mac and Denton knew well, a man who had died saving both of the men who now sat in this office.
Denton was fully gray, military cut, average height, a face that had seen much and stored it with loyalty.
"He killed two men," said Mac, handing an envelope over the table to Denton, who was missing the small finger on his right hand.
Denton put on his glasses and looked at the fingerprint record in front of him.
"You got these…?" asked Denton.
"When the suspect had a DUI twenty-two years ago," said Mac. "Name comes up Arvin Bloom, only it's not Arvin Bloom."
They understood each other.
Mac said, "I'd bet these are the only prints on file of the Arvin Bloom who isn't Arvin Bloom. These are the ones that turn up whenever we check his prints."
"And," said Denton, putting down the sheet, "you think the day of this DUI is the day the new Arvin Bloom was born."
"He's off the charts, Tony," said Mac.
Denton nodded. He owed Mac. Mac owed him. It was possible Denton could come up with something. He was military intelligence. It was easier to track such things down since the Homeland Security laws and the "or else" orders for all agencies to cooperate with each other.
"You think he's one of ours," said Denton.
"Kills like it," said Mac. "Possibly military. Possibly CIA."
"Won't be easy," said Denton with a smile.
"Didn't think it would," said Mac. "He's lost it, Tony. He'll kill again."
Denton sat silently for a moment and then said, "As I said, give me what you've got and we'll take care of the problem."
Mac's unblinking look was a familiar one to Denton.
"It's New York's problem," said Mac. "You wouldn't let him walk, but there are others who might depending on what he knows and what he's done. You know it. I know it."
Denton reached for the phone and said, "I'll call you."
Mac nodded and stood up.
"Make it urgent," said Mac. "This one knows how to kill and how to disappear."
"You up for dinner, a drink?" asked Denton.
"Sure," said Mac.
"You holding up all right, Mac?"
They both knew he was referring to 9/11, to Mac's dead wife. Denton had been at the funeral, had stood at Mac Taylor's side.
"Fine," said Mac, forcing a small smile.
"Lieutenant Rivera," said Denton into the phone. "Get me Longretti in Washington."
Mac left the room, closing the heavy door behind him.
Stella had sat at Joshua's bedside, recording his statement, which, she concluded, would probably be worth very little because the man was clearly delirious, guilt-ridden and flashing back to feverish moments in his past.