“Then you can speed up the timetable of the national press getting hold of the story,” said the Old Man. “Police departments leak like sieves.”
“Hopefully, they’ll keep it under wraps.”
“What about beyond the PD?”
“Names and photographs of Betsy Mitchell and Jonathan Renner to run on local television news along with the FBI’s one-eight-hundred number for tips. The names and photographs are also going to the local papers.”
“Better late than never,” Carlton said.
“With detectives and patrol officers out there beating the bushes, along with the public keeping their eyes open, we may get lucky.”
“I hope it works.”
“Me, too,” said Harvath. “I’m going to get cleaned up and then get back down to police headquarters. Is there anything else you need?”
“Yeah. The client wants to speak with you.”
“Monroe Lewis? What for?”
“He wants an update from the field.”
“I just gave you one.”
“I know,” said the Old Man, “and even though he just spoke with the FBI, he wants to hear from you, too. He asked me for your cell phone number and I told him I’d give it to him after you and I spoke. Keep it short and keep it limited to the facts. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
CHAPTER 53
The call with Monroe Lewis turned out to be a call not only with Lewis, but also with William Jacobson, the Fed’s head of security.
While Lewis wanted Harvath’s overall thoughts and impressions of where the case was going and why they hadn’t developed any leads, Jacobson grilled Harvath for exacting and excruciatingly specific details. They were getting ready for the media firestorm they knew was on its way.
Finally, Lewis resignedly asked, “There’s not going to be any ransom demand, is there?”
“No,” Harvath replied. “I don’t think there will be. Not unless going public spooks whoever’s involved.”
Lewis knew the Fed better than anyone else. He had risen to his position by dedicating his life to the organization. He had no family, no significant other. He could be found there nights and weekends. He knew that many saw him as cold and distant. He also knew that when he tried to be more convivial, it often came off as phony. Chairman Sawyer had been the first person to take a deep, personal interest in him. Sawyer had become his mentor and had helped orchestrate his promotion to where he was now. He had confided many things in Lewis, and it had been a particular shock when Sawyer suddenly died. Lewis had been forced to come to grips very quickly with what was important not only for the Fed, but also for his own career. None of it was easy, and the course they were charting was fraught with peril.
“You think it’s possible to spook these people?” asked Jacobson. “After what they’ve done?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you think the odds are of catching them?”
“I have to be honest with you,” said Harvath, knowing full well the Old Man would hate him for saying this, “I don’t think the odds are very good. Not unless we catch some sort of a break. But that’s exactly what you hope for in a case like this.”
“You’re right,” said Lewis. “We have to remain positive. We’ve got to do everything we can to solve this thing.”
“As far as we know, the last two are still alive.”
“Jon and Betsy,” he said, distraught.
“I’m going to do everything I can to find them.”
“Please do, Mr. Harvath. And make sure to keep us abreast of everything that’s happening.”
“We will.”
After hanging up, Harvath showered, changed, and then picked up another coffee in the lobby. It was just under two miles to 1 Schroeder Plaza and police headquarters. Rush hour was in full swing and there were already several people lined up for taxis, so he decided to walk it. The fresh air and uninterrupted time to think would both do him good.
He was bothered by how little he’d been able to develop in the way of actionable leads. Granted, he had been on the case less than forty-eight hours, but so much had happened. He had never believed in the perfect crime. There was no such thing. Criminals always left clues, always.
That said, even the prints they’d been able to recover had been a bust. Their killer was a ghost. What was worse, Harvath was relegated to playing catch-up. He wasn’t even on defense, fending off an attack. It was like being blindfolded and shoved in a dark room with fifty people wielding bats. You knew you were going to be hit, you just had no idea where the next blow was going to come from.
As he walked, he tried to sort through the facts of the case. The Federal Reserve chairman had died from heart failure just over a week ago. Days later, the top five candidates to replace him had been abducted. That was Sunday, today was Wednesday, and in between a woman named Claire Marcourt, a man named Herman Penning, and another man named Peter Whalen had all been brutally murdered.
Despite knowing the approximate times of day and the areas he had passed through, neither the police nor the FBI had been able to catch the killer on a single CCTV camera. It was as if cameras couldn’t capture his image, like he was some sort of vampire whose reflection was never cast in a mirror. Whoever the killer was, he was exceptionally skilled.
Which brought Harvath to Bill Wise and the idea that the man they were looking for was highly trained, possibly even created by the CIA. He certainly wasn’t operating alone, but the idea that Agency personnel could be behind something like this was almost too much for Harvath to swallow. There was, though, more than one person at work here, and whoever they were, they felt justified in committing murder. It was all Harvath needed to know about them. It helped frame how he would deal with them, if he got the chance.
When Harvath arrived at police headquarters, Cordero was already upstairs in her office.
“This just went out,” she said, handing him the police bulletin on their last two missing persons.
Harvath read it over and handed it back.
“The Federal Reserve,” she said. “That’s what they were all being considered to head, isn’t it?”
He nodded. “How’d you figure it out?”
“If you hadn’t told me about Claire Marcourt, I might not have. But when you combine her background in economics and banking with the death of the recent Fed chairman and what I learned from a five-minute Web search about Jekyll Island, it doesn’t take a detective to put it all together.”
“I didn’t tell you about Jekyll specifically, though.”
“No, you said an island off the coast of Georgia. One of the FBI agents mentioned it by name this morning.” Changing tack, she said, “You could have told me that this was about the Fed.”
“I know. I’m sorry. Orders.” Looking at his watch, he asked, “Did the bulletin on Renner and Mitchell make it in time to be included in the morning roll calls?”
“It did. What do you think our next move should be?”
“Well, short of going back to church and lighting a candle, there’s only one thing I can think of to do.”
“What’s that?”
Harvath took a deep breath and exhaled. “We map out every major historical location in Boston and try to figure out where he’s going to strike next.”
CHAPTER 54
Betsy Mitchell had tried all the tricks she knew in order to stay calm. The conditions under which she had been kept were terrible. She didn’t remember much from her abduction. She had been on her way back home from having dinner with friends. There’d been an accident. She had stopped to help. The rest was a blur. Whoever had kidnapped her must have drugged her, too.