“Is it even possible?” Dixon asked. “We were with him while those texts were coming in and we were running all over the city.”
Vail considered that, working those incidents through her mind. “He wasn’t with us the whole time. And when he was, how hard is it to pull your phone and type out a short text? If he already knew what he was going to write, why not? None of us was watching him. I’m not saying that nails it, but it is possible.”
Moments later, Dixon pointed out the window. “This is it.”
Burden swung the car into a hydrant space at the curb.
As they were getting out, Vail’s phone buzzed. While climbing the steps to the brownstone-style apartment building, Vail stole a look at the display. “Carondolet got a tech to pull Hartman’s phone logs. We’ve got the dates and times that his calls and texts were made and received. Scheer’s number’s there. Nine times during the past three days.”
“Let’s go see what we can find out,” Burden said.
Visible through the exterior glass door was a small entryway that contained a telephone handset and a series of mailboxes with their corresponding buzzers.
Dixon set her hands on her hips. “Why is it that security measures don’t have any effect on a crook but they stop us dead?”
“I think we’re good,” Burden said.
A man in his late twenties was approaching the building and fiddling with his keys. He excused himself and tried to walk between them.
But Vail blocked his way. “FBI. We need entry to your building.” Before the man could object or pose a question, Vail asked her own. “Do you know Stephen Scheer?”
The man, still fixated on Vail’s badge, met her eyes. “He’s my roommate. Why?”
“Is he home?” Burden asked.
“I was bartending. I’m just getting back myself. But I wouldn’t be surprised if Stephen isn’t home. He’s gone a lot, working stories.”
“Can we take a look around your place?”
The man squinted and leaned backwards. “Uhh…”
“Not a big deal,” Vail said, pulling her BlackBerry. “We can camp outside your door and get a warrant. Or you can let us in. You got drugs in there, whatever, we don’t care. Stephen is working a case with us, and he may have some info that he meant to give us.”
The man bobbed his head, then finally nodded. “If he meant to give it to you, then why-”
“We have reason to believe he may be in danger,” Burden said. “And we don’t have a lot of time.”
The roommate’s eyes widened. “Why didn’t you just say that? Come on up.” He unlocked the door and led them inside.
Burden winked at Vail and they ascended the stairs, which creaked with each step. Inside, there were boxes stacked along one of the walls.
“Stephen hasn’t finished unpacking. I think he’s still hoping he’ll get back together with his wife.”
“How do you know him?” Vail asked as Dixon and Burden began looking around.
“I was a journalism major. I’ve hooked on with the Register and Stephen helped me get the gig. He needed a place to crash, and I had a study, so…”
A moment later, Burden emerged from a small adjacent room holding up a thin cellphone. Vail nodded, acknowledging the significance of the find, while Dixon completed her sweep.
“How’s it going with you guys?”
“Stephen’s an awesome writer. I’ve learned a lot from him. I mean, you can’t overestimate the value of all the experience he’s got under his belt.”
Hate to burst your bubble, kid, but this guy may have a whole lot of other experiences hidden under his belt you probably don’t want to know about.
Dixon and Burden entered the living room, signaling they were done.
“Well. Thanks for all your help.”
“Did you get what you needed?”
Burden pursed his lips and nodded. “I sure hope so.”
OUT IN THE CAR, BURDEN SET aside materials he had taken, and bagged, from Scheer’s room: items that were likely to carry his DNA and fingerprints, should they be needed. He handed the phone over to Dixon, who said she was familiar with the operating system.
“What’d you see?” Vail asked, settling herself in the front passenger seat. “Anything obviously incriminating?”
“Things were pretty neat. It’s a small room, so I’m guessing most of his stuff is still in the boxes. No bloody clothing in the closet, no trophies, nothing that appeared to have any connection to Alcatraz or any of the vics.”
“If he is the UNSUB,” Vail said, “I’d expect him to have some kind of secret location where he keeps his stuff. Not in an open apartment he’s sharing with someone. He’s a smart SOB. Maybe a storage locker. And I wouldn’t expect it to be registered under his name.”
Dixon held up the phone. “Got his text messages. And whoa-okay, here we go. Several exchanges with Mike Hartman.”
Burden turned around to face the backseat. “Read ’em out loud.”
“Scheer was looking for info on Karen. Hartman responded, ‘Why me?’ and Scheer wrote back, ‘You used to be her partner.’ To Hartman’s credit, he said, ‘nothing to say to you.’ And then it went back and forth: ‘I think you do,’ ‘fuck off’…” Dixon scrolled and flicked her finger, then said, “Oh, here’s a good one. Scheer: ‘I’m a reporter, asshole. You’re gonna tell me what I want to know or certain facts will come out about Candace.’”
“Who the hell is Candace?” Burden asked.
Vail said, “Mistress? Who knows-someone who knows things Hartman wouldn’t want to be made public.” She gestured to the phone. “Go on.”
“Right. Next one is ‘Meet me at the Starbucks at Market and Fell, 1:00.’”
“Any reply?”
“No. But I think we should assume he went.”
“Why?” Burden asked. “Why not arrest the guy for extortion?”
“He’s not asking for money,” Vail said. “And there’s no way for Hartman to know if Scheer’s set the info to be released automatically, or by some accomplice, unless he cancels it. Best move is to meet with the guy and see what he’s about. It’s a public place, so it’s relatively safe. I’d go, find out what his angle is. You can always try to bust the asshole later.”
“There’s a phone call,” Dixon said, “which I think is-yeah, that’s the one he made while we were on Alcatraz.”