“Is Karl saying this incident is linked to his death?” I asked. “That was my guess too. I haven’t found anything to connect Carlyle to Mr. Parker, but I’ll keep looking,” Mo-bot said. “There’s something else.”
She switched back to the document and scrolled down the next page until she came to another link, which took us to the executive biography of Elizabeth Connor, the owner of the New York Tribune, one of the city’s most successful newspapers. Connor was a reclusive billionaire and a clear-cut member of the 1 percent.
“Any idea how she’s involved?” Mo-bot asked.
I studied Connor’s photograph and tried to get inside my friend’s head. “I think Karl Parker might have just identified the next target.”
“There was one other thing on the machine,” Mo-bot said, switching to the explorer window.
She opened a text file called “Morgan.txt.”
The message was short and simple.
You can’t trust the cops. You can’t trust the Bureau.
You can’t trust the Agency. Your life is in danger.
Chapter 28
I was on my way out of the office when I ran into Sci and Justine.
“Early start?” Sci asked as they emerged from the elevator.
“Mo cracked Karl’s machine,” I replied. “We think he’s identified the next target.”
“Who?” Justine asked.
“Elizabeth Connor, the owner of the Tribune,” I said. “I’m on my way to see her now.”
“You want company?” Sci asked.
I shook my head. “Mo-bot is looking for links between Karl Parker and Elizabeth Connor, but there was another death Karl pointed us in the direction of: Robert Carlyle—”
“The financier?” Sci interrupted.
“Yeah,” I replied. “Car crash twelve days ago. Police say he lost control of the vehicle, but I want you to see whether there was any foul play.”
Sci nodded. “I’ll get right on it.”
He left Justine and me in the lobby, and headed into the main office. We endured a moment of uncomfortable silence.
“Why don’t you come with me?” I suggested. “I could use your read on what we know about the killer so far.”
Justine hesitated.
“Sure,” she said, and we took the elevator to the parking garage. “Where are we going?” she asked as we approached the staff car.
“Elizabeth Connor keeps an office at the Tribune. She’s there seven days a week. We had no luck reaching her by phone, so I’m going to try the personal touch.”
“Irresistible,” Justine said, sliding into the driver’s seat. She pressed the Nissan’s ignition as I got in beside her, but paused for a moment. “Sorry, Jack,” she said. “I didn’t mean anything...” She hesitated.
“It was a joke, Justine. I get that,” I reassured her. “Nothing’s changed between us.”
That wasn’t true. Revisiting the past last night had altered everything. The easy rapport we usually had was gone, replaced by a sense of awkwardness.
“What’s your read on the shooter?” I asked, changing the subject.
She put the car in gear and thought about the question as she drove out of the garage and joined the traffic on East 26th Street.
“The gloves, the disguise and the planning that went into the shooting all suggest someone extremely methodical. The chopper and the size of his support team point to a well-resourced organization,” Justine said as we crawled along the frozen street.
“And the Ninety-nine?” I asked.
“If Elizabeth Connor is the next target, that would fit their one percent motive, but terrorist organizations don’t spring out of nowhere. The FBI or NSA would have picked up some chatter. Heck, even local police intelligence would have some reference to the group, but there’s nothing.”
“Which suggests it’s a cover,” I remarked.
Justine nodded. “Criminal gang, or some other political group hiding their involvement.”
“Or a foreign power,” I suggested.
Justine nodded. “Motive is key,” she observed. “Find out why Karl Parker was killed and the truth of who was behind it will follow.”
I nodded and studied her face as she drove. She was as beautiful and smart as ever. She caught me watching her, and smiled. Maybe Karl’s death had knocked me off center, but watching her face light up made me want her more than ever.
Chapter 29
The Tribune’s offices were located on 6th Avenue in a towering skyscraper that occupied the block between 48th and 49th Streets, a short distance from the New York Times. The two papers had a longstanding rivalry which had been exacerbated when Elizabeth Connor had purchased the Tribune ten years ago. Taking her cue from Fox News, Connor had shifted the paper’s editorial stance, transforming it from broadly centrist into a partisan conservative publication that chased controversy at every opportunity. She’d famously said she’d never rest until every American had been saved from the disease of social liberalism. It had been a brave stance to take in a largely Democrat city, but it had worked and the Tribune’s circulation had jumped 25 percent since Connor had taken charge.
Justine and I managed to get past the main front desk located on the first floor and made it to the Tribune’s lobby on the thirty-fifth floor. The paper’s editorial position was reflected in the décor of its office. A huge Stars and Stripes hung behind the lobby desk, alongside photos of every Republican president since Eisenhower. A six-foot-high sculpture of a bald eagle stood guard beside the secure double doors that led to the main office. The Tribune was a 24/7 operation, and beyond the doors there was no sign of reduced activity because it was a Sunday.
“Good morning,” the desk clerk said. He was a smartly dressed guy with the fresh face of someone just out of college. “How can I help?”
“My name is Jack Morgan. This is my colleague Justine Smith. We’re from Private, the detective agency, and we’d like to see Elizabeth Connor.”
“Do you have an appointment?” he asked.
His smile didn’t waver, but his demeanor shifted. Very few people got in to see the reclusive Elizabeth Connor and those who did probably didn’t come through the front door.
“We’re investigating the death of Karl Parker,” I replied. “She’s going to want to hear what we have to say.”
“Take a seat,” the clerk said, pointing us toward a long leather corner couch beneath framed front pages that were stuck to the lobby’s bare brick walls.
Justine and I walked over, but we didn’t sit; instead we milled around while the clerk made a phone call.
I got partway through a front page from 26 October 1983, broadly supporting President Reagan’s intervention in Grenada. The paper’s take on events was gentle and measured and a far cry from the partisan editorial of today’s editions, but the photo and headline helped sell the narrative that the Tribune had always been a deeply conservative newspaper. My reading was interrupted by a silver-haired man in a dark tailored suit that was cut a little too short for him.
“Mr. Morgan,” he called out as he stepped through the double doors.
I walked over, and Justine followed, and we exchanged greetings.
“My name’s Clancy Fairbourne,” the man said. He had a thick Texan drawl. His smooth, angular face looked as though it had been chiseled into shape by skilled plastic surgeons. Like a snake who knows no better, he had a permanent smile fixed to his face.