FaceOff (18 page)

Paul thought for a moment. “And who knew exactly where to look for the letter?”

“Rashid,” said Jenny. She looked at her watch, picked up the receiver on the nightstand, and started dialing, first an outside line.

“Who are you calling?”

“Alex. I need to pick her brain, but it’s going right to voice mail.”

“She may still be airborne,” Paul said.

Jenny tried again and asked for information this time.

“I would like the phone number for New York, the United Nations, UNESCO, if there is a separate listing.”

“What about his business card?” said Paul.

Jenny shook her head. “If I’m right, that’s probably an answering service. They’ll answer with any name a client gives them.”

Ten minutes later they had the news. The good part was that UNESCO had its own main number; the bad news was that no one by the name of Samir Rashid worked there. There was no listing under that name for any employee.

Jenny slammed the receiver into the cradle. “He played you and Alex like a piano. How the hell did he get into the building? His office?”

“After hours. On a Saturday night,” said Paul. “And the janitor who just happened to be going in through the side door. The man is just full of coincidences. He used the service elevator instead of the bank of elevators near the main entrance. I should have known it was way too smooth.”

“No going through security,” said Jenny.

“Exactly. He probably paid the janitor at the door to let Alex and me in. You hang a few pictures and certificates on the wall, put a holder with business cards on the desk, slip a plastic plaque with your name on the office door and you’re in business. What we saw is what he wanted us to see. It’s all about confidence,” said Paul. “Put yourself in the right setting, surround yourself with a cloak of authority, and you can peddle anything.”

“To two gullible lawyers, searching for the truth,” said Jenny. “And all you got was smoke and mirrors. Alex will go ballistic.”

“Don’t be so hard on us. We were the perfect marks. I’ve got a loser of a case. He’s got the answer, the solution to all my problems. He plays on the interests of justice. We both wanted the fair result, especially when we figured out that Mustaffa was being set up.”

“Why does he want to get Mustaffa off?” said Jenny.

“Mustaffa killed Spinova,” said Paul. “He had something Rashid
wanted and he was holding it over Rashid’s head unless Rashid helped him beat the charges.”

“What?”

“The CIA memorandum,” said Paul.

“What? You think that was real?” said Jenny.

“The best con is one that includes a kernel of truth. Mustaffa killed Spinova to get the memo—and he got it. But in the process he got nailed. Mirza saw him dump the body. Cops caught up with him and Mustaffa used the memo which, unless I’m wrong, identifies Rashid as the mastermind behind the Cairo Museum theft. Mustaffa used the memo to extort Rashid. ‘Help me or else.’ If Mustaffa goes down for the count, he uses the memo and the evidence in it to cut a deal for himself come sentencing.”

“Enter two overanxious lawyers,” said Jenny. “And Alex, trying to do the right thing by the dead woman. Make sure the wrong guy isn’t convicted unfairly. Those autopsy pictures haunted her.”

“Now Mustaffa’s dead. The memo’s gone,” said Paul, “and God knows where Rashid is, assuming that’s even his name, which you and I both know it is not. He may be a lot of things, but stupid is not one of them.”

“I hate being used like this,” said Jenny.

“You think I like it? I had an obligation to defend Mustaffa to the best of my ability. But suborning perjury was not included among my services.”

“So what do we do?” said Jenny.

“You got me,” said Paul. “We could go to the trial judge and the DA and explain what happened. Of course, what good is that? Even if Mustaffa were alive he would be beyond the reach of the court, double jeopardy being what it is, which is redundant in this case since he’s dead.”

“Rashid is a coconspirator,” said Jenny. “He’s still liable.”

“Try and find him,” said Paul. “He’s busy peddling his wares, little golden statues, remember?”

“Yes, I heard about them,” said Jenny. She thought for a moment. There was a twinkle in her eye. “That’s it!”

“What?”

“The answer.”

“The answer to what?” said Paul.

“A woman scorned. Alex will want a hand in this. Maybe the DA will listen to her now.”

EIGHT DAYS LATER A SLEEK
Gulfstream G650 touched down on the runway at the heavily guarded airport just outside Pyongyang, the capital of North Korea. It taxied to a stop in front of a large hangar as the stairway was wheeled up next to the door. It swung open and a man stepped out onto the platform. He was carrying a small wooden box under one arm.

The man who called himself Samir Rashid looked down at the official entourage waiting for him at the foot of the steps, behind them the line of shiny black limousines and security cars waiting to escort him to the government house, what is called the Grand People’s Study House.

Rashid walked briskly down the steps until he reached the tarmac, where he extended his right hand in greeting toward the general who was first in line. Before the officer could take it, a guard stepped around him and quickly slapped the cold, hard metal of handcuffs around Rashid’s right wrist. Another guard took possession of the wooden box while they manacled Rashid’s other hand.

“What is this? What are you doing?”

“Silence,” said the general. “You will come with me. Is this the statue?” He gestured toward the box.

“It is, and your leader will be very angry with you for the manner in which I am being treated. There is no excuse for this. I had an arrangement with his father and have an understanding with your Dear Leader. I assure you he will be very upset when I speak to him about this.”

“Yes,” said the general. “Perhaps you can explain the meaning of this to him.” The officer reached for something handed to him by one of his subordinates standing next to him. It was a newspaper, two of them actually, copies of the
New York Times
and the
Los Angeles Times,
each of them one day old. Blaring headlines just below the fold from New York:

AUDACIOUS THEFT FROM CAIRO MUSEUM
ATTEMPT TO SELL BOGUS TUT STATUES

From Los Angeles the revelation:

PROSECUTOR UNVEILS ELABORATE FRAUD IN SPINOVA MURDER TRIAL, COCONSPIRATOR ON THE LAM

Rashid’s eyes raced over the newsprint trying to absorb the full impact of the words. Adrenaline flooded his heart as glimpses of his fate revealed themselves here and there in the words on the page—“golden knockoffs”—“North Korean dictator”—“unsuspecting buyers”—“fraud”—“murder,” the last of which seemed to be the least of Rashid’s worries. In that instant, the man who had called himself Samir Rashid knew that he would never leave North Korea alive.

It is true what they say: justice is a funny thing. It comes in many different forms.

C
ombining Lincoln Rhyme and Lucas Davenport in a single adventure seemed an insurmountable problem. Rhyme, the hero of Jeffery Deaver’s series that began with
The Bone Collector
(1997), is a quadriplegic and, of necessity, sticks close to home in New York City. Davenport, the star of John Sandford’s
Prey
series, is an ace investigator living in Minnesota—working presently for that state’s Bureau of Criminal Apprehension.

How could the two ever meet?

Fortunately, Davenport’s talents as a no-nonsense, take-no-prisoners cop have transported him to the Big Apple before. In
Silent Prey
(1992), NYPD Detective Lily Rothenburg enlisted Davenport’s aid in nailing the psychotic killer Dr. Michael Bekker, who was prowling the streets of Manhattan. Rhyme, too, has a partner, Detective Amelia Sachs, so Jeff and John decided it was a natural fit for this foursome to join forces to tackle the case of a murderous sculptor for whom art and death are inextricably—and gruesomely—intertwined.

The combination of these four was particularly harmonious since Lucas Davenport and Lily Rothenburg are known for their streetwise policing and skill at psychological profiling—while Lincoln Rhyme and Amelia Sachs ply the complementary skill of forensic science. Together, they take on the task of figuring out who’s doing what and why to victims in Lower Manhattan’s chic art scene.

The process of writing this story was seamless. Both John and Jeff are experienced at this sort of thing. Together, they developed an outline, comprising about eight scenes, then divided up the task of writing each one. Jeff handled the crime scene and forensics-oriented portions, John the undercover and street investigations. Rather than writing serially—one section after the other, sending the finished portions to each other—amazingly, they worked simultaneously. When the rough story was finished, they each polished the completed manuscript, combined edits, and, voila, they had a story.

It’s a chilling tale, one filled with each author’s trademark reversals and twists. You’ll think twice about ever walking into an art gallery again.

And heaven help you if you ever strike up a conversation with a stranger in a bar.

T
HE NIGHT WAS HOT, AND
close, and the midsummer perfume of Central Park West—the odor of melted bubble gum, mixed with discarded cheese pretzels and rotten bananas, or something just like that—seeped into the backseat of the taxi as it cleared Fifty-seventh Street and headed north.

The taxi driver was Pakistani, from Karachi, he said, a slender, mild-mannered man who smelled lightly of cumin with an overlay of Drakkar Noir cologne. He listened to what might have been Pakistani jazz, or Afghani rap, or something even more exotic; the couple in the backseat wouldn’t have known the difference, if there was any difference. When the male passenger asked how big Karachi was, the driver said, “More big than New York City, but more small than New York City if includes the suburgers.”

The woman said, “Really,” with an edge of skepticism.

The Pakistani picked up the skepticism and said, “I look in Wiki, and this is what Wiki say.”

The male passenger was from Minnesota and, not knowing any better, or because he was rich and didn’t care, overtipped the driver as he and the woman got out of the cab. As it moved away, he said to her, “I could use a suburger right now. With catsup and fries.”

“You just don’t want to deal with Rhyme,” she said. “He makes you nervous.”

Lucas Davenport looked up at Lincoln Rhyme’s town house, a Victorian pile facing the park, with a weak, old-fashioned light over the doorway. “I’m getting over it. When I first went in there, I had a hard time looking at him. That pissed him off. I could feel it, and I feel kinda bad about it.”

“Didn’t have any trouble looking at Amelia,” said Lily Rothenburg.

“Be nice,” Lucas said, as they walked toward the front steps. “I’m happily married.”

“Doesn’t keep you from checking out the market,” Lily said.

“I don’t think she’s on the market,” Lucas said. He made a circling motion with an index finger. “I mean, can they—?”

“I don’t know,” Lily said. “Why don’t you ask? Just wait until I’m out of there.”

“Maybe not,” Lucas said. “I’m getting over it, but I’m not that far over it. And he’s not exactly Mr. Warmth.”

“Somebody might say that about you, too,” Lily observed.

“Hey. Nobody said that to me while getting busy in my Porsche.”

Lily laughed and turned a little pink. Way back, back before their respective marriages, they’d dallied. In fact, Lucas had dallied her brains loose in a Porsche 911, a feat that not everyone thought possible, especially for people their size. “A long time ago, when we were young,” she said, as they climbed the steps to Lincoln’s front door. “I was slender as a fairy then.”

Lucas was a tall man, heavy in the shoulders, with a hawk nose and blue eyes. His black hair was touched with a bit of silver at the temples and a long thin scar ran from his forehead across his brow ridge and down onto his cheek, the product of a fishing accident. Another scar, on his throat, was not quite as outdoorsy, though it happened outdoors, when a young girl shot him with a piece-of-crap .22 and he almost died.

Lily was dark-haired and full-figured, constantly dieting and constantly finding more interesting things to eat. She never gained enough to be fat, couldn’t lose enough to be thin. She’d never been a fairy. She was paid as a captain in the NYPD, but she was more than that: one of the plainclothes influentials who floated around the top of the department, doing things meant to be invisible to the media. As someone said of her, she was the nut cutter they called when nuts
seriously
needed to be cut.

Like now. She’d brought Lucas in as a “consultant” from the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension, because she didn’t know who she could trust in her own department. They might have a serial-killer cop on the loose—or even worse, a bunch of cops. And if that was right, the cops wouldn’t be out-of-control dumbass flatfoots, but serious guys, narcotics detectives who’d become fed up with the pointlessness and ineffectiveness of the war on drugs.