Myth Man (32 page)

CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

R
IDGEWOOD, IN A STENCILED FBI windbreaker, clapped her hands. “Let’s do it, boys.”

Presto, Burton, Danko, and the rest of the team filed out of the police RV parked on Eastern Parkway, Brooklyn. They spread out to predetermined positions. Ridgewood waited for Presto.

“What’s the matter, Dom? You look tired, worried.”

Sleep had eluded Presto and so did the answers to the questions that sprung at him in the dark. Something nagged at him that this case was not over. He thought about Fallow, the Iraqi crate, the people who’d been murdered in the bar. Sweet Virginia’s. It could not be a coincidence, and with the murders so close to home, the questions continued their stalking pursuit.

He wanted to speak to Ridgewood, or Bailey, but he didn’t. Now that he had Ridgewood before him, he wanted to talk about Sweet Virginia’s. He said nothing. Not just yet. He hoped that day would prove to be uneventful.

“Just tired,” he replied. “Need to catch up on sleep. We all do.”

They moved off the sidewalk to allow a few bearded men in black coats and hats pass. “Good morning,” one said.

Presto replied in kind, but Ridgewood merely grunted.

He mimicked her displeasure. His right hip shot out and met his hand. In a feminine octave, Presto said, “Girl, are you still mad that you’re not allowed to guard inside because of your sex?”

“I am,” she said with defeat. “These guys are no worse than any others. Women get the raw shaft from almost every religion. She looked to the parkway when a truck rumbled by. Wrong one. “I think a lot of men just made up a lot of stuff to justify our oppression. I’d like to believe that God made us equals. Two shapes together that make us whole.”

Presto thought that was something Camille might have said. Then he padded the bottom of his overcoat. Inside the inner pocket was a cloth sack. Curled up inside the sack was Aphrodite. Not only was Camille coming back to New York today, but she planned to stop and see Presto before going to the zoo. The snake would get a checkup from a professional herpetologist.

Ridgewood took his hand in hers, braking his reverie. “They should have the armored car here in five minutes. Be ready.”

*****

“I thought Boston and DC traffic was bad, but this is ridiculous,” Donavan cursed the Belt Parkway traffic and pumped the brake for the umpteenth time.

Bailey wheezed. “Tell me about it. I grew up on a farm. Traffic was a narrow horse trail and a ride coming the other way.”

The Iraqi crate had arrived at JFK airport in the early morning. It taxied into a secured hanger where the cargo was transported to a level A-9 armored car, capable of withstanding rounds from high-powered rifles. Actually, it was a SWAT truck based on the International Navistar 4700. Two unmarked sedans made up the escort.

“What Jewish holiday is it again?” Donavan asked. “Pea soup?”

Bailey sighed. “Fool. It’s Pesach, the Jewish Passover. No more jokes, Donavan. We’re all business here on out.” Bailey grabbed Donavan’s arm tight to let him know he was serious.

They finally reached Eastern Parkway. The police had the street barricaded two hundred yards in both directions from the Lubavitch world headquarters. The three-story stone building looked immaculate, especially considering the squalor they’d passed.

Bailey backed into a sunken driveway until he stopped at a garage, the designated loading area. Stationed there were Agent Ridgewood and Detective Presto.

“Thanks for entrusting me with this,” Donavan told Bailey.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

R
ABBI YEHEIL ACKERBERG SAT motionless in his study. Eyes closed. Mouth slack. The only sound in the room was his long, deliberate breathing. By all accounts, it appeared he was catching a well-needed snooze for a sixty-eight-year-old man afflicted with gout and a bum knee.

Sleep had been scarce. Yesterday had been the Fast of the First Born, and then there had been the facilitation of Chametz. The Lubavitchers were growing in numbers. Many of the new members were from other sects that were lenient on allowing possession of any of the five major grains. Assisting each household to comply was time-consuming work but necessary.

Rabbi Ackerberg, however, was far from asleep. His mind raced. Pesach. The day always brought personal joy, but today was different.

His son, Benzion, would ask the Four Questions before Seder. He had high expectations for his seven-year-old, and why shouldn’t he? Benzion was bright, compassionate, and dedicated.

He was proud of his son. The rabbi remembered his own youth. His parents ignored G-d and then cursed him for their own begotten ills. They died when he was only eleven. He later learned that they’d been murdered, but the circumstances were murky. He heard talk his father was involved with shady individuals, but nothing was substantiated, and no one was arrested.

Orphaned, he’d been placed in a Brooklyn Lubavitch center for displaced youths. It was there that he first found family and hope. Then he found G-d.

Benzion did not have to find G-d. G-d was with him from his first breath. Every day thereafter proved that the greatest experience could be achieved while you are alive and not limited to the afterlife.

Pesach also brought the arrival of the Iraqi crate. Rabbi Ackerberg was grateful that the crate had come into his possession. It helped to have friends in high places, including the White House, but he would never betray the trust and work it took to bring the crate to America and ultimately under his auspices.

He was keenly aware of the speculation that surrounded the crate’s contents. While he doubted it contained the Ark of the Covenant, he did hold hope that artifacts and scrolls could provide more insight to both the ancient Jewish people and the wonders of G-d.

If asked, he was more inclined to indulge in the more practical theory, which connected the crate to the Copper Scroll.

The Copper Scroll was found in Cave #3 in Khirbet Qumran, where the collective find became known as the Dead Sea Scrolls. More than two thousand years old, the Copper Scroll spoke of treasures saved and scattered, like an artifact diaspora, when Nebuchadnezzar razed Herod’s Temple in 586 BCE.

Like the crate, the Copper Scroll was written in Mishnaic Hebrew, which contrasted with the rest of the Dead Sea Scroll find, as well as the Torah and most rabbinic literature.

But it was not just what the crate contained that interested Rabbi Ackerberg. It was believed that when the scattered treasure from Herod’s Temple was recovered, a righteous king will arise for Israel and gather the tribes of Israel from the four corners of Earth.

The
galut,
exile, was over. Moshiach now!

A buzz was heard breaking his thoughts, and Rabbi Ackerberg opened his eyes in a softly dimmed, book-lined room. He looked at the picture of the Rebbe, Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson, and dipped his head in reverence.

On a desk, a Torah partitioned by a yad rested on white silk. On one side sat the activated beeper.

He expected the day to go easy. An alert was issued that a threat had specifically targeted the Lubavitchers: the center would be temporarily closed while the police investigated.

No interruptions.

The buzz ended after the designated seven rings. In two other apartments within the center, the beeper had also gone off. Two other rabbis waited there. Both were considered
gedolim,
Torah luminaries. One, Rabbi David Loew, was a scion to Rabbi Yehudah Loew of Prague. The Maharal, legend has it, created a golem in the sixteenth century to act as his protector.

The crate was here. The suspense would soon be over.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

B
AILEY AND DONAVAN VACATED the truck. They went to the entrance, a set of double mahogany doors beneath a buttressed window from the floor above.

Bailey rapped the door a few times.

Seconds later, the doors swung open. There stood a short, stout man dressed in black hat fashion with a long, cottony beard and eyes, Donavan thought, that read your life’s dossier in a few seconds’ glance.

Bailey greeted the rabbi. They’d met and had spoken on the phone so frequently during the past few months that they’d become fast friends. After a few quick words, Bailey introduced Donavan. Rabbi Ackerberg handed the men two white yarmulkes.

Bailey called to Ridgewood. “Watch the truck. We’ll be back in a few.”

Ridgewood wanted to salute her boss.
Sir, yes sir
. Instead, she chirpily said, “Yes,” as if the task was well received.

When the door shut behind him, as planned, Donavan was asked to stay in the foyer. Bailey followed Rabbi Ackerberg back to his study.

*****

Ridgewood tapped her foot furiously, like she kept pace with a high-speed metronome. “It’s been like a half hour already. What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure, but I’ll be angry if those two are getting better grub than glazed donuts, as good as they were,” Presto quipped.

For the first time, Ridgewood flashed a hint of anger at Presto. It passed, but traces were still there in her voice. “Bailey had this thing scripted with the rabbi down to the minute.”

Serious. “Sorry. I never asked. Now I will. Tell me what was supposed to happen.”

She shook in a small fury. “I’m sorry to lash out, but Bailey was supposed to escort three rabbis to the garage. Donavan was to load the crate into the garage and return to the front entrance. Bailey was to assist with the labor. Because of the holiday, they can’t open or operate anything. They were going to wait or let a non-Orthodox Jew do the work, but Rabbi Ackerberg and Bailey bonded. He’ll do some grunt work and then leave and stand guard when the find is examined. That was twenty minutes ago.”

Presto considered this. “One of us should go to the front door and check with Donavan.”

“That’s what I’m thinking,” she said. “But here’s the thing. Because I’m a woman, you should go.” She paused for a sly grin. “But that’s why I’m going to do it.”

Presto was torn between being respectful to religious concerns and feelings for a friend, who also happened to qualify for his sole sexual experience. “No problem.”

Briskly, they walked up the driveway, cut under a tall newly budding maple tree, and headed up to the door. She didn’t look around, but Presto did, and the few passersby, all Lubavitchers, watched Ridgewood.

Ridgewood knocked. She put her ear to the door, pulled back, and knocked louder.

Presto spoke into the FBI provided relay. “Jack, it’s Dom. It might be nothing, but I need you to clear the area.”

He heard his friend’s voice. “You got it.”

In seconds, he saw Burton and three officers approach a small crowd. Presto heard Burton tell the men he needed them to clear the area. Jack Burton was imposing as any man Presto knew, but the men, who did not appear fit for trouble, stood their ground.

Then, they went ballistic.

Presto followed their eyes to the front door and saw Ridgewood’s back disappear inside. Presto looked back. Two officers, one of whom was Danko, came to assist with the now screaming men. They managed to move them back twenty yards, but they were hardly subdued. One guy, dressed in more civilian attire, took out a cell phone and dialed.

Danko jogged over. His bushy brows danced. “Dom, what’s going on?”

“I don’t know. They should have been out by now. Ridgewood went to check it out.”

Danko blew out air of despair. “Not good.”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions yet.”

Danko slapped the truck with a watchful eye. “This armored car. Something tells me there’s more going on than we’ve been told.” Danko looked to Presto for information.

Presto did not consider anything but the truth. “You’re right. I was privy to some info, off the record, and whether right or wrong, I did not betray that trust.”

Danko nodded. “My beef’s not with you. I hate being assigned to something and not getting the real scoop. It complicates things when shit doesn’t go right. Hence …”

Presto knew Danko was right. Still, he wanted to stall. He hoped Agent Ridgewood would appear with good news, but then he thought about what Danko would do if the roles were reversed. Danko was a cop, and he was honest.

“Frank. Truthfully, there’s a reason behind the secrecy.”

His words were cut off when Ridgewood called from the entrance. “You two. Come quick.” Her voice was casual, but her body language said more. Her eyes registered alarm. Flushed of color, she looked shocked, like she’d seen dead people. Her hand, which beckoned them over, twitched with rapid-fire panic.

Ridgewood’s reappearance got the group of Lubavitchers vocal again. A few more were present. Thus far, they were peaceful. Presto hoped there was no reason for that to change. They did not have the manpower to control the situation.

Ridgewood looked worse the closer they got. Her mouth tried to work again, but her lips just quivered. “Myth Man. He left a sign. The rabbis are dead,” she stuttered and then faltered forward.

Danko put his arms around both of them, like they were off for a jolly stroll, and pushed them inside. Then he shut the door. Immediately, they saw Donavan sprawled on the floor.

Ridgewood composed herself. Her voice came in low but in quick breaths. “He’s alive. The study,” she said and pointed.

Danko whispered. “How do you know it’s safe? The killer could still be here.”

Ridgewood wheezed. Her body grew stiff and straight, like a marine. Her small jaw was angled up in defiance. She looked tough.

“I’m not taking this out on you. My role was lessened today because I’m a woman. When I see my partner down, the last thing I’m going to do is call in the guys to come to my rescue, but now is not the time. It’s a disaster,” she said, and her voice trailed off. Gone was the flair she exhibited in her defense.

Despite Ridgewood’s ease, Danko took out his gun. He looked to Presto. “I have a wife and kids. I play safe.” Danko’s eyes shifted about. “This is a big place. Take hours to thoroughly check it out.”

Ridgewood’s voice grew unsteady. “He’s not here to kill us. You’ll see what I mean in a minute.” She stopped to gather herself again. “When I saw Donavan down, I checked on him. There’s a pulse. There’s a wound to the back of his head.”

Presto asked. “Shouldn’t we get an ambulance?”

“We’re beyond that. I checked each room, scared, but found nothing until I got to the rabbi’s study.” She shook with anger. “How did we get beat again?”

Danko boiled. “What?”

Ridgewood wiped at her forehead. “I checked. Bailey’s on the floor alive but unconscious. Trust me. The three rabbis are dead.”

While Presto’s mind raced, Danko took charge. “Okay, we need to take action. Clearly we don’t have enough men to handle this. I’m calling in backup ASAP.”

Ridgewood agreed with a quick nod. “I have to get Bailey, Donavan, and that truck out of here, to an FBI safe house.”

“Yeah, worry about the truck. The NYPD will take care of the mess,” he said sardonically.

Presto listened to them exchange a few snappy retorts, but words were lost on him. Questions riddled him.

Was this the work of Myth Man, and if so, was it Fallow? If it was Myth Man, how did he do it? Was he inside already, disguised and waiting? Did the crate mean anything? Did the Sweet Virginia
murders tie into this in some way? If they did, then there was a whole set of new questions.

Was there ever a Myth Man?

Nothing made sense.