Myth Man (33 page)

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

F
OR THE FIRST TIME in a long while, Frank Danko felt like a man in charge. This case was supposed to be his glory. Instead, it had been a curse. Then he remembered something his wife said as they reconciled their differences.
Sometimes things need to get worse before they can get better
.

Danko was pretty sure there was something to that old adage. He hoped so anyway. Right now things were a mess. Hundreds, possibly thousands of black hatters were out in the streets, along with scores of police. News vans appeared like vultures sensing the dead.

Mayor Golden was set to arrive. He planed a news conference with the World Lubavitch headquarters as the backdrop. These murders were personal. Rabbi Ackerberg was a friend, not just a political endorsement. If he was going to lose an election over the Myth Man crisis, he did not plan to go down meekly.

Danko respected the mayor. It was not his fault that Myth Man had eluded capture. The Feds specifically assigned themselves to guard the World Lubavitch Headquarters. He had nothing against Bailey’s team, but he was glad this one was on them.

The Feds had since departed. Bailey and Donavan had come too, but were disorientated. At Bailey’s request, Presto left with them.

They hightailed it out with the truck. Now he was left with the disaster. All they gave him was a yarmulke.

He never got his answer on what was inside the vehicle, but he wondered if it had anything to do with the murders. Probably not, because there was no attempt to seize the vehicle.

Was this purely another religious hit? It looked like that since only the rabbis had been murdered.

He thought about Fallow. Was Presto wrong about him? He didn’t think so. Once again, it had looked like Presto somehow found the right guy. So was this the work of Fallow? Judging Myth Man’s previous feats, anything was possible.

For the moment, the case was his again. He thought of Presto—how would he approach the evidence? He knew Presto would not leap at the obvious. Neither would he.

For the first time in a long time, he felt like a detective again.

What to do? Something told him he needed answers now.

The headquarters housed several apartments, rooms, and closets, all of which were searched. He learned that none of the officers stationed behind the center saw anyone leave from the rear.

Normally, they’d rather avoid contaminating a murder scene, but Ridgewood had already been all over the room to check the bodies. It was the right call. No plastic forensic body suits were on hand. She had to see if anyone was alive. Then they had to attend to Bailey.

A blood-smeared nightstick lay next to the fallen FBI Director.

On a desk was an open Torah. Scrawled in blood were two letters: MM.

Danko needed to go back to the rabbi’s study. Something he saw bothered him.

He snapped on latex gloves and returned. The first thing he checked was the blood trail. Someone had stepped in blood and done quite a bit of walking. He checked the rabbis’ feet. No blood. The footprints were probably the killer’s.

He saw the trail lead to a door. Danko opened it. It was a bathroom. He walked into the already lit room. On white tiles were blood prints that had been deliberately smeared. From the shape, it looked like the toes pointed toward the toilet but not straight as if a man were urinating. He also noticed a small red streak on the outside of the toilet bowl.

Danko looked closer. Blood. Was something flushed?

As he backed out, his heart leaped. On the marble saddle that bordered the two rooms was a crystal clear heel print. He photographed the evidence.

He returned to the room. He looked back at the blood trail. There were a lot of prints near where Bailey had lay and also by one of the dead rabbis.

He walked over. Somehow, the rabbi died with a smile on his lips. He’d been shot twice in the head, one at close range from the looks of the scalded tissue. He understood the deceased was Rabbi Ackerberg.

He was set to leave when he saw blood on the man’s fingertips. He looked closer. Was it the rabbi’s own blood? The blood was not smeared on the pads of the fingers, as if he felt his own wound. No blood was evident on the rest of the hand. The blood had gotten there another way.

Danko squatted and looked closer. Blood was massed under the fingernails of his index and middle fingers. Thankfully, the rabbi did not gnaw his fingernails to receded stubs, like Danko’s own hands. Neither finger was cut, but under one nail, and perhaps the other, there was what looked like skin fragments.

This evidence was the connection Danko hoped to find, but he couldn’t believe what he was actually thinking. Impossible. If he learned one thing with this case, it was that misdirection could be deadly. Doubt attacked reason. Who to trust?

He dialed his cell phone. After several rings, it connected. He overrode the greeting. “Are you alone?” Danko asked with an emphasis on the conspiratorial.

Picking up the cue, the reply was short. “No.”

“Please go somewhere where we can talk and then call me back. It’s important.” Danko hung up and waited.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

P
RESTO HUNG UP THE phone and looked at Bailey. His composed, gentlemanly demeanor was no longer evident. Once conscious and alert, Bailey went into a rage. The mission was a personal disaster.

It was an awkward time to ask for space, but he had to. “Give me a minute,” Presto said and left before Bailey could ask the caller’s identity.

Presto found an empty room. He called Danko back.

“It’s me.”

“You’re alone?” Danko asked.

“Yes.”

He heard Danko sigh. “Dom, I’m not sure how to put this, so I’ll just start from the top. I think the murders were an inside job.” He hesitated. “Real inside.”

Presto understood perfectly but asked, “What exactly do you mean?”

“Did you notice a scratch on Malcolm’s cheekbone?”

Stunned. “Yes, but …”

“What about his suit? There are blood spots,” he said not so much as a question, but as a statement of fact.

“I think I remember seeing blood. He was wounded.”

“On the back of the head,” Danko reminded. “Listen, Dom, I found blood and likely skin samples under Rabbi Ackerberg’s fingernails. He scratched somebody, and there’s evidence the killer went to the bathroom and possibly flushed evidence.”

“Frank, are you saying Bailey killed these men?” Presto was incredulous, and yet he had a feeling something was amiss from the inside.

“All I’m saying is something’s up. I know this is going to be uncomfortable, but this is a crime scene, and he was in the room. I want that jacket and his shoes. And that goes for Donavan too.”

Presto gulped. He’d never questioned an acquaintance, let alone friend and prominent FBI agent. “That is going to be tough.”

“I’m counting on you,” Danko commanded. “I’m not making an accusation, but they were in the center when the murders took place.”

Presto thought for a second. “What about Ridgewood?”

“I thought about that. She wasn’t in there long, five minutes tops. No way all that went down while she was in there, and I’m not seeing her dainty prints in blood. Nonetheless, they are a team. Tell them I want all their clothes. Heck, tell them you’re giving yours too.”

Presto heard a knock at the door and heard his name called. It was Ridgewood. “Frank, speaking of the dainty one, she beckons. I will call you back when I can.”

He hung up. “In here,” he answered. He went to the door as it opened.

Ridgewood gave an urgent look. “I need to talk to you. In here’s perfect.”

Presto was still processing Danko’s implications. Myth Man had framed people before—Sykes, for instance. Was Fallow back, or had he been wrong about the computer guru? If he was wrong, was today’s murder committed by the same person as the previous religious hits?

With these questions cluttering his mind, Ridgewood moaned softly. Her eyes fluttered with nerves.

“Did Bailey say anything more?”

“No. I think he feels shame. He wants to go back to the crime scene.”

She gave him a long look. “What were you doing in here?”

“I needed space. Had to make a few calls. Danko checked in.” He didn’t want to discuss that yet. “Does Donavan remember anything more?”

She looked puzzled, like she wanted to hear what Danko had to say. When she refocused, her face was taut and withdrawn, like she’d swallowed something unpleasant and needed to divulge it.

She bit her lower lip. The words came slow. “Donavan. Well, he’s disoriented and keeps retracting what he said or thinks he remembers. Dom,” she said earnestly, “I need you here—someone from the outside.”

Presto stayed silent. He was not sure what to think yet and gestured for her to continue.

“Who knows,” she said and huffed. “They were both knocked on the head. Donavan’s brains were already scrambled.”

Presto finally spoke. “What did Donavan say?”

She answered. “He says he has this foggy recollection that he was talking to Bailey when he was struck down. He says Bailey was walking slightly behind him, but then he changes. Says he must be loopy, because there is no way that could be. Claims he worships and trusts Bailey like a true father.”

Presto massaged his scalp as if he could relax the knot in his brain. It didn’t work.

“This is nuts,” was Presto’s final analysis.

Ridgewood agreed. “You bet. By the way, Donavan has his own opinion. Despite what he thinks he remembers, he definitely thinks this was the work of Myth Man, whoever that may be.”

“Does he,” Presto said. For some reason, he found that comment interesting.

Ridgewood stood up. She drew close. “What did Danko say?”

“He’s further checked the crime scene. Made a few observations.”

“Such as …” pressed Ridgewood.

“No one was seen leaving the building. No one was found inside either.”

“What else?”

Presto summarized Danko’s findings: the bloody footprints that led to the bathroom, Danko’s suspicion that evidence was flushed, the rabbi’s bloody fingernails, and the suspicion that he’d scratched someone, perhaps the killer.

The last comment stretched her face. “The last thing I’m looking to do is sink my boss, but he did have a nice scratch on his face.” She shrugged. “Then again, he was attacked.”

Everything moved too fast. Presto was still trying to sort things. Still, he answered, “Suppose the rabbi scratched Bailey. The tests would conclude whether it was his blood or not. Why would he then proceed to bludgeon his head knowing the evidence he’d left behind? Does he just figure he’s an FBI big shot, and he can cover it up, or still yet, blame the plausible theory that he was set up by Myth Man?” He spat the moniker in disgust. “It doesn’t make sense.”

Ridgewood nodded in assent.

Presto was not through. “Then again, it’s possible that when the killer attacked, in a panic, the rabbi lashed out, accidentally striking Malcolm.” Presto knew what he said was true, but he was not sure what he believed yet.

She considered that. “Fair points. Listen, if things get sour, I want you to know that I’ve got your back. I’m not sure what happened to Bailey and Donavan in there, but even if there is a 1 percent chance that they’re up to something, I’m with you.”

Ridgewood looked into his eyes. Then she hugged him and groaned wearily. “I’ve had enough of this case.” Her words were muffled against his body. After a few seconds, she pulled away. “Sorry. Despite my bravado, I’m still a woman.”

“One more thing,” Presto said. “Danko plans to treat all of us as evidence to the crime scene.”

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

“I
S HE FUCKING KIDDING me?” roared Bailey. “The only article of clothing he’s getting is my boxers.”

“No shit,” opined Donavan. “Since when are the victims treated like criminals?” He rubbed the back of his wounded head.

Presto felt uncomfortable, and the ante rose when Ridgewood remained silent. He tried. “As you know, it is not uncommon to take the victim’s clothes for evidence.”

Bailey hissed. “I don’t like how this is being presented. This is the biggest disaster in my career, and to grind salt in my wounds like this is too much. You’re not presenting this as if Inspector Danko wants our clothes to catch Myth Man. You make it seem like he suspects us.”

Ridgewood coughed meekly. “Guys, let’s not get crazy here. Like we always say from the law enforcement perspective, if you have nothing to hide, what’s the problem?”

Both men stared at her hard, but then Donavan grinned at his superior and gave a wonder-twins activate fist touch.

“He wants my clothes?” Donavan said haughtily. “He can have them. Just tell him that when he’s through, I expect them dry-cleaned.”

Presto’s phone rang. Impeccable timing. It was Danko. Presto’s face was a dead give away.

Donavan snorted. “Is that super sleuth Danko on the line? Wonder if he wants a stool sample?”

As Presto pressed the button, he felt as if he had just activated the button that launched a bunker-busting bomb.

“Frank?”

“Listen up, I’m coming to you.”

His voice uneven, “Any reason?”

“You’re not alone, are you?”

“No,” Presto informed.

“Dom, be careful. I have a bad feeling one or more of these agents is up to no good.” The line went dead.

The three agents looked to him, or were they watching him? No, this felt natural. They were curious.

“Danko’s coming here.” He said no more.

“What?” Bailey said acerbically. “Why?”

Presto was not sure what to say. Was his allegiance to a friend who probably saved his career or to his former nemesis but fellow NYPD detective?

“He wants to run the case right. Gather evidence. Talk to us. Be a detective.”

The two agents cast him a steely gaze.

Ridgewood inserted herself. “Boys, let Danko do his job. I understand the frustration.”

“Do you?” shot Bailey. “I lost a friend and a career. The last thing I need is that moron annoying us as he wastes taxpayer money. But you know what?” he said magnanimously. “I’ll give the idiot what he wants. I’ll soon be stripped of everything. Might as well start now.”

Bailey hung his head. Donavan consoled him. “I’m sorry, but this is not our fault. He began to pace, and his right index finger tapped his left palm.

“Think about it—St. Patrick’s, Grace Cathedral. These were high profile hits. He’s done it before. I’m sorry, but I’ve been to Halloween parties where someone dressed as a convincing rabbi. Myth Man’s a master of disguise. He must have been inside before we entered and got out one of the many exits or windows.”

He stopped pacing. His face was both chummy and resolute. “We got beat this time.” He snapped his head like he took a punch, bit the pain, but was back in the fight. “This just means the case is not closed after all. We have work to do.”

The “rally the troops” speech did not enlist Bailey. “I must be an idiot to stand by you. How blind could you be? Work to do?” he huffed with lamenting scorn. “We’ll be lucky if we’re not used as Hogan’s Alley props for the new Quantico trainees.”

Donavan was determined to see things differently. “Bailey, the reason I refuse to admit defeat is because I can’t watch you do so. This guy, Myth Man, is a master, and at least the crate is here, safe and sound.”

Bailey was not convinced but chose not to argue further. “I need a few minutes alone. Dom, can you stay behind a minute?”

As soon as the two agents left the room, Bailey drew close. His eyes implored.

“Dom, I need you here. I have a bad feeling that I’m being framed in some way.” His eyes grew more importune.

“Why is Frank Danko coming here?”