Inmate 1577 (51 page)

“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.”

“How long did it last?” Vail asked.

“Three minutes.”

“Long enough for him to lure him outside and blindside him,” Burden said.

Dixon slipped the phone in her pocket. “Could be.”

“Any record of those texts the UNSUB was sending us before? The clues?”

“No,” Dixon said. “But those came from different numbers—untraceable disposables.”

Vail’s BlackBerry vibrated. “What do you think—good news or bad?” She looked at the display. “Yeung says Hartman’s car was clean. No phone. But Carondolet got hold of MacNally’s inmate file. Or, at least, part of it.”

“Impressive for this time of night,” Burden said.

Vail yawned. “Sorry. Speaking of this time of night.” She shook off the fatigue and said, “Let’s meet them. They’re back at Pier 33.”

Burden turned over the engine. “On our way.”

WHILE EN ROUTE, VAIL DIALED Clay Allman. He answered with a groggy grunt.

“Clay, Karen Vail.” Another grunt. “Sorry to wake you—”

“Wake me, yeah. What the hell time is—are you out of your mind? It’s...3am?”

“Sounds about right. Listen, we’ve got a question for you. You happen to know where Scheer is?”

“Let me get this straight,” Allman said. “You call me up at three in the morning, looking for the last guy in the world I’d want to talk to. And you’re wondering if I know where he is?”

“Again, that sounds about right.”

“Can I go back to sleep?”

“I take it you haven’t seen or spoken to him.”

Allman groaned. “Not since you dropped him off after our...hang on a minute. If you’re asking about Scheer at this time of night, something’s gotta be up. Where are you?”

“Thanks, Clay. You’ve answered my question.” Vail pressed END.

“You really thought he might know where Scheer was?” Dixon asked.

“No freaking idea, Roxx. I took a shot they were throwing back beers in a bar somewhere in the city. You know, friends become enemies, then enemies become friends again after we bring them together like brothers who’ve had an argument.”

Burden chuckled. “What drug have you been smoking?”

“Like I said, I took a shot.” Vail’s phone began ringing—Allman calling her right back, the diligent reporter taking a shot to pry info from her. She ignored it. Instead, Vail dialed the task force, which, she was told, had thinned since Friedberg’s rescue. But many were still in the office despite the hour, toiling away with several interns who were likely aiming to score points with the inspectors while devouring the thrill of the investigation.

Vail asked them to delve into Stephen Scheer’s background. No detail was too insignificant: she wanted an unfiltered dossier of who this man was, where he came from, what college he attended, and what he did in the years after graduating.

While the volume of information would be less robust than usual because numerous agencies had closed several hours ago, there was still a fair number of online databases and external resources they could access.

Fifteen minutes later, as Burden was pulling up to the parking lot for Pier 33—with signs advertising Alcatraz Cruises—Vail received a return call.

“Karen, it’s Robert.”

“Robert,” she said, sharing a look with Burden. “Where are you?”

“I’m at the station, working with the task force. It wasn’t as bad as they thought—once they pumped in fluids and stitched me up, I was able to get back on my feet. Sort of. I had one of the interns come get me. As long as I don’t get up from the chair too fast, or go chasing our UNSUB down the street, I can function.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing.” She paused. “I guess that goes for us, too.”

“You asked them to put together a backgrounder on Scheer. They called his wife and got his social and such—which, I gotta tell you, she wasn’t too happy we woke her again—but it was worth it. We hit some interesting stuff, but we just found it and I’m not sure what to make of it.”

“Go on.” She placed her BlackBerry on speaker.

“So Scheer was born and raised in San Mateo. First thing we did was log onto vital records, to start at the beginning and see where it led us. And it stopped us dead.”

“How so?” Burden asked.

“Birdie!” The smile was evident in Friedberg’s tone. “Good to hear your voice. Okay, so the problem is that we found two birth certificates. We’re not sure what to—”

“He was adopted,” Vail said. “When you’re adopted, they assign the adopting parents’ names. Then they destroy the old certificate. But once in a while, the original hangs around. What’s the name on the original one?”

“Baby Markley. Markley would be the mother’s maiden name if she wasn’t married—which might be why she put the kid up for adoption.”

“What does that get us?” Dixon asked.

Burden shrugged. “Not much.”

Vail asked, “Can you pull the court records and see if the mother was married? That’d get us a last name—”

“Already checked,” Friedberg said, the rhythmic tap of a keyboard coming through the speaker. “The records only go back to 1950. I think I might—hang on a second. Yeah. Here’s something.” More clicks. “Hmm. He’s got a sealed juvie record.”

Vail sat forward in her seat. “This is starting to sound interesting. Except that we’ve hit another roadblock.”

“Maybe not,” Burden said. “Sealed file—but there’s no gag order on the investigating detective. Track down the guy who handled that case and we may get an answer as to what Scheer did to land his young ass in jail.”

“I’ll get on it. Call you as soon as we have something.”

They met Carondolet and Yeung in front of the hood of their car. Yeung had his laptop open, and a warden information card filled the screen. A mug shot showed a man wearing a red, white, and black placard around his neck, identifying him as ALCATRAZ 1577. Walton MacNally.

“So this is our guy,” Burden said.

Vail placed both hands on the car’s hood and leaned closer to the PC. The screen’s brightness, amidst the dark parking lot, played harshly across her face. “One of them.”

“You’ve had time to look this over,” Dixon said. “What’s the big picture?”

Carondolet folded his arms across his chest. “They had MacNally pegged as a very bright guy, scored a 135 on a prison IQ test. Resourceful, motivated, hard worker. Did fifteen months at Leavenworth but was involved in two escape attempts and was suspected in the violent assault of two cons. After the second attempt, he was transferred here, where his history of violence continued. His intake card said he was considered a ‘serious escape risk.’”

“What was the original offense?” Burden asked.

“Convicted of two counts of armed robbery and one of kidnapping. Oh, and he’s listed as widowed. Get this—he was arrested and tried for murdering his wife but was ultimately found not guilty.”

Vail pursed her lips. “Well, that’s certainly...an impressive record. We’d be silly not to consider this guy a prime suspect.”

“I thought we already did,” Yeung said.

“We did. But we’ve been running all over the place tonight looking at Stephen Scheer.”

“And?” Carondolet asked.

Dixon bent over the laptop beside Vail and scrolled down. “And he’s looking guilty. Of what, it’s hard to say. But something isn’t right with him.”

“How old is the guy?” Vail asked. “MacNally.”

“Apparently,” Dixon said, paging down a document, “a spry and fit 79.”

“A few other things you should know,” Yeung said. “He was involved in a number of violent altercations. One with a guy you’re familiar with: one of our vics, Harlan Rucker, who he apparently had some bad blood with dating back to Leavenworth. Rucker and an accomplice attacked MacNally in Industries with a knife.”

“I’m liking MacNally more with each passing minute,” Burden said. “What else?”

Yeung cocked his head. “There was a clergyman at Alcatraz by the name of Finelli. He tried to pass a letter from MacNally to his son, but it apparently got returned unopened. The kicker is that there’s a warden’s note saying that Finelli tipped off prison officials about MacNally’s plans to escape, and the attempt ended very badly.”