Hidden Order: A Thriller (27 page)

“Could the killer have weighted the body down simply because he needed to buy time?” Harvath asked.

“For what?”

“He killed Marcourt in Georgia then came up here for Penning. Maybe he’s traveling by air and didn’t want the body to be found until after he had made it safely away to wherever he was going next.”

As he waited for the man to respond, Harvath ran the list of remaining kidnap victims through his mind:
Betsy Mitchell—Seattle
,
Jonathan Renner—San Francisco
, and
Peter Whalen—Chicago
. Since getting the call to come to Boston, he had been racking his brain trying to zero in on locations in the remaining kidnap cities that would be symbolic for the group behind the killings. The only thing he could come up with was that they all had Federal Reserve branches. But would the killer be that obvious, especially after the choices of Jekyll Island and the Liberty Tree site?

“There is another possibility,” Wise said, interrupting Harvath’s train of thought. “What if you’re right? What if the killer was trying to buy more time, not to get out of Boston, but rather because his work in Boston wasn’t complete?”

Harvath was about to comment when his other line rang. “Bill, I have another call. Stand by for second.”

“Will do.”

Harvath clicked over to the other line. It was Cordero back at police headquarters.

“The crime lab just called,” she said. “They finished processing the wrist cuff.”

“Did we get any prints?”

“We did. It looks like a thumb and a partial that may be an index finger. They’re working up the report now. How soon can you get back here?”

“I’m only a couple of blocks away,” he said. “I’ll be there in less than five minutes.”

“Ten-four. Hurry up. As soon as we get the prints, we’re going to start
running them through the databases.” With that, she said goodbye and hung up.

Cordero and the FBI could run every database she had access to, but he doubted she was going to get a single hit. If this guy was who Harvath was beginning to think he might be, there was only one place that would have a record of him and even then it would be guarded like Fort Knox.

He clicked back over to Wise. “We got a hit on the wrist cuff from the girl accosted at the Granary Burying Ground. We believe it’s a thumb and a partial index finger.”

“That’s terrific.”

“Do you think your Swim Club pal, Gage, can do anything with it?” asked Harvath. He could sense Wise’s hesitation before he even responded.

“At the CIA when you’re gone, you’re gone. They watch you clean out your desk, and then they go through everything, and I mean
everything,
before you’re escorted off the property. All of your access is canceled and the only information you’re leaving with is what’s between your ears. He’s not going to be sitting on reams of data, much less the jackets of the people Swim Club was spinning up to place in the field. There were a bunch of them and most were freelancers with lives entirely separate from the Agency. They just got called up when Langley needed them.”

“Wait,” said Harvath. “You’re telling me they can lead
normal
lives? How the hell is that even possible?”

“Think of them like alcoholics. Some were exceptional at hiding their illness. With treatment, they were quite functional.”

“And the others?”

“With time, the others lost the fight and fell over the edge.”

It was a chilling analogy. Harvath wanted as much information as he could get. “Reach out to Gage,” he said, “and lean on him as hard as you can for whatever he can give you.”

“How much are you comfortable with me revealing to him?”

“Right now, limit it just to the killer,” Harvath replied. “You can use the partial description we have and feel free to talk about his MO as much as you want, but keep the names of the victims and any mention of the Fed out of it.”

“Understood,” said Wise. “Email me the prints and I’ll let you know if I find out anything.”

“Sounds good. There’s just one last thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Be very careful who else you talk with beyond this Gage fellow. And make sure to keep a pair of eyes in the back of your head.”

“Same goes for you,” Wise said. “Our killer isn’t done yet. Not by a long shot. He not only likes to kill, he’s compelled to. And if he did come out of Swim Club, he’s very, very good at it.”

“So am I,” said Harvath, ending the call and slipping the phone back into his pocket.

Stepping out into the rain, he opened his umbrella and headed back toward 1 Schroeder Plaza and Cordero’s office. As he walked, he was haunted by several of the things Bill Wise had said, not the least of which was that their killer might still have work left to do in Boston.

D
etective Cordero was on the phone trying to make child-care arrangements when Harvath hung up his coat and set the umbrella she had lent him in the corner.

“Okay, I understand. Thank you,” she said and then hung up. Looking at Harvath she stated, “I’m definitely in the wrong business.”

“Why?”

“The day-care center where I have my son charges a dollar a minute for every minute after five that you’re not there to pick him up.”

“That’s pretty steep.”

“It is, but I understand. Too many parents are irresponsible these days. If they didn’t have some sort of penalty, people would be leaving their kids there until midnight. What about you?”

“What about me?” asked Harvath.

“Are you married? Do you have any kids?”

He smiled. “No.”

“Divorced?”

“No.”

“I knew it,” she said. “The haircut and suit were a dead giveaway.”

“A dead giveaway to what?”

“Don’t be so defensive. Boston’s a very progressive city. We’ve got a few gay cops on the force here.”

Harvath laughed. “I’m not gay. And by the way, this is a Brooks Brothers suit and I’ve had the same haircut since college.”

Cordero looked at him for several seconds.

“What are you looking at?” said Harvath.

“You’ve gotta be
what,
in your mid, maybe late thirties?”

That was a heck of a compliment and one he had no intention of correcting her on. “Give or take,” he replied.

“So what’s your problem? Never grew up? Peter Pan syndrome?”

Boy, is she direct.
“Just never met the right girl.”

“Your first mistake,” said Cordero, “was looking for a
girl
instead of a
woman
.”

Brutal, too
. “And my second mistake?”

“Allowing yourself to get to this age without realizing you’re the problem.”

“Wow. This is turning into a heck of a beating. I hope your paramedics respond faster than your crime lab.”

Cordero smiled. “What? No defense of your lifestyle? Isn’t right about now the time you’re supposed to stand up for confirmed bachelorhood? You know, trot out that old
don’t hate the player, hate the game
line?”

“My bad,” Harvath replied. “I didn’t know there was protocol for this sort of guy-bashing. Speaking of which, why isn’t
Mr. Cordero
helping you figure out picking up your son?”

The smile faded from her. “Because he’s deceased. He died shortly before Marco was born.”

Harvath felt like a total asshole and winced at her response. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“It’s not your fault,” she replied, attempting to bring back a small smile in order to take the sting out of the exchange. “How could you?”

“Was he a cop?”

“No, stockbroker. We’d known each other since grade school.”

“So Cordero is your married name?”

“It’s my maiden name. He had this long Eastern European name with
a billion consonants that nobody could ever pronounce. I decided to keep my name.”

“Marriage is all about give-and-take. That’s what they say, right?” said Harvath.

Cordero rolled her eyes. “I know nothing about you, yet I get this sense—and I hope I don’t hurt your feelings, but—you’re a real idiot. You either have yourself convinced that it’s easier to just drift from one casual thing to the next in a state of perpetual adolescence, or you’re looking for that perfect ten. That sort of thing doesn’t exist. If you’re hitting on five out of six cylinders, or even four out of six with someone who truly cares about you, you should run, don’t walk, all the way to the bank with it.”

“If it’s that easy, how come you’re not remarried?”

“I never said it was easy,” she corrected him. “It’s hard work, but along with raising a child, it’s the most rewarding hard work you’ll ever do. Even better than being a SEAL, if only you knew how to swim.”

“And if I was—”

Cordero rolled her eyes again. “And if you were
smart
enough. I got that part the first time, too.”

“Any chance we can talk about something other than my love life?”

The detective slid the crime lab report across her desk.

Harvath skimmed it and eventually said, “So based on the elimination prints they used from Brittany Doyle’s arrest record, the crime lab is certain this other full and partial print belongs to our killer?”

“No. That’s not what they do. That’s our job. All they can tell us is the two prints we have been given do not belong to Ms. Brittany Doyle of Southie. The additional prints belong to someone else.”

“So what’s the next step?” he asked, knowing already what her answer was.

“We begin searching the databases. We already sent a copy of the prints to the FBI, so we’ll start with state and local. If we don’t come up with anything, we’ll go international. Sound like a plan?”

“I think I’d rather go back to getting lectured about my love life.”

“Don’t worry. I can walk and chew gum at the same time. We’ll do both.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Harvath replied. “Listen, as much as
I enjoy discussing my shortcomings with people I’ve just met, why don’t we bifurcate our work? You take the state and local databases, and if you give me a computer, I’ll work on the international. That way, we’ll be twice as fast and hopefully get you to your little boy by five o’clock. Make sense?”

Cordero smiled. Whatever his problem was, a healthy sense of humor and what appeared to be a decent sense of compassion weren’t part of it.

Once again, she found herself attracted to him. More unsettling, though, was her growing feeling that whatever was wrong with him relationship-wise, she could fix it. But then there was her rational side. Through years of counseling brokenhearted girlfriends over countless glasses of wine, she knew what a dangerous proposition that was. You couldn’t fix something that was intent upon staying broken.

After showing Harvath to an available computer, she pushed her romantic notions from her mind and returned to her desk so she could begin scouring the databases.

In any other circumstance, Harvath would have smiled and watched a woman like Lara Cordero as she walked away. Not now, though. Now all he was focused on was catching a killer, and catching him before he could kill again.

H
arvath went through the motions of searching all the databases he had access to, but he knew he wasn’t going to find anything. Even if their killer had a prior record, it would have been scrubbed clean. An operation this sophisticated, regardless of who was behind it, would not roll the dice on everything falling apart because their lead hitter had his prints on file in a law enforcement database somewhere.

That didn’t mean, though, that his prints didn’t exist somewhere. If the man was indeed part of some black-ops program, the Agency was going to have a full dossier on him. Accessing that dossier, though, was going to be very difficult, particularly if the powers-that-be at Langley were trying to keep the program secret. Based on what he had heard about Swim Club, if the guy they were looking for was a part of it, Harvath would have a better chance locating Jimmy Hoffa than the man’s personal information. He decided to turn it over to the Old Man. Monroe Lewis wanted regular updates and he owed Reed Carlton a situation report anyway.

Typing up a brief synopsis, Harvath transmitted it to Carlton via a secure
server they used. Attached to the email were photos from the crime scenes as well as scans of the prints the Boston PD crime lab had isolated from Brittany Doyle’s wrist cuff. He asked him to please forward the materials along to Bill Wise. With the two of them working on the prints, there was nothing else he could do in that arena and he logged off the computer.