Hidden Order: A Thriller (36 page)

“You don’t have to do that,” she said.

“For your partner.”

Harvath began to put his hands up to say no thank you, but the man behind the counter said, “Your other partner. The Italiano.”

“You mean Sal,” Cordero said with a smile.

“He only eats small children,” Harvath interjected.

The female detective shook her head and removed a ten-dollar bill. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate these. How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing. Free. Free,” the man said.

“You were sweet to let us in early. Thank you, but I don’t need a discount, or anything for free. That’s not how we do things.”

The man didn’t know how to respond. Finally, he said, “Okay, eight dollars.”

Cordero handed him the ten and told him to keep the rest as a tip. He thanked her and showed them outside, then locked the door behind them and got back to setting up for the day.

“Thanks for the coffee,” Harvath said.

“You’re welcome.”

“I’m a little bit disappointed, though.”

“You haven’t even tried the coffee yet.”

He smiled at her. “Yesterday, you took me for breakfast where the Boston Strangler killed his last victim, and today it’s just a coffee bar.”

“
Just
a coffee bar,” she replied, shaking her head. “Shows what you
know about Boston history, Mr. Expert. Trust me, you don’t want to know about this one.”

“I knew it,” said Harvath as he peeled the lid off his to-go cup and blew on his coffee. “You homicide cops can’t help yourselves. Like moths to a flame.”

“I’m telling you, we’re here for the coffee. Trust me.”

“That’s the second time you’ve asked me to trust you. Why?”

“Because there is a story attached to this building and it’s horrible.”

“I’m a big boy,” he said, turning around to study the building’s brick faïade. “What’s the story?”

“Just remember,” she said, relenting. “You asked.”

“I take full responsibility.”

“Okay. Do you know what a baby farm is?”

He’d heard of a
baby factory
before, but something told him this was different. “No,” he replied. “I don’t think I know what that is. What are we talking about?”

“Back in the 1800s, women who got pregnant out of wedlock and who wanted to avoid the social stigma that came along with it would often place their infants in what was pejoratively called a baby farm. These baby farms could provide wet nurses and would take the child off the mother’s hands for a limited time or ‘adopt’ the child altogether if the price was right. The understanding was that the child would be cared for.”

“I’m guessing that wasn’t the case in this instance.”

“There was a notorious baby farm right here in the late 1800s. The woman who ran it was named Mrs. Elwood and she abused many of the children quite severely and even murdered several of them.”

Harvath grimaced. The idea of babies being given up by their mothers was bad enough, but to think they were abused and even killed at the hands of people entrusted with their care turned his stomach. There was nothing lower in his book than someone who abused children or animals.

“The café’s owners,” she continued, “opened a cigar bar in the basement that everyone said was haunted. They brought in some paranormal researchers who found a disgusting syringe from the 1870s that one of the ghosts allegedly drew their attention to. Once the syringe was taken out of the building, the haunting stopped.”

“Do you believe in all that stuff?” Harvath asked, taking a sip of his coffee.

“Spirits? Ghosts? I don’t know. I’ve seen some absolutely horrific crime scenes in my time, the last two days included. I suppose I can understand why some souls are unable to cross over. I’d like to think that if I got murdered, I’d be pissed-off enough to stay around until the case got solved. But I’m stubborn like that. What about you?”

“If anyone tried to murder me, it wouldn’t be unsolved because I’d take them with me.”

“Tough guy, huh?” she said.

“No,” he replied. “Just stubborn like that. You know.”

Cordero smiled, and suggested that they get going. As they walked, she said, “It all makes me wonder.”

“Wonder what?”

“What people will say a hundred years from now when they pass the murder scenes we’re working.”

It was a good question. “Let’s hope they say it was a tough case, but you and I figured it out as quickly as we could and we stopped anyone else from being killed.”

“Agreed,” she said as they reached her car and she looked at her watch. “Let me tell you what I think we need to do.”

“D
amn right I’m not happy!” Reed Carlton shouted into the phone at Harvath. “I don’t care what kind of contacts Monroe Lewis and the Federal Reserve have. Part of what they are paying us for is to be their eyes and ears in this case. They should have heard about this from me and I should have heard it right away from you. You were at the scene before the FBI, for Chrissake.”

“Sir, let me—” Harvath attempted, but he was cut off.

“Be quiet and listen to me. I don’t care if it’s three in the morning, three in the afternoon, midnight, twilight, firelight, whatever frigging time it is! If there’s a development in a case we’re working on, especially a murder, I expect you to call me. Whether or not you’re going to wake me up should never factor into it. Do you understand?”

The boss was fired up and Harvath knew better than to respond in any fashion other than completely professional. “Yes, sir,” he said. “It’s my fault. It won’t happen again.”

Harvath’s phone had rung just as Cordero was dropping him back at his hotel. He had planned to shower and change while she went home to pick up her son and drop him off at day care. They were going to meet
back at her office. In between then, Harvath was going to call the Old Man and give him an update, but apparently Monroe Lewis had heard from the FBI first.

There wasn’t much Harvath could add to what the Old Man had been told, only his belief that the victim was Peter Whalen, the missing Fed chair candidate from Chicago.

The information didn’t make the Old Man happy. Not that Harvath had expected it to. He wasn’t happy, either. Quite the contrary. They had been hired to try to help save four people and half them were now dead.

“So besides another dinner and maybe some dancing with this female detective you’re playing footsy with,” the Old Man stated, “do you have any plans to actually solve this case, or should I expect to read about it when you get around to sending me a postcard?”

Carlton was one of the most brilliant people Harvath knew, but he could be a real curmudgeon when he was pissed-off. In those instances it was a free-fire zone for his acerbic tongue. The only thing he could do was bite his own tongue and wait for the storm to pass.

“The Bureau guys at the scene are proceeding on the assumption that the remaining two missing Fed candidates are here in Boston,” said Harvath. “And we agree.”

“We?”

“Detective Cordero and I.”

“So what are they planning on doing about it?”

“They’re going to go public with the names and photos of the last two missing persons. Their hope is that maybe somebody in Boston has seen something and will provide actionable intelligence.”

“Are they going to publicize the Fed connection as well?”

“No,” Harvath replied. “It sounds like they’re going to do a straight missing persons, believed to be in the Boston area approach.”

“That should keep it out of the national media for a bit longer,” said Carlton. “But not much.”

“Lewis and the Fed have been on borrowed time anyway. The only reason all the missing persons haven’t been linked together is that nobody really knows who they are.”

“And the newest murder?”

“Boston PD has the scene locked down pretty tight. Because of the smoke and the fire trucks, they’re going to allow people to assume there was a fire. They’re not taking the body out in a body bag. They’re going to drain the gang box and transport it with the corpse down to the ME’s office.”

“How are they planning on putting the word out regarding the last two missing candidates?”

“If they hustle, they can get it included in the morning police roll call briefings. All the detectives and all the patrol officers will be given the names and photos, along with a brief description and as much of the story as the FBI decides they want put out there. I think they’re going to connect it to the other murders.”

“Then you can speed up the timetable of the national press getting hold of the story,” said the Old Man. “Police departments leak like sieves.”

“Hopefully, they’ll keep it under wraps.”

“What about beyond the PD?”

“Names and photographs of Betsy Mitchell and Jonathan Renner to run on local television news along with the FBI’s one-eight-hundred number for tips. The names and photographs are also going to the local papers.”

“Better late than never,” Carlton said.

“With detectives and patrol officers out there beating the bushes, along with the public keeping their eyes open, we may get lucky.”

“I hope it works.”

“Me, too,” said Harvath. “I’m going to get cleaned up and then get back down to police headquarters. Is there anything else you need?”

“Yeah. The client wants to speak with you.”

“Monroe Lewis? What for?”

“He wants an update from the field.”

“I just gave you one.”

“I know,” said the Old Man, “and even though he just spoke with the FBI, he wants to hear from you, too. He asked me for your cell phone number and I told him I’d give it to him after you and I spoke. Keep it short and keep it limited to the facts. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

T
he call with Monroe Lewis turned out to be a call not only with Lewis, but also with William Jacobson, the Fed’s head of security.

While Lewis wanted Harvath’s overall thoughts and impressions of where the case was going and why they hadn’t developed any leads, Jacobson grilled Harvath for exacting and excruciatingly specific details. They were getting ready for the media firestorm they knew was on its way.

Finally, Lewis resignedly asked, “There’s not going to be any ransom demand, is there?”

“No,” Harvath replied. “I don’t think there will be. Not unless going public spooks whoever’s involved.”

Lewis knew the Fed better than anyone else. He had risen to his position by dedicating his life to the organization. He had no family, no significant other. He could be found there nights and weekends. He knew that many saw him as cold and distant. He also knew that when he tried to be more convivial, it often came off as phony. Chairman Sawyer had been the first person to take a deep, personal interest in him. Sawyer had
become his mentor and had helped orchestrate his promotion to where he was now. He had confided many things in Lewis, and it had been a particular shock when Sawyer suddenly died. Lewis had been forced to come to grips very quickly with what was important not only for the Fed, but also for his own career. None of it was easy, and the course they were charting was fraught with peril.

“You think it’s possible to spook these people?” asked Jacobson. “After what they’ve done?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you think the odds are of catching them?”

“I have to be honest with you,” said Harvath, knowing full well the Old Man would hate him for saying this, “I don’t think the odds are very good. Not unless we catch some sort of a break. But that’s exactly what you hope for in a case like this.”

“You’re right,” said Lewis. “We have to remain positive. We’ve got to do everything we can to solve this thing.”

“As far as we know, the last two are still alive.”

“Jon and Betsy,” he said, distraught.

“I’m going to do everything I can to find them.”

“Please do, Mr. Harvath. And make sure to keep us abreast of everything that’s happening.”

“We will.”

After hanging up, Harvath showered, changed, and then picked up another coffee in the lobby. It was just under two miles to 1 Schroeder Plaza and police headquarters. Rush hour was in full swing and there were already several people lined up for taxis, so he decided to walk it. The fresh air and uninterrupted time to think would both do him good.