Sigma Curse - 04 (22 page)

But she knew she could never do that. She’d come too far, sacrificed too much, to let herself go.

Ahead, she saw a junction with a busy, brightly lit thoroughfare, and she knew she was back in the city proper. She was so attuned to the quiet and the dark of the roads she’d been traversing over the past two hours that she felt almost reluctant to plunge once more into the bustle of urban existence. But the sooner she could do that, the sooner she could start getting back into something approximating a normal existence.

Sally-Jo turned the corner into the main street. She couldn’t immediately see a road sign naming it, but she knew she must be somewhere in Washington Heights.

The display window of a TV and audio store caught her eye. It was evidently a place that stayed open through the night, or at least until the early hours, because it was lit up and she saw customers moving around inside. The window was filled with a bank of plasma TV screens of varying sizes.

All of them were tuned to the same news channel.

Sally-Jo stopped. On the screens, a photo of Rickenbacker’s face appeared, alongside that of a younger black woman. Sally-Jo couldn’t be sure, but it may have been the woman she’d shot on the sidewalk. The cop, or federal agent.

With no sound available to her, Sally-Jo couldn’t hear what the earnest anchorperson was saying into the camera. But she watched as the display cut to a jerky helicopter-cam view of the street near Gramercy, where she’d snatched Rickenbacker. The street crawled with police and crime-scene personnel.

There was no sign yet of the burnt-out Camaro, even though Sally-Jo knew it had been discovered.

What happened next came as an almost physical punch in her gut.

Fran’s face filled the screen.

It was an old photo, taken more than five years ago when he’d still been stationed at Fort Irvington. Sally-Jo knew the picture well. It was the one from his file at the military base.

Under the picture, the caption said:
Wanted: former sergeant Franklin D. Gray
.

The dread twisted the ropes of bowel in Sally-Jo’s abdomen until she thought she was going to soil herself, or vomit, or both.

Frank. How did they know?

She stepped through the glass doorway of the store.

*

F
ifteen minutes later, she reeled out, almost colliding with a muttering young kid who scurried by furtively.

She’d listened to the footage once, then found another TV with another news channel. The message was the same, almost word for word.

The New York City Police Department and the FBI have issued an urgent appeal to members of the public for information on the whereabouts of Franklin Gray. He is currently the number one suspect in the so-called Sigma killings which have been terrorizing New York City for the last month.

And:
earlier reports that a woman was thought to be involved have been superseded. Gray is thought to be the only suspect. A woman is not involved.

And:
The law enforcement officer who was shot, Detective Sergeant Harmony Jones, has positively identified her shooter as a man resembling Gray’s general description. Detective Jones is currently recuperating from her injuries in hospital and was unavailable for comment.

There was a lot of other stuff:
Gray should be regarded as highly dangerous, and under no circumstances should he be approached if sighted.
That kind of thing. But Sally-Jo had stopped listening.

The only suspect...

A woman is not involved..

Detective Sergeant Harmony Jones has... identified her shooter as a man resembling Gray...

Sally-Jo gripped a lamppost, the cold of the metal instantly burrowing though the wool of her mittens and icing her palms.

The bitch
, she thought, tears welling in her eyes and freezing on her numbed cheeks.
The lying, spotlight-seeking
bitch
.

This was for
her
. For Sally-Jo. All of it, up to and including the final victory she’d achieved with Rickenbacker, the only person apart from Frank who truly understood Sally-Jo. It wasn’t for Frank. And now this woman, this detective, was screwing it all up with her stupidity and her lies.

Sally-Jo straightened her back. Took a deep breath through her nose, sucking in huge lungfuls of cold air until it felt like her chest would expand and carry her floating up into the snow-laden sky.

She had to meet up with Frank. Talk with him. Even though she knew what he would say. Knew he’d come to the same conclusion she herself had.

The Jones woman needed to be forced to tell the truth.

––––––––

O
n his way back from the field where the Camaro had been found, with the news choppers rattling low overhead, their blades scattering the snow into blurred flurries, Venn listened to as many news stations as he was able to find, punching through the buttons on the dial of the Jeep’s radio.

The coverage was as saturated as the ground outside threatened to become from the snowfall.

Every outlet banged the same drum. The police and the FBI were looking for Franklin Gray, and Gray alone. There was no woman involved: that had all been a mistake. Detective Harmony Jones, survivor of the shooting, had recovered consciousness long enough to reveal that she’d been shot by a man, on his own, a man who looked a lot like Franklin Gray.

If that didn’t provoke Gray, nothing would.

Venn felt his conscience rise in protest once again. As he’d done before, he got it in a mental headlock and wrestled it back down while he drove.

Every hospital in the Greater New York area was now permeated with NYPD officers and FBI agents. Most of the manpower was concentrated at the major hospitals in Manhattan, with the bulk stationed at Revere Hospital. Venn knew Gray and his woman accomplice were smart. They’d figure that Harmony would have been most probably taken by the ambulance to Revere, because it was a large teaching facility with a trauma center, and it was the closest such place to Gramercy Park, where she’d been gunned down.

So that was where Gray was likely to strike.

Except it wouldn’t be Gray. He was by now too recognizable, his face decorating even the wards at Revere. No. He’d send the woman to silence Harmony.

She was an unknown quantity. There was no accurate description of her, not even from the three corporals who’d seen her in the bar when she’d led Fincher away. The picture the elderly couple, the Van Burens, had painted of her was at odds with that of the seductive vamp from the bar. Which meant the woman was adept at blending in.

So Venn was assuming she’d find some way into Revere, and onto the ward where Harmony was being kept. Venn had advised Teller and his people to go easy on the details about Harmony. He’d said not to mention which hospital she was at, still less that she was in the ICU. Too much information would have sounded phoney, and would have aroused Gray’s suspicions. Better that he work out Harmony’s location himself. Which Venn was certain he’d do.

The hospital was locked down, every floor crawling with law enforcement officers. The ICU itself had plainclothes cops masquerading as nurses and doctors. Harmony was about as secure as if she were under house arrest.

And yet... Venn was aware that he was quite deliberately using her as bait, without her knowledge. He was thereby exposing her to danger. To a potentially lethal attack from a person who’d killed, ruthlessly and cold-bloodedly, at least five times before.

Gray was ex-military. Venn had no idea what kind of resources the man had access to. Was it possible that he’d mount an all-out assault on the hospital with high-grade ordnance? Did he possess bomb-making capabilities, in which case far more people than Harmony were being put at risk?

Well, Venn thought, he was going to put his money where his mouth was. If Gray or his female sidekick made a move on Harmony, as he felt deep in his gut they would, he himself was going to be right there, waiting for them.

He was heading through Morningside Heights down Broadway when his phone rang.

It was Fil Vidal.

“Boss,” said Fil. “Got something interesting.”

The guy was still at the Division’s office. Venn hoped his wife understood.

“Shoot.”

“The algorithms have been working on the victims, and they’ve shown up a commonality,” Fil said. He sounded excited, and not in the least fatigued, even though it was after three in the morning. “Especially now that I’ve factored in the FBI agent, Rickenbacker. You want to know what it is?”

“It’s a little late at night, Fil,” said Venn.

“For an update?” Fil sounded surprised.

“No. For dumb questions.”

“Ah. Right, boss.” Fil sounded so chastened that Venn almost regretted his touchiness. “Well, here’s the thing. The first victim, O’Farrell, the subway ticket office clerk, was morbidly obese, with significant health problems as a result. Diabetes, heart disease, and so on. The next guy, the homeless John Doe in the alleyway, was in the end stages of alcoholism. A physical wreck.”

“Okay,” said Venn.

“Then we have Dale Fincher,” Fil continued. “He had old scars on his wrist. He was a self-harmer.”

“But the fourth victim, Alice Peters,” said Venn. “She was an upstanding citizen. A healthy specimen.”

“Not always. She’d been a working girl, remember? And a heroin addict. Even though she turned her back on all of that.”

Venn thought about it. Something was dragging at his awareness, something vague and half-formed but growing.

“And now Special Agent Rickenbacker,” Fil said. “A smoker. She stank of the stuff. I noticed it when she came up to the office here. And there was that footage of her on TV, outside police headquarters when Teller was working the reporters. She was puffing away like a steam train.”

“So it’s about self-harm, in some way,” said Venn. “Abusing your body.”

“It looks that way, yes.”

Venn whistled softly through his teeth. “I don’t know, Fil. It’s pretty tenuous.”

“But it’s the only link we’ve come up with so far.” Fil paused a moment. “And I get the sense, boss, that you think I’m right.”

“Yeah,” said Venn. “It feels... like it fits, somehow.” He braked, because the traffic was getting heavier, slowed by the snow, and he didn’t want to risk skidding on the slippery road surface. “Okay. So maybe this sigma symbol has something to do with this aspect. Like, is it a symbol for healthy living or something? Maybe it represents some organization dedicated to body purity or whatever?”

“I’m checking that right now,” Fil said. “So far, nothing. There are plenty of businesses in the US with the word ‘sigma’ in their names, but there’s no apparent connection with what we’re talking about. They’re all IT firms or haulage companies or ad agencies. I’m looking into all of them, but the words needle and haystack come to mind.”

The thing that had been hovering in the shadows of Venn’s consciousness appeared briefly, and he grasped at it. Something Colonel Masterson had said on the phone earlier.

Then he got it.

“Fil,” he said. “Franklin Gray’s commanding officer said the guy had expressed an intention to travel after he quit the Army. To see Europe. How about widening your search? Checking if there are any European companies using the Sigma brand, and which might have a connection with bodily purity or health fanaticism, stuff like that?”

“Yeah,” said Fil. “That’s a good idea.”

He said he’d call back.

“I may not answer right away,” said Venn. “In fact, it’s better if you text me.” He didn’t want his phone to go off while he was in position at the hospital.

Up ahead, the snow continued to tumble from the brooding sky.

––––––––

F
rank’s voice was weary, but with the relief of nearing the end of a long journey rather than with dejection.

“You did good,” he said.

“No.” Sally-Jo stood naked before the full-length mirror in the bedroom. She’d arrived at the garret apartment fifteen minutes ago and had immediately stripped off and stood under the shower, relishing the stinging, scalding blast as the water sluiced away the sweat and grime and gasoline stink. She’d ignored Frank to begin with, and was only now acknowledging his presence.

“I didn’t ‘do good’,” she said, gazing at herself in the mirror. “
You
did.”

“Nonsense.”

“That’s what they’re all saying.” She didn’t usually get angry in his company. In fact, it was normally the other way round. But now her eyes flashed with fury. This was supposed to be
her
moment, dammit.

“But you and I know the truth.”

She turned from the glass. “That’s not enough. Don’t you see?” Sally-Jo felt the helpless, pleading tone creep into her voice and fought to suppress it. She was her own person now. She no longer needed Frank. It meant she was going to have to toughen up.
Man
up. “As long as you’re the prime suspect, the only suspect, I’ll always live under your shadow.”

“It’ll pass.” Frank sounded calm, reasonable. More so than she could ever recall him being. “And look at the advantages. While they’re hunting for me, you’ll be invisible. They’ll never catch you. And they’ll never catch me, obviously.”

She turned back to the mirror. Stared at her face, this time. Studied the blade-like cheekbones, the wide eyes, the perfectly sculpted Cupid’s-bow lips.

“But,” said Frank, “I know you. And I know you’re not going to be able to get over this if you just walk away. So you’ll have to do what you have to do.”

“Yes.” She’d known he would agree.

“Make the woman tell the truth.”

“Yes.”

“She’ll be under guard,” said Frank.

“I know,” said Sally-Jo. “But I’ll find a way. Access won’t be all that difficult.”

“I have an idea,” said Frank. “Something that’ll improve your chances.”

He told her.

*

S
ally-Jo regarded Special Agent Rickenbacker as her final target, so when she killed the crankhead in the South Village, just off Canal, she didn’t really count it.