Silent Night (Sam Archer 4) (19 page)

Archer shook his head.

‘Because his father died prematurely when Ronald was just an eleven year old boy. And to this day, he wants to go back in time and save him.’

He paused.

‘People think that men of science like myself, Ronald and Peter are somehow colder. More analytical than emotional. You know the saying:
there are men of science and men of faith
. But Peter’s motivations were born of the same pain that Dr Mallett feels. Peter lost his wife decades before she should have died. Maddy grew up without a mother. You lose someone close to you and it unlocks parts of yourself that you didn’t even know were there. That alone was all the motivation he needed to pursue this project. He was convinced he was only steps away from altering the malevolence of the virus.’

He sighed.

‘Then the next thing I know, I’m kidnapped at gunpoint. Will is dead, Frankie is missing and my friend steps off a twenty storey building to his death. All in the name of science.’

‘We’ll find Dr Glover and whoever has the last vial,’ Archer said. ‘That’s a promise.’

‘Like you did at the Seaport?’

Archer didn’t respond.

‘Who knew about the virus?’ he eventually asked, changing the subject.

‘To my knowledge, just the five of us. Unless Peter told someone else.’

‘Have you ever spoken about it to anyone? A wife, or girlfriend, or friend? Just one remark?’

‘No. I’m not married and don’t have a social life outside of the lab. But I guess it’s possible that one of the others might have let something slip.’

‘Any guesses?’

Kruger shrugged. ‘Will- Dr Tibbs- kept to himself. He was a private guy. He was hard to reach outside of work. Dr Glover is the opposite. Frankie likes to go to the bars on the
Upper West Side
. News of the virus might have come out. Unlikely pillow talk, though.’

He cracked a smile. Archer found himself smiling too, although briefly. Given the events and circumstances of the day, it was unexpected and felt good. Kruger drained his coffee, then shrugged.

‘Sorry, Detective, that’s all I can offer. If I can help in any other way, let me know.’

Archer nodded.

Suddenly a whistle came from above. They both looked up and saw Shepherd leaning over the railing. He was motioning for Archer and Josh to join him.

Archer turned to Kruger. ‘Excuse me.’

‘Of course.’

He rose, tossing his foam cup of tea in the trash beside the desk. As he walked towards the stairs, Josh joining him, he turned and saw Kruger move over to the empty seat by Maddy and put his arm around her. In the hug, her head on Kruger’s shoulder, she and Archer made eye contact.

Her face was cold.

Once they got upstairs, Archer and Josh headed straight into the briefing room. Shepherd was in there with Marquez and Rach, and there was a freeze-frame on the screen on the wall. Judging by the ice rink and familiar surroundings, Archer guessed it was a camera in Bryant Park. He looked at the top right corner and saw
Bry
Park
42
nd
SE.
The clock next to it said
11:35:34
.

‘What do we have?’ Josh asked.

‘Not much, I’m afraid,’ Rach said. ‘This looks out over the area in front of the café.’

They looked closely. The view should have been unobstructed, but the wooden Christmas stalls and tall decorations had blocked off the view by the rink.

‘This is the best shot I can get. And the patisserie doesn’t have any CCTV. Trying to find whoever killed Hansen on camera is a dead end.’

Josh swore.

‘But we’ve got something else,’ Shepherd said. ‘Run the recording, Rach.’

She withdrew the camera shot from the screen and pulled a fifteen second sound clip up instead. She hit
Play.

‘
Bleeker, where the hell are you?’
a voice said, filling the room.
‘I’ve been trying you all morning. You haven’t told me where we’re meeting tonight and we need to discuss payment. This thing had better be what you say it is.’

‘A tech next door pulled that from Paul Bleeker’s cell phone,’ Rach said. ‘Call came in this morning at 11:05.’

‘British accent,’ Shepherd said, turning and looking at Archer. ‘You recognise a region?’

‘Posh.’

‘Not the kind of guy who mixes with a low-life neo-Nazi.’

‘But sounds like he knows about the virus,’ Marquez said. ‘
This thing had better be what you say it is.
’

‘He could be another member of the neo-Nazi group?’ Rach suggested.

‘They didn’t seem familiar,’ Shepherd said.

‘OK, so someone he met in prison?’

‘He didn’t exactly sound like a guy who’s done time in gen pop either.’

‘How about employment?’ Josh said. ‘He sounded superior. As if he’s used to calling the shots.’

Shepherd looked at him. Then he turned to Rach.

‘Bleeker’s file?’

Rach nodded and pulled it up onto the screen.

‘Scroll down.’

The team examined the screen. Just like his conviction sheet, the employment history list was long. He’d either quit or been fired from every job he’d had save one, the current.

‘Janitor at Lloyd, Garrett and Jacobs,’ Rach read. ‘Law firm based in the Financial District. Been working there for three months. That could be something.’

She typed the name of the firm into Google and came up with a homepage. She clicked on it, and the page opened up. It was a typical legal firm internet site, a photo of a client and lawyer shaking hands at a desk overlooking
Manhattan
on a sunny day. There were a series of different headers at the top of the website.

She clicked on
About.

A blurb came up describing how the law firm had come into existence, underneath which was a bio of the three senior partners. Each person in the room scanned them. First John Lloyd, then Simon Garrett. Neither of theirs was relevant. Both men were from
West Virginia
and both had gone to Harvard, which is where they must have met. The two profile photographs were of middle-aged men sitting at a desk and smiling at the camera, self-assured and successful.

‘Hang on,’ Marquez said. ‘Check out Jacobs’ profile.’

They all looked at the bottom of the screen.

Born in
Oxford
,
England
in 1975, senior partner Alistair Jacobs was educated at
Harrow
School
and went on to read Law at
Cambridge
University
.

‘No way,’ Josh said. ‘It can’t be him.’

Rach scrolled back to the homepage. She hovered the arrow over the welcome video and pressed
Play
. During this, a detective from downstairs had appeared in the doorway. Everyone was so engrossed with the screen that no one had noticed him. He was looking at Shepherd.

‘Sir?’

Shepherd was distracted and didn’t hear him. The video on the screen was a welcome package, showing footage from inside the law firm and introducing the senior partners. Lloyd and Garrett both introduced themselves, then Jacobs came onto the screen and started talking.

‘Here at Lloyd, Garrett and Jacobs, we strive to offer...’

‘
Holy shit,
’ Josh said.

Rach looked at Shepherd. ‘That’s a match, sir.’

‘What’s his home address?’

Rach got rid of the webpage and started searching. Jacobs didn’t have a police department file, but she ran his name through the
Manhattan
directory phonebook instead. ‘Got it. He lives in Tribeca, in a tenth floor apartment on
111 Worth Street
.’

‘He’s a lawyer,’ Archer said. ‘He might be at work.’

‘He’s a senior partner,’ Shepherd said. ‘And it’s a weekend. That’s unlikely.’

‘Sir?’ the detective at the door said again.

‘But possible,’ Marquez said. Rach pulled up the window of the law firm again and scrolled down to their address. She pulled the two windows side by side. The law firm wasn’t far away, just off
Water Street
in the Financial District.

‘Contact the 1
st
precinct,’ Shepherd told Rach. ‘Have them send a black and white to both addresses. I want this man here as soon as possible.’

‘Sir?’
the detective at the door said for a third time, louder and with more emphasis.

The whole room turned.

‘Sorry to bother you. But there are two men here to see you. They said it’s urgent.’

‘Concerning?’ Shepherd asked.

‘The situation in
Manhattan
this morning.’

Everyone in the room stared at the detective. Then Shepherd, Archer, Marquez and Josh headed out quickly, following the man down the stairs to the lower level.

When they got there, Shepherd looked around.

There was no one standing waiting for him.

To the left, Kruger and Maddy Flood were still sitting where Archer and Josh had left them. They watched the commotion with interest as Shepherd turned to the detective.

‘So where are they?’

‘Interrogation Room 3.’

Shepherd walked quickly down the corridor to the interrogation room. He pushed open the door, walked inside and found a neo-Nazi skinhead dressed in black sitting at the table. A brown-haired man in a suit was beside him, the two of them talking quietly.

Shepherd looked at the suited man.

‘You his lawyer?’

The man shook his head, stepping past the desk and offering his hand. At the same time he pulled an ID from his pocket and flipped it open.

‘No. My name is Agent-in-Charge John Faison. I’m with the ATF.’

‘ATF?’ Shepherd said, shaking his hand. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

Faison pointed at the skinhead in the seat, who nodded to Shepherd.

‘I’d like you to meet Special Agent Peterson.’

Across Queens, Jorgensen had just arrived outside
Ray
Creek
’s address with two other detectives. The three men had already vested up and jumped out of the car, moving straight down the path to the house, a Mossberg in each pair of hands. One detective went down the side alley, careful not to make any noise, whilst Jorgensen and the other made their way to the front.

The second detective took point. Jorgensen nodded, racking a round into his shotgun. The guy twisted the handle; the door was open. He pushed it back and the two men ran into the house.

‘NYPD!’

The detective went left and Jorgensen went right. He smashed into what was a downstairs bedroom, looking through the sights of the Mossberg.

He paused, seeing something across the room.

He stared at it for a moment, then lowered the shotgun slowly.

Moments later, the other two detectives appeared in the doorway and froze when they saw what Jorgensen had seen.

‘Jesus,’ one of them said.

They’d found
Ray
Creek
.

Or what was left of him.

‘How long have you been under, Agent Peterson?’ Shepherd asked. He was now sitting in the chair across the table from the ATF agent whose handcuffs had been removed.

‘Seven months,’ Peterson said, rubbing his wrists. ‘Seven long-ass months.’

Leaning against the wall, Archer inspected the guy and was impressed. He never would have guessed that Peterson was an undercover ATF agent. Short for
Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms,
the ATF was the Federal Control Agency for all three, as well as for explosives. Based out of the United States Department of Justice, the Agency protected communities from illegal trafficking, sale or possession of all three. Standing beside Peterson, Agent-in-Charge Faison looked like one of their typical employees. He was conservatively dressed in a suit, brown haired, sturdy, somewhere in his thirties and looked to be in good physical shape. Peterson had to be late twenties or early thirties and looked the complete opposite to Faison with his shaved head, his pierced eyebrow and pale skin. As Archer watched, Peterson slid off his black jacket to reveal a series of neo-Nazi tattoos etched on his forearms. He had an
SS
inking on the left and an
88
on the right.

88
.
HH
in the alphabet.

Heil Hitler
.

‘Are those real?’ Archer asked.

Peterson looked at his arms and nodded.

‘They had to be. You don’t just stroll in and out of these groups. But I’m counting the days till I’m reassigned and can get them covered. ’