88 Killer

She nodded appropriately.

At the end she said, ‘Hell of a story, that, Harper. I can write this, you know.’

‘I know, but you can’t say anything definite yet.’

‘I wouldn’t need to, Harper, that’s the beauty of journalism. You have to prove your case while I just have to throw my case to the public. We’re talking about the police linking the murders of Jewish people across the city.’

‘Don’t name me as the source.’

Nash looked into Harper’s eyes. ‘Don’t worry, Tom. I understand. And thanks, this is another big break for me. Means I won’t have to do the story on Detective Harper’s addiction problems.’ She drank up and smiled.

‘You leaving?’ said Harper.

‘Yeah. I’ve got a party to go to.’

‘On your own?’

‘Wouldn’t be the first time,’ she said. ‘I like to travel light. Company gets in the way of a good story.’

Chapter Fifty-Six

North Manhattan Homicide

March 10, 11.11 p.m.

Denise met Harper outside her building. ‘I need sleep,’ she said, and looked at Harper. ‘You more than me, maybe.’

‘We can sleep when this is over. What did you get?’

‘I’ve been working all evening. First thing is that Aaron called. He found a link between the words. You know, the words Loyalty and Valiance that were printed on the card.’

‘Yeah, so what do they mean?’

‘The motto of the SS. Loyalty, Valiance, Obedience.’

‘The SS, as in the Nazi Party SS?’

‘Yeah. We think he’s playing a part. Trying to make it as authentic as possible.’

‘Anything to help find him or nail him?’

‘Not yet, but I spent some time thinking and then it came to me — where I’d seen those marks on David’s chest. My father used to show me images from the Holocaust. I think I might have another link between David and Abby.’

‘What?’

‘The tattoo on David Capske’s chest. I think it was a number.’

‘Marisa Cohen had something written on her chest too, but the water washed it away. They found some residual signs of ink. And he’d removed her blouse.’

‘He writes numbers on their bodies,’ said Denise.

Harper noticed the heavy tone in her voice. He pulled out his notebook and flicked through. Stared down at the marks. ‘Could be,’ he said. ‘You got a theory for me? The guys at Forensics were trying to match letters.’

‘They look like prisoner numbers, Tom. After Aaron found the SS link, I just went with the idea. The SS ran the concentration camps. They numbered prisoners’ chests. They’re not letters,’ she said, her fingers running across the scratches in ink. ‘They’re prisoner numbers. He thinks he’s running some prison camp.’

Harper felt his breath catch. It was so obvious, but they’d missed it. He’d missed it. She leaned over his shoulder. He felt her closeness.

‘What’s the number?’ he said.

Denise stared hard at the scratches, trying to discern a pattern.

Then she smiled. ‘Well, although numbers are infinite, in fact, in our limited numerical system, there are only nine numbers and one zero.’

She took a pen and scratched a number four through the second set of dots. ‘Looks like a four.’

‘Could be a one or seven to start with,’ said Harper. He watched the numbers emerge on the paper below. ‘There’s a cross on the third. Got to be another four,’ he said quickly. They continued to stare at the marks on the page.

‘744…’ said Harper. He turned and looked at Denise.

‘Or 144,’ she said. ‘144003.’

‘That was quick. You know that number?’ Harper asked.

‘Abby Goldenberg’s kidnapper sent a letter to her father. It gave her weight and blood pressure. And it gave her a number. It was 144002.’

‘David’s the next in the sequence,’ said Harper.

‘So Esther was presumably the first kill,’ said Denise. ‘144001.’ Harper wrote down the four consecutive numbers: 144001, 144002, 144003, 144004. Would the sequence continue? Who would be number 144005?

‘What do the numbers mean?’ he asked.

‘I’ll see what I can find.’

‘Find it quick,’ said Harper. ‘We’re getting somewhere.’

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Museum of Tolerance, Brooklyn

March 10, 11.51 p.m.

‘Thanks for meeting me here,’ said Denise. ‘I can’t imagine how hard it is to come back here.’

Aaron Goldenberg stared out glassy-eyed. ‘What can I do? My only daughter is out there — I must do everything I can.’

Denise felt the rise of tears but pushed them away. It wouldn’t help to be emotional. ‘The police won’t give you the whole story,’ she said, ‘because everyone’s afraid to speak.’

‘What about?’

‘A serial killer attacking Jewish victims.’

She saw something move behind Aaron Goldenberg’s eyes. ‘Killer? But my daughter was kidnapped.’

‘I can’t tell you a lie,’ said Denise. ‘We now think your daughter’s kidnapping is linked to three other murders. David Capske, Esther Haeber and Marisa Cohen.’

Aaron Goldenberg shook his head as if it was the only thing keeping him from being swallowed alive by the yawning abyss. ‘My only daughter.’

Denise watched him fall forward on to the glass case. Beneath his outstretched arms and tearful eyes, were photographs from Auschwitz and Belsen. Naked Jewish men, women and children, lining up for execution, modestly covering themselves although they were moments from death. The look of agony and uncertainty in their faces.

‘What do you know?’ he said.

‘Not enough. Your daughter and David Capske had consecutive numbers used to label them. Abby had the number 144002 on her report, David had 144003 scratched on his chest. Do you have any idea what the number 144004 means?’

‘No. I can look for you.’

‘Please,’ said Denise.

Aaron Goldenberg thought for a moment then let out a sigh. ‘The number of Jews who will be saved.’

‘What is?’

‘Maybe the 144 refers to 144,000. It is in Revelation. It is a contested number. It may refer to many things or nothing at all, but it is said that it related to 144,000 Jews converted to Christianity.’ Goldenberg walked to the side of the room and entered his office. He came out with a copy of the New Testament. He spent a minute flicking