Glancing back at her screen, her eyes fell on the obituary, and suddenly a flash of excitement struck her.
The secretary was right about Martha Vance's death having occurred in the spring.
It had happened exactly five years ago tomorrow.
Chapter 29
'The autopsy confirms Waldron was also murdered,' Reilly stated as he looked around at the others seated at the table in the Bureau's viewing room. The only outsider present was Monsignor De Angelis. 'We found traces of Lidocaine in his blood. It's an anesthetic, and it wasn't administered by anyone looking after him at the hospital. The high dose triggered his heart failure.
The interesting part is that there are also needle marks on his neck. The drug was used to numb his vocal chords, so he couldn't call for help.'
The monsignor stiffened a little at Reilly's report, seeming equally appalled. Also there were the main players in the METRAID investigation: Jansson, Buchinski, Amelia Gaines, Aparo, Blackburn, and two of his ASACs, as well as a young techie who was manning the A/V commands.
The report wasn't particularly reassuring.
'We also found freeze-branding equipment at the stables,' Reilly continued, 'which Petrovic could have used to disguise the markings on the horses they used in the raid. All of which means one of two things. Either whoever's behind this is having his foot soldiers wiped out, or one of the gang's decided to keep it all for himself. Either way, we've got one, and potentially two, more
horsemen looking like possible targets. And whoever's doing this isn't exactly a slacker.'
De Angelis turned to Reilly. 'You didn't recover any of our missing pieces from the stables?'
'I'm afraid not, Father. They're being murdered because of them.'
De Angelis took off his glasses and cleaned the lenses with his sleeve. 'And what about those extremist groups you were interested in? Have you had any luck with your inquiries there?'
'Not as yet. We're looking at a couple of them in particular, groups that have recently voiced anger at the Church for the way it's been critical of them. They're both in the Midwest, so our field offices there are pursuing it. They don't have a conclusive link yet, just a lot of threats.'
De Angelis put on his glasses again, frowning. His disquiet was obvious, but he tried not to show it.
'I suppose we just have to wait and see.'
Reilly looked around the table. He knew they weren't making any great progress in getting to the bottom of the case. So far, they were reacting to events, rather than initiating them.
'You want to mention that Templar thing?' Aparo asked.
De Angelis turned to Aparo, whose gaze led him to Reilly. 'Templars?'
Reilly hadn't expected his partner to bring it up. He tried to downplay it as best he could. 'It's just a thread we're following.'
De Angelis's quizzical look prodded him on.
'One of the witnesses at the Met, an archaeologist . . . she felt there may be a link between the Templars and the raid.'
'Because of the red crosses on the knights' mantles?'
At least it's not that far off the chart, Reilly thought. 'Yes, that and other details. The knight who took the encoder said something in Latin which is apparently a marking on a Templar castle in France.'
De Angelis studied Reilly with the hint of a bemused smile. 'And this archaeologist, she thinks the raid on the museum was the work of a religious order that ceased to exist almost seven hundred years ago?'
Reilly felt all the eyes in the room boring into him. 'Not exactly. It's just that given their history and their cult status, the Templars could conceivably be the inspiration for a bunch of religious fanatics who idolize them and who may be acting out some kind of revenge or revival fantasy.'
De Angelis nodded to himself, pensively. He seemed rather disappointed as he stood up and gathered his papers. 'Yes, well, that sounds very promising. I wish you continued luck with your investigation, Agent Reilly. Gentlemen, Agent Gaines,' he said as he glanced at Jansson before leaving the room quietly, leaving Reilly with the uncomfortable feeling that the Templars' lunatic stigma didn't only apply to academics.
Chapter 30
M itch Adeson knew that if he had to stay holed up in this dump much longer, he would go stir-crazy. But it would be just as crazy to stay in his own place, and the streets there were likely to be more dangerous. At least here, in his dad's apartment in Queens, he was safe.
First Gus, then Branko. Mitch was smart, but even if he'd been as dumb as Gus Waldron, he would've figured out that someone had a list, and that it was a racing certainty that not only was he on it, he was next in line.
It was time to move on to safer pastures.
He looked across the room at his deaf and barely continent father who was doing what he always did: staring at the fuzzy picture on the TV, tuned as always to an endless succession of trashy talk shows at which he constantly spewed abuse.
Mitch would have liked to check up on the guy who'd hired him. He had wondered if that man was the one to look out for, then decided he couldn't be. He'd handled himself well enough on a horse, but he wasn't someone who could've killed Branko, and he sure as hell couldn't have laid a glove on the mountain that was Gus Waldron. It had to be someone higher up the food chain. And to get to whoever it was and beat him to the punch, Mitch knew he had to go through the guy who'd originally approached him, the one who'd first told him about this crazy scheme. The only problem was, he had no way of contacting him. He didn't even know the man's name.
He heard his father break wind. Christ, he thought, I can't just sit here. I need to do something.
Daylight or not, he had to make a move. He told his father that he would be back in a few hours.
The old man ignored him but then, as Mitch pulled on a coat and crossed to the door, he groaned out, 'Beer and cigarettes.'
It wasn't far short of being the longest sentence his father had spoken to him since the early hours of Sunday morning when he had gone there straight from Central Park, after they had stripped off the armor and gone their separate ways. It had been his job to stow the props in a panel truck that he had dropped off in a lock-up garage two blocks away from his own place. The rent was paid in advance for a year, and, until then, he wouldn't go near it.
He went out of the apartment and down the stairs where, after taking his time checking for anything suspicious, he stepped into the darkening street and headed for the subway.
***
It was raining by the time Mitch moved cautiously through the alley at the back of the grimy seven-story building in Astoria that housed his apartment. He had a paper bag with a Coors six-pack and a carton of Winstons for his old man under his arm, and he was soaked. He hadn't intended on going near his own place for a while yet, but he had decided to take the risk to get some of his gear if he was going to pull a disappearing act.
He stood motionless in the alley for a couple of minutes before reaching up and pulling down on the balanced girder of the fire escape. He always kept it oiled, just in case, and it was pleasingly silent as it slid down. He hurried upward, casting nervous glances at the alley below. Outside his bedroom window, he stood the paper bag on the ladder and raked with his fingers into the gap between the escape and the wall, easing out the steel strip he kept there. Moments later, he had jimmied the window latch and was climbing inside.
He didn't put on a light, feeling his way around the familiar room instead. He dragged an old duffel from the shelf of the closet, then felt his way around the back and pulled out four cartons of shells that he piled into the bag. He then went into the bathroom and fished out a nylon bag from the water tank. In it was a big oilskin-wrapped package, which he opened and from which he took out the Kimber .45 and the small Bersa 9mm. He checked them, loaded the Bersa, which he stowed in his belt, and put the Kimber in with the shells. He grabbed some clothes and a favorite pair of work boots. That would do.
He climbed out the bedroom window, closed it behind him, shifted the duffel onto his shoulder, and reached down for the paper bag.
It was gone.
