Henry Ruttenberg was moved from the holding cell to an interrogation room on the third floor. The room was small, and had a desk and two chairs. A distinguished-looking man with silver hair, Ruttenberg sat with a blank look on his face and examined his fingernails.
The door banged open, and Dagastino came in. In his hand was a photo of Bunny Ruttenberg printed off the Internet. She was an attractive woman, and could have passed for an aging movie star. He slapped the photo on the desk.
“You didn’t mean to kill her, did you, Henry?” Dagastino asked.
Ruttenberg stared at his wife’s lovely visage, and his eyes grew moist.
“It was an accident, right?” Dagastino barked.
Ruttenberg shut his eyes, and did not respond.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you,” Dagastino said.
The suspect opened his eyes. The blank look had returned.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. There was no accident,” Ruttenberg said.
“Then it was a fit of rage.”
“Stop it.”
“Here’s my question, Henry. How soon after you murdered your wife did you decide to move her clothes to the back of your closet?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You knew she wasn’t coming back, but you couldn’t part with her things without people getting suspicious.” Dagastino put his fists on the desk. “You gave yourself away, Henry.”
Ruttenberg stared at the photo of his wife, and remained silent.
“You even moved your wife’s picture on your dresser so you wouldn’t have to look at it. You still love her, don’t you?”
A long minute passed. Ruttenberg’s chin dipped, and tears rolled down his face. Dagastino handed him a tissue, and the accused man loudly blew his nose.
“You figured it out,” Ruttenberg said.
“Yes, we did. But some of the details are sketchy. Why don’t you fill us in? It will go a long way with the judge.”
Ruttenberg dabbed his eyes with the tissue. “Bunny found out I was having an affair with my personal trainer. It was nothing, just a fling, but Bunny wouldn’t hear it. She told me last Saturday night that she wanted a divorce. I blew up, and we started to fight. By accident, I knocked her down. Bunny hit her head on a coffee table, and cracked her skull.”
The memory was too much, and he started to shake. “I tried to revive her, but she was gone. I didn’t want to kill her. You have to believe me. I loved my wife.”
“Keep talking,” Dagastino said.
“I was afraid to call the police, so I carried her to the car in the basement garage and drove to our farm in Connecticut. I buried her in the woods. It was her favorite spot.”
“Will you show us where?” Dagastino asked.
Ruttenberg nodded solemnly.
“If I give you a confession, will you sign it?”
Ruttenberg again nodded.
Dagastino looked at Peter and Schoch through the two-way mirror. He grinned.
They met up in Dagastino’s cubicle ten minutes later. Dagastino had the signed confession and was beaming from ear to ear.
“Nice work,” Dagastino said. “Let me know if you ever want to change careers.”
“I’ll do that,” Peter replied. “Now, it’s your turn. Tell me about Wolfe.”
Dagastino parked himself on the edge of his desk. A toothpick appeared in his mouth as if by magic. “Two days ago, a customs agent at JFK got spooked. He thought a guy coming into the country might have lied to him. The agent pulled the guy’s photo off a surveillance video, and ran a facial recognition scan against their database. Turns out it was Jeremy Wolfe, a member of the Order of Astrum. Every intelligence agency in the world wants to have a sit-down with this guy. Whenever he’s around, dead bodies show up.”
“He’s an assassin?” Peter asked.
“Yes, and a damn good one,” Schoch jumped in. “While Wolfe was in the army, he was nearly blown up by a roadside bomb, and came out of it with a heightened sense of hearing that made him invincible on the battlefield. His superiors called him a killing machine.”
Every person was born with some psychic ability. It was not uncommon to have these abilities awakened after traumatic events. Wolfe sounded like a classic late bloomer.
“Now, here’s where it gets interesting,” Dagastino said. “The FBI got involved, and interviewed a twelve- year-old girl who sat next to Wolfe on the flight over. Turns out, the girl saw Wolfe reading from a list of names. With her parents’ consent, the FBI put the girl under hypnosis. The kid responded to the hypnosis, and said the list contained seven names. The only name she remembered was yours. Seems she’s been to your show, and is a fan.”
“So I was on a hit list,” Peter said.
“Correct,” Dagastino said. “The FBI asked us to alert you, since you live within our jurisdiction. My partner volunteered, since she knew you. We went to your theater, only Wolfe had attacked you by the time we arrived. That’s the story.”
“But why did he attack me?” Peter asked.
“Don’t know.”
“What did the FBI say?”
Dagastino glanced at his partner. “You tell him.”
“The FBI told us the Order of Astrum were linked to your parents’ deaths, which was news to us,” Schoch said. “When we asked them to explain, they refused.”
Peter was dumbstruck. “The FBI
Both detectives nodded. They didn’t like it any more than he did.
“Damn them,” Peter said.
Schoch walked Peter to the elevators. Her face was filled with sorrow.
“I’m sorry, Peter. I know this has been hard on you. I’ll call you if we learn more.”
“Thanks,” he mumbled.
Schoch squeezed his arm before leaving. Peter punched the elevator button in anger. The idea that he might someday find his parents’ killers was never far from his mind. That the FBI had known who was behind their deaths and not told him was unthinkable.
He took several deep breaths, and forced himself to calm down.
He had to find Wolfe. Wolfe could lead him to the three men who’d abducted and shot his parents in cold blood. Wolfe was the key.
No elevator. He glanced at the display above the door. It was stuck on the seventh floor. He hit the button again.
“Come on.”
He felt himself grow cold. He spun around, sensing Nemo’s presence. His friend was reaching out to him. But from where?
A rectangular mirror hung on the wall opposite the elevators. In its glass, a swirling white cloud had appeared. Within the cloud, a number took shape.
Seven.
“Seven?” he said aloud.
The number began to flash.
“Seven
The cloud vanished, and the number disappeared. The air temperature returned to normal. Peter turned around. The elevator was still stuck on the seventh floor.
