Collateral Damage (24 page)

“I have the chief of detectives for you, Commissioner—in the flesh.”

“Oh, shit, send him in, then.”

The man ambled into the commissioner’s office. “I’ve got an interesting homicide,” he said.

“As I recall, you get something like two-point-seven homicides a week, Dan.”

“Not many of them are as interesting as this one,” the chief replied.

The commissioner took a huge bite of his sandwich, put it down, and beckoned for the file as he chewed. He opened it and read the first page, then grabbed the diet soda and washed things down. “A hairdresser, shot twice in the head? What is it, some sort of high-fashion mob hit?”

“The hairdresser was known as Sheba, and she had a very fat client list of women of Middle Eastern background.” The chief paused, but the commissioner still didn’t seem to get it. “She is also renowned for turning her clients into blondes.”

The commissioner took another swig of his diet soda and pondered this, then his bushy eyebrows shot up. “Holy shit!”

“I thought you would say something like that. One of her employees told our detective that she was the last one out of the shop, at around nine last evening, and that Sheba—that is apparently her only name—locked the door behind her. This morning at seven forty-five, when she showed up for work, the door was unlocked. She had a look around and found nothing amiss, then she thought to look in the private room where Sheba took her personal customers and found her on the floor, with two bullet wounds to the head. Coroner reckons she died between ten and twelve last night. Sheba was not known for having customers after closing time—she was always out by eight or nine.”

“Anything interesting in the way of prints?”

“I thought you’d ask. Normally, everything would be wiped down by the cleaning lady, but Sheba called her yesterday and gave her the night off. The place is a swamp of prints, and we’re running them as we lift them, directly from the scene.”

“Ah, electronics!” said the commissioner, who had spent one hell of a lot of the city’s money on such gadgetry.

“Ah, indeed. So far we’ve identified a woman with a record of shoplifting and matched another set to those found at a burglary in the neighborhood two weeks ago. No name, so the burglar doesn’t have an arrest record anywhere.” The chief cleared his throat. “And the prints of one man.”

“Come on, tell me.”

“His name is Habib Johnson.”

“What, an Arab Swede?”

“Exactly. Arab mother, Swedish father, born in Brooklyn thirty-three years ago, earns his living from a small-time bookkeeping business, with a list of Arab and Arab-American clients.”

“Can we connect him to anything?”

“He was questioned late last year in an investigation of a gun-running ring operating between Virginia and here, but he was released without charges. He knew some of those involved, but we didn’t have enough evidence to connect him to the gun sales.”

“Have you picked him up yet?”

“He wasn’t at his office or his home, but his secretary said that wasn’t unusual. He’s apparently out and about most days.”

“Track his cell phone.”

“We tried—no dice.”

“I haven’t said this in years,” the commissioner said, “but put out an APB on the son of a bitch, and I want to watch the interrogation.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And, Dan, circulate to all officers that Jasmine may be a blonde now, but don’t release that to the public. I don’t want her to know we know.”

“Yes, sir.”

The commissioner’s phone buzzed again. “What?” He listened for a moment. “Thank you.” He hung up again. “The FBI has finally done something right,” he said.

“You’re kidding me.”

“Nope. They’ve offered a five-million-dollar reward for information leading to the capture—with no mention of conviction—of Jasmine Shazaz.”

“That’s unusual,” the chief said.

“It certainly is,” the commissioner replied. “They might as well have said ‘Dead or alive.’”

Holly was meeting with a restaurant designer, who was showing her drawings of the way the new station dining room would look, when Scotty buzzed her. “The police commissioner for you.”

Holly handed the drawings back to the designer. “It looks great. How soon?”

“All the fixtures are available ready-made. Three days?”

“Go. Now I have to take a call.” The man left, and Holly pressed the button. “Commissioner?”

“Holly, I have interesting news.”

Holly listened with growing excitement to the story of the dead hairdresser. “Any luck finding Habib?”

“Not yet,” the commissioner said.

“Will you keep me posted?”

“Certainly.”

“Oh, and, Commissioner, please remember that this woman has a history of booby-trapping a premises when abandoning it.”

“I remember the report from London.”

“And MI-6 tells us that she probably detonated the bomb from within sight of the house.”

“That’s scary—makes it more difficult for us to get inside. A booby trap would be easier.”

“When you find her hiding place, you have to pour officers into the block and check every single person before sending men in.”

“I’ll do that.” The commissioner said good-bye and hung up.

Scotty appeared before her. “The chef that was recommended is here for his interview.”

“Scotty, will you interview him? I’m in over my head here. Take him downstairs and show him the dining room and the kitchen. Show him the drawings the designer brought, too. Tell him we want high-end comfort food on the menu and small portions. I don’t want everybody to start gaining weight, especially me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Scotty said, and left the room.

—

Habib let himself into the apartment and found Jasmine in the living room, pointing a gun at him.

“You should call first,” she said.

“I’m afraid to use my cell phone,” he replied. “The police have been to my office and interrogated my employees. They will certainly try to track my cell phone.”

“How did they get on to you?”

“I’ve no idea. I’ve been racking my brain about that.”

Jasmine dug into her bag and produced a throwaway phone. “This is good for a hundred hours,” she said. “When it runs low, buy a couple more.”

“Right. And now I have to move in here.”

“That seems sensible,” Jasmine said. “After all, there are three bedrooms. Take the one farthest from mine.”

“Thank you. I will.”

“What are you driving?”

“A rental car.”

“In your own name?”

“Yes.”

“Take it to a neighborhood you don’t frequent, wipe it down, and abandon it.”

“But the rental car company will—”

“You don’t get it, do you, Habib? You’re a fugitive—you don’t deal with rental car companies unless you’re using false ID.”

“I’m sorry, what I meant by my own name was the ID I’m using.”

“Shred it and manufacture a new one, and make it good.”

“Right.”

“Habib, I think we’re both going to have to leave New York soon. We’re getting too hot.”

“I can do that.”

“You have cash?”

“Yes.”

“Buy a good used car and register it in the name of your new ID. I think we’re going to have to travel by car.”

“Travel where?”

“I haven’t decided yet, but we need to hook up with one of the other teams around the country.”

“Can we go to Los Angeles?”

“Why?”

Habib looked sheepish. “I’ve always wanted to see Hollywood.”

Jasmine laughed. “Sure, why not L.A.? It’s far enough away. We’ll drive a few hundred miles, then take a plane.”

“I’ll get rid of the car,” he said.

“Don’t go back to where you live. Consider that place abandoned. Buy some new clothes and a suitcase.”

“Right. Can I get you anything while I’m out?”

“Yes. Get me a couple of bottles of Chivas Regal scotch and some soda water.”

“All right.”

“I think you’d better shave your beard, too.”

“Can I keep the mustache?”

“No. You have a New York driver’s license, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And your picture is with the beard?”

“Yes.”

“They’ll be using that photo,” Jasmine said. “You don’t want to look anything like it. Get a short haircut, too.”

“All right.”

“Get going, then.”

Habib got going.

Jasmine read the paper for a while, then suddenly she saw herself staring at her own face on the TV, at New York 1, the local news service. The volume was turned down, and she turned it up.

“. . . woman is being sought all over the city by the police and the FBI. The FBI has announced a reward of five million dollars for information leading to her capture.”

Jasmine turned off the set. She had been expecting this, but not such a high number. Now she could only leave the house for missions—no strolling around the city, even with blond hair.

Holly got out of the SUV in front of James Rutledge’s building, rang the bell, and was buzzed up.

Kelli Keane answered the door. “Hi, Holly, come on in,” she said.

Holly surrendered her coat but kept her briefcase. “What a beautiful place,” she said as they walked through the kitchen to the living room.

“It’s what Jim does,” Kelli said. “He uses the apartment as a showcase for prospective clients. They’re always impressed. I was surprised to get your call.”

“Isn’t Jim here?”

“Any minute,” Kelli replied. “He’s on the way home from a job.”

“May I see the bedroom?”

“Of course. Right this way.”

Holly walked into the big room and checked the corners for her cameras; no sign of them. She smiled inside. “Beautiful.”

“Thank you. I helped with this room.”

They went back into the living room in time to greet Jim, who was tossing his coat onto a bar stool in the kitchen. He greeted Holly. “What can I get you to drink?”

“Nothing, thanks, I’m here on business.” She looked at Kelli and saw the change in her face.

“Business?” Jim asked. “Are you thinking of buying a place in New York, Holly?”

“I already have a place in New York,” Holly said. “No, this is CIA business. Sit down, please.”

Jim was looking at Kelli, worried now.

“Kelli, you will recall our previous conversation about events when you were in L.A.” It wasn’t a question.

Kelli nodded, but seemed unable to speak.

“Apparently, you did not keep your word to me—you were unable to contain yourself.”

“Now, wait a minute—” Jim said.

“Shut up and listen,” Holly said to both of them. She removed a file folder from her briefcase and extracted three official-looking documents from it, handing each of them a copy. “This is a federal court order,” Holly said. “Read it.”

Kelli didn’t even glance at it. “Just tell me what it says.”

“It says that the two of you are permanently enjoined from ever speaking to anyone, even each other, about the events in L.A. If you do so, you will be arrested and charged with criminal contempt of court, which will allow a judge to detain you in jail for as long as he deems necessary, and without a trial. Do you understand that?”

Both Jim and Kelli were staring at her, speechless.

“How did you know?” Jim asked. “Kelli, did you tell anyone but me about this?”

Kelli shook her head. “No, I didn’t, and I’d like to know how you knew about our conversation, Holly.”

“You aren’t entitled to know that,” Holly said. “Now I want you both to read the court order—all of it—right now.”

The two of them read through the two-page document.

“All right,” Jim said, “we’ve read it.”

“Good. Do you now understand your position with regard to this information and the court?”

“I suppose so,” Jim said.

Kelli nodded again. “Yes, I understand.”

“Good.” Holly opened the third document and placed it on the coffee table, along with her pen. “Now read this document, which says that you have read and understand the court order and that you will obey it. You also agree not to consult counsel either now or if you are arrested. Do you understand?”

They both nodded.

“Now, sign the document.”

Both did so.

Holly sat up, returned the documents to her briefcase, and snapped it shut. “It’s time you understood who and what you’re dealing with. It’s possible that information about the events in L.A. may soon be made public, but the injunction permanently enjoins you from discussing or writing about them, even if they are made public. That is your punishment, Kelli, for breaking your word. You have the most important news story since nine-eleven, and you cannot write it, ever.”