The Night Falconer (19 page)

“Just to talk,” I said.

“Who are you?”

“My name’s Frank Pavlicek. I’m from Virginia. I’m looking for some information. Hoping you can help me.”

“You paying?”

Right down to business. You had to admire the brass on the kid.

“That depends,” I said.

“You pervert?”

“No.” I shook my head, noting his clipped English.

“Good. First you pay. Then we talk.”

“All right.” I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled a ten dollar bill out of my wallet, hoping that would satisfy him.

It did. He motioned me toward a bench just inside the park across the street. The light was red down the block and traffic was stopped, so we jaywalked across to the bench.

“What you want?” He repeated the question as soon as we’d both sat down. His face was a mask, the skin on his neck and cheeks pitted by scars.

“You live around here?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Whereabout?”

He thought it over for a moment. “Around. Up the Boulevard.”

“You mean Martin Luther King Boulevard?”

“Yes.”

“I saw you the other day over on Fred Douglas.”

“I move around.”

“You come into the park a lot?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes.”

“How old are you?” I asked.

“Fifteen,” he replied.

“You off school for the summer?”

His eyes darted around as if the question had come from another planet. “Yeah,” he said, obviously lying.

He was probably an undocumented alien, maybe from somewhere in the Caribbean or possibly even Africa. From the wariness in his eyes, I guessed he was a recent arrival and probably holed up with his parents somewhere. They were working under the radar, maybe even housed by their employer, getting the lay of the land. They might attempt to enroll their son in school in the fall—they might not. I might have been missing some of the details, but I was pretty sure I had the outline right. I decided to skip asking about the parents for now. He might be more inclined to give me what I was after if I stuck to safer subjects.

“I’m looking for someone, someone in the park,” I said.

“Yeah? Who?”

“A man who’s been seen around here a few times after dark. Not much bigger than you actually.”

“A white man like you?”

“No. I think he’s dark-skinned.”

“Lots of people around like that.”

“Sure, but this one’s different. He’s probably carrying a bird.”

The kid blinked. I’d struck some kind of a chord.

“What do you mean, a bird?”

“A bird. You know. Like the ones that fly in the sky. Like the ones in the park.”

“And he’s carrying it?” He was ducking and weaving now, but I could tell he knew something.

“Right.”

He cupped his hand as if he were holding out an offering. “You mean a little bird.”

“No. I’m talking about a big bird, like a hawk or an owl. You wear a special glove or hand piece to protect yourself from the talons and you carry the bird on the back of your fist.”

His face took on a cloudy expression. “I don’t know what you mean.”

I decided to humor him. I had a picture in my wallet of me with my first hawk, Armistead, perched on my glove. I pulled it out and passed it over to him. “That’s what I mean.”

He stared at the picture. “This you?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“With a hawk.”

“Yes.”

His eyes searched my face then went back to the picture.

“You ever seen an owl up close?” I asked.

He hesitated. “Sure. At the zoo.”

“Have you ever seen anyone in the park, someone like yourself, carrying an owl, a big bird just like this?”

“Just walking around?” He shook his head. “No. Nothing like that.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure, man.” He handed the picture back to me.

“What about the shooting in the park the other night that killed the two gangbangers?”

His eyes were a blank expanse. “What about it?”

“You see anything?”

“Nope.”

“Hear anything?”

He slowly shook his head. “That all you wanted to ask me?”

“What about the two that were killed—Los Miembros, right?”

“That’s what I heard.”

“You hear any more about them?”

“Like what?”

“Like were they selling smack, were they murdered over drugs?”

“I don’t think so,” he said.

“You don’t. Why not?”

“I don’t know, man. I just heard they were into other stuff. Okay?”

“What’s your name?”

He looked up and down the street, as if scanning the pavement for approaching trouble. “No name, man. Not unless you willing to pay more.”

This fifteen-year-old understood inflation. Reluctantly I peeled another ten from my wallet and forked it over. He tucked it into his pocket with the first one.

“Okay, so what is it?” I asked.

“My name’s Sammy.”

“Sammy. You got a last name?”

“Sammy Yel Bak.” He spelled it out for me.

I took out a pen and wrote it down. I also wrote my name and cell phone number on the back of the photo and gave it to him. “Well, Sammy, here you go,” I said. “You remember anything, you call me. All right?”

“What you looking for?”

“I just want to talk with anyone who knows about a man with an owl or about the shooting,” I said.

“Okay.” He started to get up from the bench.

“I’m just trying to find out what’s going on, Sammy. Remember, I’m not with the police or anything.”

“Okay.”

“You have any brothers or sisters, Sammy?” I figured siblings might be a safer topic than parents.

His gaze shifted away from me toward the park. “No, sir. Not anymore. I got to go.”

“Sure.”

He pushed my photo into his shorts pocket and stood up.

“One more question. How come both times when I’ve seen you, you’ve been running?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Got places to be,” he said and slipped away down a brick walkway between two rows of bushes.

I spent a few more hours poking around the North end of the park, looking for any footprints, droppings, bits of feather or bones, or any signs our mysterious falconer might have left of his activity. I found nothing.

The drawn-out face of Sammy Yel Bak seemed to haunt my every thought, gnawing at me like a bad dream that wouldn’t go away. I’d seen that kind of face before in pictures. It was a face that carried the look of real war.

Maybe we were looking for a ghost after all.

22

The security control room at Grayland Tower was located in the basement directly below the reception desk in the main lobby. The bank of video monitors watched by the guards was connected to a computer server and a small network running software that processed images from the building’s fifty or more security cameras and monitored the structure’s environmental controls, burglar alarm systems, broadband computer hubs, and other vital functions. The security cameras worked on a relay system, monitoring different sections of the building’s twenty-seven stories at specific intervals.

It all amounted to a modestly elaborate, state-of-the-art data processing setup that was beyond my ability to figure out.

Fortunately, I’d brought Nicole.

“Tell me again what we’re doing down here, Dad,” she said.

“Hunting squirrels.”

“Squirrels.” She didn’t look impressed.

“Yeah, you know. What happens when you’re hunting squirrels and you walk into the woods with your red-tailed hawk following on?”

She recited what I’d taught her. “The squirrels freeze on tree trunks opposite you and try to make themselves invisible.”

“Right. And I’m betting we might just find some squirrels inside this security video setup. Or if not, somewhere in this basement.”

“You mean a tunnel like that reporter was talking about.”

“Right.”

“Can we be prosecuted for breaking in down here?”

“Probably. But we’re still guests upstairs, at least until Dr. Lonigan decides to officially fire us.”

“I’m betting if we do find a tunnel or something, we may just find more stuff Watisi is into.”

She sat down in front of what appeared to be the main computer terminal. “What makes you think I’m going to be able to just magically figure out the passwords I need to access this complex digital system?”

“How about ‘cause you’re my daughter and just about the most intelligent young investigator and computer whiz on the planet?”

“I can run with that.”

While Nicole went to work at one of the computer keyboards, I took the opportunity to scout out the sublevels of Grayland Tower. I say sublevels because there seemed to be more than one. An interconnecting labyrinth of passageways led down at least four stories, as far as I could tell. The tunnels served as conduits for all sorts of utility pipes and wires. Only one camera guarded this entire area. It was mounted on the main stairwell. I didn’t even have to be a gymnast to fold my body over the railing and clamber down to the next level without entering its field of view.

The entire foundation of the building looked as though it had been overhauled during renovation and reconstruction. The exception was the northeast corner that interfaced with what looked like a section of steam grates and a narrow utility tunnel running under the street, the entrance to which was covered by a rusty grate surrounded by a layer of burnt orange clay. It was also protected by wired and monitored security fencing so a potential intruder couldn’t pop a manhole cover and make his way into the building.

Intrigued, I was looking over all this construction when I heard Nicole’s footsteps and whispered voice from the stairwell above.

“Dad. Dad, you down there?”

“Yeah,” I said softly.

“I may have found something.”

“Did you avoid the camera coming down the stairs?”

“Yeah, I saw it.”

“Coming right up.”

Back at the computer, I listened as Nicole patiently explained what it was she’d uncovered.

“It isn’t much yet,” she said. “But someone’s put a back door in this network’s basic operating system and possibly altered some video files.”

“Which means?”

“I don’t know what it means, exactly. But it’s not the kind of thing anyone would do for routine network security or maintenance.”

“Can you get into the affected files themselves?”

“Probably not. Even if I could, it might take me a few days or more to unravel all the pieces.”

“Okay.”

“Does this qualify as a squirrel?”

“Maybe.”

“What do you want to do?” she asked.

“I’m thinking … Who would have access to this room and this equipment?”

“Security, of course. Possibly a maintenance person or janitor or someone else who worked in data processing for Watisi.”

“What if one of those people let somebody else in?”

“It could happen, I suppose. But who would want to do that and why?”

“I’m not sure.”

“There’s no way to trace the source of the tampering any sooner?”

“Not that I know of. But if you want to bring Jake into the process, he might have some ideas on how to speed up the process.”

I thought it over. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s close up shop for now and leave this system the way we found it.”

“No problemo.”

“Can you cover your tracks?”

She flexed her fingers and tapped at the keys.

“Unless someone randomly decides to start dusting this keyboard for fingerprints or DNA, they’ll never know I was here.”

23

Nicole and I were seated in Lt. Marbush’s office again at the precinct house in Central Park. Detectives Hickey and Martinez were also there, along with Marbush and another detective. The Lieutenant wasn’t in the mood for mincing words.

“You’re trying to tell me our investigation into the Hicks slayings and Darla’s wounding is definitely related to your client’s fight with her landlord and some stupid cat?”

“You saw the lure at the murder scene the other night,” I said.

“I saw a bloody stuffed animal.”

“With a hunk of meat attached, don’t forget.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“There’s something much larger happening here.”

“Yeah, like the fact that your client, Dr. Lonigan has had a long standing grudge going against Dominic Watisi.”

“What?”

“She didn’t tell you people about that, did she? Lonigan and Watisi were on the same board of directors of a now defunct community development organization a few years ago. From all reports, they didn’t get along then either.”

“Then why would Lonigan buy an expensive apartment from the man?”

“This is Manhattan,” the lieutenant said. “It’s prime real estate and Lonigan needed a place to live not too far from her work. My guess is the realtors handled the whole transaction. Either that or Dr. Lonigan figured it was time to bury the hatchet.”

“Why hasn’t there been anything about this in the newspaper?” I’d read what I thought were all the articles by now, and Barry LaGrange sure hadn’t mentioned or even hinted at such a prospect.

“My guess? Lonigan knows someone at the newspaper, and she didn’t want her past relationship with Watisi revealed.”

“But why wouldn’t Watisi scream bloody murder in his own defense?

She shrugged. “You’ll have to ask him.”

“What, exactly, did this community development organization do?”

“Helped find housing and provide other assistance for the underprivileged.”

“Such as refugees and other newly arrived immigrants?”

“I know what you’re thinking, Frank, but you can forget it. Watisi has already been thoroughly scrutinized by immigration authorities.”

“I’m supposed to feel comforted by that.”

“You’re supposed to leave it alone. That’s all.”

“But there is definitely someone in the park with a bird.”

She shrugged. “So call the state Department of Environmental Conservation or U.S. Fish and Wildlife.”

“What about the other shooter from the woods when Darla was hit, the one with the higher caliber weapon?” Nicole asked.

“We’ve already brought a guy in for questioning. Twenty-year-old Latino—some gun nut with ties to a rival gang who must’ve decided to shoot it out with Los Miembros. He’s a strong candidate for the murders as well.”