The Wrong Man (22 page)

Standing at the window, Jenna watched the approaching helicopter steadily grow in size and thought about Timothy Ebert. And
why his identification as the Zodiac had proved so costly to so many people. At least she wasn’t short of questions to ask
Art now. When the chopper finally passed by overhead, she turned to see him still engrossed
in the website, and nodded her
head at the ceiling. ‘That your other exec?’

‘Yes,’ Art said, frowning at the screen. ‘Interesting.’

Jenna came over and perched on his desk. ‘You find something else?’

‘Do you know anything about the Zodiac’s ciphers, Jenna?’ he asked, turning to her.

‘Some. He’d send coded messages to the papers,
demanding the front page, right?’

‘In a nutshell. In late July 1969, he sent the first one to San Francisco’s three main newspapers, claiming it would identify
him once decoded. It didn’t, of course; just more gibberish about being reborn in paradise with the victims as his eternal
slaves. But the code ended with a series of eighteen seemingly random letters that
have puzzled cryptologists to this day.
Take a look.’

She came to his side and read through the translated cipher. There, right at the end, were the letters EBEORIETEMETHHPITI.

‘It’s a stretch, I know,’ he said, ‘but if you kind of read it backwards . . .’

Jenna stared at it for a few seconds and then turned to him with her mouth open.
‘Pity Timothy Ebert.’

He nodded. ‘Not exactly conclusive. But if you know where to start and don’t mind bending the rules a little, it
does
contain a signature, of sorts.’

‘Or a call for help,’ Jenna said and looked down at the letter Art had been reading. It was the one from Willow Reeves. She
reached over and
picked it up. Turned it over. And of course
the nine vowels and nine consonants written on the back were the same as those
on the screen.

She saw Art looking at the letter with narrowed eyes, then at her. ‘Randall Brennan,’ he said softly. Then he glanced at the
newspaper and turned it over so the top half with its photo of Bishop was showing again. He leaned back in his chair and looked
at
her. ‘Your man’s taking a bit of a risk coming here, isn’t he?’

And right there, Jenna could tell he knew. That he’d put it all together and come up with the only possible answer. Didn’t
anything get past this guy? She sighed and said, ‘That kind of depends on you.’

‘I guess it does.’ He clasped his hands together and chewed part of his lip. ‘Although
I admit I’d be interested to hear his
side of the story.’

Jenna thought he might say more but he just faced the screen again and said, ‘I didn’t think websites like this existed any
more. I expected pages of wild theories, but the author just lists the facts, often taken directly from police records. Very
impressive.’ He turned to her and said, ‘Would
you mind turning on the lights, Jenna? It’s getting dark.’

‘Sure.’ She went over to the doorway and pressed the wall switches, and three oval ceiling lights came on. ‘So does the stuff
in there jibe with what you found in Ebert’s room?’

Looking at the screen once more, Art said, ‘I didn’t search his room.’

‘But I thought . . .’

‘Oh, I was
supposed
to. But as soon as I reported back to Hoover with my findings regarding Ebert’s medical history and the disappearances, he
ordered me back east immediately.’

‘He didn’t want to follow it up?’

Art smiled. ‘I didn’t say that, did I? In fact, I can guarantee he
did
follow it up; he just used an agent other than myself to do it.
I told you he didn’t trust anybody. He especially didn’t
like the right hand to know what the left was doing. If I’d found something in Ebert’s room I might have made the connection
between him and the Zodiac, and Hoover couldn’t afford that possibility. I never saw the room and I never saw Timothy Ebert.’

‘But somebody must have.’

‘No doubt.
And I’m sure Hoover built up one of his famous files . . .’

‘Later, Art,’ somebody bellowed from downstairs.

To her surprise, Art shouted back, ‘Go easy, Jake.’

Jenna leaned against the conference table with her arms crossed, smiling at him.

Art smiled back. ‘Sorry. Our daily routine, come quitting time. Only Cory and the tourists
to go, and then we’ll shut up shop
for the night.’ He tapped a finger against the letter. ‘So this Willow Reeves is the name Cavendish is operating under now?’

Jenna nodded. ‘But under different ownership. Some non-profit organization bought them out in 1970.’ She scrunched her eyebrows
together. ‘Kaiser something or other. Foreign-sounding. It’s at the bottom
of that letter.’

Without looking, he said, ‘Kebnekaise.’

‘Hey, that’s it. How’d you know?’

‘I told you it was a mouthful.’

She stood up. Uncrossed her arms. ‘Hold up. Are you saying . . . ?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s the name I saw next to Ebert’s on the billing records. I thought it was the name of a person, but it
looks like I was wrong.’ He shook his head. ‘Isn’t that always the way? Answer one riddle and another takes its place.’

‘You’re not kidding,’ Jenna said, almost to herself. ‘Just who the hell is Kebnekaise? And who’s Timothy Ebert?’

She walked over to the window and looked through the shutters again. There was barely any light left in the sky now. Magic
hour was definitely over. She lowered her gaze to the car park down below and saw a Porsche pull out of the gate and gently
accelerate away down the solitary road with its headlights on. Probably the pilot, Jake, on his way home. The only cars left
now besides hers were a Discovery, a Chrysler, a Chevy and a Mercedes. She continued watching the Porsche’s progress until
it passed another set of headlights, headed this way.

Jenna turned to Art. ‘He’s here,’ she said.

Bishop parked the Lexus a few hundred yards down the road. After wiping down everything he’d touched, he locked the doors
and walked towards the Metroblade building. Both floors still had lights on and five vehicles were still parked in the spaces
outside. When he got closer, he made out Jenna’s Honda. He passed through the open gate
and headed for the covered entrance
on the left. Keeping out of the light, he peered through the glass doors and saw a well-lit reception area but no movement
of any kind.

He moved in closer and saw the reason why.

Reaching back under his shirt for the Beretta, he pushed the door open and stepped inside. As he walked towards the front
desk he smelt it. And then he reached the woman he’d seen from outside. She lay sprawled on the floor next to an overturned
chair. She had two large-calibre holes in her forehead. He bent down and touched her arm. Still warm.

With his gun leading the way, Bishop crept down the passageway on the right. Through the glass doors at the end, he saw three
empty
helipads. The middle one was illuminated by ground lamps, while four elevated floodlights further out bathed the whole
area in amber.

Bishop backed up against the left-hand wall and peered round the first open doorway. He saw a long, thin room with charts
and maps all over the walls. A large desk held what looked to be ground-to-air communications equipment.
Sitting in a swivel
chair was a male figure. Bishop didn’t need to check his pulse. Both legs were stretched out and his head was tilted back,
eyes gazing sightlessly at the ceiling. There was a wide slit where his throat used to be.

He moved to the second doorway and glanced in. This room held a sofa, four desks arranged in a square and a kitchen at the
far end. A body lay face down on the floor, next to the sofa. Bishop could see it was another male. A pool of black liquid
surrounded him.

Bishop turned, entered the stairway alcove opposite and slowly
climbed the steps, banishing from his mind all thoughts that history was repeating itself. He wasn’t responsible for these
people or their safety.
He couldn’t have done anything to stop this.

But Jenna was another matter entirely.

At the top, a door bearing Mandrake’s name was ajar. He pushed it open with a knuckle and stepped inside, gun first. At the
far end, near the desk, he saw an old man in a suit lying on the floor. He guessed he was looking at Mandrake.

Bishop squatted
at his side and saw a deep gash in the skull. Up close he could see that Mandrake’s chest was still moving.
He checked his pupils, then reached into the man’s jacket and pulled out his wallet. He found an expired pilot’s licence and
grabbed the desk phone. As he leaned over to dial 911, he saw a small notepad open on the floor.

‘What are you reporting, sir?’
a female dispatcher asked.

‘Medical emergency.’ Bishop gave the address and said, ‘Patient is male, sixty-nine years of age and unconscious. Name is
Arthur Randolph Mandrake. Violent head trauma due to assault with a blunt instrument. Likely occurred within the last fifteen
or twenty minutes. Breathing is shallow and dilated pupils suggests possible coma. He’s in
the front office on the second
floor. There are bodies downstairs, too.’ He hung up, remembering to wipe the phone with his sleeve. Then he reached down
and picked up the notebook. A stylized, two-colour headshot of Elvis looked back at him.

Which only confirmed what he already knew. Jenna had been snatched. Bishop had missed her by a matter of minutes. He
should
have gotten here faster, or spent less time going through that damn website. Or he should have accompanied her out here in
the first place, regardless of the risks. He was at fault. He knew that. And it didn’t take much guesswork to figure out who’d
taken her. Or what might happen to her if he didn’t get her back. As he placed the notebook carefully in his pocket,
he made
himself a promise that he’d return it to Jenna by hand. Whatever it took.

Then white light filled the office and Bishop squinted at the approaching helicopter lights. Looked like somebody was coming
in for a landing. He dropped his gaze to the road below. He could make out red and white flashing lights in the distance,
coming this way. And
they didn’t look like the ones you found on ambulances.

Bishop had a feeling they were for him.

Behind the door, Bishop saw a coat hanger bearing two Metroblade windbreakers. He slipped one on and then ran down the stairs
as the
whup
,
whup
,
whup
of the helicopter vibrated through the building. A small voice in his head warned that Jenna could still be there. But his
gut knew otherwise. She would have been with Mandrake, and
she wouldn’t have left her notebook by choice.

In the comms room downstairs, he found a set of ear protectors and added them to his outfit.

He slammed the rear doors open and ran the two hundred yards to the helipad, stopping just outside the perimeter of ground
lights. Looking up, he saw the copter coming in at a steep angle less than a hundred feet
above him. Slipping his gun into
the windbreaker’s pocket, Bishop lowered his head as the landing lights passed over him towards the large H in the centre
of the landing area.

Turning, he saw the red flashing lights were more intense. They were possibly already in the parking area. He figured another
minute at most and it was game over.

He faced forward, counting seconds and calculating distances in his head. The small, single-engine helicopter was descending
on the H with about fifty feet to go. He glimpsed a man and two women in the back and a bearded man in front next to the pilot.
They were all staring past Bishop at the light show out front. The fixed skids were already thirty feet above the
landing
zone. Then twenty. At fifteen feet, Bishop ran forward with his head lowered and met the copter at the exact moment it touched
concrete. He pulled the passenger door open, then slid the rear door back so the whole left side of the copter was exposed.
The passengers ignored him for the action behind him. The bearded man in front said something, but Bishop couldn’t
make it
out over the noise of the rotors.

He pulled the gun from his pocket and kept it at his side while his right hand unlatched beard man’s safety belt. ‘Okay, people,’
he yelled.
‘Seatbelts off and an orderly exit, please. Let’s make it quick.’

The three in the back began to undo their belts in unison and the pilot looked at Bishop
with his mouth open. Before he could
say anything, Bishop laid the Beretta on the floor by beard man’s feet. The pilot looked down and saw it. When he looked up,
Bishop made a whirring motion with his right index finger. ‘Keep the engine running, pal. Police emergency.’

He moved back a foot to let beard man out and said, ‘Heads down as you walk back to reception,
people.’ To the pilot he said,
‘Are we go?’ Receiving a single nod in reply, he turned to the rear passengers and said, ‘Snap it up, folks, we got a situation
here.’

The woman nearest the door jumped out, closely followed by the other two. As soon as they were clear Bishop slid the rear
door shut and dived into the front seat, latching the door closed
behind him. Then he pulled the ear protectors off and replaced
them with the headset at his feet. The sound of the engine and rotors immediately became background noise. Bishop plugged
the cable into the comms unit and heard the sound of breathing. ‘Where’s Gregg?’ the pilot said in his ears.

‘In the comms room,’ Bishop said and looked out the window. He
saw beard man waiting at the perimeter for his wife and friends
to join him. Further back, the building’s rear doors opened and silhouettes emerged with guns drawn. Bishop counted four.
Two wore windbreakers similar to his. They weren’t running yet, but they would once they realized the copter wasn’t powering
down. Bishop clicked the safety belt home and turned to the pilot.
‘Let’s get going,’ he said.

The pilot was in his early thirties. Short thinning blond hair and a gaunt face with downcast mouth. He said, ‘You want to
show me some ID first?’

‘Sure,’ Bishop said and pressed the barrel of the Beretta against the man’s knee. ‘How’s this? Now take us up before I forget
you’re a civilian.’

The pilot started flicking switches on the panel above his head. ‘I’m on it. I’m on it.’

‘Back the way you came,’ Bishop said, pushing his frame further down into the leather seat. The outlines were now running
towards them and had already halved the distance. He turned back to the pilot. ‘And you should know, if push comes to shove,
I can fly one of these
things myself. So you’re not indispensable.’ Bishop pointed a finger skywards. ‘Take us up. Now.’

Bishop hoped his captive wouldn’t call his bluff. He’d ridden in plenty over the course of his life, but never as the pilot.
Maybe he’d take lessons if he ever got out of this. It was always good to have a goal.

He kept the gun in place and
shifted his position as the pilot flicked switches and pulled back on the stick. The four cops
– no, two cops and two Marshals – were shouting at them now. Bishop could hear their muffled cries above the escalating whine
of the engine. They were almost close enough to touch and Bishop saw the pilot hesitate slightly.

And then Bishop felt the back end rise,
tilting the chopper forward slightly before the pilot levelled it off. He lifted the
machine slowly into the air, at the same time turning it clockwise so they were pointing east. Bishop took the gun away from
the man’s knee and looked down. They were already fifteen feet in the air and rising. He saw both cops and one of the Marshals
brandishing their weapons. The other
Marshal, a female, had a hand above her eyes, blocking out the landing lights as she
yelled into a walkie-talkie. Delaney. Had to be. Calling for air support, no doubt.
How the hell did they track me here so fast?

They were fifty feet above the helipad now and still rising. As the pilot steered them over the Metroblade building, he said,
‘Where are we going and
what the hell’s going on?’

‘Just keep us in this direction,’ Bishop said, turning to him. ‘Towards downtown. What’s your name?’

‘You’re no cop.’

‘That’s right. What’s your name?’

‘Cory . . . Cornell Mandrake. Where’s Gregg?’

Mandrake
, Bishop thought. So this had to be the old man’s son. Carrying on the family business.
‘If that’s the guy in the comms room,’
he said, ‘he was already dead when I arrived a few minutes ago.’

‘
Dead?
’ Mandrake swung his head round to Bishop and the chopper tilted to the left before he righted it again. ‘What do you mean?
I don’t—’

‘The woman at the front desk, too. Your old man was just knocked unconscious. I found him upstairs.’
Bishop thought it wisest
not to mention the dilated pupils. Or the third body he’d found. ‘I called for an ambulance. He should be okay.’

Mandrake faced front. ‘Art?’

Bishop kept his eyes on the hand holding the stick. Waiting to see how Mandrake would react. ‘Paramedics know how to move
him,’ he said. ‘You don’t. Let’s keep this thing in a
straight line, okay?’

‘You killed them,’ the pilot said in a monotone.

‘I got no reason to, but I’m after the guy who did.’

Mandrake grunted. He didn’t sound convinced, but he didn’t change direction, either. ‘And what’s he to you?’

‘A woman came to meet your father earlier. Mid-twenties. Pretty. You see her?’

Mandrake frowned. ‘No.’

‘She was the one the killer came for. Your people just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

Bishop watched Mandrake for a few moments, then removed the headset and pulled his cell phone from his pants pocket. He keyed
in a specific number he’d memorized earlier.

The voice that answered said, ‘That
you, Jimmy?’

‘Who else?’ Bishop said.

‘Thought so. Gotta admit, you always did have a fine eye for women.’

‘And what would you know about that, Thorpe?’