51
NEW YORK CITY
Michael Vara settled shakily into the chair Darcy offered him in her office after he viewed the body. His hands were trembling. His olive-toned face was pale and sickly. “I know that’s Justin, but I still don’t believe it. There’s no way he bombed that building.”
“We have film of him carrying that backpack and leaving it next to the building,” Sarah said gently.
“Then he couldn’t have known what was in the backpack,” Michael insisted, gripping the arms of the chair. A lock of his dark curly hair fell over one eye as he looked up at her. “A couple of days before the bombing I talked to him. He said he was just hired for a gig. He was so happy—it was the first one he’d had for a long time. Maybe he’d even make enough to get out of the city, to get a plane ticket to meet me in Dublin, he said.”
Michael dropped his head into his hands. “He’d talked about needing a fresh start. I’d told him for a long time that he needed to get out of New York. He was doing things lately that he didn’t want to do. I told him he could always stay at my place for free.”
Sarah and Darcy exchanged glances.
“You said ‘doing things he didn’t want to do.’ What kind of things do you mean?” Darcy asked.
Michael shuddered. “Dangerous underground shows. Metal bars on windows, bulletproof glass . . . those kinds of things. I told him to stay away.”
“Ah.”
“That’s why he was so happy to get an easy two-hour gig that paid well. All he had to do was dress up in some kind of costume, carry a backpack, and wander around for a while, he said. Make sure he was noticed. Then he’d get a couple grand. I thought it was kinda weird.” He looked up. “Then again, New Yorkers are weird.”
Sarah nodded. “That matches what we saw in the video.”
“He definitely didn’t say anything about carrying a bomb. He was happy and not nervous. If he’d been about to do something illegal, I would have known. It would have come through in his voice, like when he told me about the underground shows.”
“Okay, so let’s follow that theory—that he didn’t know what he was carrying in the backpack,” Darcy said.
Michael frowned. “There’s no way he knew.”
“How do you think he would have reacted psychologically when he discovered that he’d delivered a bomb that took out part of a building and could have hurt a bunch of people?” Darcy asked.
“He would have been devastated.”
“Enough to jump off a building?”
“No.” The answer was sharp, definitive. Then he wavered. “Maybe.” A long sigh. “I don’t know. Justin went through a lot of ups and downs, but he never once told me he wanted to end his life.”
“Michael,” Sarah asked, “if we showed you the suicide note, could you identify it as Justin’s handwriting or not?”
Darcy crooked her finger at one of the DHS staff outside the glass partition. He poked his head in, handed the note to her, and shut the door again.
“What do you think?” Darcy handed the note to him.
Michael was silent as he read. Then his eyes moved back to the top of the letter, and he traced it line by line with his index finger. At last he looked up. “Justin didn’t write this note. If he was upset enough to decide to kill himself, he wouldn’t be able to think clearly enough to be this organized. He’d be rattled. Writing sporadic words, phrases, in stream of consciousness, not full sentences explaining why he decided to bomb the building and kill himself. And Green Justice? He never mentioned Green Justice or hating oil companies.”
He swept his hand over the paper. “And see the type of pen he used? I hate blue ballpoint pens, and so did he. It was one of those quirky things we had in common. I only have black fine Sharpies and calligraphy pens in my apartment. So if he wrote it there, where did he get the blue ballpoint pen? Did they find it in the apartment?”
Darcy looked startled. “Don’t even know if anyone searched for that.”
“If it isn’t there, that would mean he, or whoever wrote the note, didn’t write it at my apartment,” Michael reasoned. “Unless Justin had the pen in his pocket . . .”
“. . . and it flew out when he jumped off the building,” Sarah finished.
“The handwriting is totally different,” Michael added. “Before I started working overseas, he’d write me notes when he was doing fine and when he was doing badly and leave them at my flat sometimes. The handwriting styles were hardly recognizable as the same person. When he was doing fine, he used my calligraphy pens in a beautifully flowing script. When he was doing badly, he printed with the black Sharpies, and it was jerky. Short words, but sentences. Never in blue ink. This?” He shook his head. “It’s not Justin.”
“Did Justin have the technical ability to figure out how to put a bomb together?” Darcy asked.
Michael blinked. “Justin? He didn’t know how to check the circuit breaker in their house when the electricity blew. I had to come over and do it for him and his mom. No way. Somebody had to have delivered that bomb to him ready to go.”
“Perhaps it was set on a timer when he was given the backpack or had a remote detonation,” Sarah said.
“Justin wouldn’t have done it if he had known anyone could be harmed. Dressing up in a costume was second nature to him. We do it in the theater all the time. But planting a bomb? No. Not even at his worst. He only wanted his name in lights. Said his mother told him he’d make it big someday . . . be in the news.” Michael slumped. “Never would have guessed it would be this way.”
“One last question,” Darcy said. “Did anyone other than you know that Justin sometimes stayed at your place?”
He frowned. “Only Mrs. Chesterton. I’m pretty sure I told her he sometimes stayed there. Neighbors in my building might have noticed him coming and going, but they wouldn’t know he was staying there. They’d probably assume he was visiting someone. The tenants change a lot in that building.”
Sarah and Darcy exchanged a glance. Neither Michael nor Mrs. Chesterton would have anything to do with Justin’s death. Dead end there.
Michael winced. “She’s such a dear lady. I hate to tell her the news . . . if it’s okay for me to tell her?”
Darcy nodded. “Now that you’ve officially identified the body and there is no next of kin, the name will be released.”
“How soon?” he asked. “I’d like to let Mrs. Chesterton know and make burial arrangements for Justin. I think it would be better to have that taken care of before his name is released.”
“I understand,” Darcy said. “If you can make arrangements right away, we can have the body moved and I’ll make a request to stall the release of the name for 48 to 72 hours to allow you to make the final arrangements.”
“Thank you.” Michael lifted his chin. “Justin had problems, but he was my friend. I believe someday the truth will be revealed, and I want to be there when it is. If you need my help on anything, count me in.” His dark eyes narrowed in determination. “My friend doesn’t deserve a role in history as a terrorist.”
After Michael left, Sarah eyed Darcy. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Yep. Justin was helped off that building.”
Sarah nodded. She got out of her chair and paced as she talked, ticking the points off on her fingers. “Not only did somebody make sure Catherine Englewood got him on camera, but they provided him with the backpack and bomb. They gave him instructions where to leave the evidence—incriminating the ecological activist contingent. Nobody would be that dumb to leave evidence behind their buildings. Evidence of his insanity and a signed confession were planted at Michael’s apartment.”
“Hey, wait right there. Who else other than Michael and Mrs. Chesterton knew that Justin stayed there sometimes?”
“That,” Sarah declared, “is the million-dollar question. It means there’s another player, or two, or more. And to ensure that Justin couldn’t help us put together the pieces, he was lured to the roof of that building.”
“Maybe even herded off it.”
“Exactly. Now we have to prove it.”
EN ROUTE FROM CORVO TO FLORES, AZORES ISLANDS
The sun was barely up. Sean inhaled the briny scent of the North Atlantic. Like his mother, he felt most at home on the water. She’d joked it was due to her generations of Irish roots. Now he knew why it was doubly so for him.
He’d crossed a lot of oceans on his start-up trips lately, but the last time he’d been on a boat was the USS Cantor in the Arctic Ocean. The ice floes there were a far cry from the tropical warmth that surrounded the fishing boat he was on now, even early in the morning. Yet he preferred that icy, untamed wilderness because Elizabeth had been there. Yes, he admitted, wherever he was with her felt like home. Upon hearing her voice yesterday, he’d been ready to say, “Remember when you climbed aboard the USS Cantor in the Arctic? That’s when I knew I was in love with you.”
But he’d halted midstream. With Jon revealing his interest, Sean could never betray those friendships. They were too important to him. Still, his heart twinged at the possibilities that would never be. Lifting his face, he welcomed the breezy mist from the ocean.
Soon he’d be back on Flores. He’d gather his pilot from the hotel courtyard where he likely lay soaking up the sun and the views of the beautiful native women. After a short jaunt to Ponta Delgada, where they’d fuel up and stay the night, they’d head to New York City.
He’d be there sometime the next day.
EN ROUTE FROM PONTA DELGADA TO FLORES
The man was irritated with the delays at Nordela Airport that had kept his private jet grounded until midmorning. When they were at last in the air, he settled back in the white leather chair.
His contact approached hesitantly. “Sir?”
“What now?” the man barked.
“His cell number has popped up on the grid as being in use,” the contact reported.
There were only three options. One, Sean was alive and had taken a mini vacation from technology. Two, he’d been taken against his will, and now the kidnappers were making demands. Or three, someone had found his cell and was using it.
“Where?” the man demanded.
His contact flinched at the tone. “We’re tracking it as we speak. I should know soon.”
“I want to know when that call was placed and to whom, and triangulate the origination.”
His contact nodded and placed other calls rapid-fire. Within five minutes, he announced, “The call was placed midafternoon yesterday.”
“Yesterday! So why are we just finding out about it now? And to whom?”
“An Elizabeth Shapiro. I’ll have a bio and other details shortly.”
But the man didn’t need the bio and other details. He knew who Elizabeth Shapiro was. It was his business to know. His contact didn’t know everything about him. He’d learned early in his career that the best way to keep matters private was to keep them to yourself. So he only nodded. “She is a secondary issue for now. Focus on the triangulation of the call.”
“Got it, Boss.”