Sitting at his office desk, Luther Brady studied the printout as TP Cruz stood at attention on the other side. Cruz looked exhausted, as he should: He’d been up all night and had lost his boss to boot.
“So the elevator records show this John Roselli going to the twenty-first floor and nowhere else.”
“Yessir. At least not by elevator. GP Jensen used it next.”
The printout showed the elevator going directly to twenty-one a second time. The next use after that was when it was called back to twenty-one and taken to the lobby.
“And this time?” He tapped the paper.
“That was Roselli again, sir. He’s on the tape. But there was something strange going on with Roselli and the tapes.”
“For instance?”
“Well—”
“Excuse me?”
Luther looked up and saw his secretary standing in the office doorway.
“Yes, Vida?”
“I just got a call from downstairs. The police are here again and want to see you.”
Luther rubbed his eyes, then glanced at his watch. Only ten A.M. When would this morning end?
“Tell them I’ve already given my statement and have nothing more to add.”
“They say they’re here on a murder investigation.”
“Murder?” Did they think Jensen was murdered? “Very well, send them up.”
He dismissed Cruz, then leaned back in his desk chair and swiveled it toward the morning sky gleaming beyond the windows. Jensen murdered…Luther remembered his impression when he’d first heard the news. But who could survive a confrontation with that human mountain of bone and muscle, let alone hurl him down an elevator shaft? It didn’t seem possible.
Minutes later Vida opened the door and looked in on him. “The police are here.”
“Send them in.”
Luther remained seated as she stepped aside and admitted a pair of middle-aged, standard-issue detectives. Both wore brown shoes and wrinkled suits under open, rumpled coats. But they weren’t alone. A trio of younger, more casually dressed men followed them. Each carried what looked like an oversized toolbox.
Alarm at the number of invaders and the looks on the detectives’ faces drew him to his feet.
“What’s all this?”
The dark-haired detective in the lead had a pockmarked face. He flashed a gold badge and said, “Detective Young, NYPD.” He nodded toward his lighter-haired partner. “This is Detective Holusha. We’re both from the Four-Seven precinct. Are you Luther Brady?”
The detective’s cold tone and the way he looked at him—as if he were some sort of vermin—drew the saliva from Luther’s mouth.
He nodded. “Yes.”
“Then this”—Young reached into his pocket, retrieved a folded set of papers, and dropped them on Luther’s desk—“is for you.”
Luther snatched it up and unfolded it. His eyes scanned the officialese but the meaning failed to register.
“What is this?”
“A search warrant for your office and living quarters.”
The three other men were fanning out around Luther, opening their toolboxes, pulling on rubber gloves.
“What? You can’t! I mean, this is outrageous! I’m calling my lawyer! You’re not doing anything until he gets here!”
Barry Goldsmith would put them in their places.
“That’s not the way it works, Mr. Brady. You have the right to call your attorney, but meanwhile we’ll be executing the warrant.”
“We’ll just see about that!”
As Luther reached for the phone the detective said, “Do you own a nine-millimeter pistol, Mr. Brady?”
My pistol? What do they want with…?
“Yes, I do. Licensed and legally registered, I’ll have you know.”
“We do know. A Beretta 92. That’s one of the reasons we’re here.”
“I don’t under—” And then it hit him. “Oh, no! Was Jensen shot?”
The other detective, Holusha, frowned. “Jensen? Who’s Jensen?”
“My chief of security…he died this morning…an accident. I thought you were here about—”
Young said, “Where is your pistol, Mr. Brady?”
“Right here in the desk.” Luther reached toward the drawer. “Here, I’ll show—”
Holusha’s voice snapped like a whip. “Please don’t touch the weapon, Mr. Brady.”
Luther snatched his hand back. “It’s in the second drawer.”
“Step away from the desk, please.”
As Luther complied, Young signaled one of the younger men. “Romano.” He pointed to the drawer. “Gun’s in there.”
Luther felt as if reality were slipping away. Here in his building, his temple, his word was law. But now his office, his home, his sanctum, had been invaded. He was no longer in control. These storm troopers had taken over.
And no one was saying why. He fell as if he’d fallen into a Kafka story.
It had to be a mistake. Did they think he’d shot somebody? Who? Not that it mattered. He’d never even aimed that pistol at a human being, let alone shot one.
This mix-up would be straightened out, and then someone at the District Attorney’s office would pay. Oh, how they’d pay.
“What…?” He swallowed. “What am I supposed to have done?”
Holusha pulled an index card from the breast pocket of his shirt.
“How well do you know Richard Cordova?”
“Cordova?”
Luther ran the name through his brain as he watched the man called Romano lift the Beretta from the drawer. He held it suspended from a wire he’d hooked through the trigger guard.
Cordova…he was drawing a blank. But how could anyone be expected to think under these circumstances?
“I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of him. It’s quite impossible for me to remember the name of every Church member. We have so—”
“We don’t think he was a Dormentalist.”
Was?
“What happened to him?”
“He was murdered late last night or early this morning. He was pistol-whipped, then shot three times with a nine millimeter. When was the last time you fired your pistol, Mr. Brady?”
Luther relaxed a little. Here was where he’d turn the tables.
“Four, maybe five months ago, and that was on a shooting range at a paper target, not at a human being.”
Romano sniffed the muzzle and shook his head as he looked up at Young.
“Beg to differ. This was fired recently. Very recently.” He lifted the pistol farther, twisting it this way and that as he inspected it. He stiffened. “My-my-my. If I’m not mistaken, we’ve got blood and maybe a little tissue in the rear sight notch.”
Luther watched in uncomprehending horror as Romano dropped the Beretta into a clear plastic evidence bag. This couldn’t be happening! First Jensen, now—
“Wait! This is a terrible mistake. I don’t know this Cordova person! I’ve never even heard of him!”
Holusha smirked. “Well, he’s heard of you.”
“I…I don’t understand.”
“You probably thought you’d cleaned out his house pretty good, but you missed a few.”
“A few what?”
Holusha only shook his head in reply. Luther looked to Young for an answer but all questions dissolved when he saw the detective’s hard look.
“We’ll need you to come up to the Four-Seven for questioning, Mr. Brady.”
Luther’s stomach plummeted. “Am I under arrest?”
“No, but we need some answers about your pistol and your whereabouts last night.”
That was a relief. The thought of being led through the temple in handcuffs was unbearable.
“I want my lawyer along.”
“Fine. Call him and have him meet us there.”
He hadn’t done anything wrong, but he wanted Barry along to keep everything on the up and up.
They had to be mistaken about his pistol…had to be.
That reddish-brown stain he’d spotted in the rear sight couldn’t be blood. But if not, what was it?