Sterling didn't like it. He readied himself with the gun, then looked into the living room. The two bedrooms were tucked away upstairs in the back of the house. Sterling made his way to the front hallway, then suddenly stopped.
“Oh shit!” he whispered. A man's body was stretched out in the front hallway. Sterling knew right away that it was Harry. He could tell by the beard and the gray ponytail. Sterling knelt beside him and felt the carotids in his neck for a pulse. Nothing. His skin was cold. He had been dead for at least several hours.
Sterling walked quietly into the other two rooms on the side of the house, then took the back steps to make sure no one was upstairs. He checked both bedrooms and a small TV room, but nothing looked like it had been touched. He replaced the gun in his belt slide holster and returned to Harry's body. Harry was dressed in oversized striped cotton pajamas and slippers. Sterling grabbed a pen from his coat and moved Harry's head to the side. There was the bullet wound, no bigger than a pencil eraser. A small stream of blood had dried on its course down his face before collecting in his ear. Sterling figured it was probably a .22, small but powerful. There was no exit wound. He searched the rest of Harry's body but found nothing else.
Sterling opened the front door with his sleeve pulled down over his hand. He checked the lock first, then the frame, looking for splintered wood or scraped metal. No signs of forced entry. Sterling figured Harry had known the shooter. There must have been a knock on the door late at night. Harry gets out of bed, comes down to greet the visitor, and opens the door. The shooter pulls out a gun and fires at point-blank range, hitting Harry with one bullet to the head. Harry falls a few feet from the door and dies instantly.
Sterling searched first the porch, then the yard and driveway for footprints. Close to a row of bushes, he picked up what looked like motorcycle tracks. They were too narrow to be a car, but too deep to be a bike. They ran several feet alongside the house, but disappeared where the driveway ended. It was difficult to make out much in the dark, but Sterling guessed by the depth of the grooves and how intact their borders remained that the tracks were fresh.
He returned to his car, now assured that his suspicions about Harry had been correct all along. Harry must have known something, maybe the identity of the killer. Sterling was convinced of a leak on the inside. Was it someone working for Harry? Was it someone in Hanover who was part of the investigative team? Sterling started the car and was halfway down the street when a thought came to mind. What if Harry knew all along that someone was trying to frame Sterling? So he sent the message figuring Sterling would pick up the subtle hint that they meet at the cottage. That would also explain why Harry was taken by surprise and the shooter gained easy access. He had let the shooter in, expecting Sterling. Harry had something to show Sterling, otherwise he wouldn't have gone to the trouble of driving all the way up from Virginia.
But someone had definitely altered the message. Harry had said the fish were “biting like hell,” but how could that be when the serious fishing, according to their past conversations, was still another month away? Harry never would have said that, but someone who had tampered with the message and knew little about the fishing season could easily have made that mistake.
Sterling pulled back up to the house and went in again, this time through the front door. He checked the ground floor first, pulling out drawers and opening cabinets. Nothing. He climbed the steps and entered the master bedroom. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, but he kept searching. He checked Harry's desk, then opened his closet. His suitcase had been tucked in the back corner. Sterling pulled it out and sat it on the bed. The key was still in the lock. Sterling unzipped it only to find that it was empty. All the same, he rummaged through the pockets and sleeves along the inner lining. He ran his hand across the vinyl floor of the suitcase, and suddenly he felt it. A flat oversized envelope.
He opened the hidden pocket and immediately recognized the gray confidential FBI envelope typically used for evidence transport. He ripped open the flap, and pulled out the contents. Two pictures. One of a man entering a building, presumably the “janitor” who came to clean Wilson's office. The resolution was almost perfect, showing his entire face, including the long scar that wrapped down from his hairline to his left ear. The second picture was even more surprising. It was a black-and-white of Heidi Vorscht and Kanti. They were sitting in the grass speaking with each other. Like everything else so far in this investigation, the new evidence only confused matters. How the hell had Harry gotten his hands on that photo and what exactly did it mean?
36
T
he body count had already risen to three and Sterling was convinced that whoever was behind the murders wouldn't stop until everyone who knew the truth had been silenced. But what was the truth? He needed to go back to the basics and sit down and map everything out. Luckily, he had copied the time line they had constructed in the pit inside his black book. Every road led to Heidi Vorscht, then turned into a dead end. She was front and center in the picture on Wilson's desk, on friendly terms with President Mortimer, living on Potter's farm where most of the dead blackbirds had been found, trusted by the Algonquin Indians, and now in a picture in Harry's suitcase.
Sterling needed to get back to New York, where he could move around by getting lost in the crowd. Harry's death was a clear signal that not only was someone out there watching but they were one step ahead. Sterling pulled off to another rest area and parked next to a pay phone. He dialed information and had them connect him to the Hotel DeWitt.
“Room 517,” he said to the receptionist.
“Name of the guest?”
“Maureen Bierbower.”
Veronica sounded uncertain when she picked up. Sterling could tell that she hadn't been asleep. A feeling of deep guilt engulfed him and he regretted that she had been dragged into this mess. Veronica had been nothing but good to him, and now she was running from a pack of professional killers who wouldn't think twice about hurting her to get to him.
“It's me, Ronnie. How's it going?”
“As best as can be expected, I guess. I'm sitting here in this filthy room, afraid to touch anything. Every time I start falling asleep another couple starts in the room next to me and the sound of a vacuum cleaner begins in the room above me. Like they're on a timer. Everything begins and ends exactly on the hour.”
Sterling knew her nerves were frazzled. “I'm sorry, baby, but this is the best place I could think of right now. It's under the radar and the front desk is trained not to ask questions. It's only temporary till I can get my bearings.”
“Are you going to tell me what's going on?”
Sterling thought about it. He owed her some type of explanation, but there were many things that still concerned him. If he told her everything and they found her, they'd have little problem coercing the information out of her. He also didn't want to scare her, which was pretty easy to do. She might try to do something that was helpful and only get herself or him hurt. Limited knowledge would have to satisfy her for now. It would be best for both of them.
“There've been three murders so far, Wilson included. I don't know the reason or reasons, but someone is now after me. Maybe I was getting too close to cracking the case. I don't know. But until I figure all this out, you need to stay out of sight. One way they could get to me would be through you, which is why I want to make sure you're secure. These guys are playing for keeps, Ronnie. There will be no mercy.”
“I could go down to my parents in D.C.,” Veronica offered.
“No, that's the last thing you should do. We're dealing with professionals, Ronnie. They already know everything about your family and close friends and where they live. That's the first place they'll check if they haven't already. That's why I don't want you to call anyone. No family, no friends. Understand?”
“This is getting scary, Sterling.”
“I know it is, but everything will be fine in a couple of days. I just need more time to put all the pieces together. Where's your cell phone?”
“In my purse.”
“Good, leave it there. Don't answer it or make any calls. Actually, turn it off so it doesn't even ring. Where's the gun?”
“In the bag with the money.”
“Take it out and keep it next to you. Don't answer your door for anyone. No housecleaning or management. Nothing. If someone forces their way in, aim and shoot.”
“I don't know how to shoot a gun.” She was crying softly now, something she rarely did, and the sound pained him.
“Pull down the safety lock, aim at their chest, then squeeze the trigger. You might not hit, but at least you'll scare the shit out of them.”
“When will you be here, Sterling?”
“Sometime tomorrow. Just hold on. Everything will be all right.”
Veronica blew kisses into the phone, then the line went dead.
Sterling's next call was to Professor Mandryka. The phone rang eight times before it was answered.
“Hello,” Mandryka said.
“Yuri, it's Sterling Bledsoe. Thank God you're all right.”
“Why wouldn't I be?”
“Because three people are dead right now and at least two of them knew about the blackbirds.”
“Who else other than Wilson knew about the birds?”
“Heidi Vorscht.”
“Was this Heidi Vorscht the girl they found in the Grand Union dumpster?”
“That's right. She lived with Mrs. Potter. But she also knew Wilson. Her name has surfaced on every lead I've found so far.”
“And who was the third killing?”
“One of our agents helping me with the investigation. I don't know how, but he found out something about Heidi Vorscht and her involvement in this mess. I'm not sure exactly what he knew, but it was enough to get him killed. Knowledge of those blackbirds is proving deadly.”
Mandryka grunted. “Have you learned anything else about the birds and who might be killing them?”
“I'm making some headway, but not enough to draw any real conclusions. My working theory is that whoever's killing them will spare no expense or life in keeping it secret. That means your life's at serious risk just like the rest of them.”
“I'm an old man, Sterling, long past my prime. I'm not much use to anyone. Don't worry about me.”
Sterling had to stop himself from slamming the phone against the wall. “Dammit, Yuri, stop it with that fatalistic bullshit. Someone could put a bullet in your head the minute we get off the phone. If for no other reason, I need you alive to help me put this thing together and catch Wilson's killer. I'm counting on you, Yuri, and so is Wilson.”
There was a brief pause at the other end. “What do you want me to do?”
“First, stay away from the lab, at least until I get things sorted out. Call one of your assistants tomorrow morning and tell them that you're sick and taking the rest of the week off. Do you have another house nearby or relatives?”
“No relatives, but I have a small place up near Killington Peak in Vermont. I haven't been there in a few years.”
“Does anyone else know you have it?”
“Only Wilson knew. We went up there for a few days of eagle spotting. Wilson always loved the eagles.”
“Good. Pack as much as you can as fast as you can and get up there. Is there a working phone in the cabin?”
“Are you kidding? I probably don't even have running water.”
“Then take down my number.” Sterling gave him his cell number. “If you think of something else about the blackbirds or Heidi or anything else we might've missed, call me. Otherwise, check in with me in twenty-four hours. Agreed?”
Mandryka read back the number. “I got it. Are you all right, Sterling?”
“I'll feel a lot better when this is behind us. Be careful, Yuri. And most important, don't trust anyone.”
S
terling filled up the Mustang at an all-night gas station, then raced out of the Adirondacks and toward the city. He couldn't get his mind off Heidi Vorscht and the central role she played in this. He took out his black book and read the notes he had made during his conversation with Vivian Sinclair, the receptionist in Mortimer's office. According to Vivian, Heidi had walked into the president's office looking for a job without even so much as an appointment. Vivian was surprised that President Mortimer had agreed to see her right away. Students typically went through layers of bureaucracy before getting a chance to see him. Why was he so agreeable about bending the rules for this foreign student?
Vivian also recalled the nasty argument she overheard between Mortimer and his wife. The divisive issue—Heidi Vorscht. Vivian had said that Heidi and Mrs. Mortimer were “like oil and water.” But why was Mortimer such a big fan, and why was he so hell-bent on patching things up between his wife and this student? It just didn't fit. Mortimer was an aloof, guarded bureaucrat who hid behind his presidential position and spent the greater part of his time worrying about his legacy at Dartmouth. Why take such an interest in a student who meant nothing to him or his school?
Then the pictures.
Sean insisted that Heidi didn't work in the lab, but she was in that group photo they had taken on the lawn. And she wasn't just in the picture, but had been prominently positioned next to Wilson. Even in an informal picture, one would have expected to see the most senior post-doc fellow standing next to the lab director. Hierarchy was always preserved in academia.
Sterling had been bothered by something else in the picture, the way Heidi rested her hand on Wilson's shoulder. Too familiar. Now Harry had another picture of Heidi, but this time with Kanti. Sterling turned on the car light and looked at the photo again. They seemed so peaceful sitting there, both with their legs crossed, the tall grass blowing in the wind. Kanti was explaining something with his hands and she watched with laser intensity. Who had taken the photograph and how had it ended up with Harry?
By the time Sterling worked through all the possibilities, he had reached the outskirts of the city, passing the Yonkers Raceway. His first order of business would be to get some sleep, but he didn't want to go to the hotel just yet. Veronica probably wouldn't let him sleep anyway with all of the questions she had in store for him.
He raced through the Bronx and past Yankee Stadium, then crossed the Willis Avenue Bridge, merged onto FDR Drive, and headed down the East Side of Manhattan. He looked across the East River and saw a glint of light breaking on the distant horizon. It had been a long night. First the confrontation and struggle with Wiley, then finding Harry murdered in his cottage. Now he had the picture of who he believed to be the real killer and a mysterious photo of Heidi and Kanti sitting in tall grass. Veronica was penned up in an hourly, and Yuri was hopefully on his way into seclusion on Killington Peak. Now he needed to focus on his own safety and well-being.
Sterling followed the signs to the Manhattan Bridge that would lead him to Brooklyn. It would be easier to find a secluded spot somewhere in that vicinity. He could easily hide the Mustang and at least get a couple of hours of sleep. Just as he was turning off the FDR, his cell rang. He looked down at the caller ID. Unknown. He held the phone in his hand and debated a moment before flipping the lid open.
“Yeah,” he said.
“What the hell are you doing, Bledsoe?” It was the unforgiving voice of Director Daniel J. Murphy.
Sterling couldn't suppress his sarcasm. “I was wondering what was taking you so long, Murph. Isn't this kind of late in the game?”
“Cut the goddamn bullshit, Bledsoe! I want a full rundown of what has transpired over the last twenty-four hours and why one of my best agents is on the run.”
Sterling was too tired for the harangue. “The honest answer is that I myself don't even know what's going on. But right now there are three people dead and some assholes have the bright idea that I'm behind it. Go figure.”
“I only know what I've been told so far, and it ain't good. For any of us. What are you doing right now?”
“Knitting a scarf for the local Girl Scouts. What the hell do you think I'm doing? Trying to find the real killer and save my ass.”
Murphy groaned loudly and Sterling took some delight in picturing the director ensconced in his Potomac, Maryland, mansion, wearing silk pajamas and fur-lined slippers, massaging his temples to fend off the impending headache. Murphy was a deeply political man, and this growing embarrassment could hurt his not-so-secret ambitions to run for the Senate.
“Stop playing cowboy, Bledsoe,” Murphy barked. “This case is blown wide open and every law enforcement agency in the states of Vermont and New Hampshire is looking for you.”
Sterling mashed the car's accelerator. “You're not getting the message, Murph. I don't give a damn, because I didn't do it. Not only is someone trying to set me up, but I'm starting to feel like they have some inside help.”
“Why in the hell are you running? People don't run unless they have something to hide.”
“Fuck you, Murph. You know damn well if I sat and talked, the chances of me walking away from this is next to nothing.”
“Then who's the murderer?”
Sterling looked down at the picture on the seat next to him. “I might be able to figure it out if you called the hounds off of me. All I'm asking for is a few more days to put everything together.”
“You know damn well I can't do that. I'm already getting questions from Sixteen Hundred. Come in on your own and we'll get through this, save us both a lot of trouble. There's still time to make it work without any more repercussions. What you did to that lieutenant up there makes you nothing better than a goddamn ciminal.”
Sterling looked out over the Brooklyn Bridge. He was leaving the Manhattan skyline behind and heading toward the squat buildings of a sleeping Brooklyn. In the city now, he was on his own turf, which meant the odds had turned slightly in his favor that he could avoid capture and still have a fighting chance of figuring out who the killer was.
“We've known each other for ten years, Murph,” Sterling said. “I haven't always followed procedure, but I've always delivered for you. I'm asking you, no I'm begging you, hang with me on this and buy me a little time. There's something big at work here. A lot bigger than my brother and the girl.”
“How do you explain Frumpton?”
“Collateral damage. Harry must've found out something they didn't want him to know. He wasn't a primary.”
Murphy's groan rumbled through the phone like the slow roll of a drum. “There are just too many bodies without enough answers,” he said. “I can't let you stay out there and freewheel it. Bring it in and I'll personally see to it that you're given a fair deal.”