The Monarch (13 page)

 

15

Federal Plaza

New York City

10:00
A.M.
Local Time

A
S THE ELEVATOR
rose up 26 Federal Plaza, Emily closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She was thinking about her errand this morning and what she should do next when the buzz of a cell phone emanated from her bag. She dug for her cell phone—­now with Raiden's alterations inside—­but it wasn't the one buzzing. She flinched when she realized who was calling. She took out the phone the masked man had given her and answered it.

“Do
not
tell Wagner about the traffic cameras,” the voice said.

The elevator doors opened. Special Agent Wagner stood in front of her.

“I can't talk right now. I understand. I'll call you soon,” Emily said. She hung up and put both phones back in her bag. “Sorry.”

“That's all right,” Wagner said. “Two cell phones?”

“One's for work and one's personal,” she said, impressed by her own quick thinking.

“Right,” Wagner said. He had a noncommittal way of saying things, so she wasn't sure if he believed her or not. “This way.”

Wagner led Emily to his office. Her thoughts were spinning. Without Dan's traffic camera research she didn't have anything to give Wagner to gain his trust. Not only that, but the voice on the phone confirmed her suspicions about the briefcase sitting in her oven. She tried to take solace in the idea that at least the case wasn't a bomb. Or, at least, not
only
a bomb.

“Thanks for coming in,” Wagner said.

“No problem,” Emily said noticing her book on his desk.

“I read it last night. Just a wonderful piece of work, there,” Wagner said. He wasn't gushing, just stating an opinion. But she could sense there was something unsaid on his mind.

“But . . .” she said.

“You caught me. I really enjoyed it, but it seemed . . . unfinished. I felt like I was left waiting for the other shoe to drop, if you know what I mean.” She knew exactly what he meant.

“Thanks. Yes, that seems to be the consensus. Apparently it's what hurt my sales in light of the reviews.”

“But I guess this case will be good for business, now that the media is releasing details about your book in the reports on the murders.”

“I suppose,” Emily said. She wanted to object, but the book signings she had lined up this afternoon agreed with him.

“Don't worry. I'm pretty sure you didn't have anything to do with them,” Wagner said to ease her mind. All she heard was
pretty sure
.

“Has he shown up since your book came out? I mean, have any thefts been attributed to him?”

“No,” she said.

“Still watching for him, are you?”

“Now and then,” she said, trying to act aloof.

“Okay, well in light of what I read—­in your book and your Interpol jacket—­and our stance on you as not being a possible suspect, I really only have a few questions. It would seem that you're the only world expert on The Monarch. I tried contacting Interpol about him, but they wouldn't even confirm or deny that he exists.”

My jacket?
The masked man wasn't kidding when he said he'd handle her background. Interpol administrative workers, like Emily, didn't have case files to their credit. Not real ones, anyway.

“As they would,” Emily said, nodding. She'd run into the same issues when working on the book. Law enforcement agencies hated the idea of a Robin Hood doing their job for them. And the lack of complaints or theft reports made it difficult for them to even justify getting involved. How do you request budget money when stolen works of art are showing up in museums without explanation? The museums were almost as reticent to talk about it; afraid their Good Samaritan would dry up and blow away. The insurance companies were a different story.

“Well, that being the case, we just need you to advise us on the case. You'd be paid, of course. Not much. It is government work, after all, but I can guarantee an extension of your work visa for the foreseeable future. If that's something you're interested in.”

“I think I would enjoy that. Thank you,” Emily said, trying her best to act blasé.

“Excellent,” Wagner said. “I'll need you to fill out some papers to make it official, but we can do that later. In the meantime, I'd like to get your impressions of what you've seen on the news, so far. Also, any recommendations you have would be welcome.”

Is this really happening?
She'd thought she was a murder suspect just a few minutes ago, and now here she was ostensibly on the team trying to find the murderer. What a difference a day makes.

“I do have one recommendation off the top,” she said.

“Excellent. What is it?”

“Schedule a press conference. The media is running the show right now, no offense. You need to take control back.”

“Normally I'd agree with you, but we just don't have anything—­”

“Let me talk at the press conference. As you said, I'm the only expert. In a day or two, everyone will know that. Which means if I say something associated with The Monarch, they're going to listen. Or, at least, consider what I have to say.”

“Interesting idea. What would you say?”

“The truth.”

“Which is?”

“The killer isn't using The Monarch's symbol as a way to get attention. He's not a copycat looking to cash in on an existing fan base.”

“He's not?” Wagner said, leaning forward. She had all of his focus now.

“No. The killer
is
The Monarch.”

E
MILY RETCHED INTO
the toilet in the Federal Plaza main floor ladies' room until there was nothing left in her. She took several pulls of toilet paper to wipe her face, and then put down the lid and sat.

What have I done?

But she hadn't done it yet. On Monday at the press conference she was going to do it. She was going to betray the one person in the world that meant the most to her. She knew logically that it made no sense to feel the way she did about someone she not only hadn't met, but had never even seen, but knowing it didn't seem to make a difference.

The masked man had promised that this cooperation would result in her finding out who The Monarch really was. To find him, she had to betray him. Emily pressed the moist tissue to her mouth as more retching threatened to consume her.

When it passed, she bent over and looked under the stall to be sure she was alone. Satisfied, she took out the cell phone and dialed.

“It's done,” Emily said.

“Excellent!” The exhaustion was gone from the masked man's voice again. He was exuberant and confident again. “When?”

“Monday at noon. Just like you asked.” The contempt was plain in her voice.

“I know how difficult this was for you. But you'll learn there is little that I value higher or reward as significantly as loyalty. And remember the endgame,” he said. “Your father would be proud.”

“All right, I did something for you, now it's your turn,” Emily said, surprised at her moxie. She was surprising herself a lot lately. Something in her had changed—­reawakened. She fought to avoid admiring the change, afraid of being even more beholden to this stranger.

“I believe you were paid, Miss Burrows.”

“Not payment, exactly. As hard as this is for me, I know the results will far outweigh the sacrifice. And to show my appreciation, I actually have something for you. A gift. But I need two things from you first.”

“Two things. Perhaps you should tell me what they are before they double again,” he said. She wasn't sure, but she thought he was joking.

“I need a name.”

“All in good time. After Monday's press conference, we'll have more than his name.”

“Not
his
name. Your name.”

Silence drew out on the line. She knew he was evaluating. Reasoning how dangerous she could really be.

“Nathan,” he said. That was all. A first name. It was enough. Emily felt good that she'd pulled him out of his comfort zone, made him give up something he didn't want to. But they were only halfway. “And the second thing?”

“I want to meet you. In person. Tonight.”

“Impossible,” Nathan said with no hesitation. The speed at which he answered told her this was not negotiable. At least, not yet.

“As I said, I have something for you. A gift. But I'll only give it to you in person,” she said. She knew she had more pull than the average person after seeing his book collection. But it was no guarantee. If he continued to refuse, there was a line even she couldn't cross, but if the idea of a gift from her intrigued him—­

“What kind of gift?”

Emily smiled.

A
FEW HOURS
later, Wagner and Evans sat across from each other in Wagner's office eating lunch; Evans with a greasy hamburger and fries, Wagner nibbling at a turkey wrap.

“Forgiveness? I don't get it,” Evans said around a mouthful of burger after Wagner told him the real meaning of the symbol that looked like a butterfly.

“Burrows thinks it has to do with the whole Robin Hood ethic of The Monarch. You know, he doesn't want to exact revenge, he wants to educate. Show ­people the error of their ways. Like that,” Wagner said.

“Whatever,” Evans said, shaking his head as he fired a few more fries into his mouth. “You really going to let her talk at the press conference? Whole thing seems pretty hinky to me.”

“I'm still not convinced she's telling us everything, but letting her confirm the killer is The Monarch from the book seems like a win-­win for us. We get to take some control away from the media and the killer gets comfortable thinking he's fooled us. Maybe so comfortable he makes a mistake.”

“Unless it really is the dude from the book,” Evans said. He noisily slurped soda up a yellow striped straw. It wasn't something Wagner hadn't already considered.

“I think that's pretty unlikely. Not impossible, but we're stymied here. I think it's an acceptable risk,” Wagner said. The Monarch from the book wanted to teach, not punish. Wagner didn't see any way he would pop up after five years of inactivity in the guise of an executioner. Especially not using the same forgiveness symbol. Not to mention they had no evidence to suggest the first two victims were in need of punishment, in any stretch of the imagination.

“What's Matthews think?” Evans asked.

“I don't know. I haven't talked to him about it, yet.”

“Seriously? Ballsy. Dumb, but ballsy,” Evans said. Even he knew the heat was on politically over this case, and unsanctioned moves would just give lawyers something to exploit down the road.

“Press conference isn't until Monday,” Wagner said in his defense.

“Maybe, but it's already been announced on the news. If he doesn't know already, he's going to pretty damn soon.”

“Why don't you let me worry about him,” Wagner said, watching Ryan Meed, one of their techs, approach his office. Ryan smiled and stuck his head in.

“Got a second?”

“For what?” Wagner said.

“I've got something you need to see.”

Several minutes later and a few floors down, Wagner stood behind Ryan at his workstation, which looked like the cockpit of a space shuttle. Ryan's hands were flying over several keyboards, mice, and control deck knobs. Wagner wouldn't have been able to turn the machines on, never mind use them. But his son, Todd, had highlighted his technical ineptitude years ago.

“We picked up an encrypted cell phone signal in the building a while ago. I didn't think much of it, but then when I did an audit, none of our encrypted phones was in the area at the time,” Ryan said, pointing at one of his displays that looked a little bit like the peaks and valleys of a heartbeat on an EEG monitor. Wagner nodded convincingly.

“Right, so what does that have to do with me?”

“We pinpointed the source of the signal as the main floor. Here, watch,” Ryan said, playing back recorded security camera video on another monitor. It was black and white, but high quality. It showed a hallway off the main area downstairs. Specifically, the door to the women's public washroom.

Up in the corner of the video a time code spun.

“And . . . now,” Ryan said, pointing at the screen. Someone came out the door and then left the hallway, but not before he saw their face clearly.

“Son of a bitch,” Wagner said. The face belonged to Emily. “Are you sure it was her on the phone?”

“I ran the recording ahead for fifteen minutes. Nobody else came out. It was definitely her. She signed out a minute later. I checked the log and saw she'd been up here to see you. This something you can use?”

“Oh yeah,” Wagner said.

Wagner's cell phone buzzed.

“Yeah?”

“Hey,” it was Evans.

“What's up?” Wagner said.

“I just got a call from one of my NYPD contacts.”

“What about?”

“Some kid named Dan Cooper took a nosedive off the
New York Times
building this morning. Smashed a taxi flat.”

“Jesus. The kid anybody we know? I mean, case wise?”

“Not that I can find, but I think we're going to be involved.”

“Why's that?”

“Kid's cell phone survived the fall. Well, his SIM card did, anyway. The last number he called, like a minute before jumping, was to Emily Burrows.”

 

16

Tallahassee, Florida

2:30
P.M.
Local Time

T
HE
S
WENSONS DROPPED
Natalie home just after two. Before they left, Jonathan flagged them down and made his pitch. A sleepover was one thing, but asking a neighbor if your daughter could stay with them for an unknown length of time, that was a whole different ball game.

Jonathan would have loved to take Natalie with them and show her New York, but he had no idea how dangerous things were going to get. Ken Swenson was leery at first, the request seeming to come out of nowhere. Jonathan lied and told him it had to do with finding work before he pulled Natalie out of school. Their financial situation was no secret to the neighborhood. He hit the heart button too, suggesting that after this, Natalie and Kayla might not get to see each other ever again. After that, it was just a matter of time before Mrs. Swenson worked her husband over for Jonathan.

Jonathan knew as difficult as it was selling the Swensons, it was child's play compared to telling Natalie in a way that didn't make her feel abandoned. Even with Samantha's death, if Natalie and Jonathan weren't so close, this would have been a lot easier, but they were more like best friends than father and daughter.

After spending some time with Natalie, Lew headed off to do some shopping. The plan was to catch a flight Sunday morning. The FBI were holding a press conference on Monday and they wanted to be there for that. Use it as a kind of ground zero. Jonathan had less than twenty-­four hours left with his daughter, and he hadn't even told her he was leaving yet.

He steadied himself and knocked on Natalie's door. She was inside surrounded by her stuffed animals and drawing. When she looked up he took a mental image of the scene, knowing no matter the outcome of either this conversation or his trip to New York, nothing would ever be
this
again.

Jonathan had never lied to his daughter before, but he just didn't see any way around it. Aside from Lew, the only person who even knew the truth about his past was six feet underground and he and Natalie took flowers to her grave once a month.

“Where are you going?” Natalie asked. She wasn't upset. Not yet, anyway. He led off with the idea of spending a few weeks at Kayla's house, so she was much more receptive to the idea than if he'd just said he was going away. But she was a smart kid, and already she was seeing the nugget at the center of the story. To keep things simple, he stuck to the same lie.

“New York,” Jonathan said.

“Why don't you know how long you'll be?” It was a logical question, and Jonathan could see if he didn't handle the answer just right it could lead to some uncomfortable follow-­ups. The main thing he wanted to avoid was giving her any reason to think he wasn't coming back. And with the dreams she'd been having lately, that wasn't going to be easy.

“I could lie and say a few days, babe, but you're a big enough girl to handle the truth. It could take that long just to set up meetings with ­people. The thing is, it's all up to them. I just have to do it this way. You understand, don't you?” It was basic spy craft. Bury a lie within the truth within a lie. The hard part was keeping it straight and consistent.

“I guess,” Natalie said, looking at her stuffed owl and playing with its wings.

“Here,” Jonathan said, taking the bag out of his pocket that he'd bought on the way home from dumping the van. He took out a prepaid cell phone made for kids that hung on a lanyard. “You have to promise you'll only use this to call
me
.” He slipped it over her head.

“My own phone?” Natalie said, the sparkle returning to her eyes. It was a cheap trick. Jonathan had never liked the bribery tool as a parent, but it seemed he was breaking all the rules today.

“You'll have to make sure you keep it charged. You know, like your iPod. Now promise me you won't use it to call your friends.”

“I promise! I promise!” she said, throwing her arms around Jonathan's neck. “I can really call you anytime I want?”

“I'll call you too,” Jonathan said, nodding. “If I've got a meeting or something, I might get Uncle Lew to call you.”

“Uncle Lew's going too?”

“Sure is. You don't want me to be lonely, do you?” She shook her head no.

“Is Uncle Lew going to live with us in New York?”

“I don't know about that. Maybe at first. He might be lonely all on his own too.”

“I don't think Uncle Lew gets lonely too much,” Natalie said in that knowledgeable way kids have of talking about unknown things.

“I think you might be right about that,” Jonathan said with a smile. “Now let's see if we can pick a good ringtone for you. I'm thinking . . . the theme song from
Sesame Street
.”

“Dad, puh-­lease!” Jonathan suggested a few more songs that were obviously too young for her. They laughed and roughhoused a bit. Then she put her arms out for a hug. He held her tight. “Thank you for the phone, Dad.”

“You're welcome, baby,” Jonathan said, hiding the tears slipping from his eyes.