Nele Neuhaus - Swimming with Sharks

“Okay.” Connors grabbed the telephone receiver and called Deputy Spooner. “They’re leaving right now,” he announced after a brief conversation.

“I’m coming with you.” Nick jumped up. Connors sighed but let Nick follow him. Accompanied by two US marshals, they headed to Forty-Seventh Street. Nick’s foreboding feeling increased as they got closer to the hotel. Something had happened. It had been a mistake to leave Alex behind at the hotel. He should have insisted she come with him. Suddenly, he wondered whether he had possibly put Vitali on Alex’s trail. He knew that they were watching him, but he hadn’t detected anything suspicious last night. Even after all he had done or experienced in his life up to now, Nick had never before felt so afraid. Fear was alien to him. He had been indifferent to every storm, no matter how strong or threatening. Maybe it was this fearlessness, his inability to accept the dark side that had helped him succeed. Mary could never understand that. She was always frightened when he prosecuted the Mafia families or drug dealers. She didn’t understand that their threats were his motivation.

But since Mary’s death, something had changed inside of Nick. In his many hours of loneliness, he had thought about his mistakes; doubt had crept up, and he started to recognize that his uncompromising stubbornness had created many enemies over the years. And these enemies were dangerous.

The car raced through the empty Sunday morning streets toward the Theater District. It was all his fault if something had happened to Alex! Connors gave Nick a strange look.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked.

“I have a feeling that something terrible has happened,” Nick replied, mumbling, “and if that’s the case, then it’s my fault.”

“Nonsense,” Connors said, shaking his head, “what do you have to do with this?”

“I was with her last night,” Nick said quietly. The deputy US attorney stared at him in disbelief.

“You went to see Sontheim?” he whispered so that the two deputies couldn’t hear. “For God’s sake, why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wanted to talk to her first.” Nick shrugged his shoulders. “She called me around ten thirty, and I went to see her immediately.”

“How could you do that, Nick?” Connors whispered. “This woman is a wanted fugitive! She’s still under suspicion of murder! You should have called me right away!”

Nick struggled to stay relaxed. If Connors found out that he’d had sex with her, then he’d be immediately excluded from the investigation.

“I didn’t want to bother you in the middle of the night.”

“Great.” Connors rolled his eyes. “I’m torn from my bed for every trifle, but if something really important happens, I don’t hear about it!”

“I’m sorry.”

“What did she say? What happened to the money?”

“She didn’t touch it,” Nick replied. “She intends to use it as evidence against Vitali.”

“Hmm.” Connors stared pensively out the window. Nick was crazy with nervousness. They finally reached the hotel. Before Deputy Khazaeli could bring the car to a complete stop, Nick jumped out and charged into the hotel lobby. A few guests watched curiously as the four men charged into the elevator. Nick led them to room 211.

“Step aside!” Spooner ordered, and Deputy Khazaeli kicked the flimsy door so hard that it flew off the hinges, crashing down. He and his colleague charged the room with their guns drawn. They searched the bathroom and the closets.

“Nothing.” Spooner secured his revolver and put it back into its holster. “The bird has left the nest.”

Nick shook his head in disbelief. Alex had really disappeared. The bed, where they had made love last night, was still disheveled.

“It seems she changed her mind,” Connors observed. There was a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “What a pile of shit! What am I supposed to tell the FBI? I’ll look like a complete idiot!”

He let himself sink into a chair and rubbed his reddened eyes. Nick stood in the middle of the room, stunned. Then his gaze fell on the bed. He leaned over it and touched a spot on the sheet with his index finger.

“Oh my God,” he murmured, and all of his strength left him. It was blood. Undoubtedly.

“What is it?” Connors asked.

“There’s blood everywhere,” Nick whispered. “And it’s fresh.”

Connors jumped up as if he had been stung, and both of the US marshals stepped closer. They hadn’t noticed the spots on the flowered bedding and the dark carpet, or the broken glass from the bottle on the floor.

“She didn’t just run away.” Nick’s voice failed him.

All of the color vanished from his face, and panic overcame him. He couldn’t suppress his shaking.

“That’s right,” Khazaeli nodded, “because otherwise she would have taken the suitcase with her.”

He bent over and pulled her suitcase from under the bed. Someone had carelessly thrown Alex’s belongings into it to make it look like she had checked out. While Connors was on the phone ordering the crime scene unit to the Portland Square Hotel and the US marshals looked everywhere for revealing clues, Nick stood there as if paralyzed. Alex was in Vitali’s clutches. He must have found out about her whereabouts and waited until Nick left the room to strike. Now there was no hope left. Vitali would never let Alex go alive. Nick clenched his fists in helpless anger. He wanted to scream and rage, throw himself on the bed and cry like a baby, but that wouldn’t help matters any. It was too late.

The largest search operation New York City had ever seen was well underway an hour after the police radio reported Alex Sontheim’s disappearance. Gordon Engels dispatched his best men to question every guest and the entire staff of the Portland Square Hotel. Entire squadrons of police combed through the warehouses at the Brooklyn, Jersey City, and Staten Island docks. Roadblocks were set up on the bridges and tunnels leaving Manhattan. Suspicious vehicles were searched. The crisis team headquarters was established at the US Attorney’s Office. All of the information was synthesized there, although Police Commissioner Jerome Harding vehemently protested. Outraged, Harding marched into Connors’s office around noon after one of his staff members apprised him of the situation following a Sunday brunch with Sergio Vitali.

“This case is the sole jurisdiction of the NYPD!” he yelled at the deputy US attorney. “Why are you interfering with our work?”

His face was red, and he was so angry that at first he didn’t even notice the other men.

Tate Jenkins smiled thinly. “Why are you so upset, Jerome? Cooperation between the agencies usually works out well.”

The police commissioner turned around abruptly and stared at the deputy director of the FBI in surprise.

“Jenkins,” he said, “this looks like a bigger operation. What are you doing here?”

“It’s big, all right.” Jenkins pointed to one of the vacant chairs across from him. “Take a seat, Jerome.”

The police commissioner, who normally projected confidence, suddenly seemed intimidated.

“Is there something I should know?” he asked. “Why is the FBI chasing this woman? Did she try to kill the president or something?”

“Take a seat, Jerome,” Tate Jenkins repeated. Lloyd Connors shot a quick glance at Nick, but the mayor just stared hollow-eyed off into space. It seemed like he had been in shock ever since they entered the hotel room.

“Connors,” Jenkins said, “please inform Mr. Harding about the situation.”

“What’s going on here?” A fine film of sweat had formed on Harding’s forehead, and his eyes flitted nervously back and forth. Lloyd Connors cleared his voice and prepared himself for one of the police commissioner’s fierce and almost legendary temper tantrums.