Russell Blake - Silver Justice

Sam looked like he’d been roused from a deep sleep, which was in fact the case when his jangling cell phone had jarred him awake an hour ago. He’d listened to the voice on the other end for a few moments, asked two or three groggy questions, then leapt into reluctant action, calling the lead members of the task force as he pulled on clothes and headed for the scene.

“What do we know about him?” Seth asked.

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment. “Not a lot. ID says his name is Stewart Corbess, address over on the West Side in one of those twenty-million and up buildings over by Columbus Circle.”

“He’s a little far from home, isn’t he?” Seth commented as he looked around the dilapidated parking lot, deep within the confines of Hell’s Kitchen. Even with the gentrification of Manhattan there were some areas that were unsafe after dark, and this area near Javits Convention Center was high on the list.

“Hey, you never know how a guy’s going to try to find his stimulation, right?” Sam countered.

Seth didn’t smile. “NYPD got a call, shots fired. Looks like he took three to the chest. Dead before he hit the ground.”

“Do I want to know what the card says?” Sam asked.

“Rough Neighborhood.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes. Only that. Although he could have saved himself the trouble. I think most everybody agrees this isn’t a five-star block.”

Sam nodded. “The predators do enjoy their nighttime haunts, don’t they?”

“Hey, we have some data coming in on him…holy shit. This guy is a bigwig. Shows up as owning half of New York. Okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration, but still — he’s in the same ballpark as Trump. Oh — hey, guess what he did for a living?” Seth was reading off his iPhone as the feed uploaded.

“Bus driver?”

“Close. He’s the top dog at one of the biggest hedge funds on Wall Street. As in mucho billions.”

“How can I have never heard of these guys, and yet they’re worth as much as the average midsized city?” Sam complained.

“I guess you need to travel in different circles,” Seth advised, immediately regretting his words when Sam threw him a dirty look. “He’s got another address up in the Hamptons and one in Connecticut. This isn’t the kind of guy you’d expect to be looking for some street action in Chelsea, that’s for sure.”

Sam approached the blanket-draped corpse, stopping just beyond the crime scene tape.

“It’s going to be a long night. Get everything you can find on the victim. And call Richard. Get his ass out of bed, too. He’s the financial expert. Maybe he’ll know something about him.” Sam paused. “How old was he?”

“Fifty-seven. I think he’s on the Forbes richest A-hole list.”

“Didn’t really buy him a nice exit, did it?”

Seth shrugged. “Can’t take it with you, they say.”

“Not with three rounds in your chest, you can’t.”

Seth began making calls. It had only been a few days since the last killing, and the frequency was now completely unpredictable — any pattern theories could be thrown out the window. Maybe Sam was right after all — Seth had never heard of any serials who diverged in so many ways from their stereotype.

Seth looked at his watch and noted that it was now two thirty a.m.. He’d been up since one, which meant he’d get a whopping two hours of sleep today. He rubbed the beginnings of stubble on his chin and pressed the talk button on his two-way.

A lot of agents weren’t going to be happy.

The next morning, Silver took a careful sip of her steaming mug of coffee and logged back into the FBI network, anxious to see if anything had surfaced while she’d slept. She’d stayed up till one before taking a sleeping pill to force herself back onto a normal schedule. She’d woken at nine, surprised it was so late — she was usually up by six thirty every morning, ready to do half an hour of yoga before starting her day. The pill had worked better than expected.

She threw the drapes open and winced as the pale sunlight streamed in. A quick glance at the sidewalk below found no stalkers — the prior evening’s false alarm now seemed silly with a few hours of rest under her belt. That was one of the problems with sleep deprivation and nerves: imagination could easily distort reality, and a man admiring the turn of her leg suddenly became a ninja killer in waiting.

Her computer beeped, and she quickly navigated to her e-mail, then noticed that her phone was blinking. She thumbed through the menu to her voicemail and held the phone to her ear as she simultaneously scanned the e-mail messages on her system.

Two messages on the phone — first one from Seth, time-stamped that morning at six thirty. His voice sounded uncharacteristically tired.

“Hey, it’s Seth. The Regulator struck again. This time a shooting. A hedge fund bigwig. Three shots. No witnesses. You’re probably still asleep like any sane normal person, so I’ll try you back when I get a chance. Sam’s on the warpath and called an all-hands meeting for nine, which will last hours. In the meantime, I’ll forward what we have to your box. Check it at your leisure. Ciao .”

The second message was from Richard at eight o’clock. Same basic information.

She put the phone down and opened Seth’s most recent missive before spending the next twenty minutes reading the preliminary crime scene report. This killing was unlike any of the others, with the exception that the victim was in the financial industry and had been investigated by the SEC five years earlier, but with no charges brought. He’d been subpoenaed, and then the investigation had died. A one-sentence statement from the SEC last year had confirmed that there was no investigation active, so, whatever the suspicions, they had been put to rest. The only reason anyone had even known about it was because he had disclosed the subpoena in his quarterly letter to his investors.

She read further and saw another paragraph on his investment notoriety of late — he’d been one of a blessed few who had made a fortune from the 2008 crash, when betting against the real estate boom. She remembered reading something about that, so she switched to the Internet, opened a new window, and typed in the victim’s name. A slew of articles proclaiming him to be a financial genius appeared, most of them based on his remarkable performance during the crash, when fortuitous bets had made him close to a billion dollars. Others had made far more, with some funds seeing three or more billion in profits, but he had been one of that group — a savvy operator exploiting an engineered fever of madness in the markets.

But why a shooting? If the killer was going to use a gun, why not kill all his victims with one? It made no sense.

Unless she was still missing the symbolism.

Her other e-mail was from the tech she’d sent the photos to. She opened it and read the two-sentence response promising more to come later during the day, with preliminary edits attached.

Silver opened the first in the series and stared at the rendering. It was the New Jersey suspect with a beard superimposed over his driver’s license photo and his mug shot. It didn’t look like the traffic cam man. The second was the driver’s license photo of the old guy. Her breath caught in her throat. Not because of the photo, which didn’t really look much like the traffic footage either. No, because of the eyes. Something about the eyes and nose. She wasn’t sure why, but her heart rate had increased.

She kept staring at his photo, but the elusive sense of being right on the verge of a breakthrough slipped away the more she studied it. Frustrated, she pulled up the traffic cam photo and put it alongside, but other than the two men being male she didn’t see much to go on. She’d been hoping for something more definitive, not the sense that it could have been either of them, or neither.