Sam Bourne - The Chosen One

Shortly after four thirty in the morning, she felt the vibration of a text arriving on her BlackBerry. It was from her sister:

Call me urgently. Something strange is happening. Liz.

She was half-way through dialling the Dublin number when another message arrived, this time from Sanchez.

The police want to see you. Now. Take the next plane to New York.

New York, JFK Airport, Monday March 27, 14.41

They met her off the plane, a detective in plain clothes with two uniformed officers hanging close by. They led her away from the other passengers, towards what they called an ‘interview suite’, in fact a blank room containing a desk and three chairs.

The detective introduced himself as Charles Bridge. In his early forties, African-American and unsmiling, he got straight to business.

‘Want to thank you for coming to New York right away. We appreciate that.’

Maggie nodded, her heart throbbing. What was this about?

The detective glanced at a piece of paper. ‘It took us a while to get hold of you, you know.’

‘Yes?’ Maggie said, reluctant to offer anything more.

Still examining the piece of paper, he said, ‘Yep. A long time. Tried your cell, that just rang out. No response on email. Seemed like you’d just disappeared.’

‘My phone was stolen. Along with my wallet and computer. In Washington State.’

‘That right?’ Bridge looked at the paper again then back up at Maggie. ‘Do you know why we wanted to see you, Miss Costello?’

‘I know that my friend Nick du Caines is dead.’

‘That’s right. Why else? If you had to guess.’

Maggie thought of the drink she’d had with him last Thursday. If she mentioned it, she would have to say what they discussed. ‘I’m not sure.’

‘Because, Miss Costello, the last call Mr du Caines made was to you. To your number.’

‘To me?’

‘That’s right. To your home number.’

‘When?’

‘His phone says he placed the call at three minutes past eleven last night. Your answering machine confirms that. And, based on what the neighbours have told us, about the noises coming from Mr du Caines’s apartment, we think that’s the time of death.’

‘Did you just say my answering machine confirms that? How do you know that?’

‘We’ve got the machine, Miss Costello.’

‘You’ve what? How?’

‘We tried to contact you by all available means, calling your home number, your cellphone. We contacted your employer-’ he glanced back down at his sheet of paper, ‘-excuse me, your former employers at the White House, and they had no idea how to reach you. We had no choice but to obtain a warrant and make an entry into your apartment and impound the machine.’

‘You broke into my apartment?’

‘Our colleagues in Washington made an entry on our behalf, yes.’

‘Jesus Christ!’ Maggie’s mind was racing as she thought of what was there, what might have been seen. Had she left anything out that might point to the Forbes business? ‘And did you find anything, on my machine, I mean?’

‘We’ll come to that, Miss Costello. Right now, I’m just puzzled why a man who is being beaten and strangled, who would have known he was at the end of his life, would call your number in his death throes. We’ve heard the message. He doesn’t even try to speak to you. Why would anyone do that?’

‘What are you suggesting, Detective?’

‘I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just wondering. I mean, he didn’t dial your cellphone, did he?’

‘I told you, my cellphone was stolen. That number didn’t work any more.’

‘But he calls your home number. Almost like that was the only way he could lead us to you.’

‘Lead you to me? I don’t understand.’

‘Nothing to understand right now, Miss Costello.’

‘I don’t like your tone, Detective.’ Maggie could feel her face growing flushed. ‘I don’t like what you’re insinuating. Nick du Caines was a very dear friend of mine. And I was on the other side of the country when he died. I’ve just flown in from bloody Idaho.’

‘You need to keep calm, Miss Costello. I’m not insinuating anything. I’m just asking some questions.’

‘I want to hear this message.’

‘Well, I’m not sure-’

‘It’s my property. It was on my machine, he left it for me.’

‘This is evidence in the case now, Miss Costello, I can’t-’

‘That answering machine is my legal property. And right now I am a witness, no more. If you want to arrest me, go ahead. Until you do, I have the right to hear what’s on that tape.’

The detective pulled out his phone and retreated to the corner of the room to make a call. He was talking in a low voice, apparently to a superior. He returned to his chair looking glum. ‘Apparently, the advice is that we should play the message to you. See if you can shed any light on it.’

He produced a laptop computer, pressed a few keys and then clicked on an audio file. From the machine’s small speakers, Maggie now heard a beep, followed by a distant sound of objects clattering off a desk.

Then she heard Nick, bellowing in pain. He must have been winded by an almighty punch: Ennnnn !

It was terrible to listen to, the horror of it real and direct. Even distorted by transmission to her answering machine and from there to the audio file, she could hear the fleshy thud of blows to Nick’s body followed by exhalations of pain:

Ayyy !

To think she had brought this on him. It was as if she were there, watching as Nick gasped and kicked out, the breath of life squeezed out of him.

It lasted another full, murderous minute, until an electronic voice announced: You have ten more seconds to complete your message . There was a last gasp from Nick – Phwaw ! – and finally it was over.

Maggie’s head was dipped low as she stared at the floor. The detective spoke again.

‘It’s harrowing to hear. I know that. But why would he do it? Like I said before, he doesn’t do anything except leave a recording of his own death. There’s no message to you.’

A small spark suddenly broke through Maggie’s grief. ‘Can you play it again, please?’

‘Why?’

‘I’m not sure. Just play it again.’

‘Did you hear something?’

‘Maybe.’

Reluctantly, he clicked on the file a second time, watching Maggie closely throughout as she listened. Ninety seconds later, he raised his eyebrows. ‘So?’

‘I’m sorry, Detective. I was wrong.’ She had to look away from him as she lied, repeating what she had heard in her mind, just to be sure.

‘Any idea why he would call you at such a time?’

‘Look, Mr Bridge. This is awkward. I had a drink with Nick last Thursday. He was an old friend but he always wanted it to be something more. He said some things to me last week.’ She looked up briefly at the detective, so that their eyes met. ‘Romantic things. I wonder if Nick was just trying to say goodbye.’

The detective held her gaze and Maggie willed herself to meet it without flinching or flushing. Then, apparently satisfied, he nodded to the uniformed men that the interview was over, packed his computer away and showed Maggie to the door – after he had taken her new cellphone number. ‘We’ll be in touch again if we need any more from you, Miss Costello.’

Released back onto the airport concourse, Maggie tried to walk away as nonchalantly as possible, in case the cops were watching her. She forced herself to be patient, to take the elevator to another floor before whipping out her computer and acting on the information Nick du Caines had passed to her as his last, dying act.