Glenn Cooper - Secret of the Seventh Son

Q. Why couldn’t they meet the agent?

A. They would try to make him available at the next press conference.

Q. Is he in the room now?

A.

Wright looked at Sue Sanchez, who was seated in the first row, his eyes pleading for her to control her guy. She looked around and spotted Will standing off to the side; the only thing she could do was fix him with a death stare.

She thinks I’m a loose canon, Will thought. Well, it’s time to start the iron rolling. I’m the Special Agent in charge. I didn’t want the case but it’s mine now. If they want me, here I am. “Right here!” He raised his hand. He’d faced the press dozens of times during his career and this kind of stuff was old hat-he was anything but camera-shy.

Nancy saw the horrified look on Sanchez’s face, and as a reflex almost grabbed him by the sleeve. Almost. He bounded toward the podium with a wicked bounce to his step as the TV cameras swung to stage left.

Benjamin Wright could do nothing except: “Okay, Special Agent Will Piper will answer a limited number of questions. Go ahead, Will.” As the two men crossed, Wright whispered, “Keep it short and watch your step.”

Will smoothed his hair with his hand and stepped up to the podium. The alcohol and its by-products were fully out of his system and he was feeling good, even feisty. Let’s mix it up, he thought. He was photogenic, a big sandy-haired man with broad shoulders, a dimpled chin, and superbly blue eyes. Somewhere a TV director in a control room was saying, “Get in close on that guy!”

The first question was-how do you spell your name?

“Like the Pied Piper, P-I-P-E-R.”

The reporters edged forward on their chairs. Did they have a live one? A few of the older ones whispered to each other, “I remember this guy. He’s famous.”

How long have you been with the FBI?

“Eighteen years, two months, and three days.”

Why do you keep track so precisely?

“I’m detail oriented.”

What’s your experience with serial killings?

“I’ve spent my entire career working these cases. I’ve been agent-in-charge of eight of them, the Asheville Rapist, the White River Killer in Indianapolis, six others. We caught all of them, we’ll catch this one too.”

Why don’t you have a profile of the killer yet?

“Believe, me, we’ve been trying, but he’s not profilable in a conventional way. No two murders are alike. There’s no pattern. If it weren’t for the warning postcards, you wouldn’t know the cases were connected.”

What’s your theory?

“I think we’re dealing with a very twisted and very intelligent man. I have no idea what’s motivating him. He wants attention, that’s a certainty, and thanks to you he’s getting it.”

You think we shouldn’t be covering this?

“You don’t have a choice. I’m just stating a fact.”

How are you going to catch him?

“He’s not perfect. He’s left clues, which I’m not going to go into for obvious reasons. We’ll get him.”

What’s your bet? Is he going to strike again?

“Let me answer that this way. My bet is that he’s watching this on TV right now, so I’m saying this to you.” Will stared straight into the cameras. Those blue eyes. “I will catch you and I will put you down. It’s only a matter of time.”

Wright, who was hovering, practically hip-checked Will away from the mikes. “Okay, I think that’s it for today. We’ll let you know the time and location of our next briefing.”

The press rose to their feet and one voice, a female reporter from the Post, rose above the others and screamed out, “Promise us you’ll bring the Pied Piper back!”

Number 941 Park Ave was a solid cube, a thirteen-story brick prewar, its two lower floors clad in fine white granite, the lobby done up tastefully in marble and chintz. Will had been there before, retracing David Swisher’s last steps from the lobby to the precise spot on 82nd Street where the blood had drained from his body. He had walked the walk in the same predawn darkness, and lowering himself on his haunches, right on the spot-still discolored despite a good scrubbing from the sanitation department-had tried to visualize the last thing the victim might have seen before his brain went off-line. A section of mottled sidewalk? A black iron window grate? The rim on a parked car? A thin oak rising out of a square of compacted dirt?

The tree, hopefully.

As expected, Helen Swisher rubbed Will the wrong way. She had played too hard to get these past weeks with her telephone tag, her scheduling problems, her out-of-town travel. “She was a victim’s wife, for Christ’s sake,” he had vented to Nancy, “not a goddamned suspect! Show some fucking cooperation, why don’t you?” Then, while he was in the middle of being blessed out by Sue Sanchez over his Al Haig, “I’m in charge here” performance at the press conference, wifey rang his mobile just to let him know he needed to be punctual as her time was extremely limited. And the topper-she greeted them at Apartment 9B with a faraway look of condescension, like they were carpet cleaners there to roll up one of the Persians.

“I don’t know what I can tell you that I haven’t already told the police,” Helen Swisher said as she led them through a palladium arch into the living room, a formidable expanse overlooking Park Avenue. Will stiffened at the decor and furnishings-all this fineness, a lifetime’s salary shoveled into one room, decorators-gone-wild heirloom furniture, chandeliers and rugs, each the price of a good car.

“Nice place,” Will said, his eyebrows arched.

“Thank you,” she replied coolly. “David liked to read the Sunday paper in here. I’ve just put it on the market.”

They sat and she immediately began fiddling with the band of her wristwatch, a signal they were on the clock. Will sized her up quickly, a miniprofile. She was attractive in a horsey kind of way, her looks enhanced by perfect hair and a designer suit. Swisher was Jewish, she wasn’t, probably a Wasp from old money, a banker and a lawyer who met, not through social circles, but on a deal. This gal wasn’t a cold fish, she was frozen. Her lack of visible grief didn’t mean she wasn’t attached to her husband-she probably liked him fine-it was simply a reflection of her ice-in-the-veins nature. If he ever had to sue someone, someone he really hated, this was the woman he’d want.

She made eye contact exclusively with him. Nancy might as well have been invisible. Subordinates, such as the law associates at Helen’s white-shoe firm, were implements, background features. It was only when Nancy opened her notebook that Helen acknowledged her presence with a dimpling scowl.

Will thought it was pointless to start with manufactured sympathy. He wasn’t selling and she wasn’t buying. Right out of the box he asked, “Do you know any Hispanic men who drive a blue car?”

“Goodness!” she replied. “Has your investigation become that narrowed?”

He ignored the question. “Do you?”

“The only Hispanic gentleman I know is our former dog walker, Ricardo. I have no idea if he owns a car.”

“Why former?”

“I gave David’s dog away. Funnily enough, one of the EMTs that morning from Lenox Hill Hospital took a shine to him.”

“Can I get Ricardo’s contact information?” Nancy asked.

“Of course,” she sniffed.

Will asked, “If you had a dog walker, why was your husband walking it the morning he was killed?”

“Ricardo only came in the afternoon, while we were at work. David walked him otherwise.”

“Same time every morning?”

“Yes. About five A.M.”

“Who knew his routine?”

“The night doorman, I suppose.”

“Did your husband have any enemies? The kind who might want him dead?”