Paul Johnston - Maps of Hell

I got there in under half an hour. The building was a low-rise office block. Most of the lights were either dimmed or off, but it was brighter up on the second floor. A security guard was standing outside the glass doors.

“NANR?” I asked.

The elderly black man gave me an impenetrable look and then pointed to the elevators. “Second floor,” he said, with a brief shake of his head that attracted my attention.

I stepped closer. “What are they like? I’m a journalist.”

The guard eyed me for a few moments. “Wonderful people,” he said, the irony almost imperceptible. “Wouldn’t say a thing against them.”

“How about anything for them?”

“That neither,” he said, his lips almost forming into a smile. “Are you really a reporter?”

“I write a weekly column.” That wasn’t a lie, though he wouldn’t have heard of my London paper. Then again, I’d forgotten its name until recently. “On crime,” I added.

That got him interested. “Is that right, son? Well, the NANR is always saying it isn’t a criminal organization.” He looked around-we were still alone. “Some might not agree.”

“Why’s that?”

The security guard leaned closer. “I’ll tell you why. Because it’s run by the worst kind of racist pig-the kind who’s learned how to cover up what he thinks about people like me.”

That was interesting, but I needed more. “You got any examples of racist behavior?”

He shook his head. “No, they’re far too smart for that. I’m just going by my gut. The top man here, a guy called Larry Thomson, is the worst. He looks at me like I’m his best friend, but I know for sure he wants to hang me from the nearest tree.”

“Is he here at the moment?”

“Yup.”

“You wouldn’t care to give me the nod when he comes out, would you?”

“What you going to do?”

“Just see where he goes,” I replied. That seemed to disappoint the guard. There was a large concrete plant holder at the side of the steps that I concealed myself behind. Then I sent Joe a text, asking him to run a check on this Larry Thomson.

About an hour later, a group of people came out of the elevator and walked toward the exit. They all nodded politely to the guard, especially the man at the rear. He was tall and fair-haired, with a prominent nose and probably in his late fifties. He was carrying a black leather briefcase and had the bearing of a leader. I looked over at the security guard. He briefly extended a finger at the tall guy’s back as he headed down the steps.

I followed at about twenty paces’ distance and soon realized that Thomson was heading for the metro station I’d come from-the others had all respectfully wished him goodnight and dispersed. I went inside and loitered on the Glenmont platform, then got on the same train that he did and followed him off it at Metro Central. He exited the station and headed north. I’d been thinking about asking him straight out whether the NANR had an armed wing in Maine, but my bravado had dwindled away. Now I was more interested in where he was going. Then I saw we were on the street I’d scoped earlier. As Larry Thomson approached the Woodbridge Holdings building, I started to walk faster and was only about five yards behind him when he turned up the steps. I whipped out my cell phone and managed to take a photo of him without being noticed either by him or the security man who opened the door for him. I saw Thomson go toward a bank of elevators inside as I walked on nonchalantly.

At the next corner, I stopped and sent the photo to Joe, telling him of the link I’d just established between the North American National Revival and Woodbridge Holdings. I was hoping he’d manage to dig the dirt on the tall man. Meanwhile, I’d be subjecting my memory to another bout of the third degree.

Chief Owen was standing outside the apartment building in Lincoln Park, flanked by Clem Simmons and Gerard Pinker. He was looking at the pavement rather than at Peter Sebastian.

“No, there’s no chance of this being a Metro P.D. case,” the FBI man said firmly. “The pair of weapons and the presence of the drawings clearly link it to the series we’ve already taken over.”

Owen raised his eyes briefly. “What about the floater, then? You haven’t tied that to the other murders. I heard the vic was a farmer from Iowa.”

“Actually, we’re not sure he’s connected, but we’re holding on to him for the time being.” He eyed the detectives wearily. “Haven’t you got enough cases of your own to investigate?”

“What about Matt Wells?” Clem Simmons asked, ignoring Pinker’s immediate alarm.

“Our people have found fingerprints that we expect to be his,” Dana Maltravers said. “We haven’t had any sighting of him. You?”

Simmons shrugged. “We aren’t in missing persons, Special Agent.”

“He’s a murder suspect,” Sebastian put in.

“He’s a murder suspect in cases we’ve been excluded from,” Rodney Owen said.

“Is that the level of cooperation we can expect from you, Chief?” Sebastian demanded. “Because if it is, I’ll be on the phone to your superiors right away.”

Owen gave him a haughty stare. “Cooperation is a two-way street.” He looked at his detectives. “Besides, we haven’t got anything to pass on, have we?”

Simmons and Pinker shook their heads.

The group broke up, the detectives heading for their cars.

“Nicely done, Clem,” Pinker said in a low voice.

Chief Owen looked over his shoulder. “I hope you men have been fully open with the Bureau,” he said, a smile appearing at the corners of his mouth. “No, I don’t want to hear about it. Just get the job done.” He got into his Buick and drove off.

“What job’s that, Clem?” Pinker asked as they got into his partner’s car.

“Don’t ask me,” Simmons replied. “Besides, we’ve got cases of our own to investigate.”

Joe Greenbaum was at his desk, his desktop and laptop computers in operation. There was a large bottle of Pepsi on one side of the keyboards and an almost empty box of doughnuts on the other. He hummed tunelessly as his fingers rattled the keys rapidly, his eyes jumping from one screen to the other. He hadn’t succeeded in finding another image of Larry Thomson yet, but he’d gathered other information.

Earlier he had taken a look at Gavin Burdett’s BlackBerry. He’d tried to make sense of the limey banker’s diary, but the guy seemed to keep names and places in his head-there were only times listed for each day. He was certainly having plenty of meetings, though the pages were blank four days from now.

One of Joe’s failings was that he frequently got distracted by what he was working on. That was why he’d had a camera installed outside his apartment, showing not only the vicinity of his door but also the stairway all the way down to the ground floor. He’d also had pressure pads inserted under the first three steps that led to his floor. These things were meant to give him time to call the cops. He’d been attacked by a businessman’s thugs a couple of years back, and he didn’t intend spending another month in hospital.

Those precautions were why the faint sound of scratching on the apartment’s steel-lined door took Joe completely by surprise. He looked at the screens showing the landing and staircase. They had gone blank. He immediately grabbed the phone; no dial tone. By the time he’d located his cell and started pressing buttons, it was too late. There was a dull crump and smoke billowed in from the shattered door. Joe slid beneath his desk, catching his broad shoulders in the narrow space.

“Please, Mr. Greenbaum, do get up.”

Joe was amazed on two counts-the voice was cultured and it was female.