Michael Baden - Skeleton justice

Yes, someone. Who?

Manny turned back to the computers and noticed a piece of paper taped to one of the monitors. She squinted to read the teenage scrawl:

Mom-

Don't touch any of this. Don't move the phone. I'll be back soon.

T

Maureen had been reading along, too, and as her eyes scanned the words, her fingers tightened their grip on Manny's arm. "What? What does he mean, 'back soon'? He can only be here or in school; that's what the FBI said."

Manny took in everything before her-the computers, the phone, the note-but her ability to process the information stalled. The last time she had experienced this sense of slow-motion impending doom, her sports car had been sliding off an icy road, heading for a massive oak. Now in Travis's room, the crash came as pieces of the puzzle clicked together.

"He's rigged some way to override the monitoring system." Manny's voice, flat and dead, hung in the air like another of the apartment building's bad smells.

"What do you mean? That can't be." Maureen's spiral of panic kept rising. "If you take off the ankle bracelet, the FBI knows right away. They explained all that to us."

"He hasn't taken it off," Manny explained. "The bracelet transmits a signal back to the FBI through the phone line. Travis has figured a way to send that signal using this laptop. He's a kid, understands electronics better than the feds-a Kevin Mitnick devotee. Travis must have figured that as long as he keeps the signal transmitting somehow through wireless relay stations going back only to this phone, it looks like the bracelet signal is coming from this apartment on West Ninety-seventh Street."

Maureen's head swiveled back and forth, searching for an answer, looking for an escape from the truth. "You mean, you mean he's out in the city and we don't know where? But how did he do it?"

"I'm not sure exactly, but it must be working, or there would be a dozen federal agents busting down the door right now." Manny rubbed her temples. "The question is, How long can he keep it up?" Manny glanced at her watch. "I'll give him until seven p.m. to get back in here. Then I'm going to have to report this to the FBI."

"No, you can't!" Maureen pleaded.

"I have no choice, Maureen. I'll be disbarred otherwise."

"But what if he doesn't come back?"

"He'll go back to jail. And nothing I can do will get him out."

Jake stared long and hard at the two people he cared most about in the world. A full thirty seconds passed before he could bring himself to speak. "Let me get this straight. You"-he nodded at Sam-"are under suspicion of murder for a gangland-style slaying in Kearny. And you"-he turned to Manny-"risked disbarment by waiting three hours before reporting your client had broken out of the federal electronic monitoring system while you consoled his mother."

"That's it in a nutshell," Sam said. "I must say, you have a real knack for succinct summary."

"Should have been a lawyer," Manny muttered sheepishly. She was seated at one end of the sofa, and Sam was sprawled at the other end.

"I'm flabbergasted," Jake continued. "There's no question what you have to do. Sam, you've got to go to the Kearny police and explain everything that happened-"

"Not so easy, bro," Sam said, interrupting him. "I didn't hurt Boo Hravek, but I did knock out his bodyguard. I can't risk getting arrested for assault." He grinned at his brother. "Bad for my career."

As Jake was never sure exactly what his brother's career was, he was in no position to argue the point. But he felt fairly confident his brother wasn't an enforcer for the mob, and that was the only job he could think of where an assault conviction would be a resume plus.

"And what about you, Manny? I suppose you're going to condone Travis's escape from custody by claiming he should never have been in the monitoring program in the first place."

Manny rubbed her tired eyes so hard that her mascara wept onto her cheekbones. "This morning, I would have said he didn't deserve to be in the monitoring program. Now, I'm not so sure. Face it: A kid who's smart enough to override his ankle bracelet is smart enough to have built a bomb."

"So, you've reported his absence to the feds. Let them handle it." Jake spoke in the level, logical tone he used when directing the work of his assistants. He expected to receive the respectful, attentive response he always got from them. Of course he was wrong.

Manny pulled her long legs up and wrapped her arms around them. "I can't," she wailed. "I don't trust them."

She jumped off the sofa, kicking over a pile of Jake's books. "I can't send him back to jail for months, and give the prosecution more damning evidence, without doing something to help him. I'm sure that Travis must have done this so he could meet up with his buddy Paco. But the feds refuse to put pressure on the Sandovals. If I could break through the wall that's been thrown up around Paco, I'd probably find Travis."

"You've tried calling?"

Manny cut him off with an impatient wave. "I've tried everything. I call the parents, I get some social secretary who very politely takes my message, but no one returns my call. I call Paco's cell phone and get rolled over immediately to voice mail. I'm telling you, caller ID is a curse. I go to their apartment building, I can't get past the concierge."

"They must leave the building sometime. Stand outside and wait."

"They come and go in their chauffeur-driven car, which enters and exits through the building's garage," Manny said. "It's one of scores of black Town Cars that come and go from that building all day long."

"Ah, lifestyles of the rich and not quite famous," Sam said. "I think-"

Manny was now pacing around the room. "Sam, you are brilliant. I take back everything I ever said about you."

Sam stood and preened like Mycroft until he realized that Manny's compliment contained a Trojan horse. "What? What have you been saying about me?"

"Lifestyles of the rich-that's how I can get through to the Sandovals. Maureen Heaton said she sees their picture in the society pages of the Times." Manny scanned the cluttered room. "Jake, where's your laptop?"

Jake went over to the paper-strewn table under the front window and reluctantly retrieved his computer. He felt like he was handing an alcoholic a bottle of Absolut, but there's was no holding back when Manny was in one of these moods.

"What are you looking for?" Sam asked as Manny pulled up the New York Times Web site.

Her mouth slightly open, her fingers flying over the keyboard, her eyes riveted on the screen, Manny didn't answer.

"Sam, you might as well order the takeout. She won't stop when she gets like this until she's found what she wants." Jake picked up the most recent issue of the Journal of Forensic Sciences. "She'll tell us when she's ready."

Jake sat in the worn leather club chair and blocked out Manny, his brother, and the world with the drab blue-and-gray-covered magazine. After ten minutes, he realized he'd read the same paragraph on the relationship between wound patterns and the sexual psychosis of the assailant three times and still didn't have a clue what the author was saying. His mind kept looping back to the Vampire.

What was the killer after? Why had he merely drawn blood from the first few people, then escalated to torture and murder in the case of Amanda Hogaarth? Had he resorted to torture because whatever information he was seeking from the blood wasn't enough for his purposes?

Had the Vampire intended to kill her, or was her death simply an unintended consequence of the torture? How had he gained access to her apartment, when Ms. Hogaarth obviously wasn't the type to open her door to anyone who came knocking?

The only means Jake had to understanding the Vampire was through his victims, but they all seemed such ciphers, especially Ms. Hogaarth. So far as anyone knew, she had never been married. Her body said unequivocally that she had never given birth. She was old and dowdy. So why had the Vampire chosen this particular form of sexual torture?