Richard Doetsch - The 13th Hour

“Let me ask you a question,” Marcus said. “On the bottom of the letter, there was that strange writing…”

Nick pulled out the letter and looked at the bottom:

“I’m not sure what it says,” Nick said.

“I’ve never seen that language before.”

“Neither have I, but I don’t have time to worry about it.”

“What ultimately happens to you?” Marcus asked.

“They arrest me for her murder.”

“My God, this is insane.”

“That’s what you say when they come to arrest me right here.” Nick pointed at the library.

“You’re arrested?” Marcus asked in disbelief. “Here?”

“You nearly knocked out the cops trying to stop them.” Nick smiled. “I never thanked you for that.”

“You’re welcome,” Marcus said with confusion. “I think-this is nuts.”

“They kick in your door.”

“What door?” Marcus asked through gritted teeth.

“Two doors, actually,” Nick said apologetically. “Front and library.”

“Dammit. They’re both expensive.”

“But you’ll be happy to know the Yankees beat the Red Sox again.”

“Ooh, that’s another thousand Mitch owes me. I should give him a call now, offer him double or nothing.”

“They win off a Jeter grand slam in the bottom of the ninth, six to five.”

“Oh, I’m definitely calling him.”

Nick smiled but it faded as he handed a sheet of paper to Marcus. “I’ve got the license plate of the car driven by her killer.”

“Nick,” Marcus said, trying to be a voice of reason in an illogical situation. “Give it to the police.”

“For a murder that hasn’t happened?”

“You can’t screw around with this. Call them.”

“I already did; they weren’t very helpful.” Nick took a deep breath. “Every cop in town is at the crash site. No one is going to deal with this before she is killed.”

“You should show them the picture on your phone.”

“They’d lock me up as crazy and then she’d still die.”

Nick picked the watch up off the desk and looked at the time: 4:30. “Please, help me find who owns the car? I don’t have a lot of time.”

Marcus looked at Nick with sympathetic eyes as he picked up and dialed his phone. “Helen?” he said, and continued without waiting for her response, “I need you to pull Nancy, Jim, Kevin, George, Jean, KC, Jackie, and Steve into the conference room now. Fire drill.”

“Can I borrow your computer?” Nick whispered.

Marcus nodded as Nick sat down in front of the three screens, each filled with financial models, stock tickers, and news wires.

“Use the center one,” Marcus said he walked out of the library, the phone pressed to his ear. “This is what I need…”

Nick placed the Palm Pilot in front of the computer and sent the files via infrared to Marcus’s system. As before, six files popped up on the screen.

He quickly jumped to the second file, the multiple video images filling the screen. There was no audio, giving the footage a cheap, student-film feel. With a click of the mouse, Nick highlighted and enlarged an image, allowing him to focus entirely on the large, brushed-steel door. He fast-forwarded to the point of the door slowly opening to reveal the dark-haired man and froze the video.

He hit print and pulled the grainy but distinctive image from the printer. The man was painfully thin, dressed in a white oxford, his face gaunt, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses.

Nick looked hard at the printed image and back up to its original on the monitor, but couldn’t see inside the collar of the man’s shirt. Nick dug in his pocket and pulled out the St. Christopher medal, checking its length, realizing that it would hang below the man’s shirt to at least the second button.

Nick clicked play and watched the video for a few more seconds before the image turned to white snow. He fast-forwarded through twenty more minutes of the white static before the file ended.

He went on to the third file, finding images of bedrooms and living rooms, fast-forwarding, finding no movement throughout the twenty-minute snippet. On the fourth and fifth files he saw images he recognized, images of the safe, the storage facility, views of hallways and conference rooms. The images cycled from the unbroken display case where a host of elegant swords, knives, and guns had rested before they were snatched away, to Hennicot’s office, to the imposing steel safes where both doors were closed and secured. Then, starting at 11:15 on the time print, the images from both files turned to white snow.

Nick clicked on the sixth and final file, but instantly hit a roadblock. A window popped up stating File Not Recognized. He checked it again, reloading it from the Palm Pilot as Marcus came back into the room.

“It looks encrypted,” Marcus said, looking over Nick’s shoulder. “Probably an eyes-only file.”

Nick pulled out and looked at the pocket watch. Only ten minutes left in the hour. He hadn’t gleaned as much information from the files as he thought he would.

“What did you find?” Marcus asked.

“Not much.” Nick handed the printed image of the man to Marcus. “It looks like the robbery started at 11:15 on the button.”

“Okay,” Marcus said as he studied the picture. “You’ve got a face. That’s a pretty good start.”

“If I had a month, yeah. I’ve only got a few more hours.”

“You may have gotten a face but I got a bit more,” Marcus said, reading from the fax printout in his hand. “Your Chevy is a rental.”

“Shit.” Nick shook his head.

“Relax,” Marcus read through the fax as he handed Nick a picture of a square-faced man, his blond hair brushed back. Judging by the collar of his shirt and the width of his tie, it was obviously an old image, at least twenty years old. “His name is Paul Dreyfus.”

Nick compared the two images. Nowhere near the same man.

“How the hell am I supposed to use that? He can be any schmo riding around.”

“Give me a little more credit, will you? I had everyone in my office drop what they were doing and check this guy out.” Marcus continued reading. “Pretty successful guy, lives on the Main Line in Haverford, Pennsylvania. Married, two kids, pretty boring life. Doesn’t like to do much except fly his own plane.”

“He came from Philly?” Nick said, surprised.

“Get this. My guys are so thorough,” Marcus said with pride as he looked at Nick. “He flew up in his own plane today into Westchester Airport, but when we checked, there’s no record of him departing out of any airport in Philly or Jersey.”

“Maybe you missed an airport, does it really matter where he came in from?”

“We don’t know yet, Sherlock,” Marcus said with a smile. “Hertz has a contract with his firm. They delivered the vehicle to the private jet terminal at 8:35 this morning. Right to him as he exited his plane.”

“Okay,” Nick said, urging his friend on. “If he’s going to commit a robbery then why leave an obvious paper trail by renting a car?”

“One piece at a time, okay?” Marcus said. “He works for DSG, he’s known as the security guru to the wealthy. Next to Michael St. Pierre at Secure Systems, he’s thought to be the best security system designer in the business. He’s the CEO, the owner actually, along with his brother Sam. They’re the top security company in the country. He is Dreyfus Security Group.”

“It was an inside job,” Nick said matter-of-factly.

“From what my people can find, he’s got over fifty million in various assets around the globe. He’s worth a hell of a lot. My bet is he probably made his money with sticky fingers or selling pass codes.”