Archer called up Sachs’s notes and read from the screen.
As she read, Rhyme said, “I can fill in about Greg Frommer. He was a marketing manager for Patterson Systems in New Jersey.”
“What does Patterson do?”
Rhyme recalled what the lawyer had told him. “Fuel injectors. One of the big suppliers.”
She said, “Okay, noted. Now Abe Benkoff?”
“Amelia told me—advertising. Clients were food companies, airlines. I don’t recall.”
Archer read from Sachs’s notes. “He was fifty-eight, advertising account executive. Pretty senior. Clients were Universal Foods, U.S. Auto, Northeast Airlines, Aggregate Computers. He was a New York City resident, lived here all his life. Manhattan.”
Rhyme said, “And Heady, the carpenter?”
Archer read: “He grew up in Michigan and worked in Detroit on an assembly line. Moved here to be closer to his kids and grandkids. Didn’t like retirement so he joined the union and got a job at the theater.” She looked up from the computer screen. “Mayer is a hedge fund manager. Works in Connecticut. Lives in Scarsdale. Wealthy. Can’t find anything about his clients.”
Rhyme said, “Wife.”
“What?”
“Why do we assume that he’s the target? Is he married?”
Archer clicked her tongue. “Damn. Forgive my sexism.” Typing. “Valerie Mayer. She’s a Wall Street trial lawyer.”
“Who are her clients?”
More typing. “No names. But her specialty is representing insurance companies.”
Rhyme, gazing at the screen. He smiled. “We’ll have to wait until we do more research about Valerie, about her clients. But the others—they sure as hell have something in common.”
Archer looked over the chart and Sachs’s notes. “Cars.”
“Ex-actly! Benkoff’s client was U.S. Auto. Heady was on an assembly line and I’ll bet that’s whom he worked for. Did U.S. Auto use Patterson fuel injectors?”
With voice commands, Archer did the search. And, yes, Google dutifully reported that Patterson had been a major supplier of U.S. Auto . . . until about five years ago.
He whispered, “Around the time Frommer quit the company.”
Archer asked, “And Valerie Mayer?”
The criminalist turned to the microphone near his head: “Call Evers Whitmore.”
The phone responded instantly and after two rings a receptionist answered. “Evers Whitmore, please. Now. It’s urgent.”
“Mr. Whitmore is—”
“Tell him Lincoln Rhyme is calling.”
“He’s actually—”
“That’s Lincoln, first name. Rhyme, second. And, as I said, it’s urgent.”
A pause. “One moment.”
Then the lawyer’s voice was saying, “Mr. Rhyme. How are you? How’s—?”
“Don’t have time. You were telling me about a case, a personal injury case, involving a car company. Some internal memo said that it would be cheaper to pay wrongful death claims than fix some dangerous defect in a car. Was it U.S. Auto? I can’t recall.”
“Yes, you’re correct. It was.”
“Valerie Mayer, a trial lawyer in New York. Did she defend the company?”
“No.”
Hell. There went his theory.
Then Whitmore said, “She represented the insurer who covered U.S. Auto against liability suits.”
“Was Patterson Systems involved?”
“Patterson? You mean the company Mr. Frommer worked for? I don’t know. Hold on a moment.”
Silence. Then the lawyer came back on the line. “Yes, the main suit was against U.S. Auto but Patterson was also a defendant. The claim was that both the automaker and the parts supplier knew about the fuel system defect and decided not to change the injectors and the interface with the motors to make them safer.”
“Mr. Whitmore, Evers, I need everything you can send me about the case.”
A pause. “Well, that is somewhat problematic, Mr. Rhyme. For one thing I didn’t work on the suit so I don’t have any source material. Besides, you don’t have room. Or the time to read everything. There were hundreds of cases revolving around the defect, and they went on for years. There have to be ten million documents, I would estimate. Perhaps more. May I ask why—”
“We think our killer—the one using the DataWise controllers as a murder weapon—was targeting people with connections to U.S. Auto.”
“My. Yes, I see. He was injured in one of the accidents because of the fuel system failure?”
“He’s at large, and I was hoping there might be something in the case files that’ll give us a clue where he’s gone.”
“I’ll tell you what I can do, Mr. Rhyme. I’ll have my paralegal send over whatever I can find in the legal press and I’ll get as many of the publicly filed pleadings and discovery documents as I can. And you should check popular reports too. This story, naturally, made the news.”
“I need them ASAP.”
“I’ll make sure it’s done right away, Mr. Rhyme.”
CHAPTER 52
Rhyme and Archer were both online reading about the U.S. Auto case as quickly as they could.
Whitmore had been right. There were more than twelve million hits on Google.
A half hour later the emails from Whitmore started arriving. They divided up the court pleadings and supporting documents and began reading these, as well as the popular press accounts of the case. There were, as Whitmore had mentioned, scores of plaintiffs, those injured in accidents and the relatives of those killed when the cars were engulfed in flames because of the defective fuel system. In addition, the incidents spawned more than a hundred business-related lawsuits for lost revenue by the manufacturers and component parts makers. The more troubling accounts—in the sometimes lurid popular media and in the chilly, clinic court documents—were those of lives shattered. He read testimony about horrific pain from burns and collisions after the gas lines ruptures, scanned accident scene pictures of scorched and shattered bodies and photos of dozens of plaintiffs who’d been injured. Some were hospital pictures of their burns and lacerations. Some were of them stoically marching into and from courthouses. He reviewed them carefully, looking for Griffith’s name or likeness, on the chance that he’d been a victim or related to one.
“Any references to a Griffith?” he called to Archer. “I’m not seeing anything yet.”
“Nothing,” Archer replied. “But I’ve read fifty pages out of looks like a hundred thousand.”
“I’m doing a global search for the name. Nothing yet.”
She said, “That works within a document but I don’t know how to search in unopened ones.”
“Maybe Rodney has a program,” he said. Before he could call the computer expert, though, the doorbell buzzed. Rhyme glanced at the monitor. A woman wearing a nondescript rumpled brown jacket and jeans stood at the front door. She also had a bandage on her face.
“Yes?” he called.
“Is this Lincoln Rhymes? With the NYPD?”
Rhyme had no nameplate on the door; why make it easier for your enemies? He didn’t bother to correct the woman. “Who is this?”
“Alicia Morgan. A police officer, Amelia Sachs, asked me to come by and give a statement. About Vernon Griffith?”
Excellent. “Sure. Come on in.”
He commanded the door to unlock and a moment later he heard footsteps approaching. They paused.
“Hello?”
“We’re in here. To the left.”
The woman walked into the parlor and did a double take, seeing two people in elaborate wheelchairs . . . and scientific equipment worthy of a university research lab. She was petite, attractive, and had short blond hair. Sunglasses partially covered the bruise that peeked from underneath thick bandages. She removed the glasses and Rhyme studied her damaged face.
“I’m Lincoln Rhyme. This is Juliette Archer.”
“Well, hello.”
Archer said, “Thanks for coming by.”
Rhyme’s eyes strayed back to the computer, on which he could see several of the accounts of the cases against U.S. Auto and the fuel injector supplier. He continued to scroll through them.
“How are you?” Archer asked as she too was scanning the woman’s injuries.
“Not too serious.” The woman focused on the room, obviously curious about the wheelchair-bound pair. “Hairline fracture, cheekbone. Concussion.”
Rhyme paused the documents on his monitor and turned to Alicia. “You and Vernon dated?”
She set her purse on the floor and sat in a rattan chair, wincing. There seemed to be a stunned air about her. “That’s right, if you could call it dating. I met him a month or so ago. He was easy to be with. He was quiet and sometimes he would get a little odd. But he was nice to me. Like he never thought anybody would ever go out with him. He’s kind of odd looking, you know. But I never had any idea he be dangerous.” She whispered, eyes wide, “Or kill those people. Officer Sachs told me what he’d done. I couldn’t believe it. He was so talented, making his miniatures. Just . . .” She shrugged. Then winced. She searched in her pockets and found a bottle of pills. Shook two out. She asked Rhyme, “Do you . . . ?” An awkward moment. “Have an assistant? Could I get some water?”
Before Rhyme could say anything Archer said, “No, he’s away now. But there, there’s a bottle of Deer Park. It’s not opened.” She nodded to a shelf.
“Thanks.” Alicia rose and took what was probably something to combat the pain. She returned to the chair but remained standing, collecting her purse and then slipping the pill bottle into it.
“What happened in your apartment?” Rhyme asked. “Earlier today.”
“He showed up, unexpected. He wanted me to go away with him and confessed what he’d done.” A dismayed whisper. “He actually thought I’d understand. He thought I’d support him.”
Rhyme said, “You were lucky someone was nearby. The superintendent of the building, I think Amelia said.”
Yet, as calm as his words were, Lincoln Rhyme’s mind was racing. He was trying to come up with a strategy that would allow him and Archer to survive the next few minutes.
Because the woman he was smiling at right now was someone whose picture he had just seen earlier ago—in one of the press reports on the U.S. Auto case. It was this page that he n ow found again and paused his scrolling. He glanced at it quickly. The photo depicted a woman in a black dress walking from a courthouse on Long Island. He hadn’t recognized her outside; had he done so, he wouldn’t have let her in. When she’d asked if anybody was here to bring her water, he’d been about to say his aid was in the back room, along with another officer, but Archer had pulled the rug out from under that ploy.
Alicia Morgan had sued U.S. Auto and Patterson Systems for the death of her husband and for her own personal injuries—some burns and deep lacerations when the fuel system of the car her husband was driving caught fire and crashed. Rhyme could now see scars of above the high collar of her blouse.
Rhyme now had a good idea of what had happened: Alicia had hired Vernon Griffith to kill those involved in making, marketing, and selling the defective car, and Valerie Mayer, the lawyer who had defended them. Or, in lieu of payment, maybe Alicia had seduced Griffith into doing so for her; Sachs’s search of the crime scene revealed significant sexual activity. Griffith and Alicia had been surprised when Rhyme and the team had learned his identity, and they’d come up with a new endgame; they’d arranged the “assault” in front of a witness, the superintendent of the building, replete with a broken cheekbone.
And the reason for that?
For one, to remove any suspicion that she was involved.
But then why was she here?
Ah, of course. Alicia had plan of her own. She’d steal any evidence that might implicate her and then kill Rhyme and anyone present, planting other clues that would implicate Vernon in the murders. She’d then meet the man and kill him.
And Alicia Morgan, satisfied in her revenge against the auto company, would be home free.
In her purse would be a gun, he guessed. But now that she’d noted her victims were disabled, she’s probably use one of Griffith’s tools to kill him and Archer.
And Mel Cooper wouldn’t be here for hours. Sachs either. Thom would return in about two hours or so, he guessed. Alicia had plenty of time for murder.
Still, he’d have to try. Rhyme glanced at the clock. “Amelia—Detective Sachs—should be back at any moment. She’s much better at interviewing than I am.”
Alicia gave a very faint reaction. Of course, she’d probably just spoken to Sachs and learned that the woman wouldn’t be back for hours.
Rhyme looked past her and said to Juliette Archer, “You’re looking tired.”
“I . . . I am?”
“I think you should go in the other room. Try to sleep.” He looked to Alicia. “Ms. Archer’s condition is more serious than mine. I don’t want her to push herself.”
Archer gave a slight nod and manipulated the controller with her finger. The chair turned. “I think I will, if you don’t mind.”
Motoring toward the doorway.
Alicia, though, stood, strode forward and blocked her. The chair stopped fast.
“What . . . What’re you doing?” Archer asked.
Alicia glanced at Archer as if she were an irritating fly and, grabbing the woman by the collar, pulled her from the chair and let her fall onto the floor. Archer’s head smacked the hardwood.
“No!” Rhyme cried.
Archer said desperately, “I need to be upright! My condition, I—”
Alicia’s response was to deliver a stunning kick to the woman’s head.
Blood pooled on the floor, and, eyes closed, Archer lay still. Rhyme couldn’t tell if she was breathing or not.
Alicia opened her bag, pulled on blue latex gloves and stepped forward fast, ripping the controller from Rhyme’s chair. She walked to the pocket doors to the parlor and closed and locked them.
Rummaging through her bag, she extracted a razor knife—which would, of course, be Vernon’s. It was in a plastic tube and she popped the plastic top off and shook out the tool. Alicia turned the blade Rhyme’s way and stepping closer to the wheelchair.
CHAPTER 53
Iknow about you, Alicia. We made the connection between Griffith’s victims and the U.S. Auto case. I saw your picture in one of the stories.”
This gave her pause. She stopped and cocked her head, clearly considering these implications.
He continued, “I figured right away that you and Griffith faked the assault in your apartment. You made sure the super could hear your fight and come and supposedly rescue you. The minute I saw you outside I hit a special phone code. A speed dial for emergencies.”
Alicia looked past Rhyme to the computer. She typed until she found the call log. No outgoings in the past ten minutes and the most recent callee had not been 911 or NYPD Dispatch but Whitmore’s law firm. She redialed it and they heard through the speaker the matter-of-fact receptionist say, “Law office.” Alicia hung up.
Her face relaxed, as she would be concluding that Rhyme had just made the connection and that no one else knew the truth. She looked around the room. Rhyme noted she wore her age well. Pale eyes, freckles. Few wrinkles. Her hair, blond with gray streaks, was voluminous and rich. The scars were prominent but did not diminish her attractiveness. Vernon would be putty in her hands.
