Skeleton Justice Page 9

  “So, Travis is a chemistry whiz?”

  “Oh, yes! He won a special competi—” Maureen stopped mid-gush and turned on Manny. “Don’t tell me you think Travis built that bomb?”

  “No.” Maybe not at this very moment, but try me again tomorrow. “But, Maureen,” Manny continued, “it’s important that I know absolutely every detail of Travis’s life that the prosecution could possibly use against him.”

  Maureen rose and paced around the room. “I always knew Paco would manage to get Travis into trouble, but I figured it would be for something like cheating on homework or drinking at a party. Not this—federal terrorism! What could I do? I tried to reason with Travis, but he wouldn’t hear one bad word about his friend. Travis was always a little socially backward. He had his own interests, which kept him occupied. Paco ushered him into the circle of cool kids. Travis would do anything for that boy.”

  “Our goal is to get Paco to do something for Travis. Why is he being so elusive? Can we appeal to his parents? Do you know them?”

  Maureen shoved her hands into the pockets of her aqua nurse’s smock. “I don’t have the free time during the day to volunteer at the Monet Academy the way some of the mothers do. I don’t know any of those women well.”

  Manny felt a flash of sympathy. Poor Maureen was excluded from the Monet in-crowd as surely as her son had been.

  “You’ve never met the Sandovals at school concerts or sporting events?”

  “They’re often traveling. I see more of them in the society pages of the Sunday Times than at school. But I did see them once at the senior class play. Paco had a small part, but Mrs. Sandoval was carrying on like he was Matthew Broderick. Ambassador Sandoval looked bored and irritated. He’s very severe—nothing like Paco, even though there’s a physical resemblance.”

  “So you like Paco?”

  Maureen shrugged. “It’s hard not to. He’s funny and charming and has beautiful manners. Every inch the diplomat’s son. At first, I was thrilled that he befriended Travis. Paco helped my son fit in at Monet. Travis’s first two years there were rough. He was constantly pressuring me to let him transfer to public school. Then Paco came along, and Travis started to enjoy school.”

  “And then something happened?” Manny prompted.

  Maureen shrugged again. “Nothing dramatic. Just these past few months, Travis hasn’t talked to me as much; he’s secretive, and I don’t always know where he is.” She fiddled with the stethoscope that still hung around her neck. “But everyone told me that was normal. ‘He’s growing up,’ they’d say. ‘You have to let him go.’ And now look what’s happened. I—”

  Manny jumped up from the couch, hoping to avert another full-scale emotional breakdown. She glanced at her watch. “It’s nearly four—shouldn’t Travis be home by now?” A twinge of worry rose up in her throat, but she pushed it resolutely down. She was the lawyer, not the overprotective mother of an only child.

  Maureen looked at her own watch in alarm. “He’s always home by now. He certainly wouldn’t have stayed after school without calling. Not with all that’s going on.” She rose and looked out the window. “Unless there was some delay on the subway …” Maureen’s upper lip trembled. “What could have happened? Should I call the school?”

  “Wait a minute.” Manny looked over at the two closed bedroom doors. “Is it possible Travis has been home all this time? You said you just walked in before I arrived. Maybe he’s in his room, plugged into his iPod.” The worry subsided. That must be it. She suspected Travis was none too eager to talk to her again. He was probably lurking in his room, trying to postpone the inevitable for as long as possible.

  Relief flooded the mother’s face and she strode down the hall. “You’re probably right. I’m always calling him and he never hears me.” She rapped sharply on the first door. “Travis, honey, are you in there? Ms. Manfreda is here to talk to us.”

  She opened the door without waiting for an answer, Manny right on her heels.

  For a moment, all Manny could discern by the dim light of the shaded window were papers and clothes. Piles of each covered the floor, the bed, and every other level surface. The next thing she noticed was the electronic hum emitted by not one but three computers—two desktop, one laptop—and assorted other speakers, hard drives, routers, and mice. Was that lump in the bed Travis, or just a tangle of sheets and blankets? Maureen flicked on the wall switch and light flooded the room.

  Manny watched as Maureen’s eyes darted back and forth, desperately searching for Travis, willing him to be there. She stepped forward to examine the interconnected maze of computers that occupied the desk and a folding table in the corner of the room.

  “Quite a bit of equipment he’s got here.” Manny sized it up—the very latest models. Ironically, the deluxe Apple laptop was one that she had wanted for herself but had passed up in favor of a spree at the Henri Bendel trunk show new designer event.

  “Computers are Travis’s passion. He earned the money to buy most of this. Never needed any help getting a job from the school placement office.”

  Manny estimated the equipment before her added up to about two decades’ worth of babysitting. The more she learned about Travis, the more he worried her.

  Next to the desk was a bookcase. Three shelves were jammed with books; the top shelf was empty. Maureen saw Manny looking at it. “That’s where the police took away Travis’s books.”

  “Maureen, why didn’t they take his computers?”

  “Well, truth be known, Travis had moved them to a friend’s house the day before he was arrested. An old one was here on the desk, and the FBI did take that,” Maureen explained.

  The more Manny heard the more she worried Travis was guilty.

  “It also seems like they took a lot more books than what he had for his comparative religion class.”

  “Travis got interested in the subject and did more than the required reading.” Maureen got huffy “I’ve always encouraged his intellectual curiosity.”

  “Mmm. How long would you say he’s had this interest in Islam?”

  Maureen turned away and began folding the scattered clothes on the bed. “I don’t know. It’s not like he talked to me about it. I’m just dumb old mom.” Suddenly, her shoulders began to shake. “If his father had lived, none of this would’ve happened. Travis always talked to his dad.”

  Maureen was bigger than Manny, which made hugging her awkward. Manny improvised with a few awkward pats on the back. As she administered this aid, something in the tangle of Travis’s clothes caught her eye: black-and-white checks, fringe. She pulled at it. An Arab man’s head scarf emerged from the pile. A kaffiyeh, the same pattern Yasser Arafat always wore.

  Manny held it up. “Does he wear this much?”

  Maureen snatched it away. “I’ve never seen that before. He must’ve … Someone must have given it to him.”

  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 t
ake 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 résumé 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?

  Jake let the magazine drop, no longer even pretending to read. Manny was still poring over something on the computer. Sam sat text-messaging furiously on his cell phone. Even Mycroft was electronically bewitched, enthralled by an Animal Planet show set on mute. Jake shifted his lanky frame. He didn’t need hardware, software, or a wireless connection to do what needed to be done. He just needed to let all the information on this case stored in his brain come together in some coherent form.

  He shut his eyes and let his active mind disconnect from the present, willing his subconscious to take over. Victims seemingly without a connection. Except blood. Blood must tie them together. Blood ties… Blood is thicker than water. …

  The doorbell rang. Manny leaped up from the computer. “It’s the deliveryman from the Great Wall. C’mon, guys—dinnertime!”

  Jake rose and stood rubbing his temples as his brother, the dog, and Manny rushed past.

  Manny glanced back at him. “Wha
t’s the matter? Did you doze off?”

  Jake shook his head. “No. Something is there, just out of my reach. It will come, if I let it.”

  “I’m telling you, it will work.” Manny’s chopsticks dived into the white cardboard container and pulled out a clump of kung pao chicken. “According to the Style section of the Times, three of the last five fund-raising events Monserrat Sandoval attended had to do with animal welfare. The Howliday Ball, the World Wildlife Foundation dinner, and the ASPCA Companion Animal Luncheon. Mycroft and I have to get ourselves invited to that one next year.”

  “Better start accepting cases that actually pay,” Sam advised. “You’ll need to cough up twenty grand.”

  “All right, year after next. But don’t you see? This is the perfect entrée for me to get in to see her.”

  “Purr-fect,” Sam mimicked.

  “Purr-fect,” Jake chimed in.

  Manny flicked a water chestnut across the table, scoring a direct hit on Jake’s beaky nose. “You two need to be separated.”

  “So, you pose as the representative of some animal lover’s charity and you talk your way in to see her.” Jake wiped off his face and slipped the water chestnut to Mycroft. “Then what? ‘Señora Sandoval, please make a donation to our bark-a-thon, and by the way, can I speak to your son, Paco? Are you harboring any fugitives here?’”

  “Scientists!” Manny shook her head. “You have no imagination whatsoever. Just leave the strategy to me. I’ll have your part all worked out for you.”

  “My part? What do you mean, my part?”

  Manny’s blue eyes opened wide. “Well, of course I can’t pull this off alone. It’s a two-person operation.” She patted Jake on the knee. “And you are coming with me.”

  He nudged her away. “I can’t. I have a lot of work to do.”

  “Oh, real nice, Jake. After all the times I’ve saved your ass at work, now when I need you, you’re too damn busy.”

  Jake bristled. “When have you ever saved my ass at work?”