By Blood Written Page 21

  Then, five years ago, he’d published The First Letter. Six months later, The Second Letter was released. Two months after that, Schiftmann quit his day job, this time for good.

  After four years of wandering in the desert, Michael Schiftmann had suddenly become a publishing dynamo.

  And, he thought, a cash cow for everyone involved.

  Hank looked up from his desk and stared out the window.

  Outside, it was dark. He looked at his watch and was surprised to find it was almost seven. He’d been at this twelve hours almost nonstop. Somehow, the time seemed to go by quickly.

  To the untrained eye, Hank thought, there was nothing in Michael Schiftmann’s past that would jump out and shout

  “murderer.” To the outside onlooker, Schiftmann looked more like a troubled kid from a troubled background who triumphed over every obstacle to succeed beyond his most impossible-to-imagine dreams. He wasn’t an ice-cold sociopath, a stone killer; he was the American dream personified.

  He was a literary Horatio Alger.

  But, little by little, the circumstantial evidence was piling up. Hank Powell looked at his scribbled notes. In every city where the Alphabet Man took a victim, Michael Schiftmann was close by at the time, usually at book signings on publicity tours, but sometimes at book fairs, writers’ conferences, and the like.

  And as Maria Chavez had discovered, the order and basic descriptions of the murders in the first five installments of Schiftmann’s best-selling series were exactly the same as the real murders, even though some of the details and places had changed.

  And finally, Hank realized, everything about Michael Schiftmann-the freedom and lack of structure in his life, his living on the edge of society for so many years, his intelligence and his resources, his history in work and school, his egomaniacal drive and lust for fame, recognition, and wealth-fit the psychological profile of a highly intelligent, organized serial killer.

  In other words, the Alphabet Man …

  But was this enough? The key, of course, was Nashville.

  That’s where they had the best forensic evidence. That’s where they had the blood and tissue samples, the samples that could be DNA-typed to Schiftmann’s blood. If there was a match, he’d go down, hard.

  Which meant that without a grand jury indictment, the chance of getting a search warrant to collect the samples was thin. It was possible, of course. Hank realized they were lucky in getting the best forensic evidence in a Southern, conservative town, rather than, say, Vancouver or New York City, where people were commonly less sympathetic to police. Schiftmann, though, had the resources to put up a good fight-primarily the money, but also the fame, and as the American public had learned over the past years, fame is a powerful weapon to a good defense attorney.

  So many variables, so many things to consider. Powell and Max Bransford had talked several times in the past few days alone, and the one thing they agreed on was that there was no way they were going to the DA and the grand jury until they had a case that was solid enough to withstand the inevitable hurricane that would follow.

  Hank walked over to the window and stared out into the darkening woods. To his left, in the distance, the faint sulfurous glow of the lights over the west parking lot intruded on the darkness. He realized that at this moment, he probably knew more about Michael Schiftmann than anyone alive except Schiftmann himself. But that was the problem: He knew more about him rather than really knowing him.

  “There’s got to be something else,” he whispered. “There’s got to be more out there.”

  He went back to his desk and dug out the background file on Michael Schiftmann. The Manhattan Field Office had done a thorough, professional job of bringing Schiftmann’s current situation up to speed. He’d sold his condo in Cleveland, made almost six figures on it, then moved to Manhattan, where he’d been house hunting. Hank had everything on Schiftmann’s recent moves, up to and including the Northwest flight number he’d taken from Cleveland to LaGuardia.

  Then Hank saw a note appended to the report almost as an afterthought, that Schiftmann had been staying with his literary agent, a woman named Taylor Robinson.

  Staying with her? Hank suddenly thought. What? This guy can’t afford a hotel?

  It was one of two things, he realized. Either Taylor Robinson took really good care of her clients, or these two were an item.

  “Wonder what it would take to find out?” he whispered.

  Hank turned to his computer and double-clicked the Internet Explorer icon. He went to Google.com and typed in Taylor’s name. In a few hundredths of a second, he found more than forty-seven thousand hits for Taylor Robinson.

  The first was her home page at the Delaney amp; Associates Web site. He scanned her biography and noted she was a summa cum laude graduate of Smith College, that she had been an editor for several years before joining the agency, and that in a few short years, she had become one of the most powerful agents in the business.

  Hyperbole aside, he thought, this was an impressive woman. He stared at her picture for a few seconds. She was, he realized, quite lovely as well. The picture was black-and-white, so it was hard to tell colors, but she had dark hair swept down onto her shoulders, dark piercing eyes, and high cheekbones.

  She looked, he thought, patrician.

  He read a few more pages, learned a little more about her, and generated some assumptions that he would later test.

  Because Hank Powell had decided to pay a visit to Taylor Robinson.

  CHAPTER 21

  Thursday morning, Manhattan

  Hank Powell stepped out of the cab on East Fifty-third Street, leaned in, handed the driver a twenty, and stepped back as he drove away. He pulled his overcoat around him as a stiff wind pounded down the street from the East River.

  Even in late March, the cold concrete canyons of Manhattan could chill a man to his bones.

  He looked across the street at the row of brownstones, then drew a small spiral-bound notebook out of his pocket and glanced at the address. He looked back up, scanned the buildings again, and spotted his destination.

  In every investigator’s professional life, there comes a time when he has to take chances. Sometimes it’s a matter of trusting someone you shouldn’t; other times it’s learning to distrust someone you thought was stand-up. But when you get stuck, when you hit that wall that stands between you and whatever it is that’s keeping you from the truth, you have to think differently, move differently, shake things up, and see what happens.

  Hank Powell was about to shake things up.

  He crossed the street and walked halfway down the block toward Second Avenue. On the north side, a couple of buildings from the corner, sat a four-story brownstone with a bronze engraved plate mounted on the wall next to the front door, which read: DELANEY amp; ASSOCIATES.

  Hank climbed the stairs to the front door, then reached out and pressed the white button just below the plaque. A loud buzz erupted from the speaker next to the button, and a moment later, a female voice fuzzed over by static spoke:

  “Yes?”

  “I’m here to see Ms. Robinson,” Hank said into the speaker. “Taylor Robinson.”

  The buzzer went off again, and Hank heard a relay behind the door trip, unlocking it. He grabbed the door handle and pulled, then stepped into what had once been the entrance foyer of the brownstone a hundred years ago when it was a family residence. Now it was the lobby of one of the most powerful literary agencies in New York.

  A harried receptionist with dyed purple hair, a pierced eyebrow, and a petite tattoo of a rose on her right arm just at her shoulder, sat behind a desk to his left, looking like she was in multitasking hell. Behind her, and it seemed on every square inch of available wall space, were framed book covers, photographs of authors, awards. To Hank’s right, on the wall next to a polished wooden staircase, was a section of the wall devoted entirely to Michael Schiftmann. An elaborately matted and framed eight-by-ten photograph of Schiftmann was surrounded by frame
d book covers of the five published installments in the Chaney series.

  “May I help you?” the young woman asked between phone calls.

  Hank stepped forward. “Yes, I’m here to see Taylor Robinson.”

  The receptionist eyed him, if not quite suspiciously, at least with a question on her face. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No,” Hank said, reaching into the inside pocket of his suit coat for his credentials, “but I think-”

  “I’m sorry,” the woman snapped. “But you have to have an appointment. Ms. Robinson is far too busy-”

  It was Hank’s turn to interrupt as he flashed open his ID

  case, revealing his FBI identity card and badge. “I won’t take up much of her time.”

  The receptionist cleared her throat and looked at the badge and ID. Her eyes got larger for a second. “Wow,” she muttered. “I’ve never seen one of those before.”

  Hank gave her his most charming smile. “Wanta see my pistol?”

  “You’ve got a gun?” the girl asked, incredulous.

  “And handcuffs,” Hank answered. “They make me.”

  “Bitchin’,” she said.

  “Ms. Robinson?” Hank asked after a moment.

  “Oh, yeah,” the girl stammered, as if suddenly coming out of a trance. Hank wondered where her mind had gone, what fantasy had played itself out in that second and a half of silence.

  She picked up the phone, punched a few numbers, and spoke low. Then she nodded, hung up the phone, and pointed toward the staircase. “Ms. Robinson’s office is upstairs, far corner. Her assistant will be waiting for you.”

  Hank nodded, smiled. “Thanks.”

  Hank climbed the curving, polished mahogany staircase that he imagined some Victorian, gilded-aged, robber bar-on’s wife making a grand entrance on a century ago. On the second floor of the house, the rooms had been turned into offices, the once large rooms subdivided by renovation walls, partitions, and a narrow hallway that ran down the middle of the floor. Another young, hip, but this time somewhat bookish woman met him at the head of the stairs.

  “Mr. Powell?” she asked.

  “Agent Powell,” he corrected, knowing from years of experience how much more weight Agent Powell carried than Mr. Powell, even though they were the same person.

  “Yes, Agent Powell, this way.” The woman turned and led him down the hallway, speaking in a cool, detached, professional manner as she walked. “Ms. Robinson was on a conference call a few minutes ago, but I believe she’s off now.”

  They got to the end of the hallway, which let out into a common area with a sofa and a couple of leather wing chairs. Surrounding the common area were the doors to four offices, each with a desk close by for the requisite assistant.

  The young woman led Hank over to the far right office and stopped at a closed door.

  “I’ll see if Ms. Robinson’s available,” she explained, knocking lightly on the door. Then she opened it and stepped inside, closing it firmly behind her. Hank was alone. He took off his overcoat and folded it over his arm and stood there a few moments, looking around at another collection of framed book covers, these obviously from the agency’s less-stellar writers.

  As he stood there, a rush of fatigue came over him. He hadn’t slept well the night before, had been up since four A.M. in order to make the train to New York. He tried to sleep on the Metroliner, but couldn’t turn his brain off.

  Maybe it was the anticipation of meeting Taylor Robinson; maybe it was dread.

  Taylor Robinson’s assistant stepped back through the door and held it open. “Ms. Robinson can see you now. May I take your coat for you?”

  “Thanks,” Hank said, handing her the coat.

  “Would you like some coffee? A soda?”

  Hank shook his head. “No, I’m fine.”

  His stomach tightening, Hank stepped through the doorway of Taylor Robinson’s office and looked around. The office was much smaller than he expected, not what one would think would be the inner sanctum of a high-powered New York agent. The room was full of clutter as well: manuscripts piled high on the floors in haphazard stacks, books stacked against the walls over a worn carpet, cheap bookcases overflowing with books and more manuscripts.

  Taylor’s desk was piled high with magazines, correspondence, stacks of paper laid on top of one another in layered pyramids. A window badly in need of cleaning looked out onto East Fifty-third.

  Taylor Robinson stood up from her desk and motioned to the cheap visitor’s chair on the other side. “Please,” she said.

  “Sit down.”

  Her picture didn’t do her justice. She was elegant, he thought, wearing a sheer silk tan blouse over a camisole, a pair of dark designer pants with a thin, narrow belt, and a simple string of small pearls around her neck. She looked educated, well-bred, and well-tended, with almost a Ken-nedyesque air about her.

  Hank sat down, crossed his legs at the knee. “I appreciate you seeing me without an appointment. I know you’re busy.”

  “I’m confused, Agent Powell. It is ‘agent,’ right? Not ‘officer’ or something else?”

  Hank smiled. “Technically, it’s Special Agent Powell. But we don’t have to stand on ceremony.”

  She leaned back in her office chair and watched him for a moment. She was cool, he thought, completely professional.

  “So I’m confused, Special Agent Powell. Why would you want to see me? What can I do for you?”

  Hank tried to choose his words carefully. “Ms. Robinson, I’m going to ask you for some help in an investigation that we have under way. For some time now, the FBI and a number of other local law enforcement agencies of different types all over the country have been looking into the background of one of your clients. We’ve hit a wall and we need your help.”

  If Taylor Robinson’s face gave away anything, it wasn’t much. She shuffled slightly in her chair, but never took her gaze off him.

  “Is one of my clients in trouble?” she asked.

  “That’s what we’re trying to determine. Several weeks ago, the New York Times published a series of articles-two or three, I think-on a serial killer who has killed at least thirteen women we know of. All across the country and one in Canada. He’s been dubbed the ‘Alphabet Man.’”

  She shook her head. “No, I didn’t read them. I often don’t have time for newspapers.”

  “I’m with a division of the FBI called VICAP, the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program, and I work out of an office at the FBI Academy in Quantico. I’ve been coordinating our investigation into this person’s activities and I’ve been working with police departments in places like Seattle, Milwaukee, Scottsdale, Vancouver, and two places in Tennessee, Nashville and Chattanooga. That’s among other places, you know. Is any of this resonating with you?”

  Taylor Robinson’s brow seemed to tighten just a bit, but again, Hank thought, she kept a good game face. She’s probably a shark sitting across a negotiation table.

  “No, none of this means anything to me. Why should it?”

  Hank leaned forward almost imperceptibly in his chair and looked her directly in the eye. “Ms. Robinson, virtually every serial killer does something to set his murders apart from everyone else’s. A common weapon, a motif, a sign, something … You look at a David Berkowitz killing and compare it to, say, a Ted Bundy scene or a Henry Lee Lu-cas scene; there’s no mistaking the differences. And while every murder scene is different, there seem to be common threads.”

  Taylor Robinson’s face darkened and she seemed almost weighted down. “What has this got to do with me? I still don’t understand-”

  “The guy we’re after has a very distinct signature that he’s left behind at every murder scene. In the victim’s blood, he paints a neat, almost artistic block letter somewhere in the scene. The first one was A, back in 1995 in Cincinnati. The latest two were L and M, and they occurred in Nashville just this past February. That’s how we know there’ve been thirteen.”

  This
time, Taylor Robinson’s face almost certainly gave away more than she intended. Hank sensed that she was beginning to get the message. Her eyes almost went into a squint.

  “But wait, what’re you saying is that-”

  “Letters, Ms. Robinson. The Alphabet Man. Get it?”

  Her mouth opened slightly, her jaw muscles quivering.

  “Just what in the hell are you trying to say?”

  Hank let her hang there a moment, the silence between them growing heavier with each breath. Taylor Robinson stared at him, her jaw and chest tight, her hands on the desk, knotted into tight fists.

  “What I’m trying to say, Ms. Robinson,” Hank said softly, breaking the terrible silence, “is that we think the Alphabet Man is your client, Michael Schiftmann.”

  Hank Powell knew the next words out of her mouth would tell him what she knew.

  The explosion came a moment later. “You’re crazy!”

  she yelled, slapping the desk hard. Hank wondered what the young honors graduate English major assistant outside thought of that. “That’s ridiculous! You’re out of your mind!

  And I’m here to tell you, Special Agent Powell, that if anything of this gets out to the media and you either libel or slander my client in any way whatsoever, I’m going to sue you from one end of the Earth to another!”

  “Ms. Robinson, if I could just acquaint you-”

  “You can’t acquaint me with anything, mister, unless the U.S. Constitution has been finally done away with in the past twenty-four hours and I missed it on the TV news.

  We’re still presumed innocent until proven guilty, right?”

  “Yes, of course, Ms. Robinson.” Hank felt himself slipping into a defensive mode. This was not what he expected. Protest was one thing, but this woman was ready to go straight to war. “But if you’d just let me explain.”

  Taylor Robinson jerked herself up out of her chair and glared down at him. “You have wasted enough of my time.

  I don’t have to sit here and listen to this insanity and I’m not going to.”