The Book of Secrets

XIII

New York City

For five or ten seconds Nick didn’t remember. He lay between the stiff hotel sheets feeling warm and dislocated, drifting between worlds. The rain had gone; sunlight shone through the white curtains.

Then it came back to him, and he knew the world would never be the same. He rolled over and buried his head in the pillow, as if he could smother the thoughts that overwhelmed him. He sobbed; he tossed and thrashed under the sheets like a drowning man. Images repeated themselves in his mind: Gillian, Bret, the killer chasing him up an endless flight of stairs. He felt broken.

The ring of his cellphone cut through his grief. He groaned and ignored it, wishing it away. It persisted.

He reached out and scrabbled on the bedside table. ‘Nick?’

A woman’s voice. British. Did he recognise it? ‘It’s Emily Sutherland.’ She waited. ‘From the Cloisters?’

‘Right, yes.’ There was some part of Nick that could still function. ‘Listen, it’s not really-’

‘I did some research on that card you brought me. It’s… intriguing.’

‘OK.’

‘Can I meet you to talk about it?’

‘Can you tell me now?’

She hesitated. ‘I – It would be easier in person. It raises some interesting questions. I need to be at the Metropolitan Museum this afternoon. Can you meet me on the roof terrace there?’

‘Sure.’ Anything to get her off the phone.

‘I’ll be there at four.’

He mumbled a goodbye and hung up. He still had the phone in his hand when it rang again. He dragged it back to his ear. ‘Yes?’

‘How you doing this morning?’ It was Royce, a voice from his nightmares. He carried on without waiting for an answer, ‘We need you to come down to the precinct to give us a statement about last night?’

Another wave of tiredness hit Nick. ‘What time is it now?’

‘Twenty after nine. Come as soon as you can.’

The police station on Tenth Street was a squat block that must have been modern once, flanked by two grey towers. Nick was expected. A uniformed officer led him from the lobby through a beige labyrinth of corridors to a small room somewhere deep in the building. There were no windows, only a wide linoleum-framed mirror across one wall. Nick glimpsed his reflection in it and winced. He was still wearing his clothes from yesterday. Something he’d lain in on the rooftop had left an oily smear all across the front of his shirt. A thin itch of stubble dishevelled his cheeks. His eyes were baggy, his hair limp despite the best efforts of the hotel shampoo. His heart sank when he saw a video camera poised on its tripod to record him.

Royce kept him waiting for a quarter of an hour. The moment he entered the room Nick felt himself wilt. Royce was a vampire, feeding off other people’s energy. He flopped into the chair across the table from Nick and leaned forward on sharp elbows.

‘Thanks for coming in. I know it’s a tough time for you.’ He pushed his chair away and leaned back, crossing his legs. He drummed his fingers on the side of his shoe while the technician fiddled with the camera.

‘OK.’ Underneath the lens, a dark red light blinked at Nick. ‘Let’s go. Could you state your name and occupation for the record.’

‘Nick Ash. I work in digital forensic reconstruction.’

Like most people, Royce looked blank. ‘What’s that?’

‘It’s trying to piece together documents that have been torn or shredded beyond recognition. I work on systems that scan the pieces and then digitally reconstruct them using algorithms. The idea is they might be used as evidence.’

‘Do you do that for us?’

‘For the federal government – the FBI, other agencies.’ Again, it sounded good when he wanted to impress someone. For Royce, it was just another opening.

‘Do you have access to classified documents?’

Nick shook his head. ‘It’s still a research programme. The technology’s unproven.’

Royce lost interest. ‘Let’s get to last night. First of all, please describe your relationship with the deceased.’

Nick told them everything he could, starting from when they’d moved in to the apartment. The message from Gillian, the panicked call from Bret, his decision to check on the webcam and what he’d seen. His pulse rose as he described the chase up the stairs, the panicked moments on the rooftop when he thought he’d die.

Royce listened to it all folded up on his chair like a bat. Unlike the night before, there were no interruptions. If anything, Nick found the silence more unsettling. No noise penetrated the room; all he could hear was his own voice and the whine of the video camera.

He finished and looked up. Royce seemed to be examining some blemish on the corner of the table.

‘That’s quite a story.’

What did that mean?

‘Would you say you were close to your room-mate?’

‘We’re – we were – very different people. We got on OK.’

‘The lab had a look at the PC we recovered from your apartment. Couldn’t find much because apparently half your hard drive’s encrypted.’

‘I told you; I work under contract to the FBI.’

‘While your friend’s machine,’ Royce continued, ‘that really opened our eyes. Would it surprise you to hear he had a significant number of indecent images – really, a lot – stored on his computer?’

Nick was too tired to pretend. ‘Bret liked looking at porn. He’s not the first guy to do that and it’s not against the law.’

‘Did he ever share his stash with you?’

It was so hard to get a handle on Royce. One minute he was aloof, a prick with a badge – the next he was trying to be your big brother.

‘I had a girlfriend.’

Royce looked unimpressed. ‘Did you see what he was looking at?’

‘Tried not to.’

Royce leaned closer. ‘Why? Was it really bad?’

‘No. Just…’

‘Did Bret ever talk about it?’

He never shut up. ‘Sometimes, I guess.’

‘Did you ever hear him mention underage girls?’

That took Nick by surprise. He did his best to let his shock show while his mind raced. There were no black-and-white answers where Bret was concerned, only sludgy shades of grey. But even he had limits.

‘Bret would never have done anything illegal.’

‘You admitted yourself he was a drug abuser. If he was still alive we could have gotten him for possession with intent, with all the pot we found in your apartment.’

‘What are you-’

Royce pushed back his chair, almost knocking over the video camera. He spread his arms and leaned over the table. The flaps of his suit jacket stretched behind him like wings. ‘Bret’s death wasn’t an accident. Someone tied him to that chair and killed him because they wanted him dead. At this stage in our investigation we don’t need to look too fucking far to find a motive.’

Nick said nothing. Royce was trying to pen him in, confirm his prejudices.

‘I don’t think you’re right,’ he said at last. ‘I told you what happened. The killer must have broken into the apartment and tied Bret up. Then they got him to call me to get me home. He only killed Bret when he realised I’d seen him on the webcam.’

‘Did you do that often? Spy on Bret?’

It was like talking to a ten-year-old. They heard what you said but took a completely different meaning.

‘I never spied on Bret. He told me to Buzz him.’

‘Excuse me?’ Royce sounded perplexed, though his expression said he knew exactly what Nick was going to say.

‘Buzz is a communications interface – software. It’s sort of instant messaging, Internet video and voice calling all in the same package.’

‘Sounds great.’ Royce switched again. ‘We’d like you to unencrypt the contents of your computer.’

‘I can’t do that. My contract with the FBI-’

‘Forget it. We can get a warrant, but it’ll look better if you cooperate.’

Nick stared at him. ‘Look better to who? I came down here to answer your questions. Am I under arrest?’

‘No.’ Royce pulled back. ‘You’re just giving us a statement. Everything’s cool.’ He glanced at the video camera. Had he slipped up? Nick began to wish he’d brought a lawyer with him.

‘Look at it from my point of view,’ Royce said, more reasonable now. ‘We’ve got the gun that killed Bret and it’s got your fingerprints all over it. We’re still waiting on the samples from your hands for gunpowder traces.’

Gunpowder traces? Did they think he’d fired the gun? Could it have got on his hands when he picked it up?

‘We’ve got witnesses who place you at the scene of the crime-’

‘Of course I was at the scene of the crime.’ Nick was almost shouting. ‘It’s where I fucking live.’

‘And you’re giving me this – frankly – incredible story about some masked guy who chased you onto the roof with a gun, then changed his mind and vanished into the night. Leaving the gun behind for you.’ Royce rested his hands on the back of the chair and leaned forward. ‘I want to believe you, Nick. Really, I do. But you’re not making it easy for me.’

Nick’s mind raced, trying to think of something that would exonerate him.

‘Max.’

‘What?’

‘Max. The kid across the hall. He was talking to me when Bret got shot. He’ll tell you I had nothing to do with it.’

For the first time that morning, Royce looked uncertain. He excused himself and left the room. When he came back, he slumped into the chair.

‘We haven’t interviewed the kid yet. His mom says he’s in shock, won’t let us near him.’

That sounded right. Max’s mother was a force-five hurricane of a woman who made up for never seeing her son by being ferociously protective of him. If he tripped on his shoelaces she’d probably have sued the sneaker manufacturer.

‘Did the kid see the gunman?’

‘I don’t know. It all happened so fast.’ Nick cleared his throat. His mouth was dry as bone. ‘I’d like to go now. Can I do that?’