White Noise

White Noise, Part 7 of 10

z119z

© the author 2015

Comments are appreciated. Please send them to z119z2000@yahoo.com. Thanks.

Chapter 13

As soon as he heard the elevator doors close, Kenneth Foster opened the door to the corridor and looked out. When he was satisfied that Dell'uomo had left, he unlocked the door across the hall that led into his real office and walked over to the window. He waited until he saw Dell'uomo emerge from the building and get into his car and drive off.

The fool had probably believed him when he repeated that old chestnut about not being able to make a person injure himself when he was hypnotized. It was so easy to get around that. The trick was to make the person think he was doing something he wanted to do, to create the illusion in his mind that he was doing something other than what he was actually doing. Of course, no one would jump out a window under hypnosis. "Jump out the window" would automatically trigger the mind's self-defense system. Given the ease with which the lieutenant went into trance, it would take only a few sessions devoted to convincing him that he was sweating and that he wanted to take a swim in that nice pool in front of him. Once his mind got used to the idea that the scenario was harmless, he could be poised on the edge of a roof convinced that he was standing on a diving board and told to dive into that nice, cool, inviting pool he saw in front of him. It might come to that if Dell'uomo continued to snoop into Sandman's affairs. It wouldn't take much to push him into the pool. Of course, the lieutenant's swan dive would have to take place at another location. Even the stupidest cop would suspect foul play at Foster Enterprises if the lieutenant's body were in the alley behind this building.

But for now that scenario was a bit extreme. A pleasant daydream, but there were other ways to deal with Lieutenant Dell'uomo and derail his investigation. He opened a wall safe and retrieved a cell phone. The phone's address book contained several dozen entries, all of them numbers he called often. Anyone checking the usage history of the phone would find plenty of messages, both text and voice. All of them were decoys. He keyed in another number from memory. The phone was programmed to shunt that call through several proxy servers and to create no record of the call having been made. After the fifth ring, a recorded voice came on and said in a mechanical tone, "The number you are calling is no longer in service. Please hang up and dial the correct number." Kenneth Foster waited until the message had played through three times and then punched in a second series of numbers. He waited for a moment and then said, "We have a question about your order. Please call us back. The reference number is 53-421." His message was taped and then relayed through several servers to another phone

Anyone who managed to trace the message and called back would be connected to the phone with the 800 number in the back room at Foster's Sandman Shop, and most likely Cindy would answer it. In the unlikely event that someone called and Cindy looked the reference number up, the computer would show that particular pendant the caller had ordered was no longer in stock. Cindy would undoubtedly inquire if the caller wished to substitute another pendant. She was good about helping customers.

But no one ever replied to his messages by calling the 800 number. Instead, as always, his secure phone rang a few minutes later. He turned on the scrambler and spoke: "I need to talk with the director. Something has come up that requires his attention." The voice on the other end said, "Fifteen minutes." The connection was severed.

The phone rang again in fifteen minutes. Foster again activated the scrambler. "Kenneth, I am told there is a problem." The director had a deep voice. It was instantly recognizable.

Foster quickly summarized what he knew of the case. "So, it appears that my nephew's little games have taken a more deadly direction. Perhaps he should be watched more closely."

"He will be put under more active surveillance. Let me just check his files. He sent his last report on Thursday morning. He mentions this David Spier and discusses his reactions to the drug. Quote `As instructed, the subject has received the number of dosages of the new version of the drug prescribed. He continues to follow all orders and commands immediately and without hesitation. He exhibits no signs of resistance and has become impervious to pain.' Unquote. Etcetera, etcetera. The report details the experiments conducted on Spier. No mention of murder, however. But, of course, he might not reveal that."

"As far as I can understand from the few details given in the news, Spier would have been dead for one or two days by the time that report was written. Scott will have to account for the disappearance of his test subject somehow. He can't just not mention him."

"His next report should be interesting, then. What about the police? Do we need to do something about this investigation? How far has it gone?"

"My nephew seems to be a strong suspect. My main assistant here—that's Jeff Ange, you have his details on record—has been co-opted by this Lieutenant Dell'uomo. The police are asking questions, as they always do. I get the impression that Dell'uomo has suspicions about the Sandman shop but nothing more. He is most interested in solving the murder. He is also susceptible to hypnosis, and he personally can be steered away from us. But then there are the rest of the police. If they are satisfied that we had nothing to do with the murder, they will leave us alone, I think, but we need to monitor this investigation. If it doesn't get too close to the project, we can let it take its course."

"We can always intercede and take over the investigation on the grounds of national security."

"That might arouse their curiosity even more."

"What if your nephew is arrested?"

"We can't let it come to that. Perhaps the senator should be briefed."

"A bit early for that, I think. The senator can be difficult to control, as you know."

When Dell'uomo returned to his office, he was greeted by a smiling Susan Trent, who carried a folder bulging with notes. "Got a minute, Matt? We've uncovered some information."

"Let's hear it."

"OK, some history. The Sandman Foster is a distant relative of Senator Foster. We haven't been able to find evidence of contact between the two of them yet. As far as we can see, the Sandman Foster doesn't associate with Scott Foster at all."

Dell'uomo didn't interrupt to tell Susan that he already knew this. Sometimes it was better to let subordinates believe that they were contributing new information to an investigation. Besides, he felt uneasy about what had happened during his interview of Kenneth Foster. He needed time to digest that and think about it before making use of it in the investigation.

"Lieutenant Marks says that he can't turn up any details on Sandman Enterprises or on Scott Foster's consulting business without getting into their business records, and that would take a court order. Scott's business license application states that he is an `estate planner.' Robert talked with the lobby security guards at the Foster Building. He was discrete. He didn't ask about Scott Foster. He questioned them about the offices on the same floor as part of a general inquiry.

"The guards didn't mention Scott Foster. The people who work in the building have key cards for the elevators and their offices. If we ever get a warrant, we can probably find out how often and for how long Scott Foster uses his office. Guests are supposed to sign in, but the guards admitted that someone who is dressed appropriately could get into an elevator if someone who worked in the building used his card to call an elevator. The guards don't know all the tenants of the building. Robert thought they were more for show than for actual security. He suggested that the office is just a front that Senator Foster has set up so that he can argue that Scott Foster works and to prevent his political opponents from claiming that he has a total jerk-off for a son.

"Robert also spoke to the doorman and the security office at the River Towers. Again he was discreet. He told them it was just a routine check to see if someone was interested in Scott Foster because he is the senator's son and because the senator heads a committee that oversees the intelligence agencies. He let them think that some federal agency had asked the police to check it out, and he told them not to discuss the matter with Scott Foster, that there was no reason to worry him but that we had to check it out. According to the people at River Towers, Foster rarely leaves his apartment during the day. It was the doorman's impression that he goes out mostly at night. He told Robert to come back later and check with the doorman who's on duty in the evening. There is a private elevator from the penthouse to the parking garage. Unless the guard at the front desk happens to be watching the security camera feed from the garage at the particular moment Foster leaves or comes back, he wouldn't notice him. Foster also takes a lot of cabs, but again if he goes through the garage, he can take an elevator to the penthouse without going through the lobby. No one has any idea where he goes. He seldom has visitors, and all visitors have to stop at the desk in the lobby and sign in, even if they're accompanied by someone who lives in the building. They have to sign out when they leave. No one could recall ever seeing the senator visit. Scott rarely gets packages, and there's no unusual volume of mail. He speaks to the staff at the building only if there is a problem that needs to be fixed. Two maids from a cleaning company come in every Wednesday morning to clean up his unit. Security escorts them up to the penthouse in the freight elevator and escorts them down when they're finished. They spend about three hours there. Foster is never there when they are. Evidently he avoids them."

"Hmm. Do you think we could get someone to replace the cleaners on Wednesday and get in there to look around?"

"They would have to clean the place, Sir. Who do we have that can do that?" Trent gestured at the clutter that obscured every desk in the Homicide Division.

"You have a point." Dell'uomo laughed. "Let's start by questioning the cleaners. You didn't hear me say this, but maybe we can arrange for someone to join them for a look around while they're cleaning."

"Ok, I'll have Robert take care of that."

"We'll have to risk that they don't talk to Foster."

"I don't think that will be a problem, Matt. The doorman told Robert that Foster hardly ever talks to anyone. He doesn't even chat with the other owners in the building. He speaks to the staff only when he needs something from them. And he never sees the cleaners. He's never there when they are."

"OK. It'll be a risk. If anyone talks, there'll be trouble."

"I get the impression that won't be a problem. Foster's not popular. Never tips. Doesn't hand out year-end bonuses. Treats the staff like dirt when he bothers to notice their existence. The security staff and cleaners know that they could lose their jobs over something like this. They'll keep quiet, especially if Robert turns on the charm."

"We won't be able to use anything Robert finds, but at least it may give us an idea of where to start looking officially. Anything else?"

"No, that's it for me. What did you find out from Kenneth Foster?"

Again, Dell'uomo felt that sudden need not to be completely open about what had happened. He settled for misdirection. It was time to be disingenuous. "He said he doesn't know much about drugs except the little he's read in the literature on hypnosis. He says the spray was more likely a device for focusing Albertson's attention rather than a drug. It was probably just water. That's what Jeff Ange thought too. According to Foster, a drug like the one Albertson described might be possible, but thinks it unlikely to have a reliable effect. He just doesn't know. He said he was no expert and didn't know of anyone who was. He suggested that someone with more knowledge of drugs might be able to help—like a professor at a university who does research for pharmaceutical companies. I got the impression that he was trying to be helpful but just didn't know much that would be of any use to us."

"What did he say about the Sandman companies?"

"He confirmed what we already knew. Told me a bit about how he got started and how he built the businesses up. Evidently the Internet has boosted his business considerably. He's able to reach a lot more people now, even overseas."

Trent checked something in the folder she was carrying and then said, "What about talking to Michael Sorenson about all the Sandman businesses? He's listed as the financial officer for all four of the companies."

"I think Sandman's a dead end as far as the Spier murder is concerned." Susan was proving to be too interested in Sandman and Kenneth Foster. Why did he feel compelled to keep her away from both topics? He was the one who had sparked the interest in Sandman, and now he wanted to squelch it. It was a dead end. He was certain of that. He was pretty sure that he was certain of that. He still had a nagging doubt that Kenneth Foster was somehow involved in all of this, but Susan didn't need to know that.

"I could talk with Sorenson if you don't want to," said Susan. "He apparently works from the apartment that he and Ange share."

Why wasn't she getting the point? Time to head her off. "That won't be necessary, Susan. I'll drop in on him. In any case, I'd like to talk with him alone without Ange there and see if he will say more about Scott Foster when Ange isn't there. Now, if there's nothing else . . . ."

"Oh, one final thing. We've found Scott's three victims who lodged assault complaints against him. We've arranged to talk to them tonight after they get home."

"Good work, Susan. It feels like things are moving, doesn't it?"

"Moving in the right direction, Matt."

"Michael Sorenson speaking."

"Michael, this is Matt Dell'uomo. We spoke yesterday. I'm in the neighborhood and I wondered if I might drop in." The lieutenant was parked across the street from Jeff and Michael's apartment building.

"Jeff's not here."

"That's OK. It's you I want to talk with."

"With me? OK. I guess. Sure. Give me five minutes."

Michael Sorenson had evidently used the five minutes to straighten up. Nothing that was visible to Dell'uomo suggested that Michael had been working at all. He and Dell'uomo sat in the living room facing each other across the coffee table. Dell'uomo decided that his impression of the day before was correct. The furniture had been chosen for comfort rather than looks. He approved. There was no sense in putting up with discomfort just to impress yourself and others. The late afternoon sun filtering through the leaves of all the plants in the windows tinted the room green. It was restful. Maybe he should get some plants. But then he was rarely at home during the day. He seldom would have an opportunity to benefit from them.

Dell'uomo leaned his head back against the top of the chair and gazed at Michael. If he hadn't known the source of the peculiarities of Michael's face, would he have taken them as natural? The surgery, or, rather, he corrected himself, the surgeries had been successful in hiding the obvious signs of the beatings Michael had suffered. He tried to remember the "before" pictures in the file in the case. Michael had been handsome in a bland sort of way. His face was sexier now. The slight imbalances and the drooping eyelid gave him a rakish look.

"Lieutenant? You said you had some questions?"

Michael's prompt brought him out of his reverie. He suddenly became aware that he had been staring. He looked around to find an excuse for his rudeness. "Oh, sorry. This is a very . . . peaceful room. Who takes care of the plants?"

"Jeff. He has the green thumb. After I caused a few disasters, he made me promise to leave the plants to him and never touch them again."

"I'm the same way. I would either forget to water them or forget I had watered them and give them too much." He allowed himself to enjoy a moment of shared ineptitude with Michael before continuing. "I'm sorry to intrude. I won't take much of your time, but I had a few follow-up questions about Scott Foster."

"Foster? Is that Scott's last name?"

"Yes. He's Senator Foster's son. It turns out that he is a distant relation of Kenneth Foster."

"Kenneth is related to Senator Foster? I never knew that."

"Kenneth says that the relationship is not close."

"Well, Kenneth seldom talks about his personal life. At least to me. Jeff's known him a lot longer."

"How did the two of them meet, do you know?"

"Jeff began working in the shop part-time when he was in high school and kept on working there while he was in college. So they've known each other around fifteen years. Maybe. I don't know exactly. Kenneth taught him hypnosis. After Jeff graduated from college, he kept on working there. He helps Kenneth with the motivational seminars and makes self-help recordings, manages the shop, that sort of thing."

"How long have you been working there?"

"About five years now. It started out as just something to keep me busy and occupied after I got out of the hospital. Jeff thought—rightly it turned out—that giving me something to do would help me to recover. It's gradually grown into more work. I work out of the second bedroom here. So I don't have to go out. It's hard for me to get around, and my leg often bothers me, and I need to lie down and rest it. Sandman's not a big operation. I can handle the accounts in a few hours every day."

"But there are four Sandman companies. That must keep you busy."

If Michael was surprised that Dell'uomo knew something about Sandman, it didn't show in his face. "Except for the mail order business, none of them is large. And with the order fulfillment and accounting software available now, it's not a lot of work."

"How long have you known Jeff?"

"About ten years now. We met in a bar and had a few dates. We ended up as friends rather than lovers. Then I took up with Talbert. You know how that came out. Jeff came to the rescue, and then we developed stronger feelings for each other."

"He is very protective of you."

"Yes. That's part of the history, Lieutenant. There was a time when I needed protection and help, and he supplied them. He finds that a satisfying role to play, and he wants to keep on playing it."

"Do you find it satisfying?" Dell'uomo knew that he was prying. He wasn't sure why. Jeff and Michael's shared history had nothing to do with the Spier's murder. Asking questions was a habit, but there was something more at work here. It might even be jealousy, he admitted to himself. He would like someone like Michael or Jeff in his life. And the questions wouldn't be just one-way. It wouldn't be a cop interviewing a witness or a suspect. More like old friends talking, friends who shared confidences easily. It felt comfortable to sit there and talk with Michael. It made him feel good. He wasn't sure what reason was uppermost in his mind. Most likely a combination of all three, with some sexual attraction thrown in, if he was being honest with himself.

"I am trying to wean Jeff away from it, Lieutenant, while preserving the relationship. I value that, and I'm not about to destroy it. If the price of the relationship is allowing Jeff to be protective, it is a small price to pay. Does that satisfy your curiosity, Lieutenant? We seem to be straying into a rather personal conversation here."

"The curiosity is professional. The two of you have a strong relationship. My question is, Does it affect the types of answers you give to questions from the police? Would each of you lie to protect the other?" Is that the real reason? he thought. It sounded plausible. That much was good at least. He needed to back off a bit. Dell'uomo sat up straighter in the chair. Time to be more professional. He had almost forgotten why he was there. That wouldn't do.

"You almost sound envious, Lieutenant. And the answer to your question is yes. At least I would answer yes, particularly when Jeff is present."

Dell'uomo chose to disregard Michael's insinuation. He mustn't ever forget, however, that he was dealing with an intelligent man. He had to reassert control over the interview. That's what it was—an interview, not a friendly chat. "And when Jeff isn't present?"

"That would depend on the question, Lieutenant. As long as it didn't touch Jeff, then my answers might be more reliable. Why don't you ask your questions and see how I answer them?"

"Were you being truthful when you said you didn't know Scott's last name?"

"Yes. As I said, it was not the type of information Talbert would have given me."

"The beating that landed you in the hospital—that wasn't the first?"

"No, it was simply the worst and, as it turned out, the last one. The previous ones were part of our sexual rituals, Lieutenant. There was a time when I had to have pain and Talbert needed to give it. Things escalated, and Talbert needed to give more pain than a body can endure. Maybe he still needs to inflict pain to that degree. I don't know. I haven't seen him since the beating that put me in the hospital. But I'm no longer a masochist, if that's what you're asking. Jeff doesn't beat me. He would be horrified if I suggested he do so."

Dell'uomo nodded. He wondered why Michael was telling him these things. He hadn't suspected Jeff of beating Michael. Now he was beginning to wonder. Was Michael protesting too much? He might have to come back to that later, but for now the Spier case had to be his focus. "Did Scott Foster ever join in?"

"Yes. Jeff doesn't know that, and I'd appreciate it if you don't tell him. Scott liked to direct things. He would egg Talbert on. Then he began to participate actively. He had a lot of influence over Talbert. He is, was, the more domineering personality. I think Talbert needed his approval. They went to school together—they were both at Chesterfield. I think their families have known each other for a long time."

"Did Foster participate in the beating that sent you to the hospital?"

"Yes. Again, Jeff does not know that."

"Why didn't you tell us that at the time?"

"Talbert had already confessed to the beating. It's hard to explain, but I still felt a great deal of loyalty to him. Even when I was in so much pain in the hospital, I was still thinking about returning to him. I was embarrassed to discuss what had happened with you, anyone really. It's not something I was proud of or wanted to brag about, Lieutenant. My deepest wish was that you would all go away, and I could forget about it."

"Did Talbert or Foster ever use hypnosis on you?"

"Not that I am aware of. Jeff's the only person I know who uses hypnosis. Well, Kenneth Foster, too, of course."

"Has either one ever hypnotized you?"

"Yes, Jeff used it as part of my `therapy.' "

"He's very good at it."

"Is that a statement or a question, Lieutenant?"

"He dealt with Mike Albertson—the young man who saw the stranger in the dead boy's room—very efficiently. And the young woman in the shop sold me a CD with several files on it by Jeff. I've been listening to the first file for the last few days. It has helped me relax and sleep better."

"Which file?"

"It's the relaxation/concentration series. It has a red label."

"The red label CD? Oh, yeah, I know the one. Have you progressed beyond the first file yet? The real training doesn't start until the second and third files. The first file is just to help you relax and get used to going into a trance."

"The directions say not to listen to the other files until you `notice results.' I'm not sure what that means."

"There is a simple test. Let me show you."

"I don't want to take any more of your time."

"It won't take a minute. Just sit back and relax. Lean your head back against the chair. Now close your eyes. Pinch the webbing between the thumb and forefinger of your right hand between the thumb and forefinger of your left hand. Just hold it lightly. Imagine that you are lying in the hammock again. Just swaying back and forth gently in the breeze. Focus on lying in the hammock, the warm sun, the fresh air, the wind blowing through the trees. Just relax and let the hammock support you. So comfortable and relaxed."

Dell'uomo's body sank into the chair. His head dropped forward onto his chest. Michael was astonished at the speed with which the lieutenant entered a trance. Under his guidance, Dell'uomo quickly fell into a deep trance. All the signs were there. If Jeff or Kenneth ever sees this, they'll turn him into a unit right away, he thought. Michael had lived long enough with Jeff to know something about hypnosis. The opportunity was too good to waste.

"Matt, just relax completely. Just be guided by my voice. Focus only on my voice. You hear only my voice. Just relax. My voice is so relaxing. Just listening to my voice fills you with pleasure. You are now in a deep, deep trance. Remember this feeling. You love this feeling. You love being in a trance. You feel so wonderful. So comfortable and secure. Only being in a trance can make you feel like this. You enjoy being in a trance so much. And the deeper you go into a trance, the better you feel. Just relax and go deeper and listen to my voice. You are ready to listen to the second and third files on the CD. You will listen to them as soon as you can. And you will listen to them repeatedly. And you will come back to me. You want me to put you in a trance again. You want to experience this wonderful pleasure again."

Michael repeated the commands several times. When he was satisfied that Dell'uomo had absorbed them, he had the lieutenant relax for just a few minutes and focus on the swaying of the hammock. The lieutenant was handsome. And it was a pleasure to look at him and fantasize what could be done with him. He had to resist the urge, however. It would be unwise to rush things. Better to wait. And he wanted to think through how he would fit Dell'uomo into his plans before he made his move. Revenge against Scott Foster—he had to focus on that. Dell'uomo would become his ally in that. Besides, he needed to have Dell'uomo find out what part Kenneth had played in all of this. Dell'uomo had to be maneuvered into uncovering the units, but the investigation couldn't touch Jeff. It had to look like only Kenneth was involved.

"I am now going to count to five. And when I reach five, you will awake. You will remember nothing of what happened. Only that we spoke about police business. You will not remember being put in a trance. One, beginning to wake up. Two, . . . ."

Dell'uomo's eyes fluttered opened when Michael said, "Five."

"Well, that's all for now. I thank you for being so candid with me. I may have further questions. I hope you won't mind if I call again."

"Not at all, Lieutenant. I look forward to seeing you again. Our conversation has been almost . . . therapeutic. It helps to talk, don't you think?"

"Please call me Matt."

"Matt it is. Thank you."

"It's odd."

"What?"

"I feel good."

"Is that unusual, Matt?"

"Yes." Michael really was a very pleasant person to be with, Dell'uomo decided. Easy to talk with. Open. Warm. Friendly. Under different circumstances, he would make a good friend. A pity that for now he could see Michael and Jeff only officially, as part of the ongoing investigation. Perhaps after all this was cleared up, it might be possible to see them unofficially.

*****.

When Dell'uomo reached his car, he was surprised to find that it already 5:30. Time to call it a day. He had devoted enough time to the Spier investigation. There were other things he needed to care of. He just wanted to get home, change into comfortable clothes, pour himself a glass of red wine. Maybe watch a little TV or listen to some music. He pulled out his phone. "Susan? This is Matt. I just finished talking to Sorenson. He confirms that Scott Foster has a violent streak. So we have another bit of evidence pointing toward Foster. If there's nothing further, I'm going to get some dinner. I'll see you tomorrow morning."

"Ok, Matt. Have a good night. We're interviewing Foster's three victims tonight. I'll talk to you about them tomorrow."

Chapter 14

Monday evenings were the quietest evenings in the dorms at City University—relatively quiet, that is. The residents were partied out after the weekend, and most had assignments and reading that couldn't be put off any longer. That didn't mean absolute silence, however. Music stilled blared up and down the corridors, and groups of students shouted and argued in the common areas.

The pizza delivery man stopped at the security desk in the front entrance and scrawled his name on the sign-in sheet. He checked the sales slip taped to the top of the pizza box and wrote down 616 in the space provided on the sheet. The guard was a bored graduate student. He barely glanced up from the book he was reading. The delivery man was carrying a box from University Heights Pizza and wore a red shirt with the logo of that pizza shop stitched across the front. There had already been several pizza deliveries that night. There would be several more before the front doors of the dorm were locked at midnight.

The delivery man did not take the elevator to the sixth floor, however. He got off on the fourth floor and walked down the hallway, mentally checking the layout against the instructions he had been given. His passage down the hall was noted by several hungry students who eyed the extra-large-size box hopefully. He quickly identified David Spier's room from the number he had been given. The police tape across the door and the "no entry" notice further identified it. He had been instructed to deliver the pizza to the room across the hall and to note the name on the door.

The card in the name plate read "Mike Albertson." He knocked. When the door opened, he compared the description he had been given against the person standing in the door. It was a match.

"Delivery for Albertson."

"I didn't order a pizza."

"There's no charge. I was told to deliver it to Albertson. There's a message." He pulled an envelope off the box and handed it to the kid.

The kid opened it and read out loud, " `Thanks for your help. Enjoy the pizza. Chris.' Who's Chris?"

"Hey, buddy. I just deliver the things. I do what I'm told. You don't want it, give it away."

"OK, OK. It's cool, man. I'll take it. Hold on. Let me give you a tip."

"It's been taken care of. Enjoy."

"Hey, thanks."

"You're welcome, Mike." The man hadn't taken more than a few steps before Mike's neighbors in the dorm poured into his room. Suddenly Mike had a lot of friends. The pizza was gone in ten minutes. The group talked for fifteen minutes or so. Most of the conversations was devoted to speculation about David Spier's murder, but once the pizza had been consumed, the reason for the gathering dissolved. When Mike said he had to finish a problem set for chemistry, his room emptied as quickly as it had filled. No one else heard his phone buzz a few minutes later.

"Mike?"

"Yeah." Mike felt strange. He couldn't define it, but he felt . . . emptied. Drained. No energy. His thoughts were getting farther and farther away. Maybe he should chase after them, but he was so tired. Later. He could do that later. He just wanted to lie down and let go of everything.

"This is Chris."

"Who?" Mike drifted. He was drifting through space. Untethered. He blinked and tried to pull himself toward the voice on the phone.

"The guy who sent you the pizza. Did you eat it?"

"Yeah, I had a couple of slices. I had to share with everybody. So I didn't get much." It was like another part of his body was answering the man's questions. He—Mike—let it. The call didn't have anything to do with him.

"But you ate a couple of slices? That's good. I suppose everyone's still there celebrating."

"No, I'm alone." Sleep. He could go back to sleep. The phone call was just a dream.

"This is Detective Chris Daniels. We wanted to thank you for all your help with the Spier investigation. You've played a major role in breaking the case. And you can help us with one more thing. You want to help us out, don't you, Mike."

"Sure. Anything." The dream Mike did feel like helping. He wanted to help, needed to help.

"Good. Get your coat on and come out front. But don't tell anyone what you're doing. Carry a couple of books so that it looks like you're going to the library. We want to keep a lid on this. We don't want reporters to hear of your role in solving the case until we have things completely wrapped up. I'm sitting in an unmarked white van parked across the street from the entrance. I'll flash my lights when I see you."

Even the dream Mike felt lightheaded and dizzy. But he didn't have to worry about the dream Mike. It had been a long day, and for some reason the pizza hadn't restored his energy as food usually did. He could sleep. The dream Mike would take care of the dream.

The dream Mike did what the voice on the phone told him to do. He put on his coat and grabbed a couple of books and left. Now that he had a purpose, he wasn't as tired anymore. His head was a lot clearer. The corridor was so quiet, strange for that time of night. It was almost as if everyone had gone to bed. It wasn't until the dream Mike reached the lobby that he ran into other people. No one paid any attention to him. It wasn't unusual for students to come and go until the dorm doors were locked at midnight.

The van was parked exactly where Chris had said it would be, its engine already running. As Mike walked across the street, the driver's side window rolled down. The guy's face was shadowed by the roof of the van. He was also wearing a hoodie that covered most of his head, and he had on dark glasses, which was strange because it was night. "Hey, Mike. Over here."

"Chris?"

"Yeah, buddy. Hop in the other side. The door's open."

Mike opened the door and got in. It was cold out, and the van was warm. He quickly closed the door. The shoulder restraint automatically slid across his chest and held him tightly against the seat. As soon as the door closed, the man in the driver's seat shifted the van into gear and pulled out into the street.

"You look familiar. Do you work with Sergeant Trent and Jeff?"

"Yeah. Make sure your seat belt is fastened. We wouldn't want the police to stop us on a traffic violation." The door locks on the van automatically depressed as the car speeded up.

Mike checked the seat belt. "Aren't you the police?"

"No, I'm the bad guy." The man who called himself Chris held out an aerosol can and sprayed Mike briefly in the face. The kid had already ingested some of the drug in the pizza. Too bad he hadn't eaten all of it himself. The man chastised himself for not remembering what happened when someone brought a pizza into a crowded dorm. But Mike wouldn't need much more to bring him under total control. Mike gasped and inhaled the fumes into his lungs, where the drug quickly moved into his bloodstream. The drug also penetrated the surface of his skin and circulated quickly through his brain. It took effect within a second or so. Mike barely had time to register his surprise before his mind clouded over.

The man drove sedately along Riverside Drive, keeping pace with the flow of traffic. Mike stared fixedly ahead, totally unaware of the surroundings as the man spoke quietly to him. His instructions were succinct. Mike was to listen and to obey. Under the influence of the drug, Mike had no resistance. His mind, his body, complied.

The first order of business for the man was to discover what Mike had told the police, this Sergeant Trent and Jeff. He soon found out that Mike had been hypnotized twice and worked with the police artist. Sergeant Trent was a policewoman. "Jeff" turned out to be not another police officer as he had surmised at first but Jeff Ange, a hypnotist who worked with the police. The man knew of Ange. He would be easy to find if it became necessary to deal with him.

"Mike, I want you to look at me. The second set of pictures the police artist made—do they look like me?"

"Yes."

"Close your eyes, Mike. Go to sleep."

Mike slumped into the seat, held in place by the shoulder strap. After a few minutes, the van crossed a bridge and then turned into a district of dark warehouses and small factories. The area was busy during the day, with lots of trucks and traffic. At night, it was much quieter. One could sometimes drive for blocks without seeing another vehicle. The few pedestrians tended to be people working late who moved quickly between their workplace and their car. It was not an area where one lingered on the street. The man punched the button on the door opener attached to the sun visor over the window. He waited briefly while the well-oiled door rose quietly and swiftly. As soon as he could, he drove under it and into a dark garage. Another push of the button and the door descended. He turned off the engine and sat in the dark. The only noise was the ticking of the engine as it cooled.

The man looked over his shoulder and spoke to the person seated in the dark at the back of the van. "Take him upstairs and get him undressed."

The pizza delivery man opened the rear door of the van and got out. As he opened the passenger side door in the front, the shoulder restraint moved smoothly away from Mike's body. The delivery man unbuckled the seat belt and led Mike away. The drug had worked its way throughout Mike's system by this point, saturating his mind. He docilely followed the delivery man upstairs. When told to do so, he undressed and stood waiting, calmly and without curiosity. The room was chilly, and goosebumps formed on his skin. Mike did not notice.

The delivery man also removed his clothing and put on the black body suit he customarily wore. Distantly in his mind he felt that he had returned home again, but he gave no thought to what he had just done. He had been told to do something, he had done it. The thought that he might not do it would not have occurred to him. Nor did it occur to him to feel satisfaction in doing the job. He was beyond the point of reacting with anything but mindless obedience to orders. The idea that he was property had been drilled into his mind. Property obeyed the owner. Nor did he speculate on what the owner would do with Mike. His mind was blank. Without the owner there, he lapsed into a state of semi-consciousness, waiting for further orders.

Downstairs in the garage, Scott Foster continued to sit in the driver's seat of the van. It was dark in the garage. He liked that. Darkness didn't bother him; in fact, he enjoyed it. It was like a further layer of concealment. He worked best in the dark. It was his milieu. He was a wraith whose passage was evident only because of his impact on others. That suited him. But the police had noticed his passage because of its impact on others. He would have to be more careful.

So Jeff Ange had been able to get around the effects of the drug. Well, they had told that it took several applications to build the concentration in the body and brain up to the point where the drug worked permanently. His experiments with subjects had demonstrated that point. One dose of the latest version rendered the subject compliant, but it took several doses before it became completely obedient. He had been careless. Now the police had his picture. But what did they have? A face they might not be able to identify. And even if they did, there was no connection other than this kid's word that he had been in David's room. Ivy's lawyers would make quick work of that.

But he was letting his appetite for danger expose him to risks he should not take. The others had been street kids. No one had missed them when he had harvested them and turned them into manimals. But David had been different. He knew David's disappearance would be noted immediately if the boy were removed too precipitously. His dalliance with David had put him in danger. It had thrilled him to visit David in his dorm room. There had been a wave of satisfaction when he had dealt with Mike's surprise visit so quickly and efficiently. But he had learned a lesson. The harvesting was best done as he had done it tonight. A quick, surgical removal. The indifference of the city was his ally. No one saw anything. He would deal with the police when, if, they came. For now, he had work to do and rewards to be enjoyed. He stepped out of the van and mounted the steps leading up to the loft.

At about the same time, Matt Dell'uomo settled himself into bed and turned out the light. He placed the earphones over his head and turned on the CD. Even before the first file began, he started to relax. By the time Jeff had finished the introduction, he had already sunk into a trance. Soon the swaying of the hammock took him deeply under. When the first file finished, his mind ignored the instructions to wake up and he continued listening. The second file reviewed familiar ground, going over the same concentration exercises but strengthening his reaction and making him more and more focused. Following Jeff's suggestion, he watched a white light shrink to a point.

"The circle of light grows smaller and smaller. Focus on it as it grows smaller and smaller, dimmer and dimmer. Your mind is watching it intently as it fades. Just let it your thoughts fade away as the light fades. Follow the light down, down, down as it grows smaller and smaller, dimmer and dimmer. Your thoughts fade as the light fades. Sleep. Total sleep. You are so comfortable, so warm, so empty. You have no memory, no thoughts. It is so peaceful to be so empty, so deeply asleep. You have never been so deeply asleep before. You feel so good, so free, so peaceful, so calm. Just listen to my voice and follow what I say. When you do what I tell you to do, you feel so good. When I tell you to do something, you will do it because it makes you feel so good. Just relax. Relax deeper and deeper into sleep. Sleep is a warm deep safe comfortable cocoon. You hear nothing but my voice. My voice fills your mind. You love to feel like this. You love to listen to my voice and do what I tell you to do. When I say the words `Red Dragon,' you will revert immediately to this state. No matter what you are doing, your thoughts will cease, your mind will sleep, and you will listen to what I am telling you, and do what I tell you to do." Jeff's voice repeated the instructions several times, reinforcing the commands.

"When you awake, you will remember none of what is said on this file. Your powers of relaxation and concentration will improve every day. You will listen to this file every day. Now focus on the space straight ahead of you. There is a dim light. A point of light in the darkness. It slowly begins to grow larger and larger and brighter and brighter. In a while, I will wake you up. When you wake up, you will remove your earphones and turn off the player. Then you will go to sleep. When you wake up tomorrow, you will feel wonderful. Strong and refreshed and ready to tackle every challenge the day throws at you. Tackle them with concentration and success."

"Lieutenant, you're looking good this morning."

Susan Trent and Robert Samuels sat in Dell'uomo's office early on Tuesday morning, ready to review the previous day's activities and plan their work for that day.

"I've been sleeping very well lately, Susan. That helps."

"Hmm, I think the lieutenant has fallen in love." Samuels addressed the last remark sotto voce to Trent. "All the signs are there."

"You're such a romantic, Robert."

"Well, call me a fool, Susan, but the power of love is not to be underestimated. I mean, you women have only one thing on your minds, it's just sex, sex, sex, with you guys, but, take a man's word for it, love does make the world go round."

"You're a fool, Robert."

"Ah, Suze, Suze, that hurts. How can you deny the power of love?"

"OK, you two. I hate to interrupt your flirting, but let's get down to work." Dell'uomo knew that his personal life inspired much curiosity among his subordinates. The gossip ranged from secret yet steamy liaisons to a monk-like celibacy born out of total devotion to his job. Much of the speculation was uttered just within his hearing in the hopes of getting him to divulge something. He dealt with it either by ignoring it or by joking about it. Neither technique stifled talk, but at least he didn't have to reveal the quite unintentional absence of a love life. "Now, David Spier. Michael Sorenson confirmed Talbert's story that Scott Foster likes to beat people up. So we have more evidence of violence connected with him. How did your interviews with the three complainants go?"

Robert Samuels liked to joke around, but, when it came to the job, he dropped the act and became a cop 100 percent. "The two who eventually withdrew their complaints claimed to have overreacted at the time. It was all a misunderstanding. When they had a chance to think about it, they decided that Scott Foster was really a hell of a nice guy, none better. The officers who investigated the charges noted that both of them seemed to have come into a great deal of money just before their impression of Scott Foster improved."

"So the Fosters bought them off."

"Looks like it, Matt. The third guy was more interesting."

"What did he have to say?"

"Well, the DA told him that there was no case and refused to prosecute Foster. That much we already knew. What we learned last night is that he had also been offered a bribe but refused it. He also said something more."

"Are you going to tell me or are you going to draw out the suspense?"

Susan Trent took over. "We were asking him questions about Foster and what had happened. I asked if they had met at his place or at Foster's condo in the River Towers. And he said, `What condo?' Foster has a loft in some old building. Turns out Foster has a well-equipped playpen somewhere in the city. The guy doesn't know where. He was acting out some sort of kidnapping fantasy. Foster picked him up in a van, tied him up in the back, and blindfolded him. They drove around for a bit, and then he heard a garage door opening. The next thing Foster's opening the back door of the van and hauling him up what he thinks is several stories in a freight elevator. When the blindfold comes off, he's tied up to some sort of frame. The light isn't so good, and all he can see is a wooden floor. Ceiling isn't visible. No windows as far as he can tell. He has an impression of a large space because their voices echo a bit and it's cold. The space is too big to heat. No hypnosis stuff, though. We asked about that."

"So Foster doesn't use the River Towers. That explains why the staff there hasn't seen anything suspicious. But how can we find this other place?"

"Search property records for other buildings owned by Foster or one of his family's companies?" Samuels suggested.

"It could be rented," countered Susan.

Dell'uomo shook his head. "No, that would be too dangerous for Foster. The landlord might come by to check on the place or send someone to paint it or do other maintenance. It's got to be owned by Foster, or at least under his control."

"We could put him under surveillance," suggested Samuels. "Put a tracking device on his car. Follow him when he leaves at night."

"Does Motor Vehicles show a van registered to him or to this consulting firm of his?" asked Dell'uomo.

"No. Just the one car. A Mercedes sedan. But he usually takes a taxi, according to the security guys at the River Towers. They know because the battery in the Mercedes went dead because it hadn't been run for several months. They remembered that very well. Foster tried to make out it was their fault that his battery was dead and made a big stink about it. They said that he didn't seem to know that batteries get recharged when you run the car. He thought they had done something to sabotage his car. They had to call a service truck to come and recharge it. Foster refused to pay the bill. So the River Towers management does what it always does—it sent the bill to Scott's family."

"We could try to put a tracking device on the Mercedes," said the lieutenant. "But it wouldn't be legal, and we couldn't use any information we obtained on his movements in court. It might lead us to this loft of his, if we got lucky. Once we know where that is, it won't take us long to discover the address by other, legitimate means. It doesn't sound as if he uses the car often enough to make it worth our while to bug the car, however. Plus you said the River Towers has camera surveillance of the garage. We don't want some private security guard coming after us. And trying to get a suspect to hire a specific cab is difficult. For all we know, Foster phones for a cab before he leaves the building. What about tracking his cell phone?"

"We haven't been able to find out if he has a cell phone. There's no landline into his apartment, just a house phone that connects to the desk in the lobby. He may be using a burner phone. But as for bugging his car, he's not very popular with the staff at the River Towers, Matt. They have nothing but contempt for Foster. I think I can get into the garage. Plus I talked with the cleaning ladies. They're PO'ed because he never gives them a tip at Christmas. For a small consideration, I think they'd be willing to do their civic duty and assist the police with their inquiries when they clean Foster's condo on Wednesday."

"I'm not hearing any of this, Robert."

"You see, Suze, it has to be love. What else would make the lieutenant hard of hearing?"

"Love makes you blind, Robert, not deaf."

"That too, Suze, that too."

Dell'uomo's phone interrupted their banter. He glanced at the caller ID, "It's Davis Marks. Let's see what he has to say." He accepted the call and said, "Morning, Davis. Give me a second. I'm going to put you on the speaker phone. I've got Susan and Robert with me. We were just discussing the case. . . . OK, go ahead. Got something for us?"

"Hey guys, how's it going? I've got some information on Sandman and Foster. If you're going to be there for the next hour or so, I'll bring it over."

"No, stay where you are. We'll be right over. Can I buy you a cup of coffee and a bagel on the way?"

"Make it a cheese danish and a dark roast, no cream, no sugar, from Feinschmecker's. Why don't we meet there? I can be there in half an hour."

Dell'uomo grabbed his coat from the back of the door and motioned to Susan and Robert. "Let's go. Either of you ever heard of a place called Feinschmecker's?"

"It's on Fourth just east of the Parkway." Samuels mimed stunned disbelief. "We can go down Fulton and then turn on Fourth. How could you grow up in this city and not know Feinschmecker's? Didn't your family ever eat anything but mom's cooking?"

"Sure, we ate at her mother's on one Sunday, and my dad's mother on the next Sunday. Occasionally we ate at an aunt's. It's called an Italian family, Samuels. We eat at home. Food prepared for us by women who love us and have spent all day proving they love us by laboring over a hot stove to make us feel guilty for making them work so hard. I should insult my mother and my grandmothers by eating out—some food a stranger who cares nothing about me has prepared? Food that will make me sick and stunt my growth and ruin my teeth? What? You want I should kill them? Sheesh. What kind of a monster are you?"

"My mother's the same, Matt."

"With all due respect, Robert, your mother is fine woman, but she is an amateur in the guilt department. When I was six, my mother told me my behavior was making the Virgin Mary very unhappy. Six years old, and I'm responsible for the mental equilibrium of the Mother of God. This is Jesus' mother, for Christsake. I got down on my knees and prayed for days."

Half an hour later, the four of them sat around a small table in the crowded deli. Four cups of coffee and Marks's danish took up most of the space on the table. The other customers were making so much noise that they were guaranteed privacy. No one paid them any attention.

Marks gulped a drink of his coffee. "Ah, that's what I needed. OK, Sandman Enterprises. It started growing around 2000, about the same time that Internet sales started to be big-time. Up to that point, Sandman was just small beer. There was the shop, Foster ran that. He and his wife lived in a modest apartment up near St. Mary's. Wife's a clerk at a supermarket in the area. Kids in public schools. Foster supplements his income by giving small seminars to businesses. Nothing elaborate. Some mail order business, not a lot. He had this patent on the white noise machine, but that wasn't going anywhere, a few hundred machines every year. The guy's just scraping by. Then suddenly, he's branching out. He stops working in the shop. In a year or so, he moves out to Westhaven. Buys a house for what is considered a modest amount out there—i.e., only a couple of million. It's not the Foster family estate in Westport, but it's not a walkup apartment in the city either. He buys that building on Canal Street and moves into it. Suddenly the guy's got money and he's spending it. Nothing flashy. He keeps his purchases modest. But they're there. And Sandman has grown into four businesses. But the sales he's got don't generate enough money for what he's doing. At least not the visible business. So this makes me suspicious. What is the guy doing?

"Then there are these two helpers of his. They've got cash to spend too. But they're more cautious about spending it. This Sorenson guy—he was some sort of whiz-kid on Wall Street before he ran into trouble. He hasn't lost his touch. Suddenly the word is out that he's investing major sums and doing well at it. Again this makes me suspicious. Where's the money coming from?

"There has to have been some seed money in the beginning. The business grew too fast, and there isn't enough income from the Sandman shop sales or from this guy's seminars to generate that kind of money. So where did it come from? Well, Sandman's not traded publicly, so it doesn't have to file statements for the shareholders. But Foster Enterprises is, and it does file statements. And there in the report for fiscal year 2001 is a small item. A loan to Sandman Enterprises for $3 million. Not much by Foster Enterprise standards but, I'm guessing, it was a lot for Sandman, at least at that time. And the loan's repaid with interest in three years. The total with interest runs close to $4 million."

"He said rich relatives didn't like poor relatives around because they were afraid of being asked for money." Dell'uomo looked and felt dismayed. His good friend Kenneth had lied to him.

"Who?"

"Kenneth Foster, the head of Sandman Enterprises. I spoke with him yesterday, and he denied any connection with Senator Foster's family. He said—wait a minute, I'll get it."

Dell'uomo pinched the webbing between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. His gaze turned inward on something. "Kenneth Foster said, `I don't know if you've met many rich people, Lieutenant, but they are always on the alert against poor relations. They suspect us of wanting money from them.' He said that Senator Foster and his family were so wary of being touched for a loan that they kept their distance." But he lied to me. Kenneth lied to me, thought Dell'uomo. But even as he thought it, Dell'uomo felt guilty. He trusted Kenneth. There had to be some explanation for this. Kenneth Foster would not have misled him. He was so lost in thought that he barely heard the rest of them talking.

"So Sandman is doing something more than sell New Age junk, Davis?"

"There has to be some other source of income, Susan. These people have too much money. I don't care how many motivational tapes and white noise machines you sell—you're not going to make that kind of money. And there are only a few ways to make so much money so quickly. And we all know that none of them is legal. Sandman may not be connected to your murder, but something illegal's going on there. I'll keep digging."

"Matt, I've been thinking."

"What, Susan?" They were stuck at a traffic light on the way back from meeting Marks. Samuels was driving and Dell'uomo was sitting in the passenger's seat in front. Both of them twisted around in their seats to look at Susan Trent.

"Talbert talked a lot, but when I thought over the conversation later, I got the impression that he was covering something up by chattering a lot. You know how he tried to get under my skin. And he kept calling you `sergeant.' I think he was trying to distract us. A lot of what he was saying was just an act. I think the drawings surprised him. He thinks that Foster betrayed him, and his anger boiled over when he first saw the pictures, and he identified Foster before he could think about what he was saying. But then he got himself under control, and he never gave us anything more. Just lots of nonsense that appeared to be revealing but wasn't."

"So you think we should have another chat with Talbert?"

"Maybe not you. He doesn't like you. Me and Robert."

"Yeah, we have a history. OK, I'll catch up on paperwork. You two pay a visit to Talbert. Drop me off at the next corner. There's a subway stop there. The train will be faster than this traffic."