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  “No it isn’t,” Hyte agreed, amused. “Randal, you are now on temporary assignment to the chief of detectives’ staff. Everything you see, do, and hear, will remain in confidence. Is that understood?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Hyte handed O’Rourke the list he’d written out. “I want a call made to each of these jurisdictions, asking for cooperation. We want an eye kept on each of the former hostages, but don’t spell it out all the way—no mention of the weapon. Show Randal how it’s done and then get to work on your things.”

  Sy Cohen entered. He stopped short when he saw Schwartz. “Randy?”

  “Hi, Sy,” the clerk said, and followed O’Rourke out.

  “You know him?” Hyte asked.

  “His father was on the Job. We were together in patrol cars before I made dick. The kid has a heart problem— nothing major, just enough to keep him a civilian. He’s a good boy, though. His father retired after twenty. He was a standup cop. Had to put up with a lot of crap, being black and Jewish.”

  “I’m sure,” Hyte said as he picked up the intercom. He got Schwartz. “Randal, I need a map of the five boroughs, and a chalkboard and stand. Sally will show you where they are.” He looked at Cohen. “From you, my friend, I need some input.”

  Cohen shook his head. “I don’t know what to make of this one.”

  Hyte laced his fingers behind his head and stared at the ceiling. “Mason gave me the case because I pushed him. You and I were in this from the start, so don’t tell me you don’t know what to make of it.”

  Cohen shrugged. “It’s just a feeling… It has to be someone involved with either the pilot, the flight engineer, Anita Graham, or the Mofferty woman.”

  Hyte leaned forward across his desk. “That’s how I read it.”

  Cohen shifted. “Are you going to check up on Emma?” His friend’s words startled him. Until that moment, he hadn’t wanted to connect Emma to the case. “No,” he said. “I’m too close to her. You handle Emma, very quietly. Do a discreet check, including the past three Friday nights. We’ll need a list of all the other relatives. Then we’ll divide the workload between us.”

  He checked the time. It was a quarter to eleven. He looked at the passenger list, noting the first name. “Put Roberts and Tim Smith, when he gets here, on the rest of the first-class passengers. They can start with Michael Barnes. Have O’Rourke check the stewardesses from the flight, except for Joan Bidding—I’ll do her.”

  “Right away. Do you figure another attempt Friday night?”

  “No reason not to,” Hyte admitted. “Which leaves us with forty-eight hours to come up with something.”

  Cohen’s look said more than words as he left the office. Again, as one person went out, another came in.

  “Lieutenant Hyte, I’m Tim Smith.”

  Hyte found himself face to face with a wide-bodied black man. He went over to him and shook hands. “I’ve heard good things about you from Cal Severs. Do you know why you’re here?”

  “The captain said I was being put on temporary assignment to the CD. Something about the Flaxman case.”

  “Close enough,” Hyte said. “Come with me, Sergeant Cohen will fill you in. You married?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell your wife you’ll be doing a lot of overtime.”

  “She’s used to it.”

  Hyte looked at his watch again. He would need ten minutes to get his car. It would take another forty to get to Rego Park through the noontime traffic. He’d have to leave by eleven.

  “Let’s get you started.” He led Smith through the outer office and down the hall to where Sy Cohen was working. He told Cohen he would need an up-to-the-minute report by four o’clock.

  “We haven’t gotten this investigation off the ground yet,” Cohen said. “What kind of up-to-the-minute report can I give you?”

  Hyte thought about the press conference scheduled for later. “Anything that you think might be a possible lead,” he said. He left then, his thoughts venturing along paths that he hoped might lead to a killer.

  Deep inside, a sense of excitement brewed. He knew this was only the beginning and there would be long days of hard work ahead. Nevertheless, he was no longer sitting behind a desk, watching others solve his puzzles.

  Hyte paused halfway to the elevator. His eyes went out of focus as he realized just how badly he wanted to catch this killer.

  For atonement? He sighed. The underlying reasons didn’t matter. It all came down to the same thing. He needed to catch the killer—for whomever the next victim might be, and for himself.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  At 62-30 Saunders Street, Hyte pressed the bell for apartment 3-C and waited.

  “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Bidding, its Lieutenant Hyte. I called earlier.”

  The buzzer rang and Hyte opened the door. The lobby was well kempt, the linoleum floor polished. He waited only a minute for the elevator. When he reached the third floor, he stepped into a brightly lit hallway.

  He knocked once on the door of apartment 3-C and took out his identification.

  “Good afternoon Lieutenant,” the stewardess said. “I must say it was a surprise when Maria told me you called. But it gives me a chance to thank you for…for everything you did that night.”

  Hyte nodded and followed her into the living room, where she motioned him to a blue leather couch. “Coffee?”

  “If it’s no bother.”

  “I have a pot up. I’ll be right back.”

  When she left, he looked around more closely. The couch and two barrel-style chairs covered in a soft kidskin leather surrounded a natural wood coffee table. Across from him, an oak modular wall unit filled the solid wall. Pictures of Joan’s children occupied almost every shelf.

  The stewardess returned from the kitchen, placing a white plastic serving tray on the coffee table. “Why are you here? Does it have something to do with the hijacking?”

  Again, anxiety tugged at the skin around her eyes. “How well did you know Elaine Samson and Richard Flaxman?”

  Joan Bidding picked up her cup. Her hand trembled. “I knew it,” she whispered.

  “Knew what?”

  “You’d think that once the hijacking was over, life would get back to normal,” she said. “But it doesn’t, Lieutenant. We’re all victims, and we’re staying that way. Ever since that night my...my life hasn’t been the same. I don’t fly anymore. Did you know that?”

  He shook his head.

  “I asked to be transferred to ground staff. I’m a supervisor now.”

  “Mrs. Bidding—”

  “Their deaths have something to do with the hijacking, don’t they?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

  “They do,” she stated unequivocally.

  “Why do you say that?”

  Bidding gripped her coffee cup. “When Flaxman was killed, it was called a case of random street violence. I tried to accept that, but when I heard about Elaine, I knew something was wrong. They were killed by the same person, weren’t they?”

  “We don’t know for sure.”

  “No? Then why are you here?”

  “I’m trying to piece together what happened. A murder investigation is conducted with background checks on the victim’s friends, family, co-workers.”

  “You’re lying. You’re here to see if I’m still alive.”

  He didn’t bother to point out that if she were dead he would know about it. “Flaxman and Samson were lovers.”

  “Flaxman and a lot of stews were lovers at one time or another.”

  “Does that apply to Flaxman and yourself?”

  Bidding stiffened. “Everyone thinks a stewardess hops in and out of men’s beds as often as she flies. I’m a flight attendant. It’s my profession, just as being a policeman is yours. I believe in fidelity, if that means anything.”

  “It means a great deal.” Hyte paused. “Was it over between Flaxman and Samson?”

  “It
ended shortly after the hijacking. As I said, nothing was the same afterward. Didn’t it affect you at all? Or are police immune to that sort of thing?”

  He met Joan’s stare. Before he could reply, she spoke again. “No, you aren’t immune. I can see it in your eyes.”

  “Then Samson and Flaxman were just co-workers?”

  “They worked for the same company. Trans Air promoted Flaxman to pilot almost immediately after the hijacking. He flew international flights. Mostly Paris and London. Elaine only flew stateside flights.”

  “Has anything unusual happened to you lately?”

  Bidding laughed. “Everything is unusual lately. I had a solid marriage until nine months ago. Now I don’t know if it’s going to last another week. Do you know how hard it is to trust someone after you’ve lived through a night like I did?”

  “I’m sorry, but I have to ask these questions.”

  She sighed. “What do you mean by unusual?”

  “Has someone been following you? Have there been phone calls when you’re home, the kind where there’s no one on the other end?”

  She shook her head. “We have an unlisted number. I’m not aware of anyone following me. Lieutenant, what’s going on?”

  “We’re not sure yet.”

  “I think I deserve the truth. You’re here because you think that I’m either a likely victim, or...or the killer.”

  “Hardly,” he snapped. “I’m here because you knew both Flaxman and Samson and you were on Flight 88. I’m here because I was on that plane, too. I thought it would be better for me to come than a stranger.”

  Joan Bidding nodded. “You’re a good man, Lieutenant, but you aren’t a good liar.”

  “That depends on who I’m lying to.” He placed one of his cards on the coffee table. “If anything unusual happens, call.”

  “I will. When you know more, will you tell me?”

  Hyte stood. “There was another death. One of the coach passengers.”

  She blinked. Her teeth caught at her lower lip, worrying it.

  “When you go out, don’t go out alone. Try to avoid Friday nights if possible.”

  “I work nights one weekend a month as a supervisor.”

  “Have someone accompany you to and from work.”

  “Do you have any idea of who it might be? Any suspects?”

  Hyte thought of the passenger manifest. “Too damned many.”

  <><><>

  Hyte returned to headquarters at three and went straight to his office. Randal Schwartz had set up the five-borough map and had put colored pushpins at the locations of each killing.

  A memo on his desk reminded him to be in Mason’s office at a quarter to five. He called Emma and told her about the press conference, but promised her he would meet her at the airport before flight time.

  Then Hyte settled back and reread all the reports on the killings.

  At a quarter to five, he went up to Mason’s office, where he found a scotch waiting. He didn’t like the omen. “Something wrong?”

  “What could be wrong? I got you your task force.”

  “Who heads it?”

  “I do,” Mason said in a low voice.

  Hyte halted the drink halfway to his mouth. He had found out what was wrong. The chief of detectives does not head a task force.

  “Why?”

  Mason drained his glass and set it down on the desk.

  “You asked me for a favor. It was the only way I could give it to you.”

  He went to the window and looked out. “McPheerson wanted his man, Inspector Conner, to take it. I told the commissioner I wanted to handle it personally, since my department came up with it. Rutledge saw it my way. But…”

  Mason turned and pointed a finger at Hyte, “You’d damned well better get something going on this, and fast. McPheerson is chief of department, and if push comes to shove, he’ll pull the case from us.”

  “I intend to.”

  “Good. Now about these things,” Mason waved his hand absently at the copies of the papers Hyte had sent up earlier. “They don’t tell me a damned thing. I want to know more, and I want daily reports. I’ll field the press when I can and keep you in the background.”

  “Thank you,” Hyte said, wanting to say more but sensing it was inappropriate.

  Mason poured himself another drink. “All right, here’s the way it goes down. A telephone number, manned by two operators will go into operation tomorrow. The usual bullshit—anyone having information, et cetera. It will take the pressure off the precincts. I’ve already sent out a call for off duty volunteers. What else do you need?”

  Hyte thought for a moment. “I’d like the PDUs from the scenes to recanvas the neighborhoods. With the publicity, maybe a few memories will be jogged.”

  “I’ll call the precinct commanders in the morning.”

  “I’d like to keep certain things out of the press conference. Such as the type of weapon and the fact that the three victims were on the hijacked plane.”

  Mason nodded. “The connection between the victims won’t stay hidden for very long, not from the press in this city. We’ve got the conference worked out already. I’ve covered you with McMahon. After the conference, she’ll field as much of the press as possible.

  “That’s big of her.”

  “The commissioner told her to give me her full cooperation. She’ll open the conference, turn it over to me, and then I’ll give you an intro. You’re good press and, according to McMahon, the public has confidence in you.” He stood. “Let’s go down.”

  They found Deputy Commissioner of Public Affairs, Alice McMahon, waiting for them in the small room adjacent to the pressroom.

  “You handled Joan Leighton nicely the other night,” she told Hyte.

  “Thank you. Commissioner, I have a six o’clock appointment. I’ll have to leave as soon as possible. “

  “We’re not enemies,” she said suddenly. “As soon as you’ve done your part you’re free. Just a few words of encouragement to the media, okay?”

  She led the way into the pressroom. Hyte was the last to enter. He spotted Dan Carson off to the side. Joan Leighton was there as well, wearing her predatory smile.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” called Alice McMahon. A dozen bright lights, like mini-suns, flooded the podium. “We have an announcement of the gravest importance. There will be no questions until we are finished.

  “On Monday last, Lieutenant Raymond Hyte of the chief of detectives’ staff uncovered what appears to be a series of homicides. To date, there have been three deaths. The New York Police Department has evidence linking all three deaths to a single perpetrator.”

  Hyte approved of the tone McMahon set. Three minutes later, she introduced Mason, who gave out the basic facts and issued the regular warnings concerning a serial murderer. “The man who first discovered the pattern of this particular killer is Lieutenant Raymond Hyte,” he said, finishing. He motioned to Hyte.

  Hyte stepped up to the microphones. “I don’t have much to say, except that a task force is in full swing. A special phone line is being set up and will be in operation as of tomorrow morning for anyone who might have information concerning these killings.”

  “How can they have information if they don’t know who died, or where the crimes were committed?” Joan Leighton asked.

  “The homicides occurred in Queens, Brooklyn, and Manhattan.” He looked at McMahon. “Commissioner….”

  McMahon took over without batting an eye. “The number for the special line is 555-1000. And now, questions?”

  Hyte slipped out the side door and started toward the elevators. Behind him, Dan Carson called his name. “I can’t talk about it now,” Hyte said.

  “Off the record.”

  Hyte appraised the cop turned reporter. Carson’s off the record would be just that. “Go ahead.”

  “Is this connected to last year’s hijacking?”

  “Why would you think so?”

  “Your assistant called fo
r the tapes of the hijacking.”

  “It may have something to do with it. We’re not sure yet.”

  “Why is Mason heading this himself?”

  “Why not?”

  Carson smiled. “Ray, I’m not just a reporter, I’ve been in your shoes. Don’t try to flake me on this. You know as well as I do the CD doesn’t handle a task force.”

  “He’s doing me a personal favor.”

  Carson whistled. “And a big one it is. When you make the connection, I want to know about it.”

  “You will.”

  “I’ve got some backup footage of interviews with the passengers of 88. You want me to send it over?”

  “I’d appreciate that,” Hyte said. “Now, you’d better get back to the press room.”

  “I’ll send the film over tomorrow,” Carson promised.

  <><><>

  At six-fifteen, LaGuardia was jammed. Flashing his shield at the Port Authority cop angling toward him, Hyte left his car parked in front of the entrance. Inside, he checked for Flight 371. It was at gate 27, scheduled to leave on time.

  He found Emma standing outside of the boarding area.

  She saw him and started forward. “I was afraid you’d get caught in traffic.”

  “We have a few minutes,” he said, guiding her into the lounge. While Hyte ordered drinks at the bar, Emma went to a small corner table. He brought the drinks over, lifted his glass. “To a safe flight.”

  Emma touched her glass to his. “What was the press conference about?”

  “The new case. It involves the murders I mentioned the other day. They’re all connected.”

  Emma covered his hand. “You’re talking about a serial murderer?”

  “We’re not sure. Emma, it may involve you.”

  “Me?” Her hand tightened suddenly around his. Her nails bit into his palm.

  “Not you directly. But possibly your father. The three people who were killed were either crew or passengers from Flight 88.”

  She stiffened. “Can’t there be some mistake?”

  He wanted nothing more than to reassure her. “Everything points to the hijacking. All the victims were on the plane. The copilot, a stewardess, and one passenger have been killed.”