The Lost Key

Mr. Olympic walked over to Pearce and said something. Pearce jerked in response. They spoke, then it became more heated. Mr. Olympic slipped a knife from inside his Windbreaker. He was careful with it, practiced. No one on the street level would have been able to see it; the angle from the traffic cam showed it gleaming between the two of them. When Pearce turned away, obviously angry, the knife sank into his back. They watched Pearce’s face change from bewilderment to disbelief. And then he was down, Mr. Olympic with him.

Louisa said, “I know, it’s horrible. Now, listen, I was able to catch up the audio to the video before he knifed him.”

The voices were faint; they had to strain to hear.

Pearce said, “He won’t come. He’s too smart, he’ll know, he’ll see you.”

“He’ll come, see me with you, and he’ll think everything is fine. We’re going to wait for him to show, and then we’re going to have a little chat.”

“So you’re the one who sent me the text?”

Mr. Olympic held up a cell phone, waggled it in his hand. “The power of technology. While we wait, you can tell me what he told you last night. The call between the two of you lasted for thirty minutes, then you made some very interesting calls yourself. Exciting news travels fast, yes? He found it, didn’t he?”

“I won’t allow it, I won’t let you have him.” Pearce jerked around, but Mr. Olympic was fast. He said something they couldn’t make out, then suddenly the knife was out, five inches of tempered steel, and seconds later it slammed deep into Pearce’s back.

Pearce went down on his knees, the suspect cradling him.

He said, “Tell me. Tell me everything, or I swear to God, I’ll kill your whole family and everyone they love.”

Pearce had little breath left. He was facing the cameras, his eyes blank with shock.

“Tell me or they’re both dead!”

“The key—”

“The key what?”

“The key is—in the lock.” Pearce’s head lolled against the man’s chest.

“What? What the hell does that mean?” He shook him, but Pearce was gone. He pushed Pearce onto the pavement, and Mr. Olympic, clearly furious, pulled out Pearce’s cell and punched in numbers, but then looked wildly around at the shouts, saw two large men closing on him, and jumped to his feet. He tripped on Pearce, dropped the cell phone, and ran.

The screen showed people ru

Nicholas said, “Mr. Pearce’s dying words: The key is in the lock. What does that mean? Louisa, play it again, please.”

She did. He listened and watched, and when it was finished, nodded to himself. “We need an ID on this man, Louisa, as quickly as possible. Upload this video into the facial-recognition database. There’s a good still shot to be taken as he turns to run away. Put in a parameter to have it search the European databases through Interpol as well, and all the incoming flights from Germany to New York.”

Mike asked, “German?”

“I caught it the second time through. A moment before he stabs Pearce, he says, ‘Deinefruedemögevergehen und übelmögedichereilen.’”

So he spoke German, did he? She said, “So that’s what he said exactly, is it? Excellent. Thanks for clearing that right up for me.”

“A bit of sarcasm? Sorry, yeah, I speak a little German, enough to catch what he said. It’s a curse of sorts. It roughly translates to ‘May your joy vanish and evil be with you.’”

“Lovely sentiment.”

“It doesn’t sound all that dramatic in translation, but it’s powerful in German. I suppose in this context, it’s more of a way to ward off evil spirits following him, which turned out to be us.”

“Too bad the curse didn’t work,” Mike said. “But, Nicholas, Mr. Olympic sounded American. He was fluent, colloquial.”

He nodded. “I’m willing to bet, though, that German is his first language. I’ve often found it true that a person curses in his native tongue automatically.”

“Good catch,” Mike said. “Louisa, I’d also like you to upload all the video onto the servers so it will be ready for us to look at again when we get back to the office. And please be sure you add in all the footage from the crime scene, throughout the morning. There might be more there, small details we’re missing right now. The two men were waiting for someone, someone Pearce was willing to die to protect.”

“And still he told him when Mr. Olympic threatened his family, ‘The key is in the lock.’ Was he lying? Or was it true? And another question: Why did Mr. Olympic hang around? Did he think this EP would still show up?”

“Maybe he did show up,” Mike said. “This EP is obviously someone close to Mr. Pearce, that’s all we know. Keep an eye out for someone you don’t think really fits, Louisa.”

“Like anyone not wearing a suit, and hanging around,” Nicholas said. “Find out about Mr. Pearce’s family as fast as you can. That threat Mr. Olympic made, we’re taking that seriously. Call me as soon as you know.”

“Got it.” Louisa smiled and disappeared into the mobile command unit. Nicholas watched the ME, half a block away, move Mr. Pearce’s body into a black bag for transport.

He said slowly, “I don’t think murdering Mr. Pearce was part of the plan. At least he wasn’t meant to be killed before Mr. Olympic got what he came for. Whoever he was, he wanted information about what EP had found, and Mr. Pearce wasn’t about to tell him.”

Mike shook her head. “We’ll back-trace the cell phone number. Speaking of which, dropping Mr. Pearce’s cell phone sure wasn’t part of the plan. Thank heavens he got rattled when people started coming at him and dropped it.”

“Good luck for us. Clearly this was a trap, but we need more information. Mr. Pearce wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, but we know he has a family. Let’s go to his home.”

Mike nodded. “I hate this, but we have to do it. Hopefully, someone knows what this was all about. What Mr. Pearce said—The key is in the lock—don’t you wish just one time things would be straightforward?”

“That wouldn’t be much fun, now, would it?”

9

Jonathan Pearce’s Apartment

117 East 57th Street

10:30 a.m.

The doorman was too upset by Mr. Pearce’s murder to give more than a token protest about letting them in without a warrant. He took them in the lovely 1920s elevator to the twenty-third floor and unlocked Mr. Pearce’s apartment.

Mike and Nicholas first saw the walls of windows on three sides overlooking Manhattan, the clear blue skies, the warm sun spilling through the glass.

Mike whistled. “This is breathtaking.”

Nicholas joined her, pointed. “You can see the George Washington Bridge.”

She nodded, then turned to study the long, narrow living room. “It doesn’t seem to be disturbed—nothing seems out of place. I want to get it fingerprinted before we go poking around too much. But we can have a look.” She tossed him a pair of gloves.

He snapped them on and cocked an eyebrow at her, hands raised like a freshly scrubbed surgeon. “Where’s my patient?”

“Idiot.”

The apartment was large, well furnished in a mix of modern and traditional, with neutral colors and exquisite paintings and sculptures. “This is the sanctuary of a Renaissance man,” Nicholas said.

“And a very neat man who slept alone,” Mike said. “There are no female signs anywhere. Only a single toothbrush, shaving kit, and brush were in the bathroom. The five bedrooms have been redone so there was one large master with a huge walk-in closet with built-in cabinets, plus a private library, an office, and a massive theater room.”