The body was still there.
Brennan — full name Nathaniel Francis Quentin Brennan, according to the file — sat at his desk, or rather slumped over it.His throat was open in a wide, deliberate slash, a grotesque second mouth.The cut was surgical, clean, aimed precisely at the jugular.Blood had sprayed across the pale carpet in an arc that had already begun to brown.His hands were spread and nailed through the palms into the desk with long steel spikes, each hammered flat.
Torres gestured toward the markings carved into the surface between the hands.The Bible verse was neatly executed, the spacing between the characters uniform and symmetrical, the size of each letter in perfect proportion.
“You think he had a stencil?”Torres asked.
“I think not,” Kate answered.“Quite possibly, he spent more time on the message than he did on the body.”
“What verses did you say it was?”Marcus asked.
“Eight to eleven.Why?”
“Why is there a number one next to it?”
He was right.It was easy to miss because of the blood and the spotlights.But at the start of the Bible quote was a small figure one with a period.1.
“There must be a number 2,” Kate muttered, bringing her face as close as she dared to the congealing lake of blood. Marcus shone his torch over it, scanning each inch of wood.
“Or he intended to carve out a second message, but had to leave in a hurry,” Kate mused.“Who found him?”
Torres crossed her arms.“The custodian, at eight-thirty p.m., called 911, then had what looks like a small breakdown in the lobby.He’s clean, record-wise, regular John Q.No one else in the building.No forced entry.No signs of struggle.”
“Could mean Brennan knew the killer,” Marcus said.“Or was expecting him.”
“Normally, he’d receive a lunchtime delivery from the sushi place round the corner.Creature of habit: maki rolls, yuzu tea, at 1.30 PM on the dot.It had to go to the reception desk, because Brennan didn’t want to be disturbed.But nothing came.The Guard told us, when he’d calmed down a little.So we called the restaurant.Kenzo.”
“What was the outcome?”
“Someone claiming to be Brennan cancelled it, at around 11.30 am.”
“Claiming?”
“More likely the killer.We traced the call to Kenzo; it came from a payphone on the corner of West 57thand 6thAve. We’ll be checking nearby CCTV when the world goes back to work tomorrow.”
They stood in silence for a moment, the hum of the city pressing against the glass.
“Who was he?”Kate asked.
“Financial world heavyweight,” Torres said.“Senior partner in Stemberg and Luft Capital.Hedge funds, derivatives, energy investments, crypto — all the stuff that makes civilians’ eyes glaze over.Famous for working eighty-hour weeks and expecting the same from everyone else.Brilliant and brutal, saidTimemagazine.”
“Universally adored then,” Marcus said.
“About as adored as tax audits,” Torres said.“You’ll meet his wife, Belinda, later.We’ve got a counsellor with her.”
Kate’s eyes moved back to the body.The nails were thick, industrial.The hammering had been careful, deliberate.Right through the mid-palm area with no broken bones.Whoever did it had taken their time, took pride in their work.
Torres noticed her look.“The nails are D gauge, used on some of the older railways. We’re going to get the companies to check their inventory, see if anyone’s had a break-in.”
“Those are some solid leads, Detective,” Marcus said.“Thanks.”
Kate gave him an appreciative smile.Relations with local law enforcement could be hard to navigate; everyone had their territory, and perceived rights over it.Tensions could start over the dumbest of things — a brusquely commandeered desk, a mislaid file — and end up jeopardizing a whole case.But Marcus always knew exactly what to say, to whom, at just the right moment.He managed to sound sincere, too, a feat Kate often felt was beyond her.When she gave praise or thanks, she sounded like a child pretending to be a grown-up.
Torres drove them a few minutes away to an exclusive apartment block.The penthouse had that serene quiet found only in chapels and the homes of the very rich.A woman in a charcoal suit — more a majordomo than a maid — ushered them with reverence into a huge sitting room with a view across the Hudson.
Belinda Brennan sat on a low couch, a tissue crushed in one hand.She was auburn-haired and elegant, in her late thirties, a woman who could control a room just by arriving.Now, her eyes were red, and her posture conveyed the deep, instant exhaustion that accompanies grief.
Torres made the introductions.Belinda nodded faintly, her gaze flicking between Kate and Marcus.
