I continued along Route 17.
I used the driving time to think about Gabe and some of the insights he'd given me about Asad Khalil three years ago. Gabe had never met Khalil-until yesterday-but he was able to come up with a sort of psychological profile on his co-religionist. He'd explained to me about the blood feud-the obligation of an Arab male to avenge the murder of a family member. This, more than political ideology or religion, was what drove and motivated Asad Khalil; the Americans had killed his family and he was honor-bound to kill those responsible-and also kill those who tried to keep him from his duty. Like me. And Kate. And Gabe. And probably others.
Gabe had also mentioned to me the ancient Arab tradition of the lone warrior, the avenger who is a law unto himself, not unlike the American cowboy hero. Gabe had recited a verse that sort of summed it up. "Terrible he rode alone with his Yemen sword for aid; ornament, it carried none but the notches on the blade."
Therefore it was very possible that Asad Khalil intended to meet John Corey alone, man to man, with no accomplices, and no purpose other than to see who was the better man-the better killer.
And that was fine with me. I love a challenge.
My cell phone rang, and I answered, "Corey."
It was Investigator Matt Miller, who, after inquiring about Kate and after discovering I was headed back to Manhattan, told me, "We've impounded the rental car that we found in the airport parking lot." He also told me they'd taken fingerprints and fiber samples from it and so forth. No doubt we had enough forensic, eyewitness evidence, and circumstantial evidence to convict Asad Khalil of a variety of crimes. All we had to do now was find him.
Khalil himself wasn't taking any care about covering his crimes, and he didn't give a rat's ass about leaving evidence or announcing his identity. All Khalil was worried about-if he worried at all-was staying one step ahead of us and getting back to Sandland with more notches on his blade. And all I was worried about was making sure that didn't happen.
I changed the subject and asked Miller, "Did you speak to Craig Hauser? The president of the skydiving club?"
"Yes, I spoke to him directly. He really didn't know much about the new sign-on who turned out to be the suspect."
"You sure?"
"Yes… why? Do you think he knows more than he's telling?"
I never use my police powers to settle a personal grudge, so I shouldn't do that now.
Miller informed me, "He's very concerned about your wife. He wants to visit her in the hospital."
"Book him."
"I… what…?"
"Just kidding. Hey, did the club do their other two jumps?"
"No. They weren't able to."
"Right. The jump zone is a crime scene. Good call." I want a refund.
"No, it wasn't that. The old plane they were using had a problem on takeoff. One of the engines caught fire." He added, "Too much leaking oil or something."
Aha! I knew it. Wait until I tell Kate.
He assured me, "No injuries or anything."
Fate. I wondered if Cindy did the takeoff. Ralph, is that engine supposed to be burning?
He informed me, "We also confiscated the videotape of your skydive as evidence."
"Good."
He hesitated, then said, "I watched it." He added, "Incredible." He further added, "You're a brave man, Detective Corey."
This is true, but I replied, "You saw what Khalil was capable of."
"I did. But he's not brave-he's psychotic."
I agreed, "He's a little over the top." I told you so.
Investigator Miller assured me, "I got hold of the tape before the cameraman could sell it to the evening news. Also, I distributed a notice to each member of the skydiving club strongly advising them not to speak to the press while this case was under investigation."
I asked him, "Where is the videotape?"
He replied, "The FBI has possession of it."
"Has anyone from the FBI or the Terrorist Task Force mentioned to you any other attacks that may be linked to this suspect?" I asked him.
"No. Why?"
"Just wondering." I advised him, "I think you can assume that Asad Khalil is gone from your jurisdiction."
"Do you think he was on that Citation jet?"
"Maybe. I told you-he used charter aircraft last time."
"Okay. But Walsh seems to think he might still be here."
"It's your call," I said noncommittally. "Anything else?"
"No. But I've also been advised that you are not the case agent and that I need to speak only to whoever is assigned to this case."
"Okay. But let's stay in touch."
"That's not what I just said."
"You just called me," I reminded him.
"This was a one-time courtesy."
Right. Cop to cop. I said, "Well, I hope the FBI extends you some courtesies."
He didn't reply to that, but he did say, "I have a half dozen FBI agents in my headquarters."
I assured him, "They're from the government and they're there to help you." I reminded him, "There are homeland security considerations with this case, so you may be asked to do or say-or not do or say-some things that you think you should be doing or saying."
He did not reply.
I said, "As a for instance, do you intend to interview the victim?"
Again, he didn't reply, and I knew that the FBI had already told him to forget about talking to Kate.
He did say, "My new FBI friends in my office say they're moving your wife out of here tomorrow morning."
That was news to me. Obviously, they wanted her out of the jurisdiction of the State Police and back in Manhattan where they could keep a tighter lid on the case and on the information leaks.
We seemed to have run out of things to speak about, so I said, "I appreciate the call."
"Let me know how this turns out."
I couldn't promise that, but I said, "If I find him, I'll let you know."
Investigator Miller added, "And if he finds you, I'll see it on the news."
Not funny, Investigator Miller.
We hung up and I continued along the state highway, then exited onto the New York State Thruway, whose sign promised NEW YORK-50 MILES.
I turned on the radio and scanned a few local channels to see if the psychotic skydiver had made the news, but I didn't hear anything. The newscaster went on to national news, and I was certain now that the skydiving incident would not be mentioned on the news.
I tuned in to a New York City all-news station and listened for any mention of the Haytham murders or the murder of the livery driver, Charles Taylor, in Douglaston, Queens, or the Libyan taxi driver. I waited through the entire news cycle, but none of those murders were mentioned.
So the FBI and the Task Force had done half their job; they'd kept the press in the dark and fed the local police bullshit. Now the Feds could control the search for Khalil and decide for themselves what to do with him if they caught him.
The newspapers, with more space to fill, would have some ink on these murders, but I was pretty sure it would be straight reporting with no speculation and not a clue about any connections.
I crossed into New Jersey and instantly the drivers became insane, weaving in and out, hitting their brakes for no reason, and signaling the opposite of what they were going to do. You're supposed to let your mind wander when you drive in New Jersey, so I took my mind off the road and thought about what Vince Paresi was saying to me.
It occurred to me that this noon meeting in Walsh's office might actually be less about Asad Khalil and more about John Corey. Apparently I had become a problem.
I don't usually get paranoid about my career because, one, I'm good at what I do, and two, I don't need the job. My old bud, Dick Kearns, formerly of the NYPD, is now a private background investigator, a big growth business since 9/11, and he's offered me a partnership. "Half the work, double the money, and no bosses and no bullshit."
Sounds like a little bit of heaven. But for now, I really needed to stay with the Feds until Mr. Khalil and I interacted one last time.