Cross Fire

mathematics, came to the United States from Poland in 1983 to study at Boston University, where he won several top academic prizes in his field. More recently, he was featured in the PBS NOVA documentary “Ones to Watch” for his study of prime numbers, and specifically his pursuit of a proof for what many consider to be the holy grail of mathematics today: Riemann’s hypothesis.…

    I stopped reading right there, got up, and dialed Sampson’s number on my way out the door.
    “Strings, thanks much.”
    “No problem. Glad to help out.”

Chapter 89

    “WHERE ARE YOU, JOHN?”
    “I’m outside of the damn shelter, if you can believe it. I can’t. Guy pushed a shopping cart around the block a few times and then checked back in for a bed before Siegel and the others were even gone. I’ve got Donny Burke coming to take the overnight for me.”
    “We need to pull the guy out of there,” I said.
    “Why do you sound like you’re running?”
    “He’s a math professor, John. An expert in prime numbers. And Riemann’s hypothesis.”
    “What?”
    “Yeah. His name’s Stanislaw Wajda, and he’s been missing for a year. Wait for me. I’ll be right there.”
    It was faster to run over to the shelter than get my car. I was already down the back stairs and cutting across Judiciary Square.
    “I’ve got this,” Sampson said. “I’ll have him out by the time you get here.”
    “John, don’t —”
    But he’d already hung up. Sampson can be just as stubborn and pigheaded as I am sometimes, which is why it’s hard to hold it against him.
    I picked up the pace.
    From Judiciary Square, I came out on Fourth Street and cut around the block toward Second. Before I got there, though, I saw Sampson coming right toward me as if he’d just been around the back of the building.
    “He’s gone, Alex! His cart’s not there anymore, and there’s a goddamn door in the back. He duped me! He’s out!” Sampson turned away and kicked a garbage bag off the curb, sending a shower of trash into the street.
    Before he could take another swinging kick, I pulled him back. “Hang on, John. One thing at a time. We don’t know anything for sure yet.”
    “Don’t even start with that,” he told me. “It’s him. I put that damn knife back in his hand, and then I let him get away.”
    “We both did, John,” I said. “We
both
did.”
    But Sampson wasn’t hearing me. I could tell he was going to blame himself no matter what I said, so I stopped trying and switched to action.
    “He can’t be far,” I said. “It’s not like he hopped into a cab or something. We’ll walk the neighborhood all night if we have to. I’ll get this out on WALES right away. Put some more eyes on the street. Maybe get someone from Warrant Squad in the morning, if it comes to that. Those guys are bloodhounds. We’ll get him.”
    Sampson nodded and started up the street without another word. No time like the present.
    “What’d you say the name was?” he asked as I came up alongside him.
    “Stanislaw Wajda,” I told him.
    “Stanislaw…?”
    “Wajda.”
    “Screw it. I’ll learn to say it after we find the son of a bitch.”

Chapter 90

    IT WAS THREE DAYS BEFORE we got anywhere even close to some forward movement. No Talley. No Hennessey. No Wajda.
    And then the worst happened.
    On Friday morning, for the third time that month, I got an early call from Sampson about a dead body. Another junkie had been beaten to death, with more of the same numbers gibberish carved into his forehead and across his back.
    But one thing was different this time, and it changed everything.
    “They found Stanislaw’s shopping cart next to the body,” Sampson told me. “At least, I’m pretty sure it’s his. Hard to tell one from another, you know?” His voice was hoarse. I wasn’t sure how much sleep he’d gotten since Wajda had disappeared. “This poor kid doesn’t look like he was much more than eighteen, Alex.”
    “Sampson, are you going to be okay?” I asked. “You don’t sound like yourself.”
    “I sure hope so.”
    “This isn’t your fault, John. You know that, right?”
    He still wasn’t ready to answer that one. All he said was “You don’t have to come down here.”
    “I’m coming,” I said. “Of course I am.”

Chapter 91

    THE SCENE AT Farragut Square was depressingly familiar when I got there. I’m never sure which is worse — the shock of something I’ve never seen before, or the weight of seeing it one too many