Текст книги "Airtight"

Автор книги: David Rosenfelt

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 13 страниц)

The e-mail from Luke was incredibly relieving for Bryan. While the situation with Julie had caused him to question how well he knew his brother at all, Bryan had no doubt that he was a terrific cop. If anyone could find him, it was Luke. Whether anyone could find him was an open question.

He rushed to respond; not knowing whether Luke would answer, or what he would say, had made it impossible for Bryan to write out his message in advance.

He understood the question about his favorite ballplayer growing up. Luke had to make certain he wasn’t communicating with Chris Gallagher, though Bryan knew Luke would be aware that Gallagher could easily be monitoring the e-mails.

Gary Carter. Keith Hernandez. Ron Darling. Take your pick. Lucas, even though Gallagher might be reading these e-mails, keep me as updated as you can. I’m scared and running out of time.

I don’t think Gallagher was making empty threats.

Bryan was a Mets fanatic growing up, and he knew that Luke would view the list of ballplayers as evidence that it was really Bryan conducting the correspondence.

Very familiar with computers, Bryan next typed in a website that would let him find out his own IP address. He was sure that Luke was already trying to do the same, but he could do it more easily.

Except that he couldn’t. Much to his disappointment, he discovered that he did not have access to the web at all, simply to the e-mail account. For whatever reason, Chris had wanted him to be able to communicate with Luke and the outside world but not be able to browse sites. The disconnect from Internet access would substantially limit his ability to help Luke find him, but there was no way for him to override it.

He still had television as a way to learn what was happening outside, but his situation had not hit the news.

So there was nothing to do but wait for another e-mail from Luke. He assumed that Luke had not brought in the FBI, or other authorities, or it would have made it into the media. So Luke was his contact with civilization, and his only hope to rejoin it.

Bryan decided that he would write out questions for Luke for his next e-mail, though Luke would have to be discreet in answering them, since Gallagher was probably reading them.

He might also eventually write out an e-mail to send to Julie, but first he would have to sort through his feelings about her. With no parents, and no children, Luke and Julie were all he had in the world, and they had betrayed him.

It made Bryan feel very alone, and the worst part was that he knew it was not just a feeling.

He really was alone.

One hundred and sixty-eight hours.

That’s how I thought about the seven days that Bryan had been given. Somehow thinking about it in those terms made me press that much harder. But in the back of my mind, in the front of my mind, was the knowledge that I was wasting my time. I was not going to be able to prove that a guilty man was innocent.

Unless I lied.

Perhaps I could describe progress to Chris Gallagher that wasn’t real but would seem to exonerate his brother. I certainly had no moral qualms about doing so, but it would really have to be convincing.

I would need to fake some evidence, and come up with someone I could hold up as the real killer. It would take some creative thinking, but if I wasn’t making progress in the investigation, it would be a fallback position I would turn to.

So for the moment, I had to focus on the real-life investigation, and I was heading back to the office to get updated by Emmit. I turned on the radio, and they were still talking about the Brennan murder. One of his former basketball teammates was reflecting on his life, and the fact that he was a winner in everything he did.

“The fact that this happened just as he was reaching a goal, the Court of Appeals, makes it a particularly unspeakable tragedy,” the friend said.

I had never focused on that fact before. If Steven Gallagher committed the murder, it had nothing to do with Brennan’s appointment to the Appeals Court. Clearly Steven could not have cared less about that, if he knew it at all.

Instead, Steven’s stabbing Brennan to death would simply have had to do with the fact that Steven was bitter and vengeful about his drug conviction.

So it was an apparent coincidence. Brennan was ascending to his new position, and receiving substantial publicity for it, just before his murder. Except I don’t believe in coincidences, and had I not focused on Steven, I would have been cognizant of the fact that this one was a whopper.

So stepping back and looking at it, there were only two choices. One, that Brennan’s judicial appointment and murder coincidentally happened at the same time. Or two, that the appointment and murder were related. For my purposes it did me no good to assume the former; I had to go with the latter.

That realization opened up a new line of inquiry. Rather than analyze only Judge Brennan’s previous cases to find someone with motive, I could look at his future cases, or at least those in what was supposed to be his future.

It was well outside of my area of expertise, but I was sure there must be many cases awaiting Brennan when he arrived at the Appeals Court. Maybe someone didn’t want him helping to decide them, and killed him for it.

I was about to call Julie when she called me. I could hear the strain in her voice.

“Talk to me, Luke. I need to know what’s going on.”

“I heard from Bryan. For some reason Gallagher is allowing him to e-mail.”

“Is he OK?”

“So far. Julie, can we meet later, maybe have a quick dinner? I’ll download you on all that’s happening, though I wish it were more.”

“Of course. And I have some information on Gallagher I can give you then. I wish there were more also.”

“In the meantime, I need to talk to someone who would be familiar with the cases that Brennan would have heard on the Appeals Court.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Because I’m flailing around, trying everything.”

“OK. Call Lee Bollinger. No, don’t call him; go see him. He’s at his office in Teaneck; I spoke to him an hour ago. I’ll call ahead and tell him to get started on what you need.”

“I’m particularly interested in situations where someone knowledgeable would think that Brennan would have voted differently than Susan Dembeck.”

“OK, I’ll tell him that.”

“How do you know he’ll see me if I just show up?”

“Trust me, he’ll see you,” she said. When Julie sounds that certain about something, you can take it to the bank. In this case I would take it to Teaneck to see Lee Bollinger.

Bollinger is about as big an attorney as you can find on this side of the George Washington Bridge. Most of his clients are corporations, but he also handles some celebrities, especially sports figures. Somehow his cases often make it into the headlines; if a legal case becomes a hot publicity ticket, Bollinger is usually at the center of it.

But except for when his celebrity clients get hit with DUIs, or a domestic abuse offense or two, Bollinger rarely gets involved in criminal cases, which was why I was surprised that Julie knew him as well as she seemed to.

Bollinger’s firm has its own three-story building off Route 4 in Teaneck, and if he’s able to fill it with lawyers, then business must be pretty good.

When I walked into the reception area, I didn’t have to say a word. The receptionist preempted that with, “Lieutenant Somers? Mr. Bollinger is waiting for you.”

Within forty-five seconds I was sitting in the great man’s office, having just been provided with a cup of the most delicious coffee I’d ever tasted. Bollinger was not yet there, but he came in a few seconds later, carrying a folder and offering a big handshake.

After our hellos, I said, “Boy, Julie must have pictures of you in a closet with a goat or something.”

He laughed. “Better than that. She had discretion on a case involving one of my more famous clients, who shall remain nameless. She could have turned it into a huge PR fiasco, or quietly accepted a no contest plea.”

“So she took the plea?”

He nodded. “After telling me this morning that she wouldn’t.” He holds up the folder. “So this must be pretty important.”

“Not as much as you’d think.”

He smiled, obviously not believing me. “Yeah, right. So Brennan’s killer was a kid strung out on drugs, who was worried about how Brennan might decide future Appeals Court cases?”

“You remember what you said about Julie using discretion when it came to your client?”

“Of course.”

“You might want to use some of your own, or she’ll change her mind and discretion your client’s ass onto every tabloid front page in the country. “

He looked surprised, so I continued. “Just tell me what you have, and then don’t talk to anyone else about it, counselor.”

He smiled. “I am a model of discretion.”

“Good. What have you got?”

He shrugged. “I have no idea. It’s only been forty-five minutes since I spoke to Julie, and I put four lawyers on it. This is what they came up with, but I haven’t gotten a chance to look through it. There will be more.”

“How soon?”

“End of the day. I’ll messenger it to your office.”

I thanked him and took the folder.

“I hope you got the right guy,” he said.

“Me too.”

Bryan … he wants me to clear his brother and find out who really killed the Judge. I’m working on it now … the whole department is on it. We’ve got some good early leads. You feeling OK? Anything you can tell me about where you are? Gallagher says he’s not reading these e-mails but he probably is. In any event, tell me whatever you can.

You can punch me in the mouth when I get you out.

Keith Hernandez couldn’t carry Don Mattingly’s glove. Mattingly belongs in the Hall of Fame. Hernandez belongs onSeinfeld.

In all the time I was a cop, I never framed anyone.

I’m not just talking about out-and-out frames, where evidence is created and planted to implicate an innocent party. I’m talking about shadings, about things like not aggressively pursuing evidence that might help the accused, when I thought the accused was guilty.

I always prided myself on going after the truth whether or not it might butt up against my preconceived notions; I’d much rather adjust my point of view than adjust the evidence in any way.

I’m not looking for praise in saying this; it’s my job, and I could say the same of every cop I’ve ever worked with, with the possible exception of one or two. Or three at the most.

But I’d never been faced with a situation like this before, and my strategy was evolving. And it was becoming increasingly clear to me that in order to succeed, I was going to have to frame someone for the murder of Judge Danny Brennan.

My victim wouldn’t be going to jail; he or she wouldn’t even be going to trial. The sole judge and jury who would decide the case was Chris Gallagher. I had to credibly make a case to him that someone, other than his brother, committed the murder.

But I couldn’t come up with a perpetrator out of whole cloth. I also needed a motive, and an ability for someone to have committed the crime. And that was basically why I had gotten the information about the Appeals Court cases. I did not believe that anyone involved in those cases had slaughtered Danny Brennan in his garage. But I needed to make Chris Gallagher believe that they did.

I spent a few hours going over the information in the folder, plus additional material that Bollinger, as promised, messengered over. Much of it was legalese, which I only partially understood, but I identified at least three possible cases to pursue. I would bring it to dinner with Julie, since she was far more knowledgeable about this stuff than I was.

We met at Spumoni’s, a casual Italian place in Englewood. I’d eaten there a number of times with Julie and Bryan; sometimes I brought a date, and sometimes I didn’t. I even remember some of their names.

I got there first and took a quiet table near the back. Julie came in a few minutes later, the strain evident on her face. She still looked fantastic; that was a given. But this time she looked fantastic and very, very stressed.

We didn’t kiss hello; we never did. I don’t think I know another woman in the world, outside of work, who doesn’t kiss me hello, but Julie never did. At least not since the night we did a lot more than kiss.

She just about grabbed the waiter and ordered a drink, a favorite of hers called a “Dark and Stormy.” She asked for it the way she might ask for a life preserver on a ship about to go down, but didn’t wait for it to come before handing me the envelope she had brought.

“Everything you ever wanted to know about Christopher Gallagher,” she said.

“Summarize it,” I said.

“No, it’s bedtime reading for you, but you won’t sleep much after you read it. You do the talking.”

I took her through everything that had transpired since we last talked, including showing her printed copies of the e-mails that Bryan and I had exchanged. It was depressing in the telling, as it drove home the reality that we were getting nowhere.

I was getting nowhere.

“Do you think I should bring in the Feds?” I asked.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” she said. “And I don’t think you should.”

“Why not?”

“Because they’re a machine, and they will do what they’re programmed to do. They’ll try and catch Gallagher, though I don’t think they’ll be able to. But if they did catch him, it wouldn’t go the way that we want.”

“I’m chasing something that doesn’t exist,” I said.

She nodded. “I know.”

“I’m going to have to fake it,” I said.

She nodded again, and pointed to the folder that I had brought. “Which is why you wanted the case information from Bollinger.”

“Right. I need you to go through it. I saw a few possibilities that we can go after, maybe find a credible villain…”

“So I’ve got my own bedtime reading,” she said.

“Yeah. Julie, is there anything you want me to say to Bryan for you? Or you could e-mail him yourself.”

“I don’t think I should. This is a nightmare for him, and I want it to be as bearable as possible. If he wanted to hear from me, he would e-mail me. You think I’m wrong?”

I nodded. “I think you’re wrong.”

She thought about it for a while. “Tell him I love him. And tell him I’m sorry.”

Chris Gallagher was waiting on my porch when I got home.

He was sitting there, not a care in the world, like he belonged and was thinking of organizing a neighborhood block party. I wasn’t particularly surprised.

“How come you didn’t break in?” I asked.

“No need for the drama anymore,” he said. “You want to talk inside, or out here?”

“Inside.”

We went into the kitchen, and I stopped at the refrigerator. I took out two bottles of beer, and tossed one to Gallagher.

“The gracious host,” he said.

“Hopefully you’re doing the same for my brother.”

“I assume you’re asking him in your e-mails,” he said.

“And I assume you’re reading them.”

He shook his head. “No. I could, but I’m not.”

“You’re full of shit,” I said.

He smiled. “I am many things, but I am not full of shit. I don’t say words unless I mean them.”

“So why are you letting him e-mail?”

“Steven e-mailed me in Afghanistan; it’s the way we kept in touch. I heard from him just six hours before you killed him. Unfortunately, all I did with his e-mails was read them.”

“So Bryan being able to e-mail me satisfies some sense of justice you have?”

He shrugged. “I guess so. I don’t try to figure myself out much.”

“So what are you doing here?” I asked.

“Checking on your progress, assuming you’re making some.”

“It’s been one day,” I said.

“You’ve only got seven.”

“That’s not enough.”

“On behalf of your brother, I’m sorry to hear that. Now tell me where you are.”

I was having a tough time deciding how much to tell him, since at that point I didn’t even know enough to come up with a credible fake scenario. I decided to be as nonspecific as I could get away with.

“There’s an entire task force working on this, though they are not aware of the situation with you and Bryan. We’re taking a two-pronged approach. We’re attempting to establish an alibi for Steven, trying to find out where he was at the time of the murder, and whether anyone can place him away from the scene.”

“How is that going?”

“We’re not there yet. But I have a proposition for you. I am willing to go on national television and say that Steven was innocent, that I shot the wrong man. And when Bryan is released, I won’t go back on that. I promise.”

“No good,” he said.

“Why not? It will clear Steven’s name in the eyes of the world. Isn’t that what this is about? You already believe in him; he doesn’t need to be cleared in your eyes, does he?”

He ignored this. “You said two-pronged approach; what’s the other one?”

“We’re trying to identify other suspects. These could come from defendants in Brennan’s courtroom who might have carried a grudge against him, or people with a reason to fear how Brennan might help decide cases before the Appeals Court.”

Gallagher nodded, apparently agreeing with the approach. “And where are you on all that?” he asked.

“We’re one day in, Gallagher. One day.”

“It took less time than that for you to go after Steven,” he said.

“We were there to question him, that’s all. He had a gun, and he raised it.”

“That’s bullshit.”

It hit me that Gallagher knew less than I had imagined. “He left a suicide note.”

Gallagher reacted angrily. “Be careful, Luke. I am not someone you want to bullshit.”

“I’m telling you the truth. It said that he couldn’t take it anymore. And he said, ‘Tell Chris I’m sorry.’”

“Shut your mouth.”

“So you’re better at telling the truth than hearing it? I can get the note and show it to you, if you’d like.”

He was quiet for a few moments, sort of bowing his head. I couldn’t tell whether his eyes were open or not. The really unsettling thing was that I had no idea how he would react; he was a complete mystery to me. Bryan’s life would ultimately depend on whether I figured him out.

When he finally spoke, it was softly, and the words did not seem to come easily. “He was scared. He was alone, and he was scared, and everything ahead of him seemed awful. But you made sure there was nothing ahead of him.”

“That’s what Bryan is going through right now.”

“It’s different for him,” Gallagher said. “He’s got someone to help him. Don’t blow it.”

“Let him go, and I promise I’ll work just as hard to clear Steven.”

He stood up. “Six days,” he said, and then left.

Lucas … I’m feeling OK … I’m comfortable. He’s got me chained, but I can get around, and there’s plenty to eat and drink. Can’t access the Internet, but obviously can e-mail. I have television, local NY stations, and it seems to be satellite, if that helps.

I watched a clip of you doing a TV interview … you might want to spend some time on the treadmill.

The idea of punching you in the face is what keeps me going.

Remember the time Dad took us to a Mets game for the first time and we were amazed at how green the grass looked? I’d sort of like to see grass again sometime.

Please get me out of here.

Julie was right that reading about Chris Gallagher would not be fun.

She had somehow gotten his service record, plus letters written about him by his commanding officers and others he encountered during his military career.

The service record itself was scary, as much because of what it didn’t say as what it did. There were large gaps that did not detail where he was or what he was doing for months at a time. Instead the only listings during these periods categorized him as being TAD, which I knew to mean Temporarily Assigned Duty.

Having served in the military myself, I had no doubt what this really meant, and the dates confirmed it. He was Black Ops, meaning he was put into both Iraq and Afghanistan before we entered those countries. They would have been mostly reconnaissance missions, to prepare for our full-scale military entrance.

While Black Ops are there to scout the enemy, terrain, etc., they are quite prepared to engage any hostile forces they might meet. If they are captured, the US Government will not acknowledge their existence, which in and of itself is not that significant, since they would certainly be killed anyway.

Suffice it to say that our government uses very few wimps for these missions. They send the toughest of the tough, the most well-trained, disciplined soldiers we have. That was who Chris Gallagher was, and that was who Bryan and I were up against. And if Iraq and Afghanistan did not prove daunting for him, it was unlikely that New Jersey would fill him with fear.

Gallagher joined the Marines at the age of twenty-three, and was trained as a communications and electronics expert. Eighteen months later he applied for Force Recon status, which involves training in everything from parachute jumping to underwater demolition to enhanced combat techniques in extraordinarily difficult conditions.

His psychological evaluations seemed unremarkable, though they were filled with words like “resolute,” “determined,” and “purposeful.” The only relative he listed or apparently ever mentioned was his brother, Steven. Their parents were long deceased.

Nothing about Gallagher, or anyone else for that matter, frightened me physically. I think I was born without the “personal danger” gene; I just never get fearful about my own physical safety. It’s not necessarily a good quality for a cop.

Physical fear is as important as physical pain. People who can’t feel pain aren’t able to be protective; for instance, their skin could be being burned and they might not know it. In a similar fashion, fear acts to help one avoid dangerous situations, and my lack of fear is a negative for that reason. I don’t instinctively avoid danger; instead I must force my mind to be logical about it.

But I can feel fear for others, and I was feeling it big-time for Bryan. He always had the fear gene; we were very different in that way. He once confessed to me that it was a major reason why he didn’t follow me and my father into police work. And at the moment he had to be really, really scared of what was going to happen, so I was scared on his behalf.

One of the most disappointing things about the information Julie had given me on Gallagher was his lack of connections to anyone but his brother. I had hoped for friends, or other relatives, who he might be in contact with. They might have led me to Bryan; they might even have been helping to keep him captive. But at least for the moment, that avenue was closed.

I decided to focus on something more upbeat, though pretty much anything would have qualified. I again dove into the Appeals Court cases, since I needed to pick one to focus on. I wasn’t necessarily looking for the one most likely to tie in to the Brennan murder, but rather the one I could make Gallagher believe. They might have been one and the same, but maybe not.

I narrowed it down to two possibilities, and then chose the one that made the most sense. It was a case in which the town of Brayton was suing to prevent a company from doing something called fracking on land adjacent to the town. Fracking, which was the extrication of natural gas from shale, was claimed by the town to be environmentally devastating.

I chose the case for four reasons. One, it was relatively nearby. Two, there was close to four hundred million dollars at stake, just representing the purchase price of the land, and maybe billons more once the drilling took place. Three, the case was nearing a completion and Brennan’s addition to the court could have upset the applecart. And four, emotions in the town were running very high; there had even been violence that was being attributed to the situation. The guesthouse of the man who owned the land had been blown up.

All of this seemed to add up to a believable set of circumstances to lead to a murder.

Bryan, I will get you out … you have my word. Knowing about the NY stations is helpful; think hard about anything else you can tell me. Maybe something you saw or heard on the way there. No matter how insignificant it might seem, it can help.

Also look for serial numbers on any of the appliances.

That wasn’t me doing the interviews … it was a fat actor they hired to play me. Someday I’ll work myself into shape, like you investment bankers.

You’ll see grass again soon, but it will be in Yankee Stadium. Only the best for my brother.

“I am with you one hundred percent,” Edward Holland shouted.

He had just said pretty much the same thing, albeit more softly, at the council meeting inside the Brayton Town Hall. There he had been talking to the elected town officials, as well as the small number of citizens who could fit inside the cramped quarters.

But this was a much bigger gathering, and in many ways a more significant one. It numbered more than fifteen hundred people, holding signs and chanting their determination to protect their families and their lifestyle. For Brayton, it qualified as something akin to a Million Man March.

They were also voters, and they had put Holland in office. They had supported him throughout the fight against Richard Carlton and his company, trying to prevent the fracking that they all believed, that Holland had in fact told them, could threaten their health and well-being.

But they had to be handled, and Holland was the guy to do it. He was their hero, fighting valiantly against the corporate villains. It was an image that he had carefully cultivated throughout the battle, so much so that his “soldiers” were apparently getting carried away.

“I know how you feel, and I share your passion and your anger,” Holland said. “And I know you agree with me that violence is not the answer. It is not what we are about; it is not what Brayton is about.”

There had been no arrests made for the destruction of Richard Carlton’s guesthouse, but it was commonly believed that the perpetrators did what they did in retaliation for Carlton’s attempt to sell the land for fracking.

Holland’s call against violence was greeted by a mixture of cheers and angry yells; it was clear that not everyone in the audience was inclined to take the high road.

“The moneyed interests and many in the media are trying to paint you as vigilantes, as outlaws who are dangerous and disrespectful of the process. We cannot let them do that.”

This seemed to get a more enthusiastic response, so Holland continued. “We don’t need bombs, or guns, or violence of any kind. We have a greater power on our side; we have the truth.”

This was greeted with a roar of approval; Holland now had them under control. He turned to look at Alex Hutchinson, who had emerged in recent weeks as an unelected leader of the townspeople. Alex was nodding approval.

“We are law-abiding citizens,” Holland continued. “All we are seeking is justice and the ability to protect our children and our families. We will get that justice; I will accept nothing less.

“So have faith in the process. Have faith in the American system. Have faith in God. Your faith, our faith, will carry us through to victory.”

By then the crowd was completely with Edward Holland; they hung on his every word. They trusted him; if he said they would win in the courts, then they would win in the courts.

The only thing he failed to mention was what he knew to be the truth.

They were going to lose.

The drive to Brayton took an hour and ten minutes.

It would ordinarily have taken me an hour and a half, and with it raining like it was, maybe even longer than that. Which was why I brought Emmit along, and let him drive.

Emmit drives like an absolute maniac, and he rode the siren most of the way. He did this even though we had no jurisdiction in New York, figuring we could handle any local cops who had a problem. None did.

My first stop was going to be at the town hall to see the Mayor, Edward Holland. We had a brief conversation over the phone, but if I was going to pin Judge Brennan’s murder on the situation in Brayton, I needed as much firsthand exposure to it as possible. I was hoping Holland could draw me a road map.

Holland originally thought I was investigating the explosion at the house of Richard Carlton, his adversary in the legal proceedings concerning the proposed fracking. He quickly realized that it made no sense for the New Jersey State Police to have an interest in a New York crime, and asked why I wanted to meet.

“We believe that a case we are working on here may intersect with the controversy you’re involved in.”

“Can you be more specific?” he asked.

“I can, and I will when we meet.”

He made it clear to me how busy he was, as a way of telling me that the meeting would not be a long one, but he ultimately agreed. I made a similar call to Richard Carlton, who it turned out was in Manhattan for business meetings. I arranged to see him there the next day.

I liked Brayton a lot. It was a sort of sleepy place, with a town center consisting of basically three streets of shops. It was the kind of place where the superstores have not made their appearance, probably because the economics don’t warrant it.

All in all, a nice place to grow up, provided the water was safe to drink and the air breathable. I could see why people would be upset that big industry might damage the cocoon they had constructed around their families. It wasn’t Mayberry; it was considerably more sophisticated than that. But it felt right.

Emmit dropped me off at the town hall, while he went on ahead to the Brayton Police Station to get as much background as he could on the violence. Edward Holland had left instructions for me to be ushered into his office immediately upon my arrival, and that’s what happened.

“Is this about the Brennan murder?” he asked right away, surprising me.

I nodded. “Yes, but very loosely at this point. We’re covering our bases, and as part of that we’re looking into the cases he would have been involved in on the Court of Appeals.”

“That could take a while. He would have had a full caseload,” Holland said.

I nodded. “And we’re checking as many as manpower allows. The fact that there has already been some violence in connection with your case puts it near the top of the list.”

“Somebody blew up Richard Carlton’s guesthouse in frustration and anger. It is extraordinarily unlikely that whoever did it had the sophistication to try and control which judges would rule on the Court of Appeals.”