Текст книги "Airtight"

Автор книги: David Rosenfelt

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 13 страниц)

She smiled, and continued. “That’s how I feel right now, at this moment. Tomorrow, who knows?”

“Maybe you can make it work. Maybe you owe him that.”

“The problem is I don’t love him, Luke. I love you.”

That was something I had both waited a long time to hear and never wanted to hear. And under these circumstances, it was actually hard to process. I’m a disaster at being in touch with my feelings, and in this case my feelings and I weren’t on the same planet.

A hundred things raced through my mind as to how to respond to what she said, and I just as quickly rejected each of them. Finally, I settled on the only one I felt comfortable with.

“Oh,” I said.

But I said it with feeling.

We’re getting closer, Bryan. And there’s a definite chance that Steven Gallagher did not kill Brennan. I was played for a sucker … they sent me in there and I did their killing for them.

This is going to end well, Brother. I’m not saying we’ll laugh about it someday, but we’ll get through it.

Richard Carlton was worried and annoyed.

He wasn’t about to panic; that really wasn’t in his DNA. Things had always worked out for Carlton, and this situation would be no exception.

But it was very irritating, mainly because he thought this issue had been put to bed. With Brennan out of the way, there was nothing standing in the way of the Court of Appeals decision. That would end the legal battle, which would trigger the sale of the land, which would make Carlton unbelievably wealthy. The last roadblock had been removed, but the cop, Somers, was single-handedly dragging it back into the middle of the highway.

The implications were ominous. Cops were loathe to reopen solved cases, especially ones in which they had gunned down the alleged killer. For them to admit an error in a situation like that would be to expose themselves to outrage and ridicule, not something they were inclined to do under any circumstances.

So Somers must have something significant, Carlton figured, or he wouldn’t be going down that path. And he came on so strong, almost accusing Carlton of involvement in the murder, that it left no doubt he was ready and willing to cause problems. And anything that interfered with the sale, for any reason, was an unacceptable problem.

Hanson Oil and Gas was a committed buyer, but deals are not closed until they are closed. The kind of publicity that Somers might bring to bear, talk of murdering Federal judges, could spook them. They had a Board of Directors to answer to, and were listed on the New York Stock Exchange. Companies like that have to be careful of ugly controversy, and Daniel Brennan’s murder was as ugly as it gets.

The only saving grace, it seemed to Carlton, was that Somers appeared to be on something of a solo crusade. The fact that he showed up at the hotel alone was somewhat revealing, but the key fact was that Somers was the one who killed Steven Gallagher. Maybe he was haunted by that, and feeling a need to find out whether Gallagher deserved his fate.

Carlton and his partners were close, way too close for things to get derailed now. So Carlton made the phone call, and explained the situation.

“It’s not a problem,” said the voice on the other end of the phone.

“Easy for you to say; he didn’t come to see you. He knows something, and he’s not the type to let it go.”

“I’ll take care of it. Don’t call me on this line again.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to take care of it.”

“Don’t overreact,” Carlton said, but by then he was talking to a dead phone.

He hung up, already regretting that he had made the call.

It was “unofficial update” time.

I had promised Captain Barone that I would keep him informed about what was going on, and I entered his office to do that.

“How’s your brother?” was his first question.

“Hanging in. He’s got four and a half days to live; if I was in his position I’d be doing a lot worse.”

“So you’re not making progress?” he asked.

“Actually, more than I thought I would. I think there’s a reasonable chance that Steven Gallagher did not kill Daniel Brennan.” I hadn’t planned to share that with Barone at this point, because I didn’t think he’d react well and I had more important things to do than manage his moods. But he was a partner in this, he had a stake in the outcome, and he had a right to know.

“Can you rephrase that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, maybe it’s just semantics, but it would be better if you could say it this way: ‘I’ve confirmed beyond a shadow of a doubt that Steven Gallagher killed Daniel Brennan.’”

I smiled for the first time in a while. “So these unofficial updates are not supposed to be accurate?”

“It’s not a requirement, no. But since we’ve started down this path, tell me why you feel this way.”

I went over basically the same items I had discussed with Julie. Barone kept shaking his head; I couldn’t tell whether he was disagreeing or just upset by the possibility that we, that I, had tracked down and killed the wrong man.

When I finished, he said, “Maybe the Todayshow was a mistake.”

“You understand I’ve got more important things to worry about than how this is going to look.”

He nodded. “I do understand that. How can I help?”

“I think we need to put more pressure on Carlton, maybe plant some items in the press. We need to force him into making a mistake.”

“Luke, you’re guessing on this thing, and it’s not even a particularly educated guess.”

“I know that, Captain. But the jury here is Gallagher; I don’t have to go by the strict rules of evidence.”

“Carlton is not without resources; we start libeling him in the press, we could be bringing problems on the department, on me, without any benefit coming from it. I can handle the hassle, and I’m willing to, but I need to see more potential upside.”

I was annoyed by his attitude, even though I expected it, and even though I knew he was basically right. “OK, so we don’t mention him by name; we just let the word get out that we’re still checking some key leads in the Brennan murder. And we say the focus of the investigation has switched to Brayton.”

“Even though we already shot the guilty party.” It wasn’t a question; it wasn’t even said to me. Barone was sort of rolling it around in his mind, trying to see how it would play.

“I shot him,” I pointed out. “Captain, even if my brother was sitting on a beach on the Riviera sucking down pina coladas with umbrellas in them, I wouldn’t let this go.” I was basically telling him that he had no choice, that I was going to keep pulling on this string until I got to the end.

“You’re a pain in the ass,” Barone said.

“I’m aware of that.”

“Do it.”

“Thanks. I will.”

“You probably already have,” he said.

“Yes, I have.”

“Did I mention that you’re a pain in the ass?”

“I’ll check my notes, but I believe you did.”

“So now what?”

“A tour of New Jersey.”

The decision was announced on the court website and made available in the clerk’s office.

The three-judge panel of the Second Circuit Court of Appeals had issued their ruling in the matter of Brayton vs. Carlton Industries.

In boxing parlance, it was a split decision, the court coming down 2–1 on the side of Carlton. But this wasn’t boxing, and there was no provision for a rematch. Simply put, while a close call, the net result for Brayton was devastating.

Judge Susan Dembeck wrote the majority opinion. While acknowledging the legal right, in fact the duty, of a town to protect its citizens, she argued that Brayton had failed to establish that the fracking would cause real damage. She felt that the purchasing company, Hanson Oil and Gas, had in their brief established a regimen that would adequately monitor the environmental effects. The data would be shared with the town, and the court would be receptive to reconsideration, if circumstances warranted. But, she felt, the town had simply not met its burden.

Judge Richard O’Brien, in a blistering dissent, said that Carlton and Hanson had not come close to meeting their own burden of guaranteeing that the health of the innocent citizens of Brayton would not be irrevocably damaged. He even trotted out the “can’t unring a bell” cliche, meaning that once the damage was done, it could not be effectively removed.

But by far the most devastating aspect of the ruling was the requirement that Brayton, if they were going to appeal to the Supreme Court, would have to post a bond in the amount of five hundred million dollars. There was no way that they could afford to do so; they did not even have the resources to make the appeal, no less post the bond.

Left unsaid in the opinion, of course, were the actions that the decision would trigger. Within thirty-six hours, the sale of the land to Hanson Oil and Gas would close; the documents were already signed and sealed. The money would automatically transfer to Carlton and the company that shared ownership of the land, Tarrant Industries.

Richard Carlton had known that the decision was coming, down to the time of day it would be released. He also knew that it would be a favorable one, yet he still felt substantial relief that it had come to pass.

Edward Holland issued a terse press release, saying that he needed time to study the decision and analyze the options. He spoke of the need to protect the families of Brayton, and promised further announcements soon.

Alex Hutchinson was already rallying the very disappointed citizens, planning demonstrations and vowing to continue the fight. Her outrage was palpable, so the media naturally gravitated to her.

Richard Carlton expected all of those reactions, and none of it bothered him. What did bother him was a report in the Daily News.Citing unattributed sources, it said that the investigation in Judge Daniel Brennan’s murder was still ongoing, and that the focus of that investigation had moved to Brayton.

No details were given, and neither Richard Carlton, Luke Somers, nor anyone else was mentioned by name. But Carlton recognized it for what it was, the first salvo in a pressure campaign that Somers was planning to mount.

Dealing with that pressure was now effectively out of Carlton’s hands, which worried him. With victory at hand, any overreaction had the potential to be terribly counterproductive.

But all Richard Carlton could do was watch.

Who are “they”? Who is behind it? And more importantly, will Gallagher believe it? He gave me suicide pills, Lucas. They’re sitting on the table. I don’t want to suffocate. Remember that time at the lake? I know what it feels like to be without air to breathe.

You saved me then, Brother.

This is Act Two.

It’s only about a half hour from Paterson to Morristown.

That’s mainly because the drive is on Route 80, the only highway in America that never, ever seems to have any traffic on it. I don’t know why that is, but whoever planned and designed Route 80 should be anointed as the official National Emperor of Highways.

Within that half hour you can see the state take on a completely different character. People generally don’t think of New Jersey as particularly beautiful, but those people might change their minds if they drove to the northwest portions of the state.

Of course, Emmit and I weren’t on a sightseeing trip. It was in the northwest, Morris, Warren, and Sussex counties, that the satellite company reported weather interruptions of service that matched what Bryan had reported.

We had called ahead and set up a meeting with Captain Willis Granderson of the Morristown police. We picked Captain Granderson because he had served on the force the longest, thirty-seven years. It was important that we talk to someone who had a history in the area.

Granderson was an immediately likable guy, and one who seemed genuinely glad to have company. I got the feeling that he was sort of out of the law enforcement loop, and was just putting in the time until retirement. But based on the interactions he had with fellow officers on the way back to his office, it seemed he was treated with deference and respect.

After making sure we had cold sodas, Granderson asked us what he could do for us.

“We want to talk about bomb shelters,” I said.

“Just goes to show if you hang around long enough … in thirty-seven years, nobody’s ever asked me about bomb shelters.”

I smiled. “Well, you can check it off your list. Are you aware of any in this area?”

“Course I am. Why do you want to know?”

“We have reason to believe that someone is being held against their will in this part of the state. We further believe that they are underground, and cannot hear outside noise, nor themselves be heard outside the room. It’s not necessarily a bomb shelter, but it’s a good guess.”

He nodded. “Sounds right. The good news is that we do have bomb shelters in this area; the bad news is that there’s a whole shitload of them.”

“Why so many?” Emmit asked.

“Because in the sixties, there were a bunch of missiles here, sitting in silos, pointed at the dirty Commies. So people figured that if the other side shot first, they’d try and hit the missiles before they got in the air. So here is one of the places the Russians were aiming first.”

“So people built the shelters to protect themselves from a direct hit,” I said.

He laughed. “Yeah. Like if I shot a bazooka at you, and you protected yourself by wearing a heavy sweater.”

“They weren’t safe?” I asked.

“They were safe if there was a tornado, or a hurricane. But a nuclear missile landing nearby? No way. And you know what? If you were sitting under a nuclear attack, you’d never want to come up for air, because you’d be sucking poison. If you ask me, instant incineration is the way to go.”

“Have you ever been in one of the shelters?”

“Are you kidding? We had one under our house; my father built it himself. I took girls down there until I was twenty-two. I wish I lived there now.” He smiled at the recollection.

“Is it possible that there is one with satellite television hooked up?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Sure. Why not? Have the satellite on the house, or a nearby tree, and run the line down to the shelter. No problem. It could even be in a silo.”

“What do you mean?”

“Some people bought old silos, for beans, once the missiles were taken out. I’ve never seen one, but I’ve heard they turned them into like underground apartments.” He laughed. “I even heard some people built homes next to them, and use the silos as guesthouses.” He laughed again. “I got some family I’d like to put underground when they visit.”

“Is there a map of where the shelters are?”

“No, not that I know of. I’m sure some of them would be registered in town halls, or something. You know, if people had to get permits to build them. But I’m sure most of them just went ahead and did it.”

“What about the silos? Is there a map of where they would be?”

Another shrug. “Must be. The Defense Department keeps records of everything.”

I turned to Emmit. “Let’s make sure we get that.”

Emmit wrote it down, which meant I could forget it. Once Emmit wrote something down, it happened.

“I can tell you where a couple of them are, if you want to see them,” Granderson said.

“How far from here?” Emmit asked.

“Twenty minutes.”

Granderson told us where they were, and how to get there. We thanked him and left.

True to his word, we were there in twenty minutes, an old sign directing us off the road to a US Military Installation, apparently unnamed. We drove on a dirt road towards it, and in less than five minutes we were there. It was a group of small buildings, maybe barracks, and six small towers.

We parked near one of the buildings, and walked towards the towers. Everything was old and dusty, metal was rusted … it sure didn’t feel like a place that once contained enough power to wipe out a good part of the world.

Emmit and I walked towards one of the towers, and saw what used to be the hole in the ground. It was very, very large, maybe thirty feet across, and it was covered by what could best be called an enormous concrete manhole cover.

There were still warning signs, some alerting to the dangers of radiation. It didn’t seem like a current worry, since the area hadn’t been roped off, but I did feel a flash of concern.

“You think this stuff could still be radioactive?” Emmit asked.

“Let’s put it this way,” I said. “You’ve been impotent since you got out of the car.”

He laughed, but the laugh was cut short by the bullet smashing into him. He fell backwards, and I dove on top of him, rolling us over to some level of protection, behind the tower.

“Emmit, you OK?”

He didn’t answer me, but his eyes were open, and the bleeding was coming from just below his shoulder. I balled up his shirt and pressed down on the wound with one hand, as I tried to peer out to where the attack had come from. I had my gun out in the other hand, but I had no target to shoot at.

Another round of weapons fire shattered the quiet, and dirt and concrete kicked out from all around us. We were in a completely untenable position; any effort to find the person shooting at us would leave me totally vulnerable.

But I had to do something, because Emmit could well have been dying. And the way things were setting up, I was going to join him.

I started to work my way around the tower, but more shots cut me off. Then I heard a sound; it was a human sound, maybe a small shout of surprise. Or pain. Or both.

I waited sixty seconds, which in that situation was an eternity. Then I started to make my way around again, bracing myself for more gunfire.

But there was only silence.

So I kept going, gun at the ready, prepared to shoot at anything I saw. And what I saw was a man, standing off in the distance near a building, looking down.

I raised my gun, but I didn’t shoot, because the man was Chris Gallagher. And he was looking down at a body.

Gallagher looked up at me, clearly not afraid of the gun in my hand.

He bent over and seemed to be searching the pockets of the person lying at his feet. I wanted to ask him what the hell was going on, but I had Emmit to worry about.

I took off in a run towards my car, and as I passed by Gallagher I yelled, “My partner’s been hit!”

Gallagher nodded and started running back towards where we had been. I continued on to my car, and drove it to where Emmit was lying, now with Gallagher beside him and pressing down on the wound. As I approached, Gallagher picked Emmit up. It seemed effortless, amazing since Emmit weighed more than two hundred and fifty pounds.

I helped Gallagher put Emmit into the backseat, closed the door, and ran back around to the driver’s side. As I passed by Gallagher, he slipped something into my hand. I didn’t look at it; I was too busy programming the GPS to find the nearest hospital.

It was seven miles away, and while en route I called in to Barone’s office to report what had happened, and to tell them to have the hospital waiting for our arrival.

I called to Emmit a few times, but he didn’t answer. I was hoping that he was just unconscious.

When we got there, I pulled up and was immediately surrounded by emergency personnel. The hospital appeared unimpressive, a one-level place that looked more like a veterinary hospital, but the people there had their act together.

Emmit was out of the car, on a gurney, and in the hospital within a minute. By the time I got inside, he was gone, and I had to ask the person behind the desk where they had taken him.

She asked me to fill out some papers, but I refused, at least for the time being. I wanted to be with Emmit, and she understood and directed me to the area where he was being treated.

I was in the waiting room for over an hour when Captain Barone and three other cops from our station showed up. “How is Emmit?” Barone asked.

“He’s in surgery. They’re not telling me anything, but he lost a lot of blood. Did you reach his wife?”

He shook his head. “She’s on a plane to Seattle to visit her parents. There’s a message for her to call in when she lands. Who did this?”

It was then that I realized that I hadn’t looked at whatever Gallagher had given me. I took it out of my pocket. It was a Nevada Driver’s License, in the name of Frank Kagan.

I showed it to Barone. “He did.”

“How do you know that? Where is he?”

“He’s dead. Chris Gallagher killed him.”

“Excuse me?”

“This guy had us pinned down. Emmit was hit and I was next. Gallagher was there, I don’t know why, but he killed him.”

I told Barone where it happened as best as I could, and he made a phone call to dispatch officers to the scene. Then we waited on Emmit.

It was another hour and forty minutes before the doctor came out to talk to us. “He’s going to make it. He may not go dancing any time soon, but he’s going to make it.”

He went on to say that no major organs were hit, but that Emmit had lost a lot of blood, and if he had gotten to the hospital ten minutes later, it might have been too late.

The bottom line was that Gallagher had saved Emmit’s life.

And mine as well.

Gallagher instantly regretted what he had done.

Intervening had not been a mistake, even though he was operating mostly on instinct. Kagan was going to kill those two cops, and Gallagher was not about to let that happen.

What he regretted was killing Kagan. He could have knocked him unconscious as easily as he broke his neck, and if he had, Kagan would have remained alive to answer Gallagher’s questions. And Gallagher had no doubt that Kagan would have found it in his best interest to answer them; Gallagher could be very persuasive that way.

But now it was too late for that; Kagan’s question-answering days were behind him. So now Gallagher would have to do the answering for him. He’d find out why Kagan was there to kill Somers and his partner, and he had no doubt it was related to the Brennan murder investigation.

Gallagher had a strong feeling that Kagan was military, just based on the way he handled his weapon, and how he chose the optimum spot and position to take out the cops. If he was right, it would make it easier for Gallagher to find out what he needed to know.

But Somers certainly had more resources at his disposal, which was why Gallagher gave him the driver’s license. They’d be able to track down Kagan’s history, and find out a great deal of information about him.

But Gallagher kept a prize for himself. It was a hotel key, a card that would provide entry to Kagan’s room at Cod Cove Inn. At that moment Gallagher had no idea where that was, as there was no address on the key. But he’d find it, and he’d get into the room. And once he did, if he learned anything that made sense to share with Somers, he could do so.

Gallagher placed a phone call to Lieutenant Linda Worley, a military police officer assigned to the Intelligence Unit at Quantico. Worley and Gallagher had briefly been stationed together in Germany about eight years prior. They almost had an affair, and would have, had not Worley remembered that she had a husband back in the states. They’d run into each other a few times in the intervening years, but not for long enough for anything to have happened.

“This is Gallagher,” he said, when she got on the phone.

“And this is a happy coincidence,” she replied. “I’ve been divorced six months.”

He laughed. “Well, if you give me some information, I just might work my way down there to see you.”

They bantered some more, until he got around to telling her what he needed. “There’s a guy named Frank Kagan, last known address Las Vegas; I need to know all there is to know about him.”

“What else have you got?”

“I think he was military.”

“Well, that narrows it right down,” she said.

“He’s maybe forty-two, and probably has a criminal record.”

Gallagher had a pang of conscience in asking her to help. She had no way of knowing that he had gone renegade; if she checked, his records would simply say that he was on leave. But before long the police, military and civilian, would be after him. It would come out that she’d helped him, and at the very least wouldn’t look good in her file.

She said that she’d get back to him, so he turned to his computer to find out where the Cod Cove Inn was. There were three of them in the Northeast, the closest being near Brayton. Having followed Lucas to Brayton and met Alex Hutchinson, he knew there wasn’t any need to check out the other Cod Cove Inns. That was the one.

Knowing that time was of the essence, Gallagher set out to drive to Brayton. He certainly wanted to examine the room, and there was always the chance that the police would find out where Kagan had been staying and seal the place off.

On the way, Gallagher thought about the possibility of extending the seven-day deadline, of bringing a replacement tank to supply air for Bryan Somers. Luke was making headway, and since the goal was to clear Steven, ending the process prematurely was counterproductive. Complicating the situation was Gallagher’s concern that when Somers was at the missile shaft he was also just six miles from the place his brother was imprisoned.

Gallagher wasn’t sure how they got so close, but he was confident they were still operating mostly in the dark. And close was not going to get it done for them.

Gallagher rejected, at least for the moment, any extension of the seven-day deadline. Either Luke would get it done in time or he wouldn’t. And if the latter was the case, then Gallagher would finish the job.

Bryan wouldn’t get an extension, because Steven did not get one.

The Cod Cove Inn could not have been set up better for Gallagher’s purposes. It was a relatively small, two-story place, with maybe fifty total rooms. The main office was in a small separate building, so there was really no way to monitor movement.

He decided to try the upper floor first. If Kagan was military, and had any concern about his safety, he would instinctively want the higher ground. The jump down was a small one, easily navigated, so escape would have been just as easy as from the ground floor.

He started in the back, near the exit, since that was where he would want to be. The parking lot had not seemed crowded, and the vacancy sign confirmed that the place was not filled. Kagan, within reason, should have been able to choose his location, and most people would have wanted to be towards the front, closer to the elevator.

He found the room on the second try; the little green light went on and the door opened. He entered and found it to be very neat, every piece of clothing carefully folded and placed in drawers. Definitely military.

But it was also a suite, or at least connected to an adjoining room, with the door between the two open. It didn’t take much examination of the belongings to know that two men were staying here, Kagan plus one other.

Gallagher started searching carefully but quickly. On the desk in one of the rooms was a briefcase, locked, which was no problem for Gallagher, since among his talents was one for picking locks. In this case he didn’t bother; he was able to rip the briefcase lid off with sheer strength.

Inside was a thick envelope containing copies of media reports of the court case in Brayton, biographical notes on the various players, what seemed to be land maps, and some kind of geological reports. This was outside of Gallagher’s area of expertise, but he would look at them later, when he had more time.

A short while later, in the adjoining room, he reached one of the closets and saw a large suitcase standing on its side. He felt that it was quite heavy, which surprised him, since both Kagan and his partner had obviously unpacked.

The suitcase was locked, and it took Gallagher only a couple of minutes to pick it. Inside was a large, metal box, which was also locked. After another three minutes, Gallagher had that opened as well, and he recognized what he was looking at immediately.

The box was divided into twelve compartments, all the same size. Two were filled with a substance that Gallagher recognized very well, C-245, one of the most powerful plastic explosives ever developed.

The other ten were empty.

Gallagher heard a noise out in the hall, and waited a moment to see if someone was going to enter the room. He hoped it was Kagan’s partner, because he would keep him alive until he answered every question Gallagher could think to ask. But it was a chambermaid, who recoiled in surprise when she saw Gallagher.

“Can I clean the room?” she asked.

“Yes, I was just leaving,” Gallagher said. He grabbed the envelope, the suitcase with the remaining explosives, and left.

I got your back, Bryan. Big news on this end. Someone shot at us today. My partner got hit, but he’ll be OK. Gallagher was there, and killed the shooter. I’ll get him to understand that we’ve scared some people and they want to shut us down.

The truth is in Brayton, New York. There’s a case that Brennan would have ruled on if he got to the court; they made sure he didn’t. Don’t know exactly who “they” are yet, but I will.

Before you know it you’ll be back at work, enriching yourself and stealing from the little people.

And all I remember about that day at the lake was giving you mouth-to-mouth … I still have nightmares about it.

Don’t touch those pills, Brother. We’ll flush them down the toilet together.

I waited to talk to Emmit.

The doctor said he should be awake and coherent in about an hour, and I figured I could use the time to plan out my next moves.

My assumption was that Frank Kagan had been following us. Gallagher might have been following Kagan, but more likely he was following us as well. It was an embarrassment to me that we were obliviously leading a goddamn caravan around, but I’d get over it.

I had to assume that Kagan shot Emmit and had us pinned down. Gallagher must have come up behind him and killed him. I didn’t see any blood on Kagan, so it must have been done with bare hands. Gallagher’s reputation appeared justified.

I didn’t delude myself into thinking this changed the dynamic or balance of power between us. He didn’t save us because we were best buddies; he did it so I could continue my efforts to exonerate Steven. That’s why he gave me Kagan’s driver’s license; he was helping us along in the investigation.