Текст книги "Airtight"

Автор книги: David Rosenfelt

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 13 страниц)

My hope was that he would realize that we were getting somewhere, that Kagan came after us because he or, more likely, people who sent him were getting worried. My other hope was that Gallagher would move the seven-day deadline back, but I knew I couldn’t count on that.

But it wasn’t just a question of whether Gallagher thought we were getting somewhere; the fact was that we were. There could be no other explanation for it. Kagan would have been worth more to us alive, but just his identity might be enough to unlock the puzzle.

I didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but there was only one person we could be scaring, and that was Richard Carlton. If I could establish a tangible connection between him and Kagan, I’d nail him to the wall with it. He could go fracking in his bathrobe on Rikers Island.

The nurse came out to tell me that Emmit was alert, and I went in. He looked pale, but better than I expected, and he greeted me with a small smile.

“That really went well, huh?” he asked.

“Smooth as silk.”

“What exactly happened?”

“You got shot; I had a couple of beers, and then drove you back here. Ruined my whole day.”

The banter out of the way, I filled in all the details about Kagan and Gallagher. He seemed to be straining to listen, as if just doing so required an enormous effort.

When I finished, he said, “So you kill his brother, he threatens to kill yours, and then he saves your life. Complicated guy.”

“Yeah.”

“So what are you going to do now?”

“I called in to find out what I can about Kagan, see if it leads us back to Carlton.”

Emmit nodded. “It might just do that,” he said. “I can’t think of anyone else we’ve pissed off, at least not in the last few days.”

“That’s how I figure it.”

“You think you can get me something to drink?” he asked. “I’m thirsty as hell.”

I went out to tell the nurse the request, but when I came back Emmit was sound asleep. There was no sense waking him, and no reason for me to hang around. I didn’t know what I was going to do next, but I knew I was going to do it quickly.

Complicating matters, of course, was the need to now be careful. There were people who wanted to kill me, and if Frank Kagan was any indication, they were people with experience at it. I’d never had a particularly well developed self-preservation instinct, but in this case I knew that my death would ensure Bryan’s.

I called in to the office to get updated on what they had so far uncovered about Frank Kagan. He was a hit man out of Vegas, which was not quite as interesting as something else they learned. He was known to partner with an old army buddy named Tommy Rhodes. It turned out that Rhodes was an expert in bomb making and, more important, bomb using. It was those kinds of devices that were responsible for Richard Carlton no longer having a guesthouse.

As soon as I hung up, the cell phone rang. “Lieutenant Somers. This is Ice Davenport.”

Because of the strange name, it took me a moment to make the connection. It was Nate “Ice Water” Davenport, longtime friend of Daniel Brennan and unofficial counselor and confidant to his wife.

“Yes. What can I do for you?”

“You said I should call you if I wanted to talk some more about my friend.”

“I remember.”

“Well, I’m ready to do that.”

“Ice Water” Davenport lived on 88th Street and Riverside Drive in Manhattan.

To my amazement, I found a parking spot. The sign said that parking was OK except on Monday and Thursday mornings, which is when street cleaning allegedly takes place. I have my doubts about that, since I’ve been there on Monday and Thursday afternoons and suffice it to say that the streets do not look spotless.

He greeted me with a fairly tense, “Thank you for coming,” and offered me something to drink. I took coffee; it had not been a great week for sleep.

We sat in the living room. The apartment was huge; I hadn’t seen other doors when I got off the elevator, so it was possible that it occupied the entire floor of the building. The furniture was extremely modern, mostly glass and stainless steel, and the place was spotless. The doorways were higher than usual, in deference to the inhabitant.

“I’d like to establish some ground rules,” he said, which is one of my least favorite ways to begin a conversation. “I will provide you with some information, which may or may not prove relevant to your investigation. You in turn will keep Denise Brennan out of this, and will do nothing to damage Daniel Brennan’s impeccable reputation.”

“I’ll do my best,” I lied. The stakes being what they were, the last things I’d be concerned about were reputations or public personas. If I had to publicly brand Daniel Brennan as a Taliban-loving pedophile to save Bryan, I would not hesitate.

It seemed to satisfy him. “I’m speaking to you on behalf of Denise Brennan,” he said, continuing one of the longest preambles to an interview in recent memory. He spoke carefully and precisely, as if each word had been vetted and cleared before takeoff.

“Why isn’t she speaking for herself?”

“Believe me, I tried. Her allowing me to speak represents a major concession. But almost all of what I will tell you represents her feelings and relates events as she experienced them.”

I didn’t understand why “Ice” needed someone to “allow” him to speak, but I figured I’d find out soon enough, so I waited.

“In the weeks prior to his death, Judge Brennan had seemed under stress. I noticed it, but I didn’t spend much time with him. Denise saw it much more clearly, and was quite worried about it.”

“What was the cause?”

“She initially believed it to be financial. Despite an amazing career, Judge Brennan was not a wealthy man. He was injured before he could attain a large salary in basketball, and judges certainly earn far less than what would be commensurate with their importance to society. And I include Appeals Court judges in that.”

“With his name and reputation, I assume he could have earned far more practicing law?”

He nodded. “Without question. But he wanted to contribute to the greater good. So he was happy in his work, but concerned that he would not leave Denise financially stable upon his passing. His father died a very young man.”

I needed to move this along. “What does this have to do with his murder?”

“Perhaps nothing. And perhaps his increased stress was simply a result of the Appeals Court nomination process, testifying before Congress, and the like. But now there is this.”

He got up and walked over to his desk, opening the drawer and taking out a small folder. He opened the folder and took out a piece of paper, handing it to me.

I looked at it, but he told me what it was as I did. “It is a bank account in Judge Brennan’s name, opened six weeks ago in the Central Bank of Belize. There is one deposit, made two weeks later, in the amount of two hundred thousand dollars.”

“And Denise has no idea where the money came from?”

“She does not. And she tells me that there were no secrets between them, that they discussed finances and everything else as equal partners.”

I held up the paper. “How does she reconcile that with this?”

He shook his head. “She cannot. Which is why we are having this conversation. If it is somehow related to his death, then the likelihood is that the real killer has not been apprehended.”

“Where do you think he got the money?”

“I simply cannot imagine. My hope is that you will come up with a benign explanation.”

“You’d be amazed how few benign explanations I run into in the course of a day.”

I left there thinking that Judge Daniel Brennan may not have been the total paragon of virtue that his wife and friend believed him to be. I was also thinking that there was a damn good chance that the two hundred grand, however he got it, played a role in his death.

Given his job and position, my initial instinct would have been to think of the money as a bribe. But his taking the money would likely have signified his agreement in the matter, so why would he have been killed? Had he reneged, and was going to rule the other way?

I certainly did not know the answer to that, but there was one thing I did know.

Steven Gallagher did not give Daniel Brennan two hundred thousand dollars.

I never thought I’d say this, but I was happy to see Chris Gallagher.

He was sitting in his car in front of my house, probably in deference to the fact that it was raining outside. Apparently the great man was not impervious to water.

In any event, I needed to talk to him, to find out what, if anything, he knew. And, just as important, to impress him with how much I had learned.

I got out of my car and we made eye contact, which was enough to get him to follow me into the house. He was carrying a suitcase; I hoped he wasn’t planning to move in. The first thing he did was walk into the kitchen and take a beer out of the refrigerator.

“Have I said or done something to make you think we’re buddies?” I asked.

“Not that I recall. I also don’t recall you thanking me for saving your life.”

“What were you doing there?”

“Following you, as was Kagan. You’re not that hard to keep track of; does your car have a rearview mirror?”

“That explains why you were there. Why are you here?”

“It’s time for an exchange of information. We seem to be getting somewhere, and the deadline is approaching.”

“It can be extended,” I say.

“No, it cannot. Everything we discover makes your killing Steven even more unforgivable. Now tell me what you’ve learned.”

I brought him up to date on everything I knew and suspected about Richard Carlton and the situation in Brayton, as well as my belief that it was my nosing around there that got Kagan after us.

He nodded. “The answer is definitely in Brayton.”

“You’re taking my word for it?” I asked, surprised at his certainty.

“No chance,” he said. “I paid a visit to Kagan’s hotel room, which was just outside Brayton. I found some explosives, but more important were the explosives I didn’t find. The box was mostly empty.”

“What kind of explosives?”

He opened the suitcase and showed them to me. “C-245,” he said. “You can keep it.”

I knew what that meant; I had quite a bit of experience with munitions in the army. “Shit.”

“And Kagan was not working alone. I believe the guy he is working with-”

I interrupted. “Tommy Rhodes.”

Gallagher smiled. “Very impressive. What have you found out about him?”

“They were army buddies. Rhodes would know how to use the C-245; he was a munitions expert in the service. Our information is that he was considered as good as it gets, that if you gave him some hairspray and a bottle of Drano he could demolish Argentina.”

He nodded. “That fits. You should also have someone take a look at this.” He handed me some drawings, which seemed to be some kind of geological maps. “I think it’s the land area that Carlton is selling, but I don’t know what it all means.”

“Beats me, but I’ll find someone who understands it. What I can’t figure out is what Rhodes could have been looking to blow up. If he’s working for Carlton, they’ve already won in court. Who could they be after?”

Gallagher frowned. “I should have stayed there and asked Rhodes when he came back to the hotel.”

“I’ll send some people to pick him up.”

“They may not find anyone,” said Gallagher.

“What does that mean?”

“There were empty timer cases in his room. He might have already planted devices on timers. If not, he could detonate them remotely. He may have been staying around to make sure that there were no hitches. But with Kagan gone, he might bail out of the area. Probably depends on when the next device is set to go off.”

“It’s probably soon,” I said. “Rhodes was booked on a plane back to Vegas Saturday night. I’ll have cops at the airport, but he’ll be aware that we know his name, so I imagine he won’t show up.”

Gallagher smiled. “Then Saturday is a really big day all around. Keep your priorities straight, Luke.”

He was telling me that I shouldn’t spend too much time worrying about what Rhodes might or might not have been targeting, because Saturday was already a big day.

It was the day Bryan was scheduled to die.

One thing you need to do, Lucas … you need to tell me the truth. It’s hard enough for me to prepare for this; I just can’t be taken by surprise. I’ve been thinking about my will … my life insurance … right now everything goes to Julie. Not sure if I should leave it like that. Of course, when you change a will, you need two witnesses to sign it. That might be a little tough in this case.

The moment the court decision was announced, Alex Hutchinson was on the move.

More accurately, she was on the phone, planning a strategy of action to prevent Hanson Oil and Gas from starting to drill on the land they had just purchased. Richard Carlton, as much as she loathed him, was no longer the enemy. He had sold the land to Hanson, which made them the threat.

The loss in court was far from unexpected. Alex was smart, and informed, and she was a realist. Similar cases were being decided with some regularity in favor of energy companies, in New York and around the country. And they had already lost in District Court; the appeal had been something of a long shot.

Her first call was to Mayor Edward Holland. He had been a stand-up guy throughout, even taking on the legal work himself, in deference to the town’s shaky finances. It had served him well; the publicity he received was national, and he was portrayed as a heroic figure fighting big business on behalf of the little people. While she recognized his ambition, in her mind he still deserved most of the accolades, even in a losing effort.

It became obvious early in the conversation that he had no more bullets left in his legal gun. “We don’t have the money to take this any further,” he said. “It’s not the legal fees; hell, I’m working for nothing. It’s the bond.”

As he had privately predicted to her, the court had imposed a bond requirement of five hundred million dollars that the town would have to put up, should they try to delay matters with a further appeal. It was the court’s way of saying that their case would not win on appeal, and that Hanson would suffer financial damages if the process caused a delay in drilling the land.

“We need to take action outside the system,” she said.

“What does that mean?”

“It means that we have to prevent the fracking from beginning. Once it does, we’ve lost.”

“Alex, we’ve already lost. Now we need to work with the EPA and other regulatory authorities to minimize the damage.”

“Great, we’ll just partially pollute the air and water supply. That way only half the town will get cancer.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Mayor, I personally appreciate all that you’ve done. But it’s moved to the next level.”

“Which level is that?”

“We are going to organize, we are going to take action, and we are going to stop this.”

“Those are just words,” Holland said. “And with all due respect, they’re not the brightest words I’ve heard.”

“There will be more than words. We have a rally planned for tonight. We’ll have made decisions by then.”

“No violence, Alex. It will be self-defeating.”

“Letting our children die is self-defeating,” she said. “The rally is at the high school at six o’clock in the evening. You are the Mayor, and our leader, so you should be there. People will want to hear you.”

“I’ll be there, but you may not like what I have to say, Alex. I’ll be preaching restraint, and lawful behavior. I share your anger, believe me, but there is no other way.”

“See you tonight,” she said, and hung up.

Holland took some time to think about the phone call, and to decide what to do. He then picked up the phone and dialed his police chief, Tony Brus. “Tony, I think we’ve got a problem.”

“What’s that?”

“People are upset, and I think more violence is a possibility. You’d better be ready.”

“Have you got any specific information?” Brus asked. He was not a big fan of politicians in general, and Holland in particular.

In addition, Chief Brus was harboring hopes of running for Mayor himself in the next election, and had no interest in doing anything that would make Holland look good. He saw no irony in the fact that he frequently expressed his disdain for politicians while angling to become one himself.

“No, but if they blew up Carlton’s guesthouse before we lost, there’s no telling what they’ll do now,” Holland said.

“OK, I’ll keep an eye on it.”

Holland got off the phone and started thinking about public relations. So far the entire situation had been a political plus for him, even with the court defeat. He had been the hero fighting the good fight; it was the other side, and the judges, that bore the blame.

But he was sure there was more violence to come, and he needed to come out against it before it happened.

So he called his high school sweetheart.

Adrienne Horton and Edward Holland had repeatedly expressed their undying love for each other throughout high school, but their commitment actually lasted only a few days past the Senior Prom.

She had only spoken to or seen him a few times in the past couple of decades, mostly at reunions. But they had spoken five times in the last couple of months. She had made the first call, in her role as a producer of prime-time CNN programming. The fight between Big Energy and the people of Brayton made for a compelling human interest story, and she wanted to get Holland on to talk about it.

He had been receptive, but preferred to wait until the legal proceedings had run their course, so as not to appear to prejudice them. She was so sure that he would eventually come around, regardless of the outcome of the case, that she had done background work. Camera crews had been sent to the town, and interviews were conducted. The piece was done and ready to go, and probably would have aired with or without Holland.

But he was a politician, and Adrienne knew that no politician would be able to resist such a platform. So when the call came to tell her that he was ready, she set it up for that evening, and Holland was there at 6 PM.

The interviewer was Anderson Cooper, and he first ran the taped piece providing background for the viewers who had not been familiar with the story. It included the interviews with local people in Brayton, expressing heartfelt concern for their children and their way of life.

The piece tersely said that Richard Carlton and representatives of Hanson Oil and Gas had both declined to comment on camera but had released packaged statements vowing that they would protect the environment while supplying much-needed energy resources.

It was obvious that the compilers of the segment were on the side of the people of Brayton, which provided an easy segue into Holland’s interview.

But he was not there to mouth platitudes; he was there to make news, and he did so right away. “Anderson, I have asked privately, and now I am asking publicly, for state and federal authorities to come in and provide protection for the people of Brayton. There is a significant danger of violence.”

“Why do you say that?” asked Cooper.

“Well, as you noted in the piece you just ran, there has already been violence, a house was blown up. And now the anger, the totally justified anger, has been ramped up to a much higher level. I’ve put our police force on high alert, but we are a small town, and can do just so much. I want to do everything I can to protect the people of Brayton; they are not just my constituents, they are my friends.”

Cooper pointed out the obvious. “But it’s those same people that are angry. So the constituents and friends who you are trying to protect are the ones that might commit the acts you’re worried about?”

“Anderson, I don’t know who committed the previous act, and I certainly have no knowledge of who might do something illegal or dangerous in the future. But people are very, very angry and upset. When parents feel that their children’s lives are in danger, they will do anything they can to protect them. In a situation like this, the frustrations can boil over, and the actions of one or two can hurt many.”

“So you’ve not been able to provide specifics to the authorities?”

Holland shook his head. “I have not. What I have done is caution everyone to remain calm and not take any rash actions. At the same time, I repeat that I have asked for state and Federal intervention to help defend our community. These are dangerous times, and I don’t want to be in the position of wishing we had all done more.”

Holland was more than satisfied with the interview. He felt that he came across exactly as he hoped, as an intelligent, rational public servant who cared only about the people he represented.

He did not delude himself into actually believing that anything he said made anyone safer.

Holland went directly from the studio to the rally in Brayton. It was at the local high school, but was far too large to be contained by that building, and was being held on the football field.

A podium was set up with a loudspeaker, and various citizens were taking turns speaking and voicing their outrage at what the courts had decided. Among the listeners there was some anger, but the place had a sort of festive atmosphere, and the watching police had absolutely no need to intervene.

When Holland arrived, Alex Hutchinson was talking to the crowd. “So we will have people on the site twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Carl Hamilton will set up the schedule; so contact him and tell him your availability. We need everyone to contribute their time. Saturday evening will be our big rally; please call everyone you know, not just citizens of Brayton, and ask for their support. It will start at four o’clock, but come as early as you like.

“We want fifty thousand people on their land, telling them to go away. We can still win this thing, but we have to stick together.”

When she saw that Holland had arrived and was listening to her, she called him up to the podium. Neither she nor anyone else had been able to watch his CNN interview, so of course they did not know that he had expressed concern that they would commit violent acts.

He spoke briefly, cautioning everyone to be calm and to write their Congressman and Senators. He spoke of understanding their anger, but said that it had to be channeled in a law-abiding fashion. There were no TV cameras, so no need to speak with any particular passion.

He also was not inclined to tell them that he had decided to get a court order to remove them from the land, if they did not go peacefully. He did not want any of the people in his town getting hurt or worse.

Tommy Rhodes had only himself to blame.

He should have gone with Frankie Kagan after that cop, even though Frankie had said he could handle it alone. Frankie was the boss, so Tommy let it go, but he should have insisted. But he hadn’t, and the results were disastrous.

Just how disastrous remained to be seen, but he already knew enough to be very worried. Someone had gotten into his hotel room, and had gone through his and Kagan’s things. They had also taken the documents relating to Rhodes’s ongoing operation, though the likelihood was strong that they would not understand them, at least not in time to cause a problem.

Kagan hadn’t returned, and hadn’t checked in with Rhodes for six hours. That was such a violation of procedure that it could only mean one of two things; either Frankie Kagan was captured, or he was dead.

Rhodes was very much rooting for dead.

In any event, Rhodes needed to get away, so that he would have time to assess the damage, report in to his boss, and figure out his next moves. He had wanted to usurp Frankie’s position and deal directly with their employers, but now that it seemed to have happened, he wasn’t pleased.

It was very likely the police would search for him at the hotel; in retrospect he was surprised that they weren’t waiting there for him when he returned. It might mean that it wasn’t the cops at all who had broken in, though Rhodes could not imagine who else might have done it.

So Rhodes packed his things quickly and left. It wasn’t safe to go to another nearby hotel; there were so few that the cops could easily check each one. So Rhodes drove south, towards New York City, and checked into a Hilton in northern Westchester. He further assured his anonymity by using a fake ID, which he carried for emergencies. He would not cancel his plane flight on Saturday, but since the police would find out about it, he just wouldn’t show up.

A radio news report as he was leaving Brayton provided some level of reassurance. A cop had been shot, out near the abandoned missile silos, and the shooter had been killed. Rhodes thought with relief that at least Frankie hadn’t talked, which meant there was no way the cops could react quickly enough to stop the operation.

Of course, Tommy’s future was altered forever. His identity would certainly become known, and he was going to be a target of the police. He was confident that he’d have the money and resources to never be found, but it was not the way he wanted this to go down.

He was already a wanted man, and in forty-eight hours he’d likely be the most wanted man in America.

Julie Somers was not used to feeling helpless.

It wasn’t her style to just sit back and watch events unfold. It’s why she went into the public defender’s office after graduating from law school; she always wanted to be where the action was.

After a couple of years, she decided she wanted to be on the right side of the action, so she moved over to the prosecutor side. It’s not that she didn’t believe all defendants were entitled to excellent representation. She just got worn down from the belief that the majority of her clients were in fact guilty of the crimes with which they were charged.

She wanted to win; she was as competitive as anyone. But she wanted to feel good when she won, and that was not often the case as a defense attorney. So she switched sides, and hasn’t looked back. In her new role, she controlled the action. She called the shots, and was on offense rather than defense. Just the way she liked it.

Bryan’s kidnapping left her in the exact opposite position. Except for finding out some information for Luke when he requested it, she was sitting on the sidelines and waiting for him to update her.

She loved Bryan and always would; whether or not she could still live with him as his wife was an entirely separate issue. She also felt guilt over having somehow caused the current situation. She was the reason that Bryan was at Luke’s that night, when Gallagher showed up.

She still agreed with Luke’s decision to not call in Federal authorities to go after Gallagher. She and Luke had access to the same information that they would have, but they had different goals. The Feds would have shared their desire to get Bryan back unharmed, but would have gone after Gallagher as well. Julie and Luke simply did not feel that was the best approach towards keeping Bryan alive.

But she knew one thing; if anything happened to Bryan, Gallagher was going down. She wouldn’t rest until that happened, though she knew it wouldn’t be easy. From what she had read about him, Gallagher was as good as they come at the art of survival. He was trained in living off the land, and could probably melt into some undeveloped area and never be found.

So she called Lou Rodriguez, an investigator she had frequently employed while on the defense side of the system. Rodriquez was smart, tough and reliable, and better than anyone she had used since moving to the prosecutor’s office. Now, whenever she opposed him, she found herself cringing at what he might find.

She asked Rodriguez to meet her away from the office, and they had coffee at a diner near the courthouse. “I need to hire you,” she said.

He was surprised; prosecutors had no need to go outside to get investigative help. “What about that army you’ve got working for you, Jules?”

He always called her “Jules,” and was the only one to do so. She had no idea why, but sort of liked it. “I meant personally.”

“Personal issues? Jules, you know how I feel about you, but-”

She cut him off. “It’s not that.” Rodriguez took pride in never working on cases involving marital problems. Getting pictures of husbands with other women was simply not his thing. “It’s not on the same planet as that, but it does involve Bryan.”

“Sorry,” he said. “Tell me about it.”

So she did, after first soliciting his promise that whatever she said would remain confidential. After describing the situation in as much detail as she knew, including the progress Luke had been making, she said, “I want you to follow Gallagher. If things don’t go well…” She stopped to compose herself. “If things don’t go well, I want to know where he is, and how to pick him up.”

He didn’t hesitate. “I’m in.”

She exhaled in relief. “Great. Thanks, Lou. Just bill me at your normal rate.”

He shook his head. “This one’s on the house; you’ve done enough for me. Any idea how I find him?”

“It shouldn’t be hard. He spends some time following Luke, and even shows up at Luke’s house sometimes, mostly at night. He’s not worried, because he knows Bryan is his trump card.”

“I’ll start tonight.”

She gave him a folder with copies of all the information she had. “I’m having dinner with Luke at Morelli’s tonight at seven. Maybe he’ll follow him there.”

“I’m on it,” he said. “Just one question, Jules.”

“What’s that?”

“It doesn’t matter, but I’m curious … did Gallagher’s brother do Brennan?”

She thought for a moment. “I’ll know more tonight, but gut instinct? I don’t think so.”

No surprises, Bryan … I promise. I’m meeting Julie tonight, to tell her what’s going on. It’s driving her crazy to just sit and wait. I guess you know the feeling. Anything you want me to tell her?

I’m proud of the way you’re holding up, little brother.

Michael Oliver would have preferred being anywhere but Brayton.

He had last been there when he studied the land that his employer, Hanson Oil and Gas, was considering buying. He had recorded all the data, taken all the pictures and measurements, and gone back to Tulsa to analyze the information and write his report.