Hard as Nails

CHAPTER NINE

Empire State Security and Executive Protection had its offices on the twenty-first floor of one of the few high, modern buildings in downtown Buffalo. The receptionist was an attractive, bright Eurasian woman, impeccably dressed, who politely ignored Kurtz's bandages and bruised eyes; she smiled and buzzed Mr. Kennedy as soon as Kurtz told her his name. She asked if he'd like any coffee, orange juice or bottled water. Kurtz said no, but a light-headedness on top of the pain in his skull reminded him that he hadn't had anything to eat or drink for more than twenty-four hours.

Kennedy came down a carpeted hallway, shook Kurtz's hand as if he was a business client, and led him back through a short maze of corridors and glass-walled rooms in which men and women worked at computer terminals with large flat-display screens.

"Security business seems to be booming," said Kurtz.

"It is," said Brian Kennedy. "Despite the economic hard times. Or perhaps because of them. Those who don't have, are thinking of illegal ways to get it Those that still have, are willing to pay more to keep what they have."

Kennedy's corner office had solid partitions separating it from the rest of the communal maze, but the two outside walls looking down on Buffalo were floor-to-ceiling glass.

His office had a modern but not silly desk, three computer terminals, a comfortable leather couch, and a small oval conference table near the juncture of the glass walls. A professional quality three-quarter-inch tape video machine and monitor were on a cart near the table. Rigby King was already seated across the table.

"Joe."

"Detective King," said Kurtz.

Kennedy smoothly gestured Kurtz to a seat on Rigby's right. He took the opposite end of the oval. "Detective King asked if she could sit in on our meeting, Mr. Kurtz. I didn't think you'd mind."

Kurtz shrugged and took a chair, setting Gonzaga's leather portfolio on the floor next to his chair.

"Can I get you something, Mr. Kurtz? Coffee, bottled water, a beer?" Kennedy looked at Kurtz's eyes when he took off the Ray Charles glasses. "No, a beer probably wouldn't be good now. You must be on a serious amount of pain medication."

"I'm good," said Kurtz.

"You left the hospital rather abruptly this morning, Joe," said Rigby King. Her brown eyes were as attractive, deep, intelligent and guarded as he remembered. "You left your clothes behind."

"I found some others," said Kurtz. "Am I under arrest?"

Rigby shook her head. Her short, slightly spiked hair made her seem younger than she should look; she was, after all, three years older than Kurtz. "Let's watch the tape," she said.

"Peg is still on life-support and unconscious," said Kennedy, as if either one of them had asked. "But the doctors are hoping to upgrade from critical to guarded condition in a couple of days."

"Good," said Rigby. "I called an hour ago to check on her condition."

Kurtz looked at the blank monitor.

"This is the surveillance camera for the door you and Peg came out," said Kennedy.

The video was black and white, or color in such low lighting that there was no color, and it showed only the area of about twenty-five feet by twenty-five feet in front of the doors opening out into the Civic Center garage.

"No cameras aimed at the parked cars area?" asked Kurtz as the tape began to roll, yesterday's date, hour, minute and second in white in the lower right of the frame.

"There is," said Kennedy, "but the city chose the least expensive camera layout, so the next camera is looking the opposite direction, set about seventy-five feet from this coverage area. The shooter or shooters were in a dead area between camera views. No overlap."

On the screen, the door opened and Kurtz watched himself emerge nodding toward the shadow that was Peg O'Toole holding the door. Kurtz watched himself walk in front of the woman, who was staying back.

They had separated ten feet or so and started to go opposite directions when something happened. Kurtz watched himself crouch, fling his arm out, point at the door, and shout something. O'Toole froze, looked at Kurtz as if he was mad, reached for the weapon in her purse, and then her head swung around and looked into the darkness behind the overhead camera. Everything was silent.

He saw sparks as a bullet struck a concrete pillar eight feet behind them. O'Toole drew her 9-mm Sig Pro and swung it in the direction the shooting was coming from. Kurtz watched himself swing around as if he was going to run for the shelter of the pillar, but then O'Toole was struck. Her head snapped back.

Kurtz remembered now. Remembered bits of it. The phut, phut, phut and muzzle flare coming from the sixth or seventh dark car down the ramp. Not a silenced weapon, Kurtz realized at the time and remembered now, but almost certainly a.22-caliber pistol, just one, sounding even softer than most.22s, as if the shooter had reduced the powder load.

O'Toole dropped, a black corsage blooming on her pale white forehead in the video. The gun skidded across concrete.

Kurtz dove for the Sig Sauer, came up with it, went to one knee in front of the parole officer, braced the pistol with both hands, and returned fire, the muzzle flare making the video bloom.

There were two figures, remembered Kurtz. Shadows. The shooter near the trunk of the car, and another man, taller, behind the bulk of the vehicle, just glimpsed through the car's glass. Only the shorter man was shooting.

Kurtz was firing on the screen. Suddenly he stopped, dragged O'Toole by the arm across the floor, lifted her suddenly, and began carrying her back toward the doors.

I Hit the shooter, remembered Kurtz. He spun and sagged against the car. That's when I tried to get O'Toole out. Then the other man grabbed the gun and kept shooting at us.

Officer O'Toole's arm seemed to twitch—a slug going through her upper arm, Kurtz thought, remembering the doctor's explanation—Kurtz's upper body twisted and his head jerked around to the left as he brought the Sig Pro to bear again, and then he went down bard, dropping the woman. The two sprawled onto the concrete. Black-looking blood pooled on the floor.

A full minute went by with just the two bodies lying entangled there.

"There was no coverage of the exit ramp," said Rigby. "We didn't see the car leave… at least until it got to the ticket station."

"Why didn't he come out to finish us?" said Kurtz. He was looking at his own body sprawled next to O'Toole's and thinking about the second shooter.

"We don't know," said Kennedy. "But a court stenographer comes out through those doors in a minute… ah, there she is… and she may have spooked the shooter."

Shooters, thought Kurtz. Remembering the adrenaline of those few minutes made his head hurt worse.

On the screen, a woman steps out, claps her hands to her cheeks, screams silently, and runs back in through the doors.

Kennedy stopped the tape. "Another three and a half minutes before she gets someone down there—a security guard. He didn't see anyone else, just you and Peg on the ground. He radioed for the ambulance. Then another ten minutes of people milling until the paramedics arrive. It's lucky Peg survived all that loss of blood."

Why didn't the second shooter finish us? wondered Kurtz. Whichever one of us he was trying to kill.

Kennedy pulled the tape and popped another one in. Kurtz looked at Rigby King. "Why was I handcuffed?" His voice wasn't pleasant.

"We hadn't seen this yet," she said.

"Why not?"

"The tapes weren't marked," said Brian Kennedy, answering for her. "There was some confusion. We didn't have this to show Officers Kemper and King until after they visited you yesterday evening."

I was handcuffed the entire fucking night, thought Kurtz, glaring at Rigby King. You left me helpless and handcuffed in that fucking hospital all night. She was obviously receiving his unspoken message, but she just returned his stare.

"This is the security camera at the Market Street exit," said Kennedy, thumbing the remote control.

A young black woman was reading the National Enquirer in her glass cashier's cubicle. Suddenly an older-make car roared up the ramp and out of the parking garage, snapping the wooden gate off in pieces and skidding a right turn into the empty street before disappearing.

"Freeze frame?" said Kurtz.

Kennedy nodded and backed the video up until the car was frozen in the act of hitting the gate. Only the driver was visible, a man, long hair wild, but his face turned away and his body only a silhouette. The camera was angled to see license tags, but this car's rear tag looked like it had been daubed with mud. Most of the numerals and letters were unreadable.

"Attendant get a good look?" asked Kurtz.

"No," said Kennedy. "She was too startled. Male. Maybe Caucasian. Maybe Hispanic or even black. Very long, dark hair. Light shirt."

"Uh huh," said Kurtz. "There could have been another man on the floor in the backseat."

"Do you remember a second man?" asked Rigby.

Kurtz looked at her. "I don't know," he said. "I was just saying there could have been a second man in the back."

"Yeah," said Rigby. "And the Mormon Tabernacle Choir in the trunk."

"Detective Kemper thinks it's a Pontiac, dark color, maybe late eighties, rust patches in the right rear fender and trunk," said Brian Kennedy.

"That narrows it down," said Kurtz. "Only about thirty thousand of those in Buffalo."

Kennedy gestured toward the frozen image and the license plate. "We've augmented this frame and think that there may be a two there on that tag, perhaps a seven as the last digit."

Kurtz shrugged. "You check Officer O'Toole's computer files? See if she has any pissed-off parolees?"

"Yes, the detectives copied the computer files and went through her filing cabinets, but…" began Kennedy.

"We're pursuing the investigation with all diligence," said Rigby, cutting off Kennedy's info-dump.

Kennedy looked at Kurtz and smiled as if to say, man to man, Women and cops, whattayagonna do?

"I'm going home," said Kurtz. Everyone stood. Kennedy offered his hand again and said, "Thanks for coming, Mr. Kurtz. I thank you for trying to protect Peg the way you did. As soon as I saw the video, I knew you weren't involved in her shooting. You were a hero."

"Uh huh," said Kurtz, looking at Rigby King. You left me there handcuffed all night so that an old man in a wheelchair could slap me around. Anybody could've killed me.

"You want a ride home?" asked Rigby.

"I want my Pinto back."

"We're finished with it. It's still in the Civic Center garage. And I have your clothes and billfold down in my car. Come on, I'll give you a ride to the garage."

Kurtz walked to the elevators with Rigby King, but before the elevator car arrived, Kennedy hustled out. "You forgot your portfolio, Mr. Kurtz."

Kurtz nodded and took the leather folder holding Gonzaga's paperwork listing seventeen murders unknown to the police or media.