Midas

15

Justin awoke at 7 A.M. He instantly twisted his stiff neck and heard it crack. His lower back was tight and when he stretched his body he felt an ache up and down his spine. His mouth was dry and fuzzy and his head hurt. Another day in paradise, he thought, and managed to sit up.

The television was still on, still showing images of the latest bombing. He cleared his throat, trying to get rid of the stale taste of beer, and stood up. He took a few steps toward the TV, swiped at the power button and watched the picture fade. He slowly made his way upstairs, still twisting his neck and stretching his back. He pushed open the door to his bedroom. Reggie was sound asleep. He gently shook her, but she was in a deep sleep. He decided he could let her be, then he suddenly remembered the alarm, quickly reached out over her and hit the off switch on the radio before the Mark Knopfler CD he’d put in began to blare. He headed for his closet, walking as softly as he was capable of, pulled out a clean shirt. He then made it to the one chest of drawers, pulled out a pair of socks and underwear.

He was on his way to the shower, but he stopped before leaving the bedroom, stood in the doorway and looked down at the woman in his bed. The blanket was only pulled up to the middle of her back. She slept on her left side and he could see most of her right breast and a tattoo on her right shoulder. A purple, black, and red butterfly. Her skin was remarkably smooth and soft. His gaze moved down her arm, which was perfectly proportioned, toned and muscular but not too thin. Just the right amount of flesh. It was an arm you wanted to touch. To stroke. Looking closer, he saw that she had elegant fingers. Long and perfectly manicured. In sleep they were relaxed. When she’d been awake last night, he realized her hands had been clenched much of the time.

Justin couldn’t take his eyes off her, pleased by her loveliness, touched by the soundness of her sleep. Finally, he forced himself to turn away, went into the bathroom, brushed his teeth, felt the stubble on his chin and cheeks, decided against shaving, then stepped into the shower stall and let the heavy stream of hot water do its best to cleanse him.

When he was dry and dressed he almost felt like a new man-something he knew could only be an improvement. He went back downstairs to the front door to pick up the various newspapers he had delivered every morning. Before opening them, he headed into the kitchen and made a large pot of coffee. He had a feeling Reggie Bokkenheuser would match him cup for cup and he didn’t like to leave the house without having at least four large mugs of very strong, black French roast.

He couldn’t face the real news, not right away, so he went immediately for the Daily News sports pages. It was a slow sports period. Justin searched for some good news about the Knicks, saw that Houston was hurt again. Near the beginning of the season, second leg injury. He read Doonesbury and Dilbert, then glanced at the front section. There was little about the bombing that he hadn’t picked up from CNN. The lunatic, Muaffak Abbas, had come into the restaurant in Manhattan and strode up to a table on the left side of the room. Several survivors said it looked as if he’d gone to a specific spot, as if it had been choreographed. There was no mention anywhere that anyone had heard a cell phone ring this time. But that didn’t mean one hadn’t rung. It was the kind of detail that could easily be overlooked. One survivor said that Abbas yelled out the words “I am ready,” and the device went off. End of story.

Justin wondered why Abbas had picked the specific spot he’d chosen in the restaurant to unleash the explosive. He remembered Billings telling him about the kill ratio-the range in which a bomb is certain to destroy whatever is in its path. If that were the rationale, then Abbas would have chosen the center of the restaurant, wouldn’t he? That’s where the damage would be sure to be greatest. It didn’t make sense.

Hell, Justin thought. Nothing made sense. Not anymore.

He turned to the Times front page, began to read through their coverage. At the jump, on page eighteen, there was a box that listed, in alphabetical order, the victims of the La Cucina explosion. His eyes quickly ran down the list. It was habit. Cops always looked for the dead.

About a third of the way through he stopped scanning and froze, staring at one name. For a moment he thought he was rattled and disoriented because he’d just discovered the death of a friend. But although he recognized the name, he quickly realized that this man who’d been killed in the La Cucina explosion was no friend.

Martin Heffernan.

That was the name on the victim list.

The FAA agent. The guy who’d boarded the downed plane in East End Harbor, stolen the pilot’s identification and wiped his fingerprints clean. The man who told Ray Lockhardt the result of the FAA investigation-before any investigating had begun.

Justin ran his fingers through his hair, rubbed his eyes, trying to ease away the headache he could feel starting to swell up inside. What the hell was going on? A coincidence? A cruel twist of fate? This asshole does his best to sabotage a murder investigation and he winds up randomly blown to bits?

Or was it something else?

Justin’s father had said that what things boiled down to, always, every time, was money. Follow the money, he’d said, and everything will fall into place.

Okay, Justin thought. To follow the money, you have to know the players. There ain’t no stakes if nobody sits down at the table. In his mind, he ran down the list of names that seemed to be in play.

Bradford Collins. The CEO of EGenco.

Hutchinson Cooke, the pilot of the small plane.

Chuck Billings, the FBI agent investigating the first bombing.

And now Martin Heffernan.

Justin felt a stream of bile rise up through his throat. What was the connection between those four men? Other than the fact that they were all dead. Was there a connection?

Yes. Now he was fairly sure that there was. Cop instinct: what he wasn’t sure about was whether or not he wanted to know what that connection was.

Justin walked into the kitchen, poured himself a mug of coffee. He sipped it slowly, letting the too-hot liquid quickly scald his lip, then slide down his throat. He wanted a whiskey instead of black coffee. He wanted another shower, to have jets of hot water wash away the slime that suddenly seemed to be building up all around him. He wanted to get into his bed and stroke the smooth neck and warm, naked back of the woman still lying there, wanted to kiss the tattoo on her shoulder blade, watch her eyes open, see her smile when she saw him. He wanted to touch her, kiss her, make love to her.

He wanted a lot of things.

And not one of them was the thing he was about to do.

Justin forced himself to walk calmly over to the phone, dial a number, and wait until a sleepy Gary Jenkins answered on the fourth ring.

“Gary.”

“Whazzit,” the young cop mumbled.

“Your little brother, is he still hacking away?”

“Jay?” He cleared his throat. “I mean, Chief?”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s me. Listen, I want to hire your brother. What the hell’s his name? Ken?”

“Ben.”

“Tell Ben he can name his price, same as last time, but he’s got to do this thing for me now. Can you reach him?”

Gary cleared his throat again, came awake. “Yeah, sure. I mean, I guess. He probably hasn’t left for school yet. I’ll call him right away.”

“Write him a note for his teacher if you have to. If he’s already left, go get him and take him out of class. And if need be, let him use a computer at the station. But I want it done now, got it?”

“Got it. What do you want him to do?”

“I want him to see if he can hack into the computer setup that stores the reservations at La Cucina.”

“The place that got blown up? What do you-”

“I don’t have time to explain. The FBI found similar information in the Harper’s computer. I need to know if someone named Martin Heffernan had a reservation. And if he did, I need to know what table he was sitting at. If the kid can get me a seating chart showing me where all the tables are, I’d particularly like that, too.”

“I’ll call you right back.”

Justin hung up the phone, exhaled for what seemed like the first time in minutes. He needed some more coffee.

“What’s going on?”

He looked up, surprised. Reggie was standing on the bottom stair, still half asleep, peering into the living room. She was wearing one of his long-sleeved shirts. That’s all she was wearing. Her bare legs curled to lean in against the railing.

“I thought women only did that in the movies,” Justin said. “Put on the guy’s shirt and look so sexy.”

She smiled. “I thought about just putting on your pants, but it didn’t seem quite right. Thought you might not be able to handle it.” She shook her head, trying to wake herself up a bit more. “What’s happening? Are you working?”

“It’s probably nothing,” he told her, making himself sound unconcerned. “I might be turning into one of those conspiracy nuts.”

“Is there a conspiracy against getting a cup of coffee?”

“It’s made. I’ll get it.”

But before he could move, the phone rang and he jumped for it. He waved in the direction of the kitchen, pointing her toward her own cup of coffee.

“Yeah,” Justin said into the phone.

“Okay, I talked to Ben,” Gary said. “He’s sure he can do it if the info exists. Or if the restaurant computer wasn’t damaged.”

“The one it was entered into probably was. But if it’s like the Harper’s setup, it was probably fed into a second computer somewhere else. That one might be okay.”

“He wants an iPod. The little mini one. He says it’s nonnegotiable.”

“Okay. When I get the info, he’ll get an iPod.”

“The mini one.”

“He wants mini, he’s got mini.”

“I’ll call him back.”

Justin watched as Reggie walked back into the living room. She didn’t slink or slither. She walked. Kind of heavily. He liked it. The way it was so unaffected and unself-conscious. She started to ask him if he wanted more coffee, but he quickly put his finger to his lips.

“Thanks, Gary. I’ll be at the station in about half an hour.”

“Ben said he’d have the info in about five minutes. If he can get it at all.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah, he’s good.”

“If he doesn’t go to prison by the time he’s sixteen, he’s definitely got a future ahead of him.”

“I’ll give him your number, tell him to call you directly. Is that okay?”

“It’s perfect,” Justin said. “I’ll see you in a little while.”

He went and finally poured himself that second cup. In the living room, he sat down next to Reggie. As soon as he was settled in, he realized the close proximity made her uncomfortable. She didn’t move but he could feel her tense up. He waited a few seconds, stretched as if his back was stiff, stood and stepped over to the chair a few feet away. He could see her instantly relax.

“I’ll get going in a minute,” she said. “I just need a little more coffee.”

“Do you want to talk about last night?”

She shrugged, tried to keep it casual, but her body stiffened as if he’d brought up a taboo subject. “Is there something to talk about?”

“Not really. Nothing happened. I just don’t want it to be awkward.”

“It won’t be,” she said. “I know how to behave professionally. Last night. . We were both vulnerable, but nothing happened.”

Her tone was surprisingly distant and cool. There was no vulnerability today. Last night she’d been inviting. This morning there was a wall around her. A brick wall. He suddenly felt like a teenager, unsure of himself and off balance. The phone rang, letting him escape from his discomfort.

“Yeah,” Justin said into the receiver.

“It’s Ben,” the voice on the other end said. “Gary’s brother.”

“You got anything for me, Ben?”

“Do I really get my iPod?”

“It’s practically in the mail.”

“Okay, I got everything you wanted. You have a fax in your house?”

“Yeah,” Justin said. “Do you?”

“No. But I can fax it straight from my computer. I’ll do it right now ’cause I gotta get to school. My mom’s already ready to kill me.”

“Tell her I’ll write you the world’s greatest letter of recommendation when you’re ready for college. That’ll calm her down.”

“I don’t think anything can calm my mom down when she’s like this. What’s your fax number?”

Justin gave it to him and a few seconds later his fax machine rang. Moments after that, Justin was holding a sheet of paper with a well-

designed layout of La Cucina restaurant, not dissimilar from the table layout of Harper’s in Chuck Billings’s notebook. A second piece of paper had the names of everyone who had a lunch reservation from the day before, the day of the bombing, and the tables where they were to be seated.

Justin checked the list of names first. Martin Heffernan had a reservation. For two people. The restaurant had put him at table seventeen.

Justin went back to the page with the table layout. Table seventeen was to the left of the room after you came in. It was in the exact area to which Muaffak Abbas made a beeline with his bomb.

Justin Westwood forgot that Reggie Bokkenheuser was even in the room. He raced back to the phone, dialed a number in Providence.

“Wanda,” he said, when the FBI agent answered her phone. “Don’t say my name out loud.” There was silence from the other end. “Do you know who this is?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Can you call me back on a secure line? I’m at home.”

“You do know you’re starting to piss me off,” she said.

“Secure line. As fast as you can.” And he hung up.

“Well, I must say.” Reggie was looking at him now, her legs once again tucked under her. “You’ve piqued my curiosity.”

“I’ll explain later,” he said. “I think you’d better get out of here. Get to the station.”

She saw the look on his face, decided to skip any further banter. Reggie just got up and went upstairs to put her clothes on. The phone rang before she came down.

“Okay,” Wanda Chinkle said. “Now what?”

“Do you have any vacation time coming?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Listen,” Justin said. “These bombings. Harper’s and La Cucina. They’re not what they appear to be.”

“More of your paranoia?”

“No.” He told her about Martin Heffernan and the location of Abbas’s bomb. He told her about Bradford Collins and the location of Bashar Shabaan’s explosive.

“You got all this just since you were up here?”

“These weren’t random terrorist bombs, Wanda. We’re talking about victim-specific attacks here.”

“It’s a stretch, Jay. It’s a huge stretch.”

“I don’t think so. Chuck was onto something. He said that Shabaan’s bomb wasn’t a suicide device. That it was set off from somewhere else. By someone else. And he told somebody. I’m pretty sure that same somebody killed him. Or got him killed. And I’m also pretty sure that the somebody works for the goddamn FBI.”

“Jay-”

“Listen to the rest of it. Heffernan knew that plane crash wasn’t an accident. My guess is he’s the guy who rigged the manifold. But at some point, he also must have known it was tied into the Harper’s bombing. He probably figured it out on his own. And maybe he opened his mouth. He had a big one. So they had to kill him, too.”

“Jay, you’re starting to sound-”

“Yeah, I know how I sound. But guess what, Wanda? The FBI are the only ones, other than me, who knew Chuck had started to figure out something was wrong. They probably knew Heffernan’s role, too. And they’re both dead.”

“What does this have to do with my taking a vacation?”

“They know about you. You were asking about the pilot’s fingerprints. And you had an appointment with Chuck. Knowing you, your date was on the record, right there in your appointment book.”

“I’m listening.”

“You’re connected to both of them. So it won’t take long for somebody to figure it out. Disappear, Wanda. Take a paid vacation starting now. Or just get the hell out of there. But disappear.”

“Jay, I just can’t leave-”

“They’ve killed a lot of people already. Two people are dead, Chuck and this guy Heffernan, just because they knew something about the Harper’s bombing and the plane crash.”

“Okay, Jay, let’s look at this logically. Who killed them?”

“I don’t know. Have you ever run across an FBI agent named Hubbell Schrader?”

“He’s the head of the New York bureau. . For God’s sake, Jay! You’re not saying he’s responsible for-”

“No. I’m not. I said I don’t know. But I just met Schrader and I didn’t like him.”

“You don’t like anyone.”

“Well, I particularly didn’t like him.”

“All right. Well, what about the other two guys? Collins and Cooke. Who killed them? Or better yet, why were they killed?”

“I don’t know that either. I just know that the four of them are dead. Don’t be the fifth.”

“I-”

“You’re what? You want me to tell you what you are? You’re the only other person they can connect to those two things.”

“What about you?”

“I don’t think they can tie me to it. Not for sure. I was just doing my job at the beginning, trying to get the pilot’s fingerprints. They don’t know what I have or don’t have. You gave me Cooke’s name and they don’t know that. Or do they?”

“No,” she said. “At least they don’t know it from me.”

“Well, Schrader was asking. I protected the both of us, at least the best I could. I don’t think they’ve got anything other than circumstance to connect me to Billings. There was no reason for him to mention me. I wasn’t talking to him about anything official. I told that to Schrader, too, and he seemed to buy it.”

“Let me think about it, Jay.”

“Wanda. .”

“I said I’ll think about it. I’m not ignoring what you’re saying. I just need to decide what to do about it.”

“Where are you calling from?”

“My neighbor’s. The apartment next door. She’s making me a nice hot cup of tea, which I’m going to drink and figure out whether you’re crazy or not.”

“Well, when you figure it out, lemme know.”

He hung up the phone just as Reggie came back downstairs. She was back in her jeans and boots.

“I’ll go get changed,” she said. “I can be at the station in about twenty minutes.” He didn’t respond to her, his mouth had opened a bit and his eyes were closed. “Is that okay?”

“Shit,” he said. And now his head was thrown back. “Shit shit shit shit!” He opened his eyes and, as she backed her way toward the front door, he snapped his fingers at her. “Hold on. Don’t go anywhere.” Justin grabbed for the phone again and dialed. “Gary,” he barked into the mouthpiece. “Call Thomas and Dennis. Tell them to find out where the hell Ray Lockhardt lives and tell them to get over there as fast as they can.”

“The guy from the airport?”

“Yeah. The manager. Get ’em to his house ASAP. If he’s there, tell them to make sure he stays there. And make sure they stay with him.” Justin slammed the phone down. He turned back to Reggie. “Come on,” he said.

“Like this?” She pointed down to her noncoplike clothes.

“Yeah,” he said. “Just like that.”

Justin stopped only to grab the gun that he kept locked in his desk drawer. He didn’t brush against Reggie on the way out or grab her by the hand. He looked at her the way he’d look at any other cop and just said, “There’s another one, goddammit! There’s already a goddamn fifth person.”

He knew it. As soon as he realized that Ray Lockhardt was in the picture, that Ray had also known that the plane that Hutchinson Cooke crashed had not gone down by accident, he knew he was going to be too late. And he was.

There was very little traffic this early at the East End airport. Ray’s office was dark and locked. Justin told Reggie to wait there and then he moved slowly, a defeated gait to his walk, to the nearer of the two private charter services. The guy working the counter was named Don and Justin asked if he’d seen Ray Lockhardt yet this morning.

“No,” Don said. “He’s usually in by now, checkin’ up on things, but I ain’t seen him.”

Justin went back to Lockhardt’s office.

“You know how to pick a lock?” Reggie asked.

“Sure,” Justin said, and took his gun out of its holster, used the butt to smash the beveled glass panel above the doorknob, then reached inside and opened the door. He didn’t wait for Reggie, he stepped quickly inside the office, flicked the light on.

Ray Lockhardt was sitting in his chair, behind his desk. Everything looked fairly normal. Except for the blood splattered on the back wall of the office. And the bullet that had shredded most of the right side of Ray’s face.

Justin rubbed his eyes. The headache was coming on big-time.

Dr. Morgan Davidson walked into the East End Harbor police station. He nodded at the usual bunch of cops, all of whom he knew. And he smiled at the sexy young woman sitting at one of the policemen’s desks. Dr. Davidson had an eye for the ladies. And they were usually pretty good about eyeing him back.

“If there’s anything you need,” he said to the woman with a wink, “let me know. If they’re not doing what they should for you. I know these guys pretty well.” She nodded. “Morgan Davidson,” he said. “Doctor Davidson.”

“Reggie Bokkenheuser,” the woman said. “Sergeant Bokkenheuser. If you’re here to see Chief Westwood, he’s in the office back there.” As the flustered physician bobbed his head up and down nervously, then headed for the office, she added, “And thanks for the tip, Doc. I’ll let you know if I need you.” Then she winked.

Inside the small office, Davidson closed the door behind him. “New officer?” he asked.

“You mind if we skip the small talk just now, Morgan? I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

The doctor shrugged, put his report on the desk in front of Justin. “Lockhardt’s been dead about twelve hours. Which means he was probably killed around seven or eight last night. No surprise, it was the bullet that did all the damage. Probably a.38, shot from very close range. That’s about all I can give you right now.” When Justin didn’t answer, Davidson said, “You all right?”

“Oh yeah,” Justin said. “I’m just great.”

When the doctor left, Justin sat on the edge of the desk for a good minute.

Bradford Collins, Hutchinson Cooke, Chuck Billings, Martin Heffernan, and now Ray Lockhardt. Not to mention Jimmy Leggett and nearly seventy other innocent victims.

He picked up the phone, called Wanda Chinkle, once again insisted she call him back on a secure line. When she returned the call, he told her that Lockhardt was dead.

“You still want to think about what you’re going to do?” he asked. When she didn’t answer, he took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. “Wanda,” he said. “What do you think it is that makes a good cop? I don’t mean just cop, I mean investigator, FBI, whatever.”

“Lots of things,” she said.

“Like what?”

“Doggedness. Determination. The ability not to panic under pressure.”

“Yeah. All that’s true.”

“But that’s not what you’re looking for.”

“No. You know what makes a good investigator?”

“What?”

“The ability to see things.”

“What kind of things, Jay?”

“Patterns. Why people do things. How they do things. But mostly a good cop sees something that happens over here, then connects it to something that happens over there. You agree?”

“Sure,” she said. “I’ll go along with that.”

“Well, there’s a connection, I mean a real connection, between what happened at Harper’s and what happened at La Cucina. Not just a connection, a lead. A way to find out who’s behind all this. Only your guys are ignoring it. Because they don’t want to find out who’s behind it.”

“I can’t believe that, Jay.”

“How about if I make you believe me?”

“And how are you going to do that?”

“I’ll catch the guy who did it.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ll catch the guy who blew up the two restaurants. The guy the lying scumbags you work with don’t want caught.”

“You’re a good cop, Jay. And you can make all the connections you want. But you’re a crazy son of a bitch if you even think about getting in the middle of this.”

“I am a crazy son of a bitch, Wanda. That’s why you’ve gotta find something out for me. Just one thing. If you can do it without getting yourself killed.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Jacks,” he told her.”

“What?”

“Jacks. The little kid’s game. The little pointy things.”

“Whatever you might think, I’m still a girl. I know what jacks are. What about them?”

“I want to know if your boys found any in La Cucina. After the bombing. But be careful. I’m not screwing around here. Don’t go anywhere without other people. Other people you know and trust. Don’t get caught alone. And especially watch out for anyone official who’s involved in this investigation.”

She paused again. Then: “While I’m being careful. . and while, as usual, I’m spending my life trying to give you something you need to know. . what exactly are you going to do?”

“I’m the new chief of police,” Justin Westwood said. “I’m gonna do my fucking job.”