Two men burst into the room holding guns.
They were both young, both pale, both skinny, both on something—what they used to call “heroin chic.” The one on the right had a huge, complicated tattoo coming up out of the collar of his T-shirt, rising up his neck like a flame. The other had the practiced tough-guy goatee.
The one with the goatee said, “What the . . . we saw him come in.”
“He’s gotta be in the other room. I’ll cover you.”
Still on the floor behind the couch, Myron silently thanked Win for making sure that he was armed. There wasn’t much time. The trailer was tiny. It would only take a few seconds to find Myron. He debated jumping out and yelling, “Freeze!” But both were armed and there was no way to know how they’d react. Neither looked particularly reliable, and thus there was an excellent chance they’d panic and start firing.
No, better to keep them confused. Better to make them scatter.
Myron made a decision. He hoped that it was the correct one, the rational one, and not just the emotional one, the one that yearned to lash out and inflict harm because his father was maybe dying and his brother was . . . He flashed back to Brad’s passport and realized that he had no idea where his brother was, what he was doing, how much danger he was in.
Clear the mind. Act rationally.
Goatee took two steps toward the bedroom door. Staying low, Myron shifted to the end of the couch. He waited another second, took aim low at Goatee’s knee, and without calling out a warning, Myron pulled the trigger.
The knee exploded.
Goatee let out a shout and collapsed to the ground. His gun skittered across the room. But Myron wasn’t paying attention to that. He ducked low, kept out of sight, and watched for Neck Tattoo’s reaction. If he started firing, Myron had a bead on him. But Neck Tattoo didn’t. He too screamed and, as Myron hoped, he scattered.
Neck Tattoo turned tail and dived back outside. Myron moved fast now. He jumped up and came out from behind the couch. On the floor in front of him, Goatee rolled in agony. Myron bent down, grabbed the man’s face, made him look at him. Then Myron jammed the gun into Goatee’s face.
“Stop screaming or I’ll kill you.”
Goatee quieted the scream to animal-like whimpers.
Myron quickly retrieved the man’s gun and then ran toward the window. He looked out. Neck Tattoo was hopping into a car. Myron checked the plates. New York. He quickly put the letter-number combination into his BlackBerry and sent it to Esperanza. Not much time now. He went back to Goatee.
“Who are you working for?”
Still whimpering he said in a childlike voice: “You shot me!”
“Yes, I know. Who are you working for?”
“Go to hell.”
Myron got down on his haunches. He pressed the barrel of the gun against the man’s other knee. “I really don’t have much time.”
“Please,” he said, his voice going up too many octaves. “I don’t know.”
“What’s your name?”
“What?”
“Your name. Never mind. I’ll call you Goatee. Here’s what’s going to happen, Goatee. I’m going to shoot your other knee now. Then I’ll move to the elbows.”
Goatee was crying. “Please.”
“Eventually you’ll tell me.”
“I don’t know! I swear.”
Someone in the park had probably heard the gunshot. Neck Tattoo might come back with reinforcements. Either way, Myron had very little time here. He had to show he meant business. With a small sigh, Myron began to pull the trigger—he was that far gone—when a moment of common sense pushed through. Even if he could do it—even if he could shoot an unarmed, helpless man—the result of the shot would probably backfire on him. The pain would more likely make Goatee pass out or go into shock than get him to open up.
Still Myron wasn’t sure what he would do when he said, “Last chance . . .”
Goatee came to the rescue. “His name is Bert! That’s all I know. Bert!”
“Last name?”
“I don’t know! Kevin set it up.”
“Who’s Kevin?”
“The guy who just left me here, man.”
“And what did Bert want you to do?”
“We followed you, man. From the hospital. He said you’d lead us to Kitty Bolitar.”
Man, now Myron really knew that he was slipping. These two numb nuts had been behind him this whole time and Myron never spotted the tail? Pathetic. “And when you found Kitty, what were you supposed to do?”
Goatee started crying again. “Please.”
Myron put the gun against the man’s head. “Look at my eyes.”
“Please.”
“Stop crying and look at my eyes.”
He finally did. He was sniffling, trying to hold it together. His knee was a mess. Myron knew that he would probably never walk again without a limp. One day, that might bother Myron, but he doubted it.
“Tell me the truth and this is all over. You probably won’t even have to go to jail. Lie to me and I shoot you in the head, so there’s no witness. Do you understand?”
He kept his eyes surprisingly steady. “You’re going to kill me anyway.”
“No, I’m not. You know why? Because I’m still the good guy here. I want to stay that way. So just tell me the truth and save us: What were you supposed to do when you found Kitty?”
And then, with sirens signaling the approach of police cars, Goatee gave Myron the answer he expected: “We were supposed to kill you both.”
Myron opened the trailer door. The sirens were louder now.
There was no time for Myron to get to his car. He ran left, away from the Glendale Estates entrance, as two police cars came into the trailer park. A powerful beacon of light from one of the cop cars hit him.
“Stop! Police!”
Myron didn’t listen. The cops gave chase—or at least Myron assumed they did. He never turned around, just kept running. People came out of their trailers to see what the commotion was about, but no one got in his way. Myron had tucked his gun back into his waistband. There was no way he’d take it out and give the cops an excuse to open fire. As long as he wasn’t a physical threat, they wouldn’t shoot.
Right?
The squad car’s loudspeaker came out with a crackle: “This is the police. Stop and put your hands in the air.”
For a moment he almost did it. He could explain. But it would take hours, maybe days, and he simply didn’t have that kind of time. Win had found a way to get them to Adiona Island. Somehow Myron knew that it was going to come back to that place, back to the reclusive Gabriel Wire, and he wasn’t about to give him the chance to slip away.
The trailer park dead-ended into a wooded brush. Myron found a path and started on it. The police called for him to stop again. He darted to the left and kept going. Behind him he could hear movement in the bush. The cops were giving chase into the woods. He picked up his speed, trying to gain some distance. He debated hiding against a boulder or tree while they ran by, but what good would that do him? He needed to get out and free and up to Teterboro Airport.
He heard more shouts, but they were farther back now. He risked a glance behind him. Someone had a flashlight, but they were pretty far away. Fine. Still moving, Myron managed to dig his Bluetooth out of his pocket and jam it into his ear.
He hit the speed dial for Win.
“Articulate.”
“I need a ride,” Myron said.
He quickly explained. Win listened without interrupting. Myron didn’t need to give his location. The GPS in his BlackBerry would help Win track him down. He just needed to stay out of sight until that happened. When he finished, Win said, “You’re about a hundred yards west of Highway One. Start north on the highway and you’ll run into a fair amount of retail. Find a place to hide or blend. I’ll hire a limousine service to pick you up and get you to the airport.”
28
M
yron found an open Panera Bread. The rich smell of pastry reminded him that he hadn’t eaten in forever. He ordered a coffee and bear claw. He sat near a window by a side door in case he needed to make a quick exit. From this vantage point he could see any and all cars pulling into the lot. If one ended up being a squad car, he could get out and be off for the woods in no time flat. He sipped the coffee and inhaled the bear claw. He started thinking about his dad. His dad always ate too fast. On Saturday mornings way back when, Dad would take him and Brad to Seymour’s Luncheonette on Livingston Avenue for a milk shake, French fries, and maybe a pack of baseball cards. Myron and Brad would sit on stools and twirl them. Dad would stand next to them, always, as if that was what a man did. When the fries came, he’d lean against the counter and wolf them down. Dad was never fat, but he was always on the wrong side of the “healthy weight” line.
Was that part of this? What if Dad had eaten better? What if Dad had worked out more or had a less stressful job or had a son who didn’t get into jams that kept him up at night? What if his father hadn’t come flying out of the house to defend that same son?
Enough.
Myron put the Bluetooth back into his ear and called Chief County Investigator Loren Muse. When she answered, Myron said, “I got a problem.”
“What’s that?”
“Do you have any sources in Edison, New Jersey?”
“It’s Middlesex County. I cover Essex and Hudson. But yes.”
“There was a shooting there tonight.”
“Is that a fact?”
“And theoretically I might have done the shooting in self-defense.”
“Theoretically?”
“I don’t want any of this used against me.”
“You lawyer types. Go on.”
As Myron filled her in, a black limousine slowly cruised by. The window placard read: DOM DELUISE. Win. Myron hurried out, still talking through the Bluetooth, and ducked into the back. The driver offered up a hello. Myron mouthed a hello and then pointed to the earpiece, indicating that he was both on the phone and a pretentious ass.
Loren Muse was not happy. “What exactly do you want me to do with this information?”
“Tell your source.”
“Tell my source what exactly? That the shooter called me and said he doesn’t want to turn himself in yet?”
“Something like that.”
“And when do you expect that you’ll have time to grace us with your presence?” Muse asked.
“Soon.”
“Well, that should satisfy him.”
“I’m just trying to save them some headache, Muse.”
“You can do that by coming in now.”
“I can’t.”
Silence. Then Muse asked: “Does this have something to do with Suzze’s overdose?”
“I think it does, yes.”
“Do you think these guys at the trailer were her drug dealers?”
“They could have been, maybe.”
“Do you still think Suzze’s death was murder?”
“It’s possible, yes.”
“And finally, do you think you could just jerk my chain a little harder with all these specifics?”
Myron debated tossing Muse a bone, telling her about Suzze visiting Kitty, that the disposable cell phone Suzze called not long before her death had belonged to his sister-in-law. But then he realized where that would lead—more questions and maybe a visit to the Coddington Rehabilitation Institute—and decided against it.
Instead he tried answering a question with a question. “Do you have any new evidence to suggest it was anything other than an overdose?”
“Ah, I see,” Muse said. “If I give you something, you’ll continue to give me nothing. Quid pro nada.”
“I really don’t know anything yet.”
“You’re so full of crap, Myron. But at this point, what do I care? To answer your question, there is not a shred of evidence that points to foul play in the death of Suzze T. That help?”
Not really.
“So where are you right now?” Muse asked.
Myron frowned. “You serious?”
“Not going to tell me, eh?”
“Not going to tell you.”
“So you only trust me so far?”
“You have an obligation as an officer of the law to report anything I say,” Myron said. “But you can’t say what you don’t know.”
“How about telling me who lived in that trailer? I’m going to find out anyway.”
“No, but . . .” There was a bone he wanted to toss her, even though he had given his word he wouldn’t.
“But?”
“Get a warrant on a middle school teacher in Ridgewood named Joel Fishman. He’s a drug dealer.” Myron had promised ol’ Crush that he would not report him, but when you pull a gun on someone in a middle school, well, Joel never called “no crossies.”
When he finished giving her enough details to nail Fishman, Myron hit the end button. Cell phones were not allowed in the hospital so he called the administrative desk. They transferred him around until he found a nurse who was willing to go on the record and tell him there was nothing new to report on his father’s condition. Terrific.
The limousine pulled right out onto the tarmac next to the aircraft. No luggage check-in, no boarding pass, no security line in which the man in front of you forgets to take the spare change out of his pocket despite forty-seven requests to do so and sets off the metal detector. When you fly private, you pull up right onto the tarmac, you walk up the stairs, and bingo, you’re off.
As Win often pointed out, it was good to be rich.
Win was on board already with a couple he introduced as “Sassy and Sinclair Finthorpe” and their twin teenage sons, “Billings and Blakely.”
Myron frowned. And rich people made fun of African American names?
Sassy and Sinclair both wore tweed jackets. Sassy was also decked out in riding pants and leather gloves. She had blond hair tied back in a severe ponytail. She was probably in her midfifties with plenty of hard wrinkles from too much sun. Sinclair was bald, paunchy, and wore a real-live ascot. He laughed heartily at everything and said, “Quite, quite,” in reply to nearly anything said to him.