Casey didn’t leave right away. He knew that he was lucky, and he tried to comprehend the depth of that luck. Pedestrian traffic resumed along the area where the accident occurred, and the police began to allow vehicles to pass on the road, though three lanes remained closed while the investigation continued. Casey observed the people walking by as they threw curious glances at the flashing lights and the activity around the stationary dump truck. He imagined each one had his or her own theory about what happened—accident, murder, suicide. Casey knew it wasn’t that simple.
Physically, Joel Simpson’s death was an accident. Potentially, it could have been murder. Though Evans was pointing the pistol at Casey, he thought it wouldn’t take much for the lawyer to decide that Joel needed to disappear, as well. Evans obviously thought Joel was responsible for the information on Mari’s thumb drive getting out in the first place, and he seemed willing enough to kill Casey to make sure that information didn’t go any further. It was possible that Joel was next on Evans’ list. Joel knew a lot more about what was going on, so, to Evans, a bullet in the back of Mr. Simpson’s head might seem an appropriate punishment and a safe way to stop a future leak before it happened.
With the likelihood of that possibility and Joel Simpson’s seemingly genuine concern for Mariam Fahda, Casey had serious doubts about Joel’s involvement in her death. And by inference, that meant he probably had nothing to do with the bombings, either. But Mitchell Evans was a different story. Despite Evans’ denials, Casey had a feeling that the man knew a lot about the bombings. He was obviously working with Joel, and he didn’t ask who Mariam Fahda was when Casey mentioned her, which told him Evans was involved with the Houthi report somehow.
Casey started a mental list of his assumptions to sort through what he thought was true and maybe start putting the pieces together. Joel Simpson requests a report on al Houthi from the Congressional Research Service. He becomes romantically involved with Mari after she’s given the assignment. The report is changed without Mari’s knowledge, so Joel’s relationship with her had no bearing. Joel is...was...working for The Council. Mitchell Evans works for The Council. Evans had the report changed. No, scratch that. There’s no reason to assume Evans was the one who changed the report—that’s still an unknown. Okay. Evans tried to kill Mari with poisoned milk to keep her quiet, but it didn’t work. Mari got a hold of a list with the names of people later identified as the NYC bombers. Mari got the list from Joel.
Casey rubbed his eyes. He wasn’t sure about that last one. The only reason he made that assumption was because it could only have come from someone with an inside connection to the original bombing plotters—The Council. And since Mari was in a relationship with Joel, he made the leap that somehow Mari was able to get that list from Joel. Based on what she said the first—only—time he met her, Casey guessed that she didn’t know what the list was for, so he figured Mari must have acquired the list without Joel’s knowledge. He looked up suddenly.
Joel wasn’t even supposed to have that list, Casey thought. That’s why Evans made the comment about cleaning up other people’s mess. He was talking about Joel Simpson’s mess. But if Evans is a clean-up guy, then he definitely isn’t one of The Council’s decision-makers. Which tells me two things—one: Evans wasn’t exactly lying when he said that he had nothing to do with Mari’s death, because he had nothing to do with planning the bombing, and two: whoever did plan the bombing is still out there, and they know that Giordano is on to the Jared Prince connection. Casey knew the detective showed his hand when he called Penrose-Klein and started asking questions. And after Evans’ reaction to Casey’s mention of the front-company, Casey had no doubt that Giordano’s life was in at least as much danger as his was—if not from Evans, then from some other Council hitman.
Casey looked around and went to the nearest police officer he could find. He found one twenty feet away, closing the back of a truck whose side markings warned him of a police dog inside. “Excuse me, sir,” Casey said as he approached.
The police officer turned around and held up a hand. “Whoa, buddy. You need to move back. This area is closed off.”
Casey stopped as directed. “I know, but I need to find a detective Giordano,” he said. “Could I borrow a phone, or maybe you could call him from your vehicle?”
The police officer removed his cap and wiped his brow. “May I ask what it’s about?”
“I just need to get him some information,” Casey said. He wasn’t sure telling anyone else about what he and Giordano were looking into was a good idea. Because Giordano had already been shut down by his own people, Casey didn’t think he should discuss anything with anyone but Giordano.
“And what information is that?” the policeman asked.
“I can’t say,” Casey said, feeling like a third-grader cornered by his teacher after a schoolyard brawl as soon as the words came out of his mouth.
“Well, then I can’t help you,” the officer said as he walked toward the driver’s side door of the truck.
“He might be in immediate danger, and I need to get in touch with him as soon as possible,” Casey pleaded.
The officer stopped and asked, “What kind of danger?”
Casey sighed and read the officer’s nametag. “Look, Officer Cesaretti, I can’t tell you specifics, but it’s involving a case he’s working on.”
“No. You look, sir. If you have information about a threat against Paul Giordano, you better tell me now, or I might just have to arrest you for making a threat.”
Casey shook his head. “Never mind. I’ll just call him when I get home.” Casey started to leave.
“You won’t be able to reach him for a few hours,” Vincent Cesaretti said as he walked over to Casey. “He’s on duty at the Pelham Bay Landfill and won’t have outside comms until it’s over.” He looked Casey up and down. “How do you know Detective Giordano, anyway?”
Casey ignored the question. “The landfill?” he asked.
“It’s a park now,” Cesaretti said. “But I wouldn’t take my kids there, if I had any.”
“Will I be able to get in touch with him there?” Casey asked.
“Probably not,” Cesaretti said. “Paulo’s making sure none of the crazies get any ideas about capping Senator Cogburn.”
“Cogburn’s there?” Casey remembered Evans’ last statement before Joel Simpson pounced on him. “If we wanted Senator Cogburn to be elected president, there are other ways to make sure that happens.”
“Yeah. He’s giving a speech to the National Rednecks Association,” Cesaretti said.
“Rifle,” Casey corrected him. Maybe I do have it all wrong, Casey thought. What if The Council actually sees Cogburn as an obstacle?
“I know that,” the police officer said. “Point is, he’s probably gonna be too busy to talk to you, so I wouldn’t waste the bus fare. There’s always some kinda fight at those NRA rallies—usually skinheads against hillbillies.”
Skinheads and hillbillies, Casey thought. “Alright,” Casey said. “Thanks for the help, sir.”
Cesaretti didn’t reply. He just watched Casey jog away and disappear around the corner.
Chapter 38
Pelham Bay Landfill was a 95-acre area in southeast Bronx that jutted out into Eastchester Bay. It was re-opened for public use a few months earlier after being closed for decades when it was discovered that entities with alleged mob connections had been using the site as a dumping ground for toxic waste. The National Rifle Association rally that was to feature Senator William “Wild Bill” Cogburn as a guest speaker was the first large public gathering at the landfill since 1979.
It took Casey over half an hour by cab to get there from Midtown. He emptied his wallet to pay for the trip and stepped out to a raucous gathering of about two thousand gun enthusiasts. In a strange way, it almost reminded Casey of his childhood in Georgia. Not because of the nostalgia, but because of the suspicion. That was one way he never quite fit the “Southerner” label—he never saw t
he point of hunting so you could mount the head of a 10-point buck above your fireplace, and he damn sure didn’t think you needed an automatic weapon to kill it. He always wondered what motivated those people—even those who were his friends and family.
Casey surveyed the area to get his bearings. Officer Cesaretti wasn’t exaggerating when he said the place would be full of skinheads and hillbillies. Casey saw plenty of representatives from both groups. He was more comfortable around the latter group, but he also knew from his childhood that all too often, the ideologies of both groups converged, most noticeably in groups like the Ku Klux Klan.
A stage specifically for the gathering was erected at the top of the hill and positioned to be the center of attention, but there were also multiple tents and campers set up in a semi-organized fashion that bounded the crowd. A local country-western band entertained the masses, mostly as background music, while everyone waited for the scheduled speakers to begin. Casey noted several uniformed officers roaming the crowd as a gentle reminder that people needed to behave. On the far side of the field, parked along a portion of the three-and-a-half mile road that wound its way up the landfill, was a portable lookout tower. The enclosed box perched on hydraulic stilts thirty feet in the air with tinted windows and cameras mounted on the outside was intimidating in itself. But, knowing that there was someone inside with a high-powered rifle was even more intimidating. That was the idea, anyway.
Casey wondered if Detective Giordano was stationed in the security tower. It seemed a logical place, given the openness of the area, for someone to be if they were on duty as a counter-sniper, though there were no other structures nearby where a sniper could be hidden and thus, countered. Casey watched the throng of people and decided the easiest way to get to the tower, although not the most direct, was along the outside.
The first tent Casey made it to was filled with boxes of NRA-logo t-shirts of various sizes and colors. The merchant was also peddling NRA bumper stickers and decals. The next tent was the official membership headquarters, apparently. Because Casey was behind the tent, he dodged the woman at the table and wasn’t forced to listen to her sales pitch. He smelled hotdogs cooking in the first trailer he encountered, and he almost tripped over an empty beer keg as his own hunger distracted him momentarily. Casey checked his watch and decided that one-twenty in the afternoon was plenty late enough to start drinking beer, so he held his comments about the length of the line in front of the cart to himself.
Casey walked between two campers to check his progress toward the tower. Halfway, he estimated. He debated cutting straight across the remainder of the crowd but stopped when he heard a familiar voice on the other side of the trailer. He moved closer to the trailer’s side and tried to listen.
“...and did PJ say when he’s supposed to be here?”
“He just said Cogburn’s stopping here before he goes back to Washington, that’s all.”
It was Greg Clawson. Casey recognized the other voice as Tony Ward’s. I had a feeling those assholes would show up, he thought.
“Flyer said one-thirty,” Greg added. “He’s probably already here.”
“He better fuckin’ show,” Ward said, “or that nigger snitch of yours is next.”
“Damn, Tony. Not so loud,” Greg said. “There’s cops all over this place, man.”
“Well, they’re gonna wish they brought more. It’s show time,” Ward said.
Over the loudspeakers, a man tried to get everyone’s attention as the band left the stage. “Alright,” he said. “How about a big round of applause for Tim Jenkins and the Brush Fires. Thank you, boys.” After the cheers and other noise died back down, the emcee continued. “Now, please join me in giving a big welcome to the next President of the United States, New York’s own, Senator Bill Cogburn!”
The crowd erupted in cheers—obviously bigger fans of Cogburn than of the house band. Casey stepped forward and looked to his right, careful not to let Greg Clawson or Tony Ward see him. It turned out to be an unnecessary precaution, but a sense of panic came over Casey for a different reason. Clawson and Ward were gone.
Casey looked left and right but couldn’t see either of them. He looked into the crowd and knew it would be almost impossible to spot the five-foot-six Greg Clawson. Ward, on the other hand, might possibly stand out because of his height, but with all the other white supremacists in the crowd, the man’s bald scalp might as well have been camouflage. Casey looked in the direction of the security tower and quickly decided that warning Giordano, or whoever was inside, was his best bet to stop whatever it was that Clawson and Ward were planning. He led with his shoulder and tried to make his way through the crowd as Bill Cogburn took the stage.
* * * * *
“Hello, New York. It’s good to be home.” Cogburn’s voice was muted inside the security tower, but Paul Giordano could still hear every word. He kept a window on each side of the elevated box partially opened in case he needed to use his rifle and take someone down. He was told to keep the rifle inside until it was needed so he wouldn’t alarm the civilians below. That meant he couldn’t use his scope for spotting potential targets. In the meantime, he continuously scanned the crowd below with binoculars. He held the rifle in his other hand, though, not willing to lose any more time than necessary should he have to use it.
“I want to talk seriously with you all for just a moment, if I could,” Cogburn said from the stage below. The crowd quieted to let the senator speak. “I don’t have to remind you all of the terrible event that happened in this great city just over one week ago. Some of you may have lost someone you knew, or even someone you loved, that day. But whether you knew any of those poor souls personally or not—they were our neighbors. They were New Yorkers, just like us. Americans, just like us.”
Giordano moved the binoculars from the stage back to the crowd. He made a note of the other officers and their positions as he scanned. A few were actually monitoring the crowd, but most were staring at the stage, listening to Cogburn. Giordano lowered the binoculars to avoid tunnel vision, allowing him to have a wider view—better for detecting out-of-place movements.
* * * * *
Casey’s movement through the crowd was slower than he anticipated. He narrowly missed getting decked by a 250-pound man in overalls when he lost his balance after being shoved by someone trying to get a better view of Senator Cogburn on stage. Only the mass of people around him and Mr. Overalls’ poor eyesight, evidenced by his overly-thick glasses, saved Casey from anything more than a verbal lashing from behind.
He stopped every few feet to look around, hoping that he would see Greg or Scarface from his new vantage point of being in the forest of bodies. Casey looked up and estimated that he was still fifty yards from the security tower, so he pressed on, moving closer to the stage as he angled across the crowd.
“But the men responsible for their deaths were none of those things,” Cogburn said. “They were not even from this side of the world.”
“Fuckin’ cowards,” someone from the crowd shouted. No one laughed, but many nodded their heads in agreement.
“Right,” Cogburn said. “They were cowards. Terrorists born from a culture of ignorance and fear, taught to hate you and everything America stands for from the day they were born. They hate you and they won’t stop until each and every one of us is dead and America is turned to ash.”
“Sorry,” Casey said softly after stepping on a woman’s heel.
“Watch it, asshole,” she said.
When the woman bent to fix the strap of her sandal, Casey saw him. Greg Clawson was about thirty feet from the foot of the stage. Casey didn’t see Ward anywhere, so he assumed the two men must have split up when they left the trailer where he first heard them talking. He didn’t want to lose Greg, so he moved closer.
* * * * *
“And let me ask you this. What is the president doing to make sure that doesn’t happen?” Cogburn asked the crowd.
“Nothing,” a voice answered.
Cogburn raised his hand like a schoolteacher silencing his students. “Oh, it’s much worse than that, my friends. It’s much worse.”
Here we go, Giordano thought. This fucker’s gonna start a riot.
“This president isn’t just doing nothing. He’s helping. But he’s not helping you, he’s helping them,” Cogburn said. “With his apologetic foreign policy, he’s told the world that America is weak. He’s turned his back on Israel and told our allies that America can’t be trusted. And what did we get in return? We get three coordinated bombings in the heart of America’s greatest city.”
A thunderous roar of boos and curses followed the senator’s ranting. But Giordano tuned out Cogburn and his rabid followers when he saw someone moving roughshod through the crowd. He raised the binoculars and almost dropped them when he saw who it was.
* * * * *
Casey was three people away from Greg Clawson when he began shouting. “Greg! Greg Clawson! Stop!”
Greg kept moving forward, either not hearing Casey, or just ignoring him. The people between Greg and Casey did hear him, and they moved out of the way, unsure of the screaming man’s mental state. Casey was five feet away when he saw Greg’s hand drop to his side with a pistol at the end.
* * * * *
Tony Ward was only twenty feet from the stage when he stopped. Giordano watched him through the binoculars in his left hand while he moved the forefinger of his right hand to the Remington’s trigger guard. What are you up to Tony? Giordano thought. He watched as Ward fingered the scar on his temple and wiped the sweat from his scalp. Ward moved his hand down to his side, but Giordano lost sight of it behind the other people listening to Cogburn speak. The detective dropped the binoculars and raised the rifle, bringing the scope to his eye to stay focused on Ward. Don’t be an asshole, Tony. Don’t do it.
The Complicity Doctrine Page 22
