The cop rolled over, and found herself staring into the barrel of her own service weapon.
“My husband taught me a few things,” Lucy said calmly.
“You fuckin’ little—!”
“SHUT UP!”
Scarlatti shut up.
“Now, get up!”
Scarlatti got to her feet.
“Walk!”
“Where?”
“Kitchen!”
Scarlatti led her to the kitchen.
Lucy glanced around. “Take one of those chairs”—pointing at the dinette set—“and place it in front of the stove.”
Scarlatti complied.
“Now, sit!”
Scarlatti sat.
“What do you want?”
“Handcuff your left wrist to the oven door!” Lucy ordered.
“Are you insane?”
“Do it!”
Scarlatti complied.
“Now, what do you want?” she repeated.
“Let’s start by you admitting you murdered my husband.”
“What? You’re crazy!”
“Am I? Let’s see … you’ve spent years trying to divert attention from the real reason he was killed. Why? Because his investigation of your little car theft ring was getting too close.”
Scarlatti’s eyes widened imperceptibly.
Lucy noticed.
“You thought I didn’t know? You thought I didn’t know you were shipping stolen cars out of the country, and that Jack knew exactly how you were doing it? He had a complete file on every car you’d ever stolen. And he knew that you and your gang killed Cal Parrish.”
Scarlatti stared up at her. “That’s all lies. Who’s been feeding you this shit?”
“Someone I trust.”
“Who?”
“My husband.”
“Now I know you’re insane!”
“There’s more. Jack was killed by a left-handed woman.”
“How could you possibly know that? There was nothing at the scene to indicate—!”
“You’re left handed.”
“Millions of people are left-handed!”
“Maybe, but only one of them drives your vehicle.”
“What are you talking about?”
“That Explorer outside was used in the attack on Jack.”
“That’s ridiculous! Where’s your evidence for that?”
Lucy noticed that a new note of fear had crept into Scarlatti’s voice.
“Your bumper sticker gave you away.”
Lucy knew she’d struck a nerve. She could see racing thoughts behind the woman’s staring eyes. It was time to shake her up a bit more.
“Tigrane,” Lucy said.
“What?” Scarlatti looked genuinely startled.
“Orcone, Dorilla, Oronte, Doraspe, Policare, Meroe, Tomiri … they all lead to Tigrane Holdings. Your company. The place where you hid all your illegal profits.”
“You’re talking in riddles!”
“I can see by the look on your face that I’m not.”
For long seconds, Scarlatti was silent. Finally, she said:
“You’re bluffing.”
“You think so? You think when Robert Olivetti sees the evidence, your old relationship’s going to do you any good? And it won’t just be him! It will be the FBI. They’ll be looking at everything you’ve done, everywhere you’ve been, and every phone call you’ve ever made, right back to the day the first car on Jack’s list was stolen. They’ll be tracking all those shell companies right back to Delaware, and right back to you. It’s all going under a microscope. Every move you made in your so-called ‘investigation’ of Jack’s murder is going to be picked apart and analyzed by people who are a lot smarter than you. You’re finished!”
The detective’s reaction was puzzling. The woman visibly relaxed. With eerie calm, she said, “Now I know you’re bluffing.”
Lucy felt rage rising in her gut.
“No one’s going to believe this fairy tale. You’re the one who’s finished. Aggravated burglary, aggravated assault, obstruction of justice … you’re looking at ten years, probably more.”
“You disgusting bitch! I know you killed my husband!”
Lucy saw the woman’s expression change.
And she knew.
She saw Scarlatti’s mouth twist into a contemptuous sneer.
And she knew.
She knew, finally and horribly, that she was right.
The woman spit the words at her: “You’ll never fucking prove that!”
Scarlatti didn’t see it coming.
In a red mist of rage, Lucy pistol whipped her. She struck with so much force that she knocked Scarlatti clean off the chair. In a squeal of tortured metal, the woman’s handcuffed arm almost yanked the oven door off its hinges. She landed on the floor, unconscious and bleeding, her left arm stretched to the limit, locked in place by the straining steel bracelet.
Lucy stood over her, breathing deeply. Finally, she crouched and checked Scarlatti’s pulse. She peeled back an eyelid. Scarlatti groaned. Lucy checked her pockets, found a handcuff key, and released the woman’s bruised wrist.
She rose. She spotted a landline phone at the end of a counter. She dialed 911 and reported an unconscious woman at 114 Collard Street. She hung up when the dispatcher asked her name.
She retraced her steps to the front door. Expertly, she field-stripped the Glock as she walked—magazine, chambered round, slide, barrel, recoil assembly, receiver. One by one, the pistol’s components dropped to the tiled hallway floor.
Striding back to her car, she pulled off her belt. When she got behind the wheel, she dropped the belt on the passenger seat. She pulled away. A rising wind buffeted her car as she drove south. At the bottom of Collard Street, she swung left onto Hopkins, a one-way avenue running east. Ahead, a dark blue Escalade sat idling at the curb on the left. As she rolled to a stop abreast of the big SUV, she lowered her window.
The Escalade’s rear passenger window slid down.
“Did you get it?” Lucy asked.
Dominic Lanza held up a small digital recorder. “Every word.”
“I need a copy.”
“We ran a piggyback. Take this one.” He handed the recorder across to her.
Lucy passed over the belt she’d been wearing. “Why do you even have gear like this?”
“How do you think we test the loyalty of our associates?” He glanced up at the sky. “Go home to your son. They say this weather’s gonna get a lot worse by tomorrow.”
Lucy nodded. She pressed the control to raise her window.
“Lucy…”
She halted her window’s rise.
Lanza gave her a penetrating look. “How does it feel now, compare?”
* * *
Lucy cut eastward to I-78 and then fled south.
What she had just done was a shock that unsettled the whole frame of her mind.
It upended the whole frame of her being.
Her mind was a chaos of dread and pride and guilt and triumph.
She stamped down on the anarchy of her thoughts, desperate to calm the turmoil and just concentrate on her driving, pushing the speed limit, and racing back to her son.
Racing back to Kevin … and Jack … and Kevin.
“You’ll never fucking prove that!”
Was one ambiguous sentence on the tape enough to finish off Jack’s killer? Or was Scarlatti right? Was Lucy going to prison instead, disbelieved and despised, the half-crazed widow of a crooked cop who attacked the cop who’s been investigating her?
Would this be her final night with Kevin until he was nearly grown?
She grabbed her phone and called Olivetti. He answered on the second ring.
“Lucy?”
“They’re going to arrest me again.”
“Lucy. NO!”
“I had to bring this thing to a head, Robert. I have a lot to tell you.”
“Does this involve Carla Scarlatti?”
“Yes. But d
on’t worry. This is going to bring in the FBI, so you can stand back when the time comes. But I want you to hear something first.”
“Hear what?”
“A recording.”
“Of what?”
“Of Scarlatti. That’s all I want to say right now. Tomorrow? Your office?”
“Lucy, aren’t you listening to the news?”
“Off and on. I’ve been a bit busy.”
“There’s a gigantic storm out there. A hurricane. They’re saying it might come ashore near Atlantic City.”
“Yeah. I heard. They weren’t sure if it would turn.”
“It has. The governor has ordered mandatory evacuations down at the Shore. And all the schools are closed tomorrow—did you know that?”
“No.”
“Well, you better start paying attention!”
“I will. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Wait a minute.”
“What?”
“What if Carla arrests you tonight?”
“Not likely. I put her in the hospital.”
27
Forecasting Sandy had been tricky. Because of its sinuous track, the margin of predictive error beyond seventy-two hours was larger than normal. Due to superior software, the European Weather Center’s medium-range forecasts, for four to six days out, turned out to be the most reliable. The European Center’s ensemble was the first to predict a northwest turn when American guidance was still showing the storm remaining offshore.
While meteorologists argued, the storm made the turn predicted days ago by the Europeans, and headed for the United States.
Despite these tracking controversies, the National Hurricane Center’s storm surge forecasts were right on target. On October 27, they were predicting inundations of four to eight feet for the coastlines of New Jersey, New York, and Connecticut. By late on the twenty-eighth, they were predicting six to eleven feet.
On October 29, as the center of the storm slammed ashore at Brigantine, New Jersey, it pushed nine feet of water into New York Harbor …
… and directly into Bergen Point Reach, 250 feet from Lucy’s front door.
* * *
“What’s happening down there?”
“The wind’s not too bad. Maybe gusting to fifty, but the house is okay. There are a few tree branches in the front yard and out on the road.”
“You sound pretty calm.”
“Seen a lot worse in Florida.”
“Maybe, but there’s still the storm surge. The cops are saying Hook Road and the old Military Terminal are flooding, and there’s water on the streets under the Bayonne Bridge. That’s pretty close to you.”
“It’s still dry here. I’ll keep an eye on it. Any news on Scarlatti?”
“I checked with Emergency Services. An ambulance took her to the E.R. at CarePoint. They say she was discharged the same night. That’s all I know. If she’s planning to arrest you, it’ll have to wait. It’s DEFCON 4 around here. The fire department guys are going around helping people evacuate. The PD chiefs pulled all their cops off regular duties, and the plainclothes squads were ordered to turn out in uniform. They’re even calling up retired officers to help with the emergency. So, Carla’s either out on the street or home licking her wounds.” He paused for a second. “What did you do to her anyway?”
“I’ll tell you when I see you.”
“That won’t be today. Probably not tomorrow either if this turns out to be as bad as they’re saying. You know there’s a six o’clock curfew, right?”
“Yes.”
“That’s less than two hours away! If you’re thinking about going to a shelter, decide now, so I know where to find you if the phones go out. And remember, driving through this mess is going to be tough.”
“I paid a neighbor to nail plywood over my big bay window. I’ve got shutters on the other ones. I’m staying.”
“Okay. Be safe. I’ll call you later if I can.”
“Thanks, Robert.”
Lucy pocketed her cell phone and climbed the stairs to the one small hallway window she’d left unshuttered. Flashes of lightning sped across the sky, thunder peeled and echoed, and all nature seemed to be in thrall of the rising tumult. Visibility was shrinking, but through the sweeping gusts of rain she could just make out the shoreline of Bergen Reach. The waters beyond were pitching and churning, but they remained constrained by the riprap barrier that divided the ship channel from the patchy lawns of Collins Park.
She felt Kevin take her hand. He stood silently at her side as they watched the violent winds torture the trees across from their house. Since they’d risen that morning, Kevin had been even quieter than usual. He had stuck close to her, no matter what her activity—sitting quietly at the kitchen table while she prepared their breakfast, waiting on her bed while she showered, nestling close by her side while they watched storm bulletins on TV. Just before noon, they’d walked through the neighborhood together, leaning into the wind gusts, talking with a few neighbors about their plans, and watching while some piled precautionary sandbags in front of ground-level basement windows.
By 5:20, the winds were ramping higher, vibrating the walls of the house and pounding on her doors and windows. Her landline phone rang, jangling her nerves. She picked up to hear a recorded message from the mayor:
“Your home lies south of Third Street and is vulnerable to flooding. I urge you to relocate your family and your vehicles to higher ground.”
The mayor rattled off the addresses of the emergency shelters.
“Our hardworking responders are not going to endanger their lives to help you get out later, so please evacuate now!”
Nice of you to call before six, Lucy thought darkly. But when she returned to the upstairs window and saw walls of water flooding into the waterfront park’s ball diamond, and flying blotches of sea foam racing toward the roadway below, she realized the curfew might be the least of her worries. Yes, this might be a Cat-1 storm, routine for a born Floridian, but it was starting to look like more than the Garden State was ready to handle. Cursing her stupidity, she strode to her bedroom, grabbed a travel bag from her closet, and started packing clothes.
Kevin appeared in her doorway.
“Mommy?”
“Honey, just go into your room and bring me some clean clothes, okay? Underpants, socks, everything to wear for a couple of days. And bring your toothbrush.”
“Where are we going?”
“To school.”
“You said it was closed.”
“It’s open for people who don’t want to stay in their houses during the storm. We can sleep there tonight. Some of your friends might be there, so at least you’ll have someone to play with.”
Kevin stood for a second, processing what his mother had said. Then he wheeled and ran to his room.
* * *
They had just finished packing when they heard the pounding. It wasn’t the wind this time.
There was someone at the front door.
Lucy had already closed the last set of shutters on the last window, so she couldn’t look out. But then she remembered what Robert had told her … that the fire department was going around, helping people evacuate.
“That’s probably the fire department,” she said to Kevin. “They’re checking to make sure everybody’s okay.” The boy’s eyes lit up and he raced ahead of Lucy down the stairs. He was reaching for the door handle when she caught up with him.
Lucy had a sudden flash—a vision of would-be looters going door to door. She stopped him.
“Just a minute. Let me look.”
She put her eye to the peephole.
Ernie Tait stood on her porch, leaning into the wind, disheveled and uncomfortable. He was dressed in full police uniform.
They’re even calling up retired cops …
Lucy opened the door, smiling with surprise.
“Ernie? They called you out?”
“Yeah. No retirement for the wicked!” A gust of wind nearly pulled him off
balance. “Can I come in?”
She let him in quickly and he helped her shove the door shut.
Kevin backed away, staring up at Tait with widening eyes.
“Came to check on you. Knew you were alone with the youngster.” He looked down at Kevin. “Hello, young fella. I’m Ernie.”
“I know,” Kevin said.
“Really? Smart kid.”
Lucy led him into the living room. He spotted the travel bag on the floor at the bottom of the stairs. “Heading to a shelter?”
“We were just leaving. What’s the driving like? Is the way clear to Oresko School?”
“Pretty much. A few trees down. A few detours. More expected.” He looked up at the ceiling, listening. “Your house seems to be handling it okay. Why leave?”
In the wake of the mayor’s message, the comment struck Lucy as odd.
“Didn’t they brief you?”
“What do you mean?”
“The park across the road is starting to flood, and we had a robo-call from the mayor, saying we need to get out now. He said if we flood, no one is coming to save us. Kind of a heartless message, actually, but probably smart.”
“Hmmh. Didn’t hear about that.”
Lucy felt Kevin’s hand slip into hers. The boy was standing next to her, but slightly behind, watching and listening.
Lucy was puzzled. “You’re an emergency responder and you don’t know about the evacuation call?”
“Came straight here.”
“Why?”
“Heard you’re still trying to clear Jack’s name.”
Lucy felt a jolt behind her eyes. She felt Kevin’s little fingers close like a claw around hers. She felt him tugging her, urging her to back away.
“What’s that got to do with—?”
“LUCE!” Kevin yelled. “RUN!”
28
Tait grabbed for Lucy, but missed. She sprinted for the back bedroom, with Kevin streaking ahead. The boy was moving faster than she’d ever seen him move before. They piled through the doorway just in time for Lucy to slam and lock the door behind them. Tait’s heavy footsteps arrived outside a second later.
BOOM!
Solid core woodwork cracked under Tait’s violent kick.
While Kevin tried to unlock the sliding door, Lucy cast about for something to use as a weapon.
Storm Rising Page 19
