Every Second

by Rick Mofina

“Not much. Like I said, he was mostly pretty quiet. When he did talk, though, it was usually about the same thing—he was worried about all the suffering in the Middle East. I never understood why he got so intense about that stuff. It’s not like he was from there, at least as far as I knew. It just seemed odd to me.”

  “When you say he got intense, can you give me an example?”

  “Well if it wasn’t trouble in the Middle East that got him going, it would be some music video that would come on the TV in the break room and he’d get going about how it was immoral or something. I guess he didn’t approve of the behavior of some young people—he seemed pretty conservative, you know? But, hey, this is Texas.”

  “How did you come to hire him?”

  “I got him through an online job posting. I had an opening for a truck washer, he applied. We liked him, hired him, and it all worked out for a while. About ten months, I guess. Then he told me he had to quit for another job he’d got in Kentucky or Ohio, someplace like that.”

  “Do you remember where he worked before he started with your company?”

  “Huh... I think it was... Oh, at the airport, that’s right. He was cleaning rental cars.”

  “Did you know much about his background, check his references?”

  “Naw, he did fine in the interview and I needed him that day.”

  “Do you know if he has any family or friends in Dallas?”

  “He never said much about that stuff. But, come to think of it, one time we were working late together and during our break he talked about where he grew up and how he sometimes missed it.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “California.”

  Kate caught her breath.

  “California?”

  “Somewhere around LA, I think.”

  37

  Manhattan, New York

  Varner clawed at his collar button and yanked his tie loose as he stepped into his office after his exchange with Kate at the news conference.

  He dropped into his chair, jabbed the keys of his keyboard looking for the data Bill Kendrick in Los Angeles had promised to send him on Lori Fulton’s connection to Jerricko Titus Blaine.

  This was a critical lead, and Varner was sickened that it could be handed directly to the suspects by a reporter, which could lead Blaine and the other subjects to destroy evidence and jeopardize prosecution of the case, ruining any element of surprise that might work in their favor when it came time to close in.

  How did Page get on to this? Is she that good? Or is someone leaking to her?

  Varner’s monitor came to life with the report from LA and he raced through it twice, devouring Lori’s history with the Santa Ana PD—including the shootings, the fallout and the toll.

  There’s a strong motive here for Blaine, he thought.

  Blaine must have targeted the Fultons in revenge for Lori killing his brother, Malcolm. It still left Varner with many unanswered questions. He was certain Blaine wasn’t acting alone, so who were his associates—and why didn’t they just go after Lori directly? Why escalate to such an extreme, taking hostages, using bombs and robbing a bank? There had to be a reason, but the deeper they dug, the more questions they had. Why did Malcolm take his mother’s name? What about Malcolm’s time in prison and the family’s connection to Afghanistan—was any of that related to what was happening now? Varner had submitted the name Malcolm Jordan Samadyh to Guardian and other national security databases, but nothing had come back yet.

  Meanwhile, investigators analyzed and assessed the physical, factual and theoretical aspects of the Blaine/Samadyh link to Fulton: Blaine’s fingerprints on the duct tape, Blaine’s blood tie to Samadyh and Samadyh’s connection to Lori Fulton. It was often a matter of degrees of separation, but all it took was one key piece of information to bring everything together and Varner was certain that piece would surface soon.

  Still, the fact that Kate Page had the inside track didn’t sit well with him.

  38

  New York Thruway

  Dan drove for miles enveloped by gloom.

  Eventually mountains began to ascend over the highway, and he recognized Mount Tremper dominating the skyline as he continued winding west. The scenery was beautiful, but he sensed menace in every shadow and every blind curve. He studied a stretch of road by a creek then a ramshackle outbuilding tucked in a dense stand of woods, as if he could somehow identify the final destination.

  Sooner or later, everything was going to be decided. Whether he’d live or die, if he’d ever see his family again—it would all end. He could feel it. Everything that he valued became crystalline to him. It was not his job, not the house, not the bag of cash beside him or his reputation in Roseoak Park.

  There were only two things he cherished in his life.

  Lori and Billy.

  They were all that counted in his world, and as he drove he vowed that no matter what happened—no matter what the assholes were planning—he would not make it easy for them.

  “Turn right at that large boulder,” Vic said.

  Dan pulled off the highway on to a paved, narrow course that cut into forest for a mile or two before devolving into a serpentine gravel road, the stones popcorning against the car’s undercarriage.

  “Turn left at that big rock,” Vic said.

  Dan slowed the car when he reached the jutting granite rock formation.

  The turn’s entrance was all but concealed by shrubs that swallowed his vehicle as he rolled on to the earthen pathway. He inched his way delicately along the dirt strip, awakening branches that slapped and scraped against the wheels, the doors, the windows.

  He traveled about fifty yards, coming to a small grassy clearing where Vic ordered him to stop and kill the engine.

  Less than a minute later, Dan heard the distant crunch of gravel and the slap of branches against metal as an SUV lumbered into the clearing behind him.

  Two men got out and approached the Chevy—Vic and Percy. He recognized them by their coveralls, but this time they were carrying what he thought were AK-47s.

  They’re not wearing masks.

  “Get out!” Vic called to him from outside the car.

  Both men were white and in their early twenties. Vic’s long dark hair and an unkempt beard only added to his imposing height. Percy looked about the same age, with thick brown hair and a wispy beard.

  Dan got out of the car while Percy opened the passenger door, seized the bag of cash, unzipped and checked it. Satisfied, he rezipped the bag.

  “Where...where are Lori and Billy?” Dan asked.

  Ignoring Dan, Vic watched Percy put the bag in the SUV.

  “I did everything you wanted,” Dan said. “You said no one would get hurt. It’s done now...you can let us—”

  “Shut up!”

  Vic used his gun to march Dan to the rear of the SUV. Percy secured Dan’s wrists with plastic handcuffs then wrapped them with duct tape. He shoved him into the back of the SUV and covered him with a tarp.

  Doors slammed. The SUV wheeled in a circle and returned to the road.

  It hadn’t gone far when Dan was suddenly pitched to one side amid the roar and rumble of churning gravel as the SUV swayed violently. A horn blasted, and a faint stream of cursing and clanking passed, but the SUV corrected itself and continued.

  As they gathered speed Dan felt hope fading like a dying star.

  39

  Roseoak Park, New York

  Officer Rocco Campisi downed the last of his coffee as he turned into the Empire Coastal Mall.

  Tonight was going to be sweet.

  His brother-in-law had scored tickets to the Mets’ game behind home plate. It was all Campisi could think of as he neared the end of his tour on patrol in the 111th Precinct. He’d swi
ng through the mall and scope the lot for cars on his hot sheet. That would take him to the end of his shift.

  Campisi guided his blue-and-white patrol car into the north entrance where the lot was pretty much at capacity.

  Two cars topped his list.

  The first was a red 2013 Toyota Corolla, wanted in the hit-and-run of a three-year-old boy in Brooklyn this morning. The boy was in critical condition, and Campisi was eager to grab the asshole who’d taken off and left him for dead. The second was the car from the bank heist. They’d been screaming for that one all day—a 2015 blue Ford Taurus.

  Campisi and other patrol units had already searched this lot earlier, but he wasn’t confident the other unit had been as thorough as he’d like, which was why he’d decided to swing back and double-check.

  Campisi crawled through every zone in the lot, concentrating on red Corollas and blue Tauruses. Shoppers pushing carts to their cars cleared the way for him, while people walking to the mall gave him a cursory glance.

  He drove slowly up and down rows of sedans, vans, compacts, hybrids, SUVs and pickup trucks, working his way from one section to the next.

  In Zone 11, he came across two red Corollas that were candidates, but the year and partial plate didn’t match. Rolling through Zone 12, he discovered a blue Taurus, but the year was way off.

  He got zilch in Zone 13.

  Zone 14 was farthest from the others and held fewer vehicles. It would be a fast search, Campisi thought, threading around shopping carts and vehicles dotting the area.

  What’s this?

  His focus shifted to a sedan in the back corner. It was a blue Ford, a Taurus, and his breath quickened as he approached.

  It was a 2015 blue Ford Taurus SEL.

  His eyes widened as he read the plate.

  “Bingo!”

  Campisi reached for his radio.

  * * *

  Varner was alerted to the discovery of Dan Fulton’s car, which had set off a chain reaction of fast-moving investigative events.

  Instructions for the Taurus were sent with an extreme caution—explosives may be present—and Varner was glad to see the officer had cordoned off a large area around it using yellow tape tied to shopping carts. Soon sirens wailed as police, fire and paramedics arrived.

  As the NYPD bomb squad examined the car, Varner and Tilden made their way inside to obtain the mall security video.

  “I’ll bet my pension they used a switch car, or took Fulton with them in their vehicle,” Tilden said as they hustled to the security office.

  Empire Coastal’s security chief took Tilden and Varner into the dimly lit security control room where they viewed footage taken of Zone 14 in the time after the robbery.

  “And there it is,” Tilden said.

  Cameras had captured crisp images of Fulton leaving his Taurus with a duffel bag and getting into a green Chevy Impala.

  “Go back even earlier,” Varner said. “We need to see how the Impala got there.”

  The security chief reversed, then slowed the footage, showing the Chevy as it emerged in the lot. It was parked there about an hour before the heist and would not have drawn suspicion. The driver was wearing dark clothing with a hoodie and ball cap, making identification a challenge. It appeared he was wearing gloves. The cameras recorded the driver walking off the lot after leaving the Impala.

  “Pull in on the car,” Tilden said.

  The mall’s security cameras were first-rate and easily captured the Chevy’s plate, a New York tag, which Tilden and Varner noted. A few quick calls resulted in Empire Coastal volunteering the security video and sending it electronically to the NYPD’s forensic experts for further analysis.

  Several hundred yards from the mall control room, bomb squad techs cleared Fulton’s Ford. They’d found no explosive devices in the vehicle and the forensic team moved in to process it for evidence.

  After the latest information was assessed, a new lookout with key details was blasted to law enforcement agencies, urging them to locate a white male in a green 2014 Chevy Impala, possibly wearing a suicide vest.

  The Impala was registered to Roxanne Butler, age sixty-four, of 28 Rugged Shore Drive, Alexandria Bay, New York.

  There was no response when a New York State Trooper checked on the residence, but a neighbor said that Roxanne and her husband, Jeff Butler, had left five days earlier for Florida for a ten-day Caribbean cruise. They’d driven to Ogdensburg, where they’d flown out of Ogdensburg International Airport.

  Homeland Security confirmed the Butlers’ flights and the Ogdensburg Police Department determined that the Butlers’ Chevy Impala had been taken from the long-term parking lot at the local airport.

  They had no GPS on the vehicle.

  A lot of planning had gone into the heist, Varner thought while driving back to Federal Plaza. Blaine and his associates had made a few mistakes—the fingerprint on the tape was practically rookie—but they’d thought this through. Taking the Impala from long-term parking had given them time, and who knew what they planned to do with it?

  Varner was nearing the Brooklyn Bridge when his phone rang. He took the call using hands-free.

  “Varner.”

  “Nick, its Marv. Port Authority and the Real Time Center tracked the Impala crossing the Throgs Neck Bridge into the Bronx, then taking the George Washington Bridge into New Jersey. Then New Jersey has him on the Four north, where we lose him for a bit, but we pick him up again heading north on the New York Thruway.” Varner could hear the excitement in Tilden’s voice. “This is a huge break, pal.”

  “We’re gaining on them, Marv.”

  “Damn straight. Talk to you soon.”

  The break was encouraging, but Varner couldn’t shake off his underlying fear arising from Jerricko Blaine’s connection to Lori Fulton.

  This case gets darker at every turn and we just don’t know where it’s going to lead.

  40

  Manhattan, New York

  Kate looked at the notes she’d written after ending her call with J. T. Flores at the truck wash in Dallas where Jerricko Blaine had worked.

  She’d underlined California twice.

  What were the odds that Jerricko and Lori would both be from California?

  Whatever they were, it made the possibility of a connection between them even stronger.

  But what could it be?

  Again, she searched through the clippings of Lori’s shooting tragedy in Santa Ana. No mention of anyone named Blaine, but she was betting the key lay somewhere in that case and she was determined to dig deeper. There had to have been an investigation and an inquiry, but she couldn’t go back to Ben for more help. He was already impatient about holding back the California angle on this story, and Kate didn’t want to lose the edge she had ahead of the other news outlets. She’d have to keep digging on her own.

  Checking the time, she was hit with another reality—her daughter would be getting out of school soon.

  Kate would have to make arrangements for someone to pick up Grace, but first she needed to do more work on the Santa Ana shooting. Citing the case, she called Santa Ana PD, then she called the Orange County DA’s office and then the California Justice Department. She also called the legal research agency that Newslead used to search for records on the case.

  In each instance, Kate was told someone would get back to her.

  In each instance, she took names and contact information.

  “I’m on a deadline, if I don’t hear back in twenty minutes, I’ll call again.”

  Moving on to the news reports that said Malcolm Jordan Samadyh was from Torrance, California, Kate searched for listings of Samadyhs in Torrance, then in all of California and then in all the US. She did the same for Blaines. She’d use the lists she compiled to start making cold calls,
hoping that one of these names led to a relative and more information.

  Before starting, she checked the time again and called Nancy Clark, her neighbor.

  “Hi, Nancy, it’s Kate. Can I ask you for a huge favor?”

  “You name it, kiddo.”

  “Vanessa’s got classes and I’m going to be working late and—”

  “Want me to get Grace at school and keep her with me?”

  “Could you?”

  “I’d love to, dear.”

  “Thank you, Nancy. You’re a lifesaver! I’ll send a message to the school.”

  “No thanks needed. You know I love Grace. Are you working on that bank robbery story in Queens?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “It’s on the news.”

  “Yeah, I know. It’s been going on all day.”

  “No, I mean it’s live on the news right now. They found the banker’s car.”

  “What? Thanks, Nancy. Gotta go!”

  Just as Kate turned to check the TV monitors in the newsroom, she found Reeka and Thane standing at her desk.

  “How did we not know about this, Kate?” Reeka asked.

  “I—I don’t know.”

  “This is supposed to be your story. You have sources, don’t you? Why don’t we have this?”

  Reeka was right, and the TV footage was proof Kate was getting beaten badly.

  “Look, I’ll make some calls and I’ll get out there right now.”

  “You’ll never make it through the traffic at this time,” Thane said, sending a message on his phone. “We’ve got a stringer and freelance shooter in Queens. They’re five minutes away. I just sent you their numbers.”

  Reeka was frosty as she instructed Kate. “You’re staying here. Focus on the Dallas angle and work with the stringer on the new development in Queens. We need to know what they found in the banker’s car. Any bodies, any money, any bombs—whatever. Do not drop the ball again, Kate.”

  “I’m on it.”

  Once Reeka and Thane were out of earshot, Kate called Nick Varner.