The Face of Fear: A Powers and Johnson Novel

by Torbert, R. J. ;

  Paul looked at Bud as he sipped his soy milk hot chocolate and asked, “Do they serve normal food in there?”

  “No” Bud replied, “if they did they would be like any other café.”

  Once in the library, they identified themselves and asked if they could request to search the sites that Rachelle Robinson had visited while signed in on her library card. The answer was quick, Twitter and Google. They left the library and decided to walk up Thompson Street to the two homes owned by the Winters brothers. The homes were being guarded by FBI agents, and no one was allowed in them without approval of Agents Sherman or O’Connor.

  The agents at the house were able to reach O’Connor, and access was denied. “Isn’t that interesting?” Bud said as they started walking back down Thompson Street. They turned right on East Main Street to the corner and turned left on East Broadway and walked down to the ferry next to Danford’s. They stopped to look around at the beautiful village and commented how surreal everything seemed. It had only been one week since the shooting, yet it seemed like a dream long ago, or a nightmare.

  Rachelle greeted Madison with a hug and a kiss as she entered the house. Madison wanted to talk to her about her conversation with Bud and Paul but decided to wait until the next day. It seemed as though everyday had been filled with stress for her, and she didn’t want to add to it. Those were her thoughts, yet her curiosity got the best of her.

  “Rachelle, did you change your business cell number?”

  “Yes,” Rachelle answered. “I felt safe doing it. I really don’t want to talk about it, please.”

  “OK,” Madison replied. “Let me know when you want to talk about it.”

  “I will,” Rachelle answered.

  “Thank you. Do you have any appointments set up with the doctor?” Madison didn’t want to say “psychiatrist.”

  “Yes” her older sister replied. “Next week.”

  “Anything happen today?”

  “No,” Rachelle said.

  “No?” Madison replied.

  Rachelle looked at her younger sister and said, “Just ask me, Maddie.”

  “OK,” her younger sister replied. “Why were you having lunch with Robert Simpson?”

  “Oh, God,” Rachelle answered as she went to her room.

  Madison followed her to her room and said, “Rachelle, I’m scared for you. You’re my sister. Please tell me what is going on.”

  “I don’t know,” Rachelle replied. “I’m just trying to find answers. I had lunch with Simpson hoping he could shed some light on what’s going on. I’m writing about this. It’s who I am. It calms me. That’s all.”

  “You won’t be writing if this ends up getting you killed! Rachelle! Please! Please let us help you.”

  “You are,” Rachelle said as she put her hand to Madison’s face. “Just love me,” she said, kissing the side of her face. “I need to write a bit,” she said, as she sat down in her room, which had space for a little office.

  Madison walked back to the kitchen and leaned her head against the refrigerator as many thoughts spun around inside it.

  Paul and Bud finally made it back to the precinct, where they tried to catch up on paperwork. They had always been behind, but the shooting and the demand to close this case had made the paperwork assignments more challenging. Bud would normally get bored after just a couple hours at his desk and say something like, “I feel the need,” and then add to it with whatever he was feeling he wanted to do to get away.

  Paul was moving along at a good pace at his own desk when his father called from the city. He had just had a late lunch at the Evergreen Diner on 47th Street and was pleasantly surprised to see Sean

  Hannity from Fox News come in for a bite to eat. The little hole-in-the-wall diner had pictures of most of the Fox News personalities, including Bill O’Reilly and Shepard Smith. Paul’s dad was excited to tell him of his little surprise. The server had told the elder Powers that it was a common occurrence to see them, since their headquarters was just around the corner on Avenue of the Americas.

  Usually Paul rushed his father off the phone, but not today. He enjoyed listening to his dad’s enthusiasm about saying hello to the Reagan conservative host of his own program. Paul was laughing when his dad mentioned he wanted to tell Mr. Hannity his thoughts on the Great American Panel and some of his guests, particularly Dick Morris and Don Imus’ wife, Deirdre, but he thought better of it because he was there for a lunch and not a debate.

  “Good choice, Dad.” Paul said.

  As Paul spoke to his father, Bud got up and made a phone call of his own. Instead of a normal hello, Deborah Lance answered with, “Hello, funny guy. How are you?”

  “Thanks for the text,” Bud replied. “We have to keep an eye on you.”

  “Oh, well, thank you, but I’m safe and sound, and we are going to take a walk to Starbucks in a few minutes. I’m not a security expert, but it looks like we are being watched down here.”

  “I assume whoever is watching you has a real face,” Bud said. “Ha, Ha,” Deborah replied.

  “OK,” the detective said. “Just checking in.”

  “Well, thank you, sir, speak to you later.”

  “Why don’t you give me a call tomorrow if you have the time?” he replied.

  “Well, I may have to do that to make sure you are staying out of trouble.”

  “OK, speak to you then. Bye,” Bud said as he hung up.

  When Bud got back to the desk to dig in again and attack the paperwork, Paul was still speaking with his dad. Paul said, “Dad, you just let me know if you ever see Monica Crowley. Then I will be really jealous.” He was laughing as he hung up.

  Paul was a fan of the “conservative warrior princess.” He admired her strong views and her challenges to the good-ol’-boy network. She wasn’t afraid to attack the media when she felt they had double standards, especially when it came to a female candidate being considered for president. He had always enjoyed her on O’Reilly Factor, but he didn’t become a true fan until he found her on her three-hour radio program on 77ABC while he was on the treadmill at the gym on a Saturday morning.

  “How’s he doing?” Bud asked.

  “He’s great,” Paul replied. “I’m shocked he didn’t find a way to inform Sean Hannity his son was investigating the biggest case to hit in Long Island history, but he’s doing fine. He hated the interview with Hasselbeck, and he expressed it. Not too many people made mention of it, but April 4 was also the anniversary of the shooting and assassination of Martin Luther King. A date my dad never forgot. He was in eighth grade when he was sent down to the principal’s office for talking too much in class. My grandfather was stationed at Ramstein Air Force Base in Germany at the time. Anyway, when he got to the principal’s office, they had the television on about the assassination in Memphis. The principal spoke to him and made him sit for 30 minutes before sending him back to class. When he walked in, the teacher said to him in front of everyone, 'Well, did you learn anything?’ My dad said, 'Yes, I did. Martin Luther King was assassinated!’ The teacher was so upset with his answer she practically dragged him by his collar back to the principal’s office and, upon their arrival, learned that my dad was indeed correct and promptly apologized to the eighth-grader. The experience made my dad learn more about Martin Luther King, and he grew to respect the man and what he stood for. His favorite song to this day is Elvis’ tribute song to him, 'If I Can Dream.’ It brings tears to his eyes every time he hears it.”

  Bud leaned back in his chair as he said, “You remember many details with your dad.”

  “Yeah,” Paul replied. “This case seems to be changing all of us. I want to remember more details. This case has made me appreciate many things.”

  The remark made a mental impression on Bud, and he wanted to ask Paul why they never discussed the letter from Phil Smith to Rachelle. He knew why the letter was not mentioned in the hospital ro
om with Sherry, for only he, Paul, and Cronin knew about it. But the subject never came up between them, and it was bothering Bud. He noticed Gina, Cronin’s assistant, going toward the coffee café and asked where the boss was.

  She answered, “He told me to take messages, that’s it.” Bud and Paul looked at each other.

  “OK,” Bud said, “tell him we said hello and we will see him Monday unless he needs us tomorrow.”

  “I will tell him,” Gina said as they got up to leave.

  “By the way,” she said, “Detective Lieutenant Cronin wants a report on your progress on his desk in regards to the case and today’s findings.”

  “Thanks for telling us now,” Bud said. They both sat down for another two hours before heading home, not aware that as they were writing their reports, Cronin visited Sherry at the hospital, spoke to William Lance on the phone in Florida, and stopped by to speak to Rachelle outside of her home away from all ears.

  Saturday, June 25

  Bud knocked on the door and, as usual, ran up the stairs at 8:00 am sharp.

  “Rise and shine! Time to go to the gym, time for this chubby guy to show off on the treadmill!” he yelled.

  Paul was just putting his gym shorts in his bag when Bud greeted him. “Let’s go,” Paul said. “We will see what kind of shape you are in. Did you bring a headset for the televisions?”

  “Nah,” Bud replied. “I have my Katy Perry on my iPod; that’s all I need.”

  They got to Planet Fitness in Rocky Point by 8:30 am and changed their clothes in the locker room. They got to the treadmills, and Paul put on Level 6, Random 4.5 speed to start for 60 minutes. Bud started at 3.5 speed on Level 6, determined to show he was in better shape than it appeared.

  Paul watched his television program and was 20 minutes into it when he noticed both girls and guys would walk by he and Bud with unusual smiles on their faces. He thought nothing of it until a couple of girls were laughing while looking at them. He glanced over at Bud to see if he noticed anything funny, when he saw that Bud did not have his gym shorts on. Instead he was wearing his boxer underwear with a large Superman logo shield on the front and back. He tapped Bud to remove the earplugs from his ear.

  “Bud! You forgot to put your gym shorts on! You have everyone laughing looking at your Superman shorts underwear! Go change!”

  “No,” Bud said, “I’m just breaking a sweat. Can’t stop now.”

  “Oh my God!” Paul said. “You are out of your mind!”

  “What can I say?” Bud replied. “I forgot the shorts. I was wondering why it felt like I had nothing on.”

  Bud finished his workout on the treadmill and walked to the locker room to the amusement of the other patrons and finally met

  Paul to work out on the universal equipment for 40 minutes. They showered and were out of Planet Fitness by 10:30 am.

  They returned to Z Pita for a Sunday breakfast, where Paul saw Joey Z’s parents for the first time in more than a year. George and Marguerite were both in their late eighties and a delight to catch up with. Paul would often think how lucky Joey Z was that he still had both his parents.

  While Paul spoke with the elder Z family, Bud sent Deborah Lance a text, and they exchanged messages for 10 minutes. Their breakfast was served while they read the Sunday newspaper. Paul turned the page and saw the column featuring Rachelle’s tweet for the day: “I know it’s you, you know it’s true, I even know your car is blue.” Paul was shaking his head.

  “Holy shit! Look at this,” he said to Bud. Bud read it.

  “Who has a blue car?” Paul put his fork down and got up to go to the men’s room. Bud cut out the tweet and put it in his wallet. He had a fleeting thought that Paul had a dark-blue Honda Accord. Timothy had a Kona blue Mustang. Allan had a blue BMW. Madison had a red Kia. Bud had a gray Hyundai when not driving the unmarked cruiser, which was blue. Bud decided that Rachelle’s clue was not specific enough, but it was good enough to cause controversy.

  Paul came back to the table and told Bud he was going upstairs to relax and then go over his notes on the case the rest of the day. Bud needed some time also and said he would see Paul Monday morning. As Bud got in the car, he had about 20 subjects on his mind, from Deborah Lance to Rachelle to the masked killer to Sherry Walker to Detective Lieutenant Cronin and Paul Powers. It was the first time in his career where he felt overwhelmed with what was going on. Instead of getting in his car, he walked to the Starbucks on the corner of Main and Arden Place, walked in, and got a Cinnamon Spice tea. He sat down and started putting a list together of everyone that had a blue car or that had anything to do with a blue car.

  Maybe it was a waste of time, but he had peace and quiet as he sat on a stool facing the window toward Main Street. Timothy, dead, blue. Bud, good guy, blue. Paul, cop, partner, blue. Allan, blue-and-white, two-tone. Vicky, dead, not blue. Agent O’Connor, ass, FBI agent, blue. John Winters, registered red car. Madison, red car. Cronin, gray. Patty Saunders, yellow car. Robert Simpson, another ass, gray car. Deborah Lance, pretty, burnt-orange. William Lance, black limo and white corvette. He called Paul on his cell and read him the list of names he had written down.

  “Who did I leave out?”

  Paul answered, “Phil Smith.”

  “Duh,” Bud said.

  Paul continued, “Sherry Walker, Kyle Winters, Steven Anderson, and Agent Sherman.”

  Bud hung up and called the precinct with these names and asked what color cars were registered to them. He waited about 10 minutes until he got his information. Sherry Walker, green. Mason Winters, green mint. Figures, Bud thought. Kyle Winters, dark blue, but very dead. Steven Anderson, light beige. Agent Sherman, red. This was going nowhere, and Bud even thought about asking Rachelle what the hell was going on.

  It was a beautiful Sunday outside, and since Bud had never spoken to Steven Anderson at the Now paper, he decided to see if he was in to talk to him about Rachelle and the tweets that were causing a stir, and quite frankly a problem, for the cops. He knew that Cronin was getting heavily pressured and the Twitter adventures in cryptic messages were not helping. He turned left outside the Starbucks and walked toward the Port Jefferson Now offices. He walked past Theatre 3 and the CVS store and finally reached the little strip mall behind the parking lot available for customers.

  He opened the door to the office, surprised it was unlocked. He saw a figure sitting on a chair, not moving, as he called out, “Hello!” As he approached the figure not answering him, Bud pulled out his weapon.

  “Hello? Please answer me.” He reached the chair, turned it around, and woke up Steven Anderson and scared the hell out of him as he saw Bud’s gun pointing at him.

  “Are you all right?” Bud asked.

  “I would be better if I didn’t wake up with a gun in my face.”

  “Sorry about that,” Bud replied.

  “What are you doing sleeping here?”

  “I have to work Sundays especially with what is going on. Circulation for our paper has gone up 20 percent in the last week, and I know Newsday purchases are up 7 percent with Rachelle’s tweets and promise of an article.”

  “Why do you think Rachelle is tweeting about a blue car. Does it mean anything?” Bud asked.

  Steven shook his head and said, “I’m not sure. She could be just doing it to shake things up, but I will tell you it’s working.”

  “Yeah,” Bud said. “When is the last time you heard from Rachelle?”

  “I get an email from her every day,” Steven replied.

  “OK,” Bud said. “Keep me informed of anything unusual.”

  “Sure thing,” the editor replied.

  Bud walked out the front door of the Now offices as the shots rang out, one after the other. The detective went down and didn’t move. The front windows were shattered with bullets, as was the door. Silence. Everything stopped as Bud quickly got up and dove behind a car as more shots were fired. His c
ell phone fell out on the ground, but he wasn’t about to try and get it. Steven Anderson had crawled under his desk and managed to call 911. Two minutes had gone by, which seemed like 10 minutes, and the firing had stopped. Bud decided not to be a hero and waited behind the car until squad cars pulled up. Paul was there within three minutes of the officers on the scene and began checking Bud out. He wasn’t hit at all. “Terrible shots,” he said to his partner.

  Paul looked at Bud and said, “Maybe it was a warning, Bud. Maybe missing you was no accident.”

  “Thanks for making me feel good,” Bud replied.

  “Let’s question Anderson while they collect the bullets,” Paul answered.

  “So much for a relaxing Sunday.” Anderson had his face in his hands and appeared to be shaken up. He explained why he was in the office and heard the shots. He was sure Bud was hit and ducked under the desk while dialing 911.

  “Show me what you’re working on,” Paul said. Steven pulled out updates from Rachelle that were to be released in Wednesday’s Now edition. Since Newsday was daily, Anderson was compiling the past five days for one big article for Tuesday. Anderson’s hands were shaking as he showed Paul the work and the articles. Paul looked at the papers for a few minutes and handed them back to Anderson. The crime lab was on the scene, and Paul was surprised to see Agents Sherman and O’Connor pull up.

  “Sorry, guys, we are investigating an attempted murder of a police officer.”

  “Can we take a look around?” Sherman asked. “We all believe this is related to the original kidnapping.”

  “Sorry,” Paul said.

  Sherman seemed confused and spoke again. “What’s with the attitude, Detective? I thought we were working this case together.”

  “Me too,” Paul replied, “but you made it clear we weren’t when you denied access to us on the two Winters’ homes.” Paul started walking toward Bud and put on his sunglasses.

  “I don’t know anything about you guys being denied access to the homes.”

  “Ask your partner in crime here,” Paul replied, pointing to O’Connor. O’Connor turned his back on Paul, facing Sherman, and told him he had denied access until the FBI was finished with the house.