False Witness

by Scott Cook

  Crow was silent for a moment as a connection clicked in his brain. “Media microscope,” he said, more to himself than her.

  “What?”

  “Those reporters asked you if you believed Hodge was guilty.”

  “Yes. So?”

  “Before I threw them out, Walsh asked me if I killed Palliser and Duff.”

  Diane raised herself up on one elbow. “What are you getting at?”

  “He didn’t ask me why I killed them, he asked if I killed them. Everyone else just assumed I did it. I didn’t give it any thought at the time. But they asked you if you thought Hodge had killed Ferbey.”

  She frowned. “That is strange.”

  Crowe pushed her gently off him and sat up. He pulled on his fresh clothes for the second time in an hour. “It’s real strange. I think we need to talk to them again.”

  Diane shrugged into her dress and buckled her belt. “Not to harp on a point, but we could have done that earlier if someone had just acted rationally.”

  He grabbed her and planted a kiss firmly on her mouth. “I’ll make it up to you.”

  “Yes, you will,” she said with a grin. “Many, many times.”

  #

  The rain had just begun to fall when Sam and Tess reached the Rosebush. Thunder that had been grumbling for the last twenty minutes had finally cleared its throat and was pontificating in earnest, punctuating the horizontal flashes of lightning across the sky.

  “Great,” said Tess, eyeing the grungy exterior of the building. “Now I get to have my beautiful outfit soaked as I make a mad dash into that pit. You sure know how to show a girl a good time.”

  “Ye of little faith,” said Sam. He reached behind the bench seat into the rear of the Suburban and produced a well-used umbrella. “Besides, it’s a small price to pay for the story of the decade, wouldn’t you say?”

  He hopped out of the SUV, opened the umbrella and ran to the passenger side. Tess took his hand and climbed down to the gravel. He had parked Blue Thunder at the rear of the building just to be cautious. They saw a big blue Navigator and a gray Jaguar parked close to the front door as they jogged toward the storefront on the other side.

  “Those have to be Crowe’s and Diane’s,” Sam said. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the rain.

  “Let’s hope so,” said Tess. “Or we’ll have even more explaining to do than we already have.”

  They reached the door and walked into the dusty storefront. Sam half expected a little bell to ring; instead, he saw a video camera mounted high on the wall behind the cashier’s counter. He guessed there were others hidden outside the building as well; the place was obviously a bunker. He just hoped there weren’t any booby traps rigged behind the doors.

  Beside him, Tess shook the umbrella and closed it. “What do we do now?” she asked.

  Sam shrugged. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead. Walk in with our hands up?”

  “I’m serious!”

  “So am I.” He crossed to the door that led to the larger area in back. “Look, I highly doubt they’ll shoot us on sight, especially if Diane Manning is here.”

  Tess growled and followed him through the door, umbrella in hand. The room on the other side looked like a fallout shelter that had been overrun by frat boys. The couches and chairs had the well-worn air of thrift-shop rejects. The pool table and bar were reminiscent of the hotel pub in the town where Sam had grown up. Except the pub’s pool table didn’t have a Jackson Pollock painting of Max Pulaski’s dried blood in the middle of it.

  Tess wrinkled her nose. “Charming.”

  Just then, Jason Crowe and Diane Manning walked out of one of the other, smaller rooms that led off the main area. They seemed to be in a good mood. Sam braced himself as they caught sight of him and Tess.

  They stopped in their tracks. Crowe gaped, then turned to Diane, who looked just as gobsmacked. “You gotta be fucking kidding me,” he said.

  Diane waved a hand at them. “Jason Crowe,” she said. “Meet Tess Gallagher and Sam Walsh of the Chronicle.”

  Tess moved closer to Sam as he put up his hands. “Look, we’re just here to talk,” he said. “You really need to hear what we have to say.”

  “Yeah, we do,” said Crowe. “And you need to listen to us. We all need to compare notes.”

  Sam stared for a moment, then turned to Tess. “Okay, I don’t know what I thought was going to happen,” he whispered. “But it wasn’t that.”

  #

  Crowe took a couple of clean towels from the shower room and laid them across one of the sofas for Tess and Diane to sit on. He sat on the edge of the heavy wooden coffee table and motioned Sam towards an armchair.

  “Diane and I have been talking,” Crowe said. “She says you two asked some interesting questions before I, uh, interrupted your interview.”

  Sam frowned and opened his mouth to speak, but Tess cut him off. “Let’s cut to the chase here,” she said. “We have reason to believe that someone may have set up Rufus Hodge.”

  Diane’s eyes widened. She glanced at Crowe, then back at Tess. “What kind of reason?”

  “You first,” said Tess. “Why do you believe Hodge didn’t kill Tom Ferbey?”

  “Because I told her so,” said Crowe. “And I know what really happened that night.” He scowled. “Or at least some of it.”

  “And that was?”

  “Uh-uh. First of all, we get something straight: this is the most off the record conversation you’ll ever have in your life. If anything we say sees print, you won’t have to worry about a libel suit. You understand what I’m saying?”

  Sam and Tess nodded gravely. Sam knew this was no time for bravado. “We understand,” he said.

  “All right,” said Crowe. He rested his elbows on his knees and laced his fingers. “Richie Duff was telling the truth in his original testimony. Hodge was with him the night Ferbey was killed.”

  “So why did Duff turn?” asked Sam. “What was in it for him?”

  “Somebody offered him money to testify against Hodge.”

  “So he really did lie on the stand,” said Sam. “Except what the judge thought was the lie and the truth were actually reversed. But why would he do it? He must have known it would be a death sentence. And it was.”

  “Yeah, it was. But not by us.”

  “Then who?”

  “Whoever paid him to testify. They killed him to shut him up.”

  “So someone gives Duff what we have to assume is a substantial amount of money to rat on Hodge, then kills him? Why didn’t Duff see that coming?”

  Crowe sighed. “We didn’t call him Dumb Fuck for nothing.”

  “Why kill Palliser, then?”

  “That’s a very good question.”

  Tess leaned forward. “So if Rufus Hodge really was with Duff the night of the murder, who killed Tom Ferbey? And why?”

  “Not yet,” said Crowe. “I want some quid pro quo here. Why do you think Hodge was set up?”

  Sam told him about their stumbling across the fact that Ferbey wasn’t the one who called Alex Dunn on the nights leading up to the night of the murder, and the fact that Ferbey hadn’t used his watchman’s clock after 7 p.m. It felt good to finally have another party in on this crazy conspiracy.

  Crowe held his chin in his fist, deep in thought. Finally, he said: “Why did you come here? Now? What good does it do you?”

  “We want the truth,” said Tess. “Just like you.”

  “Uh-huh. And a big, fat book deal when you prove the great and terrible Rufus Hodge was set up.”

  Sam shrugged. “What difference does it make? You want a known criminal back on the street. We all have our own agenda here, but ultimately it’s the same goal: to find out who killed Tom Ferbey.”

  Diane cleared her throat. “I feel I should point out that calling Mr. Hodge a known criminal is –”

  “Enough lawyer talk, Diane,” said Crowe. “We’re off the record here, remember?” He turned to Sam. “So basically, you�
��re saying someone lured Alex Dunn to Highland Storage that night so that he could witness Tom Ferbey’s murder?”

  “That about sums it up,” said Sam. “Now it’s your turn. What really happened that night? Why did someone go to such lengths to frame Rufus Hodge?”

  Crowe looked at Diane. She looked at Tess and Sam. “Remember,” she said. “If a single word of this gets out, Jason will do something to you that you really don’t like. And then I’ll sue the pants off of anything that’s left over.”

  Sam and Tess nodded in unison.

  “All right,” said Crowe. “Whoever killed Tom Ferbey that night wasn’t just trying to frame Hodge. Your information about the watchman’s clock confirmed what I’ve suspected all along.”

  Sam held his palms up. “Which is?”

  “Those two hours are unaccounted for. Ferbey logged that he’d patrolled the grounds, but he didn’t actually do it. That means he was likely incapacitated or under threat while whoever went on to kill him was doing something else.”

  “Something else like what?”

  “Like stealing the contents of that storage unit.”

  Sam sat back. He hadn’t considered that possibility, but now that Crowe had said it, it made perfect sense. “You’re saying a rival organization made off with Wild Rose – uh, property? Is that possible?”

  “Very,” said Crowe. “There are no security cameras at the Highlands, only guards. Someone could have brought in a truck, loaded it up and driven off without any record of them being there, as long as the guard on duty didn’t see it.”

  “Which adds to the theory that Ferbey was executed for show. They could have just tied him up, or they could have left him to die in the explosion.”

  “I have a question,” said Tess. “How did the killer know about the storage unit?”

  “I don’t know,” said Crowe, massaging the back of his neck with his hand. “I don’t want to believe that one of the Roses’ inner circle is involved in this, but I can’t rule it out.”

  “One last thing,” said Sam. “The C4 – was that you or them?”

  Crowe frowned. “Them. That unit didn’t need a failsafe.”

  “Why not?”

  Before Crowe could answer, all hell erupted.

  CHAPTER 19

  Alex was sweating in spite of his room’s ancient air conditioner. It had been a scorcher in Lost Lake, and the heat would continue into the evening, despite the sudden storms on the other side of the mountains in Calgary. He had stripped down to his shorts for the last couple hours of writing, but trickles of perspiration still ran down his naked spine.

  Not that he noticed. He was in the zone, cranking out words on his Macbook like a Gatling gun cranks out bullets. It was a feeling unlike any other, and he reveled in it.

  He was so deep inside his head that he let out a startled “Jesus!” when his cellphone rang. It was Angie (of course it was; no one else knew the number of the burner phone he’d been using).

  “Hey, Hemmingway,” the voice on the other end said. “How about you take a break and join me at a concert on the beach tonight?”

  Alex smiled and glanced at the lower left corner of his Macbook’s screen. He was currently at three thousand words and change for the day, fifty-seven thousand total. He hit the “command” and “S” buttons simultaneously and closed the screen.

  “I could be talked into that,” he said. “I think I’ve earned a little rest and relaxation.”

  “The writing’s going well?”

  “I don’t want to brag,” he lied, “but I’d say I’m almost halfway done.”

  “Really? That’s awesome!”

  “It helps to have a beautiful muse.”

  “Oh, please,” she said. “You don’t need corny lines, Alex. You’ve already landed me.”

  “Oh, sorry. I meant to say my muse is quite an ugly little toad.”

  “That’s better.”

  “When should I pick you up?”

  “I’m working until six, but come by my place around seven and we’ll head over. I’ll have to shower first.”

  Alex ran a hand down his sticky chest. “Me, too. Writing is sweaty work.”

  “Well,” Angie purred. “Why don’t you bring a towel and join me?”

  Alex’s heart skipped a beat, but he managed to keep it out of his voice. “Sure,” he said, cheeks glowing. “I can do that.”

  “Can’t wait,” she said. “See you soon.”

  Sam pressed the off button on the phone, wondering how his life could possibly get any better.

  CHAPTER 20

  Crowe could feel a familiar pressure in his ears a microsecond before the actual sound hit. It was the deafening crack of semi-automatic gunfire, something he had heard far too often in his life. Behind him, he heard dull thak noises as round after round connected with the concrete wall. High-powered, likely an M4. He moved without thinking, knocking the two reporters to the floor with a sweep of his right arm and kicking over the thick wooden coffee table with his foot. He reached for the Sig Sauer in the belt of his jeans – and came away with nothing.

  I left it in the fucking Lincoln.

  “Flatten!” he barked at Sam and Tess. “Crawl to the bar!”

  Behind him, he heard Diane cry his name. He shoved her backwards without looking, flipping her over the back of the sofa she was sitting on. It rolled on top of her. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the reporters following his orders, high-tailing it to the bar and the relative safety its thick metal surface. Above him, he could hear shrieks of terror.

  The gunfire was coming from the doorway for now, at least two shooters. Crowe knew they were trying to use the walls for cover, but would move into the room as soon as they realized he was unarmed. So far, their shots had been high. He hoped they would stay that way for a few more seconds. He had to reach the bar; it was only a few yards away, but it seemed like miles. He hit the deck to start his crawl.

  Just as he did, he saw a figure rise up from behind the bar. A half-second later, he saw the muzzle flash of a shotgun, heard the sound of heavy-gauge buckshot hitting the wall near the door. It was Walsh.

  Guy’s got balls.

  The shot was enough to send the gunmen deeper into the storefront for cover. Crowe used the precious seconds to flip the sofa rightside up and grab Diane. He hoisted her over his shoulder and spun around behind the bar, where Sam and Tess squatted, panting.

  “Nice shot,” Crowe said as he rummaged in the cupboard under the bar.

  Sam’s face was pale but composed. “I found it in there,” he said, pointing at the cupboard. “What do we do now?”

  Crowe emerged with a pair of automatic pistols and two clips of ammunition. He pointed one of the barrels at the pistol-grip shotgun in Sam’s hands. “You know how to use that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You got five more shots in there. You need to get the women out of here.”

  The rifle fire started up again from the doorway. Bullets tore more chunks out of the concrete behind them.

  “How?” Sam asked, goggle-eyed. “We’re pinned down.”

  From above came more shrieks. “There are more women upstairs,” said Crowe. He pointed across the room to the stairs leading to the second floor, then at Tess and Diane, who was breathing heavily. “Get these two up there, then get them and the others to the room at the end of the upstairs hall. The door is steel, lined with concrete; lock it when you get inside. It’ll be cramped, but you’ll fit. Stay low.”

  Sam glanced at Tess. She gave him an odd look. “It’s okay,” she said, eyes wide. “You can save me.”

  Crowe rolled his eyes. “Are you two done?”

  Sam pumped the shotgun. “Yeah.”

  “I’ll fire at them head-on, see if I can drive them out the front door.”

  “That’s a little crazy.”

  “You got a better idea?”

  Sam shook his head.

  “Give me to the count of five, then move. Run sideways, with the wo
men between you and the wall. Shoot if you have to, but not at me. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “On three.”

  Crowe counted down with three nods of his head, then straightened up with pistols in each hand. He fired four shots directly into the doorway some ten yards away. He estimated he had five seconds to cover the space between it and the bar before the gunmen recovered. As he ran, he spared a glance to his right – Sam and the women raced to the stairwell that led to the second floor and the screaming girls. Diane was hobbling. Her and her fucking three-inch heels.

  Sam fired off a round at the door as he ran, blowing a scattered hole in the jamb. Crowe made it to the entryway and dropped to his back on the floor, leveling both pistols between his bent knees. No movement yet, but the cashier’s counter was blocking his view of the rest of the storefront. He rolled behind the counter and rose up, firing a single round from each pistol before dropping back down. Nothing. No return fire, no grunts of pain. Did they retreat? Or were they trying to draw him out?

  He grabbed the leg of the stool where Pulaski’s rat-faced cousin had sat a couple weeks earlier and pushed it out past the edge of the counter. The chrome reflected nothing but an empty room. Crowe crouched low and stepped into the open, guns at ten and two o’clock. He scanned the area, looking for any sort of motion. Still nothing. Outside, the rain had stopped pounding against the Rosebush’s sheet metal roof, and the evening sun was starting to stream through the clouds.

  He kept away from the window, creeping along the wall until he could risk a glance out the open front door. He immediately regretted it – the emerging sun left a black dot in his field of vision. Or was it something else that was giving off the light? In the distance, he could hear the wail of sirens. He waited until his eyesight returned, then leapt through the front door, rolling on his shoulder. He emerged in a tight package, one knee on the ground, one knee up, pistols leveled. The yard was empty. Up the street, a big, black SUV laid rubber and smoke as it raced away from the scene. So it hadn’t been the cops following him from Eau Claire. But then who was it? Trinh’s men? Whoever it was, they were the shooters.