Scott Free

by James Patterson

  If this was the location Hanlon had in mind, it couldn’t be more perfect.

  Paul and Daisy had rushed out so quickly—and given the information about the new photo, he didn’t blame them. The others wiped down the apartment, and Hanlon told John he had something to show him. So Kat and Susan took off for home, while Hanlon and John climbed into Hanlon’s aging Buick. They hadn’t spoken in the twenty minutes since they got in the car.

  The whole way, John had to fight the urge to lash out, to call him an idiot, to chastise him and lecture him, even hit him. He knew it wasn’t smart to hit a cop, but he didn’t care. He was still angry. He couldn’t not be. This man had made such a stupid mistake that had cost them justice for their children.

  But he needed him to complete the plan and get his revenge. That meant he would tolerate him.

  Hanlon stopped the car in front of a large warehouse sitting on the water, the building a ruin of its former self. There was a gaping hole in one wall, up near the roof, and the windows were smashed and broken. The dock sticking off the back was collapsed into the inky bay.

  They climbed out, and the LNG tanks practically loomed over them.

  “This is it?” John asked.

  “Used to be they had security guards,” Hanlon said. “But after two years, the guards hadn’t seen a single person on site, so they got let go. Most folks in the neighborhood don’t even know it’s here, and kids can’t cross the expressway to get to it.”

  Hanlon led him toward the front of the building. They found a gunmetal gray door with a small window crisscrossed by security wire. It was sitting ajar from the frame, the knob broken off, a rusty padlock holding it closed. John looked around and found a cinder block half buried in the dirt. He pulled it out, brought it to the door, lifted it over his head, and brought it down hard. The lock snapped and fell to the ground, the door yawning open, everything beyond that pitch black.

  The two of them stepped inside. It looked like the set of a horror movie. Dim light trickled in from the windows set high in the cavernous room, which was mostly stripped bare. The floor was scuffed and the guts of old machinery were pushed up into the corners. It smelled like motor oil and mildew.

  Hanlon pulled a Maglite out of his overcoat and shined it around.

  “What was this place, exactly?” John asked.

  “Distribution, shipping, mechanical repair,” Hanlon said. “It was a multi-use facility. Too expensive to remediate, and the land is zoned industrial, so it’d be a pain in the ass to rezone it for homes. Nobody wants it.”

  “Okay, so we have a space,” John said. “That’s a good start. But how are we going to do it? Shoot him?”

  “Ballistics can be a tricky bitch,” said Hanlon. “I’d prefer not to. Knives are an option, but that’s a little personal.”

  “I’d be happy to use my hands,” John said.

  “You say that now.”

  “I mean it.”

  “Well, before we decide anything, let’s get the full lay of the land first,” Hanlon said.

  So they cut wide circles around the space, looking behind gutted machines and old piles of wood. Hanlon even shined his flashlight up into the wooden rafters. Looking for squatters or inspiration, John couldn’t tell. But Hanlon was right. It was good to have a sense of the layout.

  They reached a doorway leading to more rooms. John said, “I didn’t know you lost your son.”

  “T-boned by a drunk driver,” Hanlon said. “On the passenger side. My wife and son were killed on impact. I made it out with a titanium hip that aches when it rains.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  “What happened to the drunk?” John asked.

  Hanlon turned and looked at him, unblinking, his face flat.

  John was about to ask for clarification when he saw the answer.

  Hanlon knew what it meant to take revenge outside the bounds of the law. He was the perfect man for this job, then. It almost made John respect Hanlon a little more, in the sense that they were kindred spirits. But he pushed the feeling aside. Anger, the dominant emotion of his life, took the wheel. John wondered it if would ever go away.

  If killing Scott would help.

  They passed into the new set of rooms, opening doors, checking in corners, scaring off rats. John wondered about the best way to do the deed.

  The important thing was, he wanted Scott to suffer.

  Drowning is supposed to be an incredibly painful way to die. In the days after John Junior was found, when John had stopped crying long enough to maintain his composure, he would sit in the basement with the lights off, and he would hold his breath, counting off the seconds until his lungs screamed for oxygen. His muscles tensed and body shaking.

  He would breathe in, let the oxygen rush in, think about that incredible feeling of relief.

  He would think about that relief never coming.

  Of the pain getting worse.

  And then he would cry some more, thinking about what it must have been like.

  In the next room, the last one on the row, close to the bay now, both men stopped. Hanlon trained his flashlight around the room, revealing the details.

  Along the far wall was exactly what they were looking for.

  Perfect place. Perfect man. Perfect method.

  John balled up his fists and smiled.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he asked.

  “That works,” Hanlon said, nodding slowly.

  Hanlon’s jacket vibrated. He reached into his coat and came out with his phone, pecked at the face of it. “Scott was spotted at a liquor store in Rosebank,” he said.

  “How do you know that?” John asked.

  “I have a Google alert set up for his name,” Hanlon said, placing the phone back in his pocket. He stood for a minute, looking up and away, and then raised his hand and snapped his fingers. “Staten Island Express Suites. That must be it. It’s right near there.”

  “You think that’s where he is?”

  “If I was a lawyer who wanted to hide the most hated man on Staten Island, it’s where I would put him. That’s not the kind of place where people worry about each other’s business.”

  “Well then,” John said. “I guess that’s where we’re headed. I’ll start texting the rest of the group.”

  Chapter 11

  Thomas Scott

  THOMAS SAT ON the bed, numbly watching a rerun of Friends, still wishing the television picked up the Cartoon Network. This show was funny enough, but the colors were dull, lifeless. He liked colors. He liked the cleanliness of animation. Cartoons never looked dirty.

  He picked up the container of sesame chicken next to him, used the plastic fork to skewer a gooey piece of meat. It tasted like cotton. Which wasn’t an indictment of the place he’d ordered it from. It was a little different from his regular place, but not bad different. He just couldn’t concentrate on things like flavor. There was too much to think about.

  He got up, pulled aside the heavy blackout curtain and peeked into the parking lot. It looked the same as it had twenty minutes ago. And still, every time he pushed it aside, he expected to see a group of cops, dressed in armor and carrying guns, ready to cuff him and drag him away like last time.

  At least this time he would know why. The first time, he had no idea what was happening. They were just there, and his instinct was to figure out what was happening, and because he kept trying to pull away to talk, one of the cops jammed a nightstick in his stomach. He doubled over in pain and didn’t put up a fight after that.

  Or maybe he’d look out the window and see John Junior’s dad, waiting to tear him apart. He wished he could talk to him. Explain what happened. He was sure that if he got a couple of minutes, he could make him understand.

  He sat on the bed again, took a long pull from a plastic bottle of water. When it was empty, he placed it carefully in the trash can, then picked up the bottle of rum, ripped off the plastic around the
cap, unscrewed it, and took a sip. It stung the back of his throat, and he winced and coughed. It splashed around his throat and burned. After a few minutes he took a longer sip.

  Thomas surveyed the room again. It was familiar now, but not comfortable. The smell of smoke wasn’t going away. It was cramped, and occasionally he would see something flit in the corner of his vision, something he feared was a roach or a mouse. And even though he didn’t have any bites or welts, he still assumed it was only a matter of time before the bedbugs found him.

  The whole place seemed to be a magnet for filth.

  He thought about his apartment. Neat and tidy and clean and bug-free.

  His life, nearly gone from him now.

  He’d have to move. There was no way he could stay on Staten Island. And truthfully, it’s not like there was a whole lot that was compelling him to stay. But he’d miss it. Staten Island was a nice little place. You got a slice of city life, and it was still quiet at night. And the rents were affordable. Not like across the bridge, where you paid several thousand dollars for the privilege of living in a shoebox. With the kind of money he made, this area was the best he could afford.

  He didn’t have any family. No real friends, outside some people he saw around at the local shops and at work. He’d heard nice things about Portland. The Oregon Portland. Quiet, lots of nice places to eat. And plenty far away from here.

  Far was good. He needed to be someplace where he could start again. The idea terrified and excited him in equal measure. It’s not like he had anything here holding him back. But he’d miss the familiarity.

  He took a little sip of rum, getting used to the sharp, stinging bite of it, and put the bottle on the nightstand. He picked up his phone and opened his email. He tapped out a message:

  To: Mark Amato

  From: Thomas Scott

  Subject line: Time?

  I need to get out of here. I’m ready to leave town. Maybe you can arrange some kind of ride over to my apartment so I can get my stuff. I’d really like to figure out what’s next. I can’t live like this and I can’t live here anymore.

  Thank you. I might go for a walk in the morning but otherwise will be at the hotel all day.

  Talk soon,

  TS

  Thomas put the phone aside and put his head in his hands. Sighed.

  Through it all, the thing that hurt most was, he missed the kids. Their sweet smiles. Their laughs. Parents were rude, inattentive, unkind. Thomas wasn’t a nice-looking man, and sometimes he got nervous talking to people, and he scrubbed toilets, and that made him unworthy of respect and attention. To most people, he was like those characters in the background of a cartoon that no one interacts with. Just there to fill the space.

  The kids, though, they had yet to be jaded to the world. They were nice.

  He got up again. Checked out the curtain. A beige minivan pulled into the lot and traveled around the building. Probably someone looking to park for the night. Or else they were looking for a little privacy and were too cheap to pay for a room.

  Thomas hated this part of town.

  He got himself ready for bed. Stripped down to his boxers, putting his clothes in a neat pile, so he could hop in and out of the shower quickly. He hated showering, and hated that the filthy room made him feel compelled to take another one.

  It was a necessity, yes, but it was a frustrating act. He thought back to when he was a child, and he and his friend were horsing around in the backyard, and he fell into the in-ground pool. His dad, long since dead now, had already laid down a blue tarp to keep the fall leaves out.

  He hit the water and the tarp wrapped around him like a giant hand, pulling him down into the water, choking him. He couldn’t remember much of what happened. Just blacking out, and suddenly he was on the concrete next to the pool, sputtering and coughing, his mother hovering over him, pressing her hands into his chest.

  That blue tarp had nearly killed him.

  It was incredible, how something can instill a fear so deeply, that a person carries it for so long. A little water in his face, up his nose, and he flashed right back to that terrible moment.

  He assembled all of his belongings on the dresser top. Belt and phone and wallet and bottle of rum. He wanted everything neat and close so that in the morning, he’d be ready to leave. Mark would have gotten back to him by then. He was sure of it. He’d go someplace where he’d be able to go to the store and not worry about being attacked by strangers.

  As he crossed the room to the bathroom, there was a knock at the door.

  Chapter 12

  Rex Hanlon

  THEY ASSEMBLED IN a parking lot, in the shadow cast by a supermarket that had closed two hours ago.

  Hanlon knew this would be a good spot. There were no cameras, and the supermarket had no late-night workers. It was the kind of flaw you only learn about when you’re a cop. The corner was often littered with dime bags and used condoms in the morning, but while the owner was happy to complain to police, he was too cheap to install a surveillance system.

  They were blocked from view by the Zhous’ minivan. The seats had been taken out, and it was sporting a set of plates they’d pulled off a car that had been sitting on the side of the road down in Port Richmond for a couple of weeks now. Probably abandoned, and the NYPD hadn’t gotten around to towing it.

  The real plates were in the spare tire well, ready to go back on after the job was done. It wasn’t an elegant plan, but it was easier than trying to procure some other kind of transport.

  Hanlon looked at the assembled group, everyone now in dark clothing. Susan and John were eager and ready. He was a little worried about John still. The man, now wearing a Yankees hat that seemed a little too small for him, was clearly seething, holding back throughout the entire trip to the warehouse and back. He was a little surprised that John hadn’t hit him yet.

  Kat stood off to the side, her eyes vacant as she stared into the distance. She was strong, stronger than she looked, and he hoped she was up to the task.

  It was Daisy and Paul who worried him. He hadn’t wanted to get them involved. First, it meant there were more conspirators. Second, the two of them didn’t seem particularly useful, aside from their van. Both were diminutive and reserved, not exactly the best types in a tough spot.

  Meek. That’s the word he would use to describe them.

  Still, though, Daisy was enthusiastic, hopping on the balls of her feet. Paul still seemed hesitant. He kept looking around, nervous, like he was expecting someone to sneak up on them. That, or he was looking for an escape route.

  Hanlon closed his eyes and said a quick prayer to himself. He was afraid. There were a lot of people involved now. As the saying went, too many cooks can ruin a stew. One stupid move and the plan would fall apart.

  At least they seemed to have eased off him a bit. It still hurt, standing there in front of them. Bearing the scar of his failure. Knowing that he’d let them all down. Because the precinct captain was getting pressure from the mayor and the media to close the case. His need to please—and more than that, his need to stop a scumbag killer—made him too ready to bend the rules.

  “So, we’re going to go over it one more time,” Hanlon said. “Everyone ready?”

  The parents nodded in turn. Hanlon took a knee on the ground, wincing as he went down. There were three sticks laid out to look like a C—a rough approximation of the shape of the motel.

  If Scott was there, he was in the room farthest from the lobby. He and John had done a quick recon on the way over, and it seemed only two rooms were occupied, based on the lights. At one room, a strange man came out, and after a few minutes, another went in. Hanlon was pretty sure Scott wouldn’t be having visitors, so that narrowed it down.

  He also confirmed the lot behind the hotel was empty.

  There were only two other cars in the inner courtyard. Neither of them were owned by the NYPD. He knew all the undercover cars the local precinct used. Hell, he’d sat in more than half of them. A
nd neither of the cars were nice enough that they could have belonged to the lawyer. So unless a convention suddenly came into town and the place got a rush, they had plenty of space and privacy to get in and grab Scott.

  Hanlon pointed to one end of the C.

  “Lobby,” he said.

  He pointed to the other.

  “Scott,” he said.

  He picked up a rock and put it behind the spot where Scott was staying.

  “Van goes here,” he said. “You stay close to the hotel, in the shadows, where no one can see you. Stay quiet. Don’t turn the headlights on, and don’t draw attention.”

  He stood back up, feeling a twinge in his lower back. It was simplistic, maybe a little ridiculous, but he always figured people retained information better when there were visuals. And there wasn’t any room for error.

  “I’m going in the front,” said Hanlon. “First, to see if it’s him. If it is, I’ll get him to open the door and get into the room. Then I load him out the back window to you, and you all put him in the van. Susan will drive, Daisy sits shotgun, Paul is in the back. Kat and John will come with me. We’ll follow behind.”

  John threw up his hands. “Wait, wait, wait. That’s not going to happen.”

  “Yes, it is,” Hanlon said. “You all follow the rules I set out. I’m doing this for a reason.”

  “Why?” John asked, challenging him.

  What he didn’t want to say was that he couldn’t trust John to not pull the van to the side of the road and kill Scott there. Call Hanlon old-fashioned, but he wanted another man in the car, hence Paul. Despite Paul’s hesitancy, Hanlon figured out the fight-or-flight response would kick in and Paul would be able to keep Scott subdued in the back.

  He also didn’t want Paul and Daisy alone in there, because there was too much emotional baggage. If Paul got really nervous, he might try talking Daisy out of it. Susan, at least, was unfamiliar, and would probably respond less to Paul.

  And Susan didn’t seem to be having second thoughts, so he trusted she would keep Paul on track.