Johnny could see her, but she could not yet see him. He wanted her to, willed her to find his face amid these strangers and feel some degree of instant relief. One of the two men led her around to the sedan’s passenger door. Richter opened it, pulling his massive frame up and through.
It was then that Haley spotted Johnny in the backseat.
And the two men beside him.
Johnny saw no hint of the relief he was hoping to see — a look of recognition, yes, but not relief.
Haley was scared and confused. She was also pissed off. She had to move around Richter to get into the sedan. She looked at him, the man she feared, squarely and maintained eye contact with him for a long moment. Johnny inferred by this that Richter must have led the men who had taken her, either from the empty apartment below or before that, maybe even before Johnny had texted her the code, maybe even minutes after Johnny had left.
Richter gestured toward the passenger seat in a gentlemanly manner. Haley broke her stare and climbed in. Bending at the waist, Richter spoke through the open door and across Haley to the ponytailed man.
“Take them straight to the safe house,” he said. “I’ll meet you there.”
Richter looked at Johnny but said nothing, simply nodded once, then straightened and closed the door.
The sedan pulled away. Johnny and Haley looked at each other silently. It was after they had traveled two blocks that Johnny turned his head slightly, as casually as he could, and with his peripheral vision determined that the white panel van was not behind them.
He looked forward then. The sedan was old — a “ditch” vehicle, he assumed, bought cheaply with the intention of being abandoned at some point in the near future. Maybe days from now, maybe hours. Maybe with the bodies of a man and woman — a man on the run and his tattooed girlfriend. The vehicle was so old, in fact, that the front seat was a bench seat, with no opening between the driver’s and passenger’s seats.
Johnny saw his advantage.
A quick glance at the center of the steering wheel yielded yet another.
This vehicle was not equipped with air bags — not for the driver and certainly not for the passenger.
But what other choice did Johnny have if he were to keep his promise to Haley?
He thought then of the accident that ended his career, but quickly pushed that out of his head.
He said to Haley, “Buckle up, sweetie.”
His manner was matter-of-fact, his voice calm and casual. But his body was tensing in that way it did in the seconds prior to violence.
Haley looked back at him. He simply nodded and repeated himself.
“Buckle up, please.”
The sedan was heading east, in the direction of the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway.
Johnny had only a few blocks in which to act.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“We don’t have a lot of time,” Morris said. He was quickly scanning the park’s perimeter. Smith, however, was looking directly at Jeremy and calmly lighting another cigarette.
Jeremy was surprised by this. Morris seemed more nervous about meeting in this public place than the undercover cop who had reportedly infiltrated Dickey McVicker’s organization and therefore had everything to lose should he be spotted in the company of a detective and the youngest son of the man — the lifelong friend — McVicker may have murdered.
But maybe it was just a matter of familiarity — Smith lived his life in constant danger, so meeting in a park at eleven o’clock on a weeknight perhaps was, well, a walk in the park. Jeremy knew that one could grow accustomed to danger. His father had done so, and now he was doing so. Or at least beginning to. Seeing what it took, seeing that he had it.
He met Smith’s steady stare.
“Listen,” Morris said, “I’ve got some bad news for you. Robert Sumner is dead.”
It took Jeremy a moment to process that. “How?”
“Apparent suicide.”
“Found dead in a motel outside of Boston,” Smith said.
“It’s still under investigation,” Morris corrected.
It was obvious, though, what he and Smith were implying.
Dickey McVicker had Robert Sumner murdered.
“When exactly was he killed?” Jeremy asked.
Morris answered, “The body was found a few days ago, but it wasn’t identified until yesterday.”
“Why did it take so long?”
“The room was paid in advance for a week, the Do Not Disturb sign was on the door, and the AC had been cranked up. It took a while before someone smelled it.”
“Wait. No one entered the room for a week? Not even housekeeping?”
“It was a cheap motel,” Smith said. “A favorite of adulterers. If there’s a Do Not Disturb sign on the door, the maid just moves on to the next one.”
“And whoever killed Sumner had taken his wallet, so there was no ID,” Morris added. “Sumner’s wife had filed a missing persons report days before, but it took almost twenty-four hours for the Boston police to make the connection.”
“Why?”
“No one expected a successful shrink to off himself in a fleabag motel,” Smith said with a shrug. He took a long drag on his cigarette.
Jeremy thought about all this, then said, “Does anyone know what he was doing there?”
“The wife said he’d been acting mysteriously for a few days,” Morris said. “Getting calls, being secretive, not sleeping well. She was concerned that something was up, that maybe he was cheating on her, so she eavesdropped on one of the calls. She got the impression that someone was trying to buy something from him. Something Sumner didn’t necessarily want to sell.”
It only took Jeremy a second. “The original recordings,” he said. “Of my sessions.”
Morris nodded. “That’s what we’re guessing. Maybe he didn’t want to sell them, or maybe he didn’t want to sell them cheaply.”
Smith jumped in. “Or maybe whoever wanted to buy them had something on him and was leaning on him to sell. Threatening him.”
Jeremy was getting a sense now for what kind of man Smith was. Confrontational, with a tendency to interrupt. Blunt to the point of being crude, maybe even taking pleasure in saying the worst. So, rude and, to a degree, sadistic — qualities, no doubt, that allowed him to survive within Dickey McVicker’s crew. Thrive, even.
Qualities, however, that Jeremy had never noticed in his father.
Jeremy wondered now if Morris’s nervousness actually stemmed from the fact that Smith was so obviously a loose cannon.
“Whatever was going down,” Morris continued, “either Sumner met the buyer at that motel or met the buyer somewhere else and was taken to this motel.”
“Do they know who rented the room?”
“The reservation was made over the phone. Since the occupant was going to be arriving late at night, the person making the reservation requested that the door be left unlocked with the key inside. Upon arrival, the occupant was supposed to drop an envelope of cash through the keyslot in the office door.”
“And the motel manager didn’t think that was strange?”
“Apparently he assumed it was just another married man being careful.”
“Any security cameras?”
“Would you cheat at a place that had security cameras?” Smith said.
Jeremy took another moment, then said, “So now what?”
“We need to know who else knew about you and this shrink,” Morris said.
And from Smith, who was all but speaking over the detective: “And we need to hear those fucking recordings.”
Jeremy addressed Morris first. “I’ve already told you who knows.”
“Your buddy Atkins.”
“Yes.”
“And no one else?”
“That’s right.”
“Not your sister or your brother?”
“I told you, I don’t talk to them. I don’t even think they talk to each other.”
“You didn’t tell a girlf
riend or anyone?”
Jeremy knew that, when under pressure, the truth was easier than a lie.
“I don’t have a girlfriend,” he said.
“So the only person you told was this buddy of yours from years ago who just happens to sell drugs these days on Dickey McVicker’s turf?”
“That’s right.”
Morris shook his head. “You’re either incredibly lucky, Jeremy, or incredibly smart.”
“Or incredibly dumb,” Smith said.
Jeremy looked at him but said nothing.
“It seems quite possible right now,” Morris said, “that your copies of those recordings might be the only ones left.”
Again, Smith was abrupt and hostile. “We need to hear them.”
“Do you have the disc on you?” Morris asked. He was clearly trying to be the diplomatic one.
“No,” Jeremy said.
“Why not?”
“One reason is that I’m not an idiot. Another reason is that it’s not currently in my possession.”
“What does that mean?”
Jeremy explained the condition of his computer, as well as what he did with his only other copy.
Smith was annoyed by this. “Why mail it to yourself?” he said. “You had digital copies on your computer. Why not just upload them to some secure storage site online?”
“Online accounts can be hacked,” Jeremy said flatly. “And the passwords to them can be…well, let’s say, obtained. I needed something better than that. A good, old-fashioned, physical copy kept in a safe place — in this case, a rented post office box in an office supply shop in midtown, with surveillance cameras watching both the shop’s entrance and the boxes — seemed the way the go.”
Morris seemed reasonably impressed. “Whoever shows up with the key gets his face on videotape.” He nodded. “Well done, kid.”
Jeremy couldn’t help it; Morris’s recognition sent a current rushing through him.
“I don’t suppose you have the key on you?” Morris said.
“No.”
“So where is it?” Smith demanded.
Jeremy looked at him. “Out of town.”
“Can you get it?” Morris asked.
Jeremy thought of the unanswered text messages he’d sent to Elizabeth earlier.
Despite that, he looked at Morris and said, “Sure.”
His tone, however, implied, But will I?
Morris caught this, looked around once more, quickly, then took a step toward Jeremy. He said in an even voice, “That Russian, there’s no doubt in my mind, Jeremy, he works for Dickey McVicker. Follow the line of succession. You told Atkins about the therapist, Atkins told McVicker, and McVicker sent someone — maybe that Russian, maybe someone else — to Boston to get the master copies from Sumner, then kill him. And last night that Russian followed you from your place to the Lower East Side, where he tried to kill you. You know what that adds up to, right? McVicker tried to have you killed. I need you to see that you’re in over your head, kid. One person is dead, you almost got killed, and God knows who’s next. If those recordings are what you say they are — if they implicate McVicker in any way in your father’s murder — then you need to hand them over to me. Do you understand? You came to me, remember? You said I was probably the only person you could trust. I need to see some of that trust now. I need the box number and I need the key. And I need them tonight.”
“Tonight won’t work. The store’s closed.”
“We’ll find out who runs the place and get them to open it up. But time is running out, Jeremy. You need to decide whether or not you trust me. Whether or not you trust us. You need to do it now, before someone else gets killed.”
It was now Jeremy who took a look around the park.
“I can’t let you know who has the key,” he said finally. “I’ll have to get it for you.”
“You said it’s out of town. How long would it take you?”
“Three hours, maybe less.”
Neither Smith nor Morris said anything, but it was obvious they were disappointed by Jeremy’s answer.
“Sorry, this is the way it has to be,” Jeremy said. “And it’s not negotiable. I’ll get the key and we’ll meet at the store.”
“What’s the address?”
“I’ll let you know that when I call.” Before either man could protest, Jeremy said, “It’s not far. It won’t take long to get there.”
“We need to track down the owner,” Smith pointed out. “That takes time.”
“This is the way it has to be,” Jeremy said.
“Three hours, then you’ll call,” Morris confirmed.
Jeremy nodded. “More or less.”
“Keep your phone on this time,” Smith ordered.
“I will.”
Morris looked at Jeremy for a moment. It seemed to Jeremy that the detective was sizing him up, even looking at him as if for the first time.
Maybe seeing him in a whole new way.
Maybe even thinking, The kid’s a Coyle after all.
“Call if you have any problems,” Morris said. “Actually, check in with me every hour. Okay? Can you do that?”
“Yeah. No problem.”
Smith was the first to depart. Exiting the park, he headed east and disappeared quickly. Morris looked at Jeremy for another moment, then extended his hand. Jeremy took it, and they shook. Then Jeremy broke away and headed south. He didn’t bother looking back to see which way Morris went. He had other things on his mind now.
He knew he needed to find a cab. He knew, too, that he wasn’t likely to flag one down in this part of Brooklyn. He would have to call for a car service, one whose driver would be willing to take him all the way up to Chappaqua. He had considered this contingency during his planning, knew it was possible that it could be raining when the time came and he couldn’t take the bike, or that a time constraint would make taking a train ride up and back impossible. He had, then, searched for and found a company whose drivers would be willing to make the trip to Chappaqua, day or night — for a price, of course. That company’s phone number, however, had been programmed into his old phone, so it was lost. Though he didn’t remember the number offhand — a flaw in his otherwise careful planning — he did remember the company’s name and could easily get its number through information.
But he had to call Elizabeth first, had to get her to answer. Then he had to get her to agree to meet him and give him the only key.
So he was distracted as he walked down Bedford Avenue. Distracted by his racing thoughts, the act of manually entering the number to Elizabeth’s landline, and the feeling of purpose rushing through him.
Too distracted by all this to look where he was going for a few precious moments.
Too distracted to notice the man approaching on what was obviously an intercept course.
By the time Jeremy became aware of his surroundings — aware that someone was approaching him from the right, and that he had just now so completely fucked everything up — the Russian ran into him full force.
It was like getting hit by a train.
The collision sent Jeremy airborne, the phone flying from his hand.
He had no memory of landing on the hard pavement. He had no memory of being lifted again and carried. In fact, the next thing he knew was that he was in the back of some vehicle, a delivery truck or box van. He was on his back on the hard metal floor and someone was somewhere nearby.
It was the Russian, seated on a metal toolbox.
And the vehicle was in motion.
When the Russian saw that his captive was awake and looking up at him, he lunged out and struck his captive in the face.
To Jeremy that fist felt like the hard end of a large club.
He felt pain. But he’d felt that before, had been in plenty of fights. What was new to him was the rush of wild, terrible fear.
The price of clarity.
He thought quickly of the night his father was taken — the fear he himself had felt as he watched
the man be taken away, and the fear he imagined his father must have felt as he was taken and for the three hours prior to being killed.
A just thing, perhaps, Jeremy thought, that I experience what I caused three years ago.
But this thought proved fleeting. The Russian must have seen that Jeremy was conscious — conscious enough to be thinking, at least — because he clubbed him again, then once more. Jeremy’s head bounced off the metal floor with both blows, and he was on the verge of losing consciousness when the Russian spoke.
What he said Jeremy didn’t at first understand.
And to whom he was speaking wasn’t at all clear.
But then the words, barely louder than a faint echo, reached Jeremy and somehow registered.
“Hand me one of your smokes,” the Russian had said to the driver.
The speeding vehicle hit a bump in the road, or maybe a pothole. Whatever it was, the jolt was enough to heave Jeremy off the floor. He was airborne, weightless for a second or two, and then gravity reclaimed him with a vengeance and he was pulled back down.
He landed hard and lost consciousness.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The front door to the Halls’ home was ajar by less than an inch.
Cat wasn’t far from the end of the pathway leading to the house when she noticed this. She paused immediately and hoped that it meant Elizabeth Hall was at this moment on her way out with the key to Jeremy’s mailbox. She listened closely but heard nothing, nor did she sense any motion from inside the home.
After a moment the silence and stillness struck her as odd. Another moment more and it seemed a clear indication that something was wrong. Very wrong. Finally, Cat continued toward the door. When she reached it, she peered through the narrow opening.
All she saw at first was an empty and dimly lit foyer. The ornate light mounted on the ceiling directly above the door was off, but enough light was spilling in from an adjoining room for Cat to make out the bloodstain on the floor.
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