by Andrew Gross
She knew she should go. She could meet up with everyone there. Hell, she was thirty-five and had been working in kitchens for ten years. Pretty, funny, now divorced. She’d made a clean break. Now it all just seemed about two people who ended up headed in different ways.
Jose, the dishwasher, was tying up the garbage, hanging the last of the pots and pans.
“Go on home,” she told him. Jose had a wife and kids and went to church early in the morning.
“I finish, ma’am,” he said, picking up the broom.
“Nah,” Annie said, getting up. “I’ll close. Here…” She handed him the tray of the last of the crespelles. “Para los niños. Go on.”
Jose took the tray and smiled. “Gracias, Miss Annie.”
He left through the back door. Annie heard the rattling sound of Jose’s Nissan as it clunked away. Still in her whites, she got up and hung a few last pots, made a note about the specials for Monday, and picked up the last two bags of trash.
One hundred and twenty meals.
It still felt as if she was carrying most of them!
She pushed open the back door and headed out to the Dumpster. The cool night air hit her face and felt good. A single light illuminated the back. In this part of town, at night, even on a Saturday, there were no cars, no one on the streets. Just closed-up warehouses and the sound of the thruway overhead.
Something Annie saw made her stop.
A car was idling next to the Dumpster. The passenger door was open. She heard voices. In Spanish. A kid in a hooded sweatshirt and a red bandana lobbed a large black trash bag over the rim.
She stepped back into the shadows.
The kid turned to get back into the car; then his eyes fell on her.
A chill ran down her spine. There was something cold, almost spooky in the way he looked at her—not even startled to see her standing there. The driver revved the engine. A rust-colored Jetta. Some kind of marking on the trunk.
Don’t let him see you. Get the hell out of here, the tremor said.
With an indifferent nod, the kid in the bandana stared at her for what seemed forever. Then he jumped back in the car.
With a jolt, it took off onto the street and sped onto Atlantic, which led into the ramp and onto the highway. Annie saw the kid turn one last time and give her a long look through the car’s rear window. It was a look she had seen only in films—dull, fixed, implacable. Like in Blood Diamond or Hotel Rwanda. The smirk of someone capable of hacking bodies apart or shooting up people, yet no more than a boy.
Like he was saying, Lady, I know where to find you. I know who you are.
Annie let what seemed a full minute pass to make sure the Jetta wasn’t coming back. Then she went over to the Dumpster.
She knew she shouldn’t do it. Just toss in the bags. Don’t get involved. Monday morning, the cartage company would come. Whatever was in it, no one would ever know.
You have a son. Everything’s just starting to turn for you. Go home. Go to Café Mirage. Get drunk. Write Jared.
Instead, she reached over the side and pulled out the heavy, bound bag. She undid the tape. It was crammed full with newspapers and cartons. Used food containers. Slop.
Then she felt the black metallic shape at the bottom of the bag.
Put it back, a voice said. She knew she had just stepped into something.
She was staring at an automatic gun.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
You don’t have to do this, she said to herself. Things are just starting to turn for you. For Jared.
You don’t have to get involved…
It was later, in the small one-bedroom apartment Annie rented on the point neighboring Cos Cob, with a glimpse of the sound. A few French liquor posters hung on the walls. Her favorite majolica pitchers were arranged on the kitchen shelves.
Basically all the possessions she had brought east with her.
Two glasses of wine hadn’t made much more sense of it for her.
Annie sat in her flannel pj’s writing a good-night e-mail to Jared. He always checked in before going to sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Ty…” Vern Fitzpatrick’s voice crackled over the office intercom around nine the next morning. “Can I get you to come on up here?”
Hauck was at his desk by seven. During the night, the crime scene team had scoured the truck. They picked up a set of sneaker imprints on the driver’s-side floor mat, which they tried to match to Victor’s. They also found a partial print on the newspaper article. Both weren’t panning out.
Worse, Victor’s alibi checked out—completely. Artie Ewell had located the girl he claimed to have spent the night with. She confirmed his story that Victor had been with her until almost ten that morning, about the time the shooting had taken place.
On top of that, two people from her building recalled seeing him heading out around that time as well.
“I’ll be right up,” Hauck said to Vern, reaching for his jacket.
He was just processing the paperwork now to let the kid go.
His cell phone rang. A number he didn’t recognize.
“Ty…”
Hauck was surprised to hear his brother’s voice. “Warren…”
“Christ, Ty, I called as soon as I heard. Ginny called me. I’m up in Hartford. Jesus, are you alright?”
Warren was two years older. He’d built a tidy law practice for himself up near Hartford, gotten cozy with a bunch of the movers and shakers up there. Built the big house for himself and Ginny. Kids in some fancy school. He never seemed to have much time for anyone, even getting the cousins together. It had been that way for years. Hauck couldn’t even remember what had drawn them apart.
“Yeah, Warren, I’m alright.”
“What about Jessie?” Warren asked. “I heard she was there too.”
“She’s okay as well. Just a little shocked. She’s back in Brooklyn with her mom.”
“Can’t exactly blame her, can you? This is fucking crazy, Ty! Right there in town…What kind of riffraff are you letting through there these days, anyway? The TV’s saying it’s revenge?”
“I don’t know,” Hauck said. “Maybe.”
“That you got someone in the pen?”
“I can’t exactly talk about that right now. You looking for a gig, Warren?”
His brother chuckled. “Not exactly my clientele, little brother.”
Hauck’s thoughts went to the hundreds of times he’d wondered why they were no longer close. Growing up, they had shared a room until Hauck was ten. Fought over who rode “shotgun” in the family car, dibs on the bathroom. Like a lot of brothers, they were always challenging each other. On the court. For friends. Always rivals.
“When I heard…” Warren said tightly, seemingly unable to finish. “You know I rely on you, Ty. Anyway, where the hell else am I gonna turn to get my clients’ kids out of those traffic tickets, right?”
“Yeah, I figure you owe at least the kitchen in that house of yours to me,” Hauck said, laughing.
“At least.” His brother paused. “You know, we ought to get together, Ty. It’s been way too long. What are your plans for Thanksgiving? You could come up.”
“That might work,” Hauck said, taken by surprise. “Lemme see.”
“You could bring Jessie. The cousins could get together. We haven’t done that in a while.”
“No, we haven’t. Sounds good, Warren. But maybe just me.”
“Whatever. Sounds like a plan.”
There was a knock on the glass. Brenda, tapping her watch, pointing upstairs. “Listen, Warren, I gotta scoot…”
“Go ahead. I just wanted to hear your voice. Let you know I was thinking of you. You nail these bastards, huh, bro? And hey—Thanksgiving, right?”
“Thanksgiving,” Hauck agreed. “And, Warren…” He wished he could think of something more meaningful to say. “Thanks for the call, guy.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Hauck knocked on the door of the chief’s office, a
t the end of a long hall lined with portraits of past chiefs, overlooking Mason Street.
What he found wasn’t a surprise.
“Come on in, Ty…”
Fitzpatrick rose, dressed in a V-neck sweater and a plaid shirt. Seated across from him were two men, one balding, ruddy complexioned, in a navy sport jacket and open shirt. The other was black, stocky, in uniform: tan suit, crisp dress shirt, club tie. Even on Sunday.
“Ty, I want you to meet Jim Sculley…” The balding man stood up and put out his hand. “And Stan Taylor. They’re from—”
“I’m pretty sure I know where special agents Sculley and Taylor are from,” Hauck replied. For a year after 9/11, he had been an NYPD liaison officer to the FBI.
“Right.” Vern exhaled, motioning to Hauck to sit down. “They’re out of the Hartford office.”
“Sorry you all have to come all the way down here on a Sunday morning…” Hauck reached across and shook hands.
Sculley, the agent in charge, shrugged. “You know the job. I saw how you handled that Grand Central bombing,” he said admiringly. “Great work. How’s that neck doing?”
“Holding up.” Hauck shrugged. He touched it, feigning surprise. “Still attached.”
Vern sat back down and looked at Hauck. “I was just bringing everyone up-to-date.”
“This person of interest,” Taylor, the preppy black one, chimed in, “we understand he didn’t pan out?”
“His alibi completely checks,” Hauck said. “He’s got no priors. There’s nothing to tie him to it other than a few random threats that he made three months ago after his sister’s death. And he’s not the person I saw with the gun.”
“Still,” Taylor questioned, “you’re pretty sure this adds up to a gang-related shooting?”
“I’m pretty sure it adds up to a revenge-related shooting. You got a better idea?”
“Only that when a federal prosecutor is gunned down, it might at least seem prudent to knock over every possible angle. The personal backgrounds of everyone involved. Their contacts, case loads…”
“Then you might as well start with me.” Hauck looked back at him. “I was there too.”
“What Special Agent Taylor is suggesting,” Sculley said, a hand on his colleague’s arm, “is totally customary in the case of a federal investigator who’s been killed. I’m sure you’d do no less here. We’re only down here to offer our support…”
Hauck knew that when the FBI offered their “support,” it generally meant that his case files were being requested as they spoke and that a room full of eager recruits down in Washington would soon be pouring over them. And that things continued to remain an entirely local matter as long as nothing was happening that might advance anyone’s career, but as soon as a possible suspect was in custody, everything quickly became joint, with someone with a federal seal on the podium leading the press conferences.
“I think you realize better than anyone, Lieutenant,” AC Sculley said, rubbing a small Band-Aid on his temple, “that there are a lot of important interests at play in a town like this who would have a keen desire to see this incident managed in the quickest and most thorough way—”
“If by interests,” Hauck said, nodding, “you mean a wife whose husband was murdered going out to fill up his tank, or two young kids who’ve just lost their father, I’m with you one hundred percent. The rest—” He shrugged, rubbing the back of his head. “Why don’t we just see how they play out as we go along?”
Hauck looked at Vern, sensing what was going on. A brazen act of violence. A rising star in the Justice Department killed. The press all over it. This was Greenwich. Behind those high stone gates and redbrick office complexes, the cogs of influence were turning. The governor himself had probably already called in.
“All we’re suggesting, Lieutenant,” Agent Sculley said, “is that we have a Gang Violence Task Force, C-12, a phone call away. Our lab guys could be all over that pickup within the day…”
“So far, what we have is a homicide,” Hauck said, his tone declining.
“In which the victim was a government prosecutor,” Stan Taylor chimed in.
“No worries, Lieutenant.” AC Sculley smiled at him, rubbing his sore. “It’s your case.”
“This thing has everyone pretty well riled up, Ty,” Fitzpatrick said. “All I promised was that you were the type of guy who would do whatever he could to see this solved.”
“We can probably use all the help we can get,” Hauck said, meeting their eyes.
There was a rap against the door. Freddy Munoz stuck in his head.
“Sorry to interrupt, Chief…Lieutenant…” His gaze fell on Hauck. “When you’re done there’s someone you need to speak with downstairs. Something’s come up.”
“We were just finishing,” Hauck said. He stood up, said to Taylor, “You’ll let me know whatever you need. I’m sure we’ll be in touch.”
“I’ll be sure to do that, Lieutenant.”
In the hallway, he patted Munoz on the back. “Thanks for bailing me out. I owe you one, Freddy.”
“Hey, I wasn’t kidding, Lieutenant,” his detective said. “There’s someone down there you need to talk to now.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
She was sitting on the bench outside the squad room, a gray cowl-neck sweater underneath a short leather jacket over jeans, her hands cupping a mug of coffee.
“This is Lieutenant Hauck,” Munoz said. “This is Ms. Fletcher. I want you to tell him just what you told me.”
“Annie…” She nodded, standing up. Hauck shook her hand. She was pretty, maybe around five-four, with dark, round eyes. Her black hair was clipped up in a barrette, loose strands curling along the sides.
Hauck led her back into his office. “Why don’t we talk in here?”
He cleared a spot on his long Formica desk, which was piled with papers, a photo of Jessie and Norah, and his yawl. A large glass window partitioned them off from the busy squad room.
Hauck pulled out a chair. “You want some more coffee?”
She shook her head. “I’m fine. I’ve never been inside an important police detective’s office before.”
Hauck smiled. “Neither have I.”
Munoz leaned against the glass. “Just tell the lieutenant what you told me…”
“I have a restaurant.” Annie Fletcher hesitated slightly. She pushed the hair out of her eyes. “In Stamford. Just off I-95, near exit eight. Annie’s Backstreet. We’ve been open about a year…”
“Tell the lieutenant about last night,” Munoz redirected her.
“Sorry…” Annie smiled, contrite. “Don’t ever ask me to tell a joke. I never get to the punch line…”
Hauck smiled too.
“It was a little after eleven. We’d just finished up. I let my dishwasher go home and I was just taking out the last of the trash. I think I saw them, Lieutenant…”
“Saw who?”
“The ones who did that awful thing yesterday. Who shot up that place…I saw the piece on what happened. Everyone did. I saw you on the news. I know you’re looking for whoever did this…”
Hauck pulled a chair around and sat across from her. “What exactly did you see?”
“A car pulled up in back of my place where the Dumpster’s located when I went to take out the trash…”
“Go on…”
“I saw these two guys. Heard them talking. One was behind the wheel and the other was outside and had tossed something into the Dumpster—a black plastic trash bag…”
“Did you get a look at them?”
Annie Fletcher nodded. “Hispanic, sort of young, maybe early twenties…The one who tossed something in the Dumpster might even have been in his teens. It was dark. But not so dark that I didn’t see just how he looked at me, Lieutenant. Sent chills up my spine. He wore something around his head. Saw the news. That’s what made me think at first. A red bandana…”
Hauck gave Munoz a look, a surge of optimism jolting through him. “You s
aid you overheard them talking?”
“Sort of. The guy driving just said to the kid, ‘Let’s get out of here, now…’ The car was a tricked-out old Jetta or something. Sort of rust colored. My ex-husband was deep into cars. It was parked directly in the light. I wished I could’ve picked up the plates—I mean, I wasn’t really looking at them. It was dark; I was a little scared. I was pissed off at myself that I had let everyone else go home. I didn’t put it all together right then…”
“I understand,” Hauck said.
“But there was something about the car I do recall. Some kind of marking on the trunk in back. A kind of cross…”
“Cross?”
“Not a religious cross. Sort of blue and red slashes…” She held her hands apart. “Maybe six inches…”
“That’s DR-17, Lieutenant.” Munoz met Hauck’s eyes. “Dominican colors.”
“DR-17?”
“It’s nothing.” Hauck tried to put her at ease. “Just something that fits into the case…”
“It’s some kind of street gang, isn’t it?” Annie Fletcher looked up anxiously. “The news said this was a revenge attack. That you’ve been bringing in people from a gang.”
“We’re looking at a lot of possibilities, Ms. Fletcher…,” Hauck said.
“So what am I supposed to do, just go back about my business? Pretend that it’s not?” There was a troubled look in her eyes.
Hauck shrugged and leaned a little closer. “Yes, it’s a gang, Ms. Fletcher. Out of Bridgeport, but—”
“Jesus…” Annie Fletcher shook her head and blew out a breath from her cheeks. “You know, I asked myself whether I should even come here…I was just minding my own goddamn business. You hear stories of people who come forward. I’m not a coward, Lieutenant. I wanted to do the right thing. I saw the picture of that poor man who got killed. I just don’t exactly need this kind of thing right now…”
“No one actually plans these things, Ms. Fletcher…”
“No, but this person I saw…I mean, I’m the one who saw the sonovabitch’s face. He wasn’t even hiding it. He just sort glared at me with this smug, self-assured smile. It was like, ‘Just stay out and mind your own business, lady…’ Nothing more. Like he knew I wouldn’t do anything. So what happens now? What happens to me if this goes anywhere, Lieutenant? I have to come forward. I have to testify…”
