Dust Up: A Thriller

by Jon McGoran

  “There is, Your Honor.”

  She waved her fingers. “Let’s have it.”

  As he opened his computer, Schultzman explained that his client had come into possession of previously undiscovered security video.

  Greenberg cocked an eyebrow. “How did this come into your possession?”

  Schultzman said, “An anonymous tip, Your Honor. And then data recovery to retrieve it.”

  Her eyebrow retained its position. “Better be good.”

  Schultzman clicked Play.

  By the end of it, Greenberg’s eyebrows had relaxed. Suarez and Myerson were scowling at Warren.

  “Pretty compelling stuff,” Greenberg said. She turned to Warren. “Do you have anything to say, Detective Warren?”

  “The defendant’s fingerprints are on the murder weapon, which was found on the premises of her home.”

  She nodded. “That’s a good point too. Mr. Schultzman?”

  “Your Honor, the video clearly shows the murder and the murderers.”

  “But if her fingerprints are on the murder weapon, she could be an accessory, couldn’t she?”

  Schultzman seemed momentarily taken aback that the video was not the slam dunk he had anticipated. I think he was more a paperwork kind of lawyer than a trial lawyer.

  I cleared my throat. “Um … Your Honor?”

  She looked down the table at me. “Who are you?”

  “Detective Doyle Carrick, Your Honor.”

  Suarez leaned forward. “Detective Carrick is not officially involved this case, Your Honor. The murder occurred on his front steps.”

  “Do you have something to add, Detective Carrick?”

  “Yes, just a question for Detective Warren, because I was wondering about the fingerprints too.”

  Warren’s eyes burned as he looked at me.

  Greenberg paused for a moment and then said, “What’s your question?”

  “Miriam Hartwell had no arrest record, so I was wondering where you got the prints to compare to the murder weapon?”

  His eye twitched. “Energene had them on file.”

  I nodded, trying to keep my face as blank and non-gloating as possible. When I was at Energene’s offices, they used a palm scanner to access the corporate suite. “The men in the video, the killers, work in the security department at Energene Corporation, where Ron and Miriam Hartwell both worked.”

  “And?” Greenberg asked.

  I had been hoping Warren would say it himself, but the way his jaw was clenched, I think his skull would have shattered if he tried to speak.

  “They use palm scanners at their corporate offices. If they had Miriam Hartwell’s fingerprints on file, they could have easily added them to the weapon and planted it.” I shrugged. “Frankly, it seemed odd to me that Miriam Hartwell would have returned to stash the murder weapon on the premises of her own home without stopping in to take any of her personal belongings, prescription medication, or cash before fleeing.”

  Greenberg swung her head toward Warren, both eyebrows raised.

  He sat there grinding his teeth.

  Greenberg gave him a generous ten count, then turned to Miriam. “Okay. Ms. Hartwell, on behalf of the City of Philadelphia, I apologize for any inconvenience. The bailiff will take you for processing, and then you’ll be free to go.” She turned to Warren. “Detective Warren, if more evidence comes to light implicating Ms. Hartwell, I’d be happy to consider it, but as of now, the charges are dismissed.”

  92

  The judge left through one door, followed a moment later by Miriam, who was in a daze, being led by the bailiff. Schultzman and Mikel excused themselves and left the same way they had come in.

  Then it was just us cops.

  “Hey, guys,” I said with a big smile.

  “Fuck you, Carrick,” Warren said, his face caught between a scowl and a pout. “You ain’t out of the woods yet, either. You still owe me that case file you took home with you. And you’d better not have lost it.”

  “He’s right, Carrick,” Suarez added, standing. “Let’s go get it right now. You’re on thin ice, and that’s mighty close to obstruction of justice. Keep pushing it, and you’re bounced.”

  Myerson looked at his feet.

  “Oh, that’s right,” I said. “I forgot—you needed the case file back so you could hand it over to the actual murderers.”

  That shut them up. All of them. I kind of liked that, but the silence was getting awkward.

  “Hey, I have an idea,” I said, just to break the tension. “Instead of giving the murderers the case files, why don’t we arrest them? You know, since they’re the actual murderers and all.”

  The three of them stared at me with three different iterations of hatred. I didn’t actually care. Fuck ’em. I couldn’t believe that these idiots had come so close to such a big screw-up, and they were sitting there trying to tell me I was in trouble.

  Almost on a lark, I took out my phone and called Energene, dialed zero, and asked to speak to Bryant at the front desk.

  It was Sunday night, so I didn’t expect him to be there, but he was. “Front desk. Bryant speaking.” I wondered if they ever let him go home.

  “Hi, Mr. Bryant. This is Detective Doyle Carrick from the Philly PD. I was there a few days ago.”

  “Certainly, Detective. How can I help you?”

  “Thanks, Mr. Bryant. I don’t know if you remember, but I was in there speaking with Tom Royce, helping him with a possible corporate espionage investigation. I may have some information that he would find very interesting. I know he’s been out of the country, but I was wondering if you could tell me when you expected him back.”

  “Sure thing, Detective. He and Mr. Divock are due back this evening. Mr. Royce asked me to stay late for a quick security briefing at seven o’clock. But then they’re not due to be in the office for some time after that.”

  I thanked him and got off the phone, then looked at the others. “Royce and Divock are due back at the office for a meeting at seven o’clock tonight.”

  They stared back at me blankly, like none of them had an idea what they should do next. I turned to Warren, since he didn’t outrank me and technically this was still his case. “Maybe you could call the airlines and see if any of the flights from Haiti have Divock and Royce booked as passengers.”

  He did, and they did. Ten minutes later, we were driving to the airport. I rode with Suarez. We didn’t talk much, but we had fun just being together. Warren and Myerson drove alone in separate cars.

  Once we got there, the three of them stood away from me, talking in hushed tones. That was okay. I had no desire to talk with any of them.

  Royce and Divock were on an American Airlines flight from Port-au-Prince. We got to the gate just in time to meet them. Suarez had begrudgingly allowed me to be there for the bust—he couldn’t say no after I had cracked the case—but only on the condition that immediately afterward I had to get the case file for Warren.

  Royce and Divock were among the first ones off the plane. First class. Pricks.

  Royce saw me first. His eyes narrowed and his face grew redder. For an instant, he looked around like a trapped animal, then he seemed to accept the situation and tried to regain his cool. Divock didn’t notice a thing until Warren was holding up his badge in front of their faces, reading the charges—they were under arrest for the murder of Ron Hartwell—and their Miranda rights.

  The other passengers streamed past around them, looking furtively at the commotion and then moving along quickly before any of the trouble rubbed off on them.

  Royce stared at my face the whole time, like he was studying it, remembering it, like I should be scared he was going to come after me.

  Other than that, they went quietly. Anticlimactically. Maybe even disappointingly.

  Yes, it was a victory, and I was glad to see them both arrested, but Mikel was right: they were just assholes for hire, doing what they were told. I wanted the assholes who were giving the orders, assholes
like Bourden and Pearce. It wasn’t over yet, but I wasn’t expecting that they would pay for their crimes the same way their employees would.

  By the time we left the airport, it was almost dark again. I’d been awake for a long, long time, but it felt right that it was nighttime again, like the daylight had been some kind of illusion.

  I drove with Suarez back to the station. My work was done, even if it didn’t feel like it. I was exhausted. I was dying to get home and be with Nola—and Suarez was dying to get that case file back—but I also wanted to see Royce and Divock booked. Suarez bitched—“Come on, Carrick, you’ve seen that shit a million times. You think it’s going to be different somehow this time?”—but I insisted.

  Suarez looked at his watch, then he put a finger in my face. “Okay. You see them booked, then we get the case file, or I will fucking arrest you.”

  I don’t know why it seemed so important. Maybe I was hoping it would make the whole thing feel more satisfying.

  It didn’t. It was the same boring procedure as every time I had done it myself. The same crappy room, the sickly fluorescent light. It was even worse because I was sitting there with Lieutenant Suarez.

  My phone buzzed, and I looked at it. Mikel. Definitely not the time to be talking to him.

  I was surprised to see Lieutenant Myerson processing Royce and Divock, instead of Warren. Maybe they didn’t trust him not to screw it up.

  Myerson looked surprised to see me too. He looked at Suarez, and they exchanged a shrug.

  I don’t know if Royce and Divock were surprised to see me there. They seemed sullen and detached, already gone to whatever neutral mental place would allow them to endure.

  Myerson finished processing Royce and Divock, and he led them away. Suarez immediately looked at his watch and stood up. “Okay, come on, Carrick, let’s go.”

  “In a minute,” I said.

  “No,” he said. “Now. It’s been a long fucking day. You’ve been jerking me around for hours. I’m driving you to your house, and you’re going to give me that case file—now. Or I’m locking you up.” He took a deep breath. “Jesus, don’t you want to go home?”

  I did want to go home. But I looked at him, studied him. He looked at his watch again. He wasn’t just antsy. He was worried. “Come on, goddammit. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  And then I knew something was up.

  I sat there, unmoving, and he reached down to grab my arm. I don’t know if he would have actually laid a hand on me, because just then, the door to the hallway opened, and Mike Warren walked in with a prisoner in handcuffs.

  Miriam Hartwell.

  93

  “Doyle!” she cried out when she saw me. Her face looked as crushed and terrified as it had back in Everglades City, when Axe-Man showed up to kill her.

  Warren saw me, and he looked at Suarez. “What the fuck? You said you’d have the file by now.”

  “Just get on with it,” Suarez snapped. Then he turned to me. “And you, come on. No more bullshit. We’re going to get that case file, or you’re getting locked up too.”

  “What the hell is going on?” I demanded.

  “They arrested me again,” Miriam called over her shoulder as Warren steered her away from me. “After they let me go, they rearrested me for flight from prosecution and resisting arrest.”

  I turned to Suarez. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. She’s innocent!”

  “Not of that, she ain’t,” Warren said with a smile. “Sorry, Carrick. You might have been right about Royce and Divock, but I’m right about this.”

  “You’ll never make it stick. No judge in the city will uphold this.”

  Warren looked at me, one eyebrow twitching, one corner of his mouth curled up. He knew he wasn’t going to get a conviction. He just wanted her in a jail for a few days or a few weeks while she waited for her dismissal. He just wanted her to suffer, wanted me to suffer. Because we’d made him look bad.

  “Come on,” Suarez said, resting his hand on my arm, almost like he was consoling me, almost like he was admitting how fucked up this was. “We need to go get the case file.”

  I jerked my arm away from him. “Bullshit. You can’t be serious.”

  “You know what? Fuck you,” he said. “Yes, I’m serious. This is Warren’s case, Warren’s bust, Warren’s decision. It’s not up to you or me. It’s not your case file, and it’s not your decision what Warren does with it or what every other cop on the force does when you’re not around. It’s not about you, Carrick. So I mean it—we’re going to get the case file right now, or you’re under arrest for obstruction of justice. And if there’s anything missing from that file, I swear to God, I will personally drop-kick you off the force.”

  I wanted to hit him. I wanted to punch him right in the face. I think he would have been fine with that. It would have saved him a lot of trouble.

  Instead, I turned to Miriam and said, “Don’t worry. This is bullshit. I’ll get you out, okay?”

  She nodded bravely, trying to keep it together.

  Then I turned to Suarez and said, “Okay, let’s go.”

  Suarez was fuming as we drove, his hands squeezing the steering wheel. Maybe I was giving him too much credit, but I think he was as angry at the situation he’d been forced into as he was at me for the usual reasons.

  I texted Mikel, “Miriam rearrested. Flight from prosecution. Can you send Schultzman?”

  “r u kidding?”

  “I wish.”

  I could see Suarez’s eyes drifting over, trying to see what I was texting.

  A few seconds later, Mikel texted back. “He’s on his way. Have you thought about my offer?”

  I didn’t reply.

  * * *

  Nola didn’t look up when I first walked in. I was surprised, but I was happy to have a moment to take in the sight. She was sitting on the sofa with her feet on the coffee table and her computer on her lap. She looked great. There was a fire crackling in the fireplace across from her—a little early in the season, but it was cold and wet out there. The room was filled with a golden glow that seemed to be emanating from her as much as from anywhere else.

  Then I noticed her expression, staring intently at her computer, her face showing a strange combination of emotions.

  “Mikel did it,” she said, distracted, still not looking up. “He sent it all out there—Ron’s files, the recording, all of it.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Stoma and Energene are declining comment, but at this moment, shit is hitting the fan.” She angled the computer so I could see the screen as I sat down next to her. “Interpol is seeking Bourden and Pearce for questioning. Opposition leaders in half a dozen governments are calling for internal investigations. Trade groups in Southeast Asia and Central Africa are calling for new votes on authorizations of Soyagene and Early Rise. Even Stoma-Grow.”

  I scrolled down the page. It was big. In addition to all the legal and political repercussions, it looked like shares of Stoma and Energene had both taken a substantial hit.

  She looked up at me, smiling wide. “You kind of did it,” she said, coming in for a hug, her face buried against my neck. “And now you’re home.”

  I squeezed her, too, but she pulled back and looked up at me, sensing something was wrong.

  “What’s the matter?” she said. “This is good news, right? Are you okay? Is Miriam okay?”

  I let out a short, bitter laugh. “I’m here for the case file,” I told her. “Suarez is waiting for it outside. They need it ASAP because they rearrested Miriam. They’re booking her for flight from prosecution.”

  Her smile remained for a moment, like she assumed it was a joke. “They can’t do that.” But I guess she could see from my expression that they could. “What are you going to do?”

  I didn’t know. Massive crimes against humanity were going on right under their noses—epic injustices, evil douchebags sickening thousands in order to make billions, wholesale murder—and Su
arez, Warren, Myerson, they didn’t even want to know. All they cared about were the rules, the turf, saving face, and looking good while doing a half-assed job.

  Arresting an innocent woman for fleeing a half-assed prosecution for a crime she hadn’t committed was exactly the kind of petty bullshit bust they excelled at.

  “I don’t know if I can do this anymore,” I said. “Being a cop, I mean. The bullshit’s getting pretty deep.”

  We hadn’t talked about Mikel’s offer, but we both knew it was there.

  “He called,” she said. “Mikel. He said he’d been trying to reach you.”

  I nodded.

  She reached up and touched my face. “You know I’m behind you whatever you do.”

  I nodded. “Thanks.”

  The case file was on the coffee table. She watched me as I opened it and started leafing through the pages, hoping something would come to mind.

  Outside, Suarez started honking his horn.

  Nola put her hand on my knee. “What are you going to do?”

  I didn’t have a whole lot of choice. I had to hand it over. Suarez had said he’d arrest me if I didn’t, and I believed him. He’d make it stick, too.

  He was leaning on his horn.

  Looking down, I realized I’d made two piles. The larger pile, the bulk of the pages, were the documents central to Mike Warren’s misguided murder investigation: forensics reports, ballistics, photos, witness statements. The smaller pile was just three pages.

  My report about meeting with Miriam at the Liberty Motel, Warren’s notes about how it proved she was fleeing prosecution. That was the only proof they had that she had fled knowing she was wanted for murder.

  As I put the rest of the file back into the folder, Suarez started banging on the door—bang, bang, bang. Nola jumped, and so did I. The last time someone banged on our door like that it was Ron Hartwell just before he was killed. That was how this whole thing had started. I thought about the investigation, about how it had been mishandled. It was negligent. Criminal. Maybe even intentional.

  Nola squeezed my leg. “Doyle, what’s going on?”

  I held up the pages I had kept out of the folder. “This is my statement after the incident at the Liberty Motel. This is what Mike Warren needs to prosecute Miriam Hartwell. I was the only one to speak to her before she took off.”