by Diane Capri
“Back then, when Weston’s family was murdered, gambling was mostly illegal here except for Greyhound racing,” Gaspar supplied for Otto’s benefit.
“Dog racing?” Otto said. “There’s that much money involved in dog racing?”
“I guess there could be,” Kimball said. “But Weston’s gambling was the illegal kind. The allegations that Reacher investigated at the time involved pari-mutuel betting.”
“OTB,” Gaspar explained. “Off track betting. Down in the Miami office, we’ve got several OTB joints on our constant watch list. It’s legal and regulated these days. In Florida, OTB is a money maker for the state. But it’s also a cesspool of corruption where a guy with a gambling problem can get into really big trouble.”
“Exactly. Weston got in way over his head. He was employed by Uncle Sam in a military job that, well, let’s just say it didn’t pay a million a year.”
“He owed a million bucks?” Gaspar asked.
Kimball nodded. “He had no way to come up with that kind of money. He was a high-profile guy here and the gang decided to make an example of him. They told him to pay up or his family would pay for him. Apparently, he chose option two. Scumbag.”
Kimball stopped talking while the waiter delivered the coffee.
When he left, Otto said, “You’re saying Reacher discovered all of that and arrested Weston, but the locals couldn’t prove any of it? So Weston walked away?”
Gaspar thought that sounded exactly like Reacher’s methods. He’d have figured everything out and handled the matter himself. He didn’t worry much about whether the courts accepted his proof.
Kimball sipped her coffee and returned Otto’s level gaze. “That’s how it looks from the file and everything else I’ve found. Weston didn’t pull the trigger, but he didn’t do anything to stop the killing, either. Of course he denied all involvement. He had an alibi. The shooter confessed. There was no evidence of Weston’s debt. No evidence that the threat had been made by the gang or ignored by Weston. The gang leader certainly didn’t come forward.”
“No admissible evidence against Weston, so he was released. And Reacher was already gone by the time everything was sorted out.”
As Otto completed her sentence, the fourth member of their dinner party arrived and slid into the booth across from Gaspar.
“From Weston’s questions at the hospital, I gather your assignment has something to do with Jack Reacher,” Carson said as she waved to the waiter to let him know we were all collected. Seeing they were drinking coffee, she ordered café con leche for herself and picked up the menu for a quick look. Gaspar figured she had to have it memorized by now. “I met him once when he was here.”
“You met who?” Otto asked.
“Who was here?” Kimball asked simultaneously.
Carson decided on dinner, put the menu down, and glanced at Otto and Kimball. “Jack Reacher. He didn’t stay long. But I’m told he never does.”
The waiter took her order and refilled the coffee. He was even more attentive now that the boss’s wife was in the house.
“What was Reacher doing here?” Otto asked, after the waiter left.
Carson settled back into the booth and turned slightly so she was facing everyone. She seemed to make a few quick decisions before she answered. “This is not my case. If it were, I wouldn’t be discussing this with you. I’m on call tonight and that’s the only reason I agreed to preside over the two sworn statements.”
Gaspar figured she was splitting hairs for reasons of her own. But Weston was not his concern and Reacher was. He didn’t care about her legal balancing act, but he was impressed with the way she slid around the rules without breaking any.
Otto, ever the lawyer, replied, “Understood.” Maybe she felt the same way Gaspar did. “We’re doing a routine background check on Reacher for the special personnel task force. Anything you can tell us about him would be helpful.”
“I looked into the files today when the FBI asked me to preside over Weston’s statement and saw that Reacher was here in the late summer of 1997.”
A few months after Weston’s family was murdered, Gaspar calculated. Also after the killer was arrested and Weston released. About six months after Reacher left the Army, too. He’d failed to get Weston for the murders the first time. His bulldog tenacity must have pulled him back again for another try after his Army discharge, long after he should have moved on.
“I remembered meeting him. He’s not the kind of guy you’re likely to forget,” Carson said. “Weston ended up in Tampa Southern Hospital almost dead that time, too.”
“Which explains why Weston didn’t attend the first annual memorial service once he was released from jail after his family was killed. And after that, he’s been out of the country,” Kimball voiced the thought that had occurred simultaneously to Gaspar.
The food was delivered. Carson and Kimball fell on the meal like feral dogs, but Otto ignored her food, focused on Reacher like a heat-seeking missile. Gaspar felt his stomach growling, but felt he should hold back until Otto tucked.
Carson gestured toward the plates. “We don’t have a lot of time. We can talk and eat simultaneously. I’ve done it for years.”
Otto lifted her fork and Gaspar dug in as if he hadn’t had a decent meal in weeks. Which he hadn’t. The food was amazing, even better than he remembered. Exactly the sort of meal his wife loved. The beef was rare and crusted with mango chutney. The Madeira mushroom sauce was light but flavorful. The combination of ripe Bartlett pears, Gorgonzola cheese, candied walnuts and vinaigrette perfectly blended. A dry Cabernet would have made the meal one of his wife’s all-time top five. Which meant he couldn’t tell her about it. At least, not until he could bring her to experience the meal herself.
“We’ve never met Reacher,” Otto said, barely moving her fork around the ambrosia on her plate. “What’s he like?”
“Big. Quiet. No fashion sense at all,” Carson laughed. When Otto didn’t grin, Carson seemed to consider the question more seriously. Slowly, as if she was uncovering buried artifacts from the depths of memory, she said, “He stood out like a sore thumb, but he exuded confidence like a force field that repelled all challengers. He seemed American, but not American at the same time. In the way that military kids do. Like he held a valid passport but didn’t really belong here. He didn’t seem to care that he didn’t belong. He didn’t seem to care about much of anything, actually.”
“Was he living in Tampa? Or visiting someone?” Kimball asked. Maybe she was thinking about the gambling situation. Or maybe she thought Reacher was looking for Weston, too.
“He said he was passing through. He asked me where the bus station was. Headed north, I think. Atlanta, maybe?” She wiped the Madeira sauce off her mouth with her napkin and sat back from her plate. “Of course, everywhere in the country is north of here, and most roads lead to Atlanta.”
Kimball said, “From what you’ve described, Reacher doesn’t seem like the kind of guy you’d even come into contact with, Judge. Where’d you meet him?”
“Didn’t I start with that? Sorry. A fundraiser. We attend dozens of those things. This one was education scholarships for military orphans, I think.”
“Where was the event held? At MacDill?”
“Greyhound Lanes,” Carson replied. She must have noticed their bewilderment. “Not the bus station or a bowling alley. The dog track.”
“Dog racing?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Was Weston there?”
“If he was an officer at MacDill then, he might have attended the fundraiser. Sure. Quite a few military folks were there. It’s a big annual event. Very popular. Huge family affair.”
Kimball looked toward the two Latin kings across the room. “Anything to do with those guys sitting over there? They look familiar to me, but I can’t place them.”
Carson turned around to check. “That’s Alberto and Franco Vernon. They might have been at the fundraiser. They’re not involved with Grey
hound Lanes. But they do own a pari-mutuel track a few miles north of here.”
“Are they related to Michael Vernon?” Kimball asked, naming the dead man Agent Crane had identified as today’s shooter.
Carson set her fork on her plate briefly, composing her reply with care because the question came too close to the case she was handling. “They have a brother named Michael, yes. Theirs is a large local family. Long-time Tampa businesspeople. Significant contributors to the community. Like most large families, some members are more successful than others. But they’re protective of their own.”
Gaspar received the definite message that no further questions would be entertained about the Vernons. Kimball must have received the same message because she didn’t press further. After a few moments, Carson picked up her fork and resumed her meal at a slower pace.
Otto, fixated as ever, asked, “Did Reacher say why he was there? At the fundraiser?”
“If he did, I don’t recall. But I’d doubt it. He didn’t say much of anything. Not a conversationalist, let’s put it that way.” Carson glanced at the television mounted on the wall above the bar in the corner. “We’re out of time. Let’s finish up our food and head back. Agent Crane will report me to the chief judge if we’re any later.”
The way she grinned made Gaspar feel there was a story there about her relationship with the chief judge she wasn’t sharing. Which was too bad. Because it was probably one he’d enjoy.
14
Otto and Gaspar arrived at the hospital’s main entrance first. They signed in again at the information desk and wandered through the maze of some administrator’s idea of organized healthcare. Eventually, they located the OR waiting room where they had agreed to rejoin the others two hours ago. Nightfall came early in November, but the view from the waiting room window was no less appealing, Gaspar noticed. Bright moonlight and illumination along Bayshore Boulevard rendered it more magical than in daylight, not less.
Agents Crane and Bartos were seated with open briefcases on their laps amid candy bar wrappers and empty paper coffee cups.
“Looks like you guys enjoyed a gourmet supper, too,” Gaspar said.
Crane just glowered at him.
“Where’s Jennifer Lane?” Gaspar asked.
Bartos replied, “Samantha Weston asked for her about five minutes ago. As soon as Judge Carson and the court reporter get here, we’ll all go back in there and finish up and get out of here.”
As if his words had conjured her, Carson opened the door and said, “Ms. Chernow texted me on our way back. She says she’s setting up. Let’s get this done so these patients can get some rest.”
They all started after her down the hallway toward the recovery room where they had left both Westons.
After less than twenty feet of progress, everything went to hell.
First, the unmistakable sound of two quick gunshots filled the quiet corridor. A woman screamed. Another woman shouted words Gaspar could not make out. And two more quick gunshots followed.
Otto pulled her Sig Sauer and ran forward, ahead of Gaspar.
He pulled his Glock and followed close behind.
Weapons drawn, Crane and Bartos brought up the rear.
Before they reached the room, he heard another gunshot.
Willa Carson ran past them back toward the staircase. An instant later, a horrifically loud buzzing sound exploded around them. She’d pulled the fire alarm. When Gaspar glanced back past the other two agents, he saw the Judge had grabbed her cell phone and was already dialing.
The narrow, hospital-paraphernalia-choked corridor left the agents no choice but to charge single file toward the source of the gunshots.
Just before Otto reached the recovery room doorway, Natalie Chernow dashed out and crashed into her. Otto pushed her against the wall and tried to ask what had happened, but she was sobbing and babbling incomprehensibly. Not that she could’ve been heard over the alarm in any case, much less over the sirens outside that now joined the cacophony. The din was deafening.
Gaspar supposed he should take comfort in the rapid response rate by everyone involved, but there was no time to appreciate that just then. Otto shoved the court reporter to him and he passed her back to the agents behind him, then followed Otto into the room where he could just hear her shouting “FBI! FBI” over the pandemonium. Sound reverberated through Gaspar’s entire body like electroshock.
15
The first person Gaspar saw was Jennifer Lane.
She stood empty-handed, staring, eyes as wide as basketballs.
The deafening fire alarm continued, now transitioned to incessant blasts brief moments apart, loud enough to wake the morgue.
Just ahead of him, he saw Otto pivot, assume shooter stance and yell, “Hands up! Hands up!”
Steven Kent stood facing Otto, one hand extended with a .38 caliber handgun pointed toward Jennifer Lane.
Slowly, he raised both hands in the air. He pointed the gun in his right hand toward the ceiling. His blue scrubs, face, arms, and hands were splattered with blood. But he made no further move. He said nothing. He seemed to understand what was expected of a man in his situation and he performed appropriately.
Like the pause button on a video had been pushed, all action stopped for a long moment, and then each actor in the drama flew into perfectly scripted motion.
Agents Crane and Bartos quickly controlled the shooter.
Otto confirmed both Westons were dead.
Gaspar approached Jennifer Lane, who stared as if the scene remained paused at a point when Kent had shot both Westons twice in the head, shot and missed Natalie Chernow, and turned the gun on her.
“Ms. Lane,” Gaspar said, grasping her elbow. “Jennifer? It’s okay. Are you hurt?” She did not answer. Her face was pale. She was breathing rapidly. Pupils were dilated. The skin of her arm was cold and clammy to his touch.
“Come over here,” he said, but the accursed fire alarm continued and he had to shout to be heard. He holstered his weapon and tried to lead her away from the carnage, but her terror acted like adhesive on her soles. She would not move.
Gaspar yelled, “Jennifer! Jennifer!”
Finally, she turned her head to look at him, but she didn’t see him. He could tell. Grasping her arm again as gently as he could, he again tried to lead her away. But she wouldn’t budge.
She returned her stare toward the bloody mess that had been Samantha Weston.
Gaspar tried once more to get through to her. He shook her a little bit and yelled to be heard over the damned obnoxious buzzing of the fire alarm.
“Jennifer! Let’s go!” She didn’t move.
Then instantly the fire alarm stopped. Its absence was surreal, and the unnerving quiet acted like a switch to release Jenny from horrified rigidity. Before he could do more than slow her descent with his grip on her elbow, she fainted and collapsed into a pile on the shiny waxed floor.
In the eerie silence, Gaspar could hear Crane repeating the familiar words accompanying arrest, including full Miranda warnings. Bartos had collected Kent’s gun and was using his cell phone to call for backup.
Otto asked Kent, “Steven what were you thinking? Why did you do this?”
Kent said nothing, which Kent had the presence of mind to know was absolutely the best thing to do under the circumstances.
Agent Crane led Stephen Kent toward the exit.
16
On the instructions of one of the other agents, Kimball had been standing inside the recovery room blocking the door to prevent anyone from entering. She moved aside for Crane and Bartos to lead Kent away, then pulled the door closed behind them and approached Gaspar.
“Let’s get Jenny into the waiting room. We can talk there.”
Gaspar saw Otto making use of the small window of calm before the room crawled with crime scene personnel to capture evidence of the murders with her smart phone. She’d find him when she was finished.
For the first time, Gaspar noticed the citrus scent min
gling with the metallic odor of blood and disinfectants.
When he looked again at Jenny Lane’s pale face, eyes closed, barely breathing in a heap on the polished floor, Gaspar realized why she’d seemed so familiar. She looked ghostly like the victim in a missing person’s case he’d assisted for the Tampa FBI detail with some follow up in Miami. The two could have been sisters, even. That victim had disappeared from her home and he’d never heard what happened to her. But her name wasn’t Jennifer Lane.
He shrugged. He’d seen look-a-likes before. But he felt better that he’d finally made the memory connection.
Kimball collected Jenny Lane’s things from the chair and helped him lift her from the floor. He couldn’t carry her. He could barely support his own weight. But with Kimball’s help, they were able to move Lane into the corridor.
Agent Bartos stood guard outside the recovery room to secure the crime scene until appropriate crews arrived. In the corridor, the business of a quiet hospital floor between surgeries was returning to normal as hospital security calmed patients and personnel. Soon, a different sort of chaos would ensue as the crime scene was processed.
Gaspar and Otto would escape before then.
17
The OR waiting room would no doubt become command central for the remainder of the night as the scene was processed. For now, the room was available. Gaspar and Kimball half carried, half walked Lane down the hallway.
Willa Carson stood by the door and allowed them to get Jenny settled inside. Ms. Chernow was there composing herself as well.
“Can I have a word with you?” Kimball asked Gaspar. He followed her to a quiet corner. “You’re not supposed to be here, are you? Your work is confidential, isn’t it?”
He didn’t confirm or deny, but her powers of observation hadn’t failed her.
“You and Otto should get out while it’s still possible. I’ll stay here with them and if we find out anything else, I can let you know.”
