“It’s why she used up all the bullets on Tino, and was unable to ‘finish’ the job. You’re right about the jailhouse interview, we were speaking in code, but it was just about getting our story straight, nothing else.”
The only person present gullible enough to buy my story was Lauren. She looked lovingly at me. “You saved my life, John Peter … I’m forever grateful.”
“Is this some sort of joke to you,” the fake cop said, and re-established the point of his gun at Gwen’s head. With his free hand, he shoved me to the ground.
“Seems as if Warner’s girlfriends always have bad endings,” British added with a cocky laugh.
The gunman nodded, his finger clutching the trigger, and he began to slowly pull it back. Gwen looked to me, urging me to do something.
Someone beat me to it. I’d underestimated Cliff’s new love for the heroic. He stepped in front of Gwen. “If you shoot her, you’re going to have to shoot me first.”
It was honorable, and anything to delay things was a positive. But the bullet would rip right through both Cliff and Gwen at this distance.
“You should have stopped while you were ahead,” British said.
And with that, Cliff fell hard to the ground.
But it wasn’t a bullet that sent him there. Lauren had shoved him out of the way—a fierce competitiveness on her face. “There’s no way I’m letting you take all the credit again, Clifford.”
I couldn’t believe she was willing to trade her life for some good PR. Well … actually …
The moment the words left her mouth, the gunman pulled the trigger. A shot fired directly into her chest, knocking her over like a speeding motorcycle had hit her.
Gwen and I screamed out simultaneously, “No!”
Things then turned from bad to worse, as the gunman now had a clear shot at Gwen. His finger returned to the trigger.
There was no way Cliff was going back for more, as he was curled up on the ground, his superhero days essentially over. I didn’t know what to do, but knew I only had a split second to come up with something. My most primal instincts came out, and from my position on the cold ground, I bit into the gunman’s leg like a dog.
And then everything went black.
Chapter 30
I’d always thought the most spectacular sight to wake up to was the sunrise at Mount Batur in Bali. But I was wrong.
My head was ringing like a fire alarm was going off inside of it, but that couldn’t dampen the sight before me.
It was Gwen.
And she was alive!
She set down her novel and slowly made her way to my bed. She had changed out of her “funeral dress” into jeans and a turtleneck sweater. Her eyes were tired, but full of life … just the way I liked them.
“Are you okay?” we both said at the same time.
Since I was the one lying in a hospital bed, I got to go first. “I am now,” I said with a spacey smile. I continued staring at her, before adding, “I can’t remember you ever looking more beautiful.”
She smiled back at me. “You’re on heavy medication.”
“What am I on medication for?”
“You have a severe concussion, which is why it probably feels like someone is hammering a nail into your brain at the moment.”
I looked at her intently. “I thought they were going to shoot you.”
“Dr. Clarkin said that you might suffer from delusional episodes, and short term memory loss, it’s to be expected.” She leaned in close, right by my ear—my sense of smell was still intact as her perfume was intoxicating. She whispered, “Your nurse slipped this to me on the way in.”
She handed me a note, which read; Don’t let the bedbugs bite.
When I nodded that I understood, she slowly mouthed, F … B … I.
The FBI was bugging my room? I’d burned some bridges there, especially with an Agent Hawkins on the Officer Jones case, but last I checked I was the victim here.
She pulled back, and smiled again at me. “Now that I know you’re going to live, I’m going to have a cup of coffee with Allison.”
“I guess it depends on your definition of live,” I replied.
She took my hand in hers, and I felt goosebumps run up my arm—my sense of touch was still working. She kissed me softly on the lips. It was good to be alive.
But when she left me alone, the euphoria faded. I had some work I needed to do. If Gwen was unable to fill me in on what had happened after I was clocked over the head, then I’d have to find out myself.
The suit I’d worn to the funeral—and almost to my own funeral—was neatly hanging on a door. Next to it was the chair where Gwen had been patiently waiting for me to come to. Resting on it was a clear plastic bag, which contained the other items I’d been carrying. I needed to get there.
It was only five feet away, but there were a couple of obstacles. The first was the IV in my arm. But the stand was mobile, and I thought I would be able to take it along for the ride. The more pressing issue was that every time I tried to sit up it felt like my head was being bounced like a basketball on the floor.
I’d always been a believer in the “tear off the Band-Aid” method—endure short-term pain for the long-term results. So I forced myself up to my feet, and in my fashionable, backless hospital gown, I made my way across the room, dragging the IV stand.
Pins and needles stabbed my insides and the room began to spin. I somehow made it to the chair, and searched through the bag. Everything was present—wallet, phone, watch, cuff links—except what I needed. Where was it? I frantically searched once more—nothing. Son of a …
I checked the pockets of my suit, still nothing. Did the fake cops take it at the scene? Did the FBI get their hands on it? I heard a stirring in the hallway outside my room.
I hurried—relative term—back toward the bed. I was almost there, and was two movements from being safely tucked in, when my body betrayed me. The spinning increased, first making me dizzy, and then nauseous. I collapsed to the cold, linoleum floor, dragging the IV unit with me. It detached from my arm upon the crash landing, and blood began spilling across the floor.
The cavalry rushed in. A combination of nurses, orderlies, and security, rescued me, and got me into bed. Nurse Graziano, who looked like the stereotypical Italian grandmother, stayed behind to clean up my bloody mess.
“Thank you for your note,” I said to her as she continued to wipe the floor. “About the bed bugs.”
She looked up at me like I had two heads. She had no idea what I was talking about.
When she left, a man in a suit entered. We had met before, and I could tell by the look on his face that he wasn’t here to help me.
Chapter 31
The great philosopher, my mother, once said, “Things can always get worse.”
I thought of that as I watched FBI agent Scott Hawkins enter my room. His usual partner, Clarisse Johnson, was the one with the sense, which was why she likely made a career decision to avoid JP Warner for the rest of her life.
“It’s been too long, Mr. Warner,” he greeted me, while pacing my room.
Since we’d crossed paths just back in October, it seemed as if we had a different definition of “too long.”
“It’s been a busy few months for me, so I apologize that I haven’t called,” I said. “But I hope you got my Christmas card.”
“I spent Christmas investigating the first of the Huddled Masses killings … I’m the lead investigator on the case.”
“Congratulations—you’re doing a fantastic job. Did you come here so I can reel in the bad guy for you, like I did with Officer Jones?” It appeared that both my sarcasm and my smart-ass were both still intact.
He smiled, or maybe it was a grimace. “I think you mean when I saved the lives of you and your friends.”
Not exactly how I remembered things going down, but then again, my memory was a little cloudy at the moment.
Hawkins stopped his pacing beside the chair. He picked up the b
ag that contained my personal belongings and began rummaging through it, which was probably against some sort of constitutional right. He didn’t find what he was looking for, and appeared frustrated.
He resumed his pacing. “So what happened?” he asked.
“I was trying to get to the bathroom, and on my way back …”
“Cut the crap, Warner—I’m talking about last night.”
He paused, before adding, “And before you open your mouth, it’s my duty to inform you that I’ve already talked to the others in this case, and lying to a federal agent comes with a long prison sentence. And you’re too pretty for prison.”
“Well, in that case, perhaps you can tell me what they said, so I don’t perjure myself. Nobody will know … it’s not like anybody is taping us.”
He didn’t acknowledge my thinly veiled accusation, and continued onward and downward.
“If it helps me get to the truth, then sure, I’ll tell you. Obviously, Lauren Bowden isn’t talking to anyone,” my stomach sank as he confirmed my fears. “But I was able to speak to both Cliff Sutcliffe and Gwen Delaney.”
“My former boss, and my current one.”
“Mr. Sutcliffe told me an interesting story about the gunman, and how they were annoyed with you for sticking your nose into their business, or revolution, as they called it. He believed that the men were connected to Huddled Masses. Of course, he was able to thwart them by sacrificing his own body to save your current boss from getting shot.”
“Seems like Cliff always shows up at the right time to save the day. Come to think of it, he kind of looks like Clark Kent. Has anyone checked his closet for a cape?”
“We’ll get right on that. But sticking with the theme, your Lois Lane had a completely different view of events. Or at least a much less descriptive one—in fact, she didn’t have much to say at all. Claimed the four of you were approached by police, turned out to be muggers, things escalated, Lauren Bowden got shot. No mention of revolutions.”
“Perhaps she didn’t trust the man who played fast and loose with her life when she was being held captive in that beach house.”
“Question my methods all you want, but she ended up safe, and Grady Benson is going to spend the rest of his life in prison. And whether she trusts me or not, if she stonewalls my investigation, I’ll be forced to consider her an accomplice of Huddled Masses, because we all know that’s who we’re dealing with here.”
“So you’re taking the word of the ‘king of sensationalism,’ over Gwen, who happens to be a respected journalist?”
“I haven’t chosen sides—I’m going to let you do that. You can break the tie.”
“That is very kind of you.” I scrunched my face like I was straining to remember. “I recall that we’d eaten dinner at Norvell’s, and were walking to Grand Central to catch a train back to Connecticut. Two cops approached, who turned out not to be cops, and trapped us in one of those sidewalk shelters along 42nd Street. They never identified themselves as Huddled Masses, or any group, but they were focused on the interview I did with Nora Reign, and accused me and Nora of using secret codes to relay some hidden messages between us.”
“And did you?”
“I had no idea what they were talking about, but when I told them that, they threatened to kill Gwen. So I made up some story, which they obviously didn’t buy, because the guy took a shot at her, anyway. That’s when Lauren jumped in front, and took the bullet.”
I cringed as I re-lived the moment in my head—the bullet ripping into Lauren’s chest, knocking her backwards.
“And you’re sure they didn’t identify themselves as members of Huddled Masses?”
“Only in Cliff’s imagination.”
He held up the now-famous photo of the men leaving the scene of the West Palm yacht killing. The media was now referring to them as the ‘pirates.’ “Were these the men?”
“It’s hard to tell. It was dark, and they were disguised in police uniforms. Not to mention, the West Palm photo is at a long distance and isn’t exactly in HD. All I know is one guy was Hispanic, and the other spoke with a British accent. I don’t know if that helps.”
“But it would be fair for a reasonable thinking man to make a connection between the events of last night and Huddled Masses, wouldn’t it?”
“I’m not a reasonable thinking man.”
He nodded his agreement. “What happened next?”
“I have no idea. After the Hispanic one shot Lauren, he aimed at Gwen. I did whatever I could to hold him off, which was to bite the shooter’s leg. Next thing I know I woke up here.”
I was performing a high-wire balancing act, all with clouded senses. Lying would end up with me in a prison cell, which I got the idea Hawkins would enjoy mightily. But at the same time, I was going to remain in control of my safety, and figure out why these Huddled Masses guys were so interested in me, and what Nora may or may not have told or signaled me. I’d learned from the Officer Jones case that I couldn’t trust my life, or Gwen’s, to Agent Hawkins.
He looked skeptical. “Tell me more about these meetings you had with Nora Reign in Rockfield.”
Did Cliff leave anything out? It’s like he taped the entire encounter and played it back for Hawkins. “I don’t know where they came up with that—I hadn’t seen Nora in years, prior to our jailhouse interview.”
“Are you sure?”
“I think I would remember something like that.”
He pulled out a tablet device from his bag. A click of a button and a video played. It was of a basketball game. A game I recognized. “Celebrity Meltdown? Now you’re playing dirty, Hawkins.”
“Keep watching.”
I did, re-living the moment when I marched toward the referee. Finding out that his niece was on the other team. There went Eliot’s glasses. Officer O’Rourke escorts me out. Hawkins hit a button, freezing the screen. “Look closely.”
I didn’t see anything of note, and wasn’t sure what I was even looking for. He switched to a screen-shot made from the video. The still-photo had been edited—a red circle had been drawn around a spectator in the bleachers, directly across from our bench, wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap.
When he enlarged it, I couldn’t hold back my surprise. “Holy crap—that’s Nora.”
Even though I didn’t ask, he explained his brilliance to me. Following the shooting, the FBI looked into all of Nora’s movements over the last few months. She’d gotten a parking ticket during her visit, and they couldn’t understand what Nora Reign was doing in Rockfield, Connecticut on a Friday afternoon, obviously underestimating the historical importance of our game against New Milford Elementary. But she did have one connection to one of the town’s residents. So when they checked what JP Warner was doing that afternoon, with an assist from the website Celebrity Meltdown, they were able to locate her in the video.
“I never met with her.”
“That would go against what we were told by Mr. Sutcliffe. According to his statement, you admitted to not only meeting with Nora, but conspiring with her to murder Tino Fernandez.”
“I already told you—I made that up because they threatened to shoot Gwen. And like I said, they obviously didn’t believe my story, which is why you weren’t able to interview Lauren about it.”
“Unless you were in on it together.”
“Excuse me?”
“Sounds like a clean up job to me—Lauren knew too much, and had to go, which is why you pushed to take them to dinner.”
“You must be kidding.”
“And to come up with such an intricate tale in the heat of the moment … it just doesn’t sound very plausible.”
“I told you, I was trying to save us, or at least buy some time.”
“I’m telling the truth, unless it benefits me to lie … is that what you’re going with? And frankly, your impromptu story adds up—you did have a relationship with Nora, and you both had motive to want Tino eliminated. You did have connections to GNZ to get her
in for that interview, and to get a weapon inside.”
“So your theory, based on the combination of Cliff Sutcliffe’s word, and a video of an elementary school basketball game, is that I’m working in concert with Huddled Masses?”
If Hawkins were capable of laughing at himself, this would have been a good moment to do so. But I also thought he might be starting high, purposely throwing out ridiculous claims, and would eventually work his way down to getting the information he really sought. We were negotiating, and he was creating leverage.
“No, but you know a hell of a lot more than you’re telling me, and without further information, people’s imaginations might run wild. And if that turns out to be a federal prosecutor trying to make a name for himself, this might not be such a cute game for you.”
I was wondering when he would get to the threats. “What do you really want to know, Hawkins?”
“Many things. But you can start by telling me where the murder weapon is.”
“We’ve been over this—I blacked out after he hit me over the head. I assume they took the gun with them when they left the scene.”
“I’m referring to the gun that Nora Reign used to shoot Fernandez. She indicated to you the location of it during that interview, didn’t she? That’s what all this code stuff was about, and it’s what you were looking for just now. It was in your bag, wasn’t it?”
I began to laugh, but it felt like someone was stabbing me in the eye. “You lost the murder weapon? The one she shot Tino Fernandez with on national TV? How is that even possible?”
“It wasn’t lost, it was taken from evidence. Huddled Masses has friends everywhere … and it seems that you’re the friend Nora Reign trusts most. I’ll be back to visit tonight, Warner, and I better have it back in my possession by then. And if your girlfriend is hiding it for you, you need to explain the consequences to her. Conjugal visits are not all they’re cracked up to be.”
Huddled Masses (JP Warner Book 2) Page 12
