Hit the Road Jack

by Diane Capri

  There was an awkward moment while everyone seemed blinded by the unexpected presence of the others before the stout man in scrubs began threading his way through the group on his way to the interior door. One of the agents stopped his progress by pulling out his badge wallet. “I’m Special Agent Edward Crane and this is Special Agent Derek Bartos.” Crane, Gaspar thought. He knew—and didn’t much like—the man. “We’re here to take recorded statements from Thomas Weston and his wife, Samantha Weston.” Crane pointed toward one of the other two newcomers, a tall redhead wearing jeans and blazer over a white tee-shirt and a pixie hair cut suitable for a woman ten years younger. “This is Judge Willa Carson and her court reporter, Ms. Natalie Chernow.”

  Gaspar’s right eyebrow shot up. There weren’t that many Federal judges in Florida and he’d met most of them several times—the FBI and the federal bench routinely worked cooperatively. Judge Carson’s jurisdiction was the Middle District of Florida, though, and Gaspar generally stayed in his own sandbox in the Southern District, so he’d never met her.

  But he’d heard stories about the freewheeling Willa Carson, who was said to care less for precedent and statutes than her own version of appropriate justice. Some said Carson’s conduct was unjudicial. Others said she was a breath of fresh air. All of which, for a law-and-order man like Gaspar, wasn’t usually good news. But he’d mellowed lately on the rule-following. He could hardly fault Judge Carson for doing the same.

  The stout man spoke up. “I’m Steven Kent, physician’s assistant assigned to both patients. Colonel Weston is out of surgery and stable, though he’s too groggy to answer questions yet. He’ll be moved in about thirty minutes.” His tone was not exactly disrespectful, but he wasn’t deferential, either. “Mrs. Weston should be moved by then as well. I’ll let you know.”

  Kent turned smartly like a soldier on parade and left without further comment. Brief silence reigned.

  Otto stood and introduced herself and Gaspar to the new arrivals before she said, “There’s a coffee pot at the station across the hall. Anybody interested?”

  Jennifer Lane held out her empty cup and said, “I’d love another one. Would you mind? I’d come with you, but I need to watch these new guys.”

  Bad move. She’d insulted the FBI, which raised Otto’s hackles along with those of the other agents. Gaspar remained unruffled. Lawyers were always sanctimonious, in his experience. Being a lawyer herself, Otto couldn’t very well say so. Gaspar hid his grin as she grudgingly collected Lane’s cup.

  “I’m fine,” Kimball replied.

  “Judge Carson? Coffee?” Otto offered.

  Carson moved to join her, towering over Otto and glancing back as they headed for the door. “Surely you people can play nice until I get back. If not,” she looked Gaspar in the eye, “go ahead and shoot them all.”

  Gaspar laughed out loud. Yep. Judge Willa Carson might be worth the drive up from Miami on the right case. He’d keep the idea in mind. If he ever got back to his normal job.

  CHAPTER NINE

  After the door closed behind Otto and the Judge, Crane said, “Agent Gaspar, can I have a word with you outside, please?”

  Gaspar stood, stretched, ignored the pain and forced himself not to limp as he followed Crane into the corridor. When they reached the window at the end of the hallway where they were unlikely to be overheard, Crane asked, “What are you doing here, Gaspar?”

  “Enjoying the sunshine.”

  “Still the same smart ass.”

  “I think you mentioned that the last time our paths crossed, Crane.”

  “When I saw you at the memorial, I called in. Miami doesn’t know why you’re here. Have you gone rogue, Gaspar?”

  “Possibly,” he replied.

  “If you’re connected to Weston, you’re going down. Got that?”

  Gaspar ignored the threat, which was par for the course with Crane. “Rumor says you’ve got a warrant in your pocket. Brought along the judge herself, just to cover your bases. The bad news, though: you arrest Weston, you won’t need a court reporter. He’s not talking to you until he gets a lawyer, and probably not then.”

  “He’s got a lawyer, and he’ll talk.”

  “Lane says she’s the wife’s lawyer. Not his,” Gaspar said.

  “Not to me, she didn’t.” If he jutted his chin any farther, he might fall over from the weight of his fat head.

  “You’re thinking Weston’s going to confess to something? Have you ever talked to the guy? He wouldn’t tell you how he takes his coffee unless he had a damn good reason.”

  “He must have a good reason, then.”

  Gaspar hadn’t considered that Weston would confess. He mulled this over, pushed the idea this way and that, like kneading bread. Couldn’t make it work.

  “What reason?”

  “Don’t know. Don’t care.” Crane sounded like a guy grunting his way through the defensive line. “He’s committed about a hundred counts of treason. Murder. Grand larceny. You name it. The guy’s a scum-bucket. I get it on the record in front of a Federal judge before he croaks, that’s all I care about.”

  “You think Weston is dying? You’re planning a dying declaration?” Gaspar laughed a good two seconds before he controlled himself. “He was winged. Two busted legs and a messed up shoulder. That’s it. He’s not dying. You’re wasting your time.”

  “Wise up. He’s got cancer. He’ll be dead by the end of the month. It’s his wife he’s worried about protecting now. He thinks we’ll charge her with his crimes.”

  “Why would he think that?”

  Crane shrugged and made no reply. Which was all the reply Gaspar needed. Crane must have threatened to charge Weston’s wife. And Weston must have believed the threat. Nothing else would puff Crane’s confidence up so far.

  Steven Kent came around the corner and saw them standing at the end of the hallway. “You can come in now,” he said, then stuck his head into the waiting room and made the same announcement to the others.

  “What about Weston’s wife?” Gaspar pressed.

  “That’s his motivation. He’s trying to save her ass,” Crane said.

  Gaspar wondered whether the wife cared that much about Weston, since she’d filed for divorce. He shrugged. “Will it work?”

  “Depends on what he says, doesn’t it?” Crane strode away from Gaspar like a man who’d spiked the ball in the end zone.

  CHAPTER TEN

  They crowded around Weston’s hospital bed in a large, open recovery room that had been cleared of all patients except Weston and his wife. She was obviously still out cold, but Weston was at least approaching consciousness—quietly moaning, eyelids fluttering. A blanket covered him from the waist down, obscuring the state of reconstruction done to both legs. His shoulder was bandaged, but not casted. Gaspar guessed the repairs were done on the inside.

  Unless he perked up pretty markedly, they weren’t going to get much of a statement from him. And even if they did and he said something worthwhile, it wouldn’t carry much weight later, given the amount of drugs in his system. Undeterred, Natalie Chernow, the court reporter, had set up her machine near the head of the bed to be sure she accurately heard and recorded anything he might babble. She also activated a tape recorder. Belt and suspenders, Gaspar supposed.

  Judge Carson stood at the foot of the bed, the better to see and hear everything as it happened, should anything happen.

  Lane said she would act as Weston’s representative for the purpose of the statement so they didn’t have to call in another lawyer, which wasn’t exactly kosher. But nothing about the situation was normal and it wasn’t Gaspar’s case, so he wasn’t going to object. Even though he’d like to whip that “I told you so” smirk off Crane’s face.

  Lane stood next to the court reporter, Crane and his crony Bartos stood across the bed from Gaspar and Otto, and Kimball pressed herself into position beside them.

  “Wait,” Lane said to her. “What the hell are you doing in here?”

>   “First Amendment and Florida’s Sunshine law. Press would be allowed in a courtroom for the statement,” Kimball pointed out, “so I can’t be excluded just because proceedings are in a hospital.”

  Lane appealed to Judge Carson, who ruled that Kimball could stay. Gaspar and Otto, too. Carson offered no explanation for her ruling.

  Gaspar didn’t expect to learn much, especially since Weston had so far only managed the occasional groan, though it made sense to play things out just in case he got chatty. You never knew. It was just barely possible he might cough up a lead on Reacher that he and Otto could follow up later. Mainly they stayed because it would have looked odd to leave at that point.

  And then Weston opened his eyes. When he saw Gaspar, his mouth opened in a wide, drugged, silly smile. His pupils were dilated and his speech slurred when he gleefully asked, “Did my guys get him?”

  “What?” Otto asked, leaning in.

  Weston’s voice was weak, whispery, hard to hear. But unmistakably cheerful. “Reacher. Shot me. Did my guys kill him? Is he dead?”

  Otto asked, “You lured Reacher to the memorial so your bodyguards could kill him?”

  Crane glared at Otto, but she didn’t see him. Crane spoke up. “Colonel Weston, the shooter was Michael Vernon. He was killed at the scene. You knew him, right? He served under you in Iraq for two years. Hit by an IED, remember? Two buddies died. Vernon survived. Blamed you for the whole thing, would be my guess.”

  Weston sank into his pillows and closed his eyes again. His breathing became more ragged. Steven Kent must have noticed something irregular on the monitors because he came into the room and checked the machines.

  “Ten minutes. No more,” he said to Crane. “Otherwise, he won’t survive the night.”

  “You said his injuries weren’t life threatening,” Crane said.

  Kent stood his ground, “I said normally not life threatening. We need to keep it that way, don’t you think?”

  Crane didn’t like it, but he backed off. Gaspar figured Crane’s restraint wouldn’t last long.

  But it was true that Weston looked bad. When he found out his plan to kill Reacher failed, his fragile strength seemed to evaporate. Gaspar wondered how many times Weston’s vendetta against Reacher had failed before. Weston’s reach was extensive, inside the government and out. Another possible explanation for Reacher’s hiding so far off the grid that not even a bloodhound could find him. At least until Reacher could take care of Weston or something else got Weston first. Which didn’t seem so paranoid right at the moment.

  The court reporter announced she was ready.

  Judge Carson started the proceedings by opening the record and covering all the legal necessities. She said she’d granted an emergency motion for a recorded statement from Mr. and Mrs. Weston because the FBI represented to her that the statement was essential to an ongoing criminal investigation likely to be harmed if Mr. and Mrs. Weston became incapacitated.

  And because Weston’s counsel consented.

  Jennifer Lane made a short statement about the limited nature of her legal representation and her clients’ consent. Observers said nothing.

  Finally, Crane began his questions. He could have spent the ten minutes he’d been allotted following up on Weston’s plan to kill Reacher, which was the only thing Gaspar was interested in hearing about, but instead his questions focused on Weston’s private security company operating in Iraq. Each question was accusatory and belligerent, Gaspar thought. Maybe a little desperate. But it didn’t matter. Crane was destined to get nowhere.

  Weston had exhausted his available energy on Reacher. Now, he was mostly non-responsive. He grunted a couple of times to signal yes or no. He moaned. He seemed to be almost unconscious. Ms. Chernow’s transcript would be mostly a list of questions followed by empty spaces.

  After the promised ten minutes, Steven Kent returned to check his patient. “I’m sorry, but that’s it. Colonel Weston isn’t able to continue.”

  Crane’s annoyance was on full display. “But we’re not finished.”

  Kent replied, “For now you are. You can come back in a couple hours and try again if you want. Or you can call me if you don’t want to make an unnecessary trip.”

  Crane opened his mouth to argue again, but Judge Carson said, “Thank you, Mr. Kent. We’ll close the record at this time and resume later this evening or as soon as Colonel Weston is capable.”

  Crane said, “Let’s question Mrs. Weston now, then.”

  Samantha Weston was in the room’s only remaining bed. A curtain separated her bed from her husband’s. Kent pulled the curtain back and checked her health indicators. He shook his head. “Mrs. Weston is still sedated. She’s not able to communicate at this time, either, I’m afraid.”

  Crane’s mouth was set in a hard line. Gaspar watched him fight to control his anger. He was a pouter, this guy. Too soft. When he didn’t get his way, he was whinier than Gaspar’s ten-year-old daughter. The thought made Gaspar smile and Crane glared back as if he might start a fistfight. Gaspar struggled not to laugh. He caught Otto’s eye and saw her reaction was the same as his.

  Judge Carson saw the lay of the land. She did what judges do. She wrapped it up. “Is there anything else anyone wants to put on the record at this time?”

  No one raised anything. She closed the record and everyone left the room except Ms. Chernow, who stayed to pack up her equipment.

  In the corridor, Crane seized the initiative again. “Judge, we’d like to continue in two hours. We’re worried that these witnesses won’t survive the night. If they don’t, our case will be irreparably harmed—”

  Judge Carson headed him off before he could get too amped up. “Fine. Ms. Chernow exists on nuts and dried fruit she carries in her purse. On that diet, I’d be dead in a week, and I’m hungry. Anyone want to join me for dinner at George’s Place? No need to change clothes. We can grab a quick bite in the Sunset Bar.”

  Because refusing a dinner invitation from the judge on your case wasn’t a smart move, everyone officially interested in Weston should have accepted.

  But Crane said, “I need to review my file to streamline my questions. I’ll just grab something from a vending machine.”

  Agent Bartos, probably figuring it would be a bad career move to contradict his boss, pulled out his wallet and left for the nearest sandwich.

  Jennifer Lane seemed torn by indecision. If she stayed, she could keep an eye on Agents Crane and Bartos, but she’d have to stop watching Gaspar and Otto. Not to mention ticking off the Judge on her case. If she went to dinner, though, Crane and Bartos would remain unsupervised and who knows what mischief they’d get up to without her to restrain them.

  Gaspar stifled his smirk and glanced over toward Otto, who pretended to yawn, probably to cover amusement.

  “I’m in,” Jess Kimball announced.

  Otto said, “Me, too.” Who knew why? Her motives were usually a mystery to Gaspar.

  No mystery at all regarding Gaspar’s motivation for accepting Judge Carson’s invitation. She’d offered to buy and he was hungry. Simple as that.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Judge Carson’s Mercedes CLK convertible zipped along Bayshore Boulevard like a homing pigeon on its return flight. Jessica Kimball’s SUV followed. Gaspar brought up the rear in the rented sedan.

  George’s Place was the only five-star restaurant in South Tampa, as far as Gaspar knew. He’d never eaten at another one. Which might not mean anything. He didn’t come to Tampa often and he wasn’t a big foodie. A good Cuban sandwich was good enough for him. And any dessert made with guava.

  The effortless drive from Tampa Southern to the Plant Key location was as beautiful tonight as it had been earlier in the day. Bayshore Boulevard beribboned the water’s edge along the miles in both directions. The full moon and lighted balustrade created a warm, magical picture his daughters always loved.

  “How about a quick recap?” Otto asked, as if she were actually giving him an option.
>
  “Sure.”

  She ticked off her conclusions raising one finger at a time as if they were facts. Which they probably were. “Weston put the word out and staged his attendance at this memorial because he wanted to lure Reacher. He believed Reacher would try to kill him. He made himself a human target. Then his bodyguards would kill Reacher. His purpose was to exact revenge on Reacher.”

  Gaspar didn’t argue. Suicide by cop. Maybe a bit pedestrian for a Machiavelli like Weston, but not a rare motive among those angry and feeling persecuted by law enforcement.

  “Weston planned to kill Reacher for sixteen years. Don’t you think that’s bizarre?” she asked.

  “I do.” No real reason to argue. Cold revenge and all that. Besides, he was hungry and didn’t want to prolong the discussion. He rolled the window down, got a good whiff of the exposed plankton at low tide, and promptly filled the hole with glass again.

  Otto’s speculation started next.

  “The Boss knew of Weston’s plan and thought it might work,” she said. “He knew Reacher could show up. The memorial was well publicized. Reacher might have learned about it, depending on where the hell he’s hiding at the moment. The Boss knew we could get caught in the crossfire.”

  Gaspar shrugged. “Probably.”

  “You don’t care?” she asked, pugnaciously as usual.

  He could feel her anguish, but none of his own. He had no illusions about their Boss. This assignment had almost killed them both more than once already. Why should today be different?

  “Doesn’t matter whether I care or not, Sunshine.”

  Her shoulders slumped as her steely defiance melted. “He knew, and sent us in anyway,” she said. “That’s the worst part.”