Dead Even

by Brad Meltzer

  “What amazes me is that the entire criminal community isn’t onto this trick,” Guff said. “If I were going to break the law in this city, the first thing I’d do is move to New Jersey. No one can touch you there.”

  “I’m sure they know all about it,” the officer said, trying to lighten the mood. “But who wants to live in Jersey?” When no one responded to the joke, the officer added, “C’mon, that was funny.”

  “Don’t push it,” Sara said. “Now’s not the time.”

  “Who is it?” Elliott asked through the intercom.

  “It’s Rafferty. Buzz us in.” The buzzer sounded and they made their way up the stairs.

  As Elliott opened his door a crack, he saw Rafferty and Kozlow. “What’re you so happy about?” Elliott asked. Kozlow kicked the door open, revealing Claire.

  “Well, would you look at that,” Elliott said. “They were lying to us.”

  “Actually, they were playing us against each other,” Rafferty said, entering the apartment. “The only thing I can’t figure out is how they knew to come after you.”

  “Why don’t you ask him.” Following Elliott’s gesture, Rafferty, Kozlow, and Claire turned toward the other room. Conrad’s body was still on the floor.

  “Oh, God!” Claire shouted.

  “Are you nuts?” Kozlow said. “You know what that’s going to do to us?”

  “I know exactly what it’s going to do,” Elliott said. “It’s going to be my out.”

  With gritted teeth, Rafferty slowly turned around. “You son of a bitch.”

  “Is there a problem?” Elliott asked innocently.

  “You knew all along, didn’t you? You knew she was alive, and you knew what they were doing.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Don’t play stupid, Elliott. Your lies are catching up with you. You’ve been threatening Sara since the beginning. That’s how she knew you were involved, that’s how she knew to come after you, and that’s why she wouldn’t take the dismiss and seal. You were supposed to stay away, and instead, you stuck your greedy nose back in.”

  Elliott backed his way into the kitchen, trying to get Rafferty to follow him. If he was going to make it look real, he needed everyone to be in place. “Oscar, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You lying piece of shit!” Rafferty yelled. “You think I’m a moron?” He shoved Elliott in the chest, sending him crashing into the kitchen table. “You think I’m blind? I know exactly what you’re doing. You’re trying to grab the money for yourself.”

  Just a little closer, Elliott thought. Near the window. Get the angles right. “I swear, I’d never—”

  “Stop your lying!” Rafferty screamed, his voice booming through the tiny apartment. “I asked you one small favor: Find me someone to give the shot. That was your job. And what do you do? You turn on me! On me! I practically raised you, and that’s how you repay me?”

  Suddenly, Elliott stopped where he was. “You didn’t raise me!” he shouted.

  “Oh, I didn’t? Who gave your mother money when Arnold fired her? Who sent her money every year until you were sixteen? Who—”

  “You didn’t give a shit about her—you were just afraid!” Advancing from the window, he stood face-to-face with Rafferty. “Until the day she died, you were worried she’d bring him up on charges. That she’d get vengeful and wreck his pathetic marriage. Or worse, that she’d get smart and sue your precious company. Rape accusations can be a real ugly mess, can’t they?”

  “Your mother wasn’t raped,” Rafferty insisted.

  “Yes, she was!” Elliott yelled as a vein on his forehead flushed red. “He punched her so hard, he broke her jaw! I still have the medical records to prove it! And when he found out she was pregnant, he threw her in the street!” Noticing Claire’s reaction, Elliott asked, “You didn’t know that, did you? You knew he was ruthless, but you didn’t know he was a monster. If you did, maybe you would’ve killed him sooner.”

  “That’s enough!” Rafferty interrupted. “Leave her out of it!”

  “Why? She’s just as responsible as you are. In fact, she’s more responsible. If she hadn’t been so afraid of giving Arnold the shot, we never would’ve had to hire Kozlow. And if we hadn’t hired him—”

  “Hey, asshole…” Kozlow interrupted.

  “Stay out of this,” Rafferty growled. Standing in the middle of the kitchen, he turned back to Elliott. “We hired Kozlow because we wanted alibis—even you know that’s true.”

  “That’s true, but my mother’s story’s a lie?”

  “Elliott, your mother was a degenerate who begged for it every day. I gave her money out of pity, not guilt. And if she told you she was raped, it was only because she was embarrassed by the truth.”

  “You’re a liar!”

  “No. I’m not,” Rafferty said. He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his coat. “And if you want to join us in reality, you should start believing that and stop living in your mother’s fantasies.”

  Enraged, Elliott reached for his gun. “You motherfu—”

  Three shots rang out. Two hit Elliott in the chest, one went through the kitchen window on his right. Elliott fell to the floor and his blood inched across the linoleum. Ignoring his victim, Rafferty looked down at the hole he had just blown through the pocket of his own overcoat.

  “No!” Claire screamed. She staggered backward until she hit the refrigerator.

  “Oh, man, why’d you have to do that?” Kozlow asked Rafferty, throwing his hands in the air.

  “Is he dead?” Rafferty asked, watching the blood seep across more of the kitchen floor.

  “Of course he’s dead—you shot him in the chest.” Kozlow leaned over Elliott’s body to be sure. “What’re you doing, man? Are you even thinking?”

  Standing behind Kozlow, Rafferty explained, “I’m doing what I should’ve done the moment this started.” Rafferty pointed his gun at Kozlow.

  “Are you crazy, Oscar?” Claire shouted.

  Kozlow felt the barrel of the gun at the back of his head. “Oscar, if that’s what I think it is, you’re a dead man.”

  “No, I’m not the dead man,” Rafferty said, his voice racing. “Look at the layout. You’re the one who shot him. Not me. You. If you hadn’t acted like such an animal, we could’ve walked away. It would’ve been perfect.”

  “Put down the gun,” Kozlow said.

  “Don’t tell me what to do.”

  “Put down the gun!” Claire shouted.

  Kozlow was nothing but pure rage. “First I’m going to dance on your neck, then I’m going to dance on hers,” he said. “It’ll make Harrison look like a paper cut.” Kozlow started to turn his head, hoping to look Rafferty in the eye.

  “Don’t move!” Rafferty yelled.

  “Oscar, don’t do this!” Claire pleaded.

  Kozlow was tensed to jump. “I’m going to slice you open and—”

  “Don’t move!” Rafferty repeated. “I mean it!”

  Kozlow wasn’t stopping. He spun around and went straight for Rafferty’s throat. But before he could make contact, another shot rang out. A crimson burst sprayed across the kitchen and Kozlow slumped to the floor. There was a dull thud as his head hit the ground.

  “Oh, God!” Claire screamed. “Oh, my God!”

  “Claire, don’t flip out on me.”

  Shaking, Claire looked at Elliott, then at Kozlow. Both of them were now soaked in blood. She rushed to the sink and vomited.

  “Dammit, Claire, what’re you doing?!” Rafferty screamed. “You can’t let them know we were here!” He pulled a pair of leather gloves from his coat and, as Claire continued to heave, turned on the faucet. He poured dishwashing liquid all over the sink, hoping to hide the smell. Then he grabbed Elliott’s keys from the kitchen table, went into the living room, and opened the storage trunk. Rummaging through the chest, he found the contents of Sara’s wallet and discovered the plastic hands with his name on them. The gloves were missing—which meant
Elliott was wearing them. “Perfect. It’s a perfect excuse,” Rafferty said, throwing the empty hands aside. “Now he’s me.” He pulled out the Warren Eastham gloves and brought them back to the kitchen.

  Knowing that the gloves would confound the investigation, he stuffed them into Kozlow’s back pocket, grabbed Kozlow by the hand, and dragged him, facedown, toward the other side of the kitchen. Lifting the back of Kozlow’s jacket, Rafferty found Kozlow’s handgun. He took the gun from the back of Kozlow’s pants. He then used his own gun to shoot Kozlow two more times in the back and once in the leg. When he was done, he placed his gun in Elliott’s hand and shoved Kozlow’s gun in his own pocket. “Now it looks like an argument,” he said. “As Kozlow was leaving, Elliott shot him in the back. That’s it. That’s what makes sense.” Rafferty looked over at Claire, who was still leaning into the sink. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “No, I’m not okay!” she cried. “You just put a hole in his head! You killed two people! What’s wrong with you?”

  “Don’t say that, Claire! What was I supposed to do? Let them run around, hoping they don’t ruin me?”

  “We’re already ruined. You think Sara Tate’s going to—”

  “Shut up!” Rafferty shouted. “I don’t want to hear it! It’ll work!”

  Light-headed and still trembling, Claire looked like she was going to pass out. “Get me out of here.”

  “Shut up,” Rafferty said, pulling her by the arm toward the door. “I need to make one more stop.”

  “I’m sorry about the delay,” the Hoboken police officer said to Sara as they strode toward Elliott’s building.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Sara said, buzzing apartment eight.

  When there was no answer after a few buzzes, the Hoboken cop rammed his shoulder into the door, which flew wide open.

  When the group got to the top floor, they knocked on Elliott’s door. Again, there was no answer. “Elliott, are you there?” Sara called out. “Conrad?” Trying the doorknob, she found it unlocked and pushed the door open. “Oh, God,” she said.

  “You know these people?” the New Jersey cop asked.

  Sara didn’t answer. She couldn’t take her eyes off the bloody scene. This wasn’t like the autopsy—she knew these people. And as much as she feared them, no one should die like this. “I can’t believe it,” she said. “Why would they…how the hell could he do this?”

  Turning to the New York police officer, Guff said, “Hope the paperwork was worth it.”

  “Don’t blame this on me,” the cop shot back.

  “Looks like a robbery,” the New Jersey cop added as he examined the scene. “The guy in the leather jacket shoots the skinny guy, but as he’s about to leave, the skinny guy sits up and shoots the leather guy in the back of the head.”

  “Are you kidding?” Sara asked. “Look at the streaks of blood on the floor. Someone obviously moved Kozlow’s body.”

  “Or he was trying to crawl to the door,” the Jersey cop pointed out.

  “Oh, no,” Guff said from the living room, his voice shaking. “Sara! Sara, get in here!”

  Racing into the living room, Sara saw Guff down on both knees. And Conrad’s broken body lying in the corner. “Oh, no! Not him! Please, not him!” she screamed. She dropped down next to Guff and grabbed Conrad’s head in her hands. “Somebody get an ambulance! We need an ambulance!” She wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. She put her head to Conrad’s chest and listened for a heartbeat. Nothing. “C’mon,” she said, lightly slapping his cheek. “I know you’re still in there. Don’t give up!” Still nothing. She pounded his chest. “You heard me! You’re not giving up! I’m not going to let you!” Again, she hit him. And again. But he still didn’t move. As she squeezed his blood-soaked shirt, her hands were shaking and she started to hyperventilate. “Please, Conrad, don’t do this. Please, don’t leave. Please. Please, don’t leave me. Not again.” As the tears finally came, Sara wanted to shake him awake. She wanted to keep pounding his chest. She wanted to hear that pulse. But when it came right down to it, all she really wanted was to get him back.

  When she turned around, Guff was still weeping. “C’mere,” she said, opening her arms. Guff fell right in. For a minute, the two of them sat there, on their knees, silently consoling each other. “I’m sorry,” Sara finally said, rubbing his back. “I’m so sorry.”

  “He was my friend,” Guff cried.

  As Sara listened to the rise and fall of Guff’s sobs, she wondered how this had happened. Conrad hadn’t just been caught unprepared. He was ambushed. And the only way that was possible was if someone had known he was coming. Climbing to her feet, Sara wiped her eyes with her sleeve. He’d warned her, but she hadn’t listened. She wouldn’t make that mistake again. “Call the precinct and see if they picked up Jared,” she said to the New York cop.

  As the officer started dialing, Sara helped Guff up from the floor.

  “You really think it’s him?” Guff asked.

  “I don’t know what to think anymore. All I know is—”

  “What?” the officer blurted into his cell phone. “When?” Silent for a minute, he answered. “She’s with me. No, I got it. I’ll bring her right in.” He shut the phone and looked with shock at Sara.

  “What?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “They just got a 911 call from Wayne and Portnoy. The officer who went over there—he’s been shot.”

  Chapter 20

  THE CROWD OUTSIDE THE OFFICES OF WAYNE & PORTNOY was much calmer than Sara had expected, but it was still tenacious. Refusing to disperse, the evacuated workers gathered around the door, angling and elbowing for the best view of the action.

  “Damn city turns every disaster into a spectator sport,” the officer grumbled as the police car slowly made its way through the ever-growing crowd.

  Even before the car came to a complete stop, the officer had his door open. When they were as close as they were going to get, about half a block from the building, he let it fly wide and jumped out of the car. Guff quickly followed. Sara didn’t move.

  Turning around, Guff stopped. “C’mon, let’s go.”

  “But what if he—”

  “Sara, you have to face it sooner or later. It’s the only way to find out.”

  Nodding, she knew that Guff was right. As Sara got out of the car, Guff took off after the police officer, who was making his way toward the building. Following in the direction of her assistant, Sara fought her way through the tightly packed crowd. Within seconds, though, she lost Guff, who was too short to stand out. “Guff, wait!” she called out. It was too late. He was gone. Jumping up to get a better view, Sara caught sight of the police officer. He was holding his badge in the air and was almost at the front entrance of the building. But just as she moved toward him, she caught a glimpse of someone rushing away from the building and in the opposite direction from the crowd, approximately a hundred feet to her left. She could only see him from behind, but his athletic gait was unmistakable. Sara stopped dead in her tracks. “Jared?” she called out.

  If the man heard her, he wasn’t stopping. Craning her neck, Sara struggled to get a better look, but the crowd was too thick. “Jared!” she shouted again. He still didn’t stop. Pushing through the crowd, Sara followed the figure. Forget about it, she told herself. It’s not him. But as she watched his perfectly combed brown hair disappear in the sea of bystanders, she couldn’t ignore the resemblance. At the top of her lungs, she let out one more scream. “JARED, IT’S ME!”

  Suddenly, the man turned around and Sara’s mouth went dry. Their eyes locked for an instant. That was all it took. It was him. Without a doubt, it was her husband. Before Sara could even register a response, Jared turned and ran. “Jared, wait!” she shouted as the crowd seemed to envelop him.

  Using her outstretched arms to wade through the masses of people, she fought to catch up with him. He was weaving in every direction, seeming to use the confusion to his advantage. “Jared!” she shoute
d, barely able to see him. “Please don’t do this!” But Jared still didn’t stop. And as Sara frantically collided with bystander after bystander, she realized she was starting to lose him. Between the endless crowd and the advantage of Jared’s own speed, he was slipping away.

  As Jared headed farther away from the building and down Seventh Avenue, Sara completely lost sight of him. Panicking, she pulled out her badge and waved her hand in the air. “Police!” she yelled. “Stop that man!” Although not a single person reached out to stop him, they did make it easier for Sara to maneuver through the crowd. Once they started stepping out of her way, she was able to fly through the wake of people Jared was leaving behind.

  When she reached Forty-ninth Street, Sara stopped. Jared was gone. She looked down Seventh Avenue, but it didn’t look like anyone was running there. Maybe he’d turned on Forty-ninth, she thought. Then she heard someone shout, “Watch yourself, asshole!” and spotted an angry man coming out of the entrance to the subway, looking over his shoulder. There. She darted down the concrete stairs, raced underground, and promptly encountered another mob of people. Judging by the size of the crowd, it appeared that everyone who was not still swarming in front of the building was trying to take the subway. Running past the long line that stretched out from the token booth, Sara hopped over one of the turnstiles.

  She was stopped by a transit employee. “Sorry, not without a token,” he said as he held her by the arm.

  “Get the hell off me,” Sara said, pulling away. “My husband—”

  “Lady, I don’t care who your husband is, you’re not—”

  She shoved her badge in front of his face. “You want to talk to my boss?”

  “Sorry, I didn’t realize you were a—”

  But before the man could finish, Sara was gone, running down the subway platform. It took her only another thirty seconds to find Jared. He was forcing his way through the crowd toward the edge of the platform. Since most of the crowd was now standing still, waiting for the train to come, Sara could see that there were two other people running with him. When she was an arm’s length away, she realized who they were. And when she realized who they were, she also realized why Jared had been running.