by Andrew Gross
She didn’t know where any of this led.
Other than that her husband of eighteen years had been involved in something he’d kept from her and that Ty wasn’t telling her all he knew.
Along with the fact that much of the life she’d led the last eighteen years, all those little myths she’d believed in, had been a lie.
But there was something else burrowing inside her. Even more than the fear that her family was still at risk. Or sympathy for the two people who had died. Deaths, Karen was starting to believe, against her will, that were inextricably tied to Charles.
She realized she was worried for him, Hauck. What he was about to do.
It had never dawned on her before, but it did now. How she’d grown to rely on him. How she knew by the way he’d looked at her—that day at the football game, how his eyes lit up when he saw her waiting at the station, how he had taken everything on for her. That he was attracted to her.
And that in the most subtle, undetected way Karen was feeling the same way, too.
But there was more.
She felt certain he was about to do something rash, way outside the boundaries. That he might be putting himself in danger. Dietz was a killer, whatever he had done. That he was holding something back—something related to Charlie.
For her.
After he called, she stayed in the kitchen heating up a frozen French-bread pizza in the microwave for Alex, who seemed to live on those things.
When it was done, Karen called him down, and she sat with him at the counter, hearing about his day at school—how he’d gotten a B-plus on a presentation in European history that was half his final exam and how he’d been named co-chair of the teen Kids in Crisis thing. She was truly proud of that. They made a date to watch Friday Night Lights together in the TV room later that evening.
But when he went back upstairs, Karen stayed at the counter, her blood coursing in a disquieted state.
Strangely, inexplicably, there had grown to be something between them.
Something she couldn’t deny.
So after their show was done and Alex had said good night and had gone back upstairs, Karen went into the study and picked up the phone. She felt a shifting in her stomach, school-girlish, but she didn’t care. She dialed his number, her palms perspiring. He answered on the second ring.
“Lieutenant?” she said. She waited for his objection.
“Yes?” he answered. There was none.
“You just be careful,” she said again.
He tried to shrug it off with some joke about having done this a million times, but Karen cut him short.
“Don’t,” she pleaded. “Don’t. Don’t make me feel this all over again. Just please be careful, Ty. That’s all I’m asking. Y’hear?”
There was a silence for a second, and then he said, “Yeah, I hear.”
“Good,” she said softly, and hung up the phone.
Karen sat there on the couch for a long time, knees tucked into her chest. She felt a foreboding worming through her—just as it had on the small plane that day as the propellers whirred in Tortola, Charlie waving from the balcony, the sun reflecting off his aviators, a sudden sensation of loss. A tremor of fear.
“Just be careful, Ty,” she whispered again, to no one, and closed her eyes, afraid. I couldn’t bear to lose you, too.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
The interstate that ran barely a mile from where Hauck lived in Stamford, I-95, turned into the New Jersey Turnpike south of the George Washington Bridge.
He took it, past the swamps of the Meadowlands, past the vast electrical trellises and the warehouse parks of northern New Jersey, past Newark Airport, over two hours, to the southern part of the state, north of the Philadelphia turnoff.
He got off at Exit 5 in Burlington County, finding himself on back roads that cut through the downstate—Columbus, Mount Holly, sleepy towns connected by wide-open countryside, horse country, a universe away from the industrial congestion back up north.
Dietz had been a cop in the town of Freehold. Hauck checked before he left. He’d put in sixteen years.
Sixteen years that had been cut short by a couple of sexual-harassment complaints and two rebukes for undue force, as well as some other issue that didn’t go away involving an underage witness in a methamphetamine case where Dietz had been found to apply excessive pressure for her testimony, which sounded more like statutory rape.
Hauck had missed all this. What reason had there ever been to check?
Since then Dietz was self-employed in some kind of security company, Dark Star. Hauck had looked them up. It was hard to figure out just what they did. Bodyguards. Security. Private contract work. Not exactly installing exclusive security systems, or whatever he had said he’d been doing in the area when AJ Raymond was killed.
Dietz was a bad guy.
As he drove along backcountry stretches, Hauck’s mind wandered. He had been a cop for almost fifteen years. Basically, it was all he knew. He’d risen fast through the bureaucracy that was the NYPD. He’d made detective. Been assigned to special units. Now he ran his own department in Greenwich. He’d always upheld the law.
What was he going to do when he got there? He didn’t even have a plan.
Outside Medford, Hauck found County Road 620.
On each side there were gently sloping fields and white fencing. There were a few signs for stables and horse farms. Merry-vale Farms—home to Barrister, “World’s Record, quarter mile.” Near Taunton Lake, Hauck checked the GPS. Dietz’s address was 733 Muncey Road. It was about three miles south of town. Middle of nowhere. Hauck found it, bordering a fenced-in field and a local firehouse. He turned down the road. His heart started to pick up.
What are you doing here, Ty?
Muncey was a rutted blacktopped road in dire need of a repaving. There were a few houses near the turnoff, small clapboard farmhouses with trucks or the occasional horse van in front and overgrown, weeded yards. Hauck found a number on a mailbox: 340. He had a ways to go.
At some point the road turned into dirt. Hauck bounced along in his Bronco. The houses grew farther apart. At a bend he came upon a cluster of RD mailboxes, 733 written on one of them. The postal service didn’t even come down any farther. A tremor shot through Hauck as he knew he was near. Boundaries, he knew he’d left them behind long ago. He didn’t have a warrant. He hadn’t run this by the office. Dietz was a potential co-conspirator in two homicides.
What the hell are you doing down here, Ty?
He passed a red, fifties-style ranch house: 650. A film of sweat had built up on his wrists and under his collar. He was getting close.
Now there was a huge distance between homes this far down. Maybe a quarter mile. There was no sound to be heard, other than the unsettling crunch of gravel under the Bronco’s wheels.
Finally it came into view. Around a slight bend, tucked away under a nest of tall elms, the end of the road. An old white farmhouse. The picket fence in front was in need of repair. A loose gutter was hanging down. What lawn there was looked like it hadn’t been mowed in months. Except for the presence of a two-seater Jeep with a plowing hitch attached in the driveway, it hardly looked as if anyone even lived here. Hauck slowed the Bronco as he drove by, trying not to attract attention. A Freehold Township Police sticker was on the back of the Jeep. A number on the column of the front porch confirmed it:
733.
Bingo.
The dilapidated two-car garage was shut. Hauck couldn’t see any lights on inside the house. Cars would be few and far between down here. He didn’t want to be spotted driving by again. About fifty yards past, he noticed a turnoff, more of a horse trail than a road, barely wide enough for his car, and he took it, bouncing over the uneven terrain. Partway in, he cut a left through a field of dried hay, his path concealed by the tall, waist-high brush. A couple of hundred yards behind, Hauck had a decent view of the house.
Okay, so what happens now?
From a satchel Hauck removed a
set of binoculars and, lowering the window, took a wide scan back at the house. No movement. A shutter hung indolently from one of the windows. No indication that anyone was there.
From the same satchel, Hauck took out his Sig automatic, safety off, checking that the sixteen nine-millimeter rounds were loaded in the clip. He hadn’t drawn his gun in years. He recalled running into an alley, firing off three rounds at a suspect fleeing from a building, who had sprayed his TEC-9 at Hauck’s partner in a weapons bust as he was running away. He’d hit the guy in the leg with one shot. Brought him in. Received a commendation for it. That was the only time he had ever fired his gun on the job.
Hauck rested the gun on the seat next to him. Then he opened the glove compartment and took out the small black leather folder that contained his Greenwich shield. He didn’t quite know what to do with it, so he placed it in the pocket of his jacket, and took out a two-liter bottle of water and drank a long swig. His mouth was dry. He decided not to think too hard on what he was doing here. He took another sweep on the house with the binoculars.
Nothing. Not a fucking thing.
Then he did what he’d done a hundred times in various stakeouts over the years.
He uncapped a beer and watched seconds tick off the clock.
He waited.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
He watched the house all night. No lights ever went on. No one ever drove up or came home.
At some point he looked up the phone number Dietz had given him along with his home address and dialed it. After four rings the answering machine came on. “You’ve reached Dark Star Security…. Please leave a message.” Hauck hung up. He turned the radio to 104.3 Classic Rock and found the Who. No one knows what it’s like to be the bad man…. His eyes grew heavy, and he dozed off for a while.
When he woke, it was light. Nothing had changed.
Hauck tucked the gun into his belt. Stretched on a pair of latex gloves. Then he grabbed a Maglite and his cell phone and stepped out of the Bronco. He pushed his way through the dense hayfield until he found the trail.
He decided that if Dietz was somehow there, he’d arrest him. He’d call in the Freehold police and work out the details later.
If he wasn’t, he’d take a look around.
He made his way down the dirt road to the front of the dilapidated house. There was a sign on the scrabbly lawn: PRIVATE PROPERTY. BEWARE OF DOG. He climbed up the steps, his heart beginning to pound in his chest, his palms slick with perspiration. He stood to one side of the door and peeked in through a covered window. Nothing. He drew a breath and wondered if he was doing something crazy. Here goes…. He put a hand on the grip of his automatic. With the other he took his Maglite and knocked on the front door.
“Anyone home?”
Nothing.
After a few moments, he knocked again. “I’m looking for some directions…. Anybody home?”
Only silence came back.
The porch was a wraparound. Hauck decided to follow it around the side. On the lawn, just off the dirt driveway, he spotted a condenser box hidden in a bush and went over and lifted the metal panel. It was the main electrical feed to the house. Hauck pulled it, disabling the phone line and the alarm. Then he went back to the porch. Through the window he could see a dining room with a plain wooden table inside. Farther along he came upon the kitchen. It was old, fifties tile and linoleum, hadn’t been updated in years. He tried the back door.
It was locked shut as well.
Suddenly a dog barked, the sound penetrating him. Hauck stiffened, swallowing his breath, feeling exposed. Then he realized that the bark had come from a neighboring property, a faraway woof that rifled through his bones, hundreds of yards off. Hauck looked out at the obstructed fields. His blood calmed. Nerves…
He continued around the back of the house. He passed a locked shed, a lawn mower with a protective tarp covering it, a few rusted tools scattered about. There was a step up to a cedar back porch. An old Weber grill. A bench-style outdoor table. Two French doors led to the back of the house. The curtains were drawn.
Hauck stepped carefully and paused for a moment, hidden by the curtains, in front of the door. It was locked as well. Panels of divided glass. A bolt drawn. He took his Maglite and tapped on one of the panels near the doorknob. It jiggled in its frame. Loose. He knelt down and hit the panel one more time, hard. The panel split and fell in.
Hand on his gun, he held there for a moment, waiting for any noise. Nothing. He doubted that Dietz had a security tie-in to the local police. He wouldn’t want to take the chance of anybody needlessly poking around.
Hauck reached in through the open panel and wrapped his hand around the knob. He flicked the bolt back and twisted.
The door opened wide.
There was no alarm, no sound emanating. Cautiously, Hauck stepped inside.
He found himself in some kind of shabbily decorated sunroom. Faded upholstered chairs, a wooden table. A few magazines scattered on the table. Forbes. Outdoor Life. Security Today.
Heart pounding, Hauck took hold of his gun and went back through the kitchen, the floorboards creaking with each step. The house was dark, still. He looked into the living room and saw a fancy new Samsung flat-screen.
He was in. He just had no idea what he was searching for.
Hauck found a small room between the living room and the kitchen that was lined with bookshelves. An office. There was a small brick fireplace, a countertop desk with papers strewn about, a computer. A bunch of photos on the wall. Hauck looked. He recognized Dietz. In uniform with other policemen. In fishing clothes holding up an impressive sailfish. Another on some kind of large black-hulled sailing ship with a bare-chested, dark-haired man.
Hauck sifted through some of the papers on the desk. A few scattered bills, a couple of memos with Dark Star letterhead on them. Nothing that seemed to shed any light. The computer was on. Hauck saw an icon on the home page for Gmail, but when he clicked on it, up came a prompt asking for a password. Blocked. He took a shot and clicked the Internet icon, and the Google News homepage came on. He pointed the mouse and looked around to see what sites Dietz had previously logged on to. The last was the American Airlines site. International travel. Several seemed like standard trade sites. Farther down was something called the IAIM. He clicked—the International Association of Investment Managers.
Hauck felt his blood stir.
Harbor Capital, Charles Friedman’s firm, had been queried in.
He sat in Dietz’s chair and tried to follow the search. A Web file on the firm came up. A description of their business, energy-related portfolios. Assets under management, a few performance charts. A short history of the firm with a bio page of the management team. A photo of Friedman.
That wasn’t all.
Falcon Partners, the investment partnership out of the BVIs, had been queried, too.
Now Hauck’s blood was racing. He realized he was on the right track. The IAIM page merely provided a listing for Falcon. There was no information or records. Only a contact name and address in Tortola, which Hauck copied down. Then he swung around to the papers on Dietz’s desk. Messages, correspondence, bills.
There had to be something here.
In a plastic in-box tray, he found something that sent his antennae buzzing. A photocopy of a list of names, from the National Association of Securities Dealers, of people who had received licenses to trade securities for investment purposes. The list ran on for pages, hundreds of names and securities firms, from all across the globe. Hauck scanned down—what would Dietz be looking for?
Then, all of a sudden, it occurred to him just what was unique about the list of licenses.
They had all been granted within the past year.
As Hauck paged through it, he saw that several names had been circled. Others were crossed out, with handwritten notes in the margins. There were hundreds. A long, painstaking search to narrow them down.
Then it hit him, like a punch in the solar plexus.
Karen Friedman wasn’t the only person who thought her husband was alive!
There was a printer-copier on the credenza adjacent to the desk, and Hauck placed the security list along with Dietz’s notes in it. He kept looking. Amid some scattered sheets, he found a handwritten note on Dark Star stationery.
The Barclays Bank. In Tortola.
There was a long number under it, which had to be an account number, then arrows leading to other banks—the First Caribbean Bank. Nevis. Banc Domenica. Names. Thomas Smith. Ronald Torbor. It had been underlined three times.
Who were these people? What was Dietz looking for? Hauck had always assumed that Charles and Dietz were connected. The hit-and-runs…
That’s when it struck him. Jesus…
Dietz was searching for him, too.
Hauck picked up a scrawled sheet of paper from the tray, some kind of travel itinerary. American Airlines. Tortola. Nevis. His skin started to feel all tingly.
Dietz was ahead of him. Did he possibly already know where Charles was?
He placed in a copy of the same sheet in the printing bay and pressed. The machine started warming up.
Then suddenly there was a noise from outside the window. Hauck’s heart slammed to a stop.
Wheels crunching over gravel, followed by the sound of a car door slamming.
Someone was home.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Hauck’s blood became ice. He went over to the window and peeked through the drawn curtains. Dietz’s office faced the wrong direction; there was no way to determine who it was. He removed the Sig 9 from his belt and checked the clip. He was completely out of bounds here—no warrant, no backup.
Inside, Hauck was just praying it wasn’t Dietz.
He heard a knock at the door. Someone shouting out, “Phil?” Then, after a short pause, something that made his pulse skyrocket. The sound of a key being inserted in the front door, the lock opening. A man’s voice calling.
