by Andrew Gross
Not just stop—shatter. Lennick’s eyes bulged at the sight of the flashing lights outside.
“Yes, Saul, it’s done,” Karen said, calling from Dietz’s phone. “Now it’s completely done.”
THREE GREENWICH BLUE-AND-WHITE police cars were pulled up in the courtyard of Lennick’s stately Normandy that bordered the wooded expanse of the Greenwich Country Club.
Karen leaned against one, wrapped in a blanket, her clothes still wet. With a surge of satisfaction running through her, she handed Dietz’s phone back to Hauck. “Thank you, Ty.”
Carl Fitzpatrick himself had gone inside—as Hauck was under the care of a med tech—and the chief and two uniformed patrolmen pulled Lennick out of the house, his wrists bound in cuffs.
The banker’s wife, dressed in just a night robe, ran out after him, frantic. “Why are they doing this, Saul? What’s going on? What are they talking about—murder?”
“Call Tom!” Lennick shouted back over his shoulder as they led him onto the brick circle to one of the waiting cars. His eyes met Hauck’s and cast him a contemptuous glare. “I’ll be home tomorrow,” he reassured his wife, almost mockingly.
His gaze fell upon Karen. She shivered despite the blanket but didn’t break her gaze. Her eyes contained the hint of a wordless, satisfied smile.
As if she were saying, He won, Saul. With a nod. He won.
They pushed Lennick into one of the cars. Karen came over to Hauck. Exhausted, she rested her head against his weakened arm.
It’s over.
The sound came from behind them. Only a sharp ping of splintering glass.
It took a moment to figure it out. By that time Hauck was screaming that someone was shooting and had pressed his body over Karen’s on the driveway, shielding her.
“Ty, what’s going on?”
Everyone hit the pavement or ducked protectively behind vehicles. Police guns came out, radios crackled. People were yelling, “Everyone get down! Get down!”
It all stopped as quickly as it began.
The shot had come from up in the trees. From the grounds of the club. No car starting. No footsteps.
Guns trained, the officers looked for a shooter in the darkeness.
Shouts rang out. “Is anyone hurt?”
No one answered.
Freddy Muñoz got up and got on the radio to order the area closed off, but there were a dozen ways to get out from back there. Onto Hill. Deerfield. North Street.
Anywhere.
Hauck pulled himself up off Karen. His eye was drawn to the waiting police car. His stomach fell. “Oh, Jesus, God…”
There was a spiderweb of fractured glass in the rear passenger window. A tiny hole in the center.
Saul Lennick was slumped against it, as if napping.
There was a widening dark spot on the side of his head. His white hair was turning red.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FOUR
Illegal search. Breaking and entering. Unauthorized use of official firearms. Failing to report a felony act.
These were just some of the offenses Hauck knew he might be facing from his bed in Greenwich Hospital. Not to mention misleading a murder investigation in the BVIs, but at least, for the moment, that was out of the jurisdiction here.
Still, as he lay attached to a network of catheters and monitors, recuperating from surgeries on his abdomen and leg, it occurred to him that a continuing career in law enforcement was pretty much of a morphine drip right now.
That next morning Carl Fitzpatrick came to visit. He brought an arrangement of daffodils with him and placed it on the sill next to the flowers sent by the local policemen’s union, shrugging at Hauck a bit foolishly, as if to say, The wife made me do it, Ty.
Hauck nodded and said, straightfaced, “I’m actually a bit more partial to purples and reds, Carl.”
“Next time, then.” Fitzpatrick grinned, sitting down.
He inquired about Hauck’s injuries. The bullet to his side had had the good fortune of missing anything vital. That would heal. The leg, however—Hauck’s right hip, actually—with all the running and limping around as he went after Dietz and Lennick, was basically shot.
“The doctor says those end-to-end rushes on the rink are pretty much a thing of the past now.” Hauck smiled.
His boss nodded like that was too bad. “Well, you weren’t exactly Bobby Orr.” Then after a pause, Fitzpatrick shifted forward. “You know, I’d like to be able to say, ‘Good work, Ty.’ I mean, that was one sweet mother of a bust.” He shook his head soberly. “Why couldn’t you have just brought it in to me, Ty? We could have done it by the book.”
Hauck shifted. “Guess I just got carried away.”
“Yeah.” The chief grinned, as if appreciating the joke. “That’s what you could call it, getting carried away.” Fitzpatrick stood up. “I gotta go.”
Hauck reached over to him. “So be honest with me, Carl, what are the chances I’ll be back on the job?”
“Honest?”
“Yeah.” Hauck sighed. “Honest.”
The chief blew a long blast of air. “I don’t know….” he swallowed. “There’ll definitely have to be a review. People are going to look to me for some kind of suspension.”
Hauck sucked in a breath. “I understand.”
Fitzpatrick shrugged. “I don’t know, Ty, whaddaya think? Maybe a week?” He curled a bright smile. “That was one fucking kick-ass of a bust, Lieutenant. I can’t exactly stand behind the way you went about it. But it was sweet. Sweet enough that I want you back. So rest up. Take care of yourself. Ty, I probably shouldn’t be saying this, but you should be proud.”
“Thank you, Carl.”
Fitzpatrick gave Hauck a tug on the forearm and headed to the door.
“Hey, Carl…”
The chief turned at the door. “Yeah?”
“If I had done it by the book…If I had come to you and said I wanted to reopen the Raymond hit-and-run. Before I had something. Tell me straight, would you have agreed?”
“Agreed?” The chief squinted in thought. “To open it back up? On what, Lieutenant?” He laughed as he went out the door. “No effing way.”
HAUCK NAPPED A little. He felt restored. Around lunchtime there was a knock at the door. Jessie came in.
With Beth.
“Hey, honey….” Hauck grinned widely. When he tried to open his arms, he winced.
“Oh, Daddy…” With tears of worry, Jessie ran over and put her face against his chest. “Daddy, are you going to be all right?”
“I’m okay, hon. I promise. I’m going to be okay. Strong as ever.”
She nodded, and Hauck pressed her against him. He looked over at Beth.
She curled her short brown hair behind her ear and leaned against the door. Smiled. He was sure she was about to tell him, something like, Nice job, Lieutenant, or, You sure outdid yourself this time, Ty.
But she didn’t.
Instead she came over and stood by the bed. Her eyes were liquid and deep, and it took her a while to say anything at all, and when she did, it was with a tight smile and a fond squeeze of his hand.
“All right,” she said, “you can have Thanksgiving, Ty.”
He looked at her and smiled.
And for the first time in years, he felt he saw something there. In her moist eyes. Something he’d been waiting for for a long time. Something that had been lost and had eluded him for many years and now, with their daughter’s wet cheeks pressed into him, had been found.
Forgiveness.
He winked at her and held Jessie close. “That’s good to hear, Beth.”
THAT NIGHT HAUCK was a little groggy from all the medications. He had the Yankees game on but couldn’t follow. There was a soft knock at the door.
Karen stepped in.
She was dressed in her gray Texas Longhorns T-shirt, a jean jacket thrown around her shoulders. Her hair was pinned up. Hauck noticed a cut on the side of her lip where Dietz had slapped her. She carried a single rose in a small vase and came o
ver and placed it next to his bed.
“My heart.” She pointed to it.
He smiled.
“You look pretty,” he told her.
“Yeah, right. I look like a bus just ran over me.”
“No. Everything looks pretty. The morphine’s kicking in.”
Karen smiled. “I was here last night when you were in surgery. The doctors talked to me. You’re Mr. Lucky, Ty. How’s the leg?”
“It was never exactly what you’d call limber. Now it’s just completely shot.” He chuckled. “The whole—”
“Don’t say it.” Karen stopped him. “Please.”
Hauck nodded. After a pause he shrugged. “So what the hell is a shebang anyway?”
Karen’s eyes glistened. “I don’t know.” She squeezed his hand with both of hers and stared deeply into his hooded eyes. “Thank you, Ty. I owe you so much. I owe you everything. I wish I knew what the hell to say.”
“Don’t…”
Karen pressed his fingers in her palms and shook her head. “I just don’t know if I can pick up the same way.”
He nodded.
“Charlie’s dead,” she said. “That’s gonna take some time now. And the kids…they’re coming back.” She looked at him. Amid all these tubes, the monitor screens beeping. Her eyes flooded over.
“I understand.”
She placed her head down on his chest. Felt his breathing.
“On the other hand”—she sniffed back a few tears—“I guess we could give it a try.”
Hauck laughed. More like winced, pain rising up in his belly.
“Yeah.” He held her. He stroked her hair. The fleshy round of her cheek. He felt her stop shaking. He felt himself start to feel at ease, too.
“We could try.”
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FIVE
Two weeks later
Hauck drove his Bronco up to the large stone gate.
He lowered his window and leaned out to press an intercom button. A voice responded. “Yes?”
“Lieutenant Hauck,” Hauck said into the speaker.
“Drive up to the house,” the voice replied. The gates slowly opened. “Mr. Khodoshevsky is expecting you.”
Hauck made his way up the long paved drive. Even applying the slightest pressure on the gas, his right leg still ached. He had begun some therapy, but there were weeks ahead of him. The doctors told him he might never again walk without the trace of a limp.
The property was massive. He drove past a huge pond. There was a fenced-in field—for horses, maybe. At the top he drove up to an enormous redbrick Georgian with a magnificent courtyard in front, an ornately crafted fountain in the center, with water spilling out of sculptured figures into a marble pool.
Billionaires ruining things for millionaires, Hauck recalled. Even by Greenwich standards, he’d never seen anything quite like this.
He stepped out of the car. Grabbed his cane. It helped. He climbed up the steps to the impressive front doors.
He rang the bell. Loud choral peals. That didn’t surprise him. A young woman answered. Attractive. Eastern European. Maybe an au pair.
“Mr. Khodoshevsky asked me to bring you to the den,” she said with a smile. “This way.”
A young boy, maybe five or six, raced past him riding some kind of motorized toy car. “Beep, beep!”
The au pair yelled out, “Michael, no!” Then she smiled apologetically. “Sorry.”
“I’m a cop.” Hauck winked. “Tell him to try and keep it under forty in here.”
He was led through a series of palatial rooms to a family room at the side of the house, featuring a curved wall of windows overlooking the property. There was a large leather couch, a recognizable contemporary painting over it that Hauck took to be immensely valuable, though he wasn’t exactly sure about the guy’s use of blue. A huge media console was stacked against a wall, a stereo that went on forever. The requisite sixty-inch flat-screen.
There was an old-time Western movie on.
“Lieutenant.”
Hauck spotted a set of legs reclining on an ottoman. Then a large, bushy-haired body rose out of a chair, wearing baggy shorts and an oversize yellow T-shirt that read MONEY IS THE BEST REVENGE.
“I’m Gregory Khodoshevsky.” The man extended a hand. He had a powerful shake. “Please, sit down.”
Hauck eased against a chair, taking his weight off. He leaned on his cane. “Thanks.”
“I see you’re not well?”
“Just a little procedure,” Hauck lied. “Bum hip.”
The Russian nodded. “I’ve had my knee worked on several times. Skiing.” He grinned. “I’ve learned—man is not meant to ski through trees.” He reached for the clicker and turned down the volume. “You like westerns, Lieutenant?”
“Sure. Everyone does.”
“Me, too. This is my favorite: The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. Never quite sure exactly who I identify with, though. My wife, of course, insists it’s the ugly.”
Hauck grinned. “If I remember, that was one of the film’s themes. They all had their motives.”
“Yes.” The Russian smiled. “I think you’re right—they all had motives. So what do I owe this visit to, Lieutenant Hauck?”
“I was working a case. A name came up that I hoped might mean something to you. Charles Friedman.”
“Charles Friedman?” The Russian shrugged. “I’m sorry, no, Lieutenant. Should it?”
The guy was good, Hauck thought. A natural. Hauck looked back at him closely. “I was hoping so.”
“Although, now that you mention it”—Khodoshevsky brightened—“I do remember someone named Friedman. He ran some benefit in town I went to a year or two ago. The Bruce Museum, I think. I made a donation. I remember now, he had an attractive wife. Maybe his name was Charles, if it’s the one. So what did he do?”
“He’s dead,” Hauck said. “He had a connection to a case I was looking into, a hit-and-run.”
“A hit-and-run.” Khodoshevsky grimaced. “Too bad. The traffic up here is unbearable, Lieutenant. I’m sure you know that. Sometimes I’m afraid to cross the street myself in town.”
“Especially when someone doesn’t want you to succeed,” Hauck said, staring into the Russian’s steely eyes.
“Yes. I imagine that’s true. Is there some reason you connected this man to me?”
“Yes.” Hauck nodded. “Saul Lennick.”
“Lennick!” The Russian drew in a breath. “Now, Lennick I did know. Terrible. That such a thing could happen. Right in the man’s own home. Right here in town. A challenge, I’m sure, for you, Lieutenant.”
“Mr. Friedman was killed himself a couple of weeks back. In the British Virgin Isles…Turns out he and Mr. Lennick were financial partners.”
Khodoshevsky’s eyes widened, as if in surprise. “Partners? Crazy what’s going on around here. But I’m afraid I never saw the man again. Sorry that you had to come all the way out here to find that out. I wish I could have been more help.”
Hauck reached for his cane. “Not a total loss. I don’t often get to see a house like this.”
“I’d be happy to show you around.”
Hauck pushed himself up and winced. “Another time.”
“I wish you good luck with your leg. And finding who was responsible for such a terrible thing.”
“Thanks.” Hauck took a step toward the door. “You know, before I go, there’s something I might show you. Just in case it jogs something. I was down in the Caribbean myself a week ago.” Hauck took out his cell phone. “I noticed something interesting—in the water. Off this island. I actually grabbed a snapshot of it. Funny, only a couple of miles from where Charles Friedman ended up killed.”
He handed the cell phone to Khodoshevsky, who stared curiously at the image on the screen. The one Hauck had taken on his run.
Khodoshevsky’s schooner. The Black Bear.
“Humph.” The Russian shook his head, meeting Hauck’s gaze. “Funny how lives seem to intersect, isn’t it
, Lieutenant?”
“No more,” Hauck said, looking at him.
“Yes, you’re right.” He handed back the phone. “No more.”
“I’ll find my way out,” Hauck said, placing his phone back in his pocket. “Just one last piece of advice, Mr. Khodoshevsky, if you don’t mind. You seem to be partial to westerns, so I think you’ll understand.”
“And what is that?” The Russian looked at him innocently.
Hauck shrugged. “You know the expression ‘Get out of Dodge’?”
“I think I’ve heard it. The sheriff always says it to the bad guys. But of course they never do.”
“No, they never do.” Hauck took a step toward the door. “That’s what makes westerns. But just this once, you know, they should, Mr. Khodoshevsky.” Hauck looked at him closely. “You should. If you know what I mean.”
“I think I understand.” The Russian smiled.
“Oh, and by the way”—Hauck turned, tilting his cane at the door—“that’s one hell of a sweet boat, Mr. Khodoshevsky—if you know what I mean!”
EPILOGUE
“Flesh becomes dust and ash. Our ashes return to the soil. Where, in the cycle set before us by the Almighty, life springs up again.”
It was a warm summer day, the sky a perfect blue. Karen looked down at Charlie’s casket in the open grave. She had brought him back home, as she promised she would. He deserved that. A tear burned in the corner of her eye.
He deserved that and more.
Karen held tightly onto the hands of Samantha and Alex. This was so hard for them, harder than for anyone. They didn’t understand. How he could have kept such secrets from them? How he could just walk away, whatever he’d done? Whoever he was?
“We were a family,” Samantha said to Karen, confusion, even a measure of accusation, in her trembling voice.
“Yes, we were a family,” Karen said.
She had come to forgive him. She had even come to love him again—in a way.
We were a family. Maybe one day they would love him again, too.
