When he touched down at the East End airport, he went straight to his house. The first thing he did was call Reggie Bokkenheuser and tell her she had the job. She tried to play it cool but couldn’t. She was too excited. When he hung up the phone, she was still telling him how he’d never regret this. He told her he didn’t expect to regret it. And he told her to report to work the next day.
Justin walked to the station after that. He needed the three-quarters of a mile or so of fresh air. The conversation with Katy Billings and the flight in the small plane had felt stifling and confining, emotionally and physically claustrophobic. It felt good to be out in the cold; it refreshed him to see his breath billow out in front of him as he walked. By the time he got to the station it was twelve-fifteen, his hands and face were turning red, and he felt both awake and alive.
When he got settled, he motioned for Gary and Thomas to come over to his desk. He gave them the name Hutchinson Cooke, told them to find out where the man lived. When they stared at him, baffled, he told them it was the name of the pilot who’d crashed in the small plane, the Piper, told them he needed as much background material as they could provide, and then he realized they weren’t staring because they wanted more information about the assignment, but because they simply didn’t know where to begin. So he said to start in Washington, D.C., check the city and every suburb within thirty miles for an address and phone number. He told them to use the Internet, to check Air Force bases around the country, any Air Force records they could get their hands on, anything it took to find out where he lived and anything else about him, no matter how much time they had to devote to it. They nodded, took one step away, then Justin cleared his throat, which meant they were supposed to stop and pay attention. When they stopped and paid attention, he said, “I hired someone. A new cop.”
“Cool,” Gary said. “Who is he?”
“He’s a she.” They gave that same confused stare and Justin said, “Her name’s Regina. Reggie. Reggie Bokkenheuser.” And then, for some reason, he said, “That’s Danish.” They nodded, satisfied, turned to walk away again, and Justin said, “She’s got a lot of experience. She’s going to be second in command here.”
This time the two young cops didn’t just look confused, they registered some hurt. Justin said, again, “She’s got a lot of experience.”
Neither Gary nor Thomas said a word. They just nodded one more time, went back to their desks, and began working the phones and the Net.
Justin thought, Hey, that went pretty well. As he started to go through the mail, mostly junk or crank mail that came in to the police chief—unsigned notes complaining about barking dogs, angry letters decrying the mess left by the weekend tourists—he decided, Maybe this management thing’s not as bad as I thought.
The smug feeling didn’t last very long. In fact, it lasted less than a minute, because that’s when Justin looked up and saw the man in the dark gray suit standing in the front door of the station house. The guy was wearing a dark overcoat, unbuttoned, so it flapped open. He was in his late forties to mid-fifties, hard to tell exactly because his hair was light and cut too short to reveal much gray, and dark sunglasses hid his eyes. He was tall, a little over six feet, and lean; he didn’t look as if he could have weighed more than one-seventy, one-seventy-five. The muscles on his neck were taut, and Justin had a feeling the rest of him was probably just as taut. A Fed, Justin thought. And after that he thought, I already don’t like him.
The man didn’t hesitate, walked over to Justin’s desk and stood over it.
“Justin Westwood?” he asked. And when Justin nodded, the man said, “Hubbell Schrader, FBI.”
“You guys should think about neon,” Justin said. “It’d be a little less obvious.”
Hubbell Schrader grinned. “It’s in the handbook,” he said. “We have to look like this.”
Justin had to return the grin. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m not exactly sure,” Schrader said. “I thought I should check in with you, though.”
“About what?”
“For one thing, Chuck Billings. I was dealing with him and he was a good guy, damn good at his job.”
“So this is a sympathy call?”
“I know all local cops are supposed to hate us Feds, but maybe you can give it a rest for a while. I don’t have any hidden agenda here and I’m not looking to bust your balls.”
Justin’s warning light came on. He remembered what Billings had said about this guy: an asshole. And worse, an asshole who didn’t want to get to the meat of the case. He’d basically told the bomb experts what to think and what to say. The warning light glowed only brighter at the words “I don’t have any hidden agenda.” That meant that Special Agent Schrader was out for blood. He was a magician masquerading as a cop: anything that was revealed was going to be fake; anything he placed in plain sight was not going to be real.
Justin looked up at Schrader and bit his lip, his expression as full of regret as he could muster. The guy wanted to throw around the bullshit, Justin could toss it with the best of them. “You’re right,” he said. “Sorry. What can I do for you?”
“Is there an office or someplace a little more private?”
Justin hesitated, then stood and led Schrader back to Jimmy Leggett’s office. He flicked the light switch and the fluorescent light flickered on for the first time since Jimmy had been killed.
The two men sat—Justin a bit uncomfortably behind Jimmy’s desk—and the FBI agent said, “I’ve been one of the men in charge of investigating the Harper’s explosion. One of the reasons I’m here is that I know Billings took you there, gave you a little look-see.” When Justin didn’t say anything, Schrader went on quickly. “I said I’m not looking to bust your balls and I’m not. I don’t know why he took you there and I don’t really care. I assume he had his reasons. What I want to know is if he might have told you something that could in any way be useful.”
Justin hesitated, then said, “He didn’t really tell me anything.”
“So can I ask why you were there?”
Justin made a show of shrugging, as if apologizing for what he was about to say. “My boss, the guy whose office we’re in, was killed in the explosion.”
“Jimmy Leggett. I know. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well, the thing is, I made a promise to his wife. She was kind of hysterical and asked me to find out why he was killed. I asked Chuck to show me the site, no reason really, just so I could tell her I saw it. I mean, there’s not much I’m going to be able to tell her—what the hell can I really do or find out?—but I at least wanted to make it look good.”
“So was it helpful?”
“No. Mostly it was just depressing as hell.”
“Did Billings give you any of his theories on what happened?”
“He tried. Not in any great depth or anything. I have to say, I wasn’t able to understand most of what he was talking about. It was a lot of technical bomb stuff, and that’s hardly my area.”
“Kind of a self-effacing guy, aren’t you?”
Justin shrugged again. “Just telling you what happened.”
“Did Chuck discuss with you anything about a notebook?”
“What kind of notebook?”
“His notes on the case. Anything he might have written down about his investigation.”
“No. I don’t think he was carrying anything when he gave me the tour. I hate to use that word, but you know what I mean.”
“He didn’t have a casebook with him?”
“No. But we weren’t really there on official business. He was just showing me the site as a favor. I wasn’t really picking his brains and he certainly wasn’t picking mine.”
It was now a little after twelve-thirty, and Justin glanced up from the desk because Stanton “Don’t call me Stan, my name’s Stanton” Carman from the East End post office was tapping his thin, nervous fingers on the doorframe. Stanton, a small, wiry guy with a thin mustache that looked like it had been
penciled on, had worked in the post office for fourteen years. He liked to think he was both tough and cool, although he was far from either. In keeping with his self-image, he flirted with every single woman who mailed a letter or picked up a package, and on his lunch breaks he often stopped in at the police station to chat, annoying the hell out of everyone. He was harmless, and sometimes he’d take mail from them, saving a trip and a wait on line, so the cops all tolerated him. He always came in with a little swagger—the closer he got to the police station, the more he swaggered—and even lounging in the doorway his body language was self-important. Justin’s eyes were raised but he didn’t speak, because any opening for conversation was an invitation for Stanton to talk your head off, so the post office clerk just dropped a large manila envelope on the desk.
“Came for you this morning, Chief,” Stanton said. “You in this office now?”
Justin looked up at him. Usually they were on a first-name basis. This “Chief” thing was new. He shook his head, a silent answer to Stanton’s question, and did his best to look as if Stanton should get the hell out now.
“Looked like it might be important, so I thought I’d drop it by.”
Justin nodded again. He knew if he said a word, he’d be stuck for the next ten minutes. Maybe longer. Even with Hubbell Schrader in the room. Stanton never seemed to care if he was interrupting even the most important business conversation.
“Expecting something?” Schrader asked.
Justin wasn’t. He rarely got anything besides bills and the occasional postcard from Deena’s young daughter, Kendall, when she went away on a short trip. But without thinking he answered, “Yeah.” With a smile, as if there were something sentimental inside. “From my dad.”
“Well . . . see ya,” Stanton said, and Justin waited until he was out the door before casually dropping the envelope on the desk and saying to the FBI agent, “Anything else?”
“Maybe,” Schrader said. “The plane crash a few days ago. Got anything on that?”
“I was wondering if you guys were going to get around to that. You interested?” Justin did his best to register genuine surprise.
“It hasn’t been a top priority because our info is that it was an accident. But I’m interested in anything out of the ordinary right now. And that sure as hell qualifies as out of the ordinary.”
“You know, it’s weird,” Justin said. “I don’t have a goddamn thing. Maybe you can help me out. Might be to your benefit, too. The pilot didn’t have a shred of ID on him. I managed to get a fingerprint but it doesn’t seem to be on record anywhere.” He thought about his next sentence, whether or not to toss it in, decided he’d go for it. “I even called a friend of mine in the FBI. The agent who runs the New England bureau. I know her from Providence, that’s where I’m from.”
“Chinkle or something like that, right?”
“Wanda Chinkle. Exactly.”
“She help you out?”
“Nope. Said she tried and got the same answer—nothing on record.”
“I’m sorry about that,” Schrader said. “We restricted access.”
“But you know the pilot’s identity?”
Schrader nodded.
“You gonna share it?” Justin asked.
“I don’t want to be difficult,” the agent said. “In fact, I’m under orders to try to be as cooperative as possible. But I’m also under orders not to reveal his name.”
“Why?”
“We’ve been looking into it,” Schrader said. “We don’t have any answers yet, but we’re investigating. Like I said, we’re looking at anything out of the ordinary. We got burned pretty bad on 9/11, didn’t connect a lot of the dots we should’ve connected. We can’t ignore anything that might relate to this bombing.”
“And does it?”
“It’s unlikely, but we don’t know for sure yet. That’s why we’re not releasing any information. I know it’s frustrating, but if local cops get involved, even someone as competent as you seem to be, it can only muddle things even further.”
“Thanks for the compliment,” Justin said. “That’s the first time anyone from your organization admitted I might even be competent.” He grinned easily. “So do you have a hunch? I mean, about the pilot’s connection to the bombing?”
The agent hesitated, furrowed his brow thoughtfully, then shook his head. “I think the plane crash is just a coincidence. Pilot error, accidental malfunction, something like that. Screwy . . . but screwier things happen all the time.”
“That’s what I figured,” Justin said. And he did his best to furrow his own brow, before adding, “Except . . . the pilot’s body disappeared.”
“Yes, we know.”
“Have a hunch about that?”
“More than a hunch,” Schrader said easily. “We’ve talked to Southampton Hospital and several other facilities within fifty miles of this place. They’ve had so many bodies, living and dead, after the explosion, they’re sure this one just got misplaced. Put in with all the others.” He shook his head at the tragedy of it all.
“There didn’t seem to be a record of any ambulance being dispatched to pick up this particular body,” Justin said.
“That also got lost in the confusion. But it’s been found now. I think if you get in touch with Southampton Hospital, they’ll corroborate what I’m telling you.”
“I’m sure they will,” Justin said.
Schrader stood up. “Well,” he said. “I just thought we should touch base. I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful, but I wanted to fill you in.”
“I appreciate it. If there’s anything I can do for you while you’re around, just ask.”
“Same here,” Schrader said. And smiled.
Justin watched him go, but the agent didn’t leave the station. He stopped at Gary Jenkins’s desk, started up a casual conversation. Justin knew that Gary was smart enough not to reveal anything he shouldn’t. At some point, Schrader looked up and caught Justin’s eye. Justin flashed him a big smile and, staring straight at him, began opening the envelope that Stanton had dropped off. It was addressed only to Justin Westwood, East End Harbor Police Department. No street number. And no return address or name of sender.
Inside was a thick three-ring binder. Justin flipped it open to find pages filled with notes, diagrams, and hand-scribbled drawings. It took him a moment to realize what he was holding on to, and when he did, he involuntarily slammed the notebook shut. He glanced up, but Schrader wasn’t watching him now. The FBI agent was heading toward the door, on his way outside. That’s when Justin saw that there was a note taped to the cloth front of the book. It was handwritten and said, “Jay: Just for safekeeping. If I’ve already told you to FedEx this baby up to me, you can have a good laugh at my expense. If you’re surprised to get it, then it meant I did the right thing. Get the bastards.”
The note was from Chuck Billings.
He was holding all the information Billings had compiled on the bombing at Harper’s Restaurant.
Justin licked his lips because his mouth had suddenly gone dry. But before he could open the book up again, it was 12:40 P.M., and Stanton came racing back into the police station, yelling for them to turn on the TV or the goddamn radio. Special Agent Hubbell Schrader came racing in, too, as Stanton began screaming that the fuckers had done it again, the goddamn fucking shitheads had just blown up another restaurant, this time in New York City.
Justin shoved the notebook into a desk drawer, came racing out of the small office. Mike Haversham was the closest to the small TV they kept in the main room and he punched at the on button and, sure enough, Stanton was right. On the TV screen there was smoke and sirens and cops and firemen. There seemed to be blood everywhere and you could hear the hysteria that was happening in Manhattan. And as Justin looked up, saw Agent Schrader staring at the TV just like the rest of them, he thought two things.
One: when Schrader had come into the police station, he’d walked right up to Justin’s desk. He didn’t hesitate, walke
d right up as if he knew who he was, as if he’d seen him before. As if he’d been briefed.
But that wasn’t nearly as odd as the second thing Justin was thinking.
Watching Hubbell Schrader now, standing amid the cops, all of them staring in disbelief at the TV screen, Justin was thinking, This guy doesn’t look surprised.
He looks as if he’d been expecting it.
14
Speech delivered at 6:07 P.M. on November 13, by Thomas Wilton Anderson, the president of the United States
My fellow Americans,
This afternoon, evil struck again, trying to insinuate itself into the very fabric of American life. Today, at 12:34 P.M., a suicide bomber detonated a bomb in New York City, in a Manhattan restaurant, La Cucina, killing twenty-eight people, including himself, and injuring nearly fifty more.
Some people, in what I believe is an unfortunate and dangerous attempt to politicize today’s tragedy as well as the tragic bombing of Harper’s Restaurant nine days ago, are already saying that these evildoers have succeeded in infiltrating our everyday lives, that they are successfully destroying the things that make America great. I say they have not succeeded . . . that they will never succeed. Not under my watch. No one will ever be able to successfully attack the core of our greatness. Because that core comes from strengths that are almost unimaginable in the world in which our attackers live. Our strength comes from faith, faith not only in a wise and just God, but in wise and just people. In the American people. Our strength also comes from our freedom, from our many freedoms. And right now I’m declaring another freedom—one we’ve always had, one this country was founded on, one that we must exercise yet again, not happily but proudly: the freedom to fight back. And I mean more than simply strike back. I mean strike first. Strike hardest. I’m talking about the freedom to seize control of our own lives. The freedom to make other people pay—and pay big-time—when they try to take away our freedom.
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