“I can’t believe Max put himself in the center of this,” said Adele.
“I can,” said Vega. “He’s got a soft spot for the boy. He thinks he’s innocent.”
“He told you that?”
“He didn’t have to.”
“Do you?”
“I’ve been at this too long to think anyone’s innocent,” said Vega.
“Max should have been spending his retirement going to Yankees games and collecting his pension,” said Adele. “Not this.”
His . . . pension. From Adventureland.
Not that kind of park . . .
Vega felt like he’d just touched a live wire. His whole body tingled with nervous energy. Adventureland was here in Port Carroll. Vega was less than ten minutes away.
“Jimmy? Is everything all right?”
Maybe. Until Vega dialed 911 and the cops discovered that an armed, accused rapist and murderer was hiding out at a shuttered amusement park with his eighty-eight-year-old alleged hostage. The police wouldn’t hear, “Zimmerman’s not a hostage.” They wouldn’t hear, “Martinez isn’t brandishing the gun.” They’d trust protocol and instinct before they trusted a disgraced, off-duty detective.
The odds of something bad happening would multiply exponentially.
“I gotta go, Adele. I’ll call you later.”
He didn’t tell her what he had to do. He didn’t want the ghost of another Rolando Benitez riding on her shoulders.
* * *
In summer, the traffic heading to Adventureland could be backed up for miles. In January, Vega made the journey from the Port Carroll turnoff to the visitors’ parking lot in less than four minutes. The park was county-owned and abutted the silver-gray waters of the Long Island Sound. There were no houses, stores, or gas stations anywhere near it. Just windswept trees, heavy brush, and sandy soil that held neither snow nor dirt particularly well.
If Max wanted remote, this was it.
Vega pulled his truck into the empty lot and scanned the property. The half-moon beach was pockmarked with snow and a necklace of trash at the shoreline. The boardwalk arcade booths were shuttered, their hundred-year-old Art Deco trims faded from too much sun and salt. The roller coaster’s towering latticework was streaked with rust. Seagulls nested in the joints and cawed overhead.
Vega did not see Max’s Cadillac.
The only car Vega saw on the lot was parked at the far end, next to a Quonset hut for maintenance equipment. Vega drove over and parked next to the vehicle. It was a dark red Toyota sedan. A subcompact. It looked to be about ten years old. The paint had faded to the color of dried blood. The wheel wells were rimmed with rust. The rear bumper was dented. Vega assumed the car was used by the maintenance staff. Maybe it sat here all season. He got out of his truck, walked over, and put his bare hand on the Toyota’s hood.
It was warm. In January. Someone just drove it here. Someone was on the property.
Vega cupped a hand over the driver’s-side window and peered into the interior. The upholstery was faded and frayed. A Valley Community College parking permit sat on the front dashboard. On the rearview mirror, the car’s owner had strung a religious cross and a key chain with three little charms. An elephant. A butterfly. And a heart, with the letters BFF.
Was this Zoe Beck’s car? Was she the “friend” who was taking Max Zimmerman home? If so, she was either the bravest girl Vega had ever known. Or the most foolish, given that she was the one person who could testify that Wil Martinez had admitted to the murder of Catherine Archer.
And then he heard it. Sirens. Lots of them, heading this way. Had Adele figured out where he was going and told them?
Two Port Carroll cruisers sped over the bridge and into the lot. Their tires screeched as they pulled up short in front of Vega. Doors swung open. Cops in uniform crouched behind them, drawing their weapons from their holsters.
Vega raised his hands. “I’m a county cop! Don’t shoot!”
“Hold your fire! Hold your fire! I know him!” screamed one of the uniforms, a baby-faced man with a shaved head. Never in his life had Vega been more relieved to see his keyboardist, Danny Molina. The cops holstered their guns. Molina stepped forward.
“Jimmy? What the hell? This place is going to be crawling with cops any minute. What are you doing? Getting an early start on season tickets?”
“I know you’re here about Martinez,” said Vega. “Who called you about it?”
Molina raised an eyebrow. “Who called you might be more the question here.”
Vega told Molina about his calls to Wil and Adele. He pointed to the red Toyota. “I think if you run the registration, you’ll see it belongs to a girl named Zoe Beck. Catherine Archer’s best friend. I have no idea what she’s doing here, especially since she was the person Martinez confessed the murder to.”
Molina went back to his cruiser to run the plates. More police cars arrived, along with the county SWAT van full of cops whose physiques, even without the heavy armor, reminded Vega of comic-book characters. A helicopter thundered overhead, its blades low enough to pulse the air.
“The Toyota’s Zoe Beck’s,” Molina said as he emerged from his vehicle. “And I also just got confirmation—she’s with Martinez and Zimmerman in the carousel building on the northern edge of the park. SWAT’s setting up a staging area over there.” Molina put a hand on Vega’s shoulder. “If it was up to me, Jimmy, I’d let you stay. But your SWAT captain, Speers, is calling the shots on this one. You want to be here, you’re going to have to go through him.”
“I understand,” said Vega. “Thanks.” Vega was as likely to be welcome here as a video camera at an arrest. Molina turned away.
“Hey, Danny? Do you recall when the nine-one-one came in?”
“It’s on the system.” Molina leaned into his cruiser and keyed a code into the computer console. “We got word from dispatch at two-twelve p.m. A female called it in.” Zoe. It had to be.
“Okay, thanks.”
Vega got back in his truck, opened his cell phone, and checked his recent calls. Max had initiated Wil’s phone conversation with Vega at one forty-five p.m. Vega had called Adele at one fifty-five—right after he got off from Wil. Zoe’s call to 911 came in seventeen minutes later. Could Wil have had a change of heart in seventeen minutes? It was possible. If the time span had really been seventeen minutes.
But it wasn’t.
Vega’s pickup was still parked next to Zoe’s Toyota. He walked over and put his hand on the hood. He checked his watch. It was two-twenty p.m. The hood was cold. As it would be in January after sitting outdoors for a spell. It had been warm when Vega first arrived around two-fifteen.
In five minutes, Zoe’s car had gone from warm to cold. Which meant that in all likelihood, Zoe had arrived at the park just a few minutes before Vega. At or just before two-twelve p.m.
The exact same time that she called 911 to report that Martinez had taken her hostage. Vega saw Captain Speers and his men suiting up in helmets and Kevlar vests and going over maps to set up sniper positions. Something niggled in his gut like a splinter.
Wil had already confessed to Zoe. She’d given the police a statement. Killing her now wouldn’t help him. Her being here wouldn’t help her either. Nothing could be gained by this encounter. She’d already lost her best friend.
Her best friend.
Vega shot a glance at the Toyota’s rearview mirror, at the butterfly and elephant charms grouped around a heart with the acronym BFF.
Best Friends Forever. Best Friends for Life.
Biffle.
Vega thought about those words Catherine had penned in that note: I have to think of my family. They’d kill me if I went through with this. Those words weren’t to Wil, about the pregnancy. They were to Zoe, about the flash drive Zoe wanted Catherine to turn over to Langstrom in exchange for his video.
Zoe had every reason in the world to be here, Vega realized. The only way the truth wouldn’t come out was if Wil weren’t alive to speak
it.
Vega caught up to Molina as he headed to the staging area.
“Danny, you gotta get me to Captain Speers.”
“I told you, man. It’s not my call.”
“But the whole thing’s a setup. Martinez didn’t kill Catherine Archer. Zoe Beck did. If Martinez dies, her guilt dies with him. You gotta get me in before it’s too late.”
Molina cursed under his breath. “I’ll radio SWAT. See what I can do.”
Behind them, the whole park got so quiet that the only sounds Vega could hear were the static from the radios and the caw of the seagulls overhead.
Vega knew that quiet. It was the sound before an assault.
Chapter 49
“This isn’t a courtroom, Detective,” said Captain Speers as he paced the staging area, his big jaw pulled tight, his eyes buttoned up like they were about to take incoming fire. “You want to make a case that Martinez is innocent, fine. Do it when the threat’s been neutralized. Right now, he’s refused to engage, despite our repeated attempts to make contact with him. He hasn’t sent the hostages out.”
“Can you see what’s going on inside?” asked Vega.
“The building’s a sniper’s nightmare,” said Speers. “Eight sides of windows. Three-sixty visibility. All those carved figures. My guys are worried about mistaking a horse for a hostage and vice versa.”
Vega looked past Speers’s hyperdefined shoulders at the carousel building. It was styled like a wedding cake. The top was domed with filigree trim. The windows and doors had lacy flourishes. The walls were covered with small individual panes of glass that obscured the interior rather than clarified it.
“Sir—all three of the people in that building know and trust me. I respectfully request department clearance to enter the premises.”
“You’re not trained SWAT, Vega.”
“I’m not planning to shoot.”
Speers’ massive jaw set to one side while he considered it. “I’ll give you ten minutes to make it work. But don’t talk to me about your peaceful plans, Vega. That’s how cops get shot.”
Two SWAT officers outfitted Vega with a Kevlar breastplate, groin padding, and a helmet. They gave him a radio and handcuffs and confirmed that he had a full magazine of ammunition in his Glock, and that it was clean and in working order. Then Captain Speers spoke over his bullhorn to inform Martinez that Vega was entering the building to convince him to surrender.
No one replied.
The front-door hinges squeaked as Vega pushed open the panel and slipped in. The air smelled of varnish, wood shavings, and motor oil. A pale gray light filtered in through the panes of glass and threw shadows on the horses. Their faces looked fierce and startled in the half-light. Their intricately carved flanks were set in hyperalert poses, four abreast. The whole place felt less like a fairy-tale stable and more like a slaughterhouse. Vega’s heart thumped in his chest. He kept a grip on the handle of his Glock. He kept his back to the wall.
“It’s me, Jimmy Vega,” he called out. “Nobody’s going to hurt you if you come out now and surrender.” He didn’t address his plea to Wil or Zoe. The longer he could feign ignorance, the better. He swept his gaze across the carousel. It had the gaudy exuberance of a Russian heirloom. Horse bridles glittered with jewels. Brass crank handles gleamed. Colors mixed together with preschool abandon.
Nothing moved.
“I know about what happened to Catherine.” Vega’s words floated up through the double-height ceiling. “I know it was an accident. A moment of panic. You were scared. You deserve to tell your story.”
He took a step, keeping his back to the wall as he navigated the railing at the carousel’s perimeter. Grit on the bare plank floor scraped the soles of his boots. His muscles felt like twisted rubber bands.
To the left of the doorway was a small ticket shed, closed this time of year. Vega caught the shadow of something behind it, crouched on the floor, beneath a panel of buttons. He pulled his gun from his holster and inched forward.
“Don’t shoot, Jimmy. It’s me.”
Max was on his knees, trying to claw his way to a standing position, using the sides of the ticket booth. His cane was nowhere in sight. Vega holstered his weapon and ran over.
“Mr. Zimmerman! Are you hurt, sir?”
“It’s Wil I’m worried about! She’s got Wil! She said she’d shoot him if we said a word.”
“Where are they?”
“Right here,” came a voice from the carousel. Vega grabbed his gun from his holster and spun around.
She was standing three deep in the horses, with Wil in front of her. His faded army-green jacket hung from his skinny frame the way it did that day at the preschool when Vega first laid eyes on him. From the pained expression on the boy’s face, it was clear Max’s gun was aimed at his back.
“Put the gun down, Mr. Vega,” she said in a husky voice. “Or I’ll shoot him.” The flip to her purple hair had gone limp and greasy. Her face was blotchy. The hunch to her shoulders looked more pronounced. Between all the horses and Wil’s body, there was no way Vega could get to her.
He spread his arms with the gun still in them in a gesture of mock compliance. And he did what he did with any suspect: He gave their crime the most sympathetic spin he could.
“Zoe, please. Think this through. What happened is understandable. You loved Catherine. You didn’t intend to kill her. You were counting on her, and she let you down—”
“My life is ruined!” she sobbed. “First that bastard, Langstrom. And now, this!”
“Langstrom is going to prison,” said Vega. “For a long, long time. Your video will never be public. It’s over. Put the gun down. Now!”
“No!” She moved the barrel from Wil’s back to his head. Coño! She was going to shoot.
A loud buzzer reverberated through the building. Lights flashed and a second later, the carousel began spinning, the horses bobbing to the amphetamine-charged gaiety of a Wurlitzer organ.
“What the . . . ?” Who started the carousel?
But Vega knew. He shot a glance at the ticket shed. Max Zimmerman had managed to claw himself to his feet, unlock the control panel, and power up the motor.
Of course he could, thought Vega. If he’d kept the key to unlock the carousel building’s doors all this time, surely he’d kept the one to start the carousel.
“Vega?” Captain Speers shouted over the radio. “What’s going on?”
SWAT was itching to take control. But there was too much noise and commotion. Too many moving parts. It would be like shooting fish in a barrel. They’d all die.
“Hold your position!” Vega shouted into his radio over the organ. Then he leapt onto the spinning platform. It was moving faster now, the windows flying by in a dizzying loop, the officers behind police cars and riot shields forming one continuous menacing blur.
Zoe was two horse lengths ahead of him, her back braced against a jeweled chariot. Unlike the horses, it was anchored to the platform. It didn’t move. She still had Wil in front of her. There was no way Vega could rush her without the teenager getting shot.
“She was supposed to care about me!” Zoe cried.
“She did.”
“But not more than that horrible family of hers. Not more than Wil!”
She aimed her gun at the base of the teenager’s neck.
“No!” Vega leapt forward.
The music stopped midmeasure.
The carousel did too.
Vega felt the full force of physics as his body hurled forward and slammed into Wil’s and Zoe’s. Zoe had been braced against a stationary object. The forces had nowhere to go but through her body, compressing her chest and knocking the breath from her with sharp and sudden fury. The gun tumbled from her hands as she labored to gulp in air. Vega kicked it to the side, then pushed her face-down on the platform and cuffed her hands behind her back.
“Let me hold on to your gun for the moment,” Vega told Max. “We don’t want any misunderstandings.” Then he rad
ioed Captain Speers that SWAT wasn’t going to be necessary. The Port Carroll Police and regular county officers could take it from here.
Vega returned Max’s gun to him just as Wil and Danny Molina were helping the old man back into his Cadillac.
“You must have been hell on wheels as a carousel operator,” Vega teased. “I owe you my thanks. Wil owes you his life.”
“Eh.” Max shrugged. “I pushed a few buttons. What else can you do?” The old man turned to Wil and held his gaze an extra beat. “Sometimes, if you push enough buttons, something’s bound to work.”
Chapter 50
Zoe Beck was charged with involuntary manslaughter in the death of Catherine Archer. Under police questioning, she quickly confessed to picking Catherine up a short distance from La Casa and driving her to the post office parking lot where she begged Catherine to hand over the flash drive Langstrom wanted. Catherine refused, let herself out of the car, and ran into the woods. Zoe followed, assuming Catherine was throwing the drive away.
When Catherine insisted she didn’t have it, Zoe slapped her across the chin. The blow sent Catherine reeling. She lost her footing and fell backward, hitting her head on a tree stump that caused massive bleeding in the brain. The rest—staging her death as a rape, discarding her cell phone and wallet—were the poor choices of a panicked teenager.
There was a brief flurry of media coverage about Zoe’s confession and then the story disappeared. Mike Carp never mentioned it. He wiped the Archer family and the Magnolia Inn from his memory banks, as if none of it had ever existed.
Not Adele. She’d grown fond of Todd Archer since the death of his sister. She wanted to work with him to restore trust in the town, keep the Magnolia Inn afloat, and rebuild La Casa. In February, they formed a committee and began a series of fund-raisers at the Inn. The money they raised allowed La Casa to rebuild.
The board, impressed by her commitment, offered Adele her old job back. She accepted. The next day, the plyboard came off the doors and windows. Volunteers and former clients arrived with buckets and brooms to scrub the interior.
A Place in the Wind Page 34
