Bechet looked at his microcamera and the videocassette, considered grabbing them both, grabbing, too, his sweatshirt and jacket and the bloodied towel back on Miller’s bed, then bolting from this place and calling Castello, arranging a hand-off. This tape might be enough to draw Castello out, drive him to some reckless action the result of which would be his own destruction. If that was too much to hope for, then maybe the tape would drive Castello to an action that would at least expose him, do so in a way that Bechet could take advantage of and put an end once and for all to this nightmare. A lot of mights and maybes, yes, but it was all Bechet had. With his Jeep wrecked, though, and more than likely at this moment in the custody of the police, secure in their holding pen in Scarcella’s salvage yard, then how was Bechet to get anywhere? The sedan he had arranged for was not yet ready—serial numbers needed to be filed down, he wasn’t messing around now, and newer tires had to be installed—and anyway the sedan, too, was back at Scarcella’s garage. Bechet knew he could call Eddie, have a cab sent, but his partner was involved enough as it was. He thought about calling another company, having them send one of their cabs, but then there’d be a record connecting Bechet to Scarcella—or at least a record of a fare from Elm Street to Scarcella’s Salvage. Someone, at some point, might piece that together, and Bechet couldn’t take that risk. Leave no trail. Now wasn’t the time to just forget everything he knew.
It was then, standing at that table, feeling just a little trapped, that Bechet realized something he should have realized when he had spoken to Castello hours ago, when he’d been told by Castello that there was, in fact, no record of a vehicle registered in Abby’s name. Bechet knew he might not have realized this, with all that was going on, if he weren’t himself facing the dilemma he was now facing—the need to leave but no means by which to do so, at least none within immediate and easy reach. If he was right, though, if what had just occurred to him was the case, then maybe there was a chance of finding Abby after all. Again, a maybe, but there it was. And not that he wanted to find her, not that he wanted it to come to that. But if Miller found her, put her somewhere safe, far beyond anyone’s reach, even Bechet’s . . .
He returned the photographs to the table, looked over at Miller, saw that he was still out. Moving past him to the kitchen, opening cupboards till he found a stash of empty supermarket bags, some paper, some plastic, Bechet grabbed two of the plastic ones, walked into the bedroom, stuffed the bloodied towel into one of the bags, then, back in the kitchen, stuffed his sweatshirt in as well. He went through the kitchen drawers till he found a roll of silver duct tape, grabbed it, then returned to the table and put the microcamera and videotape into the second bag, tying that bag closed and putting it in the bag that contained the bloodied sweatshirt and towel. From the pile of change he picked up all the quarters there were and stuffed them into the pocket of his jeans. Finally, with the duct tape, he wrapped up his left hand as quickly as he could. He was finishing that task when he heard a sound come up from the street, the muffled thump of a car door closing.
He went to one of the front windows, looked down and saw a pickup parked at the curb below. The sound of the street door opening and closing was followed by the sound of someone coming up the stairs. The woman, he thought, it had to be. Alone, by the sound of her footsteps. Bechet remained by the window; there wasn’t much else he could do. And anyway, there were things he wanted to know, needed to know, things that would determine exactly what his next move would be. Glancing toward the train station as he waited, he remembered standing there hours ago with Gabrielle, waiting for the last night-train west, holding her close and looking up at this very apartment for any sign that someone was watching.
Bechet turned toward the door as it opened, saw the woman who had saved Miller and him enter and go straight for the couch to check on her friend. She was carrying a small paper bag in one hand, the kind of bag prescriptions are put in, and an overnight duffel in the other. She had reached the couch when she realized Bechet was in the room. Startled, she stopped short, quickly looked down at Miller, then back at Bechet. Her eyes shifted briefly to the bag in his hand.
“Didn’t mean to scare you,” Bechet said.
She didn’t say anything, just looked at him. Finally she walked around the couch, laid the pharmacy bag and small duffel on the coffee table in front of it. She sat on the edge of the couch. One of Miller’s hands was resting upon his chest. She laid her hand on his, looked at his face for any sign of consciousness.
“He’s out like a light,” Bechet said.
“I gave him two painkillers. He woke up just long enough to take them. He was out of it, otherwise I don’t think he would have let me give them to him.”
“How’s his knee?”
“I don’t know. I might have to take him to a doctor.”
The woman was wearing a black leather jacket. Bechet noted that one of its pockets hung heavy. By that, and the distinct shape the leather was taking, he knew the item was a gun.
“How long have you been up?” the woman asked.
“Not long.”
Still seated on the edge of the couch, she glanced at the plastic bag in his hand again.
“It’s just my sweatshirt,” Bechet said. “And the tape that was in that VCR over there. Your friend was going to give me a copy of what the surveillance camera caught. That’s why we were coming back here.”
“I know,” she said.
Bechet nodded, then found himself thinking about that. Something didn’t quite add up. It took him a moment—he was tired, his brain crowded with all the pain signals rushing to it from various parts in his body—but finally he said, “How do you know that?”
“What do you mean?”
“You said he only came to long enough for you to give him a pill, and even then he was out of it. How did you know what he and I had talked about?”
“I heard everything you two said.”
“How?”
“Tommy used to be a PI.”
Bechet remembered then what Miller had said about owning his own gear.
“You work for him?”
The woman shook her head. “No.”
“But you just happened to know how to operate surveillance equipment. And the way you handled yourself back there in the woods. A lot of people would have panicked, but you didn’t, you took charge.”
“I used to be a cop.”
Bechet nodded. “That explains it, then.” He waited a moment, then said, “Southampton cop?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re the friend he was talking about, the one helping him.”
The woman nodded.
“What’s your name?”
“Kay.”
“Kay what?”
“Barton.”
She seemed to Bechet to be waiting for his reaction, watching for it, as though her name was supposed to mean something to him. It didn’t mean anything at all, but then again it shouldn’t, really; he stayed away from all things having to do with the cops, kept to himself and the small life he and Gabrielle were, day by day, making for themselves.
“How long were you a cop?” he said.
“Almost ten years.”
“Why aren’t you one anymore?”
It became obvious very quickly to Bechet that Barton had no intention of answering that question. She looked at Miller instead, her hand still covering his. It was clear that she was looking to—needed to—comfort her friend in any way that she could, and that this caring gesture, as simple as it was, seemed for now all that she could do.
“Did he tell you to follow him?”
“His name is Tommy.” She said this without recrimination or hostility, was simply stating a fact, in case Bechet had forgotten.
“Did Tommy tell you to follow him?”
“No. He was told to come alone, so he said he was going alone.”
“But you followed him anyway.”
“I wasn’t going to just let him walk into what could have be
en a trap. Anyway, I couldn’t just sit around and do nothing. I’ve done enough of that lately to last me for a while.”
“If you heard everything we said, then you know what’s going on. With your former boss.”
Barton nodded.
“The thing is,” Bechet said, “the guy who ran us off the road, he drove like a cop. That quarter tap thing he did, that’s what cops are taught to do to end a chase. But you’d know that, wouldn’t you?”
“Cops aren’t the only ones who know how to run people off the road,” Barton said. “You aren’t a cop, but apparently you know about quarter tapping.”
She was right, of course, Bechet thought. He had been taught that technique by LeCur, Sr., back when Bechet was in Castello’s employ, when he was being made into what they needed him to be. Someone had taught LeCur. And certainly LeCur had taught his son. But that didn’t really add up, did it? If Bechet was doing what Castello wanted him to do—or at least appearing like he was—then why would LeCur have run him off the road? And how would LeCur have known to wait outside Miller’s apartment, unless he had been sent there knowing that Miller’s place was more than likely Bechet’s next stop. But, again, why? There was no reason for that, at least none that Bechet could think of. No, this had to be something else, someone else, someone who had both the skill necessary and something to gain, something important enough to risk an ambush in the light of day.
But who?
“You were behind us, right?” Bechet said.
“Yeah.”
“Would you mind telling me what you saw?”
Barton shrugged, looked at Bechet, her hand still on Miller’s chest. “He pulled in behind you guys when you left the salvage yard. I got into Tommy’s truck and followed. By the time I caught sight of you again, he was running you off the road.”
“Then what?”
“He crashed. Lost control, slid off the road and into a tree. When I pulled up, he was standing by the Jeep. It looked like he was aiming a gun inside.”
“Did you see a gun?”
“No.”
“Was he aiming it at me or Tommy?”
“I don’t know. Like I said, that’s what it looked like, but I can’t be sure. He turned and looked at me when I pulled up, then started running.”
“What direction did he go?”
“Into the woods. West, I guess.”
“Did you get a look at him?”
“He had a mask on.”
“What about his build, though?”
“He was too far away for me to see how tall he was. It all happened too fast.”
“Was he fat, thin, what?”
“Thin. Average. Athletic, maybe.” She thought for a moment. “He was young. I mean, he wasn’t old. He ran like a man in shape.”
“Could it have been Roffman?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I would have recognized him.”
“Even with a mask on, from a distance?”
“Yeah.”
“Why’s that?”
Again she didn’t answer, looked back at Miller, clutched his hand a little tighter. Was there more to her gesture than care? Bechet wondered then.
“Anyway, I imagine you’ll trace the car to its owner,” he said.
“No need to.”
“Why not?”
“Because it was my car,” Barton said flatly. She let out a breath, then looked at Bechet.
“Your car?”
She nodded. “I followed Tommy in his pickup. My car was parked out front here. Someone must have been watching Tommy’s place, stole my car after I left and followed me.”
Again, things didn’t quite add up to Bechet. It took a moment, though, before he could articulate exactly what it was that bothered him.
“But how is that possible?” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“Your car was parked out front?”
“Yeah.”
“Was Tommy’s truck parked out front, too?”
“No, it was around the corner.”
“Where?”
“At the end of Powell.”
“Could someone see his truck from where your car was?”
“No.”
“How long did it take you to get to his truck?”
“Less than a minute. I ran to it.”
“So unless whoever stole your car was already sitting in it when you left here, waiting with the engine running, it’s doubtful he would have been able to follow you. He would have had to wait till you ran around the corner, then get to your car and break into it, get it started and somehow catch up to you. I don’t really see how anyone could have done that.”
“He had to have already known where I was going,” Barton said.
“That’s what I’m thinking. But how could he have known that?”
Barton looked at Miller then. It seemed to Bechet as if she thought doing so might help her find the answer.
“Did Tommy tell you where he was going?” Bechet said.
“Just that it was a junkyard in Noyac.”
“But you knew which one.”
“Not right away.”
“How’d you figure it out?”
Barton’s face went white.
“What?” Bechet said.
She closed her eyes, as if to prevent herself from seeing something she didn’t want to see.
“What?”
“I called a friend of mine in the department,” she said. “He told me about the salvage yard.”
“So this friend of yours knew where you were going.”
“Yeah.”
“And he’s a cop.”
“Yeah.”
“He knows your car, I assume.”
She nodded. Thunderstruck, she said nothing.
“What’s your friend’s name?”
“Ricky,” she said absently.
“Ricky what?”
“Spadaro.” She started shaking her head then, a gesture of desperate denial. Her body was suddenly very stiff, her shoulders tight. “It’s not possible,” she muttered.
“Why not?”
“I’ve known Ricky for a long time. He wouldn’t . . . use me like that.”
“Someone might not have given him any choice.”
She stood, took a few steps, stopped. She seemed now almost panicked.
“But he’s just a patrol cop,” she said. “There’s no way he could manipulate an investigation. You said yourself that there was something in the way the investigation was being handled that was suspicious. Ricky couldn’t do that, he couldn’t affect an investigation one way or the other, there’s just no way. Plus, Roffman hates him, and he hates Roffman. They’d never work together, not in a million years.”
Alliances, Bechet knew, were often not what they seemed.
“Could he have been the man you saw running away?”
Barton struggled with that, couldn’t easily find an answer—or, at least, speak the only answer there was.
“Is he fat?” Bechet said. “Is he not average or athletically built?”
Barton quickly grew flustered, pushed close to a breaking point. This was too much, too fast. She seemed almost angry now—at Bechet, for proposing such a terrible thing, yes, but also at the fact that his suspicions were, clearly, dead-right. There was no way around that, as much as she wanted one, scrambled in her mind to find one. Finally she took a breath, then let it out and, reluctantly, nodded.
“Have you called him for information before this morning?” Bechet said.
“Yeah, he’s been helping Tommy and me all along.”
“How, exactly?”
“With information, mainly. Things we needed to know, sometimes even which direction we should go. Also, Roffman sent him to pick up Tommy last night.”
Bechet remembered then that Castello had told him that Miller and Roffman had met the night before. He remembered, too, that Castello had an informant in the department.
“What for?”
“To bring him to the crime scene.”
“The canal?”
Barton nodded. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
“One of the murder victims—Michaels, I think—had one of Tommy’s old business cards in his wallet. Roffman wanted to know how it got there.”
“How did it?”
“At first it looked like maybe Roffman had planted it. But then we started to think that Abby might have given it to Michaels.”
“And that was all Roffman wanted. To know how Tommy’s business card got into a dead guy’s wallet.”
“Not exactly. He offered Tommy amnesty if Tommy agreed to help.”
“Help how?”
“I don’t know.”
“Spadaro and Roffman may hate each other, but Spadaro is still a cop, right? He works for the chief, would have to do what the chief says if he wants to keep his job.”
“But I can’t imagine Ricky doing something like this. I just can’t.”
“Someone built like him ran Tommy and me off the road, did so by using a technique taught to cops. And that someone had to have already known that Tommy was going to Scarcella’s salvage yard. If not Spadaro, then who?”
“But why would he run you and Tommy off the road?”
“Maybe Roffman didn’t like the idea of Tommy and me talking.”
“So he had Ricky do that as, what, a warning?”
Bechet shrugged. “He might have done more than that if you hadn’t showed up like you did.”
The Water's Edge Page 30
