Eye of Vengeance (25 page)

Chapter 31

N
ick stayed off the sauce all day, passing by the urge to stop at Kim’s Alley Bar on Sunrise when he drove out to the beach. Three years ago he would have slipped in, had a couple just to relax after a deadline, just to paint over the stress of the day, just to wash out the vision of another body bag or charred home or mangled wreck. Those were the excuses he gave his wife back in the days when he stumbled into the house late, after the girls had already gone to bed. When he repeated the excuses now to himself, they rang just as hollow, and he kept driving.

On A1A he turned left and then parked at the curb along the ocean. He was well north of the once-infamous Fort Lauderdale Strip, once the world-famous bacchanal of college kids gone wild. But the backdrop of
Where the Boys Are
had gone the way of most things money-driven. When the profit on kegs of beer and cheap hotel rooms couldn’t stand up to family resorts and high-priced boutique stores, out went the old, in came the new. Yet it was still a wonder to him that this stretch of beach, from the road to the horizon, was sand untouched. The city had somehow worked it into a legal legacy that no buildings would go up on this stretch of land. Nick got out of his car and walked down to the tide mark and let the surf slosh white and bubbling over his ankles and up onto his cuffs. He thought of Julie, always with her feet in the water. His wife would pull the beach chair all the way down to the edge, even when she knew the tide was coming in, even when she knew she was going to have to change her position within the hour. The closer to the ocean you are, the less of the city you see behind you, she would say. It’s more like being out there, floating, without a care in the world.

Nick had never experienced that feeling of floating. He had envied her that. Out on the horizon, the cobalt blue of the ocean water was meeting the azure of the sky, trying to meld, but unable to mix the line until dark. Nick felt the tingle in his right hand again and flexed the fingers.

When his cell phone rang the sound made him turn to look behind, like he’d been caught, like the truth had come out and someone would be standing there. He shook off the feeling and brought the phone out of his pocket. The readout on the incoming number was blocked.

“Nick Mullins,” he said.

“I am deeply disappointed, Mr. Mullins,” said a man’s deep voice.

The tenor of the words immediately charged his nerves and Nick turned away from the ocean wind, cupping his hand over the cell to listen closer.

“Yeah? Maybe I am too,” he said. “Would you mind telling me who you are and why you’re disappointed?”

“You gave our story up, Mr. Mullins,” the voice said. “I planned out a lot of possibilities, my friend. But I never figured you to give our story up to someone else.”

Nick immediately turned and ducked his head and started back to his car to get out of the breeze so he could hear and think.

“Mike? Mike Redman?”

“I mean, come on, Mr. Mullins. A marauding killer? That guy Binder writes just like the rest of them. All flash and no substance. Although I have to give him credit for mapping out my use of your journalism to decide on who needed to be eliminated. But I have a feeling that was your work. Am I right?”

Nick opened his car, climbed in and closed the door to create a vacuum of silence.

“Christ, Redman. What are you doing, man? You’re shooting people in the streets. That’s not your training. I saw your work too. This is not what you do,” Nick said, guessing at the words to use, trying to juggle what he knew with how he thought the sniper might be thinking.

“It’s not what any of us were trained to do, Mullins. I went to war and killed innocent people, did everything the opposite of how I was trained. And now look at yourself. I’ve read every story you did on those scumbags over the years. You were the truth. And now you gave it up too. You handed it over.”

Nick was silent. Had he copped out by quitting? Was the sniper right?

“OK, Mike. Maybe I did. But do you want to set it straight?” Nick said, scrambling to keep him talking, truly falling back on his training. “You and I could talk. We could do an interview. I’d get it out straight from you, tell the story the right way. The truth, like you just said.”

There was the sound of a deep chuckle in the cell earpiece. The guy was laughing.

“See? You and I are a lot alike, Nick. You can’t help but be the newsman. I can’t help but pull the trigger. It’s what we do,” Redman said. “I’m not after publicity, Nick. I don’t need any stories. Like I told you, I’ve got one more shot, tomorrow. One more piece of business, and it’s for you. Then I gotta move on. Then I’m gonna get on with my life, Nick. And you can too. Don’t you see? We’re a lot alike, you and I.”

Nick felt the conversation slipping away. He’d lost interviews before, had them stop before he had the answers he needed.

“Wait, wait, Mike,” he nearly yelled into the phone. “What do you mean, for me? Who’s for me, Michael? The Secretary of State doesn’t mean anything to me, Michael. I only wrote that quote. It wasn’t me that said it.”

There was no response. But no dial tone either.

“Is it Walker? Do you know about Walker, Mike?”

Nick’s voice was still rising, reverberating in the closed space and buffeting back on his own ears.

“Hey, don’t put this on me, Mike. I’m not out for retribution. Mike!” Nick slapped his right hand against the steering wheel in anger and frustration. “Redman?”

Three electronic beeps and the line went dead.

Nick sat back in his seat and stared out at the horizon. And then dialed Hargrave’s number.

Chapter 32

A
t six fifteen the next morning Nick was sitting in his car, parked next to the Dumpster, down the street but well within view of Archie’s Tool Sharpening Shack.

After talking with Hargrave, he’d gone home last night and had dinner with Carly and Elsa and tried to put on a clear-headed, smiling act. But when he went quiet in the middle of a conversation about his daughter’s science lesson on the African desert’s effect on forming hurricanes, she looked up and saw his eyes staring out through the window. She turned to Elsa, but the nanny only shook her head and said, “It’s OK, Carlita, he will be back.”

They pretended not to notice and in a few minutes Nick was back, rejoining the discussion as though no lapse had occurred.

Later in the evening Nick helped with Carly’s math homework and then gave her an early good-night kiss and went out to the patio. He slept in the chair and, almost as if an alarm sounded, he woke at five
AM,
took a shower and drove to this spot.

At six thirty he began to squirm. Walker was late and he had never been late so far. Light from the east was starting to glow and a dusty gray was rising into the sky. He was leaning forward, anticipating the headlights of Walker’s car, when a sharp tapping of metal on glass caused him to jump.

At the passenger window was the face of a man, a long flashlight tube in his hand. Nick was confused for a second. No one had ever approached him before. The flashlight snapped against the window again and now Nick could see the badge displayed on the man’s chest.

He hit the automatic button to lower the passenger-side window and only then did he realize a second man was on his side of the car, standing back a few paces at the rear panel.

“Please step out of the car, sir, and keep your hands where we can see them,” the officer at the open window said. He was standing sideways as he bent to look in. A standard defense procedure, Nick knew, that gave less of a profile to hit if a driver was thinking of shooting a cop during a traffic stop.

“Yeah, yeah, sure, Officers. I’m cool,” Nick said, exaggerating his hands up and fingers spread. “I’m just reaching down to open the door, OK?”

Nick had written about citizens being wounded by officers reacting to unpredictable and quick movements. He’d also written about cops being shot during traffic stops. Both sides needed to know what the other was doing.

He opened the door slowly and then pushed his upraised hands out first and then stood.

“Come around to the front here, please,” the officer to the side said and Nick followed the instruction, only glancing at the cop standing behind him.

While Officer One ran his flashlight beam over Nick’s clothes and finally his face, he could see Officer Two doing the same kind of search of his car interior.

“License, sir?” Officer One said.

“I’m gonna get it out of my front pants pocket. OK?” Nick said before reaching. He had always kept his wallet in his front pocket since some street hustler had tried to pick it one day. And he knew reaching oddly into a waistband area was a motion that would surely agitate a cop.

The guy nodded and Nick took out the wallet and opened it away from his body and slipped out the license and handed it over. The officer looked at the license and then at his partner and said, “Mr. Mullins, may we look in the trunk of your car, sir?”

“Yeah, sure, no problem,” Nick said. “The button is right there on the left of the dash and the keys are in the ignition.”

He turned his head to watch Officer Two lean in and take out the keys and then walk around to the trunk. Officer One said nothing and while they waited Nick took in the uniform badge and seal on the officer’s shoulder. Fort Lauderdale Police Department. He knew that this was officially their jurisdiction, but had never even seen a sector car in this area before. A pair of cops doing foot patrol was way unusual, Nick thought.

“OK, Mr. Mullins,” Officer One said after getting an all-clear sign from his partner, who slammed down the trunk lid. “Can you tell me, sir, why you’re parked here so early in the morning?”

“Actually, I’m working on a story. I’m a reporter for the
Daily News
and I’ve got an early appointment to meet a guy here.” Nick nodded toward the buildings across the street. “And I usually show up early to, you know, go through the questions I’m gonna ask and stuff.”

“Yeah, OK.” Officer One was listening and looking down again at the license. “I was in on that plane crash over at Executive Airport back in August. I was one of the first units responding and you interviewed me.

“Larry Jacobs,” Officer One said and stuck out his hand.

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” Nick said, pretending he recognized the guy, but definitely remembering the crash. A small plane nosedived right after takeoff and went face first through the roof of a car repair shop. The pilot was thrown through the windshield and then the plane engine crushed him right in the center of the repair bay.

“Grisly scene, man,” Officer Jacobs said.

“Larry, yo,” Nick heard Officer Two say from behind with an impatient tone.

“OK, Mr. Mullins. You’ll have to move the car, OK? We’ve got a cordon going up because the feds are doing some political dog-and-pony show a few blocks down and they’re setting up security. OK?”

Nick looked around and said, “Yeah, sure. No problem. Probably why my guy is late. I’ll just get him on the cell and, you know, reschedule or something. I didn’t realize they were doing anything this far from the convention center.”

“Well, they were keeping it under wraps,” Jacobs said. “But I’m surprised you wouldn’t know.” The officer attempted a wink, but Nick’s head had already gone elsewhere and he just waved as he got back in his car, took one more look at Walker’s empty spot and drove away.

Two blocks away, Nick pulled over and parked in a coffee shop lot that was still empty and stared at his cell phone, thinking. I’m surprised you didn’t know? The cops always figure reporters know everything. Not so. But photographers usually do. He dialed Susan’s cell number and despite the hour, she picked up on the second ring.

“Hi, it’s Susan.”

“Well, good morning, early bird,” Nick said pleasantly.

“My ass,” she grumbled back.

Nick smiled. This was the stuff he’d miss.

“What’s up, young lady?”

“Goddamn early assignment,” she said. “But what’s up with you, Nick? I heard you cleared out your desk. You get that job down in Miami?”

“No. No. I think I’m getting out of the business,” Nick said.

“No shit! Good for you, Nicky,” she said. “Man, I’m gonna be the oldest one on this beat before long.”

“So what’s going on this morning?” Nick said, getting to it.

“You know. Some gig that has to do with that OAS thing down at the convention center. It’s all that hush-hush stuff. We have to meet them at the center and then they’re going to drive us to some secret location to shoot some VIP hand-grab photos.”

“Is it the Secretary of State?” Nick said, working.

“I gotta figure. That’s the biggest face down here.”

“Is it up north of the center? Like, by Tasker Street? ’Cause I got stopped up here by a bunch of security guys doing a sweep.”

“Could be, Nick. They’re not telling us anything yet,” Susan said. “But why are you poking around if you quit?”

Nick didn’t answer.

“Ha!” Susan laughed into the phone. “Can’t get it out of your blood, eh, Nick? Not even for a day.”

“You know everything, Susan,” he chided back. “Have a great morning.”

Nick’s next call was to Hargrave.

There had to be a reason Walker hadn’t shown for work. The son-of-a-bitch hadn’t been late yet. It was part of his goddamn parole agreement. He was breaking his parole!

Nick fumbled while punching in Hargrave’s number and got one of those high-pitched three-tone wailing sounds in his ear and cursed. Then he stopped, laid the phone in his lap, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Think it through, Nick, he told himself. So Walker’s late. Lots of possibilities. What were you going to say to the guy anyway?
Hey, duck, you’re gonna get shot!
Or maybe you were going to just sit there and watch him get shot? Watch the man who killed your wife and daughter bleed out on the street? If Redman is going to assassinate the guy because he has deluded himself into thinking you are his so-called spotter, why not let him? If he thinks he owes you by giving you this retribution, then maybe he’s a better man than you are.

He opened his eyes, took another deep breath, dialed Hargrave’s number and waited.

“Hargrave,” the phone said.

“It’s Nick, Detective.”

Hargrave pulled the old no-question-no-answer routine that so many hardass cops seemed to work at and remained silent.

“I was calling to tell you that Walker didn’t show up for work this morning at his usual time,” Nick said. “Did you by chance warn him of the possibility that he could be a target after we talked last night?”

“A target? Well, I didn’t really get that far,” Hargrave said and Nick thought that was going to be it until he continued. “But I did get some intelligence that he left his house this morning in his truck at six.”

“And where might this
intelligence
have come from?” Nick asked.

“I stopped him in his driveway,” Hargrave said. “He is one ugly guy, by the way.”

“Tell me something I don’t know, Detective.”

“I informed him that the Sheriff’s Office had reason to believe that he may be in danger and told him maybe it wouldn’t be such a good idea to go to work today.”

“And?” Nick said, feeling the heat of anger crawl up his neck.

“He asked for an explanation and as soon as I got to the part that had to do with you, he told me to fuck off and move my car out of his way.”

Nick stayed quiet.

“Frankly, I don’t need that shit,” Hargrave finally said. “Even if you’re right about Redman wanting to kill this son-of-a-bitch, I don’t need it.”

Nick wanted to say he agreed and just walk away. But somewhere in the last few days the story had changed for him. It was now more about saving Redman from himself than it was about saving his targets.

“Well, Walker never showed up here.”

“I know,” Hargrave said. “I’m watching his truck from four cars back. We’re stopped at a roadblock to warehouse row, they’re checking all I.D.s of people entering because of some federal action at a Cuban nursing home that’s supposed to go off at nine.”

“I heard,” Nick said.

“Oh, really? Fitzgerald told us it was supposed to be a need-to-know deal, highly secretive.”

“Yeah, well, what good is a photo opportunity like that if you don’t tell the press?” Nick said.

“Yeah, well, if that info is floating around, Fitzgerald’s not going to be a happy man,” Hargrave said.

“You talked to him?”

“Right after I hung up with you last night I called Lieutenant Canfield. Then he patched together a conference call with Fitzgerald. The guy sounded hinky. He was under the gun because they got some kind of intel that this sniper they’re looking for is definitely a foreigner and has been in the country doing one of those sleeper things, laying low, for a year.

“But that obit of yours with the National Guardsman’s dad blaming the secretary for his kid’s death might have creeped him out. They actually ran some kind of itinerary on Redman’s movements over there and he might have spent time with the dead kid’s unit. You didn’t know that too, did you, Mullins?”

“No,” Nick said. “But doesn’t that say something to you, Detective?”

“Like too many coincidences?” Hargrave answered. “Yeah, it talks to me. But I get the feeling Fitzgerald is sticking with the foreigner-on-our-soil theory.”

“But what do you think? Who’s Redman’s next target?”

“I already told you. I’m on Walker’s ass right now,” Hargrave said. “But you must be close by if you know he’s not at work yet, Nick. So where exactly are you calling from? And what the hell are you doing?”