the 13th Hour (31 page)

He had gone to Byram Hills High School and had a fair amount of experience with the police as a youth. Of course it was from the other side of the law. Never charged with or convicted of anything, he was your typical delinquent, drunk and disorderly, causing fights, but nothing beyond the wildness of male youth.

Hoping for the fast track so he could begin to earn a decent wage and leave the ridiculous hat and blue uniform behind, he had cozied up to Detective Dance. He knew Dance had helped Detective Shannon along, had taken an interest in the fellow Brooklynite several years earlier, helping him to achieve his promotion in one-third the usual time.

And now, as with all masters and apprentices, Brinehart had found his opening. He was a willing pupil and Dance was a teacher in need of a new student.

Dance told him the romanticized world of detectives, the one that everyone knew so well from movies and television, did not exist. Crimes were usually easily solved or impossible to figure out, and the pay was underwhelming. But if Brinehart was willing to walk a slightly different path, he could not only achieve detective status in a year's time but have a bank account that would allow him a lifestyle impossible to attain on a detective's abysmal salary.

So Brinehart became a last-minute addition to Dance's crew, acting as a lookout, as a gofer, as whatever Dance needed to pull off the job.

He was looking forward to his share--a million dollars promised, money to be spent gradually, money that would allow him to be everything his wife wanted him to be. It was money Dance convinced him he deserved, taken from a man who would not even miss it, whose wealth he could never conceive.

He was counting on Dance's talent and experience to make their crime impossible to solve. He had been told it would be an easy job, with inside information. All he had to do was keep an eye out for anything suspicious, any problems or people that might approach the house while they were inside.

He had watched as Sam Dreyfus led Dance, Randall, and Arilio into Washington House, remaining outside on lookout. He watched as Randall and Arilio carried the two duffel bags out and put them in the back of Dance's Taurus before heading back inside.

Sam emerged two minutes later carrying a brown wooden box under his arm. The middle-aged man spoke to him briefly about the success of the operation and the easy money they just made before he hopped into Randall's Chrysler and drove off.

Moments later, Dance exploded out the door like a wild animal, diving into his car and tearing off after Sam.

Brinehart had never realized that the problem to watch for would come from within the house, from within their group of five. He was the last-minute guy; he thought they were all connected, friends, partners. He had never thought that their inside man had issues, issues that could throw their entire scheme into disarray, sending it skidding into disaster.

Dance called from his car ripping into Brinehart for letting Sam get away, for being so stupid as to let him get into Randall's car and drive off without even challenging him. Dance went on to tell him to remain and watch the house for anything suspicious and to report anything he saw. And to not continue on the path of stupidity.

Brinehart watched the woman in the black Lexus drive in at 11:50. Her car had been sitting in wait for twenty-five minutes now. He had run the plates. Julia Quinn, a name they had thought might arise, the attorney for Shamus Hennicot.

He had ignored the all-hands call to the plane crash, sitting in his unmarked patrol car under the hedges of Wampus Park, watching as his police brethren, along with every fire truck and volunteer fireman, raced to the scene. He heard the cries over his radio of a disaster like nothing that had ever been witnessed. His curiosity constantly baited him to leave his post, but he had been posted here by Dance, told to watch any activity and to keep an eye out for anything out of the ordinary.

The Audi had circled three times now, which would not normally be too suspicious for someone who was lost, but with black smoke and flame filling the air, the streets clearing, and emergency vehicles racing off, no one who is lost circles about three times.

He ran the plates, finding the car belonged to Nicholas Quinn, who resided at the same address as Julia Quinn. His heart beat a bit faster as his suspicion rose; it was almost as if Quinn didn't want his wife to know he was there.

Brinehart watched Julia Quinn emerge from Washington House and look up into the sky. She pulled her cell phone from her purse and dialed as she got into her Lexus, quickly pulling from the driveway and heading off.

And as she disappeared down the road, the Audi returned, slowing as it approached Washington House, finally pulling into the driveway.

That was all the confirmation Brinehart needed. He started his car, drove across the street and blocked the driveway.

* * *

N
ICK HAD DRIVEN
around the mile-square block, circling back to Washington House three times now. On each round, the mayhem grew. A panic was overtaking people, as they were unsure what was going on. Crawling through the traffic, he could hear the murmur of the crowd, feeling the anxiety of the people, the shouting about a plane crash, a pipeline, a terrorist attack.

And there was Larry Powers standing in front of his wife's gift shop. People circled him, surrounded him as if he was the town crier who had all the answers.

Nick heard people talking in amazement.

". . . I saw it. I was looking up, it was horrible. It was two planes--"

"--Two planes?" someone yelled. "What kind?"

"One slammed right into the other, like two birds crashing into one another, both falling dead out of the sky . . ."

Caught in the flow of traffic, horns blaring behind him, Nick drove on as Paul Dreyfus's words floated up in his mind. It was his plane, his brother at the controls. The fateful robbery of Shamus Hennicot did not just result in Julia's death, it also caused the crash of North East Air Flight 502, killing 212 passengers. So many innocents killed by greed.

Nick's focus throughout this upside-down day had been so trained on Julia that he hadn't thought of what was truly behind the crash, what had caused the AS 300 to drop from the sky on a cloudless summer morning.

Nick thought of calling what he knew in to the NTSB so efforts could be focused on things other than the cause of the crash, but they would learn the truth soon enough.

And then Nick realized that, if he was truly successful in stopping the robbery, if he was to halt Sam Dreyfus and Ethan Dance from carrying out their plan, not only would Julia be saved . . .

* * *

A
S
N
ICK MADE
the turn onto Maple Avenue, he saw Julia's Lexus in the distance, driving away toward Route 22. He slowed and scanned the area again. On each pass he looked about for Dance, but he was nowhere to be seen, the roads filled with cars exiting town, everyone escaping as if another plane or a house would drop out of the sky landing atop their heads. Byram Hills was awash in the survival instinct of fight or flee; while many were heading home, just as many were heading across Route 22 onto the access road to Sullivan Field. Some went out of morbid curiosity, most went to help, some drove, others ran, and it all grew to a steady stream of townsfolk rushing to the rescue.

And he realized it was true: Mankind is at its best when things are at their worst.

He wished there was something he could do, that he could join the effort, but if Julia was to live, he needed every second of every minute devoted to figuring out how to stop the robbery. Only fifty minutes left in the hour. Fifty minutes until he was thrust back to the time when the robbery of Washington House would occur, when all the wheels would be set in motion and all paths would lead to Julia's death, Marcus's death, the loss of everything and everyone he cared about.

Nick turned into the driveway of Hennicot's Washington House. A tinge of excitement entered him as he felt the hope growing inside his heart. His plan was coming together; what he had once thought to be the fantasy of a broken man, of resurrecting his wife from the dead, was coming to fruition.

Then, as he pulled into the driveway, stepping from the Audi, the unmarked police car pulled in behind him.

B
RINEHART STEPPED FROM
his vehicle, putting on his police hat, his hand resting on his holstered pistol, and approached the Audi.

Nick stared at him, knowing full well this was not a traffic stop. He had seen Brinehart play the innocent, had seen him lie to everyone, planting the diamonds in Marcus's Bentley, which resulted in their arrest and Marcus's death.

He had actually seen Brinehart before that meeting in the high school parking lot but . . . Brinehart hadn't seen him, he was already dead at the bottom of the reservoir.

Of course, to Brinehart, this would be their first meeting.

"Is there a problem?" Nick asked.

"May I ask what you are doing?" Brinehart asked.

Two fires trucks raced by, their sirens blaring, drowning out the moment.

Nick grew suddenly conscious of the weight of his own gun pressing at the small of his back. He could reach around and grab it in seconds but thought better of it. One mistake on his part and Julia was dead.

"Sir, may I ask you to turn around and place your hands on the roof of your vehicle?"

"Why? I haven't done anything."

"Please, sir, turn around and put your hands on the car."

Nick slowly turned, cursing himself for being so foolish as to have lulled himself into a false sense of security, thinking Dance's people weren't watching the place after the robbery.

"Before you frisk me," Nick said, looking over his shoulder, "I have a Sig-Sauer in the waistband of my pants. It's legal and licensed."

"May I ask why you're armed?" Brinehart asked as he raised Nick's jacket and removed the pistol.

"I carry it for protection."

"In Byram Hills?"

"The city," Nick said. He hated how comfortable he had gotten with lying. "I have some real estate in some rough areas."

"Mmm." Brinehart checked the safety, slipped the gun in his own waistband, and frisked Nick, running his hands from his ankles up to his arms.

"Do you mind emptying your pockets? Slowly, please."

Nick reached in and pulled out Dreyfus's wallet along with his own, placing them on the trunk of his car. He pulled out his cell phone and some spare change; he removed the two envelopes from Marcus and the European from his coat pocket, cursing himself for still carrying them.

"Is that everything?" Brinehart said, seeing a small lump in his left front pocket.

Nick reluctantly stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out the gold watch and the St. Christopher medal, watching Brinehart's eyes closely for any sign of recognition.

"Nice watch." Brinehart's focus was on the antique. "Don't see too many of those."

Brinehart's eyes drifted over the two wallets, picking them both up. "Any reason you carry two?"

Nick remained silent as Brinehart opened the first, seeing Nick's ID and credit cards. He put it down and opened Dreyfus's. There was a subtle widening of Brinehart's eyes. He quickly turned to Nick. "Please place your hands behind your back."

"You've got to be kidding me. What's the problem?"

"I won't ask again." Brinehart laid his hand back on his holster for emphasis.

Nick shook his head as he threw his hands back, the cuffs instantly slamming about his wrists, feeling like a death sentence.

Brinehart stepped to Nick's car, removed the keys from the ignition, and pulled the two-way radio from his belt.

"Dance?"

"Yeah," the detective's unmistakable voice answered back.

"Where are you?"

"Still at the airport, what the hell do you want?"

"We may have a problem. I found a Nicholas Quinn, snooping around Washington House."

"Quinn? As in Julia Quinn?"

"Yeah, she was here separately but left."

"Was he just watching her back?"

"He has Paul Dreyfus's wallet."

"How would he get that?"

"You want me to interrogate him?" There was glee in Brinehart's voice.

"No." Dance shot him down. "Take him to the station. Hand him off to Shannon. I want him questioned by someone with some experience."

N
ICK LOOKED AROUND
the room, at the sparse metal table he sat at. The chipped metal door with the porthole glass, the dark mirrored window along the wall. The power was on, unlike everywhere else in town. He had been here over nine hours ago as the gold watch read, at 9:30
P.M.
, in the future. He had met Dance then. He was kindly, caring, and, as he learned later, entirely full of shit.