The Face of Fear: A Powers and Johnson Novel (29 page)

Paul looked over at Bud and asked, “Ready for next door?”

“Yeah, I guess,” his partner replied.

As they left the front door and walked over to the next house, Bud remarked that it had certainly turned out to be a nice day off.

Paul, serious as ever, kept walking past Bud up the steps but replied, “Doesn’t it make you wonder how the shooter knew where you were going to be? It wasn’t on your schedule. It’s a Sunday. You walked up there, right?” Bud nodded as Paul continued, “So whoever it was waited until you were at the
Now
offices and decided to fire warning shots near you and toward the offices. To warn you, to warn me, and to warn Anderson possibly about what was going to be published in Tuesday’s edition. Regardless of whom they were trying to warn, they had a good idea where you were going to be.”

They four men stepped into the house of Kyle Winters, and it smelled like a home with cats that had not been kept clean. O’Connor stepped in with Sherman and told them there had been 10 cats in the house and it was apparent he did not keep them or the kitty-litter boxes clean. Bud and Paul did a thorough search up and down. Bud even checked a piece of crinkled paper in the trashcan beneath the sink. On it was a group of numbers—
6423999
. He gave the paper to Paul, who opened up his cell and dialed. It was a number that had been disconnected.

“We will need to check and see who this belongs to,” Paul said.

O’Connor asked for the number too and said the agency would also check. When the two detectives were satisfied, Paul asked for access to the home on Pine Tree where Debbie Lance had been held hostage by Wayne Starfield.

“No problem,” was O’Connor’s answer.

“Gee,” Bud said to Paul, “he’s starting to be nice now that he knows someone wants to blow me away.”

“Yeah, I can understand that,” Paul replied.

Bud took a quick glance at his partner, and Paul was smiling. Bud said, “Oh, I see. Now you have developed a sense of humor over all of this. Great, just great.”

The two detectives got in their car. As they were driving over to Starfield’s house, Bud’s cell started playing “California Girls” by Katy Perry, which meant he had a phone call.

“You got to be kidding me,” Paul yelled.

“Hey,” Bud replied, “I wanted 'I Kissed a Girl,’ but it wasn’t available.”

“No wonder someone wants to shoot you,” Paul remarked.

It was Debbie Lance, who had heard from her father that Bud was involved in another shooting. Paul was listening to Bud’s side of the conversation, and he could tell what Debbie was saying just from Bud’s remarks. “Yes, a nice relaxing day off. They missed, I’m OK. No, I hurt my shoulder diving to the ground and hit my head behind the car, but I’m fine. Sure, no problem. Thanks for the concern. I will speak to you later. Bye, Deborah.”

“Oh, man,” Paul said. “I hurt my shoulder diving to the ground and hit my head behind the car. Why didn’t you just tell her you were a klutz trying to get the hell out of the way?”

“My version is more exciting,” Bud replied as he looked at Paul. “Maybe I should shoot you myself,” Paul said as he started to laugh.

They pulled into Starfield’s driveway, which also had two FBI agents in front.

“I guess the taxpayers are going to love the cost of this case,” Bud remarked as they walked right in with no problem from the agents. They were unaware that Sherman and O’Connor had motioned to the agents that it was OK for them to pass through. Unlike Kyle Winters’ house, it was immaculate. Every room, including the bathroom and kitchen, was spotless, which was unusual for a man. When they reached the basement, it was a different story. There were still parts of Deborah’s clothes that had been ripped from her body and bloodstains on the carpet. The basement looked like a large room filled with enough food, water, and toilet paper to last the next six months. The bed to which Debbie had been handcuffed had not been touched since the Crime Scene Unit examined it.

“This is really sick,” Bud remarked.

“I know what you mean, but it’s not about them. It’s about someone else,” Paul said. “Phil Smith can’t be doing this by himself. If he is, he deserves to get some kind of award before he is sent away for life.”

Bud looked around to see if O’Connor or Sherman were around then walked up to Paul and said, “If it goes that far, it’s going to take everything in my power not to do him in if I find him.”

“I didn’t hear that,” Paul replied.

“Good,” Bud said as he walked back to the room where Debbie was held. He felt compelled to send her an email from his BlackBerry at that moment. He wrote,
“Deborah, I want you to know that I’m sorry for everything you have experienced this past week. I am sorry for the things done to you, said to you, and for the things we have found out. I’m sorry, and I will be here if you need me.”
He put his BlackBerry in his pocket as he walked around and examined every space of the room, hoping for any clue.

Paul went upstairs and looked in Wayne’s bedroom. He approached O’Connor and Sherman and asked what had been taken from the house. They answered nothing except for the photos in the house and the masks believed to have been involved in the killing of Timothy Mann. Paul requested to see the photos and masks, and O’Connor said they would bring them to the precinct first thing Monday morning. Paul pressed for them later in the day Sunday, but it was impossible, according to the agents. Paul pushed harder and asked why the photos were taken from the premises. It was a simple answer. The FBI was checking everyone that was in them.

“Were there photographs taken from the Winters’ homes?” Paul asked.

“They had no photos in the homes,” O’Connor replied.

Paul went back downstairs to the basement to see what his partner was up to. He walked up to Bud as he was checking behind the bedpost.

“You OK?” he asked.

Bud took a deep breath before answering, “I can’t imagine what she went though. She must have been so scared. It’s a miracle she didn’t have a stroke during this.”

“It’s a miracle she wasn’t raped,” Paul replied.

“She would have been,” Bud answered, “but our hero, killer, masked man, vigilante, whoever it is, prevented it.”

“Why would Phil Smith care about preventing a rape after she was beaten?”

“He wouldn’t,” Paul replied, “unless he wanted you to think it was someone else wearing the mask.”

“Or,” Bud said, “someone else wanting us to think it’s Phil Smith.”

“Are you confused yet?” Paul laughed.

Bud’s thoughts again went to the letter that had been sent to Rachelle. There had still been no mention of it to her.

“This is pissing me off,” Bud replied. He looked over at the two agents who were talking amongst themselves and said, “I would like to go to Patty’s apartment and take a look around.”

“Let’s go,” O’Connor said.

As they were walking up the stairs, Bud asked O’Connor, “Jack is a nickname, right? What is your real name? John?”

“No,” the agent said, “it’s Jason.”

Bud replied in a surprised tone, “How did you get from Jason to Jack?”

As they left the house, O’Connor told him that his father was Jason senior and that he didn’t like to be called “Junior” so they started calling him Jack.

“Interesting,” Bud replied.

As Paul and Bud got in the car, Bud said aloud, “And to think all this time I though Jack was short for jackass.”

“Very funny,” Paul said as they backed out of the driveway.

They reached Patty Saunders’ apartment within six minutes from Starfield’s house. Her place was more interesting because nothing had been taken from the house. Paul went straight for all the framed photos in the house. There were many photos of her and Deborah Lance, as well as group photos of their circle of friends.

“Have all the people in the photos been identified yet?” Paul asked.

“Not yet,” Sherman replied.

“OK,” Paul said. “I would like to take the photos to Patty.”

“I would hold off,” Agent Sherman said. “We have a search warrant, but legally I’m not sure if it means we can take photos out of the house.”

“Agreed,” Paul answered. “Let’s find out,” he said, and asked Bud to make a phone call.

“Where are you going with this investigation?” O’Connor asked.

Paul continued to look at the photos but answered the agent, “In this particular case, I’m going where the investigation will lead us. You know as well as I do this case is unlike any we’ve ever worked on, and if we do not handle it this way, it will never get solved. And I plan on it getting solved, don’t you, Agent O’Connor?”

“It will get solved with or without the Suffolk County Police Department,” O’Conner answered.

“I doubt it,” Bud interjected.

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” O’Connor yelled back.

“What are you so touchy about?” Bud remarked. “I’m the one that’s been shot at twice in the past eight days.”

“Give me a break,” O’Connor answered loudly.

“Hey!” Agent Sherman yelled as he walked in. “Come on! We have to work together on this. Let’s solve it and go our separate ways.”

Bud started singing the lyrics to “Separate Ways” in tune as he held up his fist to be a microphone. It was a song by Elvis from 1972 that was written when he and Priscilla were divorcing. Somehow, Bud remembered reading about it and didn’t know why, but he was glad he could antagonize O’Connor in this particular instance.

“I think we are done here for now,” Paul remarked.

As they were leaving, Robert Simpson came into the apartment. “What’s going on?” Paul asked.

“Nothing much,” Simpson replied.

“Really? What did you have for lunch today?” Paul asked.

“I don’t have to answer that,” the ex-assistant to the most powerful man in town said.

Bud walked by Simpson and in a low voice said, “Bullet up the ass,” and walked out.

O’Connor and Sherman acted like they didn’t hear the remark as well and left the apartment to Paul and Simpson.

“I guess Ms. Saunders is OK with you being here,” Paul stated. “Yes, she is.”

“Maybe she thinks she will get laid again, but I don’t know what the attraction would be.”

“That’s your opinion,” Simpson remarked. The two didn’t know Bud was standing on the other side of the door listening, just in case there was a problem.

“What were you doing with Rachelle at lunch yesterday at Red Onion?” Paul asked.

Simpson answered in a very slow, cocky voice, “Maybe she finds me cute.”

Paul rushed at him and slammed him against the wall and locked the door all in the same motion. Bud tried to get in but realized the door had been locked.

“Paul! Open the door! Now!” Bud screamed.

Paul had his arm in Simpson’s throat and went into his face. “You listen, this is not a game to me. I’m not sure what you are up to, but my partner has been shot at twice, and Rachelle has been through hell. If anything happens to them, whether it’s your fault or not, I will kill you. Do you understand me?” Paul said and then repeated himself, holding Simpson’s throat.

“Yes,” Simpson answered, barely audible, as Paul let go, turned, and walked out.

The two agents stared at Bud as the detective starting waving his arms. He said, “Everything’s cool. Just awesome. No problems.”

Simpson finally got his voice back and yelled, “He threatened me!”

“Sorry,” Bud said, “didn’t hear a thing.” Looking at Sherman and O’Connor, Bud spoke again, saying, “I know you guys didn’t hear anything because you were behind me and the door was jammed, so there was a lot of noise out here.” The two agents just stood there. Bud kept talking. “You two look like
Men in Black
. Come on, take those shades off.”

“You!” he said, pointing at Simpson. “You get that fucking door fixed. Since you been living here, you fucked up that door.”

He walked out to the car, where Paul was waiting for him, and said, “Are you calmed down now? If you want to hurt the dumbass, at least wait ’til here is a good reason and you’re not going to jam up your career.”

He walked around the other side of the car and waved to the agents, saying, “See you guys. Thanks for the tour. We will be in touch.”

He got in the car and told Paul he had had enough for the day. He didn’t plan on working for five hours and getting shot at during his time off. Paul took Bud back to his car on Main Street. As Bud got out, he looked at Paul and said, “We don’t know how this is going to turn out, but don’t regret anything. Give her a call and talk to her as a woman friend you care about. Don’t talk about all this bullshit. Talk about her and you. Even if it’s this one time. Learn about her and let her see you, Paul. This whole thing has fucked so many things up, but it’s worth a shot.”

Paul smiled at Bud and said, “Since when are you the expert on relationships?”

“Hey,” his partner answered, “just remember the women love the Budster. Did you see them at Danford’s Wednesday? I had them in the palm of my hand.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Paul replied. He saw Bud get in his car and drive off. Paul turned right onto Arden Place and went into the parking lot behind Z Pita. He went to his door, opened his mailbox, got his mail, and went upstairs and plopped on his bed. He fell asleep for 35 minutes and jumped in the shower when he woke up.

As Bud drove home, his head was throbbing. He didn’t know what to think or what to do, for he had heard his partner tell Simpson he would kill him.

Agent Jason “Jack” O’Connor was still going on about what had happened, as Sherman drove. “Do you believe these two? They’re going to screw up this case or get someone else killed,” O’Connor ranted.

“Give the guy a break,” Sherman replied. “His partner is on a hit list and some asshole is running around in a mask killing people involved in the kidnapping.”

“Don’t forget I was shot too,” O’Connor remarked.

“No, you are not going to let me forget that, are you?”

“No, I’m not,” O’Connor replied. “It’s what got you on this case to begin with.”

Paul picked up his phone and started to push Rachelle’s home number, hoping that hadn’t changed also, but he got nervous and hung up. He called again and hung up again. He sat there thinking how ridiculous he was and called again...and hung up again.