The Face of Fear: A Powers and Johnson Novel (8 page)

Patty herself was no plain Jane. At 5’4,” with a well-toned body, she was what most men considered a petite bombshell. Patty always looked out for Deborah, but she had been boy hungry since she was 12 years old. It was anybody’s guess when she lost her virginity, and Deborah took criticism for being her best friend, but she had fun times with Patty, with or without the boys. Her sense of humor about men/boys and sex made Debbie laugh so hard at times she could hardly contain herself. She knew Patty had issues, but her attitude was, “Don’t we all?”

Double-dating with her was always an adventure. It was always Debbie and Robert, yet it was anybody’s guess who Patty would be with. The pool parties were the best, and most guys couldn’t keep their eyes off of Patty’s small yet perfectly shaped frame. Debbie had no interest in the men Patty enjoyed. She was perfectly content with the man she literally grew up to love.

But now she was in a fight for her life, and as she lay on the bed with one arm shackled to the headboard, seeing only darkness because of the blindfold, all she could think about was her father, Robert, and how much she appreciated life. How much she appreciated her health, her friends, her work. All of this meant so much to her now. She started to pray, “
Dear Lord, I know I have been distant from you, and it seems when things are going well I have ignored you. Please Lord, help me. I will never take you for granted again. I ask of you to help me through this and to allow me to see my family again. I promise I will seek you to be in my life, but Lord I need your help. I know one day my journey will end, but I pray to you that it does not end this way. In the name of the Father, Son, Holy Spirit. Amen.”

“Oh, isn’t that sweet,” Wayne said. He had been standing by, listening to her prayer. “Let me tell you, you pretty little bitch. You better start praying to me for your salvation, because it will be up to me if you are saved or not now!” he screamed. “Pray to me for your life!”

Deborah started shaking and tried to speak, but she was so terrified she wasn’t making any sense. Wayne slapped her across the face as she started crying. “Pray to me!” He slapped her again. “Pray to me!” He slapped her again and finally said the magic words to her:

“Pray to me!”

“Please!” she yelped. “Please save me!”

Wayne moved in to slap her again, when his cell phone rang. It played a small Elvis recording that said, “Thank you, thank you very much.” She had heard it before when his cell had a call. She could tell it was from someone who was giving him instructions. She didn’t care at this point, as long as it stopped him from beating her. She began to pray again.

Paul and Bud arrived at headquarters to see Cronin, and they were met by an officer who told them no stops for anything, including the bathroom, to go straight to his office. They opened the door, and as Cronin looked up, he reached for his remote and turned on CNN and then Fox News. Both were televising the kidnapping and its possible connection to Timothy’s murder.

“This is all over the country, detectives. Do you understand why?”

“Yes,” Paul replied.

“Tell me,” Cronin said.

“The media will use it for all it’s worth with the Ghost Face masks involved.”

“That’s right.”

“Um,” Bud replied, “I said it first. Ghost Face, fuckface, what’s the difference? But I knew this would go national.” As Bud looked around at the silent stares he was getting from Cronin and Paul, he spoke again in an awkward tone. “Please, please, boss, continue,” he said, as he moved his hand sideways in a friendly gesture.

After glaring at Bud for a few seconds, Cronin spoke again. “All the sickos of the world want to know more because these assholes used these particular masks. Now I have everyone but my mother asking me questions, and that’s only because she doesn’t like horror movies. Guys, listen to me. We have to push to get this solved. I will have the commissioner and district attorney on my ass within the next 24 hours as to the status. Do your thing on the ferry tomorrow. Let’s work with the FBI, pay off the ransom, get Debbie Lance back, and let’s get the killers involved with your friend’s murder.”

Bud just shook his head and replied, “Sounds so easy when you say it like that.”

Cronin threw his pencil at Bud and said, “Detective, get it done, or I will find someone who will. You fuck this up, and I will have your badge and then I will beat the living shit out of you.”

“Yes, boss,” Bud replied as he walked out the door.

“Well?” Cronin said to Paul, who just stood there.

“This will end, boss, but there is more to this that we don’t know. When we get back from my theory ride, we need to have Agent O’Connor and the executives of the Cross Island Ferry available. No one knows how to reach them. I suggest you have the district attorney help us with this. We’re handling the murder. The FBI is handling the kidnapping, and the Coast Guard wants to know what’s going on, since it most likely happened on the Sound.”

“So you say,” Cronin replied.

“I’ll show everyone tomorrow,” Paul replied.

“What makes you so sure?” Cronin asked.

“I’ve been riding the ferry since I was a boy. Tomorrow you’ll see the only way they could have pulled this off.”

“You’re damn right,” Cronin replied. “I’m going with you. By the way, we’re moving to the sixth precinct to be closer to Port Jefferson Village. Dismissed.” It was Paul’s cue to leave.

Cronin was a no-nonsense guy with the most dry sense of humor Paul had ever encountered. He was also one of the bravest men he had ever seen. In the line of duty, Cronin was the one you wanted with you if your life was in danger. No one was better at backup or directing a group of fellow officers in an emergency situation. His temper was fierce. He excelled at his ability to get the bad guys.

Cronin was also Bud Johnson’s first partner. He knew Bud could be a headcase who hid behind a clown’s face at times, but his heart and loyalty to the force and to his partners was too much to ignore, which is why Cronin requested him for headquarters. He also thought Bud was a good match for Paul, a man a little too serious and afraid to bend the rules on occasion, and Bud was a maverick and needed someone to pull him in at times when getting too far outside the box.

Bud drove Paul back to his apartment around 5:30 pm, and Paul asked Bud if he wanted to have dinner with him.

“Sorry, my partner,” Bud answered, “hot date tonight. I had planned to get shitfaced tonight, but with our little trip tomorrow, and now that you’ve invited the boss, I don’t even think I should get laid tonight.”

Paul just shook his head with a grin and said goodbye as he got out, adding, “Don’t forget to take what you need to work out of the sixth precinct for a while.”

Paul went down to Z Pita about 6:30 and was greeted by Rachelle, who led him to table three but did not stay to speak to him. He didn’t understand what was happening, but he didn’t want to push it. Rebecca came over and took his order. Small talk ensued with people at the next table, and things were normal as Joey Z walked around both sides of the restaurant making sure things were running smoothly.

As he got up to leave the restaurant, Paul noticed Rachelle was in conversation with Rebecca, and he hesitated for a minute to say good night. But it was apparent she had no interest. As he opened the door to leave, he heard a good night from her. He came back in and said, “Thank you for taking care of the plumbing problem.”

“No problem,” she replied.

“OK,” Paul said. “See you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow,” she replied.

He left with his thoughts going a mile a minute.
What, is she an echo tonight?
he thought. Paul walked around the building to his entrance in the back, walked upstairs, and dropped on his back on the bed. Everything in his mind was spinning with changing thoughts. From the kidnapper to the article to the murder to the use of the masks. He covered his face as he wondered if he was in over his head. Normally he would think not, but with all the publicity, he was having doubts about how all this was going to play out. He knew he felt differently because his friendship with Rachelle was changing and he wanted to speak to her about it, but again he held off. His thoughts rehearsed what he thought happened on the Cross Island Ferry over and over again until he drifted off to sleep.

Rachelle closed up Z Pita at 11:00 pm, and it was close to 11:30 pm by the time she locked up. She realized as she took the key out of the door that Paul wasn’t there to walk her up the hill to her house. It felt strange, but she didn’t want to bother him. Their relationship was changing, and she didn’t even remember why anymore. She walked up Prospect Street and made it to her house in seven minutes. As she went to charge her cell phone, she realized she had received a text message. It was from Paul: “Call me if you need a friend to walk you home.” She smiled and turned on the television and channel surfed until she saw Suze Orman.

O
ne Day Until Ransom Due

Paul had trouble getting more than a couple hours of sleep at one time throughout the night. His brain was so active rehearsing for the next day and dwelling on how the kidnapping had been pulled off that he could not fall into a deep sleep. He finally got up at 5:00 am to shower and check his emails on his BlackBerry. He was so used to having access to all his emails, it seemed hard to believe it was less than 15 years earlier that technology had been far less advanced and there was not such easy access to communication. He often wondered how the hell anyone got anything done.

He got dressed, sat down at his kitchen table, turned on his BlackBerry, got some paper and a pen, and began to write down everything he wanted to show and explain to Detective Lieutenant Cronin and Agent O’Connor as well as Bud and Rachelle. As his thoughts turned to Rachelle, he checked his BlackBerry. There was a text from her: “Thank you, but get some rest. We should talk.” There was a sudden feeling of relief and calm within his body. He felt the difference just from those words. He made up his mind he would talk to her over the weekend. Maybe on Sunday, when hopefully all of this would be behind them.

He continued to write down thought-out bullet points of his theory and how the kidnapping had been pulled off. It crossed his mind that the killers might even be on the ferry to just check out what was going on. After all, Rachelle’s article was very clear about when the reenactment would be happening. If only Tim had kept his mouth shut and let this play out, he would still be alive. The only one who gained from his death was his partner at Timothy’s Bar and Grill, and there was little chance of his involvement. Ben Cooper already had 80 percent ownership in the bar and had given Timothy equity for his “sweat” in running the place and use of his name for the bar. The sweat equity, as well as Timothy’s parents making an investment for their son, made it unlikely Ben Cooper was involved. It was the first time in years that a business survived in that location in the village.

Paul emailed Bud to be certain they had received all the names of those patrons in the bar Wednesday night when Timothy was killed. Credit card transactions and the memory of Ben Cooper was all they had for the time being. The only one Paul knew for sure who would know everyone that was at the Bar that night was Tim and he was gone. The detective shook his head as his thoughts went back to the 9:00 am ferry, and he began to write additional notes. One of his notes was to get the village of Port Jefferson to change their parking-meter program. As of now, the spaces were numbered, and you paid at a central meter by the number, which meant any vehicle could be in the space as long as it was paid for. Paul thought changing the meters to inputting license-plate numbers in the space would not only decrease crime but give the prior records of who was there during a crime, when one occurred. It was a long shot due to the low crime in the village, but he didn’t see any negative to revising the meters.

He found himself scribbling the name Rachelle, writing it in different styles on his notepad. He laughed to himself and decided he needed to collect his thoughts and papers for the day ahead. He sent Bud a text to request Officer Davis, a female officer who was the officer who looked the most like Debbie Lance, to drive an additional vehicle onto the ferry behind Bud. He sent Rachelle a text to be sure she remembered she was a “walk-on” at the 9:30 am ferry. He too would be a walk-on with O’Connor and Cronin. He reminded all to pay cash. By paying cash the lack of security was going to be exposed on the ferry once and for all, and he was hoping Rachelle’s article and this case would force the ferry to change and update their security procedures. While the ferry did have orange and black signs warning ferry riders of possible K-9 searches, no one that the detectives knew or friends had ever seen or heard that the dogs had been used.

He looked at the clock on the wall in his kitchen, and it was already 7:30. He dropped his pen and headed to the bathroom for his shaver. Bud was already at the precinct at 7:30, waiting for Officer Davis. Victoria Davis had been on the force for five years and was on her way up in the department. Not only was she an outstanding officer, she was well liked by both male and female officers at the precinct, which was a rarity in such a demanding and stressful job. Victoria drove up at 7:45 got out of her car in her civilian clothes and with her hair down.

Bud looked her over and said, “I won’t ask where your gun is.”

“Watch it,” she replied with a smile.

“Let’s get some breakfast before our field trip,” Bud said. “I’m starving.”

“You never change, do you?” laughed Victoria.

She followed him to Port Jefferson Village to the famous Toast breakfast/lunch café that resembled many small food restaurants in the Greenwich Village area of Manhattan. Usually if you got there before 8:00 am you didn’t have to wait long for a table. They served alternative choices to the traditional fare, such as Cranberry and Pumpkin White Omelets. The coffee was served in many different kinds and styles of mugs, which gave the place a very different look. The walls were filled with local artists’ paintings, which were sold on consignment. The only criticism anyone could think of was that it was a very tight squeeze because the tables were so close together, and it was difficult to have a personal conversation. Most patrons had been pleased when they expanded the space in early 2011.

Bud ordered a grilled turkey, grilled tomato, and spinach egg-white omelet, while Victoria ordered the mango pancakes. The servings hung over the plates, and the food was so good it was difficult not to finish every bite. It had been a while since Bud had talked with Victoria, and as his usual, he interrogated her on her life and work. Victoria liked Bud. If anything, he made her laugh, but she also respected the serious side that he had when it came to catching the bad guys. She had never worked with him on a case, but the stories other officers told her were enough to convince her that they had to be true.

Victoria insisted on paying for half of the meal, including tip. “This is not a date,” she giggled.

Bud replied, “My favorite kind of woman; they pay their way.”

“Yes, sir.”

It was 8:40 am as Bud got in the Ford cruiser and Victoria sat down in her 2004 Sebring convertible. They drove up Prospect, bearing left at the fork, and drove to East Broadway, made the left, and within 300 yards were in the ferry parking lot. The attendant asked Bud if he had reservations. Both Bud and Victoria were told to say no. They were automatically put in a separate line of vehicles waiting. However, the important thing was, as expected, that they were not asked for names or identification. It looked as though there would be more than 65 cars on this ride to Bridgeport.

It was about 20 minutes, during which they sat parked in their cars, before Bud and Victoria spotted Paul, Cronin, O’Connor, and Rachelle walking into the ticket office to pay for walk-ons. It was only five minutes until they came out and began their walk down to the loading area to stand with about 50 other pedestrians waiting. They had paid cash, received their tickets, and Bud watched as they headed for the boat.

Bud called Victoria on her cell phone. “Ready, bitch?” he laughed.

“You are one crazy dude,” Victoria replied and hung up. The boat,
John Adams
, pulled up to the dock, and within minutes cars were driving off the ferry. If there was one thing the ferry employees were good at it, was getting the cars off and on as well as positioning the cars on the boat to safely load them. The vehicles that had the reservations were loaded first. Then the other vehicles, including Bud’s and Victoria’s, were instructed to drive on, and within minutes they were on the top portion of the boat.

“OK,” Cronin said to Paul. “The floor is yours.”

Paul had rehearsed this with Bud and Victoria and had communicated with Rachelle through email about what would go down. He had wanted to speak to her about a review, but the distance over the past week was giving him pause. Today was different; Rachelle greeted him with a hug and a smile and seemed relieved herself they were going to talk later that day.

Cronin started walking away to view the show, and Agent O’Connor walked to the other side. Paul whispered in Rachelle’s ear, and she started walking toward the vehicles on the top deck. O’Connor wouldn’t take his eyes off the vehicles and Rachelle going toward them. Meanwhile, Cronin was scanning the people getting out of their cars. He kept asking himself whether there was anyone involved in the killing or kidnapping who would have the courage o dumbness to witness the reenactment based on what Rachelle wrote in the paper. Now that it was all over the news, he doubted it.

He was amazed at how no one paid any attention to anyone else. Someone could have had a bomb underneath their jacket, and no one would have known. He noticed that not one bag or person was searched, even though posted signs stated it was possible. Paul had told him he had been riding the ferry for more than 25 years and had never witnessed a search of any kind. In this day of airport security and talk of invasion of privacy, he was shocked how the Cross Island Ferry was completely the opposite. But then again, nothing had ever happened or at least was never reported to have happened.

Victoria got out of her car as Rachelle walked up to her.

“Excuse me, do you know anything about Bridgeport? I need directions.”

Victoria laughed and said, “No GPS, lady?”

Rachelle, keeping in character, said, “No, I don’t know how to use those things.”

Paul scanned the crowd going into the doors to the main portion of the boat.

Bud came up behind Rachelle and Victoria and said, “Ma’am, you have a problem with your back right tire.”

As Victoria went to look, he grabbed her keys and held her as Rachelle took the keys from him and pressed the trunk-release button. Within seconds, Victoria was in the trunk. Cronin continued to scan the crowd. No one was looking, and no one was paying attention. He noticed what looked like possible camera spots, which prompted him to make a note of them. O’Connor, on the other side of the boat, was taking all of this in.

Rachelle got into the backseat of Victoria’s 2004 Sebring and asked, “Are you OK, Victoria? Do you have enough air?”

Victoria was calm. “I’m OK, let’s play this out.”

“OK,” Rachelle said. “I’ll be here if there are any problems.”

Victoria started banging and yelling in the trunk to see if anyone would hear her or even care. Nothing. Bud went upstairs to the purser’s office to pay for both cars. Meanwhile, Paul came over to the car, got the keys from Rachelle, and opened the trunk.

He had a squirt gun and put it to Victoria’s face, staying in character. He said, “Continue to make noise and have people see or hear you, and I will be forced to put a bullet hole between your beautiful eyes.”

Victoria reacted the way she thought Deborah would react, saying, “You’re going to kill me anyway.”

Paul got closer to her face and said, “All I want is a ransom.” Victoria got quiet, and Paul shut the trunk.

“He’s a good actor,” Victoria said to Rachelle in the backseat. Paul went to find Bud as Agent O’Connor continued to watch them. Cronin watched on the other side but kept scanning the boat for anyone who would or could be possibly watching this unfold. Again, nothing.

Paul found Bud at the food stand and thought to himself,
Where else would he be?
As Bud was putting mustard on his hot pretzel, Paul asked him if any problems had occurred. Bud laughed. “Are you kidding? Now I know why they chose to do it this way.”

They went downstairs to the vehicles. As Bud sat in the cruiser, Paul gave Rachelle the car keys and ticket as she got in the driver’s seat.

Paul had a thought and went back to the rear of the car and spoke to Victoria through the trunk. “If you’re thinking about pulling the emergency trunk release from the inside, I want you to know I’m a pedestrian on the boat. If you pull it and try to get away, I’ll have nothing to lose, so I’ll shoot you dead and throw your body in the water. Do you understand me?”

Victoria said, “Yes, dickhead, but a bullet makes a noise. I think you should threaten me with a knife.”

Paul replied, “I’m sure she didn’t say that.”

“I know,” she replied. “She was probably too terrified to even think about the release.”

“OK,” he said, as he walked away.

The boat docked into Bridgeport. The Cross Island Ferry workers grabbed the tickets from the windows without even looking at them. As the cars pulled off the boat, Rachelle and Bud were one of the last vehicles to come off. They drove about 200 yards away from the boat down the long straightaway toward downtown Bridgeport. Rachelle and Bud pulled over, and Victoria pulled the hatch to let herself out. They waited about 10 minutes before Paul, Cronin, and O’Connor walked up to them.

“OK,” Paul said. “It was about a mile away from here that they found Debbie’s Charger. They put her in the second vehicle and took her to the place they’re holding her.”

“And?” Cronin said.

Paul replied, “They took her back to Port Jefferson.”

“I disagree,” Agent O’Connor replied. “All the calls made are from Connecticut. They left her car here in Connecticut.”

Looking at Cronin, Paul shot back, “You saw what happened and how easy this was. They put her in the trunk of the second car, got back on the ferry, and are holding her where they are comfortable. Besides, they reacted to Rachelle’s article, which was in a local paper, and killed Timothy Mann when he opened his mouth about being one of the people involved in the reenactment.”

“Speaking of which,” Bud replied, “what happened to Allan?”

“I told him to sit this out,” Paul replied. “We didn’t know Detective Lieutenant Cronin and Agent O’Connor would be here, so I let him stay home with his family.”

“Lucky ass,” Bud replied.

Agent O’Connor still wasn’t convinced but acknowledged Paul had a good theory. They got in their vehicles, turned around, and got in the non-reservation line for the next ferry back to Port Jefferson. They loaded onto the
George Washington
ferry and this time were on the lower level. Detective Lieutenant Cronin, O’Connor, Bud, and Paul were in one vehicle while Rachelle and Victoria were in the Sebring. In the cruiser, Paul started asking O’Connor questions from his list.