When No One Is Watching (3 page)

As part of Operation Bulldog, Terry had enlisted the help of some of Nancy’s friends from the neighborhood. They had taken her out for a Saturday night on the town in honor of her birthday and had promised Terry that they would be sure to get several glasses of wine into her, then get her home by midnight. Terry knew that the wine would have Nancy in a deep sleep shortly after returning home. Then he and the kids would spring into action. He and Ashley would drive over to the Martins’ house to pick up the puppy, whom Ashley had already named Bully. While they were gone, Tommy would attach a red ribbon to the birthday card and place the card on the sink in Nancy’s bathroom, where she would find it as soon as she woke up. The ribbon would lead out of the bathroom, across the bedroom floor, down the hall, through the kitchen, and into the laundry room, where it would be attached to the kennel holding their precious new family member. A large sign was attached to the kennel, reading, “Hi, Mom. I’m Bully, your new baby. Happy birthday!”

Terry’s musings were interrupted by the sound of Ashley howling from the kitchen. “I can’t find Mr. Growl!”

“Be quiet, Ashley!” Tommy said. “You can find Mr. Growl in the morning.”

“No, I need him now! I told him he could come with me to get Bully. He wants to come!”

“Ashley, he’s a stupid stuffed animal! He doesn’t care. Go get Bully, and we’ll find Mr. Growl tomorrow.”

Ashley just shook her head and sobbed. Terry knelt beside her and gently put his hands on her shoulders. “Ashley? Look at me. Where did you last see Mr. Growl?”

“I don’t know,” she wailed.

“Shhh! Calm down, sweetheart. Is he in your bed?”

“No.”

“Did you look all around your room?”

She nodded.

“Did you put him somewhere special, to wait for this trip?”

Her face brightened. “The car!” she yelled and raced back into the garage.

The scruffy white polar bear was in the backseat of Terry’s Volvo, sitting upright and staring straight ahead, as if he’d been waiting for them. Ashley grabbed him unceremoniously with one hand and raced back to the old Chevy. Terry pulled out of the driveway, drove one block east, then headed north on Hamilton Avenue. Ted Martin lived just four blocks away and had promised to be up waiting for them, regardless of the hour. Terry smiled to himself as the Chevy chugged through the deserted neighborhood. He felt an overwhelming sense of contentment as he remembered the excitement in his children’s faces. This was a special night, one he was determined to treasure and never forget.

Then he sensed that something was wrong. He sensed it for the briefest instant before he saw it. Just as he approached Eighty-ninth Street, a car rounded the corner at breakneck speed, clearly out of control. He heard the tires screeching as the vehicle came right at him. Instinct took over, and he did the only thing he could. He jerked the steering wheel hard to the right, his only thought being to avoid a collision. He saw the Porsche skid past him, missing the old Chevy by inches. In the next instant, he saw a giant oak tree, illuminated by his headlights, rushing right at them.

“Hold on, Ashley!” he screamed an instant before he felt an explosion of noise, impact, and pain as the Chevy smashed head-on into the tree.

CHAPTER 3
J
esus Christ,” muttered Detective Victor Slazak as his headlights illuminated the gruesome scene before him. The front end of an old car was smashed up against an enormous tree, the mass of crumpled metal and shattered glass leaving no doubt as to the violence of the impact. He could see the driver slumped over the steering wheel and two uniformed officers standing beside him, looking helpless as their attempts to force open the passenger door proved futile. Their squad car was parked on the other side of the street, its blue lights flashing silently. A black Porsche was in the middle of the road a short distance away, perpendicular to the curb. Slazak climbed out of his vehicle and strode briskly toward the wreck.

 

“Is he alive?” Slazak asked the uniformed officers. “Yes, sir, but I think he’s in bad shape,” said the tall, thin officer, who looked like he was fresh out of the police academy. His nameplate read “Wilson.”

“Where the hell is the ambulance?” Slazak asked, looking past the officers at the bloody face of the poor soul behind the wheel.

“We called a few minutes ago. They said they’d get it here as fast as they could,” Wilson replied.

“Call ’em again, goddamn it!” said Slazak. “This guy can’t wait!”

The uniformed officers looked at each other uncertainly. Wilson took a radio from his belt. “Dispatch, this is Officer Wilson again. We’re still waiting for that ambulance at Eighty-ninth and Hamilton. Anything you can do to speed that along?”

Slazak grabbed the radio. “This is Detective Vic Slazak. Who’s this?”

“This is Steve Burns, Central Dispatch.”

“Listen, Steve, I need an ambulance here right away! Send the fire department boys, too, with their Jaws of Life and all that shit. We’re going to have to cut this guy out of the driver’s seat. We need them fast—I mean right goddamn now, Stevie boy!” He abruptly hung up and handed the radio back to Officer Wilson.

“What about the other guy?” Slazak asked, nodding toward the Porsche.

“I think he’s okay. Just drunk,” replied the other officer, a pudgy, fresh-faced kid whose nameplate read “Briggs.”

“That son of a bitch,” said Slazak as he turned back toward the wreckage. He reached through the broken driver’sside window and put his hand on the driver’s neck, feeling for a pulse. It was there, but barely. He began examining the driver’s wounds, when movement from the back of the car caught his eye. A small child was curled up in the fetal position on the floor, whimpering quietly.

“Hey, there’s a kid back here!” Slazak called out to the two patrolmen.

“Yeah, we know,” Wilson replied sheepishly. “I think she’s okay, but we couldn’t get her to talk.”

Slazak glared at the officers, shaking his head, then leaned into the car through the driver’s-side window. “You all right back there?” His voice sounded rough, and he knew it. The child continued weeping quietly and did not respond.

Slazak stared at the child in thoughtful silence for a moment. He considered himself to be a man of many talents, but playing nursemaid to a scared kid wasn’t one of them. He reached behind the driver’s seat, pulled up the button lock, opened the door, and leaned in. He did his best to assume a gentle, calming tone, but only partially succeeded. “We’re here to help, kid. They’re going to take care of your father, okay? Can you sit up for me?”

This time, the child responded and climbed slowly into a sitting position on the backseat, attempting to adjust her glasses as she did so, but they remained askew. Slazak surveyed her carefully. She was small, probably seven or eight years old. Short, straight brown hair in a bowl cut framed a tear-streaked face with the distinctive features of a Down syndrome child. A flash of pity jolted the hardened detective. He awkwardly put his hand on her shoulder and asked, “Are you hurt?”

The child hesitated, then shook her head.

“What’s your name?” Slazak asked.

“Ashley. Ashley McGrath,” she said in a voice that was barely audible.

“Ashley, my name is Vic. We’re going to help your father now, okay? How about if we get out of the car?”

Without a word, Ashley reached over, took his hand, and climbed out of the backseat. Once outside the car, she stared at him for a long moment, a dazed look on her face. Then she threw her arms around his waist and held him tightly. Slazak stood there, patting her head, feeling awkward and helpless.

“About time!” Briggs called out as blaring sirens pierced the night, and the flashing red lights of the ambulance could be seen speeding toward the accident site. A fire truck followed closely behind. Several sleepy-eyed neighbors emerged from the surrounding homes and walked hesitantly toward the grim scene.

“Daddy!” Slazak looked up to see a young boy in his pajamas sprinting toward the smashed Chevy in an obvious state of panic.

“Tommy!” Ashley yelled, pulling away from Slazak and running toward her brother. “Daddy’s hurt, Tommy! We crashed into the tree!”

Tommy stopped momentarily and stared at his sister, then bolted toward the wreck, reaching it just steps ahead of the ambulance crew. “Daddy!” the young boy shrieked, as he took in the sight of his father’s battered body, his bloody head hanging limply over the steering wheel and his lower half looking grossly contorted. “Daddy, wake up! Wake up!” he wailed as he grabbed his father’s shoulder and began tugging it.

The two emergency medical technicians reached Tommy simultaneously. The tall, muscular African American who had been driving the ambulance put his hands on Tommy’s shoulders firmly yet gently, and said in a reassuring voice, “We’re going to get your father out of the car now and take him to the hospital. I need you to step back and let us do our job, okay, son?”

Tommy stepped back from the car without taking his eyes off his father, grief and horror etched on his face as his body was racked with deep, convulsing sobs. Ashley stood by his side, holding Mr. Growl in one hand and staring at her shoes.

As two firemen hurried past carrying their Jaws of Life and other rescue implements, the other EMT, a stocky young woman with short red hair, put an arm around each child and guided them away from the wreck. “Come on, kids,” she said in a comforting voice. “You can wait here in the ambulance while we take care of your dad, okay?”

She helped the distraught children into the rear of the ambulance, then pulled a gurney from the vehicle and raced back toward the old Chevy. Passing Detective Slazak, she nodded toward the Porsche and asked, “What about him?”

“Not hurt—just drunk and passed out,” Slazak said, doing his best to conceal his contempt in front of the children. “I’ll deal with him right now.” He walked purposefully toward the Porsche. “You better hope this guy makes it, you drunk son of a bitch,” he said under his breath as he strained to see through the car’s tinted windows.

Slazak yanked open the driver’s-side door and peered in. The man behind the wheel didn’t look like the typical drunk driver he encountered late at night, if there was any such thing as typical. He appeared to be about forty, with neatly trimmed black hair that was starting to gray around the temples. He was wearing a dark suit and had not even loosened his tie or unbuttoned his collar. His head rolled from side to side as he struggled to open his eyes and squirmed against a seat belt that seemed too tight.

Slazak leaned toward the driver and detected the unmistakable smell of alcohol. “You prick,” he said under his breath. Then he shouted into the driver’s face, “Wake up, mister!”

The driver managed to open his eyes and stared uncomprehendingly back at Slazak before his eyelids fluttered and closed again.

“Need any help, detective?” Officer Wilson had ambled up behind him, doing his best to avoid appearing useless.

“Get me a glass of cold water,” Slazak said without looking up. He surveyed the inside of the vehicle. Although there were no broken windows, shattered glass was scattered across the floor, the dashboard, and the area between the front seats. He walked slowly around the outside of the car, examining it carefully. He stopped when he reached the passenger side. In the glare of the streetlight, Slazak could see that the door was not flush with the body of the vehicle. He ran his fingers across the uneven surface. It was obvious that whoever had attempted to close the door had not shut it completely. Officer Wilson arrived with a large Styrofoam cup filled with cold water.

“Get pictures of this car, Wilson, inside and out. Be sure you get this door,” Slazak ordered, pointing at the passenger door. “Don’t touch anything, just get pictures.” Although the crime scene technicians would surely take photographs when they arrived, Slazak believed in being abundantly thorough and leaving nothing to chance. The crime scene unit might miss something.

Slazak grabbed the Styrofoam cup, walked back around to the driver’s side, and without hesitating, threw the ice-cold water directly into the driver’s face. The man gasped, and his eyes opened wide.

“Wake up, pal! Step out of the car,” Slazak ordered.

The driver stared at him, trying hard to focus.

“What happened?” the driver stammered.

Slazak glared at him. “I was hoping you could tell me. The way I see it, you got drunk, went for a ride in your fancy car, and passed out behind the wheel. Step out of the car, sir.”

With trembling hands, the driver unfastened his seat belt, then climbed unsteadily out of the vehicle, gripping the open door to maintain his balance.

“May I see your driver’s license?” Slazak asked curtly.

The driver fumbled with his wallet, and with some difficulty, extracted his driver’s license and handed it to the detective. Slazak studied it hard. The name sounded familiar: Daniel J. Moran. He had heard it somewhere recently, but couldn’t place it. He handed the license to Wilson and stared hard at the driver. “Been drinking tonight, Mr. Moran?” he asked. His tone was harsh and confrontational.

The driver stared back, a bewildered look on his face, and said nothing.

“Hey, I know this guy,” Wilson remarked, handing the driver’s license back to Slazak as he scrutinized Danny Moran’s face. “He’s a lawyer. Been in the news a lot lately. He handled that Champions HealthCare trial.”

Recognition set in with Slazak as well. He stared hard at Danny, then glanced in the direction of the mangled Chevy, fury rising within him. “Look at that, hotshot!” he shouted. “Take a good, hard look, you drunk son of a bitch!” He pointed at the paramedics, who were moving a limp body from the wreckage. “Because of you, two little kids may lose their father!” Slazak’s face was red with rage and was within inches of Danny’s. Danny had been unable to focus on anything beyond the policemen in front of him, but he was now staring past them at the horrific sight ninety feet away.

“Oh my God!” he gasped.

“Get him out of here,” Slazak growled at Wilson, his voice filled with contempt. “Give him the breathalyzer and the sobriety tests.”