Witness to Death (9 page)

Michelle Sandler pulled off the Turnpike, made a few turns, came up behind the station, and saw the roadblock. Maybe, she thought, the police station was always blocked off like this. When she went to DC with Frank a few months ago, there were roadblocks around all the important buildings.

She turned right, away from the police station, found a parking spot. Before she could walk over to the station, she had to get her purse out of the trunk. It was hidden under Burt, the health teacher’s replica skeleton. She always kept her purse in the trunk, in case someone tried to mug her. And once she agreed to repair Burt’s broken rib over vacation, Michelle had an even better hiding spot for her valuables.

Not that any of that mattered anymore.

She slung the purse over her shoulder and replaced Burt. When she turned to start walking, she smelled the smoke in the air. It was sharp and acidic. She kept walking and heard the sirens. As she rounded the corner, she saw the crowds a block away. And she saw the front of the station was in flames. Firefighers were spraying water at black holes that used to be windows. The cops had set up a barrier and were herding civilians behind it.

One police officer was standing by himself closer to the building, where Michelle was. Despite the cold, he had his hat off and was wiping his brow with a handkerchief. Soot caked his face.

Digging the bottle of water she always kept with her out of her wallet, she approached him.

“Here,” she said, holding out the bottle. “Are you all right?”

The cop took it, smiled, and then took a long pull. When he finished, he said, “Thanks.”

“What happened?”

Shrugging, the cop said, “I don’t know. Probably shouldn’t talk about it.”

“My friend. I came down to bail him out. He was under arrest.”

The cop laughed. “How are you planning on doing that? There isn’t a judge here.”

She hadn’t planned at all. In fact, if bail hadn’t been posted yet, she wasn’t sure what she’d be able to do. When she drove down here, she just wanted to see John. Make sure he was okay. But life had taught her when all else failed, lie.

“His lawyer’s right behind me,” Michelle said. “He’s coming from Toms River.”

Behind them, the firefighters turned off the water. The smoke leaving the building was gray steam, not the black Michelle remembered from when the house on the corner of her street burned down a few years ago.

“You realize the building’s on fire?” He smiled as he said it, but it didn’t come out funny.

“Please, is there someone I can talk to?”

The cop sighed and looked at the water bottle. “I can ask my commanding officer. What’s your friend’s name?”

Michelle hesitated a moment. John’s face had been all over the news. Saying his name wouldn’t be like saying any old name. Maybe this guy would be shell shocked enough not to notice.

The cop widened his eyes, waiting.

“John Brighton,” she said, the name falling from her lips.

“Really?” The cop shook his head. “The guy who’s wanted for murder? You paid his bail? I brought him in myself. He hasn’t even been arraigned.”

Michelle flushed. “Can I at least talk to him?”

“Stay on that side of the barrier. I’m going to get the commander.”

He stalked off. Michelle watched him go, walking with a cop attitude, like he owned the world. She wondered if they taught that in the academy, “How to Hold Yourself Like an Asshole 101.”

Maybe it was the uniform, she thought. Frank walked like that and he wasn’t an asshole.

She watched her cop talk to another cop, one with more decorations on his uniform. Her cop pointed her way. His boss pointed toward the far end of the parking lot where they stood. Her cop walked over toward the lot and looked around. He wiped his brow once more and shrugged. Then he came back, talking to the other cop before he even stopped walking. The decorated cop looked toward the lot pointing again. Then he slowly dropped his hand. Both looked back at Michelle and started walking her way.

That wasn’t good.

They reached her in three seconds. She counted. The decorated cop’s hands were balled in fists. The crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes were tightened by his squint. He had a chin that looked like a turkey gobbler.

The other cop finished the water.

“You wanted to see John Brighton?” Decorated didn’t speak, he shouted.

She nodded, the steel wool in her throat keeping her from speaking.

“Where is he?”

She still didn’t speak, but the steel ball moved from her throat to her stomach.
Where is he?
As in, he’s gone?

“I asked you a question ma’am.”

“I don’t know where he is. He should be here. I just wanted to talk to him.”

“You said you paid his bail,” the first officer said.

“Well, I—” She hated being called on a lie.

“He’s not here. If you had something to do with it, you better tell us.”

“I have no idea where he is. If I did, I wouldn’t be here talking to you. I can try calling him.” She dug her cell phone out of her purse.

“Do that.”

She dialed and waited. It went right to voice mail. She told that to the commander.

“Jesus Christ.” The commander turned to the other cop. “Samuelson, go ask around. See if anyone’s seen him. I need a damn walkie. Samuelson, wait, gimme your radio.” He pointed at Michelle. “Stay here.”

He hailed a fire fighter, and then walked up to him. The commander put a hand on the fighter’s shoulder and started to talk, waving his free hand. Then the commander said something into his walkie. He listened for a moment, then returned to Michelle.

“His lawyer set the damn fire. Who are you?”

“Um,” Michelle said.
His lawyer?

The commander shook his head. Another explosion—soft, sounding like a firecracker—came from the building. The commander looked back at the building, then again at Michelle.

“Wait here. We’re going to want to talk to you. I have to check on some other things. Obviously. Jesus Christ.”

Michelle didn’t wait. As soon as the commander was ten feet away, she slowly, so as not to draw attention, turned and walked behind the barrier. Once the officers were out of sight, Michelle dashed toward her car. With luck, she’d be back on the Turnpike before they even noticed she was gone.

An hour and a half after taking the train in, Callahan took a cab out of New York.

No one was looking for him according to Weller, and as far as he could tell, the cops were watching the trains, not automobile traffic. Port Authority had never been any good at watching the tunnels anyway. They put one cop on the Jersey side and he was supposed to catch the one suspicious truck out of the ten thousand that went through the tunnels each day.

On the car ride, his cabbie Ranjit tried to convince him that the Lincoln Tunnel was the best way to Jersey City. It wasn’t, but Callahan didn’t argue. The longer routes were the safest. He checked his voice mail.

No messages. There were several missed calls from Michelle, however. He guessed that if John had gone to the police, he’d been arrested. By now, Michelle must have heard.

Callahan should call her back. But there was no time. He couldn’t get in an argument now.

Instead, he dialed the DHS. After going through the code phrases again, he was put in touch with Candy Balascio. Candy was the one who put him in touch with Omar when Callahan had first come over from the CIA, two years after he’d started working for the government.

He needed to find Omar Thabata, and Candy was the first place to go.

That was how the night had started, but with the explosions and violence, he’d lost sight of that. If Thabata was smart, he’d be packing his shit, aborting his plan—whatever it was—and booking a flight back to Pakistan.

****

The first time Callahan had heard of Thabata, though, he was sitting in long term parking outside Newark Liberty Airport. It was the summer of 2003, and Callahan had just been hired by the DHS. They sent him to New York to learn the ropes with some of the members of the FBI Terrorist taskforce. Callahan looked through the windshield of his car staring at the New York skyline and imagining mound of rubble and cracked buildings where the Twin Towers used to be.

They’d just dodged another bullet.

One of the FBI agents working the case, Hank Manfra, opened the passenger door and sat down next to him.

“Did you shower?” Callahan asked.

It wasn’t a code. The guy smelled like rotten Parmesan cheese. Leave it to Callahan to get assigned his first case, and have to meet up with someone with B.O. Candy Balascio had called Callahan before the sun came up and told him and Manfra to get down to the airport.

Manfra laughed. “Arresting bad guys makes me work up a sweat.”

“Me too.”
But I shower.

“The bomb would have taken out front of the terminal. All those people waiting to be picked up.”

“C4?” Callahan wished he’d gotten out of the car before Manfra got in. He’d need at least three air fresheners to salvage the interior.

Manfra shrugged. “Haven’t gotten a look at the device yet. There are things going on in Jersey City. Even better, one of the guys in cuffs is willing to tell our bosses about them.”

That seemed too easy to Callahan. In the past it’d taken an electric drill aimed toward the ear, a scream and a gunshot leaving these assholes to infer that the friends who kept quiet were dead. His personal favorite was waterboarding. Watching a guy try to talk while spitting water, knowing you had him in the palm of your hand. The CIA’d been doing anything to get these guys to talk. And here, this guy wanted to just hand him the information.

DHS was proving to be an easy job.

“What kinds of things?”

Callahan tried to picture the guys they’d arrested talking to each other in the back of the van they were currently handcuffed in. Panicking.

Two young Muslims, Mohammad Al-Fariq and Jawad Ibrahim had taken a cab to the airport. When they got out, they each carried a large gym bag. Just as they were about to place them on the ground, Manfra and Callahan approached with a warrant. The men were arrested and the bags were searched. Once Manfra saw the explosives inside, he ordered the terminal evacuated.