Dust Up: A Thriller (36 page)

For a moment, I actually considered asking Regi to write a note—from the minister of health, that ought to be good enough. “Please excuse Doyle Carrick from work these last few days. He has been in a coma.”

Instead I said, “I’m in Haiti.”

“Haiti? Carrick, what the fuck? Do you know what kind of trouble you’re in? You know Mike Warren is trying to get a warrant for you? We’re not talking job trouble, we’re talking jail trouble. He’s talking aiding and abetting a fugitive from justice—”

“I’m bringing her in.”

“You’re what?”

“I’m bringing in Miriam Hartwell. She turned herself in and is being extradited back to the States. But exculpatory evidence has come to light, so there will be a hearing with Judge Pauline Greenberg to clear her as soon as we return.”

“Exculpatory evidence? What are you talking about?”

“Video of the real killers. Video of Ron Hartwell’s murder.”

He took a long, loud breath. I could feel him seething, now angry that in addition to everything else, I had gone around him. I could have explained I hadn’t set it up, but it was a long explanation, and he was not in the mood. Neither was I. “And when is this?”

“We’ll be there in about four hours.”

“I can’t wait. What flight?”

“We’re in a private jet.”

“Of course you are. Well, get your private-jet ass back here and get me that case file.”

The drive to the airport was quiet and awkward, but when it was time to get on the plane, things got sloppy pretty quick. Mostly, it was Regi and Miriam saying good-bye, hugging and crying and saying they’d see each other soon.

I got more misty than sloppy. Mostly saying good-bye to Regi but also saying good-bye to Haiti itself.

I told him I’d be back. And I was pretty sure I meant it.

91

The mood on the plane had been somber even before we landed. There was a bit of a letdown after the initial victories. Then an hour outside of Haiti, Mikel received word that the Helio had been found with Sable inside it, dead. I don’t think Mikel really thought Miriam might have been wrong about it, but when we got confirmation, I realized on some level he’d been holding on to a tiny bit of doubt or hope. Now that was gone.

When we landed, Philadelphia seemed like an alien planet. It was cold and wet, and the colors were all wrong. The greens were different. The browns were gray. Everything else was bathed in red and blue lights from the trio of police cars waiting for us on the tarmac. They felt alien, too. They felt like the enemy.

Suarez was standing in front of his black unmarked Impala, its grille lights flashing. Mike Warren and Lieutenant Myerson were next to another unmarked car, its grille lights flashing as well. Two uniforms were there with a patrol car. They were all standing in the cold drizzle watching us with the same pissy expression.

Before we got off the plane, I told Nola what to expect, that I’d be immediately consumed with police business, but that I’d see her at home soon. I kissed her, and she put her arms around me, lingering until I had to peel them off me.

“Don’t be long,” she said.

I told Miriam what to expect, as well, and that Schultzman and I would be with her the entire time.

I came down the steps with her, and Warren met us at the bottom step, trying not to smile as he held up a pair of cuffs.

He motioned for Miriam to turn around. She looked up at me, and I nodded. We had known this would be part of it.

Warren snapped on the cuffs, looking at me and muttering, “If you’d done this in the first place, we wouldn’t have had to chase her halfway around the world.”

I hooked my hand on Miriam’s arm, staying with her as he led her to his car.

“And if you’d done proper police work,” I muttered back, “you’d have known she wasn’t the killer, and we wouldn’t be cuffing her at all.”

We led her to the back door of the patrol car and inserted her inside. The two uniforms got in the front. I went around and to the other side.

“Where are you going?” Suarez asked.

Warren was walking back to his car. He stopped and turned.

“I’m accompanying Ms. Hartwell to the hearing,” I said.

He shook his head. “No, you’re coming with me to get that goddamn case file and get Warren and Myerson off my ass.”

That got a grin from Warren.

I looked back at the plane, at Nola and Mikel standing at the top of the steps. “Afterward,” I said as I got in the car.

As we drove off, I could see Warren outside bitching to Suarez. I think the two uniforms realized they were in the middle of something messy, and they just wanted to get the hell out of there.

It was very strange riding in the back of the patrol car instead of the front. I knew the doors wouldn’t open from the inside, and I felt claustrophobic. Miriam was trembling, and I put my hand over hers.

We rode in silence to the courtroom, across the street from city hall. We parked in the back and used the rear entrance, getting directly onto the elevator to the seventh floor, where we sat on a bench out in a hallway. Less than a minute later, Warren and Myerson showed up. Warren glared at me as he stepped off the elevator. Myerson looked bored. Mikel and Schultzman arrived just as the bailiff opened the door and led us into the conference room.

Judge Greenberg was already seated at the head of the table, looking at copies of the extradition paperwork. She was a small woman in her fifties with a stern face. I’d seen her before but had never been in court with her. That was probably a good thing.

Schultzman took a seat next to the judge and directed Miriam to the seat on his other side. Warren sat across from Schultzman, looking nervous until Suarez arrived and sat next to him.

It filled me with the warm and fuzzies that my own lieutenant was sitting on the opposite side of the table from me, helping Mike Warren.

Greenberg looked up. “Everybody here?”

Warren and Schultzman murmured, “Yes.”

Greenberg recited a bunch of legal boilerplate, explaining why we were there. She asked Miriam if she understood, and at Schultzman’s prodding, she said, “Yes.”

“Okay,” Greenberg said wearily. “Looks like a pretty tight case. But apparently there’s exculpatory evidence. Is that correct, Mr. Schultzman?”

“There is, Your Honor.”

She waved her fingers. “Let’s have it.”

As he opened his computer, Schultzman explained that his client had come into possession of previously undiscovered security video.

Greenberg cocked an eyebrow. “How did this come into your possession?”

Schultzman said, “An anonymous tip, Your Honor. And then data recovery to retrieve it.”

Her eyebrow retained its position. “Better be good.”

Schultzman clicked Play.

By the end of it, Greenberg’s eyebrows had relaxed. Suarez and Myerson were scowling at Warren.

“Pretty compelling stuff,” Greenberg said. She turned to Warren. “Do you have anything to say, Detective Warren?”

“The defendant’s fingerprints are on the murder weapon, which was found on the premises of her home.”

She nodded. “That’s a good point too. Mr. Schultzman?”

“Your Honor, the video clearly shows the murder and the murderers.”

“But if her fingerprints are on the murder weapon, she could be an accessory, couldn’t she?”

Schultzman seemed momentarily taken aback that the video was not the slam dunk he had anticipated. I think he was more a paperwork kind of lawyer than a trial lawyer.

I cleared my throat. “Um … Your Honor?”

She looked down the table at me. “Who are you?”

“Detective Doyle Carrick, Your Honor.”

Suarez leaned forward. “Detective Carrick is not officially involved this case, Your Honor. The murder occurred on his front steps.”

“Do you have something to add, Detective Carrick?”

“Yes, just a question for Detective Warren, because I was wondering about the fingerprints too.”

Warren’s eyes burned as he looked at me.

Greenberg paused for a moment and then said, “What’s your question?”

“Miriam Hartwell had no arrest record, so I was wondering where you got the prints to compare to the murder weapon?”

His eye twitched. “Energene had them on file.”

I nodded, trying to keep my face as blank and non-gloating as possible. When I was at Energene’s offices, they used a palm scanner to access the corporate suite. “The men in the video, the killers, work in the security department at Energene Corporation, where Ron and Miriam Hartwell both worked.”

“And?” Greenberg asked.

I had been hoping Warren would say it himself, but the way his jaw was clenched, I think his skull would have shattered if he tried to speak.

“They use palm scanners at their corporate offices. If they had Miriam Hartwell’s fingerprints on file, they could have easily added them to the weapon and planted it.” I shrugged. “Frankly, it seemed odd to me that Miriam Hartwell would have returned to stash the murder weapon on the premises of her own home without stopping in to take any of her personal belongings, prescription medication, or cash before fleeing.”

Greenberg swung her head toward Warren, both eyebrows raised.

He sat there grinding his teeth.

Greenberg gave him a generous ten count, then turned to Miriam. “Okay. Ms. Hartwell, on behalf of the City of Philadelphia, I apologize for any inconvenience. The bailiff will take you for processing, and then you’ll be free to go.” She turned to Warren. “Detective Warren, if more evidence comes to light implicating Ms. Hartwell, I’d be happy to consider it, but as of now, the charges are dismissed.”

92

The judge left through one door, followed a moment later by Miriam, who was in a daze, being led by the bailiff. Schultzman and Mikel excused themselves and left the same way they had come in.

Then it was just us cops.

“Hey, guys,” I said with a big smile.

“Fuck you, Carrick,” Warren said, his face caught between a scowl and a pout. “You ain’t out of the woods yet, either. You still owe me that case file you took home with you. And you’d better not have lost it.”

“He’s right, Carrick,” Suarez added, standing. “Let’s go get it right now. You’re on thin ice, and that’s mighty close to obstruction of justice. Keep pushing it, and you’re bounced.”

Myerson looked at his feet.

“Oh, that’s right,” I said. “I forgot—you needed the case file back so you could hand it over to the actual murderers.”

That shut them up. All of them. I kind of liked that, but the silence was getting awkward.

“Hey, I have an idea,” I said, just to break the tension. “Instead of giving the murderers the case files, why don’t we arrest them? You know, since they’re the actual murderers and all.”

The three of them stared at me with three different iterations of hatred. I didn’t actually care. Fuck ’em. I couldn’t believe that these idiots had come so close to such a big screw-up, and they were sitting there trying to tell me I was in trouble.

Almost on a lark, I took out my phone and called Energene, dialed zero, and asked to speak to Bryant at the front desk.

It was Sunday night, so I didn’t expect him to be there, but he was. “Front desk. Bryant speaking.” I wondered if they ever let him go home.

“Hi, Mr. Bryant. This is Detective Doyle Carrick from the Philly PD. I was there a few days ago.”

“Certainly, Detective. How can I help you?”

“Thanks, Mr. Bryant. I don’t know if you remember, but I was in there speaking with Tom Royce, helping him with a possible corporate espionage investigation. I may have some information that he would find very interesting. I know he’s been out of the country, but I was wondering if you could tell me when you expected him back.”

“Sure thing, Detective. He and Mr. Divock are due back this evening. Mr. Royce asked me to stay late for a quick security briefing at seven o’clock. But then they’re not due to be in the office for some time after that.”

I thanked him and got off the phone, then looked at the others. “Royce and Divock are due back at the office for a meeting at seven o’clock tonight.”

They stared back at me blankly, like none of them had an idea what they should do next. I turned to Warren, since he didn’t outrank me and technically this was still his case. “Maybe you could call the airlines and see if any of the flights from Haiti have Divock and Royce booked as passengers.”

He did, and they did. Ten minutes later, we were driving to the airport. I rode with Suarez. We didn’t talk much, but we had fun just being together. Warren and Myerson drove alone in separate cars.

Once we got there, the three of them stood away from me, talking in hushed tones. That was okay. I had no desire to talk with any of them.

Royce and Divock were on an American Airlines flight from Port-au-Prince. We got to the gate just in time to meet them. Suarez had begrudgingly allowed me to be there for the bust—he couldn’t say no after I had cracked the case—but only on the condition that immediately afterward I had to get the case file for Warren.

Royce and Divock were among the first ones off the plane. First class. Pricks.

Royce saw me first. His eyes narrowed and his face grew redder. For an instant, he looked around like a trapped animal, then he seemed to accept the situation and tried to regain his cool. Divock didn’t notice a thing until Warren was holding up his badge in front of their faces, reading the charges—they were under arrest for the murder of Ron Hartwell—and their Miranda rights.

The other passengers streamed past around them, looking furtively at the commotion and then moving along quickly before any of the trouble rubbed off on them.

Royce stared at my face the whole time, like he was studying it, remembering it, like I should be scared he was going to come after me.

Other than that, they went quietly. Anticlimactically. Maybe even disappointingly.

Yes, it was a victory, and I was glad to see them both arrested, but Mikel was right: they were just assholes for hire, doing what they were told. I wanted the assholes who were giving the orders, assholes like Bourden and Pearce. It wasn’t over yet, but I wasn’t expecting that they would pay for their crimes the same way their employees would.