Night Terrors (14 page)

Chapter Twenty-two

“What the hell were you thinking, Rinaldi? Going after the shooter like that?”

Lieutenant Stu Biegler, Pittsburgh Robbery/Homicide, glowered down at me. He was past forty, but with an oddly unlined, youthful face, which made his attempt to project authority difficult to take seriously.

At least it's always been difficult for me.

“I told you, his rifle jammed. So I figured it was safe. Besides, at the moment, I wasn't exactly thinking—”

“That's for goddam sure! What if he had another gun on him? Some pocket piece. That ever occur to you?”

“Well, sure, now that you point it out…”

He waved a hand in disgust and glanced over at Eleanor Lowrey, who slumped in a corner chair. Barely listening.

According to the waiting room wall clock at Steubenville's All Saints Hospital, it was just after nine p.m.

Harry Polk had been in surgery for over an hour.

I sat on an over-stuffed green sofa, sipping bitter vending machine coffee. My winter coat, spackled with blood and gore, had been tagged and bagged by the CSU team still working at the warehouse. Same with my gloves. The leather jacket I'd borrowed from one of the EMT guys on-scene lay folded on the chair next to me.

Biegler hadn't bothered to unbutton his own London Fog coat since he'd arrived, and the building's central heating had layered a sheen of sweat on his smooth brow. Though he didn't seem aware of it.

The night outside the stuffy room's single window hung like a painted backdrop, flat black, starless. I hadn't paid much attention to my surroundings in the ambulance racing here with Polk, but I got the vague impression of an industrial-park-like monotony. Squat, somber buildings. Mini-malls. Tract houses.

Since Biegler and Lowrey had driven straight here from Pittsburgh, after getting the report about the warehouse shooting, there hadn't been much for the three of us to do but wait for the results from Polk's surgeon. And to go over my description of events. Over and over.

“Look,” I said now, “I've given Steubenville PD my statement. I've gone through it a half-dozen times with you two. But like it or not, the details aren't gonna change.”

“And neither are
you
, apparently.”

It was Eleanor's first words in quite a while. Though despite the stern look she was aiming in my direction, I detected the concern in her voice. More worry than anger.

“I mean, Jesus, Danny, this kinda thing is becoming a habit with you. Taking stupid risks, and—”

“And interfering with proper law enforcement,” Biegler finished for her. “Though I'm just as pissed at Sergeant Polk. No way he shoulda let you take part in his interview with Beck. He shoulda locked your ass in the car.”

“Hey, don't blame Polk. He tried.”

Scowling. “You think this is funny, Rinaldi?”

“Hell, no. Not with Harry in surgery, at risk of losing use of his arm.” I half rose from my chair. “What I
think
is that you're dumping on me because you're nowhere with finding the killer.”

Eleanor raised a hand.

“Whoa, Danny. Chill.” A sidelong glance at Biegler. “We're all worried about Harry, okay?”

Biegler looked as though he wanted to say something, but thought better of it. Instead, he turned away from me and folded himself into a chair a few feet from Lowrey's. Which left the three of us more or less in separate corners of the room, staring at each other.

Finally, Eleanor broke the silence.

“Look, I spoke to the local detectives on-scene on our way here. They're still piecing things together, but I think we got a pretty good fix on what went down.”

Without waiting for a response, she withdrew her notebook. “They have statements from all the men working at the warehouse when Beck got shot. Plus the shift foreman, who was in his office at the far end of the building. He claims not to have even known anything had happened till he heard the police sirens.”

She flipped some pages, then looked at me.

“Apparently, they're still questioning the warehouse worker you tackled, but he appears clean. Name's Jimmy Talbot. He's been employed there since high school. No sheet. Not even a traffic ticket. According to Talbot, he was terrified when the shooting started. He was in the rear area of the building, so instead of running, he just hid behind some crates. Actually pissed his pants, which he was quick to show the officer taking his statement.”

“I don't care how wet his pants were,” Biegler said, “he was also holding a weapon. Came out swinging a crowbar at the doc here.” He turned to me. “By the way, you wanna press charges for assault?”

I shook my head.

“He was scared shitless, Lieutenant. Probably thought I was the shooter, sneaking up on him. So he panicked, grabbed the crowbar. Hell, maybe the kid's got a case against
me
.”

Biegler smiled. “Well, if he ever needs a character witness against you, I'm so there…”

Eleanor put down her notebook and looked at him.

“Sir, with all due respect…”

I'll never know what she was going to say, for at that moment her cell rang. She took the call, listened intently, made a few notes, then clicked off.

Her boss sat up straighter in his chair. “What is it?”

“We just got an ID on the rifle the shooter used,
and
where he got it. It's a hunting rifle, as Danny guessed. A Remington. Mid-range scope. It was stolen about an hour before Beck was shot. From a gun store two miles away, in a mini-mall.”

“The shop owner get a look at him?”

“The shooter got lucky. The place was closed. He just smashed a window, went in and took what he needed. The weapon and some shells.”

“Closed? At four in the afternoon?”

“The owner says he'd closed up early to celebrate his birthday. Besides, the weather's been bad for business.”

“Did the place have an alarm?”

“Yes. But the shooter was in and out in a minute.”

“Tell me there's video from inside the store.”

“There is. All you can see is a guy in a winter coat, muffler and gloves. Just like the guy Danny saw go out the exit door in the warehouse.”

“Gloves,” Biegler repeated, as much to himself. “So no prints on the rifle.”

“Afraid not, sir.”

I stirred, which brought their gaze in my direction.

“So now the killer's improvising. Off his game. Which could be good for us. No stolen car. Not using his regular weapon of choice, the Taurus 44M.”

“Which means he had to think on the fly,” Eleanor said. “Make it up as he went along.”

“Right. Somehow he finds out Pittsburgh PD is sending someone to talk to Vincent Beck, and—”

“But how would he know that?” Biegler asked.

“Beats me. But the shooter was worried enough about it to dress like one of the other delivery workers, break into a gun shop for a rifle, and get to the warehouse. To stop Beck before he spilled something important.”

I paused. “Which also tells us a couple other things. How could the killer know what the other workers looked like, unless he'd been to the warehouse before? Seen how the guys bundled up against the cold in there. Which means he already knew where Vincent Beck worked. Even
before
he'd learned that Pittsburgh PD was coming to talk to him.”

“Good point.” Eleanor made a note.

Biegler stared at me. “What's the other thing?”

“I'm less clear on this, but why didn't the killer use the revolver he's been using all this time? The Taurus 44M. If this guy is as methodical as I think he is, he's not just following an M.O. He's formed habits.”

“So?”

“I think the only reason he didn't use his usual gun is that he didn't have it with him at the time. That when he learned about Polk's trip here, he was away from where he keeps the gun. Maybe he was away from home, on the road or something.”

Eleanor nodded. “Wherever he is when he finds out about the interview with Beck, there's no time to go get the Taurus. All he can do is head for the warehouse as fast as possible, stopping only to break into a gun shop and get a weapon. Maybe seeing the rack of hunting rifles gives him the idea of taking a shot at Beck from a safer distance. Which means a better chance of getting away afterwards.”

“You could be right,” Biegler said officiously. “But then how did he get to the warehouse, and get away again?”

“If he was in as big a rush as we think, he wouldn't have time to steal a car. Not without risking being seen.”

“So what are you saying, Detective?” Biegler's face darkened. “He took a cab?”

Eleanor shrugged. “Or just drove his own car.”

I finished my coffee and got up. Gingerly. Feeling the early aches from my struggle with Jimmy Talbot. The sore muscles, the tender ribs from when we both hit the concrete floor. I knew they'd only intensify as the night wore on.

I'd be damned if I'd let Biegler see it, though. I stood to my full height, and put some grit in my voice.

“Now I have a question for
you
, Lieutenant. Did anyone outside the investigation even know a witness to Cranshaw's murder had come forward?”

“Hard to say, given the leaks we've been dealing with. Beck's name never appeared in the media, that's for sure. Or we'd have known. Other than that…”

Biegler fell silent.

“Regardless of how he found out about him,” I went on, “the killer obviously feared Beck knew something. So was he right? Maybe Beck saw the killer's face the morning of the shooting, but had been too scared to say anything.”

“So far,” Eleanor said. “But the killer couldn't take the chance that Beck wouldn't at some point tell what he knew. He had to get to the warehouse and silence him.”

“And for a spur-of-the-moment plan,” I added, “it wasn't bad. Bundled up like the other workers. Everyone scurrying around, loading trucks. Most even with their faces covered by scarves or ski masks. Who'd notice him? From what I saw, the workers just wanted to load their trucks as fast as possible, climb behind the wheel, and get the hell out of the cold.”

Biegler absorbed this. “But
had
Vincent Beck seen the killer's face? Had he seen anything at all?”

“We'll never know.” Eleanor's voice grew soft. “He was just nineteen, poor kid.”

I thought then of Beck's story about confessing to his parish priest that he'd witnessed Cranshaw's murder. And that now the same priest who'd urged him to go to the police would have the sad duty to preside over Beck's funeral Mass and burial.

Priest and penitent. Both victims of a higher law.

The arbitrary, remorseless law of unintended consequences.

***

It was nearing ten when Polk's surgeon, Dr. Alice Yu, came into the waiting room to update us on his condition.

She hadn't taken two steps through the door before Biegler, Eleanor, and I rose to our feet and formed a semicircle around her.

Dr. Yu was tall, slender, and probably a bit younger than you'd want your surgeon to be. But her solemn eyes and brisk manner conveyed both confidence and maturity, as well as the expected level of impatience with us lesser mortals.

“Sergeant Polk will make a full recovery,” she announced. “Luckily, there was no nerve damage. The muscle tearing was severe, but he should heal adequately. However, his recuperation will take time.”

Biegler clucked his tongue. “So he'll be out of commission for a while?”

Dr. Yu smiled. “I believe that's what I said.”

“But he'll be fine, right?” Eleanor's relief was palpable. “Can we go in and see him?”

“Not until tomorrow morning, at the earliest. Even then, he'll be heavily sedated. And in considerable pain.”

Eleanor nodded soberly. Then, to my surprise, she reached and squeezed my hand. I squeezed back.

“I'm glad he's okay, too,” I said simply.

A brief smile. Then, as though suddenly mindful of Biegler's presence, she slipped her hand from mine.

 

Chapter Twenty-three

A fresh, unexpected snowfall sifted down into the night as the police cruiser crossed the Allegheny into mid-town. Pittsburgh in winter, at midnight, and cloaked in seasonal cold, was a study in contrasts. Poised between two very different centuries, it was an amalgam of sleek, light-bejeweled towers and muscular, shadowed structures built low to the ground. Dusted now with soft new snow that fell like a benediction on the sleeping city.

At least that's how it felt to me, sitting in the passenger seat of the Steubenville PD black-and-white. Since the rookie uniform assigned to drive me back to town wasn't much for conversation, I passed the time watching the weather subtly change as we crossed the state line into Pennsylvania.

Lieutenant Biegler and Eleanor Lowrey had stayed behind in Steubenville, conferring with the local cops about the warehouse shooting. I could tell Biegler had wanted to re-interview Jimmy Talbot, the kid I'd tangled with, and Eleanor wanted to get a personal look at the crime scene. Which meant they'd probably end up staying the night in town. I figured this would be fine with Eleanor. No doubt she was anxious to be at Harry Polk's bedside the next day when he woke up.

My taciturn chauffeur dropped me off at the entrance to the Hilton parking lot, then pulled his vehicle around the corner and parked in the fire zone. As I stood under the gently-falling snow, trying to remember where I'd parked my car, I saw him hurry out of the black-and-white and into the hotel's coffee shop. A caffeine refueling for the hour's drive back home.

Shivering in the too-thin borrowed EMT jacket, I jammed my hands in my pockets and trudged across the lot. It took me a full minute to find my Mustang, and another five to get the engine—and me—warmed up enough to drive.

I slid a Grover Washington CD into the dashboard deck and carefully pulled out into the road.

As I circled the Point's mammoth construction site, heading for the Fort Pitt Bridge and home, my cell rang.

It was Angie Villanova.

“Well, I hadda call in a few favors, but I did it.”

Her voice wired, breathless, but tinged with fatigue.

“Did what?”

“Got you the interview with Wes Currim. That nutcase who put his victim's head on the snowman.”

“Jesus, Angie, I didn't—”

“Luckily, the interim DA in Wheeling is kind of a fan of yours. Especially since you cooperated with the cops and accompanied Currim to where the vic's remains were. She thinks you're a real standup guy. Or at least she did, before I set her straight.”

I listened to her hoarse chuckle as I wheeled my car to the curb. I don't like driving while pissed.

“Goddam it, Angie, I never agreed to see Wes Currim. I only told his mother that I'd consider it.”

“I know. Maggie Currim called me right after she saw you. Truth is, you were kind of a disappointment to her.”

“I got that feeling.”

“You shoulda heard her cryin' to me on the phone. She said that you'd been her last hope.”

“I
am
sorry for what she's going through.”

“Yeah, whatever. Anyway, I sorta felt responsible, since I'd set up the appointment with you. So I told her I'd do my best to get you in a room with her son.”

“Without checking with me first?”

“Sometimes you gotta make a command decision. So I ran it past the assistant chief, who put in a call to Chief Block in Wheeling, who kicked it up to the DA's office. Then I got on the phone and closed the deal. Me and the DA. Woman to woman, ya know what I mean? Mother to mother.”

I paused, letting my anger subside.

“So it's a done deal?”

“Done and done, like they say.”

“What if I don't go along with it?”

“Then one of us looks like an asshole, Danny. Guess which one?”

I sighed loud enough for her to hear it.

“Shit, don't even try. I've heard tortured sighs from Italian men all my life. I'm immune.”

Despite myself, I smiled. Imagined her patting her laquered cloud of hair in self-congratulation.

“Okay, Angie, I give up. When and where do I meet Wes Currim?”

“Eleven a.m. tomorrow. Wheeling PD's main lockup. Until they set a trial date, they're keepin' Wes outta prison. Probably save him takin' it up the ass, too. He's young, skinny, and a freakazoid. Hard-timers love meat like that.”

“Tell me about it.”

We exchanged a few more playful insults, argued about the next time she could expect me for dinner, and hung up.

I stayed parked at the curb, engine running, and thought about what it might be like meeting with Wes Currim tomorrow. What, if anything, I could say to persuade him to recant his confession. If, in fact, it wasn't true.

More to the point
, I thought,
if he really didn't murder Ed Meachem, why the hell does he say he did?

***

Despite the Arctic chill and new snow, Noah's Ark boasted a decent-sized crowd. A half-dozen tables and most of the barstools were occupied, though few patrons were paying attention to the trio playing in the far corner. Working their way through an uninspired yet deafening cover of Brubeck's “Take Five.”

I was still brushing wet snowflakes from my jacket shoulders when Noah signaled for me from behind the bar. Stopping only to get a peck on the cheek from a harried Charlene, hefting a tray of drinks, I joined him there.

“Glad you showed up, Danny.” Noah planted his forearms on the bar. “I'm close to havin' an episode here.”

A customer on a stool next to me glanced up, curious. Noah scowled at him and he went back to his beer.

“What are you talking about?” I peered hard into his eyes. On the lookout for crazy. “You taking your meds?”

“‘Course I am. If I didn't, Charlene'd kill me.”

“Only after
I
got done kicking your ass.”

The trio behind us was so loud that it was hard to be both audible and private. Especially since the drummer had begun an ear-pummelling solo.

I leaned further across the bar, mouth next to Noah's ear. “So what's the problem?”

“Hate to say it, man, but it's you.”

“Me? What'd I do?”

He turned away, then back again. As though reluctant to speak the words.

“Look, Danny, I don't wanna hurt your feelin's, but you gotta stop recommendin' this place to law enforcement types. It's lowerin' the caliber of clientele.”

“You mean Dave Parnelli?”

“He's bad enough, but now I got G-men stinkin' up the joint.”

“What?”

He jerked a thumb in the direction of the back wall. Special Agent Neal Alcott sat alone in a booth for four, nursing a Scotch. A stack of manilla folders at his elbow.

“Says you're workin' with him and the FBI. You wanna be cozy with the cops, okay, but the fuckin'
Feds
?…”

“Sorry, Noah. I didn't expect to see him here.”

“I mean, shit, what's next? Secret Service? CIA?”

I waved him off and made my way through a clutch of crowded tables to Alcott's booth. Slid in across from him.

“Slumming, Agent Alcott?”

He rubbed his reddened nose. Sniffed.

“Just curious about the place, since it's your regular watering hole. Thought it might help me figure you out.”

“Any progress?”

“Minimal. Got something for you, though.”

He shoved the stack of files across the table.

“I realized I forgot to give you John Jessup's files. The ones I showed you in the car the other night. Might help if and when you get the chance to work with Barnes, since it was his last case. It could be connected to why he freaks out when he falls asleep.”

“Could be.”

“There's also one on Barnes himself. His FBI dossier. All the sensitive stuff's been redacted, of course. But you'll find the pertinent biographical details on the guy. That oughtta help, too.”

I eyed him suspiciously.

“You've had a conversation with the director, haven't you, Neal? Along the lines of your being more supportive of my involvement…?”

He threw back the rest of his drink, tapped the glass irritably on the tabletop. I'd gotten my answer.

“Hell, the whole thing's moot, anyway.” Alcott craned his head around, looking for Charlene. “We're no closer to finding Lyle Barnes than we were two days ago. We've sent people up to Franklin Park, even had our Illinois office reach out to his son in Chicago.”

“Any luck?”

“Barnes' kid has no idea where his old man is. And doesn't care. Turns out, they haven't spoken in years. The prick hasn't even met his grandchildren.”

I didn't comment. I figured Lyle Barnes was still my patient, at least theoretically, which meant I wasn't about to discuss his personal life. Least of all with Alcott.

The agent finally caught Charlene's eye, and ordered himself another round. I ordered a draft Iron City. After which, Alcott and I sat in an uncomfortable silence until she returned with our drinks. And departed again.

“By the way,” Alcott said at last, “I heard about the debacle in Steubenville. How you and Polk let the witness get killed, and the shooter get away. Nice work.”

“You had to be there.”

“Believe me, I wish I had.” He sipped his drink. “We lost a real opportunity to collar this bastard. You don't get many breaks like that. I don't blame
you
, of course. You're a civilian. Shouldn't have even been there. But Polk screwed the pooch on this, no question.”

I raised my beer, took a long pull. “He's fine, by the way. Thanks for asking.”

Alcott laughed shortly. “Like I give a shit. This whole investigation has been a nightmare. The joint task force is a joke. Undisciplined. Too many chiefs. We've got no leads, and more leaks than a sieve. Plus it took forever to get forensics on the letters Jessup got in prison—”

I indicated the files in front of me.

“Is that new data included in this?”

“Don't worry, it's all in there. Just got updated.”

He barely got those last words out before sneezing violently. “Goddam cold's getting worse.”

Muttering curses, he took out a handkerchief and wiped his sore nose. Then downed the rest of his drink.

“Now on top of everything,” he continued, “our only eyewitness gets himself killed. This perp's making us all look like clowns.”

“Speaking of the perp, what's the status of his next potential victims? Especially Claire Cobb. Parnelli.”

He shook his head in disgust. “Don't get me started on those two. Claire asked to be moved again, so we have her in a motel in Wilkinsburg. No room service, so she's gonna have to live on take-out. Serves her right.”

“And Dave Parnelli?”

“The other pain in my ass. He insisted his workload demanded constant attention. So
I
insisted he has one of our field agents with him at all times. Plus his movements are restricted either to his office or his home.”

No bars?
I thought, but didn't say.

“What about the rest? Others who might be on the killer's hit list?”

“The jury foreman and the two cops who arrested Jessup are under wraps in Cleveland. No hotel this time. One of our permanent safe houses. All three of 'em happy to be let off from work and under constant guard.”

I considered this. “Makes it harder, doesn't it, not knowing for sure who's even on the list…”

“You got that right, Rinaldi. Not to mention all the manpower we've wasted in the last forty-eight hours looking for Lyle Barnes. At this point, I say to hell with finding him. Let him take his chances with the killer.”

“But what does the director say?”

Alcott frowned bitterly. “He and Barnes went through the Academy together. They're old friends. That's why he wanted you to help him out. Cure him, or whatever.”

“Cures are pretty tough to come by. I just hoped to help Barnes manage his symptoms. Or maybe, with luck, get to the root of them.”

Alcott blew his nose, then abruptly got to his feet.

“Yeah, well, to do that, we'd have to find him. And we're havin' as much luck with that as we are with finding the killer.”

He threw some bills on the table. But I wanted to stay longer, have another beer. I tapped the files before me.

“Thanks for these, by the way. They'll help me get up to speed on John Jessup. And Lyle Barnes.”

A shrug. “One thing the Bureau's good at is compiling files. We got files on everybody.”

He buttoned his coat and turned to go. Turned back. “Hell, Rinaldi, you oughtta see the one we have on
you
.”

***

By the time I got home, two hours later, I was dangerously exhausted. The three beers I'd had before Noah closed up hadn't helped. I made my way into my darkened living room, put the files Alcott had given me on the rolltop desk, and went straight to bed, stopping just long enough to get out of my shoes and coat. Then I fell, fully clothed, on top of the covers. And didn't stir.

I was thoroughly spent. Though my mind raced. Jumbled, incoherent thoughts crowding each other out. I knew I was experiencing a delayed reacton, emotionally and physically, to the past twenty-four hours' stunning events. The shooting at the warehouse, Vincent Beck dying in my arms, my frantic pursuit of the killer, the violent struggle with Jimmy Talbot. Not to mention what had happened to Harry Polk.

It was hitting me now. All of it. Images of blood and death. The fear, the dread. Sending long-suppressed shudders of anxiety coursing through me. The thickness in my chest hardening, like drying cement, as I drifted down into the black void of a deep, fathomless sleep.