No Mercy (7 page)

He looked at Franks and Dugan and said, “Talk to the relatives, friends, and parents of the two Long Island victims. Did they know each other? Are there six degrees of separation somewhere? Find out.”

He looked at Hansen and instructed, “Speak to anyone who dated or was a boyfriend of the two girls. You will have to coordinate with Franks and Dugan, most likely.”

He turned around to Bud and said, “You are with me, but first look at all the tapes in the club from the night of the murder. If there is a link, then it's on those tapes. Maybe you will save O'Malley time by finding the men who walked in, not just walked out. Get all phone records and have the techs check their computers. Get close-ups and printouts of the hat with the mask that was worn in both murders, and let's see if it was in the Manhattan murder.”

O'Malley stood up and asked Paul, “And you, what are you going to do?”

“Well,” Paul said, “I'm going to read your reports when I get them, and once you leave the office I'm going to request to the boss here”—he pointed to Cronin—“that nothing about our investigation of this case gets out to the papers. What I do after that will be my decision and my choice as I supervise the investigation, especially when it comes to following up with my detectives.” He looked at O'Malley with a blank stare and asked, “Any other questions?” O'Malley just walked out of the office without saying a word.

Paul looked back at Cronin as the detective lieutenant said, “Paul, let's get this done quickly. If by some chance there is a link with Deborah Lance, it will be all over the national media again and we don't want that, right?”

“Yes,” Paul answered. He looked around and saw everyone except O'Malley was still there. “Let's get started, guys.” As they all started moving out through the door, he looked back at Cronin and said, “See ya.”

As he approached the door he heard the detective lieutenant say, “Paul, keep close to Bud on this one. He looked out for you a couple years ago when Rachelle was in trouble.”

“Don't worry,” Paul replied and then added, “You took over the lead on that case. What about this time?”

Kevin Cronin stood up and said, “I had to; all of you were too close and emotionally involved to think straight. You have the lead unless I don't believe you can handle it. You have proven yourself over the last two years, but I want to know what's going on.”

Paul nodded and said, “You're right. I'll be in touch.” As Paul left, Gina walked in with Cronin's mail and told him ADA Ashley was on his way in.

“Damn,” Cronin said, “I never have any peace anymore.”

“Also,” Gina spoke again, “Brian Branca's attorney is on the line.”

“Who the hell is Brian Branca?” he replied.

Gina said with a smile, “The owner of the City nightclub. He wants the club to reopen.”

“Pass the call,” Cronin replied as she left. He thumbed through his mail and found an envelope with no return address but with cut-out, typed letters with his name on it. He opened the letter carefully and opened the paper up and read:

He folded up the paper as ADA Ashley came in. Ashley said, “Kevin, we got the approval for your undercover detective at Riverhead. We are going to have to speak to Chief Samuels at the facility, but it looks good.”

“Thanks,” Cronin replied. Ashley could see his head was somewhere else. Cronin figured he would get the OK, which is why he had already assigned Detectives Baker and Chapman to the case. In fact Ellyn Baker was already on the phone with Al Simmons, Madison's attorney, to tell him the news.

“What's going on?” Ashley asked.

Cronin looked up at the ADA and said, “Close the door.” A look of concern came over John Ashley's face as he shut the door.

Officer George Lynagh and Officer Justin Healey were no strangers when it came to protective detail. They got in the squad car and started driving toward the Village of Port Jefferson. They already knew that Deborah Lance was at the Coffee House in Port Jefferson Station having breakfast with Rachelle. Paul had sent Rachelle a text and discreetly found out she was with Deborah. Both Lynagh and Healey had never spent much time together until they were handpicked by Detective Lieutenant Cronin to be on the Priority 1 Task Force.

Justin Healey was thirty-three years of age, 6'2”, and as disciplined and hard-nosed as they come. His jet-black hair and chiseled features made him look like a model when he had civilian clothes on. He was also the bodyguard of Lindsey Wilkerson before and during the bloodbath of the attempt on her life a year and a half earlier. He too missed her, but respected the parents' wishes to keep her life away from what was extremely traumatic for her. Many times his thoughts would be of her, and he never forgot how she wouldn't leave his side when he suffered severe wounds from a shotgun blast. He was smiling thinking about her, and it wasn't noticed by his partner, George Lynagh, because his thoughts were on the current case. At 5'10” Lynagh was built more like a tank with husky shoulders and short, cropped blond hair. At thirty-four years of age he looked more like a marine than a cop who had been in numerous situations that could have resulted in serious injury or death, but he had never even had a scratch. Sometimes he wondered if and when his luck would run out. Though Lynagh was a family man with two kids, while Healey was single, both of them were married to the job. They were loyal to Cronin as well as Powers and Johnson, and sometimes bending the rules was a necessity to keep people alive.

“Gina,” Cronin said as he pushed the intercom button. “please get William Lance on the phone, and after I speak with him please get Nada from
LI Pulse
on the line.” It was only a few minutes before the call came in from William Lance. The detective didn't mention that ADA Ashley was still in his office during the call. “Hello, William,” the detective spoke. They had been on a first-name basis for over a year now.

“Hi, Kevin,” Lance spoke. “It's been a while.”

“Yes,” Cronin replied, “it sure has. Listen, we don't think it's anything to be concerned about at this point in time, but I wanted you to know that we put a protective detail on Deborah for a few days. We have a case that has a slight chance of a connection, and Bud doesn't want to take any chances.”

“Well,” William replied, “thanks for telling me, but are you going to tell her?”

“No,” the detective replied, “not unless we know there is a connection for sure. I don't want to unnecessarily alarm her.” “OK,” Lance answered.

Detective Cronin spoke again. “One more thing. Does Deborah go to dance clubs?”

“Yes, on occasion,” the father answered. “I don't follow her every move at twenty-nine years old, but I know she will go with a group of friends on occasion.”

“OK,” Cronin replied, “give me a call the next time she goes.”

“I will,” Lance replied, “but she doesn't always let me know her business.” They hung up, and within two minutes it was Nada from the
LI Pulse.
Cronin explained to her that he would like one of her reporters to go on a private tour of the Riverhead facility with one of his officers to do a reconnaissance mission for him. There could be an exclusive story for the magazine in it for them. The magazine had always done fairly well, but it was the case of Deborah's kidnapping and the vigilante killings that brought the magazine to an even higher level of prominence. Nada, Bud, and Cronin had been in touch with each other on a biweekly basis since the Face of Fear case ended. Yet as fate would have it, Bud and Nada had never met in person.

Lynagh and Healey were parked outside the Coffee Shop when they saw Detective Bud Johnson drive up, park his car, and walk into the restaurant.

“What the fuck is he doing?” Lynagh said as he looked at Bud through binoculars. Deborah and Rachelle had finished their breakfast and just had coffee mugs in front of them when Bud walked to the back booth and greeted Rachelle with a kiss and hugged Deborah, who was surprised but happy to see him.

“Hi,” Deborah said with excitement. “It's been a while. How have you been?”

Rachelle was caught off guard by the “been a while” comment.

“Yes,” Bud answered. The truth was that during the past six months they had gone out together only a couple times. “I know, too long. If you're not busy next Saturday, you can help me move into the Henry Hallock house on South Street with Paul, Rachelle, Lynagh, and Healey. It will be fun, plus I will take you to dinner any day of the week that is convenient for you before the move-in. Any place you want to go.”

“Hmm,” Deborah answered with a giggle. “Are you trying to bribe me?”

“No,” Bud answered nervously, “but I would like to spend more time with you if it's OK.”

Deborah smiled and replied, “Maybe we should talk. Is everything OK?”

“It is fine,” Bud answered. “I would just like to see you more if you are up to it.”

The young woman replied, “That's very sweet. Maybe we can get together Friday, and yes I will be happy to help Saturday.”

“Great,” Bud replied as he hugged Brittany. “How are you, sunshine?” he asked his favorite server, who just patted him on the shoulder as she hustled back to her tables.

“Well,” Rachelle said, as she thought the exchange she witnessed was awkward. “I have to get to work. I will call you later, Deborah.” She got up and kissed both of them good-bye.

As Deborah and Bud walked out of the Coffee House, Lynagh said again, “What the fuck?” He called Cronin's office, and the detective lieutenant promptly called Detective Powers to his office. He said, “I told you we were keeping the Music Club Murders separate from the detail of Deborah Lance for now.” Already the case had its file name.

“Yes,” Powers replied.

Cronin started yelling, “Don't ‘yes' me! Then what the hell is Bud doing with the Lance girl right now!”

“He cares for her, Boss, he's worried, and I'll talk to him.”

Cronin stood up and started for the door. “Paul, this is your case. Let's not let this get out of hand.” With that he walked out of his own office, went out to the parking lot, and jumped in the car with ADA John Ashley behind the wheel, and they drove off.

Cronin looked at Ashley as he exited the parking lot and said, “I assume your office is going to get the paperwork ready for Detective Baker to be thrown in jail.”

“Working on it now,” the ADA replied. “Chief Samuels of the facility will be notified by DA Steinberg himself tomorrow.”

Bud kissed Deborah good-bye, and within fifteen minutes of leaving her, he sent her a text:
Please keep in touch XXX
.

She replied,
It goes both ways, Detective Johnson
. She added a yellow smile to the text. As Deborah drove up to Belle Terre, the exclusive village above the Village of Port Jefferson, her phone buzzed again with another text:
I meant it when I said you were still beautiful.
She smiled, but because she was driving she didn't notice it came from a different number. Just like the first time she had received the message. She also didn't notice Lynagh and Healey were sixty yards behind her as she drove into the gates to the famous Pink Mansion on Cliff Road.

Jason “Jack” O'Connor was playing solitaire in his cell when the correctional officer came to the door and unlocked it. “You have visitors, let's go.” The former FBI agent who was sentenced to life in prison with no chance of parole rarely had visitors, especially unannounced visitors. He was led to a small room with a one-way mirror. He couldn't wait to see who was there to see him. He was in the chair for only five minutes when ADA Ashley and Detective Lieutenant Cronin walked in and sat across from him.

“Hmm,” he said as he smiled, “you must need me for something, to drive all this way. I'm sure it's not because you missed me.”

“No,” Cronin replied, “but Bud Johnson said to send you his regards and to tell you he misses your ass.” The smirk disappeared from O'Connor's face. He didn't appreciate the remark made by Cronin. ADA Ashley did think it was funny.

O'Connor spoke firmly.

“What do you want?” It was a metamorphism of his attitude. One comment that got the best of him and he had a hard time dealing with it. The comment by Cronin was in reference to Detective Bud Johnson shooting O'Connor in the ass the night of his capture. It was Cronin who figured out the investigative puzzle, and it was Johnson who made him pay by shooting him in the backside. Both Cronin and Ashley were there to find out if O'Connor had anything to do with the notes to the man who put him behind bars, and that man was now sitting across the desk from him. Ashley looked at Cronin, then back at O'Connor.

“Enjoying the food? You put on some weight since you've been here,” the ADA said.

O'Connor nodded as he said, “So you've become a comedian since the last time I saw you.”

Ashley didn't miss a beat, saying, “Many true things are said in jest.”

Cronin threw the notes on the table for O'Connor. He picked them up and read them. As he finished the second one he couldn't help but bring back the smirk on his face. Ashley watched him carefully as he read the notes. It was true that the former FBI agent known as the Voice had put on weight, but he had also aged ten years in the last two. The lines in his forehead were more prevalent, and even though he was forty, the grey was just starting to show on his sideburns. He puckered his lips, as he continued to glance at the poems once he had laid them on the table.

“Interesting,” he said, “two definitions of the word
promise
. Very nice.”

Detective Cronin reached for the papers and asked, “Why is that?”

O'Connor leaned in toward the detective and said, “Anybody that can put stress on your life is a friend of mine.”

“
In
your life,” Ashley said, “you mean
in
your life.”

“Oh,” O'Connor answered, “now you're an English teacher.” Cronin put the three images of the girls who were killed on the table and asked,

“Do they remind you of anyone?”

“Hmm,” O'Connor said in a voice carefully disguised as sarcastic. “Gee, let me think, gosh, ahh, no, I can't think of anyone.”