Play Dead (17 page)

“I opened a few of these. They went through Chaney’s department, and they were stacked so as to be hard to get to, so I figured I’d take a shot.”

“What’s in there?” I ask.

“Take a look,” he says, and points the flashlight so I can see inside.

The crate is filled with maybe the last thing I’d expect.

Money.

I can see twenties, tens and fives, but I have absolutely no idea how much might be in there, other than the fact that it’s a hell of a lot of money. “Damn…,” I say, never at a loss for a clever quip.

“What’s going on up there?” Karen calls out, but neither of us is inclined to answer her just yet.

“The two crates back there are the same,” he says. “We’re talking serious money.”

I climb back down while Franklin closes the crate so that it will not look as though it had been opened. Soon he joins me on solid ground, and the three of us head outside. On the way I tell Karen what was in the boxes.

“Somebody was sneaking money out of the country?” she asks. “Why?”

I’ve already figured out the answer to that, but I wait until the three of us are seated in my car before I voice it.

“It has to be organized crime; it’s Petrone’s money.”

“Dominic Petrone?” Franklin asks, and if it weren’t so dark in the car, I would see him turning pale.

“Yes, it all fits. Don’t forget, people don’t pay prostitutes or street drug dealers or bookies by check or credit card. They pay in cash, and often small bills. Not only does it add up, but it weighs a lot.”

“But why ship it out of the country?” Karen asks.

“Because our banking system is tightly controlled. Getting that amount of cash into it would draw big-time attention. Other countries are not as strict, and once the cash enters any country’s banking system, it’s easier to send it back here. Probably by wire.”

“So Petrone owns Roy Chaney?” Franklin asks.

“I would assume so,” I say.

“And he was getting rid of Richard so that he could run this operation?”

“That remains to be seen,” I say, although I don’t think it does. I don’t believe this has anything to do with Stacy Harriman’s murder and the setup of Richard, but I don’t want to share this with Franklin. He doesn’t need to know our case strategy.

One thing this does explain is why Petrone had been monitoring my movements. He was afraid that I would uncover his operation while investigating the case, and he was right about that. The question now is what to do about it.

Franklin has no great desire to intervene in a situation that gets him on Dominic Petrone’s enemies list. He is therefore receptive to my suggestion that we just sit on this for a while. The country is not going to be irreparably harmed by this shipment going out; similar shipments have probably been making the same trip for years. I want to see if I can somehow use this information to our advantage rather than have it lead to our deaths. Franklin is fine with that.

As Franklin is about to get out of the car, I ask, “Have you ever heard of a man named Yasir Hamadi?”

He thinks for a moment. “I don’t think so. Who is he?”

“Just a name that came up in connection with the case. I’ve been trying to get in touch with him, but I think I’m going to have to pay him a visit.”

“Can I go with you?” Karen asks. “Haven’t I been a great sidekick?”

I smile. “You’ve been extraordinary.”

T
HERE IS NO
message from Yasir Hamadi waiting for me at the office this morning. I can’t say I’m surprised, nor is it a sign that he is any kind of bad guy. People don’t return phone calls from strangers all the time. He could think I’m a bill collector or, even worse, a lawyer.

Sam has used his computer magic to get the guy’s home address, and I’m going to take a ride out there tomorrow. I generally like to interview people face-to-face when I’m working on a case, and I’m partial to surprising them by showing up unannounced. There’s always the possibility that he won’t be home or won’t talk to me, but since I’ll be going on a Saturday, it’ll be a nice drive with little traffic.

Kevin and I spend the day going through the nuts and bolts of preparing for the trial. We discuss whether to ask for a change of venue but decide against it. It’s not as if the murder victim were a local person or even that the case drew great attention. There’s no reason for us to think we can’t get a fair trial down there, and for that reason our request likely wouldn’t be granted if we made it.

It’s midafternoon when we start talking about the Petrone situation in detail. I do not think that the revelation of Petrone’s sneaking money out of the country means that he’s involved in the Evans case.

Kevin disagrees. “I don’t understand,” he says. “We’ve suspected all along that there might be something going on at customs that would have caused Richard to be set up. Now we find out that Petrone, the head of organized crime in New Jersey, is involved in an illegal customs operation with Richard’s replacement. And because of this, we think Petrone is not involved?”

I understand his point; it makes perfect sense. I’m just not buying it. “It just doesn’t feel important enough for Petrone to have gone to all this trouble. He’d be able to get the money out in other ways.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Kevin says.

“And Petrone didn’t hire Chaney. How did he know he’d be able to control Richard’s replacement?”

“Maybe he owns Chaney’s boss.”

I shake my head. “Then he certainly wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of setting up this elaborate operation. And you think Petrone’s people rescued Reggie from the boat that night?”

Kevin grins. “It always comes back to Reggie.”

Before I head home for the evening of Taco Bell and baseball that I didn’t get to enjoy last night, I call Karen and deliver on my promise to let her drive with me tomorrow, to try to talk to Hamadi. I won’t let her sit in on the interview if there is one, but she can keep me company.

She’s quite pleased to join me, and we agree that I’ll pick her up at ten a.m.

I take Tara and Reggie on a very long walk, and pick up the Crunchwraps on the way back. It’s quite late when we get home, and I’ve probably already missed three innings of the Mets game.

I hadn’t left any lights on, so when I open the door it’s very dark inside. The first thing I see is the little, flashing red light on my answering machine, and I go over to press the button and listen to the message.

The voice is Karen’s. “Andy, it’s Karen. I just got a strange call from Keith Franklin. He said that he needs to talk to me and wants me to meet him behind school number twenty. He told me not to tell you, that what he had to say you shouldn’t hear. I said okay, but you said we shouldn’t keep secrets from each other, so I’m letting you know. Tomorrow I’ll tell you what he said. If I’m doing anything wrong with this, I’m sorry.”

I’m in the den, and as I listen to the message, it feels as if the walls of the room are closing in and crushing me. I am simultaneously hit by a feeling of panic and dread so powerful that I have to make a conscious effort not to fall to my knees.

My certainty of the horrible danger to Karen doesn’t make complete sense; Franklin could really have something to tell her that he doesn’t want me to know. But every instinct in my body doesn’t believe it, and if my instincts are right, then the truth is too horrible to contemplate.

I grab my cell phone and run out of the house. I don’t know Karen’s cell phone number or even that she has one, so calling her isn’t an option. Instead, I call Pete Stanton as I drive, and tell him what’s going on. He promises to get himself and some officers there as soon as possible.

School number 20 is a grammar school less than five minutes from my house. I will certainly be there before Pete, and I try in these few moments to plan what I will do when I arrive. I don’t come up with anything, but the act of thinking helps to lessen the feeling of panic.

The parking lot and athletic field are behind the school, and I drive around at a high speed, pulling to a screeching stop. I want to make as much noise as I possibly can; if a bad guy is there, I want it to sound as though the cavalry is arriving.

It’s very dark back here, with no streetlights and little moonlight. I think I can make out Karen’s car, but it could just be a shadow. I run toward the back of the school and see a small light above an exit door. Standing there, that light glancing off her, is Karen. The fact that she is standing means she is alive, and the fact that she is alive is extraordinarily wonderful.

“Karen!” I call out, though I am still at least seventy-five yards away.

She looks over in my direction, a little startled, but there is no way she can see me.

“It’s Andy!” I yell at the same moment that I see a glimmer of light from the road, off to the right. There is another car there, and someone is in it.

“Run! Run!” I yell, but she is confused, and doesn’t move. “Karen, start running!” It is not until I add “Now!” that she starts to run, though I’m not sure she even heard the word, because at the exact moment, there is another, very loud sound. I know what that sound is, and therefore, I know why Karen crumples to the ground. I’m running toward her, but the sight of her falling is so painful that it feels as if the bullet hit me.

I hear another shot, not as loud, that seems to come from a different direction. Karen doesn’t look to have been hit again, and it doesn’t appear that I was either, since I’m still running.

Karen’s prone body is now shielded by the darkness, and for a moment I can’t find her. I finally do, and I lean down to her, dreading what I am going to see.

“Andy?” she says, and if there has ever been a more beautiful rendition of my name, I’ve never heard it. Barbra Streisand couldn’t sing it any more beautifully. Karen’s voice is weak and scared, but she has a voice.

“Andy, somebody shot me.”

“Where are you hit?” I ask.

“In my shoulder. Andy, it hurts so much.”

I hadn’t given any thought to whether the shooter is still out there, and the sound of a car screeching away answers the question. The reason for that is soon obvious, as Marcus comes running over. Clearly Marcus chased off the shooter.

In the dim light I can see that the upper right part of her body is soaked in blood, and another wave of panic hits me. I quickly call 911 on my cell and request an ambulance. I take my shirt off and wrap it around her. Maybe it will slow the flow of blood, or maybe it will keep her warm and ward off shock.

Or maybe it won’t do shit.

It was probably a good idea, because Marcus takes off his jacket and does the same.

“Karen, hang on. Help will be here in a minute.”

She doesn’t answer, and I fear that she may have lost consciousness. Within moments that seem like years, I hear the sound of sirens, and Pete and every police officer in the city seem to arrive simultaneously. The area is bathed in light, and soon paramedics have descended on Karen. Pete tries to lead Marcus and me away.

“No,” I say, “I want to see how she is.”

Pete nods and walks over to the EMT in charge. He talks to him for a moment and then comes back to me. “I’ll be the first one they’ll tell,” he says.

Pete leads me toward his car and starts to question me. He has one of his colleagues question Marcus—as futile an exercise as has ever been attempted.

“Do you have any idea who did this?” Pete asks.

I nod. “It’s got to be Keith Franklin. He works for U.S. Customs at the Port of Newark.”

“Why do you think it was him?”

“Karen left a message on my machine, telling me that Franklin called her and told her to meet him here. She said he told her not to tell me about it.”

Pete leaves me for a moment to tell one of the detectives to get Franklin’s address, and in less than a minute he has it. “We’re going to pick up Franklin,” he says. “You want to come?”

I look over and see that Karen is being loaded into an ambulance. “Any word on Karen yet?”

Pete signals someone who comes over and talks softly to him. Pete nods and turns to me. “She took it in the right shoulder. She lost a lot of blood, but they think she’ll make it. She won’t pitch in the major leagues, but other than that she should be okay.”

It is a feeling of such immense relief that I actually get choked up. This almost never happens to me; the last time I got choked up was three years ago when I mistakenly tried to swallow a chicken bone. “Let’s go,” is all I say, and Pete and I go to his car. I’m not sure where Marcus is, but I suspect he’ll be able to handle himself.

Pete has called ahead and sent other cars to Franklin’s house. We are not going to be the first ones on the scene, but no one will move or do anything of consequence until Pete gets there. He is the ranking officer on the case.

There are few things that I’d rather see right now than Franklin getting taken away in handcuffs, but I have no idea if it is going to happen tonight. I don’t know whether he just set Karen up for someone else to take a shot at her or, even if he did it himself, whether he would have gone home afterward. I don’t know what the etiquette is for attempted murders; maybe there is a traditional postshooting party, at which the criminal regales his colleagues with stories about pulling the trigger.

We park about a block and a half from Franklin’s house, and Pete has the operation well coordinated. Everybody moves in from various directions; if Franklin makes a break for it, he will find himself surrounded.

We’re about six houses away when Pete gets a message that the front door to Franklin’s house is wide open. Pete instructs me to stay behind as he and the other officers move in.

As I watch from a distance, the area around Franklin’s house is suddenly, eerily bathed in bright spotlights, and the sounds of men shouting through the previously quiet street are deafening, even though they do not include any gunfire.

Ignoring Pete’s admonishments, I start to walk toward the house. As I approach, I am stopped by an officer cordoning off the scene. “You can’t go any farther,” the officer says.

“I’m with Pete Stanton.”

“That’s fine, but you can’t go any farther.”

After about ten minutes, Pete comes out and walks over to me. “Franklin is dead,” he says.

I’m surprised to hear this. “Suicide?” I ask.

“Only if he’s a real bad shot. He had seven bullets in him.”

“Any idea how long he’s been dead?”

Pete shrugs. “I’m no expert, but I’d guess an hour or so. He sure as hell wasn’t the shooter at the school.”

Without a doubt, Franklin was the person who set Karen up to be shot, and without a doubt, he was not the one who shot her.

Pete verbalizes the questions that are forming in my mind. “You think he was forced to call her? Or did his partner turn on him after he did?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t know who the bad guys are or what the hell they’re trying to accomplish. The only thing I know for sure is that Richard Evans isn’t one of them.”