Scar Tissue (24 page)

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Authors: William G. Tapply

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TWENTY-EIGHT

I
put my finger to my lips, and Brian nodded.

I flicked the flashlight off.

Voices came from outside the house.

The Reddington police, probably, on routine patrol, keeping their eye on their dead chief's vacant place.

I didn't want them to find me here. I didn't know if I could trust anybody on the Reddington police force. Sprague had been their chief. Maybe someâor allâof the Reddington officers had been involved in Sprague's sick business. Lucas McCaffrey, the redheaded cop, was ambitious. I'd seen him with Sprague. Tory Whyte claimed to despise him. But she'd been sleeping with him. I didn't know anything about the other Reddington cops.

I didn't know whose faces were on those photographs.

The only person I could trust was Horowitz.

Well, they'd be gone in a minute.

Then I remembered that the crime-scene tape had been ripped away from the front door.

Shit!
I'd also left footprints in the new snow. They led from the road, down the middle of the driveway, up onto the front
porch and into the house. It wouldn't take Daniel Boone to follow my tracks.

Maybe they'd chalk it up to nosy kids.

Wishful thinking, Coyne.

There was no upstairs window on the front of the house, so I couldn't look outside. But I figured the first thing they'd do would be to walk all the way around the house, looking for footprints leading away.

Of course, they wouldn't find any. Then they'd know I was still here, and they'd come in for me.

If I tried to hide, they'd keep looking until they found me.

Maybe I should just go downstairs and say hello to them. I could try to bluff my way out. Brian could hide upstairs. He could slip away later.

Or I could explain in a general way why I was here and insist they call Horowitz.

Except I didn't dare trust them.

Anyway, they wouldn't buy it. They'd arrest me.

They might not arrest me. They might shoot me. Jake and Sprague had been shot. It wouldn't be hard for a dirty cop to make up a plausible story that would justify killing a burglarâan armed burglar at thatâwho'd violated a crime scene.

Our best bet was to try to sneak away. If Brian and I could get out of the house, we'd head for the woods, loop around to the road, and call Sharon to come get us.

If we got caught â¦ well, then our only choice would be to try to talk our way out of it.

We had to move fast. They didn't know about Brian, but once they checked for departing footprints in the snow and realized I was still inside, they'd probably call for backup.

“Come on,” I whispered to Brian. “Stay right behind me. We've got to make a run for it.”

I didn't dare turn on my flashlight, and the inside of the house was totally black. Brian kept ahold of my jacket. I felt my way along the wall until I found the railing. I stopped at the top of the stairway. I heard nothing.

We started down the stairs. Brian stayed close behind me. We paused at each step. It felt like it took an hour to reach the bottom of the stairs.

Then we were in Sprague's big open downstairs living area. The windows made it light enough down here that I could make out the shapes of furniture and walls and doorways.

“Stay right there,” I whispered to Brian. I moved to the front of the house and slid along the wall until I could peek out a window.

The vehicle was a four-wheel-drive SUV. I didn't recognize it. It had no light bar on the roof, no logo on the door. Friend or foe?

The problem was, I didn't know who were the friends and who were the foes. It didn't look like anybody was inside the truck. And I saw nobody outside the house.

Push open the front door, slip out, and run for it?

If they spotted us, it would be all over. Even if they didn't shoot us and we made it to the woods, they'd call in backup. Hell, they could call in helicopters and dogs. They'd follow our footprints in the snow wherever they went.

But if we could just get back to the road without being seen, we'd call Sharon and be in the clear. It was our best chance.

My hand found the doorknob. I turned it slowly. The click of the latch sounded like a gunshot inside the dark house.

That's when the lights went on.

State Police Lt. Christopher Stone was standing barely ten feet from me. His left hand was on the light switch. His right hand held his square automatic weapon. It was pointed at my chest.

I glanced toward the foot of the stairs, then around the room. Brian had disappeared.

“Well, well,” said Stone. He was grinning at me. “If it isn't the asshole attorney.”

“Hello, Chris.”

“Somehow, I'm not surprised.”

“Listen,” I said, “I've gotâ”

“Shut up,” he said. “Clasp your hands behind your fucking neck.”

I did.

He came over to me, grabbed my shoulder, spun me around, and slammed my face against the wall. The muzzle of his gun rammed into my ribs. His other hand was patting me down.

When he found the .38 in my jacket pocket, he reached in and took it out. “Oh, boy,” he said. “Let's see. We got at least an armed Band E at a crime scene. You'll need more than your buddy Horowitz to get you out of this one, pal.”

“Chris, for Christ's sakeâ”

His fist slammed into my kidneys, and I went down on my hands and knees. I hung my head, gasping for breath, fighting the urge to puke.

“Don't say a fucking word,” said Stone. “Spread-eagle yourself and put your hands behind your back. Open your mouth again and I'll kick in your teeth, which is what happens when an armed criminal resists the lawful arrest of a police officer. You got that?”

I lay there on the floor with my arms behind me and my legs spread out.

He reached down and clamped handcuffs onto my wrists. Then he bent over and ran his hands up the insides of my legs and over my body. When he found Sharon's cell phone, he slipped it from my pocket and tossed it onto the sofa.

Then he took a two-way radio off his belt. “I got him,” he said. “Just like you thought.”

A minute later the front door opened and Gus Nash stepped inside. He was wearing a three-piece suit under his camelhair topcoat. He looked down at me and shook his head. “You okay, Brady?”

“This miserable excuse for a peace officer punched me in the kidneys,” I grunted. “I am not all right.”

Stone handed Nash my gun. “I had to disarm him, Mr. Nash.”

Nash put my .38 into the pocket of his topcoat.

“He punched me
after
he took my gun,” I said.

Nash reached down, took my arm, helped me to my feet, and led me to the sofa. I collapsed onto it and sat there awkwardly with my hands cuffed behind my back.

I hoped Brian had managed to slip out the back door and was hightailing it through the woods.

Nash sat in an armchair across from me. He leaned forward with his forearms on his thighs and peered at me. “You going to be all right, Brady?”

“Will you take these cuffs off me?”

“Of course.” Nash turned to Stone. “You didn't need to do that. That's no way to treat a friend.”

Stone frowned. “But Mr. Nashâ”

“Uncuff him, Lieutenant.”

Stone glared at me, then came over and took off the cuffs.

I rubbed my wrists. “I've just about got this figured out,” I said to Nash.

“Want me to call it in, Mr. Nash?” said Stone.

Nash waved his hand at Stone without taking his eyes off me. “Not yet, Lieutenant,” he said. “Let's hear what Brady has to say.”

Stone came over and stood beside Nash's chair. He kept his gun pointed at me. “Mr. Nash,” he said, “really, the correct procedure here isâ”

“Lieutenant Stone,” said Nash, “will you please shut up.”

Stone recoiled as if he'd been slapped. He blinked a couple of times, then resumed glaring at me. The muzzle of his gun never wavered from my sternum.

Nash smiled at me. “Okay, now, Brady. Let's have it. I've got a feeling this is going to make heroes of all of us.”

I shook my head. “I'd rather talk to Horowitz.”

He spread his hands. “I understand,” he said. “But this isn't Lieutenant Horowitz's case. So let's focus on what's important, which is figuring out who murdered Professor Gold and Chief Sprague. Isn't that what we're both interested in?”

I shrugged.

“However you want to play it,” he said. “Horowitz is not involved. Thisâ” he jerked his head at Stone “âis our case, and we're going to solve it. So what do you say?”

“I guess I don't really have a choice,” I said.

“No,” he said, “you really don't.”

So I told Nash about the photographs Jake had brought to me, and how I'd figured out that Ed Sprague had taken them with his digital camera through the one-way mirror in his bathroom and stored them in his computer. I told him that Bobby Klemm had been hired by somebody to murder both Jake and Sprague, and I assumed that person's face would appear on some of those photos.

“Dig those photos out of Sprague's computer,” I said, “and you'll have everything you need.”

“So who have you shared these theories with?”

I flapped my hands. “Nobody. Just you. I only got it figured out tonight.”

Nash was nodding. “Well, that's terrific deducting, Brady,” he said. “So you figure the photos are in Sprague's computer, huh?”

“I'd bet my life on it.”

He smiled. “Oh, you shouldn't do that,” he said. He glanced up at Stone. “Help Brady up, Lieutenant.”

Stone glanced at Nash, then shrugged. He came over to me, took my arm, and yanked me to my feet. I gasped from the sharp pain in my kidneys where he'd punched me, and a wave of dizziness swept over me. I leaned on him for a moment, swallowed a couple of times, and took a deep breath.

“You okay?” said Nash.

I nodded.

“Okay,” he said. He pushed himself up from his chair. “Let's go in, take a look at that computer.”

We went into Sprague's office.

“You know how to work that thing?” said Nash.

“I can turn it on,” I said. “I already looked at it. I couldn't
find any photos. You'll need someone who knows more about it than I do.”

“Why don't you sit down, turn it on again for us.”

I did, and the icons started popping up on the screen. Nash bent over, studying it. “I don't know a damn thing about computers,” he said. He turned to Stone. “How about you, Lieutenant?” He laughed quickly. “No, somehow I doubt you're a computer wizard.”

Stone shook his head. “Not me, Mr. Nash. I write my reports on them. That's about it.”

Stone was standing there beside me. His gun was still pointed at me.

“Aim that thing somewhere else,” I said to him.

“What I'd like to doâ”

“Behave yourself, Lieutenant,” said Nash.

Stone shrugged and lowered his arm so that his gun was pointed to the floor.

Nash frowned at the computer screen for a minute, then shrugged. “Well, I guess you're right. We'll have to take care of this later. Come on. Let's get out of here.”

I pushed the chair away from Sprague's computer, stood up, and started for the living room.

“Hold on a minute, Brady,” said Nash.

I stopped and turned to face him.

“Okay, Lieutenant.” Nash nodded at Stone. “Now you can shoot him.”

TWENTY-NINE

S
tone's eyes darted toward Nash. “Huh?”

Nash jerked his head at me. “I said shoot him.”

Stone nodded. His gun slowly came up until I was looking into the black hole at the end of its muzzle.

“I always hated you,” he said.

“I never liked you much, either, Chris,” I said. “But I never thought you were a bad cop.”

“Ah, it was always you and Horowitz,” he said. “You two smart guys, and me, tagging along, running out for the fucking coffee. Horowitz thought he knew everything. Always took all the credit. I worked my ass off for him, andâ”

Suddenly Brian came flying out of nowhere. He plowed his head into Stone's chest, and both of them went down in a tangle of arms and legs.

Stone's gun spun out of his hand.

I lunged for it.

Nash's voice stopped me. “Hold it, Brady,” he said quietly. “Freeze, or I'll kill the kid.”

I froze.

Nash was holding my .38 in both hands. It was aimed at
Brian. I could see that the hammer was cocked. He meant business.

I held up my hands, palms out. “Okay, Gus,” I said. “You're the boss.”

“Stand up, young man,” said Nash to Brian.

“You better do it, Brian,” I said.

Brian crawled away from Stone and stood up. He was panting and glowering at Nash.

Stone got to his feet, hunched his shoulders inside his jacket, then bent and picked up his weapon. He motioned with it for Brian and me to stand beside each other. Then he arched his eyebrows at Nash. “Who the hell is this?”

“This,” said Nash, “is Brian Gold.” He smiled at Brian. “You were supposed to be dead, son.”

Brian glared at him.

“So Ed was right,” said Nash. “It bothered him, never finding your body.”

“Gus,” I said, “let the boy go. He doesn't know anything.”

“Yes, I do,” said Brian.

Nash smiled at him, then turned to me. “Thanks, Brady,” he said. “This helps us with another loose end.”

“Fuck you,” I said.

Nash turned to Stone. “Okay, Lieutenant,” he said. “Let's get it over with.”

“The kid, too?” said Stone.

“Coyne first,” said Nash.

I turned to Nash. “I guess I shouldn't be surprised, Gus. Sprague got you in some of his photos, huh?”

He shook his head. “Don't be ridiculous.”

“Who are you covering for, then?”

He smiled.

I nodded. “Okay, I get it now,” I said. “You're blackmailing your friends, right?”

He shrugged. “I don't look at it that way, Brady.”

“There's some other way to look at it?”

“I prefer to think of it as insurance.”

Stone's eyes were darting back and forth from Nash to me, as if things were moving too fast for him. But his gun never wavered from my chest. “Mr. Nash,” he said, “I was thinkingâ”

“Don't,” said Nash. “You shouldn't think, Lieutenant. It's not your strong suit. Just shoot him. Let's get this over with.”

Stone frowned at him. “But how're we going to explain it?”

“It's pretty obvious,” said Nash. He looked at me and grinned. “And brilliant, too, if you appreciate improvisation. Mr. Squeaky Clean Attorney here is a closet pedophile, as we'll discover when we get into that safe in his office. You gotta watch out for those middle-aged bachelors who live alone, you know?” He shook his head with mock sadness.

“Yeah,” said Stone. “That's pretty good, Mr. Nash. But how're we gonna explain shooting him?”

“Come on,” said Nash. “Think about it. The man was armed and dangerous.” He smiled. “You and I, Lieutenant, we had our suspicions, brilliant lawmen that we are. Coyne might've fooled some people, pretending to discover the professor's body in the barn that his own hired killer had left there. Didn't fool us, though. We kept our eye on him. Followed him here, and â¦” He shook his head. “Imagine! The honorable Brady Coyne collected disgusting photos of his own client's son. And he seemed like such a nice man, too.”

“Horowitz knows all about it,” I said. “First thing he'll do is dig out all those other photographs. You're sunk, Gus.”

“Oh,” he said, “you mean Sprague's computer? Well, see, Brady, the reason you came here was to destroy that evidence.”

Sprague half turned, peered into Sprague's office, lifted my gun, squinted, and fired twice. It sounded like two bombs exploding inside the house.

Sparks flew from the big CPU on Sprague's desk, and then a wisp of smoke wafted up. It had two big holes in it.

“What about the boy?” I said.

“You killed him, Brady.” Nash grinned. “With your own gun. You're a very bad man.”

“So you and Stone are going to be heroes, huh?”

Nash shrugged modestly. “Oh, we're just doing our jobs. Though I'd expect the media might find our quick action rather heroic once the whole story comes out.”

I turned to Stone. “What's in it for you, Chris?”

“I'm a cop,” he said. “I'm doing my job.” He glanced at Nash.

“That's right, Lieutenant. And you'll be rewarded. I've got big plans for you. Now do it.”

Stone leveled his gun at my chest. “Do you understand now, Mr. Coyne?”

I nodded. “I understand everything.”

“I'm not that stupid, you know.”

“I never said you were stupid, Chris. You're just ambitious and misguided.”

“Not as much as you think.”

Then, strangely, he winked at me.

I watched the muzzle of his automatic as it moved away from my chest and pointed at Nash. “I used to admire you, Mr. Nash,” he said. “But Horowitz was right. You were playing me for a sucker.”

“Chrisâ”

“Drop the fucking gun,” said Stone.

“Wait a minuteâ”

Stone pushed his gun toward Nash's face. “Do it!”

Nash let my revolver slip out of his hand onto the floor. “You're making a very stupid mistake, Lieutenant.”

“I'm pretty sick of being called stupid,” said Stone. “Just shut up for a minute, and you listen to me for a change.” He smiled. “Ready? Okay. You're under arrest, August Nash. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in court. You have the right to talk to a lawyer for advice before we ask you any questions and to have him with you during questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be appointed for you before any questioning, if you wish. If you
decide to answer questions now without a lawyer present, you will still have the right to stop answering at any time until you talk to a lawyer. Do you understand?”

Nash laughed. “I understand that your career is over.”

“I'll take my chances,” said Stone. He turned to me. “Mr. Coyne,” he said, “why don't you go get that cell phone and call Lieutenant Horowitz. I think he deserves to be involved in this.”

A
n hour later Stone had taken his prisoner away in handcuffs, and Brian Gold and I were sitting in Ed Sprague's living room with Roger Horowitz and Marcia Benetti.

I told Horowitz what had happened. “My guess is,” I concluded, “after Stone killed me, Nash was going to kill both him and Brian, here, with my gun. His story would be that Brian had come to me for protection, and I brought him here and killed him and plugged Sprague's computer to destroy the evidence. Nash and Stone interrupted me, and I shot Stone, and Stone got off a shot at me before he died. Something like that.”

“Any questions would be answered when they found those photographs in your safe,” said Horowitz. “They'd explain your motive for killing Sprague and â¦” He glanced at Brian.

“I know what happened,” said Brian quietly.

Horowitz nodded. “You'd be dead,” he said to me, “and your good name would've been thoroughly trashed and Gus Nash would be a hero. If Stone hadn't thought clearly for once in his life, it could've happened that way.”

“It took him a while,” I said. “But he is a good cop.”

Horowitz shrugged. “You know, Coyne,” he said, “you're as pigheaded as Stone. What the hell did you think you were gonna accomplish, coming here?”

“I wanted to get those photos,” I said, “see whose faces were on them.”

“Yeah? Then what?”

“Then I was going to dump it on your lap.”

He was shaking his head. “This case is fucked, I hope you realize that.”

I nodded. “That's what I've been thinking.”

“If I know Gus Nash,” said Horowitz, “we'll never be able to link him to Bobby Klemm. Maybe if we had those photographs â¦”

“They were all on Sprague's computer.”

“Yeah,” said Horowitz. “And now that computer is deader'n a doornail.”

Brian had been sitting beside me on the sofa while we talked. He had said nothing. He'd kept his head bowed, and I knew he was thinking about Sharon, what he would say to her, how he'd explain it.

Now he lifted his head and touched my arm. “Uncle Brady, can I say something?”

I nodded. “Of course you can.”

He looked from Horowitz to Marcia Benetti, then turned to me. “All that time I was just wishing I was dead,” he said softly. “It didn't seem fair that Jenny died and I didn't, and I couldn't stand the idea of my mother ever knowing â¦ what I'd done. Then when you came to talk to me at Jason's, said you'd seen those photographs, I thought about killing myself, I was so ashamed. But I started thinking about my dad. Somebody killed him because of me. And I was thinking about Chief Sprague, and the more I thought about him, what he'd done to us, the more I hated him. And I knew there had to be somebody else involved. That was whoever hired the guy who killed my dad and Sprague. And when I thought about all that, I didn't want to die anymore. I wanted to find out who it was, and I wanted to kill him. It was that Nash guy, right?”

I nodded.

“Well,” said Brian, “I remember seeing him a couple times.”

“Here?” I said. “Whenâ?”

Brian nodded. “He was here with other people when we â¦”

“Did heâ?

“No. He's not on any of those pictures Sprague took.”

“How do you know?”

He reached into his hip pocket, pulled out something, and handed it to me.

It looked like a slightly oversized computer disk.

“Is that what I think it is?” I said.

“It's a Zip disk,” said Brian. “You can store dozens of photographs on one of these things.”

“And you got them from Sprague's computer?”

He nodded. “It's all there,” he said. “I'm pretty good with computers. What do you think I came here for?” He handed the disk to Horowitz.

“Brian,” I said, “do you understand what you're doing?”

“Yes,” he said. “He's a policeman. I've just given him evidence.”

Horowitz slipped the disk into his jacket pocket. “Lawyers,” he said to Brian, “they can lock evidence up in their safe, refuse to let anybody see it. Us cops, we can't do that, you know.”

“I know that,” said Brian.

“You're a brave kid,” said Horowitz.

“That was easy,” said Brian, “compared to what I've got to do now.” He looked at me. “I've got to call my mother.”

I handed him Sharon's cell phone. “Do you want me to talk to her?” I said.

“You've done enough, Uncle Brady. I've got to do this myself.” He stood up. “I'm going in the other room, okay?”

I waved my hand at him, and he headed for the kitchen.

He came back about five minutes later. His cheeks were wet, but he was smiling. “I want to go home now,” he said. “Can somebody give me a ride?”