The Betrayal (14 page)

“Me too.”

“You need a ride to the safe house, right? I mean, you can't exactly ride out there in a squad car, can you?”

“Good thinking, but I hate to ask. By the time somebody checks this mess out—and I'd have to be here at least till they get started—it'll be really late.”

“I'll work around it.”

“But your family, Francisco . . .”

“I'll do what I've got to do, for you and for them.”

1:30 a.m.

Boone explained to the crime scene technicians why he had been driving a car registered to a woman in South Carolina. They carefully processed the scene and had the car towed to a city holding lot. Boone decided breaking this news to Haeley's mother could wait.

Forty minutes later, Francisco, with Boone confirming they had not been followed, rolled up to the dilapidated pickup standing guard on the road to the safe house. The undercover cop behind the wheel looked surprised.

“Didn't expect to see you tonight,
padre
,” Quincy said. “I knew Righty was coming.”

“Good one,” Boone said.

“I'm not staying,” Sosa said. “Just dropping my little boy off at school.”

“Gotcha. See you on your way out.”

When they got to the main yard and the chain-link fence, Sosa asked Boone to greet Pascual Candelario for him and tell PC he would visit in a few days. “Will you still be here?”

“Probably, but this is just a base of operations for me. Lots of work to do before surgery.”

“What're you going to do for wheels?”

“Jack will find me something.”

2:15 a.m.

At the gate, Unger hurried out in his shirtsleeves to let Boone in, waving to Sosa. “Where's your stuff?” Unger said as they moved inside.

Boone told him what had happened.

“Geez, Drake, if it wasn't for bad luck . . .”

Boone texted Jack about his need for clothes, toiletries, and a car.
& I hate 2 ask, but if u could find a plastic surgical shower shield & fresh bandages . . .
He smirked at the thought of Jack's look when he awoke to those requests.

“Third door on the right,” Unger said. “Should be comfy.”

Through the fake wall and the hanging plastic and down the hall, Boone found himself so eager to collapse into bed, he could hardly move. Fortunately, he had his meds on him. He would be thoroughly anesthetized by the time his head hit the pillow.

The room was large and the furnishings new. He especially appreciated the private bath. But as he began to slowly peel off his clothes, he started at a knock.

“Yeah!”

“It's PC, bro! What you doing here?”

Boone opened the door. “Why are you still up?”

“I'm a night owl,” Pascual said. “What can I say? Whoa. Look at you. We'll talk tomorrow!”

“I look that bad?”

PC laughed. “Your eyes ain't even focusing, man. Go to bed.”

“Don't mind if I do.”

Boone stripped down, took his meds, and carefully stretched out on the bed. He was unconscious within sixty seconds.

19

Ramping Up

Tuesday, February 9

Boone awoke in the same position he had fallen asleep in, unaware of having even dreamed. His room was still pitch black, and he realized it was an inner chamber with no windows.

He had roused only because of a nature call and had no idea how long he'd slept. He peered in the darkness for a clock, finally resorting to feeling for his watch. He hit a tiny button on the side that illuminated the dial: 12:04. What time had he gotten here? Had he slept that long?

Boone returned from the bathroom, still logy, and sat on the edge of the bed. He turned on his cell phone and soon a dozen messages invaded. The only ones that interested him were from Jack. The oldest, which had come in at 10:20 that morning, said,
Here. No rush. Stuff outside door.

An hour later:
Still here, Sleeping Beauty. PC & I r hungry. Let me know when ur up.

And at noon:
Have 2 b back in city by 3. Tasty lunch awaits u.

That sounded like heaven. Boone found the bag of stuff outside the door, including a change of wound dressings and a supply of plastic sheeting he could put over his shoulder in the shower.

He texted,
Thanks 4 everything. Don't eat w/out me. C u soon.

It took twice as long for Boone to shower and shave and dress than it would have before the shooting. He savored every minute. Keller had found him several sets of oversize sweat suits, and he chose one with the CPD pistol range logo on it.

Pascual and Jack sat waiting at the table in the kitchen. “You look better than you did last night,
amigo
,” PC said. “Feel better too, eh?”

“Not till I take my pills. Nothing feels better than that.”

“The Frito Bandito is cooking for us today,” Jack said.

“I like Mexican.”

“How'd you guess?” Pascual said.

“Where's the family?” Boone said.

“Already ate. Probably watching TV.”

PC turned to a counter full of ingredients and started mixing.

Keller said, “We going to be able to work if you're on meds?”

“I just have to concentrate. So what's in the envelope?”

“Stuff we need to talk about in private.”

“I heard that,” PC said. “Can't believe you guys are keepin' secrets.”

After lunch, Boone popped his pills and had to admit that Pascual could run his own taco stand. The big Mexican said, “Well, you two have stuff to talk about.”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “I wouldn't rush you, but I
am
on a schedule.”

As Pascual left, Boone passed along Pastor Sosa's greetings.

“He's the best, man,” PC said. “Thanks for making that happen.”

“You're learning a lot?”

“Oh yeah. I might want to go into ministry myself someday.”

Jack wrenched around in his chair. “What're you, nuts? There's nowhere on God's green earth you could go and not be recognized. Don't you know we're working around the clock trying to think of where to stash you when this is all over?”

“I'm trustin' the Lord, man.”

“That's all well and good, but unless he can make you look like a little girl, I can't imagine where you can hide, let alone—what did you call it? ‘Go into ministry'?”

Pascual's body filled the doorframe. “I was just watching something on TV the other night about a New York Mob guy—”

“I heard about that too,” Jack said. “Michael Franzese, right?”

“That's him,” PC said. “Sonny's kid. The old Mob boss who's in prison. Michael became a Christian and preaches all over the country.”

“You know how unique that is, though,” Jack said. “Right?”

Pascual shrugged.

“C'mon, PC. He may be the only guy who ever left the Mob, especially that kind of an outfit—part of the Colombo family—without winding up dead, in prison, or in the witness protection program. Is that what you want?”

“Well, if he can do it—”

“The jury is still out on how long he can stay in the public eye. Maybe it's the religious aspect of it; I don't know. Maybe his enemies are afraid of that. But I can tell you this: you have a hundred times the enemies he ever had. You think the bullet Drake took wasn't intended for you?”

“Don't say that, man. I know. And Boone knows I know.”

Keller glanced at his watch. “I mean, I'm glad you're getting good religious counseling or whatever you call it, but don't go dreaming about starting a church. Now Drake and I have really got to get to our business.”

Pascual looked crestfallen. He waved as he turned to go, and Keller called after him. “Hey, PC! I'm not mad at you, you know. You're still a hero. I'm just looking out for you.”

When PC was gone, Jack stretched. “Go get your notes, Boones. Show me what you've got.”

“It'll wait, boss. I need to see what you've got.”

“I'm not sure you do.”

“Of course I do. The only way I can attack this is to know everything I'm dealing with. Fritz is holding out on me because he's not ready for Haeley to know everything he knows yet.”

“Well, if you insist on seeing this, you'll know why. But what do you mean, the only way you can ‘attack this'? Be careful not to be giving ammunition to people who say there's no way you can be unbiased.”

Boone sighed. “I didn't go into it only on the attack. I went in scared to death after what I'd heard from Fritz, and frankly, from Pete.”

“So Pete told you what he told me?”

“I have no idea what he told you, Jack, but my guess is he told me more. He even swore me to secrecy for part of it.”

That seemed to get Jack's attention. “Am I going to have to beat it out of you?”

“'Fraid so. My word is still my bond.”

Jack sat staring. “So, what did he tell you that you
can
tell me?”

Boone shook his head. “No you don't. You first.”

“Well, did he mention the graphic e-mails that went back and forth between Fox and Haeley?”

“Fritz Zappolo told me. Haven't seen them, but the very idea that she would be stupid enough to put incriminating stuff on her CPD-issue computer is almost enough for me to discount them before I see them.”

“That doesn't sound unbiased, Boones.”

“Granted, but does she strike you as that stupid?”

Jack stood and paced. “I learned a long time ago that I can't trust my first instincts about people. I have to rely on hard evidence.”

“I can't wait to see what you have.”

“Boones, did Pete tell you she came on to him?”

“What?”

“No, eh? Maybe he thought he'd said enough.”

Boone shook his head. “Talk about royally brainless. Complain about sexual harassment—which you know she did on more than one occasion—and then do something like that? And to a man his age?”

“You never know, Boones. I was a Clinton fan. I even believed his denials. And Eliot Spitzer was a hero of mine. I'm the wrong guy to ask.”

“If she came on to Pete, why not you?”

“Maybe she prefers black guys.”

“What does that say about Fox? And I'm about as white as they come. Anyway, if that were true, why are there no stories from Fletcher?”

“She would have known better.”

“And she would have known better than to engage in anything with Pete or Garrett, and she sure wouldn't have documented it on a department computer. Let me ask you something, Jack. You and Pete go way back, right? Did you ever have reason to wonder about him?”

“In what way are we talking about?”

“His morals.”

“Not on the job. He's clean, or we wouldn't be working together.”

“I'm talking personal morals. Anything. Any reason to wonder.”

Jack, usually quick to answer, seemed to hesitate. His eyes lost focus as if he were somewhere else. “You can't use this, you know. I have no proof.”

“I'm just asking for a reason to suspect him.”

“This was more'n thirty years ago. 'Fact, I think Pete and Thelma had been married only a few years, had maybe one kid. I remember because me and my first wife were newlyweds then too. Anyway, Pete and I had been sent to the FBI National Academy at Quantico, Virginia, for training. Bunked together.”

“What happened?”

“Pete had relatives in the area that he visited the first night after dinner. Got in after midnight. And then, three or four nights in a row, he left just after I hit the sack and came tiptoeing back in at three or four in the morning. He was dragging when we did the physical stuff every day—it was a lot like boot camp.

“Once I asked him where he was every night and he got testy. He stared me down and said, ‘I told you I have relatives in the area.' End of story.”

“You weren't buying it.”

“Oh, he might have seen family that first night; I don't know. But he wasn't seeing them that late every day after that. I've never been a prude, Boones, and I didn't figure it was my place to push him on it. But I admit I did wonder. Why do you ask?”

“Just trying to make this all add up. Before this I never had one question about Pete Wade. He always hit me as the kind of veteran I wanted to be.”

“Thanks.”

“C'mon. You know what I think of you, Jack. Anyway, most of what I believed about Pete I heard from you.”

“He's always been a by-the-book kind of a cop.”

Boone nodded. “That's what I saw.”

“Seems that would make you lean his way, even when he's saying stuff about your girlfriend.”

“It scares me to death.”

“Me too,” Jack said, “but I had reason to wonder about Haeley.”

“You did? Was she ever inappropriate with you?”

“Never.”

“Then why?”

“Well, when Garrett Fox was here, he used to brag about his relationship with her.”

“He told me he tried and struck out,” Boone said.

“I remember doubting him, because he was quite a storyteller. And I also remember thinking that if there was any truth to it, she sure hid it well. It was obvious, at least to me, that she could barely stand to be in his presence. She never looked at him, hardly responded to him, and I even saw her turn up her nose or roll her eyes when he was around. And she complained both to me and to Fletch about things he said.

“I called him on the carpet about it, and I know Fletcher did too. I don't know what he told Fletch, but he told me, ‘Aw, she secretly loves it. You know we're seeing each other.'

“I said, ‘So you say.'

“But anyway, when Pete told me about the leak that almost got you killed and dredged up the relationship thing again, I didn't know what to think. I admit I assumed maybe I had been wrong and that there had been something going on.”

Boone shook his head and sighed. “Like you always say, let's stick with the evidence.”

“There
is
evidence, Boones, so be prepared.”

Jack sat back down, pulled from his envelope a stack of sheets, and slid them across the table.

Boone held his breath. Did he really want to see these? The fingers of his good hand fluttered as he spread the sheets before him. Within seconds he was giggling.

“What?” Jack said.

“C'mon, boss! You can't possibly take this seriously!”

“Educate me.”

“Did whoever retrieved these do their due diligence and establish a base of comparison—a significant sampling of her normal e-mails? That will show her style, idiosyncrasies, all that.”

Jack dug through the envelope. “Yes, as a matter of fact I think they did. Here.”

It took Boone a few minutes to arrange the pages with one hand, but when he finished, he was certain Jack would see the obvious. “Now this is what I call evidence.”

Boone moved away so Jack could lean over for an unobstructed view. “Uh-huh. Mm-hm. Yeah. Wow.”

“See it?”

“'Course.”

“You'd been getting e-mails from Haeley every day. Had you ever noticed a misspelling, a grammatical error, even a typo or a punctuation goof?”

“Well, I'm not the best at this stuff myself.”

“But you can see it, can't you?”

Jack nodded, then shook his head. “I should have seen that both Garrett's and Haeley's e-mails look like they were written by the same person. I mean, the type styles are different, but I've never seen an e-mail from Haeley with that font either. All these sentences that start without a capital letter . . .”

“From both so-called correspondents. And, Jack, all that stuff about how she craves him and what she wants to do with and to him? Come on. Does that sound like her at all?”

“You'd know that better than me.”

“Trust me. It's silly, and frankly it reminds me of something I saw on
City Confidential
. In fact, if I can find it, I'll bet it's almost identical. I gotta tell ya, Jack, I'm really glad I saw these. I'd bet the farm these are phonies. But even if we humored the other side for a second, I return to my argument: how dense do they think Haeley is?”