The Face of Fear: A Powers and Johnson Novel (10 page)

Bud took out his gun, and immediately people started to run. “Police !” Bud yelled. “Get everyone out of the building.” The women in charge quickly ran around to the front of the booth to empty their café as Bud inched his way to the door of the deck. He peeked through the window of the door, and Kyle was just standing there. There was nowhere for him to go.

Bud opened the door with his gun pointed squarely at Kyle and told him to show him his hands. “Do it now,” Bud said, cocking the hammer, and added, “I will blow your balls off,” pointing the gun between Kyle’s legs.

“I’m not armed,” Kyle replied, “and you’re a cop. You can’t shoot me, my dear friend.”

Bud replied calmly, “You killed two people, one being a cop. I’ll shoot you in the leg and accidently miss, splattering what small dick you have all over this deck.”

Kyle gave a sarcastic smile and stepped toward Bud, who fired a shot into his groin. He did not know what this man would do but wanted Cronin to hear the shot from the parking lot.

Kyle went down to the floor of the deck, screaming, “You son of a bitch! I’m unarmed!”

Bud looked down on him, with his gun still out, and said, “I’m sorry I missed your leg and got the small leg.” Bud kicked the man in the leg and said, “Now shut the fuck up!”

Kyle looked up at Bud, breathing hard, and said, “If you don’t let me go, the bitch will never see the light of day.” It was a confession and the first concrete evidence that the murders and kidnapping were linked.

Bud kicked him harder in the side and yelled, “I said to shut your motherfucking mouth up!”

A loud howl came from Kyle as he curled in pain. Cronin reached the deck from the outside and climbed up on it, thanks to the help of a table, to see blood coming from Kyle’s groin.

Within seconds, police and FBI were all over the parking lot, as were half a dozen officers that stormed into the Red Onion Café to be sure no one else was hiding in any part of it. The two female owners of the cafe were already giving statements as to the events that took place. Cronin pulled the suspect up off the deck and asked him if anyone else was in the area. Kyle promptly spit in his face. Without missing a beat, Cronin ignored it and put the handcuffs on him, and they went through the door to get back into the enclosed part of the café. Bud gave Kyle another kick to his leg, and he went down. Cronin turned around and saw Bud picking up the suspected shooter.

“What’s going on?” Cronin bellowed.

“Nothing , boss. Our man here is a little clumsy with a wounded groin and is having trouble standing up,” Bud remarked.

“Then help him,” Cronin yelled back as he directed the uniform cops to take the suspect to the hospital.

“Don’t let him out of your sight,” Cronin added. The detective lieutenant knew what was going on with Bud. He chose to ignore it and play dumb. Kyle Winters was in so much pain they had to take the handcuffs off so he could hold his groin. Whenever a fellow officer is shot down, the rules of the game are interpreted differently. He knew if they didn’t get information from this man soon, another life would be lost. He also knew that if this crime was not solved, careers would be over, including his. Cronin scanned the surrounding streets and buildings: the main library across the street, the homes on the adjacent streets. He couldn’t help but think about what had happened to this quiet little village. Other than the Belle Terre murder 20 years prior, there had been no problems. His office had set up meetings with William Lance and the Cross Island Ferry Company that owned the ferry service. Changes were going to happen, and they had to start immediately if people were going to feel like they were safe on the ferry and also in the village.

As Detective Lieutenant Cronin walked down East Main Street toward Arden Street, the officers were loading Kyle into the back of a squad car to bring him to Mather Hospital. He turned for a second and looked back down on the deserted street that only minutes earlier had hundreds of people bustling about. As his thoughts accumulated, Bud walked up behind him.

“Boss, I need to get to the hospital. Paul, Rachelle, and this asshole will all be there, as will Victoria’s body.” Cronin just stood there staring at the street, still thinking. “Boss,” Bud said in a somber tone, interrupting Cronin’s thoughts.

“Go,” he replied. “I will notify Victoria’s next of kin. See what you can come up with there and get back to the precinct in a couple of hours. I want you and Paul there for the meetings we have set up.” As Bud took off, Cronin pulled aside Officers Lynagh and Franks and told them to get down to the Ocean City Bistro and the Dessert Factory to interview the manager and employees for information.

He walked back to the parking lot behind the Red Onion Café, where he met a couple FBI agents who were antsy to take control of everything. Cronin reminded them that this was a joint case with two murders that included a police officer. He wasn’t sure if Rachelle was dead, so he did not include her in the count.

The ferry was shut down so the position of the cars was kept in place once the shooting took place. Cronin could see people from the lab already there going over the vehicles with a fine-tooth comb. He started climbing the metal stairway to the back of the Dessert Factory, proceeded to walk on the roof of the Ocean City Bistro, and climbed the metal ladder to the top of the ice-cream parlor. Laying there was the rifle that Kyle left. He instructed the lab people that were already there to be certain pictures at all angles were taken, including toward the ferry. He didn’t expect to get fingerprints off the weapon, but he was hoping to get glove prints. Kyle still had the gloves in his pocket when they apprehended him. The detective lieutenant started thinking to himself again and believed Kyle had someone there waiting for him in the parking lot who must have taken off. There was no other explanation as to why the shooter ended up trying to become invisible inside the café.

Cronin worked his way down to the ground and went inside the parlor, where he spoke to the manager, Jay Rutherford, who had been there for more than 17 years. He did not offer any really helpful information about anything except that the two workers who spoke little English had seen the shooter go onto the Ocean City Bistro’s roof and thought nothing of it. It was something that happened two to three times a week for various reasons.

It turned out that the same people owned both the Ocean City Bistro and the Dessert Factory, but Cronin did not think it meant much. He did, however, make a note of the names and contact numbers he received from Rutherford. Cronin went outside the parlor and walked across the street to the vehicles involved in the shooting. The windshields were cracked with bullet holes. The fact was that the glass had created a movement in the bullets’ paths and may have saved Rachelle’s life, and yet it may have cost Victoria her life.

The pieces of the puzzle were getting more difficult to put together the more he tried to make them fit: a kidnapping for money, and then an article in a small-town paper set off a killing spree. It was a jigsaw puzzle that somehow needed to be completed. Cronin called his office to be sure William Lance and the Port Jefferson people were on the way to his precinct. He walked over to Officer Lynagh and asked him to pick up Robert Simpson and take him to the precinct as well. He called back Gina, his assistant, to contact the Connecticut State Police to monitor the McDonald’s stops along I-95. “I have a feeling we are going to hear from our friends who kidnapped Debbie Lance.” he said.

He pushed the button to disconnect on his BlackBerry and pointed over to one of his uniformed officers. Cronin was showing his age by still using his first BlackBerry. “Give me a ride. It’s time to do the worst part of this job,” he said.

He looked back at the dead officer’s vehicle, put his hand to his forehead, and said out loud, “I’m sorry, Victoria. We will have our justice.” With that, he sat in the passenger side as the officer drove off to take Detective Lieutenant Cronin to Victoria’s parents’ house in Miller Place.

Officer George Lynagh drove up to the guesthouse and knocked on the door until Robert Simpson answered.

“You need to come down to the precinct with me now,” Lynagh said.

“What for?” Simpson said, with a puzzled look on his face.

The officer replied, “There’s been a shooting, and we need you.”

“But...” Simpson replied.

Lynagh interrupted him. “Get in the car now, or I will bodily put you in there.”

Officer Lynagh was a very direct, no-nonsense type of cop and rarely smiled. Whether you knew your rights or not, he was very rarely challenged when he made a request. A fellow cop was killed, and he was not in the mood to be polite. Simpson chose not to argue with him.

The ride in the ambulance took slightly more than five minutes to get to Mather Hospital, and Paul would not let go of Rachelle’s hand. She had a pulse, but he thought she wouldn’t last long, and he wanted to be the last one she felt. The medic in the ambulance looked carefully at her head where she was hit and realized she had been grazed by the bullet, which had caused a concussion. He believed she was going to make it unless something internally had been damaged by the bullet nicking the side of her forehead. He couldn’t tell if the bullet had entered anywhere else until she was examined.

They unloaded her and brought her into the triage first and left Paul outside to wait. It was only a matter of minutes before Allan and Madison came rushing in. Madison hugged Paul and started crying.

“I can’t lose her. I can’t lose her. She is all I have left,” she said.

Paul held on to her tight and said, “Listen, Madison, the bullet did not enter her head. We have a very good chance here.”

Madison stared back at Paul and began to hug him again. Madison was still in her aerobic outfit but didn’t care. The way that Allan barged into the dance studio, everyone thought they were under attack. As soon as he saw Madison, he knew she was Rachelle’s sister. “Come with me,” he said, as he grabbed her hand. “Your sister has been shot and is with Paul at the hospital.”

Madison had never met Allan before but had heard of him through conversation with Rachelle. Besides, she could read his eyes, which were full of fear and truth. Without hesitation, she left her students and got in the car with him.

Bud came into the hospital about 10 minutes later and pulled Paul aside. He said, “Listen, we have to get back to the precinct. We have officers with O’Connor and Kyle Winters.”

“Where’s his room?” Paul said.

“No fucking way,” Bud said, “he has officers at his door. He’s our ticket to finding out who else is involved. Besides, they are in triage now. The officers are guarding empty rooms at the moment.”

Madison stood up and said, “I don’t want the man who did this in a room near my sister.”

Paul realized that their conversation had been overheard by both Allan and Madison. “We need him alive to see where this will lead us. We have to do that, Madison. Understand?” he asked. He looked over at Allan and said, “I have to get back to the precinct and work this while it’s fresh. Can you stay here with Madison and Rachelle ’til I get back?” Allan nodded as he put his hand on Paul.

“Paul, I will be here and send you updates by text.” Paul left with a hug, and he kissed Madison before he left.

As he approached the door, Madison asked, “Paul, why is this happening, and why Rachelle?” Paul paused and turned around to face Madison.

“I blame myself Madison. I wanted Rachelle to be involved with what I thought was a kidnapping case, and I thought we could flush a bunch of amateurs out by Rachelle writing an article. I wanted her to be with me because I care about her, plus I thought she could help at the same time. I’m sorry; this is my fault, and if we lose her, I will not forgive myself, and I wouldn’t expect you to forgive me either. I’m so sorry.”

Madison was surprised by Paul’s confession but replied, “Rachelle is a big girl. She would never do what she didn’t want to do. If she wrote and got involved with this for you, it’s because the feeling was mutual. Find these people, Paul, and keep me informed.” He nodded as he left the hospital, but he couldn’t hide his feeling of depression. His world was crashing down all around him. The case, and now this.

As he reached outside the hospital entrance, he realized he didn’t have a car, and he wondered if it was symbolic of what was happening with his life. Things were falling apart all around him, and the simple thing of not having a vehicle to get to the precinct was about to be the final straw.

As the hair on the back of his neck was starting to get wet from stress, he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Allan, who gave him the keys to his car. “Don’t worry about us. I’m sure you will be back here later, and if Madison or I need to leave, it’s a short cab ride to the village,” he said.

Paul nodded in appreciation and, without saying a word, took the keys and got into Allan’s 2006 Cadillac and drove to the precinct.

When he walked in, Bud was already there with Detective Lieutenant Cronin, Agent Sherman from the FBI, assistant district attorney, John Ashley, as well as Commander Jason Williams from the Coast Guard. John Ashley was quick point out the political fallout from this mess and that it needed to be cleaned up. As the banter continued between Ashley and Agent Sherman, Detective Lieutenant Cronin motioned to Bud and Paul to get closer, so they could have a private conversation about everything that had just taken place.

Cronin looked at Bud and asked, “Was it necessary to shoot him?”

“He came forward, boss,” Bud replied. “I told him to stay still with his hands out. I had no choice. I had no way of knowing if that was a gun or knife in his pants or if he was just happy to see me.” He said it with such a serious face that it even caught Cronin off guard.

“You’re a real comedian, aren’t you? Listen, get yourself to the hospital; you are under stress. PBA will assign a lawyer to you. And leave your gun here.”

Bud looked puzzled and said, “Boss, I know they need my gun to check ballistics, but a hospital? Is that necessary?”

Cronin looked at him with those steely Irish eyes. “Yes, the good guys need representation, just like the bad guys. He was a cop killer, so I think this will be cleared up fast, but you need to protect yourself. Now go to the hospital, and I will call you later. Keep your backup piece.”