The Face of Fear: A Powers and Johnson Novel (13 page)

“Sir,” Lynagh said to Paul.

“Shhh,” Paul said. “Hear that? Coming from upstairs.”

“Sounds female to me, Detective,” Lynagh said.

“Check it out,” Paul replied. “Officer Healey, check the rest of the house.”

The smile on John Winters’ face disappeared as he stood up.

“There it is again,” Paul said. “Officer, check that noise coming from upstairs. Let’s make sure there is nothing going on up there. I’ll stay here and keep Mr. Winters company.”

Lynagh went up the stairs with his gun drawn and was up there for about four minutes. The entire time was a complete stare-down between Paul and John Winters. No words were spoken, but if eyes could talk, there would have been another person going to Mather Hospital. The officer came down to inform the detective one male was sleeping in a bed in one of the bedrooms. “Search the rest of the house,” Paul told the two officers as he stared John Winters down.

Upstairs, Mason Winters rolled to his side and pulled out a shotgun from under the covers. The officer escaped with his life by not tearing off the covers to his bed while he was upstairs. John Winters stayed in his living room without saying a word as both Paul and he eyeballed each other while the two officers searched the house.

“Nothing, Detective,” the two reported as they came back into the living room.

“Sorry to have disturbed you, Mr. Winters,” Paul said. As they reached the door, Paul turned around again to say, “Sorry about the loss of your brother also.”

“I’m sure you are,” John said, moving forward to shut the door behind them.

“You’re right,” the detective replied, “I’m not sorry, and I won’t stop until I find out who was behind all of this, which includes the shooting of Rachelle Robinson and the killing of Officer Davis.”

John Winters moved closer to Detective Powers, but Officer Lynagh stepped in between them as he stared him down with his head cocked in such a way as if he was challenging John Winters, until he backed away from the detective. Paul went next door and spoke with a couple of agents to see if anything was found in Kyle Winters’ home, and the answer was nothing of significant importance. Paul had the officers drop him off at his apartment above Z Pita. It was past 3:00 am, and there was more work to be done the next day.

P
aul got up at 8:00 am, took a shower, and started thinking about so many things that he looked for a pen and paper while soaking wet. He wanted the tape from the hospital looked at to see if weight and size could be determined for the masked intruder who had killed Kyle Winters. He finally got dressed and called his father, who said he was coming up from Florida because he was getting too nervous watching all of this on the news. “No, Dad,” Paul begged. “There is too much going on here. Give me a week or so.”

He hung up, dialed Allan, and told him to meet him downstairs at Z Pita for breakfast. He had thoughts and wanted to run them by him. It just seemed there were so few he could trust these days. He made calls to Bud and Rachelle at the hospital to check in. Bud was going home and was already told to report to desk duty Monday. Detective Lieutenant Cronin told him, based on everything that had happened, he felt Bud would be reinstated quickly. Internal Affairs had already warranted Cronin’s use of discharging his weapon at the now-deceased suspect during the gunfire at the ferry. Rachelle told him that the doctors were going to release her Monday morning, and she was already writing her article for the
Now
paper and
Newsday
, who had offered her a fee for a freelance story on everything that was going on. Paul was not happy about it but did not want to upset her while she was still in the hospital. He went downstairs at 8:45, and Allan was already sipping a cup of coffee, waiting for him.

Paul arrived at the precinct at 10:00 am, and Roger Thompson and Patty Saunders were both waiting for him without attorneys. He sat with Roger Thompson for one hour asking questions, from why his car was parked on East Main Street during the shooting to how much he had to gain by the Ghost Face mask getting national attention again. Detective Lieutenant Cronin was behind the glass with the assistant district attorney to listen to Thompson’s alibi and reasons for not being a part of this. He lived only 10 minutes away, he was off Saturday, and he frequented Port Jefferson Village many times during the month. Cronin and the assistant district attorney, as well as Paul, ruled him out for now.

When it was Patty Saunders’ turn, as soon as Paul started questioning her, the tears started to flow down her face. She believed it was her fault because she wanted Debbie to meet her in Bridgeport instead of going together.

“If,” Paul replied, “you were meeting her in Bridgeport, what was your car doing in the Village?”

“I went to Bridgeport earlier without the car,” she answered. “The Arena is close enough to where the boat docks in Bridgeport are, and I walked to the arena and planned to go back with Debbie. I went earlier to visit relatives in Connecticut.”

Patty was let go with the department’s thanks for her cooperation. Paul came back to where Cronin and ADA Ashley were, and they all decided that both of them were not involved at this time. All three went to the back of the precinct, where the crime-scene unit had a copy of the video tape from the hospital. They reviewed it about 10 times in regular and slow motion to see if they could catch a glimpse of anything that would help indicate who the masked killer was. The agility and quickness was what struck them the most. The tape was already on the Internet and in papers, with headlines reading, GHOST FACE STRIKES MATHER HOSPITAL. The
Post
, famous for its headlines, had, THE FACE OF FEAR STRIKES TERROR IN QUIET TOWN.

As they walked back to the Cronin’s office, Cronin stopped and said, “Don’t you find it odd that there has been no communication on Debbie Lance? They kill one of their own, and now the FBI has heard nothing.” He looked at Paul. “Get me the files on all the Winters brothers. Get a court order for their cell-phone records and all the credit-card charges they have made over the last 30 days. Special Agent Sherman will help while O’Connor is in the hospital. Have a couple of the guys look over them in detail and have them get back to us with anything that doesn’t look kosher.”

Cronin walked over to the television set and looked at the “breaking news” bar. Port Jefferson Village was now on the map across America. He turned away, walked to his office, and closed the door.

Paul gave instructions to officers to contact the Winters brothers to allow cell-phone records to be checked. He expected them to say no, so he left a message with the assistant district attorney to get court orders for their records. He drove over to the hospital to find out Bud was already home, and when he walked into Rachelle’s room, she was laughing with Madison, who had gone home and come back twice that day to be with her sister. Rachelle smiled at Paul and waved. Madison took her cue and left to get a cup of coffee.

Paul went over to Rachelle, looked down at her, and said, “I thought I lost you.”

“Never,” she said, “not a chance.”

He kissed her forehead and began to tell her he was worried about her writing her newest story. “Do you think it’s needed, Rachelle? It’s all over the news.”

“Yes,” she said. “I’m living this and telling it.”

“OK, OK,” he replied. “I’m just worried about you.”

“The shooter is dead,” she replied. “Plus I have you to protect me,” she said as she grabbed his hand. Paul moved in again, but Madison walked in, and he was uncomfortable kissing Rachelle in front of her.

Paul looked at Madison and asked, “You are picking her up to bring her home tomorrow?” She nodded back.

“Look,” Rachelle interrupted, “look at what I’ve written so far.” Paul picked up the papers and began to read. It was the previous week in detail, from the plans to the meetings to the theory of how this was done to Rachelle’s conversations with Paul before the shooting to the reenactment on the ferry. Although it gave Paul great pause, he was proud of Rachelle and how talented she was as a writer.

Rachelle told Paul the article would be released within five days for the
Now
paper and would be released to
Newsday
on the sixth day. “Maybe all of this will be resolved by then, and you’ll have an even better story if you hold off,” he said.

Paul truly thought it was the better way to go, but he also had Rachelle’s safety on his mind. She nodded her head with body language that expressed she would consider it as he kissed her forehead before leaving.

“Call me when Maddie gets you home,” Paul said.

She smiled as he left the room, and she gazed around her environment, talking to herself. “Time to get the hell out of here,” she said, even able to let out a giggle as she looked at something humorous on the television in the silent room.

M
onday morning arrived, and as usual Bud knocked on Paul’s door and ran up the stairs, only to find Paul in the shower. “Always late,” Bud said to himself.

Paul came out, only to be startled. He said, “One day, you son of a bitch, you are going to be shot.”

“Yeah,” Bud replied. “Then you have to go through what I’m going through. Only a backup and Internal Affairs on my ass.” He raised his hands up with his forefinger and middle finger to make quotation marks in the air. “OIS, my ass. He’s lucky he didn’t go to his grave with no balls. Whoever did him in may have done me a favor.” OIS is short for Officer Involved Shooting, and Bud was not happy about only using his backup piece.

“I think so,” Paul said, as he grabbed a shirt already lying on his bed. “Rachelle comes home today, and she wants to come back to work at the restaurant and paper right away. Thank God Joey Z told her to take a few more days.”

“Don’t forget, dress blues for the funeral Wednesday,” Bud mentioned. “I still can’t believe she’s gone, just like that.” Paul nodded in agreement.

“I know Deborah Lance is here somewhere. The fact that they were comfortable having her in the area is now a detriment to them. We need to get those phone records checked,” Paul said as they ran down the stairs.

In the car, Paul called Agent O’Connor, who would be released Tuesday, and inquired if the FBI could push along the court order for cell-phone records. He would see what they could do. This was more than just a competition between the FBI and local law enforcement. It seemed they were now working together on the same team. They all knew the national media was watching almost to a fault, not because of the killing of a police officer or the complex case it was becoming but because it involved the famous Ghost Face mask. “What a crazy world we live in,” Bud said as they drove to the precinct.

It was during the day Monday that Rachelle called Paul to tell him she thought about what he had said in regard to holding off on releasing the article until it was played out and that she agreed.

With a sigh of relief, Paul said, “Good choice. Listen, Danford’s is having a banquet on the upstairs level on Wednesday; Victoria wanted this after her funeral. Please join Bud and I and a few of the guys and friends. We need this for a couple hours. Bring Maddie if you’d like.”

“Sure. I’ll meet you there,” Rachelle replied.

“8:30,” Paul said. “See you there, and I’m glad you are home.”

Monday was a day filled with paperwork and phone calls. Paul could see the tension building on Cronin’s face, as the case was not progressing well. He expected the phone records to be a big help once the court order was received. Agent Sherman, as well as O’Connor from his hospital room, were making calls to contacts to get it done.

Back at Prospect Street, Rachelle was working on what she was calling, “The Status Report.” It was an outline summary of what had happened and what was being investigated, with all the details left blank. She wrote it with cryptic messages, creating a “puzzle” of the crimes and what she expected would happen next. You could say it was a big tease before the real story was released and finalized. She had fun with it, and even her boss, Steven Anderson, thought it was creative when he received it through email. He gave it to a couple of interns after he checked it for proper grammar and spelling and instructed them to get it ready for print for the Tuesday edition of
Now
.

Rachelle left her house to walk down to Z Pita to see her colleagues and her partner Joey Z, who greeted her with open arms. They had a chance to talk for a bit and catch up, and she told him she would be back Thursday after the funeral of Victoria Davis on Wednesday. As she left Z Pita, instead of normally turning left to go home up Prospect Street, she took a right turn to go to the Starbucks on the corner of Main Street and Arden Place. They say that life and death depends on the choices we make. Sometimes those choices are made within seconds.

Rachelle walked into Starbucks to get herself an iced coffee that she had a craving for and did not notice the man sitting in the corner chair contemplating his next move. He noticed who she was from the photo accompanying her articles in the newspaper in regard to the shooting. “My lucky day,” he said to himself as he watched her smiling face get her iced coffee and leave.

Mason Winters was right behind her and followed behind her about 20 to 30 yards, all the way until he witnessed her walk in the front door of the house at the top of Prospect Street. “You’re mine now,” Mason said aloud as he walked to High Street and took a quick right up to Thompson Street.

As he opened the door with a big smile on his face, John greeted him with, “What are you so happy about? We have to bury our brother tomorrow.”

Without missing a beat, Mason replied, “That bitch that Kyle couldn’t kill, the reporter, she lives two minutes from us! You can walk there! What a great town this is!”

John looked out the window and said, “Well, well, well, my little honey. My brother may have failed, but we will not.” He turned around to Mason and asked, “Have you heard from Phil?”

“No,” Mason replied.

John slammed the wall he was standing next to and said, “He’s not answering his phone. He was successful killing Kyle in the hospital, and I’m sure he now wants us out of the way. He feels this is his only way of getting out of this. So we are going to have to get rid of him after the girl. We can’t have anymore stories being circulated. Get some rest, Mason. This is going to be a busy week.”

Mason went upstairs to bed early as John turned on the television. He knew they were in a mess and wasn’t sure how they were going to get out of it. He was determined to bring as many people down with him as he could. The saying was true—misery loves company.

As he sat in his chair and lowered the television sound, he picked up his cell phone and dialed. Wayne’s phone rang in the basement room where Debbie was being held. On the other end, Debbie knew it was Wayne’s boss because she heard the famous Elvis quote, “
Thank you, thank you very much.”

Wayne got off the phone and walked over to Debbie as she curled up on the bed. He moved in up to her face and started licking the side of it.

“I bet you are quite a ride in the sack, aren’t you?” he asked. “Please don’t hurt me,” she spoke back, with her hands tied to the bedpost.

“Well, my sweet one,” Wayne said, “I believe we are coming to the end of our relationship. The boss says you gotta go soon. Looks like no ransom, because it’s just too crazy.”

She looked back at Wayne with her eyes closed and said, “Forget him, my father is rich. I will take care of you. Let me go, and I will give you money to live on the rest of your life.”

Wayne looked intrigued. “Tell me more, my chickadee.”

“Listen,” the young woman went on in a desperate plea, “they won’t need you once I’m gone. You are a witness to everything. In fact, you are the only one that has spent time with me. If you are out of the way as well, then there is no connection to my kidnapping. Think about it. Have you made demands? I’ve been here over a week. What is going on?”

It was interesting to Wayne how Debbie Lance was getting more brazen as the days went by. Either that, or she thought it was her only chance of survival. He moved in closer to her as she kept her eyes shut. “How about a fuck here and there, and maybe you will live longer because of the enjoyment you bring me?” he asked.

Debbie wanted to regurgitate at his words, but she managed to keep it together and said, “Well, let me think about it. It would be easier for me knowing what is going on. I would consider it if you could get a message to my father.”

“What kind of message?” Wayne said.

“Just a message so he knows I’m alive and well.

“What do you want me to do?” Wayne said.

“Tell him I love him and please pay anything to get me home.”

“You know, I just thought of something,” Wayne said. “I could do whatever I wanted to you now, and no one would know a thing, no?” Deborah yelled, and Wayne grabbed and ripped her shirt almost entirely off in one quick rip.

“No! No!” she screamed.

“Shut up!” he yelled back. “You’ve been needing this.”

He grabbed her pants and started pulling them off as she fought, moving her legs. “No!” she cried. She fought hard, but he got her pants off and went right to her panties, which came right off with the strength of his hand. “No!” she cried louder.

He slapped her hard across the face and held her head tight as he got close to her ear and said, “You need this, you bitch! Play nice, or I will tear you apart.” He slapped her again as Deborah resigned herself that she was going to be raped and killed. She no longer had the energy to fight him off.

When Wayne’s pants were halfway down, he heard a smash in the next room. He opened the door, and as soon as he did, there was a large deer-hunting knife that went through his navel. He looked down at his wound in disbelief and looked back up again to stare at the white mask with blood splatter and those eyes at a tilted angle. As Wayne started to reach toward the mask with his hand, the knife was twisted in his stomach. Wayne went down to the floor and died with a look of puzzlement on his face. The masked intruder looked at Deborah curled up with her hands tied to the bedpost doing her best to hide her naked body.

“Please, no!” Deborah cried softly in a voice of resignation. She looked at him—black tight pants, black shirt, black gloves, the mask with a big hood. As he walked to the bed, Deborah began saying, “No! Please, no!” The figure raised his knife to Deborah. “God! No!” she screamed, as the knife came down on the ropes holding her, cutting her loose. She sat there not knowing what to say as she stared at the masked stranger, who had most likely saved her life. He reached for Wayne’s cell phone and threw it on the bed at Deborah. She glanced at it, and when she looked up, he was gone.

She called her father, who in turn called 911. Within 10 minutes there was a circus of emergency vehicles at the house on Pine Hill Road. Bud was the third officer on the scene, and all were waiting until female officers and the FBI and Agent Sherman arrived. Bud called Paul a few times but could not reach him. When he walked into the room where Debbie was, he could see why they were waiting for female officers to get to the house. However, he couldn’t help himself. He walked over to Deborah, who had a blanket over her and was shaking. Bud was aching to put his arm around her but knew the rules on sexual assault victims.

“It’s going to be all right now,” he kept saying. “We are not going to stop until all of this is resolved. It’s OK now.” He had never met her before this moment, but his heart was breaking knowing what she must have gone through. “Listen,” he said, “let’s go to the other room and get away from this bad guy here laying on the floor. He is a bad guy, right?” Bud said with a half-assuring smile but in the form of a question.

Deborah smiled at the way Bud asked her and confirmed, “Yes, he is a bad guy.”

“Tell me what happened,” Bud replied. He turned on his tape recorder, and Deborah told Bud about what was going down when the masked intruder met her kidnapper at the door then cut her loose and suddenly disappeared. Bud’s face got a little more serious when she told him what mask he was wearing. Bud had been carrying photos of the wrinkled version, scarecrow, zombie, and the white version, which is what the killer was wearing.

Bud asked, “Was there a blood splatter on the mask?”

“Yes,” she answered. “When he leaned over to cut my ropes, I could smell a vanilla scent.”

Bud made a note of it and questioned her more about the agility of the masked intruder and if she knew more about whom else was involved in her kidnapping. His interrogation stopped once the FBI entered the house as well as the medical examiner and the medical team from Mather Hospital. Bud thanked Deborah and touched her hand before saying goodbye. He managed to ask her before he left if she was raped, and she told him she had managed to avoid it. The medical team put her in the ambulance, where they informed her that both her father and boyfriend, Robert Simpson, would see her at the hospital.

Bud picked up his call from Paul and informed both him and Detective Lieutenant Cronin on his speakerphone as to the information he got from Debbie before taking her away under the protection of the FBI.

“Bud,” Cronin said, “go to the body, get his cell phone, and check the calls that came in. Do it quick, and get back to us.”

Bud went inside the house and found Wayne Starfield’s phone had slipped halfway under the bed. He wrote down all the numbers received on the phone before leaving. Agent Sherman caught Bud on the way out.

“Detective Johnson, what are you doing out here by yourself without your partner? And you haven’t even got your gun back from Internal Affairs yet, have you?”

“Agent Sherman,” Bud replied, turning around to see eye to eye, “normally those would be good questions that should be answered, but I’m asking for understanding here. We have a joint investigation with you guys because of two people being murdered. One of them a police officer who we are burying tomorrow.”

Agent Sherman nodded in silence and replied, “We are getting phone records from John Winters’ phone tomorrow. We will bring them over after the funeral. We will see you there.”

Bud thanked him and got into his cruiser and drove down to the precinct. He walked in to see Paul at his desk looking over newspaper articles from the past week.

“Where have you been?” Bud asked. “I called you four to five times during all of this.”

“Sorry,” Paul replied, “I was here but had to take care of some personal business for a bit.” Bud got up to take a look at the numbers written down.

“When are we getting answers?”

“Soon, my friend,” was Paul’s answer.

Detective Lieutenant Cronin was at his desk when an officer from the crime-scene unit came and gave him the list of names and numbers that had been received on Wayne Starfield’s cell-phone number. One name was not a surprise. John Winters had called at least twice a day for the past week. The second name was a surprise. He got up and walked out to Bud and Paul.