Hard Hit

by J. B. Turner

  Reznick helped her to her feet as she began to take her first few tentative steps. She felt dizzy. She walked a few yards from her bed unaided. Then to the end of the high dependency unit. On the fifth day she was strong enough to walk unaided out of the unit down the hospital hallway.

  Reznick was by her side the whole way.

  Afterward, she said, “I want fresh air, Dad.”

  Reznick took his daughter by the arm and, along with a nurse, they walked the hospital grounds. The hot summer breeze brushed against Lauren’s pale-white skin. She closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation.

  The nurse left them together.

  Reznick sat down with his daughter on a wooden bench, holding her hand. It was like a new beginning. They sat in beautiful silence as the sun shone and the birds sang.

  Every time he thought about it, he realized how lucky she had been. In the blink of an eye, she could have been gone. Taken from him.

  Lauren seemed to sense that he was brooding over the issue.

  Reznick put his arm around her. “Make sure you don’t catch cold.”

  “I’m fine, Dad. I’m back.”

  “I know you are, honey. But we need to take it nice and easy for a while.”

  Lauren nodded and rested her head on his shoulder. “I understand.”

  “What about any headaches? Vision altered in any way?”

  “It’s good. No different from before.”

  “Tell me again . . . What’s the last thing you remember before the accident?”

  Lauren sighed. “I remember . . . stepping into the crosswalk. I had the walk signal. I started across the intersection. I remember I was wearing my new running shoes. And I had my headphones on.”

  Reznick pulled her closer. “It’s alright.”

  “I remember . . . I do remember a lady crying, looking down at me. Then . . . I remember hearing your voice.”

  “In the hospital?”

  “Yeah . . . you were talking to me, weren’t you?”

  “I was praying, mostly. Praying that you would hear me.”

  “I did hear you.”

  “I thought I was talking to myself.”

  Lauren shook her head. “I heard you. I didn’t know how far away you were. But I heard you.”

  “There’s a long road ahead. But we’re going to get there.”

  “Sure.”

  “And you’ve got a period of rehabilitation and recuperation.”

  “I’m fine, Dad, honest.”

  “I’ll get your room done up nice.”

  Lauren groaned. “Dad . . . that’s sweet.”

  “But?”

  “But . . . I want to go back to New York. I want to finish my internship.”

  Reznick hadn’t expected that answer. “Honey, you really need to take it easy right now.”

  “It’s important to me, Dad.”

  “I know it is. But let’s get you well again.”

  “Dad, I understand you’re worried.”

  “Damn right I’m worried. I’m worried you might get run over again. New York drivers are crazy.”

  “You should take an Uber. Now that is something else.”

  “That’s my point.” Reznick shook his head. He couldn’t believe his daughter was considering heading straight back to New York. “I really, really think it would be best if you took the next month off. We could spend some time together.”

  Lauren smiled. “I’d love that. Really, I would.”

  “Rockland in the summer.”

  “It is quiet. And beautiful.”

  “And it’s home.”

  Lauren sighed. “It’ll always be my home. But I think it would be best for me to get back to New York. I am feeling much better. Trust me. And my internship. I’m learning so much.”

  “I think you need space and time to come to terms with this.”

  “I’m fine, Dad.”

  Reznick shook his head and smiled.

  “What?”

  “You remind me of your mom. She was so headstrong it was unbelievable.”

  “What about you? You’re the worst.”

  Reznick smiled. “Point taken.”

  “Dad . . . did they find him? The guy who ran me down.”

  “I think the NYPD has a lead. So that’s good.”

  “A lead? I would have thought it would be pretty straightforward to identify the driver,” Lauren said.

  “You would think. But these things take time . . . New York is a big, crazy city. You know that, right?”

  “I do.”

  Reznick sighed. “So you want to go back to New York? Do you mean in a week or so?”

  Lauren shook her head. “I want to go back now. The doctor said they’ll be finished with the last tests tonight. If I’m all clear, I can go back.”

  Reznick said nothing, already worried about her being back in the hustle, bustle, and nonstop frenzy that was living in New York. “Where are you staying? The same place?”

  “I’m still sharing a room in Lenox Hill, on East Sixty-Ninth, with another girl from the publishing house. She’s been freaking out while I’ve been in the hospital. I need to text her to let her know I’m out of danger.”

  Reznick made a mental note. “Is it OK if I visit? I’ve gotten familiar with that area in the last week or so.”

  Lauren shrugged. “I guess. But I work long hours.”

  “We’ll arrange something.”

  “Weekends are best.”

  “It’s a deal. Look, I know you’re an adult and all grown up, but is there nothing I can say or do to persuade you otherwise? Maybe just to hold off and stay here for a few weeks?”

  “No, Dad. I want to get back to New York. The sooner I put this behind me, the sooner I can move on.”

  While Reznick escorted his daughter back to bed in a new ward, where she was going to be monitored for a few more hours, his cell phone rang.

  He recognized the number on the caller ID as that of Detective Acosta. “I need to take this, honey.”

  Lauren’s eyes were already heavy. She gave a gentle nod.

  Reznick went out into the corridor and took the call. “Yeah, Reznick speaking.”

  “Hey, Jon,” she said. “Is it OK to talk?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “First, I’m sorry your daughter had to be moved from a great hospital like Weill Cornell in her condition. That must’ve been tough to deal with.”

  “That was a setback. But she was moved. And now I’m pleased to say she’s making a good recovery. Astonishingly so.”

  “Jon, that’s fantastic news. Very good to hear.” Acosta sighed. “I’ve got some news too. I thought I’d share it with you in case you were trying to contact him.”

  “Contact who?”

  A deep sigh. “It’s Tom. Tom Callaghan of the Post.”

  Reznick’s mind flashed back to his conversation with Callaghan in the bar. He wondered if his story about Brutka’s family was about to run. “I’d forgotten all about Tom. He seemed pretty confident that the paper would be running with the story. Has it been published?”

  A silence stretched between them. “So you managed to speak to him?” Acosta asked.

  “Yeah. We met for a drink. I shared what I knew. And he was pretty forthcoming too. Very disturbing picture he painted of Brutka’s family. Far worse than anyone realized.”

  Acosta sighed long and hard.

  “Don’t tell me the paper has gone cold on the story.”

  Acosta remained quiet.

  Reznick sensed something was wrong. “What is it? What’s the matter?”

  “Tom is dead, Jon.”

  Reznick’s blood ran cold. “What happened?”

  “He blew his brains out in his apartment a little over an hour ago.”

  Forty

  Acosta was staring at the gruesome photographs that had just downloaded to her laptop. Callaghan’s blood-spattered corpse. Brain matter exposed. The back of his head in pieces. She felt a terrible aching sadness wash over her. He
was a good guy. A smart guy. She had known him for years. But she had been the one who had turned his attention, once again, to Brutka after the diplomat had knocked down and nearly killed Lauren Reznick. She had been the one who had mentioned the name of Jon Reznick, putting him in touch with Callaghan.

  For a few moments, she castigated herself, thinking if only. If only she hadn’t called him about Brutka. From that call, Callaghan wanted to know more. He had already unearthed a catalogue of terrifying incidents linked to the diplomat, not to mention Brutka’s grandfather’s dark past. It was an obsession for Callaghan, according to detectives on the case who had interviewed the journalist’s friends and family. An obsession that would lead to his horrible death.

  Acosta gazed at the photo, heart breaking. The wound was catastrophic. But it didn’t make sense. The pictures made it look like he had put the gun in his mouth and blown his brains out. But she couldn’t believe that this was the same journalist she had fed information to for years. The same guy she had met in the Old Town Bar, a favorite haunt of Callaghan’s. He was, like all great journalists, doggedly determined in the pursuit of a story. But suddenly he decides to end it all?

  It didn’t make sense. Not one bit. The man she knew was funny. Well adjusted. And dogged in his determination. She hadn’t known he owned a gun. New Jersey had some of the tightest gun laws in the US. He would have needed to have a justifiable need to carry a gun. Maybe being a journalist working on sensitive stories would have allowed him a handgun permit. That said, maybe he had just bought a gun on the black market. It wasn’t difficult.

  Acosta logged out, shut the screen, and closed her eyes.

  She felt sick. Painfully sick. An emptiness within. Gnawing at her.

  Acosta had enjoyed drinks, chats, and coffee with Callaghan over the better part of a decade. He had talked about his wife and their three kids at their home in Jersey City. He never appeared to be down or depressed. But what did that mean? He could’ve been hiding some acute mental health problems she wasn’t aware of.

  She had spoken to Captain Arnie Strome in New Jersey and had informed him that Callaghan had been compiling an investigation on Brutka: the corruption, the violence, and the sleaze, set against the background of geopolitics. And she passed on the notes she had from her meetings with Callaghan.

  The moment she heard Callaghan was dead, her instincts told her it wasn’t suicide. She knew people who would want him dead. And none more so than Brutka. Forensics was still going over the place. But she knew deep down that it was no suicide.

  She didn’t have proof. She just knew.

  Callaghan had needed to be silenced.

  Acosta could see that Brutka had the motive. But she knew the diplomat wouldn’t have done it himself. It would have been subcontracted. Perhaps the hit had been organized at the foreign government level. Had Brutka used a private security firm from abroad? Maybe a member of the Ukrainian crime underworld in the United States.

  The biggest problem was that Brutka was untouchable. He was being protected. And the State Department had, whether they liked it or not, given Brutka carte blanche to get rid of a journalist who threatened to expose the venality of the diplomat. That was the only logical conclusion. Where would the State Department’s line in the sand be drawn?

  But there was something else that was bothering her.

  She had been the one who had pointed Jon Reznick in Callaghan’s direction. She had gotten them together. Reznick no doubt would have passed on the details about his daughter being run down by Brutka, and Callaghan would have shared some of what he knew with Reznick.

  Had the meeting been compromised? Had Callaghan been under surveillance by those about to do the hit? Had Reznick’s presence with Callaghan alerted Brutka or those close to him that the journalist was one step closer to snaring the diplomat?

  The bottom line was that Acosta did not know. It was all supposition.

  But she couldn’t escape the idea that she might’ve been—indirectly at least—responsible for Callaghan being murdered in cold blood.

  Acosta felt pangs of guilt. She leaned back in her seat, staring out the window. She knew she was beating herself up over something that wasn’t her fault. Whoever killed Callaghan was going to kill him anyway. Then again, perhaps she had hastened the man’s death.

  Whatever way she tried to look at it, Acosta felt numb, knowing deep down she had played a part in all this. The reverberations from decisions, the choices people made, echoed down the line. They affected other people.

  Her phone rang.

  “Yeah, Acosta speaking.”

  “Isabella, it’s Arnie in New Jersey.”

  “Arnie . . . what’s the latest?”

  “Slow. Isabella, I wanted you to know something. Thought I’d give you a heads-up.”

  Acosta felt her insides tighten. “A heads-up?”

  Arnie sighed. “We’ve been checking Callaghan’s phone . . . Your number is coming up. Just wanted you to know.”

  Acosta closed her eyes.

  “Forensics has given me a preliminary report, and we’re working on a couple of angles.”

  “Like I said before, Arnie, he called once a week.”

  “And the last time you spoke?”

  “It was about Brutka. I mentioned something about the hit-and-run of the jogger, Lauren Reznick.”

  Strome sighed. “You and I both know that might be problematic, Isabella.”

  “It is what it is.”

  “Unfortunately, it’s not that straightforward.”

  Acosta got a sick feeling deep down in her gut.

  “Isabella, I’ve known you a long, long time, since we used to work together.”

  “Sure.”

  “And I’ve always been straight with you. I like to be up-front.”

  “So do I.”

  “Well, we’ve got another problem.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  “I’ve been shown footage of you with Jon Reznick, the father of the jogger.”

  Acosta took a few moments to process the information. She wondered what the hell was going on. “Footage? What kind of footage?”

  “Surveillance footage.”

  Acosta lowered her voice. “I beg your pardon?”

  “The Feds were keeping an eye on Reznick intermittently.”

  “And I was photographed with him?”

  “It’s video footage of you drinking together.”

  Acosta felt as if she were slipping into a twilight zone, unable to extricate herself. “I’m sorry, Arnie, am I being implicated in some way?”

  “Reznick was also photographed at a bar in the Flatiron District, by an undercover Fed. Old Town Bar. We both know the one.”

  “So you think I put Reznick and Callaghan in touch, is that it?”

  Strome sighed. “Don’t be so defensive, Isabella. We’re just trying to piece together the sequence of events.”

  “I might’ve mentioned in passing that Callaghan was a good guy. A guy I trusted. Reznick was interested and wanted to speak to him. It would’ve been easy to get his number from the Post, but I passed it on.”

  Strome fell silent.

  “I felt sorry for Reznick. I still do. His daughter was the victim. And there was nothing he could do. It’s a mess. I know it, you know it, everyone involved goddamn knows it. Brutka is worse than any of us knew. Bad to the fucking bone. The sooner that fucker is out of the city, the better.”

  Strome cleared his throat. “I know—”

  “He’s wealthy, he’s connected, and he’s being protected by people in high places. And he’s hiding behind diplomatic immunity.”

  “I’m sorry to bring this all up . . . but you know how it is. I wanted to let you know.”

  “You had to ask. Speaking of which, have you got anything about this hit? It is a hit, I’m assuming.”

  “Too early to say . . . but I believe whoever did this wanted us to think that Callaghan, who didn’t have a gun, didn’t have access to a gun,
somehow acquired a gun illegally on the black market and blew his brains out.”

  Acosta’s instincts were correct. Callaghan didn’t own a gun. “What about surveillance footage?”

  “Nothing. All we have is a voice captured on audio, part of the surveillance system Callaghan had rigged up. From within the apartment. It’s something. But it’s got us scratching our heads.”

  “A voice?”

  “Isabella, you’ve shared intel with me on numerous occasions. And you’ve been forthright on this. But I can’t say too much else.”

  “Gimme a break, Arnie. What kind of voice? Whose voice?”

  Strome sighed. “I think I’ve said enough. Take care.”

  Acosta went to the restroom and locked herself in for twenty minutes. She needed some time alone. To think. To get her head straight. She realized that being photographed with Reznick drinking could be construed in the wrong way. She had clearly crossed an ethical line. She had provided Reznick with information. And that had led to Reznick somehow finding out the full identity of the diplomat.

  She couldn’t have known what would transpire. And she also couldn’t have foreseen that Reznick would go after the guy, nor could she have guessed the consequences for Callaghan. To complicate things further, the Feds had been keeping an eye on Reznick. The guy who worked for them as a consultant.

  Damn, what a mess.

  Now she had become enmeshed, no matter how loosely, in the assassination of a prominent journalist. It didn’t look good. In fact it looked like she had broken the code of what was expected of a NYPD officer. She imagined what the NYPD’s Internal Affairs Bureau would have to say about that. Her handling of information. Her after-work drinks with Reznick. Tipping him off about Callaghan’s work. And a digital trail leading back to the dead journalist’s phone.

  She wondered why she had gone out on such a limb for Reznick. Was it because she felt sorry for him, for what had happened to his daughter? Did she have feelings for Reznick? Was that it? She did like him. A lot. She liked the way he looked. The way he talked. Even the way he didn’t give a shit about rules and authority. That appealed to her. But maybe it wasn’t that. Was it that she felt Brutka’s victims deserved a better outcome? The fact of the matter was she had gotten too close. Not only to Reznick but also to poor Callaghan. But she wasn’t the first cop to speak to journalists. And certainly not the first cop to want to even up the score with the bad guys.