“The way it goes in here, Mr.”—Jack glanced at the folder in front of him—“Mulvaney, is like this: We ask the questions. So we’ll just wait here until my partner gets back and then you’ll have your chance to answer a few.”
“I was just wondering if you knew any of the old cops on the detective bureau.”
“Some.”
“Know a guy named Cal Parrish?”
Jack hadn’t forgotten his suspicions about Parrish—or about Tait, for that matter—but they weren’t occupying space in his thoughts at that particular moment. In fact, his mind was on something else: last night’s carefully planned lovemaking with Lucy, and whether maybe, just maybe, they had started a family.
The prisoner noticed his change of expression.
“Thought you might know him. Friend of yours?”
Jack thought: This guy doesn’t know Parrish is dead.
He played along.
“Not really. We work different shifts.”
“This three strikes thing … what are the chances of a deal?”
“No chance.”
“What if I gave you guys something on Parrish? Something that could get him arrested.”
“How old?”
“How old is he?”
“No. How old is this something that could get him arrested?”
“Not old. Year and a half, maybe.”
“So, let me get this straight. You want to trade information about Detective Cal Parrish in return for some kind of a break on a third-strike sentence.”
“That’s right. And I’ll give you a hint: The guy’s connected.”
Jack let a few seconds pass while he pretended to ponder the prisoner’s revelation. When he replied, he spoke slowly. “Okay. Two things: One—I don’t make deals. I leave that to the lawyers. Second—Parrish is dead, so no one’s interested.”
The look on Mulvaney’s face was priceless.
* * *
Tait was Jack’s partner, and it was obvious he was hiding something. For his own protection, Jack decided he had to act.
He started working on his own time, quietly putting stray pieces together. Months ago, mainly out of curiosity, he’d searched the Internet and read the press reports on Parrish’s murder. He burrowed through those reports again, searching for any unusual fact or allegation prefixed by journalism’s old formulaic standby: informed sources have revealed … He didn’t find anything of note. Next, he logged into the department’s database and read everything he could find relating to the murder investigation. He found an early draft of Ernie Tait’s formal statement that had never been deleted. According to Tait, he and Parrish had decided to return to the scene of a recent break-in at a warehouse on Hobart Avenue. Although the building showed every sign of being abandoned—every window and all but one loading door was shuttered with panels of corrugated iron—in fact, a sealed-off section on the second floor was used by a nearby brand-name clothing distribution facility to store unsorted returns. A week earlier, thieves had bypassed the inadequate security system and made off with clothing and footwear worth thousands of dollars. Tait and Parrish were aware that the covered loading bay behind the building was frequented at night by druggies and their suppliers. They were hoping to collar a couple and squeeze them for information.
The warehouse stretched for nearly five hundred feet along Hobart Avenue. Tait had dropped Parrish at the southwest corner. The plan was for him to hold off until Tait could drive up to East Fifth, cut east, and then drive into the compound from the north. Then they could move on the druggies from two directions. In his statement, Tait said the layout was perfect, with an eight-foot cinder block wall on the west side of the loading bay and a pair of rusting containers and a chain-link fence blocking escape to the east. The crime scene photos confirmed that. He said he’d just left the car when he heard two gunshots in quick succession. He ran to the loading area, thought he saw a figure disappearing south toward the waterfront, and found Parrish lying in the wind-blown litter next to an electrical transformer enclosure. He called it in and stayed with Parrish until the ambulance and back-up arrived. He stated that Parrish had no pulse, and he was certain he was already dead when he found him. The M.E. later confirmed that the detective had been shot twice, once in the chest and once in the head, and must have died instantly.
The area was sealed off, and within minutes one of the crime scene guys found a handgun in a dump skid next to the loading area. The Baikal-Makarov .380 was lying in plain view, as if it had been deliberately left there to be found. It was clean of prints, but within an hour of completion of the autopsy, ballistics had matched it to the crime.
The weapon was registered to a New York jewelry salesman who had reported the gun stolen three years earlier. He was visibly shaken when NYC detectives told him his gun had been used to kill a police officer. He said he made frequent trips to Connecticut and New Jersey on business, often carrying valuable samples. He had valid permits to transport and carry concealed in the tristate area. In early 2002, he’d attended a series of business meetings in Trenton, New Jersey. Because his own vehicle was in for repairs, he’d rented a Mercedes to make the trip. The Mercedes had a “smart key” system. He’d locked the weapon in the trunk, along with his luggage. While he was checking in at his hotel, the car was stolen. He had no idea how the thief had done it, since he’d had the smart key with him at the hotel desk. Supposedly the engine couldn’t be started unless the key fob was inside the car. The police theorized that he’d been the victim of something they called a “signal relay attack.”
Every detail of the man’s story had checked out.
Over three nights, Jack stayed late after his shift ended. Each evening, he visited the archive room in the basement. He had downloaded a list of Parrish’s old file numbers, going back to January 1998. He’d picked that month because Tait had said they were partners for “seven years, eight months, ten days.” He didn’t know if his list was complete because it was hard to know how careful or thorough the data input had been during the department’s sporadic transition to computers. At least the case files were easy to find. Each file had been placed in a large manila envelope, or series of envelopes, and stored in clearly marked cabinets and boxes. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but his interest was aroused when he came across a thick folder that had been tucked into the back of a closed file relating to a bank fraud complaint. The folder was filled with photocopies of NCIC stolen vehicle reports. Flipping through them, Jack noticed that the reports were from different departments all over the state, with a few from neighboring states.
There were 114 printouts, and every one of them related to a stolen car.
He started checking, using the NCIC system and, in a few cases, by calling the police departments involved. He’d track down a records clerk, ask about a certain file number, and ask if the case had ever been cleared. After a few weeks of this, he had determined one startling fact: Not a single one of the stolen vehicles had ever been recovered.
He began compiling a spreadsheet, listing every detail relating to the stolen vehicles.
Had Parrish been corrupt? It looked that way. It looked like he’d been involved with a car theft ring. Jack began to suspect that he’d been killed to shut him up. Mulvaney had said he was “connected.” That meant organized crime. That meant … the Mob. Jack knew all the stories about the “Five Families,” but in recent decades, words like “Mob” and “Mafia” and “connected” had come to mean organized criminal enterprises of every ethnicity. Not just the Italians, but also the Irish, the Chinese, the Puerto Ricans, the Russians …
The Russian-made murder weapon didn’t necessarily mean anything. It had been stolen from a legitimate citizen. It could have just been happenstance.
Using it, and leaving it to be found, might have been a crude attempt at misdirection.
So, “connected” to what? Or, to whom?
Jack wondered if his own life could be in danger. Should he tell Lucy? Their marriag
e was rooted in honesty—always had been, and always would be. He loved her, he trusted her, and he told her everything.
Well, almost everything.
His first and primary instinct was to protect her. Maybe that was some dumb male thing. Maybe women’s lib would disapprove. But some aspects of his work on the streets were too disturbing, too oppressive, and sometimes just too soul-destroying to inflict on the sweet-natured girl who was the love of his life.
So he decided to keep silent.
He kept silent to Lucy, but he decided the time had come to speak to Tait.
It was Veteran’s Day and they were on their way back to the office after investigating an explosion on a cabin cruiser at the Elco Boat Basin. As soon as the fire department confirmed that the explosion had been caused by a propane leak, and no incinerated bodies were found aboard, they’d departed the scene. They were rolling through a leafy section of Avenue A when Jack decided to test the waters.
“Ernie, I’ve been looking into a few things.”
“Things?”
“Things about Cal Parrish.”
Tait’s expression darkened. “Are we going to have that problem again?”
“Look, I hate to say it, but I think your partner was on the take.”
Tait braked and pulled to the curb. He twisted in his seat. “Let it rest, Jack! The man’s dead.”
“Yeah, but don’t we have an obligation?”
“If Cal was alive … maybe … probably. I admit I had my suspicions, but this is a man who saved my life. More than once! So I didn’t follow up. And now, a year after he was killed, you want to get into this? Think about it! Why do this to his wife and kids? Paula’s a good woman and she doesn’t deserve it. His daughter, Patti, is my goddaughter, for Christ’s sake! Don’t do this!”
“Don’t you want to know who killed him?”
“Of course I do! But not this way. If Cal was corrupt, and we proved it, what would that achieve? We’d just be embarrassing the Department and destroying a family’s memories! What’s the point? Let it go.” Tait looked into Jack’s eyes and used a word he seldom, if ever, used. “Please.”
Jack couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
It only made him more determined to get to the bottom of Cal Parrish’s death.
7
Lucy was certain there were other dreams. Dreams that she couldn’t remember. She was certain because, when she first awoke, there would be a fragment of memory. No, not even a fragment—a filament. At times, it would be the dissolving image of a face, or the distant sound of a voice. Or, just the eerie sensation of something unfinished.
And then it would be gone.
There was only one dream that survived in her memory and dogged her through her waking hours. She never knew when it would come. There was no pattern to it—six or seven times in one year, a dozen in the next. But it was always the same. It was of her and Jack, together and laughing and loving, on their final trip to Key West.
The last trip, before he was killed.
Every time the dream came, she woke up crying.
It had been the same this morning. The dream was as vivid as ever. Jack was as real as ever. Their joy in each other, their wonder, their jubilance, was as real as ever. And Lucy’s pain and her tears, when she awoke, were as real as ever.
Except, this time, she found Kevin lying next to her in her bed, pressed close … and crying.
* * *
It had been a wretched day.
Lucy was deeply worried about Kevin.
For five years, she’d ignored every opportunity to form a new relationship with a man. Her son had been the center of her universe—her sole sunbeam of warmth and joy. At three, he’d been like any other boy of his age she’d ever known, overflowing with all the energy, curiosity, laughter, and tears that came with that stage of development. But at four, he had transitioned into a very different child. His style of play changed. He seemed to develop an instinctive perception of the limits of possibility. He displayed innately superior judgment to that of other children his age. In any group of new playmates, he would quickly emerge as leader. As gratifying as that was to his mother, his private behaviors were eerie and unnerving. His long silences, and—most disturbing—his uncanny insights were at times almost frightening.
And now, the incident this morning. The weeping, clinging boy in her bed who kept repeating, “I love you, I love you.”
When she’d dropped him off at pre-K this morning, he’d seemed fine. The problem was—as she’d tried to warn his teacher, without mentioning the paranormal aspects of her son’s behavior—that could change quickly.
She knew she’d need to get help for Kevin. But she was alone here. No Ricki. No Jeff. No one she trusted. Just a handful of former friends who had smiled and hugged her when she’d first appeared in the school staff room, but exchanged pointed looks when they thought she wasn’t looking.
She knew why.
She wondered if she’d made a big mistake by letting Garrett Lindsay talk her into moving back to Bayonne.
Garrett himself had been warmly welcoming. He seemed oblivious to the turgid undercurrents in the staff room. If he was aware of the whispers and the looks, he never showed it. When he was present, often addressing Lucy, asking her opinion on this or that—not particularly singling her out, but really, actually, singling her out—the other teachers were politely attentive and kept their sideways looks to themselves. Garrett’s quick intelligence and his open, generous nature seemed to neutralize them.
It was different when he wasn’t in the room.
At first, Lucy wondered if there had been an ulterior motive behind Garrett’s out-of-the-blue telephone call—a personal one, maybe a romantic interest that he’d been harboring all these years. But it was soon plain that that was not the case. He adored his wife and their two daughters, and he never gave Lucy the slightest indication that his interest in her extended beyond admiration for her professional talents. He’d pulled strings to get her simply because he wanted her on his team.
And, today, Garrett had again demonstrated his generosity by personally covering for her while she completed unpacking the effects she’d left in storage. It was a task she’d put off for nearly a month, while she settled into her new class, prepared lesson plans, and used every spare moment to shop for, buy, and, in some cases, assemble new furniture for her re-occupied home. There were boxes, some full, some partially emptied, all over the house. She’d thrown herself into the task, but it had been a day of high emotion. She sat on the floor slitting boxes open, finding things that brought back vivid memories, finding things that brought her to tears, unpacking more, crying more—reliving the joys and reliving the sorrow.
Now she was in the third bedroom, the room she and Jack had always used as their home office, attacking a half-dozen mismatched grocery and liquor store boxes labeled with a marking pen in her sister’s distinctive hand: “B/R3.” Since moving back in February, Lucy had found this room oddly different from the rest of the house. It was a room of great light—attributable to the sliding glass doors—but, inexplicably, of little warmth. She hurried to finish the task at hand.
There were two boxes left. She opened one. With a shock, she found herself staring at her old scuba gear—wetsuit, mask, snorkel, BCD vest. She peeled back the flaps of the last box. There was Jack’s gear, with his H. Dessault dive knife lying on top. Something brown and stringy protruded from under the guard. She unsheathed the knife and plucked at the object. It came away in her fingers. She looked at it closely.
A withered blade of turtle grass, from their last dive.
Last night, the dream …
This morning, her weeping son …
Now this.
It was too much.
In a tearful fury, Lucy shoved the boxes into the closet, threw the knife in after them, and slammed the sliding door closed with a bang that echoed through the house.
She’d advertise the gear and sell it … or maybe just giv
e it away.
In the meantime, she could not—would not!—look at it.
* * *
That night, as she toweled Kevin dry after his bath, he said, “Remember when we had baths together?”
“Do you remember? You were just a baby then, honey.”
“No, Mommy. I mean when I was big.”
Disconcerted, Lucy asked, “When you were big?”
“Yeah. And you were my little wifelet.”
Lucy was dumbstruck.
She combed through her memory. She couldn’t remember mentioning Jack’s affectionate nickname in front of Kevin.
Not ever.
8
Hudson County was the smallest in New Jersey in terms of land area, but it was the most densely populated. In fact, it was the sixth most densely populated county in the United States. Despite that dubious distinction, the county prosecutor’s satellite office was situated in the last place an uninformed person might expect to find it—behind the heavily shaded windows of a weather-stained, two-story structure in a light industrial area of Jersey City. The building sat on the eastern shore of the Hackensack River, two hundred yards from the long shadow of U.S. Route 1/9’s Pulaski Skyway. As one prosecutor had put it to Jack: “Yeah, it’s a nondescript dump, but we like it that way.”
Jack met with Robert Olivetti in the prosecutor’s drab corner office on the second floor. The wall space below the window sills was lined with out-of-date heating units, as if the building’s original design had been intended for a military installation in the high Arctic. The dingy panes above the heating units overlooked a tractor trailer repair operation, a mini-bus storage yard, and—across the river—the Kearny Generating Station.
Olivetti was in his mid-thirties, above average height, with dark hair and a relaxed manner. Meeting him away from the office, someone with limited insight might have guessed he worked as a waiter in an upscale eatery.
Bad guess.
Robert Olivetti’s current position as lead prosecutor for the Robbery and Homicide Unit was the latest in a series of assignments in which the attorney had consistently distinguished himself. On more than one occasion, he had confounded his police investigators by locating a key piece of evidence himself, or identifying a witness they had overlooked. He had handled a few of Jack’s cases over the years, and Jack was fully aware of the formidable intelligence that resided behind that easy smile. That was exactly why he’d deliberately sought him out.
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