by Pat Mullan
Doug Holder wasn't prepared for what happened next. The Colonel reached down and, literally, lifted him out of the chair and held him in a vice-like grip about two inches away from his face:
"Son, this will be our very last meeting. I will not see you again. But, if you are ever discovered, you give them nothing, I repeat nothing but your 'name, rank and serial number'. You do not mention this outfit under any circumstances!".
He released Holder but continued to back him into the wall, all the time looking him directly in the eye and drilling his forefinger into his chest while he repeated over and over again:
"Do you understand that? Do you understand that?"
The acceptance test ended successfully at noon on the Monday. Doug Holder made his return flight with ease. He carried back with him the two diskettes containing the new release of communications software that would be installed at all strategic military installations in thirty days. It now contained the instructions that would disable those installations upon a single command from the Colonel's communication center. Doug Holder was well pleased.
THIRTEEN
Gloucester, Massachussetts
The kid was dead. He'd been garrotted with piano wire. The wire had been twisted so tightly that his jugular had been severed. Blood had spurted all over the windshield and the dashboard. A sandwich with one bite taken lay sodden at his feet and potato chips were everywhere, scattered from the bag he clutched tightly in his left hand.
Baker Security monitored all stakeouts. The kid was supposed to call in every two hours. He called at midnight. He was due to call again at two a.m. When they didn't receive his call and couldn't raise him on the mobile they sent another security officer to investigate. Marty King had seen violent death before but he wasn't prepared to see the kid like that. And he wasn't prepared for the destruction he encountered when he entered the Whiteside home.
Frank Nagle's phone woke him at 2:45 a.m. That never happened to him anymore he thought.
"Frank, it's Marty King. I'm over at the Whiteside house. I'm afraid I've got bad news. The place has been hit...and, Frank, I'm real sorry. The kid is dead. I think you'd better get over here right away."
Nagle was devastated. Benny Cafolla, they all called him the Kid, was Frank's protegee. He was a North End kid. Smart, streetsmart, Italian kid. Hardest worker. Frank would have trusted him with anything. Wanted to grow up and join the FBI. Worked for Baker Security evenings and weekends to help pay his way through Boston College.
Frank Nagle arrived at the Whiteside home just as the ambulance was leaving. The street had been cordoned off and at least four police cars were standing outside Ruth Whiteside's front door. Police banner tape marked the perimeter of the property. The police knew Frank. Marty was waiting for him in the family room, or what was left of it.
"She's still alive. Barely. Unconscious. In a coma. They really did a job on her. Both arms are broken and her body is beaten and bruised beyond belief," Marty answered the question in Frank's eyes.
"What animal did this?" asked Frank.
"That's what we'd all like to know. The police are combing the house and the area for any shred of evidence they can find. These people must be crazy. Or on drugs. Or something. Look at this," said Marty.
Paintings were ripped, furniture was slashed, tables overturned, vases broken, everything wantonly destroyed. Harry Whiteside's den had been totally ripped apart. Books lay in heaps on the floor, bookcases toppled over, and his desk had been ransacked. Could the destruction in the rest of the house be a cover for the ransacking of the Major's office? If that's true, what were these people looking for? All of these thoughts tumbled through Frank's head. Lt. Malone, in charge of the investigation at the scene of the crime, wanted to know too. He questioned Frank and Marty but neither could contribute anything of value. Frank had thought it was just another routine assignment. Vulnerable lady, living alone. Family worried about crime. Money no object. Wanted her protected. But it was obviously more than that. Frank told Lt. Malone that he had been asked to personally look after Mrs. Whiteside by Ken Baker. The Lieutenant assured them that he would be in touch with Mr. Baker some time that day. The Lieutenant had allowed them to briefly visit the crime scene even though he had sealed it off. Marty and Frank were veteran cops and well known to Lt. Malone but he still admonished them not to touch anything and insisted that they wear booties and gloves before entering the crime scene.
As Frank made his way to his car, it was nearly five a.m. He could see that all the shrubs on either side of the front pathway had been ripped out.
"The bastards!" he snarled to no-one in particular.
Dr. Bill Watson and the two best paramedics at Addison Gilbert Hospital in Gloucester were on board the helicopter with Ruth Whiteside. She was in a coma. They had treated the trauma, set both of her broken arms, and stabilized her vital signs. But she needed the kind of care that Addison Gilbert was not equipped to provide. So they had taken the decision to move her immediately to Massachusetts General Hospital, MGH, in Boston. Ken Baker had been involved from the moment Ruth Whiteside entered the emergency room at Addison Gilbert. He had made her the most important patient in New England and he now had the entire trauma facility at MGH waiting to receive her. Ruth Whiteside's vital signs were being fed into an on-board computer on the helicopter and transmitted, in real time, to the main monitoring system at MGH. Every breath she took was being monitored.
It was seven a.m. on a bright clear morning and Dr. Bill Watson could see the brick townhouses of Beacon Hill as the helicopter meandered over the Charles River, following Storrow Drive towards MGH. He had seen MGH from the air a couple of times before so he had no trouble recognizing the mix of old and new buildings that comprised the hospital complex. In minutes they had landed on the roof and a medical team was waiting to receive Ruth Whiteside.
The flight from Shannon to New York had been uneventful. MacDara had even managed to catch a couple of hours sleep. They landed at JFK on schedule at two thirty in the afternoon and their baggage was one of the first to appear on the carousel. Customs waved them through, a redcap loaded their baggage on his trolley, and within twenty minutes they were running the gauntlet of anxious faces waiting in the International Arrivals area. They soon saw the white cardboard sign with MacDara in bold black letters held aloft. But it wasn't held, as expected, by the waiting limo driver. It was Ken Baker. He welcomed them with a tight little forced smile on his lips. He looked wan and tired. Owen and Kate knew instantly that something was wrong. Ken took them away from the throng of people and told them about the attack on Kate's mother and the murder of the Kid. Kate looked stunned. She didn't speak. Owen reached for her and she sank her face into his chest and started crying uncontrollably.
Ken waited until her sobs had subsided and then spoke again:
"She's in Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston. We had her airlifted out from the Addison Gilbert Hospital in Gloucester. We've got the best medical care we can find. I took the liberty of booking both of you on the next shuttle flight to Logan. My car is waiting outside. I'll take you over to La Guardia now."
Dr. Stan Hoffman was the best trauma specialist in the Northeast. He met them as soon as they arrived at MGH and took them to a private room.
"How's my mother, Doctor? Is she going to be all right?"
"Ms. Whiteside, your mother is a very strong woman for her age. But she has suffered severe injuries. Both her arms were broken but they're simple fractures, not compound. Multiple contusions elsewhere but no further broken bones and no damage to any internal organs. Now she does not have a fracture to her skull but she is still in a coma. This kind of a coma is the most difficult to make a prognosis about. We simply do not know when she may regain consciousness. But all her vital signs are stable and she is breathing without assistance. So that's a good sign and we're hopeful. Your mother is very lucky to be alive, Ms. Whiteside. She is getting the very best care."
"Thank you, Doctor, May I see her?"
"Yes, you may, Ms. Whiteside. Your presence may be therapeutic. If you like you can stay in the hospital. We'll have a bed provided for you."
"Yes, Doctor, I would like to stay with her."
"Very well, then, I'll bring you and Mr. MacDara to see Nurse McDermott. She will take you to your mother."
After reassuring himself that all was being done that could be done, Owen MacDara left Kate at her mother's bedside, called Ken Baker and told him to put twenty-four protection on Ruth and Kate Whiteside at MGH. And this time, to make it fail-safe. Then he caught an evening flight back to New York.
FOURTEEN
GMA Headquarters
New York
They were already waiting for MacDara when he reached the office on Monday morning. His three senior associates looked somber and shaken. It was Dick Massey who broke the silence.
"Owen, I don't know how to tell you this."
Dick's usual contented look was gone. There was no mirth in the eyes and his face appeared ashen, even through his full Viking beard.
"Jay's dead. He was killed on Central Park West yesterday."
MacDara said nothing. This is a dream, he thought. It's not happening. He had a 10.00 a.m. with Jay this morning to finalize the contract on the telephone switch for the new building in Connecticut. GMA had a consultancy contract to provide project co-ordination and expertise on the job. They'd had a few beers in Costelloes on Friday evening to review the project and had agreed to meet in Owen's office this morning. Owen sat down, still in disbelief. But he knew this was no dream. His financial controller, Al Bernstein, just stood there, lifeless. Al had worked closely with Jay on this project. They had become good friends. And Al, loquacious Al, had never been known to stand silent for a minute. Janet Duffy, his MIS Director, stood beside Al, looking distraught.
Grasping for comprehension, he asked.
"How did he die?"
"Jay was murdered. Shot!" said Dick.
"But, why? How?" Owen said, almost inaudibly, still trying to comprehend.
It was Al who spoke this time. Everything pent up inside was unleashed.
"We don't know what happened. Nobody knows a damned thing. Liz was with him. She's in a catatonic state. Total shock. Nobody can get anything out of her. They were visiting friends on Central Park West. One of the kid's birthdays or something. Jesus, this fucking city. Bastards! If I ever find out who did this to Jay I'll tear them apart!"
Al just choked up and the tears began to flow. Owen grabbed him around the shoulders and held him.
His phone had been ringing incessantly. Janet finally leaned across his desk and picked it up.
"Owen, it's Nena. Says it's important."
"OK, I'll take it," said Owen as he took the phone from Janet.
"Yes, Nena?"
"It's a lady. Beth something. Sounds bad. Says it's about Jay."
"OK, Nena, put her through."
"Beth?"
"Owen, I'm with Claire. We need to see you now. Claire is talking suicide. Please get here as soon as you can. We're in our apartment."
"All right, Beth. I'll do my best."
Owen told his people that he had to leave for an hour to attend to a very urgent matter. He asked them not to talk with reporters or anyone seeking information regarding Jay. He also asked Janet to prepare a GMA corporate news release for his review. He knew that Jay had been seeing Claire Higgins ever since the night they met in Costelloes six months ago. Jay and Liz had grown apart over the years. Jay's time had truly gone into building Russo Associates. But Owen had always thought Claire was just a fling. Nothing serious.
Beth Ward and Claire Higgins both came from Ohio. They had attended high school together. So it was natural for them to share an apartment when they both arrived in New York to pursue their careers. Beth did something in advertising and Claire was in publishing, magazines Their apartment was on the twentieth floor of a high-rise in the thirties on Second Avenue. Beth answered the apartment buzzer in the lobby and Owen announced himself. She released the lock on the double doors leading from the lobby to the elevator. When Owen got off on the twentieth floor Beth was waiting for him at the door to apartment 204. She had an anxious look on her face.
"Owen, thank you for coming. Claire is distraught. You're the only person I could talk with. I know you were Jay's friend."
Claire was sitting on the living room couch in her night-gown. Her hair was tussled and her face looked puffy. Her eyes were red from crying and they had a vacant stare in them. Owen sat down and reached for her. She didn't resist and she didn't cooperate. Her body was wooden. Beth had followed him in and just stood there looking helpless.
"Claire, I'm so sorry."
Owen's voice was cracking with emotion. He hadn't had time to come to grips with Jay's death himself. Claire started sobbing again. Her whole body shook convulsively in his arms. She started to speak.
"We were going skiing next month in Colorado. His suits are here. He stayed with me when his wife was in Florida. He was leaving her. They had nothing. I loved him. He wanted to be with me. We had plans. Oh, my God, what will I do? I can't live without him! I can't! I can't!"
Her words came in gasps.
"I want to see him. Where is he? Who did this to him? I want to see his wife."
Owen just held her till her hysteria subsided. And he talked.
"Claire, I didn't know. I loved Jay too. And I want to know who did this to him. Would you be willing to talk to the police? In confidence. They probably don't know about you. But I could arrange for you to see them. They might be able to tell you things that I don't know. And, maybe they can arrange for you to see Jay."
Claire grasped at that. Owen could almost feel her attempting to pull herself together in his arms. She agreed. Beth gave him the name of Claire's doctor. He picked up the phone and called her.
"Beth, the doctor has phoned in a prescription for Claire to the pharmacy on thirty-first street. They've been informed that you will pick it up. It's a sedative for Claire. You keep it and dispense to her only as prescribed. I'll stay with her till you return."
Next, Owen called the NYPD and asked to speak with Detective Gennaro who was assigned to Murph's investigation. After his call had been forwarded five or six times he finally connected. He briefed Gennaro who informed him that Jay's murder had been committed within their jurisdiction and the investigation had already been assigned to Lt. Nichols. Detective Gennaro arranged to meet Claire Higgins the following morning.
The Southern District Court Building in Lower Manhattan is a large gray, cold uninviting stone edifice. Its corridors are cheerless. The pale green paint is chipped and scuffmarked. Assistant District Attorney William Stern's office was equally cheerless and Spartan. He was on the phone when MacDara entered and nodded for him to take a seat. Detective Gennaro was already there, notebook in hand. He greeted MacDara with a thin-lipped smile. MacDara sat on one of the three heavy wooden chairs that lined the back wall. Gennaro sat on his left. A wooden bench, like a church pew, lined the wall to the right. Asst. D.A. Stern sat behind a large, ugly wooden desk under a window with dirty panes that covered most of the end wall of the office. Stern hung up the phone and looked at MacDara. He was young, late twenties, early thirties with a high forehead, receding hairline and a thin, aesthetic looking face. Large bifocals bisected his face.
"Mr. MacDara, I understand you were a close friend of Jay Russo," Stern opened in a surprisingly deep voice.
"That's right," said Owen.
"You met regularly at Costelloes pub, I understand," said Stern.
"About once a month. We were old army buddies and liked to keep our friendship alive", said Owen matter-of-factly.
"Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to kill Mr. Russo?" continued Stern.
"No, I don't. As far as I know, Jay didn't have an enemy in the world", responded MacDara.
"Isn't it true that he had marital problems?" asked Stern as he got up and walked around in front of his desk.
"I don't know anything about that", said MacDara with irritation.
"Oh, come on Mr. MacDara. Weren't you in Costelloes the night that Jay Russo met Claire Higgins?" pressed Stern.
MacDara didn't respond. His mind went back to that scene in Claire's apartment and how hysterical she'd been. He'd known that Jay had seen her a couple of times but he must have been blind. He didn't know until now how serious it had become between Jay and Claire. He certainly didn't know anything of Jay's plans to divorce Liz.
"Let me remind you that you introduced Claire Higgins to Detective Gennaro and his investigating team, Mr. MacDara", said Stern when Owen failed to answer his question.
"Yes, I did. But Jay's private life was his own. I knew little about it", reiterated MacDara.
"Mr. MacDara, I find that hard to believe", said Stern.
As MacDara stared poker-faced at him, Stern went around behind his desk and flipped over a page of an open notebook in the center of the desk.
"Isn't it true, Mr. MacDara, that on the night of June 15th last year you drove Liz Russo home after her husband had thrown her out of their car?" questioned Stern as though he had MacDara in the witness box.