Black Jack

by Diane Capri

  Poulton had always been uneasy around Brice because he was the boss’s son-in-law. Since Brice’s divorce, he’d been like a barnacle on everybody’s ass. But when Deerfield found out about the body in the bathtub, Poulton was willing to bet that Brice told him something that raised his suspicion. Deerfield was a smart guy. But he wasn’t that smart. He wasn’t clairvoyant, either.

  Poulton had retraced his actions several times, and how Deerfield had learned about the body remained unknown. But Brice must have been the one. Before Friday, no one had been in that house since Poulton put the body there, he could say that for sure.

  Whatever the source of his information, after he found out, Deerfield made two big changes to the operation.

  First, he’d sent Brice into the house to discover the body on Friday. Only if he’d already known what Brice would find did that move make any sense. Up until Friday, the whole operation was designed to keep the house uncontaminated until Deerfield got the search warrant lined up. Something significant had caused him to change his plan. Unless he believed one of the Petrosians had killed the woman, Deerfield’s motive for disturbing the house early must have been a powerful incentive.

  Poulton figured everything else that happened flowed from sending Brice inside Friday morning. Several birds, one stone. NYPD flooded the place with personnel, which definitely kept the twisted Petrosian brothers away from the bodies buried in the foundation. And the salacious details of a revitalized serial killer roaming Upstate New York was designed to attract media attention. Poulton counted on the media to lure Reacher out of hiding, but he wasn’t sure about Deerfield’s motivations where Reacher was concerned.

  The second thing Deerfield did on Friday was confounding, though. Poulton didn’t understand it, although he’d tried.

  For some unknown reason, he’d officially pulled Agent Otto into the mix. He’d reached out to her through channels. There’d be paperwork and expenses involved, and formal reports would be filed. The budget had been cut to the bone, they were keeping the Petrosian case on the down low until the indictments could be served, and then he inexplicably turned the internal spotlight on the whole operation.

  Deerfield’s excuse was that he wanted fresh eyes on the crime scene. But hell, everybody on the team except Deerfield was already fresh eyes on the bathtub murders serial killer. Poulton only knew the prior case existed because his younger brother worked it originally. After the case went south, Tony was never the same. He volunteered for high-risk assignments and behaved recklessly way too often. As far as Poulton was concerned, Reacher and the unsolved bathtub murders actually killed Tony’s will to live.

  Poulton hadn’t figured out why Deerfield wanted Otto here. Something to do with Reacher, he felt sure. Maybe Deerfield knew about his bucket list and wanted to help him with Reacher. Which was probably wishful thinking.

  But it all worked out, anyway, because Poulton was lucky.

  The victim in the bathtub was taking longer to identify than normal. Partly because Deerfield planned it that way. He was in no hurry to have that particular mystery solved. Which was why he’d made Brice wait to report the homicide until late on Friday. Government offices worked light crews on weekends, and many private healthcare offices were closed. Unless requests were expedited, everything waited until the work week started up again.

  Which was okay. Properly refrigerated, most dead bodies could wait a while.

  Poulton had taken care of the rest. He’d made sure the factors that cops normally relied upon for quick victim ID were missing. No purse or wallet with the body. No jewelry, nothing engraved, no smartphone. The body itself was the only thing the coroner had to work with, and this one was damaged by the oil paint.

  It was helpful that Detective Grassley had tunnel vision. She was doing her best to name the victim Jodie Jacob, but she slammed into one roadblock after another. The body’s fingerprints were not usable. Jacob’s DNA was not in any of the databases. Valerie Vance, a/k/a Valerie Webb, had DNA in the system, but a broader search than Grassley had done so far would be required to find it.

  More problematic were dental records, and for the same reason. Grassley laser-focused on Jodie. Jodie grew up on Army bases around the world, and she spent several years working in Europe. Which meant her dental work was unusual and should have made it easier to identify. But finding those records required contacting each of the bases and tracking the records down. A local dentist might have solved this issue, but Jacob was young, and her teeth were good, and she’d lived out of the country for a while. She might not have a local dentist at all. If she had one, Grassley hadn’t located him yet.

  Grassley ran into similar roadblocks with medical records. She’d requested records from Jacob’s last known health insurance company, contracted by the Spencer and Gutman firm. Grassley had made no progress on that front yet, either.

  Meanwhile, with all of that going on, Deerfield inexplicably left town. He told no one where he went or why. He was on his way back now.

  By mid-morning, Brice would have the warrants for examining the bedroom foundation with high tech equipment. If the initial tests confirmed the two victims and the guns used to kill them were buried under there, as Farid told Brice, Deerfield would have the final evidence he wanted. Farid’s testimony and the records he’d stolen before he turned against his family to save his own neck, would ensure that both Samir and Tariq Petrosian would be in custody by late afternoon.

  Poulton was more than ready to finish up. He was exhausted. What with his bucket list and dealing with Vance, on top of his job, he’d been working non-stop since the woman in the red sedan showed up.

  The morning after he put Vance inside the Garrison house, Deerfield had texted, “Pick up Jacob and park her at this address until further notice.”

  Earlier today, Deerfield’s orders seemed a bit unhinged. He’d texted, “Pick up Otto. Otto and Jacob no longer needed. Eliminate both. Leave bodies outside.”

  Deerfield probably couldn’t be tied to that farmhouse and would disavow all knowledge, of course, which dovetailed nicely with Poulton’s own plans.

  Reacher should show up at the Garrison house after daylight. He’d want to see the crime scene for himself because he thought he was a smart guy and a better investigator than everyone else. Maybe he was. Poulton didn’t care. His work was almost done. He needed only to kill Reacher for Tony, and then he’d be ready to die.

  Poulton pulled in, parked alongside Brice, and went inside the safe house. He checked the video feeds first. He saw fewer NYPD personnel hard at work across the road at the target house, which was to be expected. They’d been there since Friday night. Even working short-staffed, they should be finished soon.

  The gaggle of reporters had dwindled, too, but those who remained did their best to capture all activity just in case the NYPD found something tonight. Television was a visual medium and live feed produced better ratings than recorded video. Viewers had wised up. They knew video could be edited. Poulton grinned.

  Brice walked in from the kitchen. “I don’t know how you can stand this duty, man. Boring as hell to hang out in this house for eight hours, let alone twelve.”

  “Well, at least you had exciting TV to watch.” Poulton tilted his head toward the video display. “For days and days, what we saw was nothing at all going on over there.”

  “All but two TV crews gave up about an hour ago. They’ll leave when Grassley does.” Brice shook his head. “Nothing much happening now, frankly. Crime techs are almost done. Everybody should be cleared out before 0200.”

  “Grassley say how the murder investigation’s going?”

  “Not much progress. Jacob’s red sedan was parked in her apartment’s garage. Grassley had it towed to the lab for processing. The coroner hasn’t completed the autopsy and still has no ID or cause of death. The consensus is that the victim suffocated, but no clue how.” Brice paused to recall more news to report and shrugged when he came up empty.

  Poulton nodded.
“I imagine removing that paint from the body can be time-consuming. They still may find something.”

  “Possibly. This case is going to kill me yet. I’m gonna stop over there and talk to Grassley now before they bug out.” Brice swiped a hand over his tired face. “After that, I have to go babysit Farid, so he doesn’t freak out even worse than he already has.”

  Poulton cocked his head. “You’re getting pretty tight with Farid. He telling you any secrets the rest of us don’t know?”

  “Hard to know what to believe when we hear it from these thugs.” Brice shrugged, which wasn’t an outright answer. “I’m due at the courthouse at seven, and I should have the warrant in hand before eight. See you later.”

  Brice left through the side door and backed his big SUV down the driveway. Poulton watched him go on the video feed, wondering what Farid Petrosian had said to Brice. Whatever it was had put an extra spring in Brice’s step the past couple of days. Which could mean that Deerfield didn’t know about it, either.

  Yet, Deerfield’s order to kill Otto and Jacob had come out of the blue. Somehow, the situation had definitely changed. Poulton frowned, trying to puzzle the intel from the facts he already knew. Could have something to do with the blonde in the red sedan who came to the house that day. Or maybe something about the bodies buried in the foundation. Hell, it could be almost anything.

  Brice pulled into the driveway at the Garrison house and went inside.

  All of a sudden Poulton was overwhelmed by exhaustion. His usual symptoms, itching, nausea, and vomiting came without warning. Some days, the abdominal pain and back pain were so debilitating that he could barely move. He’d lost thirty pounds he couldn’t afford to lose. He’d learned why when he received his death sentence a few weeks ago: pancreatic cancer. Doc told him plainly that his time was short and said to make the most of it. Good advice.

  What he needed right now was sleep while NYPD remained on scene. He could count on Grassley to sound the alarm if anything unexpected happened in the next hour. He stretched out on the sofa and dropped quickly into oblivion.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Monday, January 31

  2:15 a.m.

  Upstate New York

  Kim looked at the clock on the mantel. Already past two in the morning. She came from a long line of farmers like Herman and Irene. Even her parents maintained a large vegetable garden. To a man, every single one of her relatives was an early riser, even in the winter. Her window of opportunity was closing quickly.

  “This situation isn’t getting any better,” Kim said. “We’ve got to go. Right now. You lead the way, and when we get to the garage, I’ll drive us out of here. Are you up for it?”

  “What choice do we have?” Jodie seemed stronger now than she had been since Kim arrived. “I’ve been sitting here for days expecting someone to find me. We could grow old waiting. Obviously, we’re on our own. So let’s do this.”

  Kim nodded. “I heard Herman lock the door when he left us in here. Do you know where the key is?”

  Jodie’s eyes widened. She walked to the door and grabbed the crystal knob. It didn’t turn, and the door didn’t budge. “He’s never locked me in before. He must be worried about you.”

  “Then he’s smarter than he looks.” Kim examined the doorknob. It was a reproduction, definitely not as old as the house. But the door lock was intended for privacy, not security.

  She rummaged through the desk drawers again, this time she found a brass letter opener. She used it to unscrew the doorknob and remove it from the door. She ushered Jodie into the hallway. She replaced the doorknob. Then she relocked the door in case Herman came down to check. Might give them an extra few seconds if they needed it.

  She gave Jodie a little push to get her moving. Kim belted her coat, slipped the letter opener into her pocket, and followed Jodie down the hallway toward the kitchen. They moved quickly and quietly along the path Jodie had sketched, with only ambient light from the kitchen appliances to guide them.

  Inside the kitchen, Kim closed the door and waited, listening for any warning noises.

  Jodie hurried across the kitchen floor to the opposite side of the room where an exterior door exited to the back. She stopped at the pegs on the wall and grabbed a faded red barn coat. She slipped her arms into the sleeves and her feet into snow boots simultaneously.

  Irene must be a big woman, Kim realized. The coat and the boots were several sizes too large, but Jodie was able to walk, and she wouldn’t freeze instantly when they went outside. As long as she didn’t trip, she’d be fine.

  On the next peg was a flashlight. Jodie lifted the webbing loop off the peg and slipped the flashlight into the barn coat’s oversized right pocket. She searched the counter frantically looking for the truck keys. From the panicked look on her face when she glanced up, Kim assumed the keys were not there.

  Kim hurried across the room, leaned close to Jodie and whispered, “Don’t worry. I’ll get the truck started.”

  “How? Hot-wire it?”

  Kim shrugged. She’d have to look at the truck first. “I’ll figure it out.”

  So far, so good. She pushed Jodie aside to examine the door. The last thing they needed was a blaring alarm. She saw no cameras or keypad nearby. She checked the door for wires, motion sensors or other indications that the door was armed and found none.

  New wireless systems on the market could also be operated by remote or cell phones, but there were no cell signals here. Kim crossed her fingers and hoped that there was no alarm system at all. Or at least, no system that somehow employed cutting-edge technology lacking in the rest of the house.

  Kim nodded. Jodie opened the door and slipped outside. No alarm sounded. Nothing she could do about any silent alarm, so Kim followed Jodie and pulled the door closed behind her.

  They hurried single file along the shoveled path toward the garage. Kim glanced back over her shoulder. No lights had turned on in the upstairs windows where the bedrooms were located. With luck, Herman and Irene were still sleeping.

  Jodie reached the garage first. She grabbed the knob on the side door, and Kim yanked her arm back. The garage could have a separate alarm system. She checked quickly and again, found nothing.

  She nodded. Jodie opened the door and went inside. Kim followed, stepping into a blackness so complete she might have been sealed in a coffin.

  She reached into her pocket, pulled out one of the burner phones, and pushed a button to light the dim display. She touched Jodie’s arm.

  “Are there any windows in here? Can we use the flashlight?”

  Jodie pulled the flashlight from her pocket and handed it to Kim. She slipped it into her pocket, beam pointed toward the floor, and turned it on.

  The diffused beam was bright enough to locate Herman’s big truck parked in the second bay.

  Even better, the beam revealed the first bay, where the armored Mercedes she’d arrived in was parked.

  She touched Jodie’s arm and pointed toward the sedan.

  “Let’s try that first,” she whispered.

  Kim hurried over to the sedan and opened the driver’s door. The push-button start was a plus. The keyless entry fob was probably somewhere inside the vehicle. She motioned Jodie into the passenger seat.

  She ran to the truck and found the garage door opener. She brought the opener back with her and jumped in the driver’s seat. The dashboard had an overwhelming number of gauges and lights and switches. She hoped most of them were nonessential. No way could she master them in the next two minutes.

  Instead, she adjusted the mirrors and the seat so that she could reach the pedals, hold the steering wheel, and see over the long hood, all at the same time. In theory, at least. That’s all she could do.

  Jodie was already belted into the passenger seat. Kim handed Jodie the garage door opener. “I want to start the car first and be ready to go when the door opens. If the fob isn’t inside the car somewhere, it won’t start. Then we’ll take the truck. Push the door ope
ner when I tell you to, okay?”

  Jodie said wryly, “I’m a New Yorker now. I don’t drive often. But I can push buttons.”

  Kim nodded and pushed to start the ignition. The big sedan’s engine sprang to life like a resting tiger, ready to lunge. “Now. Open the door now.”

  She put the transmission in drive with her left foot on the brake and her right foot resting on the accelerator. The transmission’s indicator on the dash showed the parking brake was engaged.

  She looked at the lights and buttons until she found the release and the indicator disappeared.

  At the same time, Jodie opened the big double steel garage door. The door lifted out and then rolled back slowly, all in one piece. As soon as it was high enough off the ground to slip the sedan underneath without scraping the roof, Kim accelerated.

  The big sedan rolled out. When they cleared the garage, Jodie pushed the button to lower the door.

  At the end of the driveway, Kim turned right and headed east, the opposite direction from the route her driver had used. After they drove beyond the boundaries of protected state land, she heard a train whistle in the distance. She remembered seeing the train from the back seat on the way to the farmhouse.

  The train tracks ran parallel to the road, which had to mean civilization around here somewhere. They came to a crossroads with a four-way stop. To the right was a grade crossing for the train.

  “Should we turn here?” she asked Jodie.

  “I don’t think so. The interstate should be ahead. I think it’s more farmland in that direction.”

  Kim crossed the road and kept going, parallel with the tracks. They traveled eleven more miles before she saw the first sign for Interstate 87.

  Three miles farther and she picked up a cell signal on Gaspar’s burner phone. She saw six message envelopes on the screen. Four were from Gaspar.