by Andrew Gross
CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE
Hauck gazed past Raines’s shoulder at the crowd of milling bettors, the flashing lights, the musical chime of slots going off.
Steve Chrisafoulis stepped out of the crowd.
Raines’s back was toward him, so he didn’t see him. Steve came up and placed a small recording device next to the unsuspecting security chief’s ear.
“Maybe your brother and I did talk over a few things. Maybe a certain U.S. attorney’s name did come up once or twice. Maybe we did toss around how things would be different if he wasn’t so much on the scene…”
The color drained from Raines’s face. He spun, panic rising up in him, saw the recorder and heard his own damning words.
“What the hell is going on?”
Hauck reached over and lifted the stack of cards out of the dealer’s shoe. He sorted through them until he came to a place in the deck where a tiny silver disc was attached to one of the cards. “What was it you called that trick…?” Hauck screwed up his brow. “The false shuffle…”
Raines’s eyes burned through him. “I don’t understand.”
Hauck led his gaze across the room to Josie, a couple of tables away, who gave a contempt-filled one-handed wave to Raines.
“Like you said”—Hauck stood up from the chair—“you ought to know who brought the deck before you sit down at the game.”
Raines glared toward Josie. “You’re dead. Fucking bitch whore…”
Chrisafoulis twisted Raines’s arms behind his back. “Joseph Raines, you’re under arrest for plotting the deaths of David Sanger and Keith Kramer. You’re also under arrest for conspiring to commit the murders of Paul Pacello and Detective Frederico Munoz.”
He slapped a set of cuffs roughly over the security man’s wrists.
“You’re making a mistake.” Raines spun around. “You don’t want to open this up. You don’t have any idea where it leads. It won’t go anywhere, except to get your own fucking pension revoked, Lieutenant, along with a little brown speck going around in the bottom of the bowl that’ll be what’s left of your career.”
“Too bad…” Hauck reared and slugged him in the jaw, Raines’s feet sliding out from under him, held up only by the two cops who clasped him by the arms.
“Freddy Munoz says hello.” Hauck glared into the cuffed man’s eyes.
“I’ll be out before morning. You’ll see.” Raines tried to jerk out of his grip. “This won’t go anywhere. You don’t have a fucking clue who this will piss off!”
They turned, the local police running interference as they took Raines through the maze of tables and out of the casino.
Hauck felt jubilant. They had one more stop to make. Up in Hartford.
Who this would piss off? Hauck had a perfect idea.
They took Raines through the posh glass-atrium lobby.
Suddenly Hauck ran face-first into the last two people he expected to see.
Sculley and Taylor. Flanked by three other tan suits. “Just one minute, Lieutenant…”
What were they doing here?
Agent in Charge Sculley removed a document from his jacket. “We have a warrant to take Mr. Raines into custody for the deaths of David Sanger and Paul Pacello, executed by James Puig, chief prosecutor for the U.S. Department of Justice in Hartford.”
“What?” Hauck felt like a sucker punch took the air out of him. He blocked Sculley’s path. “You don’t have jurisdiction here.”
“I’m afraid we do, Lieutenant. U.S. Attorney Sanger was in the employ of the federal government at the time of his death and the shooting of Mr. Pacello in Maine occurred across state lines. Not to mention that this very building is on property granted by the United States government, making this very much our jurisdiction, Lieutenant. Feel free to petition the Justice Department for the right to transfer Mr. Raines out of our custody. I’m sure they’ll be awaiting your state attorney’s brief.”
He stared helplessly at the warrant as two of the junior agents took hold of Raines.
Stan Taylor smirked. “Sorry about this, Lieutenant…”
Ire flashed up in Hauck. It was like with Vega all over again. Hauck had put his life on the line. Freddy Munoz had given his life.
They were stealing his case.
“You can have your attorneys file a petition of subrogation,” Sculley said, “but I wouldn’t be overly confident. Mr. Raines is a pivotal cog in an ongoing corruption investigation of ours…”
“Corruption investigation?”
“I told you.” Raines cackled as they whisked him away through the lobby. “I told you you had no idea where this went or what was involved. Have fun, Lieutenant! It was awfully nice playing with you. Have fun proving your case.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR
Stan Taylor drove the Crown Vic away from the Pequot Woods. Sculley sat in back next to Raines.
Raines had his cuffs fastened to a bar on the seat in front of them.
How he had enjoyed that! Being whisked out of Hauck’s grasp. Wachman had always said they would come through for him. And so they did! He had always done the hard jobs, the jobs no one else was willing to do.
Now he was being paid back.
He had no idea where he was being taken, other than he was with people who knew how to handle things and make things go away. Wachman. Casey. They’d said they had people in their pockets. They’d work out some kind of safe haven. They knew that if Raines ever had to face those damaging charges, he could take a lot of very important people down.
A pivotal cog in an ongoing corruption investigation…
That was priceless!
They rode for a while in silence. The car banked onto the highway south, in the direction of New Haven. The headlights of the second FBI car shone brightly behind them, hovering a few lengths behind. This time of night, the traffic was light. Raines allowed himself a moment to feel relieved. Ecstatic. He had performed his duties capably and without question. He had done what he was paid to do. Protect his employer’s interests.
“So where are you taking me?” He turned to the agent in charge seated next to him.
The man was balding, a little reddish fuzz around the sides. He merely shrugged. “The less you know, the better.”
Probably right. Raines sat back. “Tell Mr. Wachman I appreciate this.”
Sculley nodded obligingly. “I’ll be sure to pass that along.”
The road was dark. The highway was basically a link between the casino and I-95, the main north-south artery along the coast. Pretty much nothing in between. Raines settled in, then glanced behind him.
The headlights from the car behind them had disappeared.
The black agent driving slowed the car.
The slightest tremor of anticipation shot through Raines. “What’s going on?”
Taylor pulled off onto the embankment on the side of the road.
“Making a transfer,” Sculley said. The agent in charge reached across and undid his cuffs.
“Transfer?” There wasn’t a light on the highway. He didn’t see anyone else around.
Taylor climbed out of the front on the passenger side.
“Here,” Sculley said, “this may come in handy.” The FBI man reached under his jacket and, to Raines’s shock, handed him his own gun. A Smith & Wesson .40 caliber. Raines was familiar. Standard agency issue.
Raines’s heart picked up. This wasn’t like any transfer. “What the hell’s happening?”
“Take it,” said the agent in charge.
Warily, Raines wrapped his hand around the gun. The weight seemed a little light. He was about to check the clip when Taylor opened the door.
“C’mon, get out.”
“Out?” Raines looked back, not quite understanding. The anticipation he was feeling had now crossed into uneasiness. With a bit of hesitation, he climbed out the open door. He rubbed his wrists and fingered the proffered gun. He noticed the safety was off. It still felt light. He looked around for some kind of activity on t
he road.
There was none.
“This is some kind of joke, right?”
“Yeah, Raines,” Sculley said, “a real knee slapper. Now get the fuck going.”
“Going?” He looked around. They were in the middle of nowhere…
Taylor, the driver, opened his sport jacket. His own gun was holstered at his waist. “Get moving, Raines. Call it your lucky day. Must be all those people watching over you. This is the end of the line. Run.”
Run? Raines looked back and forth between Sculley and Taylor, trying to figure out what was going on. All he saw was a ditch on the side of the highway. Where the hell could he go?
The uneasiness had deepened into worry, worry into freaking out.
“Where’s Wachman? You let Senator Casey know that I’m here. Call him! I’ve done favors for him. He’ll want to know.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Raines,” Agent in Charge Sculley said.
In front of him, Taylor removed his gun.
His eyes widened. He was being set up. He lifted Sculley’s Smith & Wesson. Raines took a step back, dread kicking up in his blood. The black FBI guy stood there unconcerned.
You sons of bitches… Raines panicked. He fired.
Nothing happened. All he heard was a click.
In fear, he pointed and kept on firing. Several shots, in rapid succession. Aimed at Taylor’s chest.
Just clicks.
Raines’s jaw dropped. He put the gun down. He started to back away.
“Senator Casey sends his regards,” Agent Taylor said.
Anyone within half a mile would’ve heard the two rapid retorts.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE
Hauck’s phone sounded as he headed north to Hartford.
Raines was gone—but there was still one more link in the chain, and he had to get there before the FBI, or whoever else was involved, closed that one too.
Vern’s voice came on.
“They took him, Vern. Sculley and Taylor. They stole him right from under us. Arrested him on a RICO charge.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore.” The chief sounded tired and a little disappointed. “You can turn yourself around and come on home, Ty.”
“Come on home?”
Vern paused. “Raines is dead, Ty.”
“Dead?” Hauck felt slammed. He slowed to the side of the road. “How?”
“Taylor shot him. Attempting to escape. On their way down to New Haven. Raines forced them to pull over. Somehow he managed to take Sculley’s gun.”
Escape. Another door was shut. Another link back to Scayne and Casey. A troubled thought knifed into his mind. “You see what’s going on, don’t you? It’s happening all over again. Just like with Vega. Evidence is lost, the case against a killer gets dropped. Except now they’re not taking any chances. The leak just died.”
“You have to be careful about just where you take this, Ty…”
“These people killed Sanger and Kramer, Vern. And Freddy. They tried to kill me.”
Oncoming headlights glared sharply in the windshield. Innocent people had been caught up in this, this cover-up, and died. He’d made promises. This doesn’t just get shut down. Swept under the rug. It didn’t end with Raines. People ordered this. And it didn’t end with Warren either.
“I can’t, Vern.”
“Turn back around. I mean that, Ty. You had a shooting today. Don’t make me give you an order.”
“I don’t know if I can, Vern.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX
The gated community was named Arapahoe Farms, about twenty minutes outside of the capital. The homes were modern colonials, nice, midsized. It was after ten o’clock. Most of the houses were dark. Minivans and Beemers were parked in front of their garages.
Hauck stopped at 3377 Albion Circle.
This one was not dark. Hauck had the feeling they were expecting him.
He parked the car, walked up the flagstone landing, and rang the bell.
“Just a minute!” He heard footsteps. An attractive middle-aged woman in a robe cracked open the door. Looked as if she was getting ready for bed. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Hauck said. “I’m looking for Ira Wachman…”
“Ira…?” She turned back into the house. “He’s…”
A short, stout man with receding, wiry gray hair in a cardigan sweater came to the door. “I’ll take it, Alice…”
He looked at Hauck, unsurprised. “I’m Ira Wachman, Lieutenant.”
He peered outside, past Hauck, for the sight of other police cars and flashing lights. There were none, and he gave Hauck a sagacious smile. Wachman’s eyes seemed tired and heavy, but there was something in them, wisdom, experience. He opened the door. “Why don’t you come in, Lieutenant.”
Hauck stepped into the white-tiled foyer.
“Alice, why don’t you go on up to bed. I’ll be up in a while. Lieutenant, I’m sure we’ll be more comfortable in here.”
He led Hauck through the formal living room with skylights and an atrium into a paneled, book-filled den. The shelves were painted red, the furniture English, maybe antique. It had a built-in TV and some hunting paintings and lots of photographs and mementos out on the shelves. “You take scotch, Lieutenant?”
“No.”
“Hope you don’t mind if I do.” Wachman opened a cabinet and poured himself a glass from the bar, while Hauck’s eyes found the silver-framed photos on the polished wood desk. Wachman with many familiar faces. Senator Casey. The governor. The former secretary of defense, who a year ago had been forced to resign.
A portrait of his wife and two grown boys.
“One of my sons graduated from Georgetown, Lieutenant. He’s in the Marines now—on assignment. You know where. The other is a senior at Penn, wants to go to Wall Street…”
Wachman motioned for Hauck to take a seat on the tufted leather couch and pulled up an ottoman across from him. He raised his glass. “Cheers.”
“I came here to arrest you, Mr. Wachman,” Hauck said. “For your involvement in the murders of David Sanger and Keith Kramer.”
“And…”
“And…” Hauck shrugged. “I wish I could.”
“I used to wish for a lot of things, Lieutenant.” Wachman took a sip of scotch. “Politics has cured me of that.”
“I don’t have such reservations. Raines is dead. But somehow I suspect that’s something you already know.”
“I heard.” The government man nodded, making no attempt to conceal it.
“Word travels fast among friends.”
The government man smiled, looked Hauck in the eyes. “Are you miked, Lieutenant?”
Hauck said, “No.”
“I don’t think I’m making a mistake to take you as a man of your word. I won’t make any attempt to deceive you, Lieutenant. Too bad about Raines, but what happened to him was not, shall we say, inconvenient. Of course that all sounds a bit clichéd. The man had gotten himself in a lot of shaky shit. Nor will I make any attempt to hide my connection to your brother.”
“Warren talked. He gave you up. Sanger. Casey. Scayne. The generators to Iraq. Plan B… I think I know what it was about—and what I don’t know, I’ll figure out.”
“That so?” Wachman put down his glass. “I’ve known him for a long time, your brother. Warren’s always proved himself to be a friend. A willing one. Why shouldn’t he be? He’s built a nice life around it. Isn’t that what we all want? A nice life. Free and clear of worry? What is it you want, Lieutenant?”
“Just the truth.”
“That’s all? Even if it brings down the people closest to you? Even if it comes so close, you can feel it on your skin?”
“What else can you possibly give me, Mr. Wachman?”
Wachman leaned back against the desk. “Only one thing. I can give you back your brother.”
That took him by surprise, a blunt force against Hauck’s chest.
“I can make this all go away. His role. His part in it. Everyone’s
part. I can shroud this thing in such a hole, ten reporters from the New York Times, all vying for fucking Pulitzers, couldn’t figure it out. Richard Scayne will be gone soon. Senator Casey will be making an announcement that this will be his last term. A year from now, those generators will be forgotten. Politics is politics, Lieutenant. It will just go on.”
“To me it’s just a little too late for all that now.”
Ira Wachman nodded resignedly, then shrugged. “I can also make your life a living hell, Lieutenant.” He said it so evenly and matter-of-factly it almost didn’t come across as a threat. “You say you know? You don’t know. It was ‘open for business’ over there. Everyone wanted a piece of the action. Everyone got it. Bechtel. Halliburton. Blackwater. KPMG. You think any of them did anything any differently? Some well-placed money changing hands. That was the ticket in, Lieutenant. The price.” Wachman chortled. “This sonovabitch in the Pentagon goes and blows his brains out…Why do we suddenly give a shit about a handful of generators?”
“It has nothing to do with generators,” Hauck said.
“It has everything to do with generators, Lieutenant! Everything. That fucking country was nothing more than blood and sand. We stuck the needle into its heart and then we had to find the way to resuscitate it. The government couldn’t handle it. It was too big for the fucking government! It had to be built back up by private hands. That’s what we do, Lieutenant. We, Americans. That’s the way history is built.”
Hauck didn’t answer, just let him go on.
“So what did they need there?” The veins on Wachman’s neck began to swell. “What did they goddamn need, before all the schools, the police academies, the air-conditioned shopping malls? Before the Starwoods and the McDonald’s? They needed to get the machinery back up again. The cement mixers turning. The lights back on. They needed hope! That’s what the people were begging for. Power. Generators. Hope. And what was so wrong about giving people a little hope, Lieutenant? Ultimately, when history is written, who gives a piece of lint however we got them there?”