by A. C. Fuller
“I don’t know what’s going on, but you’re probably right.”
“What are you going to do now?” he asked.
“Stay with my mom a couple days. There will be a small funeral. Then I’ll head back to the City.”
“Okay, I’ll call soon. I’m gonna meet the New York cop later today.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
ALEX HEARD A KNOCK and then Grady’s voice outside. He sat on the bed for a moment, gathering himself. When another knock came, he walked to the door and opened it.
Grady stood beside a pale, red-haired man with freckles who held out his hand to Alex. “This is Officer Doyle,” Grady said.
“Hello, Officer Doyle.”
“Hi there,” Doyle said. He spoke quickly, in an Irish-American accent Alex thought was from the Bay Ridge section of Brooklyn. “Let’s see if we can’t catch us a killer.”
* * *
Alex and Doyle sat in the hotel restaurant, picking meat from crab legs. Doyle had ordered a local beer, even though it was only 11 a.m.
“Aren’t you on duty?” Alex asked.
“Special assignment, so I can make my own hours.”
Doyle got up and helped himself to coffee from the buffet. He added four sugars and enough milk to turn it off-white. He drank half his coffee in one sip and said, “So, there are rumors going around that your man is somehow connected to the Santiago case. What do you know about that?”
Alex studied the officer’s pale, freckled cheeks, which were already reddening from the beer. He decided to try to find out as much as possible before telling him what he knew. “Not much,” he said. “I thought I had some good leads, but what do I know? I’m just a reporter, right?”
“Well, the rumors are going around. Nothing to base it on that I’m aware of. But why would you become a target?”
“I was approached by a source about ten days ago who said he had a video of the night Professor Martin was murdered. Are you familiar with the details of the case?”
“Who isn’t?”
Alex squeezed lemon juice onto a plate of steamed asparagus, then spoke between bites. “Well, I was approached by a man named Demarcus Downton who said he had a video and, long story short, I got it and Downton was murdered. Then someone broke into my apartment. I assume it was Dimitri Rak, the guy you’re looking for in the Downton murder. Next, I came here and Rak showed up.”
“But why did you come here, why not go to the police in New York City?”
“We were afraid.”
“We?”
“I came with a friend. She was helping me with the story and Rak broke into her apartment, too.”
“Where is she now?”
Alex looked at his plate of asparagus. “Not sure.”
“And where’s the video now? I should see it for the investigation.”
“Don’t have it. I got it while on the job so my paper took it.”
“Any copies?”
“No.”
“And why didn’t your paper run a story on it?”
Alex folded an asparagus spear and popped it into his mouth. “You’d have to ask my boss.”
“So why Kona?”
“We were trying to track down a lead we thought might be connected to the case. Turned out to be a dead end, though. When Rak showed up, Camila took off and I decided to sit tight. I had heard someone from the NYPD was coming.”
Alex finished his asparagus and got up to refill his coffee at the buffet.
When he returned, Doyle was picking his teeth with a toothpick. He looked at Alex carefully. “So you’re telling me you haven’t found anything else? I mean, nothing that explains why Rak would be after you?”
“Well, I assume it’s because of what’s on that video. You’ve heard the rumors. Somehow he’s connected to the Martin murder and he doesn’t want me to talk. I’m one of only a few people who has seen the video.”
“I understand that, but haven’t you found anything that links him to anyone else or any reason for killing Martin, assuming he did?”
“Isn’t that your job?”
Doyle smiled wide. “That’s why I’m here.”
* * *
They made a plan to meet in the restaurant the next morning and Doyle excused himself, saying he wanted to spend the afternoon reviewing the case files.
Alex went back to his room. He felt uneasy but didn’t know why and, before he knew what he was doing, he had retrieved the recordings of Downton he had made at the café. For the next few hours he paced the room listening to them and jotting down key quotes that might make their way into his story. After finishing the tapes, he sat on his bed and stared at the wall. As he sat, the uneasiness intensified. There was something about Doyle, he thought. But what?
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
Wednesday, September 18, 2002
“SO, WE HAVE AN IDEA about how to track down your man,” Doyle said.
They were eating breakfast at the same table they had eaten at the day before.
“How?” Alex asked.
“Well, we figure that he knows you’re here.”
Alex stared at him in disbelief and pushed his empty plate to the middle of the table. “I know he knows I’m here. He tried to kill me? Twice. Remember?”
Doyle sipped a beer. “Right. So he knows you’re here and where you’re staying, but you haven’t heard anything from him in . . . how long?”
“Couple days.”
“We figure he hasn’t wanted to come at you the same way twice. Having me here will make him even more afraid. You can bet he’s watching. So we’re gonna put you out on the beach, where we can see him coming.”
“You want to use me as bait? That’s the best you can come up with? You can’t track him to his hotel, anything like that?”
“We tried that. I mean, the locals did. They visited every hotel in town. He ain’t at a hotel. Best they got was a porter at a hotel who said he carried bags for a guy who fit the description, but the guy wasn’t there anymore and now there’s no trace of him. They checked every flight for the last ten days. And I wouldn’t say we’re using you as bait. I wouldn’t call it that.”
“What would you call it?” Alex asked.
“Look at it this way, either he’s gone home, so there’s no risk, or he hasn’t, and we’ll have a dozen guys surrounding you.”
“So, how is that not using me as bait?”
Doyle finished his beer and waved his empty bottle at the waitress. “I’d call it . . . well, yeah, I guess we’re using you as bait.” Doyle laughed.
“That’s hilarious,” Alex said. “Really funny.”
“You seen Goodfellas?” Doyle asked. “You know, Scorsese, De Niro, Joe Pesci?”
Alex nodded and Doyle turned and smiled at the waitress, who had come up behind him and was putting down another beer.
“You seen it?” Doyle asked. “Goodfellas?” She nodded. He sat up and cleared his throat, then glared at Alex and glanced at the waitress every few seconds to make sure she was still paying attention.
“I’m funny? I’m funny?” His voice had changed into a cheesy Italian accent. A bad Joe Pesci impression. “You mean . . . let me understand this . . . cuz I . . . maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m a little fucked up maybe. I’m funny how? I mean funny, like a clown? I amuse you? I make you laugh? I’m here to fuckin’ amuse you? Whattya mean funny? Funny how?”
Alex stared at him blank faced, a sinking feeling in his stomach. Hadn’t Downton talked about a freckled Irish cop who did Joe Pesci impressions? The waitress was laughing and smiling, and when Alex ignored him, Doyle shifted his performance to her.
“You really are a funny guy,” she said in a bad Italian accent.
Doyle pulled out his gun and waved it around the room wildly for a second before putting it on the table and high-fiving the waitress.
Pointing at Alex and still speaking with the accent, he said, “I think you may fold under questioning.”
* * *
Back
in his room, Alex called the KPD and asked for Detective Grady.
“Mr. Grady,” he said, “I know how they are going to come after me. Doyle.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
ALEX SAT ON THE STRETCH of beach he and Camila had sat on four days earlier. The sky was dark blue, turning to brown, and the moon hung over the water. He dug in the sand with a sharp rock, then looked at the parking lot, where he knew that Doyle, Grady, and six members of the KPD were sitting in darkened cars, watching him through night-vision goggles.
During his breakfast with Doyle, Alex had figured out what he had been listening for on the Downton tapes. That afternoon, he had called Bearon at the courthouse and found out that Doyle had just returned from an eight-month suspension that had started in mid-December. This had been the final piece of evidence Alex had needed to confirm that Doyle was the cop who had placed the wire on Downton. He had no idea how Bice had managed to have him sent to Kona, but he had no doubt that it had been Bice. And he had no doubt that Doyle was there to kill him.
He assumed that, at some point, Doyle would find a way to give Rak the opening he needed to get to him. It would all look like a terrible accident. A good plan gone awry. Alex figured that Doyle might even jump in at the last second and kill Rak—after letting Rak kill Alex—both to look like a hero and to destroy the evidence as a favor to Bice.
As the moon rose, the light changed from the soft darkness of twilight to a silver darkness of shadows and contrast. Alex stared out at the water, but glanced left and right down the beach every few seconds. He was terrified. He trusted Grady and his men, but still felt unsure of their plan.
“Grady, are you there?” He spoke into the tiny microphone concealed in his collar. “Tap something if you can hear me. I’m freaking out here.”
He heard a tap in his earpiece.
To his right, a shadow moved. Alex sat up, rigid, then relaxed when he saw that it had been caused by a bird passing overhead. He looked to his left and saw a couple far off in the distance, walking close to the water. “There’s something,” he said into the microphone. His gut told him that Rak worked alone, and as the couple approached, he could tell they were both taller than Rak. After a few minutes they angled away from the water and toward the street. “It’s nothing,” he said.
He saw something moving far out in the water, bathed in the moonlight. He thought it was a night surfer but then noticed that, instead of moving toward the beach and side-to-side, it was coming straight toward him.
He whispered into the microphone. “Out on the water.” He felt his feet begin to move in the sand, as though they wanted to stand up and run without his permission, but he made himself sit still.
“There’s more movement. It’s a small boat, way out on the water.” Alex pushed the bulletproof vest higher on his neck, thinking that Rak could have a rifle pointed at his head at that very moment. “It’s been coming for a minute or two, right at me.” He had the feeling he’d had back in his darkened room the morning of 9/11. He wanted to get away, to be alone. Everything in him wanted to get up and run, but he sat perfectly still, staring at the boat. Images of Demarcus Downton appeared in his mind. Then little Tyree, sweeping his arm through stacks of blocks, laughing.
Doyle’s thick accent broke the silence. “Officer Grady, I saw movement. On the water.”
Then Alex heard Grady’s voice. “What?”
“Way out there. A small boat.”
“I see it,” Grady said. “Maybe that’s where Rak has been hiding the last few days.”
Alex heard the beep of a radio and Grady’s voice. “Stevens, Mitchell, and Sanchez. We have a possible sighting on the water. Be alert. I’m calling in the chopper.” Another beep, then Grady continued. “Possible sighting out on the water. Request aerial support.”
Alex watched the boat move slowly toward him and spoke into the microphone. “Grady. I’m about to bail. Where are your guys?” He knew Grady couldn’t respond without giving their plan away to Doyle. He clenched his fist around the sharp rock.
Then he heard Doyle’s voice. “Wait a second, I’m seeing something. Officer Grady, take your two men down to the left. I saw movement in the lot down there.”
“Yes, sir,” Grady said. “Kekua, Sanchez, follow me.”
Through his earpiece, Alex heard a car door open and close. “Grady, what are you doing?” he asked.
A rumbling sound came up from behind him, toward the center of town. He looked back to see a helicopter appear over the hills. Grady’s voice came through the earpiece, “Alex, that’s the chopper. I’m going to the left side of the parking lot and will circle back. Just stay there. The chopper will take care of Rak. If Doyle makes a move toward you, I’ll kill him.”
Alex glanced at the boat, which was still coming straight at him, then up at the parking lot. He saw the car door open. Doyle got out and started jogging toward the beach. Out of the corner of his eye, Alex saw Grady breaking into a run toward Doyle. Alex dropped and splayed out in the sand when he heard the first shot come from the direction of the water. He glanced up just as Grady tripped and fell face first onto the beach.
The sand jumped again. Another bullet from the direction of the water. Doyle was about thirty feet away, gun drawn and in a full sprint straight toward Alex.
He covered his head with his hands.
He knew he was about to die.
The sand jumped again and Alex thought he could hear Grady shouting through the earpiece, but he couldn’t tell what was being said over the sound of the helicopter, which was now passing low overhead. He peeked out from under his arms just as Doyle ran past him and stopped at the edge of the water. Alex stared in disbelief as Doyle pulled out a second gun and began firing wildly at the boat, a gun in each hand.
Alex jumped up and ran toward the parking lot, glancing back as the helicopter shone a sharp light on the boat. Doyle was firing shot after shot at the boat. Alex’s head spun with fear and confusion. What the hell was happening?
He dropped back to the sand as another bullet came from the direction of the water and struck a rock next to him. After a few seconds, he looked back again, just in time to see Doyle’s brain splatter the sand at the edge of the water. The dead officer’s knees buckled and he fell face first into the surf.
For the next minute, Alex lay with his head buried in his arms, gunshots all around him, the helicopter loud overhead.
Finally, he felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to find Grady peering down at him. “Our guys rappelled onto the boat and Rak was taken alive,” he said. “Rak killed Doyle. Why the hell did Doyle run up and fire like that? Didn’t you say you thought he was sent here by that Bice guy? To kill you?”
Alex looked up. “I don’t know,” he said, but a single sentence hung in his mind.
You aren’t supposed to die.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
Thursday, September 19, 2002
ALEX OPENED THE DOOR and peeked out of his hotel room. Grady was no longer there, but two men with notebooks and one holding a microphone sat on the steps between his room and the courtyard. When they saw him, they raced up the steps.
“Mr. Vane, can we get a comment?” one yelled.
A bright light from a camera flashed in his eyes as he slammed the door. “Damn reporters,” he said under his breath.
He sat on the bed and took out his recorder, then dictated the story of the night before. When he had finished, he got dressed, walked to the window, and looked out through the curtains. He could see the three reporters sitting on the stairs again. He closed the curtains, then looked at the room service menu on the bedside table.
He dialed the number. “Hi there. Can I get three orders of pancakes, three western omelets, and a pitcher of coffee? Yeah, deliver it to the three men sitting on the steps outside room 203. I’m finishing something up and keeping them waiting for an interview. Bill it to my room. Yeah. Thanks.”
Twenty minutes later, Alex watched out the window as the food o
rder arrived and the reporters tried to figure out what was going on. While they spoke with the man from room service, Alex opened the door and crept down the walkway.
In the business center, he tried logging onto his work e-mail, but it had been shut down. He checked his personal e-mail and saw a message from James Stacy.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: I watched the video!
Date: September 18, 2002 5:12:15 PM EST
Alex-
Called you a couple times yesterday. Maybe I shouldn’t have, but I e-mailed myself a copy of that video the night you were in the newsroom with Camila. I just watched it. You NEED to get in touch with me.
I’ve started my own Web site. www.news-scoop.com. A whole site devoted to investigative reporting into the inner workings of the press. “All the news about the news.” Do you need a job?
My first act was getting someone to leak the records of the pay phone you asked about. I’m running the site from my apartment for now. My second act might be to run the copy of that video if you don’t get in touch with me soon.
James Stacy
CEO, news-scoop.com
Alex read the e-mail twice. “That little bastard,” he said under his breath, smiling.
* * *
At 9 a.m., Grady poked his head into the business center, trailed by another officer. “I think those reporters think you’re still in your room,” he said, patting Alex on the back and laughing.
“That’s the idea,” Alex said.
“Alex, this is Detective Aliouh. He’s here to take a report on what happened last night. Can we get your official statement?”
Alex led them past the reporters and back to the room, where he told Detective Aliouh everything he knew about Santiago, Rak, Martin, Downton, and Doyle. He connected Rak to the murders of Martin and Downton, and, finally, told them his theory about Macintosh Hollinger and Denver Bice.