“Nothing right now, Jack. My parents just arrived.”
“Jesus, Jen, I don’t know what to say other than my thoughts and prayers are with you and the kids. I’ll call this afternoon to see if there’s anything I can do.”
Without waiting for her reply, Jack hit the end button on the cell phone, staring at Kate in disbelief. She knew what he was thinking as she turned away from the police station.
Detective Anson parked her department-issued Chevy Impala on the south side of Adair’s, a dive bar and burger joint that predated its hip, Deep Ellum surroundings by nearly thirty years. Jack looked over at the detective questioningly.
“I think we should talk further before we go to the station,” Kate said.
They entered the dingy restaurant from Main Street. It was still relatively early this sunny Saturday morning, but a handful of Adair’s regulars were already drinking beer and playing pool. They grabbed a corner booth and stared at each other, wondering who would start.
Finally Kate broke the silence. “You know, in all my years as a homicide detective, your story is the most outrageous that I have ever heard. But, for some strange reason, I believe you.”
“Well, it’s way too wild to make up,” Jack said, smiling a little. “I can’t believe this is happening. Just a few months ago, I was a regular guy going to work every day, reading about things that happen to other people. Now, this morning, Carrie was murdered by a car bomb meant for me.” Jack bowed his head and began to cry.
After a few minutes Kate touched his arm and said, “I’m very sorry about your girlfriend, Jack. I know it’s not possible to understand how you’re feeling right now, so I won’t even tell you I’m trying. But I do know that if your story is accurate, and I believe it is, we’ve got to do something … quickly.”
“Got any ideas?” Jack asked, trying to regain his composure.
“Yes, here’s what we’re going to do. You and I go to the station. I take your statement as the lead investigator on the case. You profess to have no idea why anyone would want to hurt you. With no evidence to link you to a crime, we’ll have to let you go. That will give me time to reach Frank Lahey who’s the assistant chief of police. He’s also a friend of my father’s; in fact, he’s like a second father to me. He’s hunting this weekend, but he’ll be back late Sunday night.”
Jack watched in amazement as Kate Anson rattled off the plan while barely taking a breath.
“Then, once I hook you up with Uncle Frank, you two can figure out what to do about that sonofabitch Will Hawkins.”
“What about you?” Jack asked.
“I think you’ll need a little more firepower than just another female detective in the homicide department … if you know what I mean,” she said, smiling.
“Why are you doing this?” Jack asked again, not knowing what to think of her or the situation.
“Well, let’s just say I had a bad experience with our illustrious Senator Hawkins that helps me believe your story.”
“What happened?” he asked.
“It’s not important,” she responded. “Let’s just make sure we nail him.”
twenty-eight
Ian McKay was strolling down the concourse at Austin-Bergstrom International Airport. The airport was new and clean and had a certain charm about it. As he passed the sculpture claiming Austin as the world’s greatest music city, it made him wish he were here for sightseeing, not old and unpleasant family business. McKay had come to the Texas capital with a plan to ensure he was right up front at the conclusion of Senator Will Hawkins’s upcoming Austin campaign speech, as listed on his campaign website. He needed to be in a position to pass the good senator a note. The note would be simple and to the point:
You killed my brother in London many years ago.
I know who you are.
I want $25 million.
Contact the McSorley room at the Austin Four Seasons.
As McKay exited the airport, he hailed a cab so he could head downtown. He was staying at the Driskill Hotel on Sixth Street. In addition to its millions of dollars in recent renovations, the Driskill was famous for its party location and for a certain governor’s wife’s legendary entrance to a long-past New Year’s Eve Ball. It seems the governor’s wife had started drinking a little early and tripped at the top of the grand staircase in the lobby, tumbling to the bottom as helpless onlookers waited to see if she was injured or dead. She rose to her feet, straightened her gown, raised her arms above her head, and yelled, “Ta da!” The crowd cheered, and no one even noticed the governor slowly descend the staircase, shaking his head.
Ian McKay arrived at the Driskill around noon. As luck would have it, a room was available for early check-in, and he immediately changed into running clothes so that he could inconspicuously scope the next day’s speech location. Ian walked out of the hotel’s front door, looked left, and began running down Sixth Street, nearly abandoned at this time of day. When he reached Congress, he turned right and was heading straight toward the state capitol. As he closed in on the steps of the capitol, Ian slowed to a walk, taking in the surroundings. The setup for the campaign rally had already begun. He used his reconnaissance experience to anticipate the security plans. It was already clear in his mind where they would place the stage, where the crowd would be located, and, most importantly, where the candidate would greet his well-wishers.
The plan was now complete in McKay’s mind. He would rise early and stay close to the assembly area until the crowd began to form. Once enough people had arrived, he would find a spot right against the temporary fence and wait patiently until the unwitting candidate walked right up to him and shook his hand.
Jack McCarthy and Kate Anson had finished their restaurant conversation and decided it was time to make their appearance at Dallas Police Headquarters. As they entered the station through the main door on Commerce Street, they were intercepted by a large, middle-aged man in a suit that looked like he’d been wearing it for the past year and a half. The man was Brian Hatcher, the head of DPD’s Narcotics division for more than ten years. “We’ll take it from here, Kate.”
Kate Anson was stunned. “What are you talking about, Brian? This is my case, and I’m not even sure why Narcotics would be involved.”
“Well, I guess you didn’t have time to read the paper this morning. Mr. McCarthy here is suspected of and now under investigation for his involvement in a major drug trafficking ring.”
Kate shot a nasty look at Jack, whose mouth hung open with shock and amazement.
Kate quickly recovered. “Brian, regardless of the motive, this is still a murder investigation. The last time I checked, that would be Homicide’s jurisdiction.”
“Well, normally I would agree, Kate. But the high-profile nature of the suspect, coupled with his employer’s very public stance against drugs, has backed the chief into a corner. He wants to find this trafficking ring and dismantle it. Quickly.”
Kate Anson was pissed. Jack McCarthy had used her. He had played her like a fiddle, and that was emotionally devastating because she had opened up to him, which was a very rare occurrence in her personal or professional life. To top it off, the egomaniacs from Narcotics were stealing her case, and it was obvious there was very little she could do about it. So, as both men stared at her, waiting for the inevitable explosion of anger, she instantly decided she would not humor them with the expected response. As she eyed each of the men coldly, she turned on her heel and began to walk away.
As she looked over her shoulder, she shot back a sarcastic, “Good luck.”
Neither of the men was sure whom it was directed toward.
When Kate had disappeared around the corner, Brian Hatcher turned to Jack and issued him the Miranda rights. When he was done, he silently, gently turned Jack around and handcuffed him.
As Hatcher led Jack to the first-floor interrogation room, Jack turned and asked, “What the fuck is going on here? I have no knowledge of any drug smuggling operation, and you know i
t.”
“I’m just following orders, Mr. McCarthy. I’m sure if you are innocent, the justice system will issue the appropriate verdict. But until then, I suggest you get yourself a good lawyer.” With that, Hatcher shoved Jack into a barren room with two chairs, a table, and a government-issue two-way mirror. As the door closed behind him, Jack was left with his thoughts of loneliness and helplessness. He thought about Carrie and began to sob.
Brian Hatcher entered his office and closed the door. He dialed the numbers provided to him earlier that morning. When he heard the familiar tone indicating it was time to speak, his message was brief and to the point.
“It’s done. He’s in interrogation room 1B.”
Hatcher smiled to himself. That was the easiest $100,000 he’d ever made.
twenty-nine
Greg Larson and Tom Johnson were scheduled to meet on Saturday afternoon to discuss Larson’s progress on the Will Hawkins series. What they hadn’t expected was the incident earlier that morning that had completely reshaped the approach to the high-profile assignment given to Larson.
“This is absolutely unbelievable!” Larson exclaimed, almost out of breath. “This morning I’m meeting John Sterling for breakfast to discuss his research progress.” Larson paused to gather his thoughts. “Sterling’s awesome, by the way. Anyway, he shares with me the small article in the Metro section of the Free Press regarding McCarthy’s alleged drug ties, and by the time we finish breakfast, McCarthy’s car has exploded with his girlfriend in it. Looks like Jack has some really nasty friends.”
Johnson nodded. “Yeah, it looks like he’s in pretty deep. But he sure doesn’t appear to be your typical drug trafficker.”
“I agree, Tom. That’s why I’m adamantly opposed to using my byline to report on this situation.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me! A top aide to the front-running Democratic candidate is involved in drug trafficking, his girlfriend blows up in his car in a trendy Dallas neighborhood, and you’re going to take a pass? I can’t believe what I’m hearing!”
“I know I’m leaving you hanging here, Tom, but if I do this story, I can’t reel in the big one. I want an exclusive with Will Hawkins, and if I have any involvement in negatively impacting the campaign via this McCarthy story, he’ll deny me.”
Johnson contemplated Larson’s reasoning. “He might deny you anyway. Then you have nothing.”
At that moment, Larson considered sharing the Will Hawkins/Carlos Pendrill connection with Johnson but quickly decided against it. “I think I can get him, Tom. In fact, I’m staking my career on it.”
“What do you have that you’re not telling me about?”
Greg smiled. “Nothing yet, Tom. But with the help of Chambers’s buddy Sterling, I’m hoping that’s going to change very quickly.”
The discussion surrounding Jack McCarthy’s involvement in drug trafficking and the death of his girlfriend lasted another ten minutes. Tom Johnson knew that he was not going to persuade Larson to do the story. Finally, he relented and agreed to assign the piece to someone else.
Larson smiled. “Thanks, Tom; you’re not going to regret this. When I finish this one, Chambers will have the Pulitzer Prize he’s been coveting since my last one.”
Both men laughed.
“Well, I hope you’re right, Greg. It’ll be both our asses if this plan backfires. So do me a favor; bring home the big one, and make us both look smart.”
“Deal,” Larson quickly conceded, lost in his own thoughts.
Will Hawkins and Carlos Pendrill, roommates and friends in graduate school. Larson knew that would make some news. And now this McCarthy thing. What a tangled web Hawkins had woven.
Tom Johnson watched Larson as he stared off into space. He couldn’t help but wonder what was going on in the reporter’s odd, brilliant mind.
Jack McCarthy watched his interrogator and couldn’t help but view him as a movie character. The detective was balding and twenty pounds overweight, with a well-worn dress shirt and his tie loosened to give his thick neck some extra room. The detective was doing his best “good cop” imitation, including taking Jack’s handcuffs off.
The one thing that wasn’t dreamlike during his incessant questioning was the primal fear Jack felt as the detective made statements like, “You mean to tell me you are in no way associated with the Torres drug ring? I read the papers, Jack. I also know that it’s extremely rare for innocent citizens to have their cars rigged with explosives. Give me a break, man. I want to help you find the guys who blew up your car.”
Jack was about to respond by telling the detective to get him a lawyer when the interrogation room door burst open.
Two men in dark suits, white shirts, and black ties entered the room. They were big, impeccably dressed, and very official-looking.
As they closed the door behind them, the Dallas Police Department detective exclaimed, “Who the hell are you?”
“FBI,” answered the first man. “We’ve been ordered to pick up Mr. McCarthy. This is now a federal case.”
“Like hell it is!” answered the detective. “No one told me to release this suspect to anyone.”
“Listen, sir, we’re just following orders.”
The man continued to speak as he approached the detective.
“Now we can do this the easy way, or,” and as smoothly as if he were still carrying on a casual conversation, the man delivered one open-handed blow to the detective’s neck, dropping him like a limp rag doll.
Jack was stunned. But before he could recover, the second man expertly put a small, well-concealed pistol in his back and said, “All right, McCarthy, it’s time for you to come with us.”
Jack felt numb. He had no idea how to react. But as the two men marched him out of the interrogation room toward the front entrance, he began to yell. “Something is wrong here, people! These men are taking me against my will. They are not FBI. They must be working for Will Hawkins.”
Jack was perplexed. No one seemed to pay any attention to his ranting and raving. Then it dawned on him that he had played it exactly the way they had hoped—just another criminal exclaiming his innocence. No one in the station noticed because it happened every day. In fact, his reaction to the men escorting him out of the building ended up being the perfect cover.
Once outside, the two men grabbed Jack and manhandled him toward a nondescript black sedan. Jack had no idea what to do. However, he was convinced that if they got him in the car, there was a good chance he was done. So, without thinking through it any further, Jack struck like a cornered animal. His first black-belt move was to disarm the man with the gun in his back. Jack quickly stepped to the side, grabbing the gunman by the wrist. Using the man’s own mass against him, he swung him toward the street, dislocating his shoulder as if he were a mannequin. The man dropped the gun into the gutter and fell to the ground in excruciating pain.
This move, however, had given the other aggressor time to react. He lunged at Jack, grabbing his throat with all his strength. The imposter agent was big and extremely strong but only marginally skilled at the martial arts. While in a significant amount of pain, Jack patiently waited for the appropriate moment and again used the man’s own weight against him. Jack dropped to one knee and rolled the man to his right. In one expert move that surprised even Jack, the man was on his back. Jack gave him two short jabs to the jaw, knocking him unconscious.
Jack got to his feet quickly and scanned the area for more trouble. Surprisingly, the street was relatively quiet, and no one seemed to notice the brief scuffle. The gunman with the dislocated shoulder was beginning to regain his composure, so Jack took off in a sprint. Fifteen yards later, as he rounded the corner onto Harwood Street, Jack slowed to a brisk walk to avoid undue attention.
Just when he thought he was in the clear, a female voice from behind said, “Stop right where you are; you’re under arrest.”
Jack was about to explain when a car squealed quickly around the corner, causing Kate Anson to tur
n, startled by the commotion. At nearly the same moment, Jack acted out of sheer instinct, tackling Kate to the ground just as an automatic weapon opened fire, spraying the building wall behind them with dozens of bullets. As the car continued to hurtle down the street, Kate jumped to her feet, confused by the activity of the past few seconds. Then she quickly regained her composure and realized that an attempt had just been made on both their lives. Without a spoken word, the two looked into each other’s eyes and dashed for her car at the corner.
thirty
Will Hawkins and John Rollins were together in Hawkins’s downtown office. Will sat facing the telephone while Rollins paced back and forth. The voice coming through the telephone speaker box was Detective Brian Hatcher. As the conversation progressed, the agitation and intensity in the room grew exponentially. Finally, the information being delivered became too much for Rollins. He sprang toward the phone like a lion pouncing on its prey. His face was no more than twelve inches from the speakerphone.
“Do you mean to tell me that not only are you so incompetent that your two highly trained men let McCarthy escape, but then your solution was to gun him down on the street while he’s in the presence of another police officer? You must be the stupidest fucking detective to ever get a badge. What were you thinking?”
“McCarthy told her everything,” Hatcher responded. “She came to see me right after I made the call. She told me how stupid she felt believing his far-fetched story, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was telling the truth. The plan was to get her later and just have her disappear, but circumstances out of my control put them at the same place at the same time, so we went for it.”
“And missed,” Rollins added sarcastically. “I’ll call you back.”
With that, Rollins punched the button on the speakerphone, ending the call abruptly.
Will Hawkins sat quietly. He had not participated in the conversation because they did not want Hatcher to know he was there. The look on his face told the whole story. He was angry, scared, and frustrated all at the same time.
The Labyrinth Campaign Page 11