The Violet Crow

by Michael Sheldon

  “OK,” said Randy. “How far is that?”

  “The Atlantic City Plaza is about seven miles past Egg Harbor. Less than 15 minutes from your current position.”

  “Roger. Out.” He turned to Bruno and said, “Get ready. That first toll plaza is going to be on top of us before you know it. If the state cops succeed in blockading it, we’re going to have a little situation to deal with.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “There are three probable scenarios. One, the fugitive surrenders; two, he stops and attempts to flee on foot; or three, he attempts some sort of evasive maneuver in his vehicle. All are potentially dangerous. So I want you to have your weapon ready and stand by to do what I tell you.”

  “In scenario three, what kind of evasive maneuver could he pull? Just try to blow through one of those parked cars?”

  Randy squeezed the wheel more tightly. “That works in the movies, but it’d be suicide at these speeds. No one in their right mind would try it.”

  “What if his car is specially—whatdya call it—armored or reinforced?”

  “If he gets through, we’ll nip in right behind him and keep following him till we catch him. But nobody has an armored car like that. At least not one that can handle these speeds.”

  Now it was Randy’s turn to look tense. Traffic was slowing as they approached the toll plaza. Jurevicius tried every trick he could think of, darting from lane to lane, and then sprinting ahead whenever there was a clearing.

  The buses were the biggest obstacles. Long and lumbering, they were generally transporting loads of gamblers to the casinos. In many cases the party had already started. People were delighted to see an actual police pursuit. They’d smile and wave, form their hands into the shape of a gun and pretend to shoot. Someone even flashed a real weapon.

  Randy eased back to a safe distance as they approached the plaza. He had Jurevicius in his sights and there was no point crowding him.

  “Can you tell if it’s barricaded?” he yelled with 200 yards to go.

  “I’m not sure. There are too many other cars.”

  Now there were 150 yards to go. Randy had throttled down to 50. The road was becoming congested as drivers chose their lanes. “The two inside lanes are definitely bottled up by big vans,” Bruno reported.

  With 100 yards left, the BMW sprinted out to the right. The far lane was still open, protected only by an orange cone. The toll collector was waving cars away, which effectively cleared a path for Jurevicius. He floored it and took the toll plaza at 100 miles per hour and was still accelerating. Randy did the same, but Jurevicius had a head start. Also Randy’s angle was more extreme. The Charger clipped a corner of the tollbooth on the way through. They had a clear view of Jurevicius pulling away from them in the four-lane final straightaway built over the marshes leading to Atlantic City.

  “What does he think he’s doing?” Randy shouted. Veins protruded on his neck and forehead. He floored the Charger and they shot ahead like a rocket. For the first time, Randy was pushing the engine right up to the red line, and the results were spectacular. They gained on the BMW as though it were standing still.

  “Remember, the next toll plaza’s in seven miles,” Bruno managed to mutter through gritted teeth.

  “Right. This race will be over in three minutes or less. Dr. Jurevicius will find he’s moving much slower in a six-by-nine cell.”

  The signs announced the exits for the Garden State Parkway, north and south, in one mile. Randy could have pulled into the BMW’s slipstream, but he chose to hold off, as the road appeared to be clear of other vehicles just ahead. In front of them, a tour bus lumbered along in lane two. Jurevicius was poised to pass in lane three—with Randy and Bruno close behind.

  Then, without warning, another car swerved in front of them. It was a dark green Subaru Forester with Washington plates, loaded with luggage and bicycles on top. They must have been stuck behind the bus and decided to pass it, moving into Randy’s lane without looking. Randy hit the brakes and managed to swerve in the nick of time. He swore, flashed his lights, and ground his siren. But the Subaru was oblivious. They weren’t even trying to pass the bus.

  “Goddamn cruise-control nitwits!” Randy screamed. “We’re losing Jurevicius.” Bruno looked over and saw teenagers in the backseat with mocking faces; they were flipping him the peace sign. Infuriated, he raised Randy’s .357 and started to roll down his window.

  “No time for that,” shouted Randy. He jerked the wheel to the left, which spun the Charger around the Subaru, and then accelerated, driving the engine as hard as it could go. “Do you see him? Do you see him?” he screamed as they pulled even with the bus.

  “Yeah,” said Bruno, deflated. “I see him.” Jurevicius had used the bus to cover his exit from the Expressway. He was winding down the off-ramp at a leisurely pace, onto the Garden State Parkway heading north.

  There was no way Randy could recover in time. The race was over.

  Chapter 64

  Randy was a sore loser. He always expected to win and had never developed the skills needed to accept defeat with grace or humor. He sulked all the way to Atlantic City.

  By contrast, Bruno approached life as a 50-50 proposition at best. When things didn’t work out, he took it for granted that someone, if not everyone, would blame him. As a result, he felt deeply guilty—and totally blameless—at the same time. This fundamental inner schism rendered him temporarily incapable of speech, which Randy interpreted as sulking. He figured Bruno was trying to lay the blame on him for letting Jurevicius escape.

  In fact, both men had wanted to continue the pursuit. After Jurevicius exited, Randy cut across three lanes of traffic and screeched to a halt on the shoulder. Bruno was terrified he’d attempt a U-turn; fortunately a solid concrete divider made that impossible. Instead, Randy slammed the Charger into reverse and drove along the shoulder at speeds approaching 40 miles per hour. Somehow they arrived at the off-ramp without incident.

  Then Randy radioed the Chief to explain the situation.

  “Break off pursuit,” came the reply.

  “What?” Randy exploded. “I can catch him. He’s headed north on the Parkway.”

  “You lost him,” said the Chief. “The State Patrol can handle it from here.”

  “I’ve come this far, no way I’m quittin’…” Randy sputtered.

  “I understand. Here’s the situation. We picked up some of the NewGarden security guards. You wouldn’t believe the weapons they’re carrying. State-of-the-art military-grade stuff. Late-model Russian Veresk submachine guns and high-powered Heckler and Koch sniper rifles. If Jurevicius has a couple guys like that with him, they could hold off a small army.”

  “He’s by himself,” Randy protested.

  “Randy, listen to me. You’re traveling with a civilian. Bruno has no training; we can’t put him in harm’s way. You guys are done for the day. Go have a drink or something. You did the best you could.”

  Randy practically destroyed his radio, slamming it down on the center console. Bruno wished he could just disappear. Somehow, the natural flow of traffic led them to the parking garage of Caesar’s Palace. From there they were drawn like stumbling zombies into the casino’s garish lobby, which combined reproductions of friezes from the Parthenon, mosaics from the Roman Forum, statues from St. Peter’s in the Vatican, and Baroque trompe l’oeil paintings. Finally, the sight of a 30-foot statue of Caesar Augustus, holding an American flag, broke the spell.

  “If I’d known that Jurevicius was going to get away,” scowled Randy, “I’d have let you go ahead and shoot those people in the Subaru.”

  “My mother drives the same way,” Bruno agreed sadly. “And what do they think they’re going to do with mountain bikes in New Jersey?”

  They drifted upstairs to one of the lounges that had slot machines built directly into the bar. They nursed a couple of beers, while Bruno fed a steady diet of quarters into the machine in front of him.

  “So what happened at th
e end of your story?” asked Randy.

  “What story?”

  “The ‘Yeah, boss’ one.”

  “Oh, Ganefs,” Bruno said listlessly. “Let’s see, Melvin—that’s the boss—kills Bumble so he doesn’t have to share the loot. He makes it to his secret desert island hideaway and he’s cackling with glee. But then he opens the package and, guess what? It’s a stink bomb.”

  Randy didn’t crack a smile. “Bumble’s fault, I take it?”

  “Yeah, he mixed up the packages …”

  Bruno had had enough. “What do you say we get out of here? Go for a walk on the boardwalk or something.”

  “Sure,” Randy agreed.

  Bruno put one last quarter in the slot, but it was another bust.

  “You didn’t win at all, did you?” Randy observed. “I’d have thought a psychic would have more control over winning and losing here.”

  “Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.”

  “Same with me,” Randy sniffed.

  Out on the boardwalk, the sun was shining and the sea breezes were invigorating. They wandered aimlessly. Bruno excused himself. He walked to the water’s edge and studied the surf, hoping Randy would pull himself together by the time he came back. No such luck.

  “Hey, look,” Randy called out with fake enthusiasm. “There’s a psychic, Madame Celeste. Let’s go see what she has to say.”

  “No way,” Bruno protested. “I’m not going in there. Look at that potted plant. Look at the pink vase …” Obviously, Randy was trying to humiliate him. But after several minutes of arguing, Bruno decided to humor him, hoping it might help the venom work its way through Randy’s system.

  Madame Celeste was a woman in her 50s, with dark eyes and dyed black hair piled up on top of her head. Her place was not much larger than a closet. Celeste was talking on a cell phone when they walked in; apparently she was trying to convince her daughter into going grocery shopping for her.

  Randy pressed a $20 bill into her hand and told her to read Bruno’s fortune. He was acting drunk, even though he’d had only one beer.

  “Why not you, sailor boy?” she leered. “Don’t you want to know your future?”

  “He’s the interesting one. I’m just a dumb cop.”

  “I can see that.” She turned to Bruno: “You don’t mind if he listens in? This could get personal.”

  “I’m resigned to my fate.”

  He sat down and Madame Celeste took his right hand in both of hers. She examined the back side, noting the shape of his cuticles, then turned it over, tracing the lines with her index finger.

  “This is some hand you’ve got.” She looked first at Bruno, then at Randy, then back at Bruno again. “Let me do the cards.” She reached for a tarot deck; Bruno cut the cards before she could even ask him and watched while she laid out a basic pattern. “Can you read it?”

  Bruno shook his head in the negative. “I can’t see my own future.”

  Madame Celeste sighed deeply. “I have to tell you, sweetheart, you better be ready to accept all kinds of good things coming your way. I see long life, good health, and a fabulous love life along with great wealth. You got the whole package, baby.”

  Randy couldn’t believe it. “You can’t be serious?”

  Madame Celeste ignored him. She shook Bruno’s hand and stroked it invitingly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Today is your lucky day.”

  “What a bunch of baloney,” Randy exploded when they were back on the boardwalk. “Admit it.”

  “I wasn’t the one who wanted to go in there,” Bruno retorted. “Without question, today is one of the worst days of my life. But I have to say I feel better after talking to her. That’s the kind of reading you need to give if you want repeat business.”

  Randy didn’t comment. As they wandered down the boardwalk, each casino or eating establishment was blaring music at high volume—a premonition of what to expect inside. Jungle drumming, country and western, Puerto Rican salsa bombarded them in turn. Finally Bruno caught sight of a friendly-looking restaurant, with its windows wide open so they could sit inside and still enjoy the ocean air. “Let’s grab some lunch before we head back,” he suggested. “I’m buying.”

  The restaurant was a Greek taverna called Penelope. Randy and Bruno grabbed stools at the counter looking out over the boardwalk and the beach. Behind them on a giant screen, Shakira wiggled her pupik while they munched on souvlaki sandwiches.

  By the time lunch was finished, their temperaments were restored to something approaching normal. Bruno felt comfortable enough to ask Randy for a favor: Would he mind driving him back through the Pines? That way he’d get home at least an hour earlier. He’d worry about his car later.

  Randy said it was no problem. He’d had enough of the Expressway to last him quite a while. The back roads would be a relief.

  They headed up Route 9, following the contours of Absecon Bay, home to marsh grass, thousands of gulls and egrets, and the occasional billboard. After about 10 miles, Route 9 dumped them onto the Garden State Parkway, which is the only road that crosses the Mullica River. The bridge spans a considerable length, perhaps a quarter or a half-mile, as the river broadens into an estuary. Bruno marveled at how empty it was, as if Atlantic City never existed. From the bridge, his view was unimpeded across the bay to the barrier islands beyond it.

  Then he saw something that made him stop. His heart was pounding so hard he wasn’t sure he could see straight. On the other side of the bridge was a rutted lane leading to what appeared to be an abandoned building. Next to it was a red speck that could only be Jurevicius’ car.

  Chapter 65

  Bruno was all for storming the house “without mercy or regret.” But Randy pointed out they needed to weigh certain strategic and tactical considerations before acting.

  “You want to sit here talking while who-knows-what goes on in there?”

  Randy coolly picked up his radio. He described their position and requested backup: “Make sure you alert the Coast Guard. We control the only road out of here, but they may have a boat.”

  He turned back to Bruno. “Right now, we don’t know how many men Jurevicius has with him. If he has even a couple that are armed like his other security people, then we have a serious situation on our hands.” Randy pulled out his weapon and checked the clip. “However, if we wait for backup, the odds shift dramatically in our favor.”

  “That’s fine, but these people are murderers. Alison may still be alive, and if we act now we’d have the element of surprise.”

  “Let me show you something,” said Randy. “Be quiet, keep low, and don’t shut the car door.” They had parked in a turnaround just off the main highway. It was, in fact, the beginning of the dirt road they’d seen from the bridge. “This line of trees along the water blocks our line of sight to the house. There are only two places we can go to get a good look. One is the bridge and the other is standing right next to the house. In both cases there’s no cover. The basic principle—if we can see them, they can see us—applies. To mount an effective assault, we need a plan. To develop a plan, we need surveillance. But we can’t do surveillance without being seen.”

  “But …”

  “I know what you’re going to say. I feel the same way; I’m ready to fight, right now. But we have to be smart about it.”

  “We can’t just sit around and wait …”

  “That’s what I’m trying to explain, if you’d just shut up. We do have an option, but it’s risky. We have to engage them in a delaying maneuver.”

  “Uh-oh.” Bruno was starting to see where this was leading.

  “We’ll try to get them to negotiate, keep them talking and stall for time. The more time they spend with us, the less time they have to prepare their escape.”

  “But what if they just shoot us …”

  “Yeah, that’d be a bummer. I told you this was risky. But in the past they’ve only attacked children … and your dog. And they seem to do it surreptitiously. When confro
nted by armed men, face to face, in broad daylight, I like our odds.”

  “You do? You just said they have superior firepower …” Bruno felt himself trembling. The fear was mounting and he couldn’t control it.

  “You’ve got a better weapon—up here.” Randy patted Bruno on the head, then let his hand rest on the psychic’s shoulder, trying to impart some of his courage through physical contact. “All you have to do is talk. It doesn’t even matter what you say. Just get them talking. I’ll cover you, and if shooting starts duck behind the car and pray the cavalry gets here in time. Whatdya say? It’s your call.”

  “My call?”

  “Yeah, your call. You’re the civilian. The Chief doesn’t want you involved in this stuff. But I can’t stop you if you want to do it.” He stepped back and looked Bruno in the eye. “Whatdya say?”

  “Yeah, boss.”

  Chapter 66

  The clearing had a name: Delano Landing. It was the point where the Mullica River began breaking up into various side channels, separated by small islands covered with marsh grass. It was a beautiful spot for bird-watching or fishing for striped bass in early spring. A painter would have been thrilled with the subtle shadings of green and yellow, contrasting with the white sands and the lead-gray waters of the bay.

  It was also a good spot for a shootout. The clearing was flat and open for 100 yards in every direction. A lonely spot, with no other buildings in sight, Hamilton and Burr could have used it for their duel—pistols at 15 paces—if they hadn’t been typical New Yorkers, insisting on staying close to the city.

  The house was built right at the water’s edge. It was an old wood frame structure with boarded-up windows. No Trespassing and No Littering signs were plastered across the exterior. At some point, a second story had been added. This was an awkward-looking addition, with only a few functioning windows. Behind the house was a yard enclosed by a galvanized metal fence about seven feet high. It appeared to contain various vehicles, old trucks, dredging equipment.

  When Jurevicius arrived he must have been in too much of a hurry to bother unlocking the gate. He’d parked the BMW about 25 yards from the house, front facing the water.