Kiss Her Goodbye (A Thriller)

by Robert Gregory Browne

  The last three photos were part of the set they’d found in Gunderson’s train car: typical tourist shots of Sara standing in front of the Lake Point Lighthouse.

  The final photo featured all three of them smiling for the camera, Sara, Luther, and Gunderson, arm in arm, taken by an unknown photographer.

  Donovan stared at Luther’s image for a long moment, then shifted his gaze to the camera atop the dresser. He’d lay odds it was the same one used to snap Jessie’s picture. Which meant that Luther and Gunderson had been in contact since the kidnapping.

  “He’s the link, Sidney. He knows where she’s buried.”

  “You don’t have to convince me,” Waxman said.

  39

  WAKE UP, JESSIE.

  Jessie … wake uhhh-up.

  … Jessie?

  JESSIE OPENED HER eyes, stared into the darkness. Every time she drifted away like that it got harder and harder to come back. Sleep always tugged at her, dragging her eyelids shut, making it soooo easy to give up and let the dreams take over.

  This last time, she and Lisa Simpson had been playing hopscotch on the sidewalk in front of Lisa’s house, while Bart watched them from an upstairs window. Jessie had felt uncomfortable under Bart’s gaze, but Lisa had told her not to sweat it.

  “He’s just jealous,” she’d said. “Nobody wants his key chain.”

  Then the angel called to her and Jessie woke up.

  She lay there, thinking of the dream, feeling the angel’s warmth soak through her body and shield her from the cold of the box.

  Without the angel she’d be dead. Jessie was sure of it.

  Her protector. Her savior. That’s what the angel was. Always pulling her back from the brink whenever she drifted off too far. Because if she drifted off too far, she’d never come back.

  Ever.

  At first, the angel was nothing but a voice. A sweet, melodic whisper that filled her dreams, telling her not to give up. Help was coming.

  “I know it looks bad,” the angel sang, “but the glass is half full, Jessie. That’s something you always have to remember. You’re Jessie Glass-Half-Full.”

  The voice grew stronger over time, louder, but no less melodic. A sweetness that soothed the soul.

  But this time, it was more than just a voice. Jessie had seen a face to go with it.

  She was playing with Lisa, worrying about Bart, when the sky grew dark and a full moon lit up the street and a face appeared on the side of the moon, a pale but beautiful young woman with melancholy eyes.

  Wake up, Jessie.

  Jessie … wake uhhh-up.

  Jessie had stared at her, thinking, I’ve seen you before. Where have I seen you?

  Then her eyes opened and the face was gone, and the darkness of the box spilled into her consciousness and she was once again alone and frightened and wanting to cry, but at the same time feeling that she wasn’t alone, that the angel was watching over her.

  Glass half full, Jessie thought. Glass half full.

  Then she remembered where she’d seen the angel’s face, and she knew, with irrefutable certainty, that everything would be all right. The glass wasn’t just half full, it was filled to the brim and spilling over. Two, three, four glasses couldn’t contain the optimism that flowed through her veins.

  But as soon as she thought this, Jessie Glass-Half-Empty reared her ugly head again like some horror-movie demon who can’t be killed. No matter how many times you strike her down, she rises up, over and over, stronger and more determined than ever.

  Don’t waste your energy, kid. Hope is for fools.

  Nobody’s gonna find you, not way down here. There’s only so much oxygen in those tanks and sooner or later it’ll all be gone and then what are you gonna do? Huh?

  You’re gonna die, that’s what.

  Die, die, die.

  Hell … you’re already dead.

  40

  DONOVAN AND WAXMAN were coming out of Luther’s bedroom when Darcy Payne approached, a sour look on her face. She nodded toward the open front door. “We’ve got company.”

  A government-issue sedan sat outside, a quartet of suits emerging from it. In the lead were Alan Doyle, Donovan’s immediate superior, and Joe Robledo, head of the local Field Division. Robledo rarely left his desk, and his presence here was nothing but bad news.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Donovan said, thinking of Jessie.

  “Easy, Jack,” Waxman said. “It’s not what you think. I called them.”

  Donovan turned. “You?”

  “We’ve been keeping the lines open ever since you went off the bridge. They insisted.”

  It was a standard enough request, but bypassing Donovan was a blatant breach of protocol. Donovan was the task force leader.

  Waxman raised his hands in defense. “You didn’t have time for their bullshit, remember?”

  Not then and not now, Donovan thought. But for Waxman to go behind his back like this was disconcerting at best. How much had he told them?

  Donovan felt like a bug under a magnifying lens, and the heat was rising.

  Sensing his discomfort, Waxman nodded toward the approaching quartet. The two in the rear were unknowns, probably from Washington. “They just want to talk,” Waxman said. “Get a reading on the situation.”

  “Sure,” Donovan told him. “That’s why they came all the way out here. To talk.”

  ROBLEDO WAS THE spokesman, and like many agents at his level of command, he was an officious, smarmy prick. “First, Jack, let me say how sorry we are about this whole situation.”

  It was clear to Donovan that they already thought Jessie was a lost cause. They’d never admit this, of course, not even to each other, but it was in their eyes, and in the tone of their voices. The twenty-four hour mark had officially passed, and everyone knew what that meant.

  Donovan resented them for it.

  No, scratch that.

  He wanted to hurt them.

  They stood in Marilyn Polanski’s kitchen, the five of them, away from the civilians and Donovan’s team. The two unknowns had been introduced as Crow and Panitch—both, as Donovan had suspected, from D.C. They looked like twins, with their close-cropped haircuts and charcoal gray suits. Pursuant to departmental mandate, they oozed superiority.

  “And I assure you,” Robledo went on, “we aren’t here to muck up this investigation.”

  Muck? Donovan thought. Who the hell says muck? “Then why are you here?”

  Doyle took his turn. “We’ve given you a lot of leeway, Jack. Let you run with the ball even when there was a clear conflict of interest.”

  “Conflict of interest?” Donovan said, his voice rising. “Is that what you’re calling this?”

  Now Crow chimed in. “With all due respect, Agent Donovan, there’s no need to be argumentative.”

  Donovan turned. “How’s this for argumentative?” he said. “Fuck you.”

  Then he lost control.

  Grabbing Crow by the lapels, he jerked him forward. Crow’s eyes got big and the others were on top of Donovan in a flash, hands locking on to his arms, dragging him toward a chair, Robledo shouting, “Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!” as Donovan struggled to break free.

  They sat him down, hard, the chair groaning beneath him, and somewhere in that moment he found his balance and immediately stopped struggling.

  “All right, all right!” he said. “I’m okay.”

  They released him, breathing hard, suits rumpled, ties askew.

  Crow carefully straightened his jacket, then cleared his throat. “Feeling better now?”

  Donovan looked up at him. “Why don’t you ask Sidney? He seems to have a pretty good handle on my state of mind.”

  Quick glances around the room.

  “I think you’ve already answered any questions we might have,” Crow said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Now Panitch spoke up, delivering what sounded like a well-rehearsed speech. “The bureau has specific standards and procedures, Agent D
onovan, and you’ve violated a number of them. First, you assault a suspect, then a police officer, then you drive so recklessly you almost get yourself killed—”

  Not almost, Donovan thought.

  “—and now you attack a superior officer. We understand that you’re under a lot of stress. Anyone in your position would be—which is why we’re willing to overlook a few transgressions. But policy clearly dictates that we do what we should have done hours ago and remove you from this case.”

  “In short,” Crow said, delivering the final, unnecessary blow, “you’re relieved of your command until further notice.”

  The four men braced themselves for Donovan’s reaction, but he surprised them by not reacting at all. He just sat there, numb.

  So there it was.

  He’d known this was coming. Had known it even before he saw them getting out of their car. Before Waxman had taken it upon himself to call them.

  And none of it mattered.

  Did they really think that relieving him of his command would make a difference? He was a father first, a federal agent second—a sentiment he might not have agreed with a couple of months ago. Now, there was no doubt about it, and shunting him aside would not keep him from doing what had to be done.

  “I know this is tough,” Doyle said, putting a hand on Donovan’s shoulder, face full of brotherly concern. “Nobody likes to do this to a fellow agent. But you’ve got to have faith in us. We have people coming in from all over the country to help us find your daughter. You’re not alone by any stretch of—”

  “Shut up, Alan,” Donovan said. “Do us all a favor and just shut the fuck up.”

  HE WAS ON the sidewalk and halfway to the car when Waxman caught up to him. “Jack, wait.”

  “I’ve got nothing to say to you, Sidney.”

  “You think I wanted this?”

  “I don’t know what to think,” Donovan said, picking up speed. “Congratulations on your new command.”

  “Come on, Jack, that isn’t fair and you know it.”

  Donovan stopped, turned. “Fuck fair, Sidney. Who gives a damn about fair?” He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks. “My daughter’s missing and all these chowderheads care about are a couple of bullshit procedural violations.”

  “They’re just following protocol.”

  “You think that makes it go down any smoother? I don’t exactly get off on being looked at like I’m some kind of freak.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I’m sure you all got a nice big laugh over Wacky Jacky’s adventures on the other side.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Waxman said. “You think I’m that big of a fool? Tell ’em something like that and they’ll be sizing us both up for straitjackets.”

  Donovan glared at him, then continued toward the car.

  Waxman moved after him. “Jack, come on.”

  Donovan reached the driver’s door, threw it open, and climbed in. Waxman caught it before he could close it. “What do you want from me? You want me to say I’m sorry? Then I’m sorry.”

  Donovan looked up at him. “Screw the apologies.”

  “What, then?”

  “It’s simple. Either you bend a few of their precious rules and work with me, or you waste another twenty-four hours getting jerked off by a bunch of desk jockeys who couldn’t find their asses in a bathtub with two flashlights and a pair of goggles.” He started the engine. “The choice is yours.”

  Waxman sighed. Donovan knew he was considering the effect this might have on his career, but he wasn’t sure what the problem was. This was about Jessie. Either you do the right thing or you don’t.

  He was about to give up on him when Waxman sighed again and said, “I suppose you have some plan of action in mind?”

  Donovan killed the engine. “Don’t I always?”

  41

  MR. NEMO?”

  The guy behind the glass was either a spic or a Jew, Nemo couldn’t figure which. He was short, had a faggy little goatee and wire-rim glasses. When Nemo took a closer look, he’d swear there was a bit of slant to the eyes behind them.

  The guy was a mutt, no doubt about it, but that didn’t matter. Nemo wouldn’t trust him if he was Idaho white.

  It was close to 6 p.m. on Nemo’s second day in custody and they were sitting in the reception room of the U.S. marshals’ lockup, where he’d been staying ever since that crazy motherfucker Donovan had stuck a gun up his nose.

  The reception room wasn’t particularly receptive—a couple rows of cubbyholes that faced each other with a giant window of safety glass between them. Prisoner and visitor spoke over phones, a scene Nemo had watched at least a hundred different times on television—and replayed a few himself.

  The guy behind the glass was waiting for a response. When he didn’t get one, he said, “You are Robert Nemo, aren’t you?”

  “You asked for me, didn’t you?”

  “Uh, yes. Yes, I did.”

  “So who the fuck else would I be?” Nemo had no patience for retards.

  The guy took a business card from his breast pocket and pressed it up against the glass. “Simon Escalante,” he said. “Your attorney?”

  Nemo squinted at the card, saw the name above the words ASST. FEDERAL PUBLIC DEFENDER, and groaned inwardly, thinking, now I’m fucked. Another shit-fer-brains mouthpiece who couldn’t make it in the real world. The last public defender he’d had managed to get him five years in stir.

  Escalante returned the card to his pocket. “You did request an attorney, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah,” Nemo said with a decided lack of enthusiasm. “I just didn’t think anyone was listening.”

  “Guess you were wrong about that. I may have some good news for you.”

  “Oh?” Nemo figured this probably meant he’d get chocolate pudding on his dinner tray tonight, because on every other level he was about as fucked as you can get. Not even the late great Johnnie Cochran could change that.

  “Do you know anything about federal criminal law, Mr. Nemo?”

  “What’s to know?” Nemo said. The way he saw it, the only difference between a state and a federal rap was the color of your jumpsuit. The bunks in the marshals’ lockup were just as uncomfortable, and you still had to watch your backside in the showers.

  “Title Eighteen, Section Five, of the criminal code prohibits holding a suspect in custody longer than twenty-four hours,” Escalante said. “Seems the Feds dumped you in here, then promptly forgot about you. That, coupled with the testimony of two eyewitnesses who say they saw you grievously manhandled by federal agents, makes a compelling case for your immediate release.”

  Nemo stared at him. Somebody had actually seen those assholes attack him in the alley? “You gotta be shittin’ me.”

  “I shit you not,” Escalante said, and smiled. “I’ve asked the court for a hearing, and I expect to be in front of a judge within ten minutes.”

  “Isn’t it a little late for court?”

  “This is an emergency situation. All I need is your signature.”

  “Signature?” Nemo said, balking. “I’m not signing any friggin’ confession, if that’s what you’re thinking. Nice try, asshole.”

  “Please, Mr. Nemo, I’m on your side. And if I have anything to say about it, there won’t be a single confession in your future. What I need you to sign is a waiver.”

  “What the hell’s a waiver?”

  “A simple document that says you waive your right to appear in court this evening.”

  Nemo frowned. “Why would I want to do that?”

  “Because,” Escalante said, “if you insist on being present for the hearing, the marshal will have to prep you for delivery to the courtroom and delay the proceedings for an indeterminate amount of time. If it takes too long, the judge may postpone until a later date—and I’d like to get you out of here as soon as possible.”

  The guy was still smiling. Nemo studied him a moment, thinking there was something wrong with this pi
cture. He was up for bank robbery, aggravated assault, and multiple murder charges. And hadn’t the Feds just told him they considered him some kind of homegrown terrorist?

  Nemo might not know much about federal law, but he’d watched enough Fox News to know that thanks to a bunch of towel-heads on crack, the Feds routinely locked up terrorism suspects and threw away the key—all without charges or even the benefit of some retard lawyer. So what made Robert Edward Nemo so friggin’ special?

  Escalante said, “You’re probably a little wary, Mr. Nemo, and I can understand that. But it turns out the Feds have made some major mistakes in handling this case and the lead investigator has just been relieved of his command.”

  “What?” Nemo wasn’t sure he’d heard him right. “Jackass Donovan?”

  “I believe his legal name is John,” Escalante said.

  Yessss, Nemo thought, feeling a sudden surge of triumph. Make that motherfucker skip recess and stand in a corner.

  “Since Agent Donovan is the only eyewitness who can connect you to the Northland First and Trust incident, the Department of Justice is in a bit of a bind.”

  Holy Jesus. The ski masks. Nobody but Donovan had seen him without that sweaty-assed ski mask. Thank yoooou, Luther, you big, ugly bastard. The masks had been his idea.

  “Needless to say,” Escalante continued, “they’re scrambling to cover their asses.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “They’re fighting very hard to keep you in custody. Fortunately, the law’s on our side. I don’t think I’ll have much trouble convincing the judge to cut you loose.”

  “What about the MP5?” Nemo said.

  “The what?”

  “The weapon they found.”

  “Ahh,” Escalante said, nodding. “It seems their warrant only covered you and not Ms. Devito’s apartment. Any weapons they recovered were the fruits of an illegal search and, as such, can no longer be used as evidence against you.”

  “Halle-fuckin-lujah,” Nemo said.

  “Don’t start celebrating too soon,” Escalante warned. “You’re not completely out of the woods. If the Feds can put together a strong enough case, you could be back in here as early as tomorrow afternoon.”