15 Seconds

by Andrew Gross

  Carrie hugged a few people hello as she made her way back to her office. This was harder than she’d thought. Everyone was tiptoeing around on eggshells, not wanting to say the wrong thing: “How are you doing?” “So great to have you back!” And, of course, “How’s Raef?”

  “He’s doing really well,” she replied, as upbeat as she could. “He’s at my folks’.” It seemed the best thing for a while that he remain with her parents in Atlantic Beach, which was closer to the hospital. “We hope to have him back in school soon.”

  Of course, no one mentioned Rick—except just to shake their heads, eyes glossing over a little, and to say how sorry they were.

  “Well, you give that boy a big hug from me!”

  She ran the gauntlet of well-wishers back to her desk. She found a card there—signed by most of the office, detectives and administration. Great to have you back! That brought a little tear to her eye. And made her smile.

  So did the handful of photos that were still on her shelf. Rick finishing the Marine Corps Marathon in D.C. last year. In 3:51:29. His personal best, by far! Raef looking very ferocious in his pee wee football gear. That nice one of the three of them at her folks’ last Thanksgiving. All decked out.

  Carrie felt herself starting to get sad.

  She looked at the mountain of files and memorandums that had been arranged on her desk by Andrea Carson, her deputy, and then the phone started to ring: people she dealt with on the force and even a local press contact, all glad to hear she was back. She started to read through a few of the files, trying to catch up on what was happening. She knew she’d have to ease herself back into the routine.

  Andrea knocked on her door, folders in hand. “You ready?”

  “Ready.” Carrie nodded with a smile. “Come on in.”

  That’s when she noticed that a crowd had gathered underneath the TV in the detectives’ bullpen. Things seemed to have gotten a little hectic. Lots of people running around.

  She stood up, the captain’s office door had been closed a long time now. Then she saw the chief, the new chief, with whom she’d hoped to grab a couple of minutes, heading out of the office with Cam Winfield, the department’s press liaison—not looking at all as if “community outreach” was high on his list of priorities right now.

  Something had happened!

  Carrie stepped out and found Robyn, Chief Hall’s secretary. “What’s going on?”

  “Didn’t you hear?” Robyn’s eyes were wet with tears. “One of our guys was just shot on the street. Killed.”

  “Oh no . . .” Carrie’s blood came to a halt. “Who?”

  “A patrol officer out of Southeast. Named Martinez.” The chief’s secretary sadly shook her head.

  “Robert Martinez?” Carrie sucked in a painful breath. She knew Martinez. She’d worked with him once or twice, in Brentwood, on a community center there. He was a part-time basketball coach. He had a wife and a couple of kids. “On the street?” she asked Robyn.

  “Shot. Point-blank. After a routine traffic stop.” The chief’s assistant shook her head. “Right in his car.”

  “Oh God . . .” Carrie felt her stomach fall. She tried to recall, Jacksonville hadn’t had an officer killed in the line of duty for at least a couple of years. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do . . .” she said, and shook her head kind of uselessly. “Please . . .”

  She went back to her desk, an empty feeling in her gut. She went on the KJNT news website and brought up a live feed from the scene. “Police Officer Reportedly Killed on Lakeview Drive,” the headline read. The shot was from an airborne copter cam. Carrie minimized it and brought up Martinez’s “green screen.” There were several commendations. One censure years ago for excessive force that was never prosecuted. She thought of his wife, Marilyn. She would call her. She knew firsthand how tough this was going to be.

  “Carrie?”

  Bill Akers stuck his head inside her workstation. Akers was her boss, a captain, in charge of operations, and her department reported in to him.

  Carrie stood up. “I just heard . . .”

  “Listen, Carrie . . .” Akers blew out a breath. “I know it’s your first day back and all . . .”

  “Don’t worry about that,” she answered. “What can I do?”

  “We’re setting up a hotline. A lot of personnel are in the field or following up on leads. We’ve got a manhunt going. You mind manning a phone? Anyone calls in who seems legit, take down their info. A detective will get back to them as soon as they can.”

  “Of course I’ll take a phone,” Carrie said. “Whatever you need. Is there a . . .”

  “Suspect . . .” Akers filled in. “Yeah, we have a suspect. We’ve got a picture of him on the screen now.”

  He led her over to a terminal in the detectives’ bullpen and showed her a head shot from Florida Motor Vehicles. “Apparently the guy caused a ruckus after Martinez pulled him over for running a light. He’s driving a white, rented Caddie. Name of Steadman. Henry. The guy’s a doctor, if you can imagine. Some big-shot plastic surgeon from down in Palm Beach.”

  “We’re sure?” Carrie stared back at the screen. The suspect had a nice face. Bright, intelligent eyes. Wavy, long brown hair. Stylish glasses. A warm smile. Successful, nice-looking plastic surgeons generally didn’t fit the profile of a cop murderer.

  “Damn sure.” The captain nodded firmly. “Bastard just fled the fucking scene.”

  Chapter Five

  I drove, accelerator pressed to the floor, in a state between bewilderment and outright panic.

  The front windshield had a spiderweb crack and my right rear passenger window was completely shattered, glass splayed all over my lap. My pulse felt like it was in an atomic accelerator and my heart had crawled so high up my throat I could have reached in and pulled it out. I had no idea where I was heading. Just away. Away from Rowley and those trigger-happy cops.

  I looked at my hands on the steering wheel and they were shaking like branches in a storm.

  Okay, Henry, okay . . . What do I do now?

  It was clear I had to turn myself in, but I had to find a way that wouldn’t end up getting me killed. I ran through all the possibilities of where to go, whom I could trust. And only one person came to mind.

  Mike. Whom I was supposed to be meeting for golf in a little more than an hour!

  He was a lawyer . . . A real estate lawyer, perhaps, but he’d have partners, contacts. I knew he was very well connected in town. He’d know what to do. No one could possibly logically believe that I was a cop killer.

  I thought, if I could simply get to him, he’d be able to negotiate a safe handover. I couldn’t have killed Martinez. I had no motive, no gun . . . ? I didn’t even own a gun! I hadn’t even shot one since . . . I racked my brain. Since camp, for God’s sake! When I was a kid!

  I’d been to Mike’s home once. I remembered that it was in an upscale section of town. Avondale, he’d told me. I was already supposed to meet him there. He’d mentioned that it wasn’t too far from Atlantic Pines. Which meant I couldn’t be too far from him now.

  Meanwhile, I had cops on my tail and I was driving a shot-up car.

  The residential road I was on was coming to an end, leading into a more commercial thoroughfare. I made a right, and anxiously drove a block or two, then pulled into the first business I saw—a Sherwin-Williams paint store—and wove around to a lot behind the store.

  I figured I was safe here for a short while. But I knew I couldn’t go on in this car. It was a mess, and every cop in the city would be looking for it.

  I grabbed my cell and brought up Mike’s number. It went to two, three rings . . . “C’mon, Mike, please, answer!” I was begging. Then, agonizingly, I heard his voice-mail recording. “You’ve reached Mike Dinofrio . . .” the familiar voice came on. “I’m sorry I’m unable to take your call now, but if you—”

  I clicked off. Why the hell wasn’t he answering? I was supposed to check in with him when I reached the hotel.
C’mon, Mike, please. . .

  Frantically I tried again. Again, his voice mail. This time I stammered through a harried message:

  “Mike—it’s Henry! I don’t know if you’ve heard, but something crazy has happened. I really need your help. And now! Just call me back, please. It’s vital, Mike . . . and quickly! Please . . .”

  I hung up and let out a long breath. I rested my head back and closed my eyes. I was safe here—for a while. But sooner or later a customer would drive in. I didn’t know what information had been released on the airwaves, if my car was hot—they surely knew who I was—so I turned on the radio. All anyone had to do was see my front windshield and it would be clear . . . I waited, seconds seeming like minutes.

  I just about jumped with relief when my phone suddenly rang.

  “Henry, it’s Mike . . . !” he said. “I was out polishing my clubs. What’s happened?”

  I filled him in on what had happened, trying to keep it from sounding as if I’d lost my mind.

  “They think you did what, Henry?”

  “They think I killed the cop, Mike! Me!”

  “That’s crazy, Henry!”

  “I know, but, Mike . . .” I told him I needed a place to go. That I had to turn myself in.

  He didn’t waste a second answering. “Tell me where you are. I’ll come and get you . . .”

  “No. No. These people are crazy. I don’t want to put you in any danger. It’s best I come to you.”

  “You’re sure?” he asked unhesitatingly. “I could—”

  “Yes. I’m sure.”

  He gave me his address and told me it was only about fifteen minutes away. I said I’d figure out a way to get there. “I’ll be waiting for you,” he said. “Don’t worry. We’ll make this come out.”

  “Okay. Okay . . . Mike, thanks a lot. I don’t know what to say. I didn’t know where else to turn.”

  “Don’t even say it, Henry. We’ll figure this out. I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

  I blew out a long, relieved breath. “Thanks.” Then I couldn’t believe what popped into my mind. “Sorry about the golf, dude. Looks like we may have to put it off for today.”

  He chuckled grimly. “You just be careful, Henry . . .”

  I hung up and jumped out of the Caddie, getting ready to leave. I grabbed my satchel case out of the backseat. I figured my iPad might come in handy. And a golf cap. Anything that might conceal me a bit. The rest . . . clothes, papers, my speech, what did it matter now?

  They already knew who the hell I was anyway!

  I locked it up and headed out onto the street. Southside Boulevard. It was a pretty commercial thoroughfare—an auto supply store, a Popeyes. On the other side of the street, a couple of blocks away, I saw some kind of motel. A Clarion Inn. I put on my sunglasses, pulled my cap down over my eyes, and hustled across the street. I stopped in the middle as a police car sped by, lights flashing, almost giving me a heart attack! But mercifully, it continued by. And just as mercifully—there was a taxi in the driveway when I reached the motel.

  “You free?” I knocked on the driver’s window.

  “Sorry, waiting for a fare,” he said. He picked up his radio. “If you need a car, I could . . .”

  “How about a hundred bucks?” I reached inside my pocket and pulled out a crisp, new bill. “I need to get somewhere fast.”

  The driver shot up. “I could always call them another car, is what I meant to say.” He turned on the ignition. “Hop on in.”

  I did and pushed the hundred-dollar bill through the partition. I read off Mike’s address. “I need to go to . . .” Then I caught myself and gave him a street number that I figured would be close by. No reason he had to know exactly where I was going. “ . . . 33443 Turnberry Terrace.”

  “That’s in Avondale, huh? I think we can get you there.”

  I leaned back as the taxi pulled out onto the street and closed my eyes. The driver called in to his dispatcher. “Base—this is seventeen. My fare’s fifteen minutes late and some guy’s got an airport emergency, so I took him on. You may want to check with the Clarion and see if these people still want a car . . .”

  I sat back, away from the driver’s line of sight. My heart rate calmed for the first time since I left Martinez at the scene. The driver tried to catch my eyes in his rearview mirror, asking me questions I didn’t need to hear: “From around here?” “Shame about the weather, huh?” It was cloudless. Eighty degrees. I grunted a few halfhearted replies so that, given how the guy had just basically saved my life, he wouldn’t think I was rude. He drove a little farther, and as he pulled onto I-10, I saw two police cars staked out at the entrance ramp. I pressed deep into the seat as we went by.

  “You hear what happened?” the driver asked.

  “No,” I replied. “Sorry. What?”

  “Some guy just plugged a cop right back there on Lakeview. Traffic’s all to hell. They won’t let anyone by.”

  He turned on a local news station. First it was the weather, then a couple of car ads. Then the announcer came back on. “Now back to our lead story of the morning . . . The brazen execution-style killing of a Jacksonville policeman near Lakeview Drive . . . Police say they have a possible suspect who has fled the scene and remains at large . . .”

  I immediately felt the sweats come over me, the announcer saying how the suspect had been detained over a traffic violation. And how he had fled the scene in a white Cadillac with Florida plates.

  My stomach forced its way up.

  The possible suspect I was hearing about was me!

  “The slain officer, whose name is being withheld, pending family notification, is a decorated, fifteen-year veteran of the force . . .”

  If I wasn’t sick already, that got me there. The guy had been a prick to me—I still didn’t know why he had pulled me over. But there was no reason in the world that he had to die.

  We crossed a bridge and drove past another exit or two, then we pulled off at Riverside Avenue and entered a neighborhood of large, upscale homes. I knew we were close.

  “Can you believe that shit?” the cabbie said, trying to catch my eyes in the mirror. “What kind of bastard does that, you know what I mean . . . ?”

  “Yeah, I know.” I shifted my face away. Please, just get me there.

  We wound around some residential streets. I recognized the area from my time here before. Then I spotted a street sign for Turnberry Terrace. No need for the cabbie to know precisely which house I was headed to.

  “This is fine,” I said, grabbing my satchel. “You can let me off here.”

  Chapter Six

  I waited until the cabbie drove off before crossing the street. The homes here were sprawling and upscale—Tudors and colonials with well-manicured lawns and pretty landscaping.

  I knew Mike had done well. He had worked on some big land deals in the past few years. Just being here made me feel a bit more hopeful. Mike would hear my story. He’d be able to negotiate something with the local authorities. In spite of how everything looked, it would be clear: the lack of any motive; the impossibility of how I could have gotten my hands on a weapon; how I’d only ducked into Martinez’s car to check how badly he’d been hurt. Even why I’d fled the scene . . .

  It would be clear I wasn’t the killer.

  A mail truck drove around the circle, stopping at each house, and I waited, one resident stepping out in her bathrobe to take in her mail, until it headed back down the block. Then I found Mike’s house, a stylish, mustard-colored Mediterranean.

  I began to wonder if my identity had been released. Dr. Henry Steadman. Prominent cosmetic surgeon from Palm Beach. Wanted for murder. He fled the scene in a white Cadillac STS. . .

  By now Mike must’ve heard.

  Cautiously, I went up the driveway, praying that I wouldn’t run into Gail, his wife, first and have to explain this all to her. She would probably freak. I knew Gail had her own real estate agency in town. She and Mike had two kids—one away at college. Th
e younger one, I figured, would already be at school.

  One of the three wood-paneled garage bays was open, and I recognized Mike’s silver Jag there.

  I let out a sigh of relief.

  I hurried up to the house and rang the front doorbell, expecting Mike to open the door instantly, but no one did. I rang again, one of those formal-sounding, church-bell chimes.

  Again, no one answered.

  I was about to try one more time when I pushed on the latch and the front door opened.

  I stepped tentatively into the large, high-ceilinged house, facing a kind of spacious living room with a lot of art on the walls, a huge mirror, and an arched Palladian window.

  “Mike . . . !”

  Through the window, I saw a large, fenced-in backyard with a good-size pool and a pool house in the same architectural style as the main house. I waited for him to come out and called out again, “Mike . . . where are you?”

  Suddenly a tremor shot through me. Surely he’d heard by now. Maybe he hadn’t believed me as much as I thought. I mean, we were old friends, but not exactly close friends. I started thinking, What if he’d left, or even worse, notified the police. What if—

  No. I stopped myself. Jesus, Henry, you’re acting crazy. You’ve known the guy since college. You’re just being paranoid, which was kind of easy right now.

  I couldn’t say I liked the idea of sneaking around someone’s house with half the police in Jacksonville searching for me. Someone could just blow me away with a gun—and it would be entirely legal! I stepped into the foyer, trying to recall the layout, feeling a little edgy.

  “Mike?”

  I turned right and found myself in the kitchen. Some plates on the counter, recently used. A half-picked-over muffin. A jar of almond butter—which made me smile, remembering Mike was always kind of a health nut.

  Suddenly things began to feel a little odd to me. “Mike, where the hell are you . . . ?”

  I went back through the living room. The family room was just as I’d remembered, with pictures of the kids all over and a large Tarkay watercolor of a Parisian sidewalk café.