Dead Lies (22 page)

“I had a hell of a time putting that thing up there,” his father continued. “But I never missed a year.”

Web’s heart swelled with the same pride he’d felt as a boy, watching his father pull the big wooden ladder out of the garage and hoist the forty-pound contraption onto the roof piece by piece. His dad would be sweating and panting by the time he was done, and as soon as he had, he’d walk Web and his sisters out to the sidewalk to admire his handiwork. One year, looking up at the Santa, his father had mussed his hair liked
he’d
been the one who’d done something great, and it made the ten-year-old Web so wildly, uncontrollably happy that he’d broken out into a gleeful rendition of
We Wish You a Merry Christmas
that no boy over the age of six can pull off without looking like a dork.

“Where is it now?” he asked his father.

“In the garage. One day I’m going to give it to you, and you can keep the tradition going.”

Web laughed. “I will.”

His father cleared his throat. “Son, I need to talk to you about something…” He paused and looked uncomfortable, as if he’d just stepped into an enormous puddle of icy slush and wasn’t wearing waterproof boots. “Actually, it can wait,” he said after a moment.

Web’s heart skipped a beat. “Are you okay?” His mind went to the extreme. Was his father sick? His mother? His parents had experienced minor health problems over the years but so far nothing more serious…

“I’m healthy as a horse, Son, and your mother is, too. Don’t worry about that. This is something else.”

Something else.

Web felt a chill. He didn’t know why; he just knew that the words carried more weight than his father’s casual manner implied. “Is this about Serena?” he asked, unsure if he wanted to hear the answer.

“Yes, it is,” answered his father. He turned away for a moment and seemed lost in thought. After a few seconds, he turned back to Web. He uttered a heavy sigh. “It’s about you, too. But, as I said, it’s not important right now. It can wait.”

Web was relieved by his father’s tone, and he decided to let the matter drop. The past few days had finally caught up with him, and all he wanted to do was go inside, sit down at the kitchen table, have a beer and a sandwich, and then crawl into bed. He didn’t have the energy to deal with something else. Besides, he knew he’d get to the bottom of it eventually. But now wasn’t the time.

“Another time then?” he asked his father.

“Yes, another time,” his father responded.

Web observed his father for a moment. Then the two men turned and walked slowly up the driveway and back inside the house.

CHAPTER 23

T
HE HORSES WERE SNORTING, TWITCHING AND KICKING UP DIRT AS THEY
were led across the muddy track into the starting gate. Kreeger’s two-year-old chestnut filly was running her maiden race, and he knew she was a winner. He’d named her Angel Eyes, after her mother Angel of Mine, in the beautiful racing tradition of carrying over one word from a parent’s name to a child’s. One after the other, the last two thoroughbreds disappeared into the clunky metal contraption. The bell sounded, the gate released, and they were off.

Watching the mass of horse flesh pound toward the first curve, Kreeger felt the heat of a soft body pressing up next to him. It was Anna, and she was holding his hand. Desire shot through him. He gave her hand a squeeze, and she squeezed back. But something was off. The starting bell was still clattering. He was confused. The race was already going full throttle. Why wasn’t somebody turning the damn thing off? He heard Anna shouting into his ear, trying to make herself heard over the ringing of the bell and the roar of the crowd. “Giddy up, Jerry. It’s time to giddy up,” she seemed to be saying. Giddy up? The bell rang again, and Anna’s voice became clearer. “Git up!” she roared.

He opened his eyes, fighting the fog, his lips thick, his limbs heavy. He understood. Anna wasn’t there. There was no race. He’d been dreaming. The starting bell was the phone. The dream slipped away.

He fumbled for his cell phone, realizing he had a hard-on the likes of which he hadn’t seen since his old army days. If he wasn’t so tuckered, he’d have taken a moment to be impressed. “Kreeger,” he croaked into the phone.

“Loo, where the hell are you?” said a voice he recognized as De Luca’s. Even if he hadn’t known the voice, he’d have known it was De Luca simply by the moniker he’d used. De Luca was the only guy in the department who called Kreeger “Loo,” even though Kreeger discouraged the use of his title. Never one for formalities, he wanted his detectives to feel like they were on a team, not part of some bullshit military-style hierarchy. But De Luca had a habit of ignoring such directives. It was one of the many things Kreeger liked about his friend. They both had an aversion to authority.

“It’s 7:30. I’ve been calling you for the past half hour,” De Luca was saying.

“Shit, I overslept,” Kreeger offered groggily, silently cursing De Luca for taking him away from the best dream he’d had in years. He felt his nether regions deflate. He looked at the clock by his bed and remembered he’d forgotten to set the alarm. “My alarm clock must be broken,” he lied.

“Well, rise and shine, Sleepyhead,” De Luca said in such a way that told Kreeger he wasn’t buying it for a minute. “We’re all waiting for you here.”

The lab results had come in—Kreeger had called in a few favors to expedite the process—proving Malik’s fingerprints were on the gun and cell phone found in the dumpster. Ballistics was a match, too. So this morning they were going to raid his apartment. The bust was supposed to go down at 8:00 a.m. sharp. He’d picked the time himself.

“Sorry, Leon,” he said genuinely and fully awake now. He rubbed his bristly chin, wondering if he had time to shave. “Gimme twenty minutes.”

“Make it fifteen, and don’t bother with breakfast. Your girlfriend brought donuts for everyone.”

Girlfriend? Bastard.

“How nice of her to swing by your office on her way in,” Kreeger retorted, referring to the Dunkin’ Donuts on Passaic Street, which was De Luca’s second home.

“
Cops
making donut jokes now? What’s the world coming to?” De Luca clicked off.

Kreeger slammed the phone down and stood up. Pain shot through his left knee—arthritis was a by-product of an old injury—and he plopped back down onto the bed. After a few seconds, he rose again and limped to the closet, feeling the joint slowly begin to lubricate.

He opened the closet and considered his options. He owned three winter suits, but the brown one needed to go to the cleaner and both the gray wool and the blue pin stripe would be too warm today. He always wore a suit to work, even when he went in on a Sunday to catch up on paperwork. In spite of his disdain for verbal formalities, he took pride in his detective status and liked to dress the part. He liked how the men who worked for him did the same.

He pulled out a brown tweed sports jacket and a pair of khakis. It wasn’t a suit, but it would do. Laying them on the bed, he jumped in the shower and shaved quickly. Then he got dressed. The entire operation took seven minutes. He’d rejected the U.S. Army and its rigid structure a long time ago, but some soldierly habits died hard.

Twenty minutes later Kreeger was standing in the equipment room at the station house, slipping on his bullet-proof vest, and loading an extra clip for his SIG, a fine gun for a department issue. He had an even finer Walther at home. De Luca was gearing up next to him. Malik wouldn’t look kindly on a second visit from the cops, and there was always a chance they could run into the second perp when they got there. They would be ready for any eventuality.

Anna popped her head into the room. She, too, was clad in a vest, which she wore over her midnight-blue uniform, and her hair was tied back in a low pony tail. She looked lovely but a little drawn. He remembered his dream and his face flamed. He looked away.

“Ready Jerry, Leon?” Anna said. “Kent’s here.”

Kent was Kent Burleigh, Lester Malik’s parole officer. He was back in town and, having missed the festivities two days earlier, wanted to be part of the morning’s action. Kreeger was happy to extend the courtesy; they could use the extra body.

“We’ll be right there.”

Anna nodded and disappeared.

Kreeger tapped his right back pocket to make sure the arrest warrant was there.

“Momentum, baby!” said De Luca. “We’ve got momentum!”

Kreeger smiled at his friend’s enthusiasm. It was true. They had momentum. A day ago he and Anna were walking the streets of Avondale and quizzing waiters and hairdressers; now they were following up the hot new lead from the young woman from Gordon McGrower’s office. Thanks to her tip, they may very well have the name of the man behind the murders. That’s why they were heading back over to Malik’s apartment to make an arrest. If the trigger man fingered McGrower as the man who hired him, the case would be cracked before Kreeger left for Miami tomorrow.

He slipped his extra magazine into his pocket and pulled the tweed on over his Kevlar. De Luca finished dressing, too, and he picked up the extra vests and clips for the two officers who were over at Malik’s apartment right now, doing surveillance.

Armed and ready to go, the two men walked through the detective’s room out to the lobby of the station house, where Anna was waiting with Burleigh. He felt a twinge of jealousy when he saw that Burleigh was young and nice-looking and that the two of them were smiling at each other.

“Nothing like rolling up a parolee to kick off a holiday weekend,” said De Luca, referring to the fact that today was Friday and tomorrow was New Year’s Eve.

Everybody laughed, and the sound brought the tension in the air down a notch.

“We all set?” said Kreeger.

Everyone nodded.

“Let’s go.”

“Why don’t you ride with me, Kent?” said De Luca, when they got to the parking lot. He ushered the corrections officer to an unmarked police car, adding, “Anna, you go with Jerry.”

De Luca was holding the extra vests and looking at Kreeger, puckering his lips and making doe-eyes at Anna’s turned back like a sixth grader mocking a lovesick friend. Thank God Anna’s back was turned. Kreeger thought about pulling his gun and shooting De Luca then decided otherwise. He was well protected with all that Kevlar, and besides, somebody needed to run the department while he was away.

“Fuck you,” he mouthed instead.

De Luca just laughed at him and got into his car.

“I’m glad we’re finally getting this guy,” said Anna as she took the wheel. Kreeger buckled his seat belt and settled in for the twenty-minute drive. Anna slipped the key into the ignition and the engine fired up. She pulled the cruiser away from the curb and said, “It doesn’t feel right that he’s been out living his life for the last three days.”

“Some life,” Kreeger snorted.

“The funeral’s today,” said Anna after a few minutes of silence. Her hands gripped the wheel and she was staring at the road ahead, but there was a breathy quality to her voice that suggested she was miles away.

“Yeah?” When he first earned his detective shield, he made a point of attending the services of his victims. But he’d quickly learned it had taken too much out of him emotionally. Anna would soon learn the same. “You going?”

“No, it’s just for family.” She glanced at him, then back at the road. They were on Route 17 now, the same highway they’d traveled countless times since the investigation started. They were silent for awhile.

“Jerry, I didn’t level with you about why I moved to New Jersey,” Anna finally said. She waited a beat, as if she was unsure if she should go on. He remained silent, which she took as a sign of encouragement. It was. These kinds of heart-to-hearts between partners were inevitable, given how much time they spent in the car. Sure, there were more appropriate moments she could have chosen to unburden herself—like
after
the bust—but he wasn’t going to tell her that. After the weirdness with Max the other night, he was more curious about her than ever.

“My ex-husband—his name is Jack—was a struggling actor when I met him,” she continued. “He was working as a waiter in my restaurant to make ends meet. He’d done a couple of commercials and had a few minor television roles under his belt, and he felt the world was at his feet. His energy was exciting. Then we got married, and I got pregnant.” She slowed down and waited for the car ahead of them to get out of the left lane. The car moved over and she passed it, picking up speed again. “As I told you, I was unhappy being a chef,” she continued, “but I found my calling as a cop. After that, Jack began to go on fewer and fewer auditions. I realize now he was jealous of my happiness and frustrated he hadn’t gotten his big break. He said he liked being Mr. Mom, but it’s obvious he was miserable.” She sighed. “I was such a fool to believe what he said. And I never knew he was smoking pot.” She glanced at him. “Pathetic, huh?”

“He must have been a good actor,” Kreeger observed.

“Ignorance is no excuse when you’re a mother,” Anna said sharply. After a few seconds she added, “I lost my other son a little over a year ago. Max’s twin brother.”

Anna’s words hit Kreeger like a punch to the gut. She’d lost a child? Max’s twin? Another little boy so beautiful he could be in a Renoir painting? He thought of his own daughters and couldn’t imagine anything worse. No wonder she seemed so moved by the thought of Serena Vaughn’s funeral today.

“My God, Anna, I’m sorry,” he said. He struggled for something comforting to say and couldn’t come up with anything. “What was his name?” he asked finally.

“Nicholas.”

“Nicholas,” Kreeger repeated softly. Nicholas and Max. Anna’s sons. He paused. “Is that why Max is”—he struggled to find the right words—“having trouble?”

“Yes,” she said simply.

He thought about all the hours Anna had been putting in the last few days. “Is your mother still staying with him?”

“Uh-huh. I’m thinking about asking her to stay through the weekend.”

Kreeger surreptitiously studied Anna’s profile. The sweep of her hair highlighted her slender nose and the soft curve of her lips. He wanted to wrap her up in his arms and kiss her pain away.

“What happened to Nicholas, Anna?” he asked gently.

She sighed heavily. “One afternoon while I was at work, Jack got stoned, and he didn’t notice Nicholas slip out the front door. Nicholas was hit by a car, and he didn’t hear that or any of the sirens either. The police had to break down the door. They hauled Jack to jail and took Max into protective custody. The officer who carried him said he screamed the whole way. He was terrified.” She paused. “Max is afraid of the police,” she concluded bitterly. “Ironic, huh?”

Kreeger was silent for a moment. He understood things better now. “Where is Jack now?”

“Living with his parents in Brooklyn. The D.A. decided not to charge him. Jack claims he’s clean now, and his parents swear it’s true. I trust his mom and dad, so that’s why I let Jack see Max sometimes. But I make sure there’s always someone else around.”

Hopefully a sniper in the building across the street, Kreeger thought.

“I think I’d feel better if Jack was working again,” Anna was saying, “and making more of an effort to get back on his feet, but… he’s not there yet.”

Kreeger felt anger well up inside him. Jack sounded like a major fuck-up. And yet Anna had forgiven him and was making sure Max had a relationship with Jack’s family. His respect for her grew.

They passed a station wagon on their right and Kreeger saw two little faces appear in the side window. One of them had braids tied off with a pair of orange plastic bubbles; the other had a gap between her teeth as wide as a pinky. They waved at the police car then ducked. He smiled.