Dead Lies (32 page)

CHAPTER 39

A
NNA DROVE STRAIGHT TO THE CALLAHAN HOUSE FROM THE STATION, NOT
entirely sure what she was going to do when she got there. She couldn’t make an arrest without a warrant, and she didn’t want to call Jane Carmichael until she’d talked to Kreeger first. But he hadn’t returned any of her messages. She looked at her watch. It was 4:00, and she guessed Kreeger was at his ex-wife’s wedding by now. She had a vague notion of questioning the suspects herself, but it was New Year’s Eve and Web was going to be at the house watching football. She couldn’t question anybody while he was there. It wasn’t safe.

For the same reason, she couldn’t stay away, either. There was no telling what would happen if Web somehow figured everything out. That was unlikely, but the little cop voice inside her told her she shouldn’t take the chance. Or maybe that little voice was coming from another part of Anna—the part that had feelings for Web.

Even though it was still only afternoon, it was dark as midnight. The wind whipped the roadside trees into a frenzy, and Anna could feel its force as it battered her car. She realized she was shivering and turned up the heat, adjusting the vents so they’d blow directly on her icy hands. When her fingers still hadn’t warmed up after five minutes, she realized her chill came not from the cold but from nerves.

By the time she turned onto the Callahans’ street, she’d decided she was simply going to get Web out of there. She’d make up a story about needing his help, tell him she was in a bind because her mother was ill and she needed him to watch Max for a couple of hours. She knew he’d agree—not just because they’d had such a great time on their date but because Web was just that kind of guy.

She reached for her cell phone, thinking it’d be better to call him than just show up, but as she made her way slowly down the street, her headlights illuminated a figure in the street she recognized as Web’s. He was hunched over the trunk of his car and he seemed to be reaching for something inside. Probably a case of beer.

Her breath caught in her throat when she realized the item he withdrew wasn’t beer at all. It was a gun.

Oh, my God, Web knew.

She saw a flash of steel as Web gripped the gun’s frame in one hand and released the slide with the other. Then she watched as he sprinted up the front walk looking like he was chasing the Devil himself.

Anna threw her car into park and, with shaking hands, grabbed her cell phone and dialed 9-1-1. An operator picked up and the words tumbled out. “I’m an off-duty police officer in Avondale. I’m investigating a crime in progress at 331 Farm Pond Lane. The perpetrator is armed. Send an available unit for assistance.”

She hung up the phone without waiting for a response and jumped out of her car. She dashed up the front walk taking the stairs two at a time. She pushed open the door open and stepped into the house, Glock poised in the ready position, her senses on high alert. She looked quickly around the entrance hall. There was no one there. But she could hear shouts coming from the back of the house.

Web’s voice was clear as a bell—and thick with anguish. “Danny, I know everything,” he cried. “I know you’re Violet’s father. God, I’m so stupid, I should have seen it before. The reddish hair, the freckles…”

“Web, what are you doing?” Anna heard a man cry. She recognized Tim’s voice.

“Please, Web, put the gun down,” Danny added, alarm clear in his voice.

“I want to hear you admit it,” Web bellowed. “I want to hear you admit what you did.”

“I made a stupid mistake,” Danny responded, “but Web, please, you need to put the gun down so we talk about this.”

Web’s voice shook with outrage. “
You want to talk about this?
” His words sliced though the air. “What’s there to
talk
about? You want to
talk
about how you hired the hitman to kill Serena and Bill? You want to
talk
about how you murdered the woman you once claimed to love?”

“I didn’t kill her,” Danny pleaded. “I swear, Web, I didn’t…”

“You expect me to believe that? I know what you did…”

“No, no, you’re wrong…”

“You lying fucking bastard!” Web screamed.

“You don’t know what you’re saying, Web,” a shrill female voice called out. “You can’t just come in here and accuse Danny of… murder!”

“Shut up, Tanya,” Web snapped. “Shut the fuck up. I know what
you
did, too. You killed that
hitman”—
the word sounded like acid—“to protect Danny.” He began to sob.

Anna knew she couldn’t wait for backup. She quickly crossed the hallway that opened into the family room and stepped inside. She pointed her gun at Web and said, “Police, freeze.”

Four stunned faces whipped in her direction, but Anna kept her eyes trained on Web’s. His face was pale from shock and his eyes looked cloudy and unfocused, but his gun was still pointed at Danny. He looked like a madman.

“Anna, what are you doing here?” he said shakily.

“Same thing as you. But I need you to put the gun down, Web.”

“So you know. You know that Danny killed Serena.”

“That’s not what happened. You think you know but you don’t. Put the gun down, and I’ll explain.”

“You don’t have to explain anything Anna. I already know. Why don’t you go home? This is between me and Danny.”

Web’s voice had gone flat, like something inside him had snapped, and Anna felt dread wash over her. She’d begun to care for this man, but she realized this standoff probably wasn’t going to end well for him. “Danny didn’t kill Serena and Bill,” she said more forcefully now. “Casey did.”

Web’s back was turned toward her again, but he froze, so Anna knew she’d heard him. She took a few steps forward. “Casey hired the hitman,” she repeated, knowing she needed to buy some more time until reinforcements arrived. “I know because I traced the calls from Malik’s phone to Casey’s cell.”

Web seemed to sway, buckle, like one of the trees on the road. “I don’t understand.” He shook his head like he was trying to clear the fog away. “Casey did this?”

“Yes, Web,” she said firmly. “Casey hired Malik to kill Serena, not Danny.”

“
Why?
”

“I don’t know yet,” she said honestly, although she guessed it had something to do with money for drugs. The story she’d come up with was that perhaps Casey feared that his parents would divorce if Serena’s secret came out and that he’d no longer be able to afford his habit. Of course that story didn’t explain why an addict from a wealthy family might be working at Starbucks, but it was the best she could do on short notice.

She heard a sound coming from the kitchen and turned to look. Her body went cold. Casey Callahan was standing at the rear of the kitchen, the lights from a back staircase outlining his skinny frame, and he was holding a gun. The bulky shape of a 9mm was unmistakable. It was pointed at her.

“Put the gun down, Casey,” she ordered, trying to keep her voice steady.

“Casey?” she heard Web say. “It was you? You killed Serena?”

Casey didn’t respond, just kept his eyes on her. But Anna could see that his gun hand was shaking slightly.

“Drop the gun,” he said, adding, “And you, too, Uncle Web.”

“Don’t do this,” Danny pleaded with his son. “Please, Casey, don’t do this. It’s not too late. We can get you help.”

“Get me help?” Casey cried. “Get
me
help? You’re the one who screwed up, and I fixed it. You’re the one who needs help!”

“But you killed two people,” Danny whispered.

“I did what I had to do, Dad,” Casey said, sounding at once desperate and eerily sane. “Serena was going to break our family up. That would have
killed
Mom! I did what I did to protect her, to save us all!”

Anna could tell from the beads of sweat that had broken out on Casey’s forehead that the boy was beginning to fall apart. She had to do something. She had to distract him.

“What’s your plan, Casey?” she asked, sounding a lot calmer than she felt. “Are you going to shoot us? If you do, how will you ever explain it to the police? They’re on their way, you know.”

Casey wiped at his brow with his free hand. “Yeah? Well, I don’t hear any sirens.” He added, “You’re wrong, you know. I’m not going to shoot any of you. I’m going to let you, Uncle Web and Uncle Tim walk out of here—but only once you’ve handed over your guns.”

He was lying, of course—all killers did—and Anna guessed what Casey was really planning. He’d use her gun to kill Web and Tim, and then use Web’s gun to kill her. He’d be thinking that with all of his witnesses dead, no one would be able to refute that they hadn’t killed each other. Of course, the lack of gun powder residue on any of their hands would tell otherwise.

“Please, Casey, don’t do this,” Danny pleaded.

Casey ignored him. “Drop your guns,” he said. “Both of you.”

“No, you drop it,” another voice ordered.

Kreeger!

Out of the corner of her eye, Anna saw the detective step into the kitchen, his weapon trained at Casey’s back. He’d obviously come in through the back door she’d spotted earlier. She kept her gaze on Casey’s face, watching as he registered what had just happened and considered what he could still do about it. She held her breath, watching Casey’s eyes widen, thinking he’d just reached the conclusion that the jig was up.

But she was wrong. She saw Casey’s right index finger move a fraction of an inch, releasing at once a blinding flash of light and a blast that shook the room. A split second later she heard another blast and then a woman’s scream. “No, no!”

The walls began to shimmer and Anna noticed the room’s cathedral ceiling for the first time—the baskets perched on the gleaming wooden beams, and the little white dots of light recessed into the whiteness above. She hit the floor with a crash and gasped for breath, feeling fire spread throughout her body on the right side above her waist. She put her hand over the spot and felt it squish under her fingers.

She saw Kreeger hovering over her, and she could feel the weight of his hand over hers, pressing against her side. “Anna, Anna, stay with me,” he was saying. “C’mon, Anna, stay with me.” She heard him say, “Officer down, officer down,” and knew he was talking into his phone.

The room spun around her, going in and out of focus, and Anna wondered why people in books never seemed to know they’d been shot. She’d known it the moment she felt the sting of the bullet. She looked up at Kreeger, wanting to tell him she’d be okay, noticing the words weren’t coming out, and realizing that it probably didn’t even matter anyway. Then everything went dark.

CHAPTER 40

I
T WAS NEW YEAR’S DAY, AND YET IT WAS BUSINESS AS USUAL AT THE
Bergen County Sheriff’s Office. Ever since last night, the place had been a flurry of activity. In the detective’s room on the first floor, Kreeger and his team were handling the paperwork and fielding calls from the press, and on the second floor, Mickey Guilfoyle, Bergen County’s top prosecutor, was busy at his desk doing whatever top prosecutors did. Kreeger wasn’t surprised the man was here on a holiday. He lived for high-profile cases. He was planning to run for governor next term.

Kreeger’s phone rang, and he picked it up when he recognized the number on the caller I.D. screen. It was Manny from the crime lab, no doubt calling with the results of the fingerprint analysis on Malik’s money. It was a little too late to do any good, of course, but the information still needed to be included in the case file.

“
Hola,
friend.”

“
Hola,
Jerry. Happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year to you, too.” He voice sounded gravelly, like he had a cold. But fatigue was the cause. He’d gotten no more than two hours of sleep last night.

“Congratulations. Your mug is all over the television.”

Kreeger snorted. This morning on the news he’d seen himself walking Tanya out to the car in handcuffs, and all he could think about was how tired and old he looked. The thrill of seeing himself on TV had been lost years ago. Besides, it should have been Anna doing the perp walk. She’d earned that honor.

“I have those fingerprint results for you,” Manny said. “Sorry I couldn’t get back to you sooner, but I had to wait for the prints from the boy, so I could match them.”

“Did you?”

“Yes. Malik’s prints were there too, along with those of two bank employees.”

It was exactly what Kreeger had been expecting to hear. “And how about the fifth set?” He guessed they belonged to Danny or Tanya.

Manny waited a beat. “The last set belongs to none other than Gordon McGrower.”

A low whistle escaped Kreeger’s lips, as he tried to analyze the implications. “You sure?” he asked his friend.

“I’m sure. They were a perfect match.”

“Thanks, Manny,” Kreeger said. He hung up and immediately went upstairs to see Mickey Guilfoyle. Guilfoyle’s secretary wasn’t there, so he walked into his office, giving a quick knock on the door as he passed it. He strode across the maroon carpet and stopped two feet in front of Guilfoyle’s desk.

Guilfoyle’s body was turned toward the computer screen on the right hand side of his desk, so that only his profile was visible. Grossly overweight and totally bald, his head looked like a basketball atop a football player-sized body. Empty styrofoam cups were strewn across his cluttered desk, and the room smelled like a mixture of Hazelnut-flavored coffee and sweat.

Guilfoyle glanced at Kreeger and frowned. He turned back to his screen as if to tell Kreeger he didn’t deserve his full attention. Kreeger waited him out.

“What’s up, Jerry?” Guilfoyle said finally, still not shifting his gaze. There’d never been much love between the two men. Guilfoyle was a political animal who courted only those who could help him climb the ladder, and Kreeger just wanted to put the bad guys away. They were worlds apart.

“Did you ever hear from Gordon McGrower?” Kreeger said, referring to the incident at the real estate developer’s office. He knew McGrower must have called him. He pictured the two men hitting the links together at some fancy country club, still remembering the smug look on McGrower’s face when he’d informed them they were friends.

Guilfoyle snorted and swiveled around on his chair to face Kreeger, his interest mildly piqued now. “Yeah, he told me about your visit.” His eyes narrowed. “Why are you asking?”

Kreeger told him about the prints. “McGrower claims he had nothing to do with the murders,” he concluded. “If that’s so, why are his prints on the hitman’s money?”

Guilfoyle appeared surprised by Kreeger’s news, but his eyes were alive with suspicion, as if Kreeger was the one to be doubted. He stared at Kreeger for a moment then said tersely, “I’ll get back to you.”

Kreeger returned to his desk, and an hour later, Guilfoyle called him back up to his office. Kreeger made a move to take a seat on one of the leather club chairs facing the desk, but Guilfoyle put up a hand to stop him. “This won’t take long,” he said brusquely.

Kreeger took a few steps toward the man’s desk so that he was standing a little too close. He knew he was being an asshole, but he didn’t care. The prosecutor was an arrogant prick. Just like his buddy McGrower. “Well?”

Guilfoyle leaned back in his chair, his heaving bulk making the springs groan. “After Serena came to McGrower’s office, McGrower hired a private detective to uncover the father’s identity,” he said. “He then paid Danny $50,000 in cash to go away.” Guilfoyle leaned forward again, causing an even louder squeak that made Kreeger wonder how much more stress the chair could take before it broke. He hoped it happened when he was around. Guilfoyle ripped off a piece of paper from a yellow legal pad and handed it to Kreeger. “Here’s the name and number of the P.I. so you can check it out.” He added, “We can assume Casey used $5,000 of that money to pay the hitman. He must have taken it from his father.”

“We’re not going to assume anything,” Kreeger warned, even as he silently admitted that McGrower’s explanation made sense. He made a mental note to have Ray Esposito ask Danny about the rest. He folded the paper and slipped it in his jacket pocket. “Are you going to charge him?” he asked.

Guilfoyle sniffed. “For what? Payoffs aren’t illegal.”

“Obstruction of justice is,” Kreeger insisted, his ire rising. “McGrower lied during an active investigation.”

Guilfoyle scowled. “No judge is going to care. He’ll see that McGrower lied to protect his daughter. End of story.”

And that judge will probably be another golfing buddy, too, Kreeger thought bitterly. “What about Ivan?” he asked, thinking there still might be one chance to nail McGrower—that is, if Ivan confessed that his boss ordered him to break into the Vance’s house.

“What about him?”

“He may have a lot to say about his boss.”

Guilfoyle smirked. “Well, you’ll have to find him first, won’t you?”

Kreeger fumed. There were many times over the years when he wondered what side of the law Guilfoyle was really on. And this was definitely one of them.

“Look, whether or not to charge someone is my call,” Guilfoyle said defiantly when Kreeger made no move to leave. “Why don’t you go do your job, and let me do mine?”

Kreeger fought the urge to jump over the desk and throttle the man, make that bulbous nose in the middle of his fleshy face explode. Instead he shot Guilfoyle his coldest cop stare and stalked out. Condescending jerk.

He descended the stairs to the first floor, and by the time he’d reached the bottom, he’d left the unpleasantness with Guilfoyle behind. As obnoxious as the prosecutor was, Kreeger was consumed with dread over what he had to do next.

“Leon, want to join me for a coffee run?” he asked Kowlaski when he got back to the detective’s room. His friend was sitting at his desk, wearing the scent of cigarette smoke like the lingering odor of Chinese food after a meal. He’d obviously just come back from a smoke break.

De Luca looked up. “Sure, Loo. I could use a cup.” De Luca rose, and the two men slipped on their coats as they walked toward the door. “Dunkin’ Donuts?” De Luca asked.

“That’s what I was thinking.”

The two men climbed into an unmarked, and on the way, Kreeger filled De Luca in on the development with McGrower. He expressed his frustration that the man was going to walk away from this scot-free, thanks to his buddy the prosecutor.

De Luca shrugged, the picture of the cynical cop. “That’s how it is.” A few seconds later he added, “Maybe you should call that investigative journalist friend of yours,” referring to a reporter Kreeger had helped out on a story last year. He gave Kreeger a devilish smile. “Have her do a little digging.”

Kreeger wasn’t in the habit of deliberately trying to destroy people’s careers, but he had to admit the idea appealed to him. At least he could enjoy the fantasy. “Maybe I will.”

By the time they reached the donut shop and stepped inside, something in the air between the two men had shifted. They stepped inside, pausing a moment to allow the warm air envelop them, and De Luca said, “You didn’t ask me here for coffee, did you?”

“How’d you know?”

“I can’t remember the last time you asked me to join you on a coffee run.”

Kreeger nodded. “Let’s sit down.” They found a quiet table in back, and when they were settled across from each other, Kreeger took a photograph out of his jacket pocket and slid it, upside down, across the table. It was a blow-up of one of the shots Anna had taken with her drugstore camera, and it captured the items sitting on top of Serena and Bill Vance’s bedroom dresser. Among them, in full color, were the objects in question—the gold and onyx cuff links and the Russian Army watch that Web had reported missing. De Luca glanced at the image, and Kreeger saw a light of recognition go on in his eyes. But his friend didn’t say anything.

“What are we looking at, Leon?” Kreeger said quietly.

De Luca remained silent, and Kreeger wondered if his friend was trying to concoct a story. But De Luca asked, “Where’d you get this?”

“Anna took it,” Kreeger said. “Before the crime scene guys got there. Before
you
got there.”

De Luca didn’t say anything for a full minute, just stared at the photograph. Kreeger could see the struggle going on in his friend’s head, the weighing of options. Would he try to talk his way out of this or admit his guilt? Kreeger waited him out.

Finally De Luca gave his chin a rough rub and sighed. “How’d you know it was me,” he asked, “and not one of the C.S.U. guys?”

Kreeger put his finger on the photograph and pulled it back to him. He picked it up and slipped it back into his pocket. “I realized this was the third time items disappeared from a crime scene and never turned up,” he said. “I checked the files and discovered you were the only detective working all of those cases. Then I had Wilmer comb your computer to see what you’d been up to recently. He found your eBay account.” He shook his head in disbelief. “You were checking the progress of the sales at work? What were you thinking?”

Beet-colored patches of heat were spreading up De Luca’s neck into his face. Kreeger wished he could feel compassion for his friend, but he was angry. He resented the position De Luca had put him in.

“Why’d you do it?” Kreeger asked.

De Luca looked away. “What else? For the money.”

“That’s what overtime is for,” Kreeger said tightly. “Or freelance security gigs.” He’d done plenty of private security gigs when he was saving up for his daughters to go to college. It sucked, but he’d done it anyway because the money was good. “Something going on at home?” he probed. De Luca didn’t have any kids, and Kreeger wondered if there was something going on with his wife Mary. He hoped she wasn’t sick.

De Luca ran a hand through his hair and sat back in his seat. He sighed. “Nah, I’m just tired, Loo,” De Luca said. “Burned out. I got lazy.”

Kreeger nodded. He’d seen plenty of guys burn out over the years. It was one of the hazards of the job. But most of them didn’t resort to stealing; they retired and maybe moved onto something less stressful. He wanted to tell De Luca that job burnout wasn’t an excuse for stealing, but he didn’t bother. De Luca didn’t look nearly as ashamed as he should.

“You can take a day or two to clean out your desk and tie up loose ends,” he said, “but I need you to turn over your badge and gun.”

De Luca flashed him a surprised, wounded look. “Can’t you cut me a break here, Loo?” he said. “Maybe suspend me without pay for a few weeks?” He tried to grin but it came out like a grimace. “Make me promise never to do it again?”

“You should consider yourself lucky I’m not bringing you up on charges,” Kreeger responded flatly.

A cloud passed over De Luca’s face, and Kreeger could see the veins bulging in his neck. He was angry now, fighting to save face. “So, that’s how it’s going to be? That’s what old friends do for each other?”

“Yes—when old friends do what you did,” Kreeger countered sharply. They glared at each other silently for a long moment before Kreeger spoke again. “It’s over, Leon,” he said quietly. “Accept it.”

De Luca opened his mouth as if to respond then closed it again. He pulled his badge from his pocket and his gun from his holster. He slid them both across the table. To Kreeger, it was the raw sound of betrayal.