Don't Look Twice (22 page)

T
he twin-engine Cessna 310 lifted off the ground from the small Connecticut airfield. It found that magical cushion of air, rose gently into the sky.

Warren banked away from the airport.

That's what it was for him.
Magic.
Something he couldn't explain. The science of flight contained in one exhilarating rush. Out the cockpit window the trees grew small.

He trimmed his flaps for cruise and checked his engine indicators. He dialed in a southeasterly course. Up here, he always felt at ease. Everything made sense. In control. He headed toward the coast, angling the small plane up to three thousand feet.

Why was it never as simple as it was up here?

He knew he had made a mess of so many things. His life with Ginny and the kids was history now. He had cheated. Destroyed what trust they still had. He had been on so many sides of so many business deals he no longer knew which side was up. Now he had placed his own brother in grave danger.

How?

He had started out, like everyone, with the right goals. To do well, make a little money. Live in a way that his father, who
had worked for the Town of Greenwich's water department for thirty years, never could. To give his family things he had never had. Private schools. Fancy trips.

No, Warren knew, watching the countryside below and the interstate leading to New Haven, those were never his goals.

They had never been his goals.

He had used his charm, his easy smile and natural good looks, his instinct for survival—even his fucking six handicap in golf—to guide him past the boundary where his lackluster law degree left off. He flattered the right people. Offered his services. Took risks for them. Curried favor with people in power.

It was easy.
He simply let them in. Everything else just seemed to grow. When did he become someone he didn't even know?

He banked the Cessna south along the coast.

Maybe he never was that person. Someone who stood up. Who saw clearly the distinction between right and wrong. Maybe Ty was that person. But now he had the chance to do something about it, Warren knew.

The first thing was to get his brother clear of danger. The second was to patch up things with Ginny and the kids. Become a family again. Maybe that's why he was feeling so empty.

The
third,
Wachman, Casey, Raines…The third would be harder. The third required something he wasn't sure he was capable of. Something deeper.

He'd see how it all played out.

Warren vectored the plane northerly, back toward the airfield, away from the coast. The suburban grid of towns and homes formed a perfect patchwork below him. He'd thought it out. It all made sense now. What he had to do…

How had he fucked it all up so royally? How had he let it get so far over his head?

Anyway, that part was ending. This new part, this new Warren…

The airstrip came into view. Warren announced his approach to the tower.

Why was it always so clear and simple up here?

T
o Hauck, the drive back felt like days. He felt an urge building inside him, like he was going to explode.

From the realization he had cost a man his life—watched him die in his arms. From the silent, stewing rage he could not contain, his fingers gripping the wheel like a gun handle, to get his hands around Raines's neck. Turn him upside down. Until the truth came out.

Wipers flashing, he crossed back into Massachusetts.

The boat had turned up. It had been stolen from a local marina and ditched at a dock at someone's summerhouse that had been closed up for the season. No bullet casings or prints were found on it. A team from Portland was coming in to check it out the next day.

The local head of detectives in Maine showed up at the scene, an easygoing white-haired guy named Hazens—who hadn't handled a murder case since he'd moved up to Lewiston. Together they went through Pacello's cell phone. Calls from his kids, a son in Tucson, but the recent numbers that might lead somewhere were untraceable. Disposable cell phones.

Hauck had told Hazens as much as he could. Why he was up there—part of a murder case connected to a gambling scam
back home. That Pacello was a potential witness. He even mentioned the Pequot Woods and Raines. Pacello's grieving wife certainly would.
But what could the guy do?
Hauck asked him for a few days to let him take the lead. They struck a deal. Hazens would go over the boat and the marina, look for anything up there.

Hauck would go after Raines.

He hadn't learned much more than when he'd driven up that very morning, which now seemed like days ago. Only that Sanger and Kramer hadn't been killed as part of any gambling scam. That had been another smoke screen. Just like Josephina Ruiz had been a smoke screen. What was the Pequot Woods hiding? Who else was involved?

What had Fitz said?
Every politician in the state has his hands in the Pequot Woods pockets.

How high did that go?

He had called Fitz from the scene, informed him what had taken place. This thing would have to be expanded, the chief said glumly. It had crossed states. The FBI would
have to be more deeply involved
.

“Come on home,” he told Hauck. “We'll start to put it all together tomorrow.”

All those new state roads, Ty, those fancy stadiums, you have any idea where the money for those comes from?

Hauck had asked Raines, referring to Sanger, what kind of man would risk it all like that—his job, his family, his reputation, everything—over some kind of compulsion. A few hundred thousand dollars.

What kind of man are you, Lieutenant…?
Raines had just smiled back.

Now he knew.

One day you could be chief,
Vern had said.
You could build a nice life here, Ty…

His cell phone rang, cutting his thoughts. Hauck picked up and it was Warren. He didn't want to go into things now.

“Hey, guy, just checking in,” his brother said. “You give any more thought to that job?”

“The job's off for a while, Warren,” Hauck replied.

“Off?”

“I can't go into it. It's just off.”

“Ty,”
Warren objected, “that's not making sense…”

“Who does the Pequot Woods have in its pocket, Warren?”

That seemed to take him by surprise.
“Huh?”

“C'mon, Warren, you know about these things. Who do they own? Who's on their payroll?”

“Ty, I really think you're making a huge mistake here…”

“You remember that game we used to play when we were kids? Goal-line Stand?”

Warren hesitated. “Yeah, I remember, Ty, but—”

“I was always John Riggins. You were LT. I'd barrel into you and try to move the pile. You'd try to force me back.”

“What the hell does that have to do with anything, Ty?”

“Who always won?”

“God damn it, Ty, I'm trying to talk a little sense into you…”

Hauck pressed. “
Who always won?
In the end. What was it you always said about me? You remember…”

His brother let out a frustrated breath, giving in. “We used to say God gave you a whole lot more balls than he did sense, because you'd never stop until your face was bloody. You realize it wasn't exactly meant as a compliment, Ty…”

“Maybe, but as to why the job's on hold…
that's why
.”

They hung up. Warren seemed disappointed, even a little pissed. Hauck was coming up on Hartford now. The skyline came into view. It was almost nine. He grabbed his phone again and called Munoz.

The detective's eight-year-old, Anthony, picked up. The one Hauck had gotten the signed David Wright baseball for.
“Uncle Ty…!”

“Hey, bruiser, what are you still doing up? Your dad at home?”

“He's at home.” Hauck heard the sound of the TV in the background. “We're watching
24
. He's right here.”

“Caught me,” Munoz said guiltily as he took the line. “I'll let him stay up and we watch
24
together. Our Tuesday-night ritual. I heard what happened, LT. I'm sorry about that. It's bad.”

“How's your DVR working?” Hauck asked.

“It's working fine, Lieutenant,” Munoz said. “Tell me what you need.”

“I'm just passing Hartford. I want you to meet me at my house—in an hour. That okay? I'm sorry to interrupt things, Freddy, but the shit's going to hit the fan tomorrow, and I want to map out some things before we get in.”

“Key in the same place?” Munoz asked unhesitatingly. He had once had to pick up some files Hauck had there. Hauck kept a key in a fake rock along the side.

“Same place,” Hauck said. “And, Freddy…thanks.”

“I'll see you there, Lieutenant.”

What kind of person are you?
Raines had asked.

He didn't fully know until that moment.

I'm the guy who's gonna bring you down
.

I
ra Wachman had put on his Burberry raincoat and cap and was about to turn off the light in his statehouse office in Hartford. He often worked this late. His was the kind of job you couldn't just put away at night. That gnawed at him when he lay awake in the dark going over every detail and point to be covered, anticipating every objection.

He had devoted twenty years to watching the back of his boss. Dealing with every problem, resolving every dispute. Taking care of the senator's “dirty laundry.” Some would say Wachman had made the senator the man he was today.

Wachman would say he'd just done what needed to be done. Politics was a shifting line. The A axis of opportunity met the B of survival. Long as he'd been around, those lines had intersected many times. He sat holding his briefcase, full of briefs and position papers to be gone over that night.

Wachman's cell phone rang.

He checked the number. It wasn't familiar. One he would never see again. “Wachman here,” he said when he picked up. He looked out the window at the lights of the capitol dome, glistening brightly.

“That detail we spoke of,” the caller said. “You can mark it
down as done. It was taken care of today. We ‘upped the tempo,' as you called it. You won't have to deal with it again.”

“Good to hear.” Ira Wachman sighed. He crossed that issue off his mental list. He was about to ask the man just how; then it occurred to him that the less he knew, the better.

“And that other thing…?” he inquired.

“The
other
thing…” Joe Raines paused. Hopefully, this would be the last time they would have to speak. “The night's still young, Mr. Wachman.”

H
auck exited the thruway at Atlantic Avenue, finally home. He was drained. He had washed off the blood, but the image of Pacello, pinned back in his seat, the hole in his throat gushing, still remained.

He drove past the antique warehouses, past Annie's restaurant, heading toward the sound. He made the right onto Euclid. The street was dark. It was after ten o'clock. Munoz was waiting for him. He drove down the street toward his house.

He saw Freddy's Acura SUV parked along the street and figured he'd gone inside.

“Thataboy…”
Hauck smiled. He punched in the number to his house, then realized he should've called Freddy's cell. Still, he decided to let it ring. Munoz would see it and pick up. Hauck saw a light on in the living room through the second-floor front deck's sliding doors. He just wanted to tell him he was here.

The line rang. He was about to pull into the driveway.

Freddy came into view, standing before the glass.

Hauck waved. The detective gave him a wave in return. He had Hauck's house phone in his hand and went to slide open the doors.

Hauck heard him pick up. “
Yo, Lieutenant…,”
Munoz said, flashing his familiar smile.

Then there was a second click.

He looked up to the deck in panic, realizing what it was.

“Freddy…!”

A second later the glass doors exploded, followed by a fire-ball of orange flame. In horror, Hauck turned away from the shower of splintered glass and the gust of searing heat.

“Freddy!”

It took a moment for the heat to fade before he could even look back.

By then it was too late. Everything was quiet. Upstairs, the curtains were incinerated, the glass doors gone. He smashed his fist against the dash. Debris and burning embers settled around him like a cloud. Hauck shielded his face with his arm, smoke stinging in his eyes.

“Oh, Jesus Christ, Freddy, no…”

Hauck leaped out of the Explorer, heading for the stairs.

Then he just stopped.

Powerless, disbelieving, he stood there watching the flames. The heat baking his cheeks. Hearing only the haunting flap of the wind.

“Oh, God,
Freddy
…”

Something yellow and shiny came to rest at his feet. Hauck bent down and picked it up. A small disc, still hot from the blast. Almost melted. The image on it was barely recognizable. Hauck turned it over in his palm.

It was a yellow plastic image of the Fonz.