Authors: Alafair Burke
T
hree more drinks in, McKenna and Scanlin were hammering out wild scenarios that could connect Susan’s disappearance with her reappearance and, most challenging of all, Scott Macklin’s shooting of Marcus Jones.
Her phone buzzed on the table. It was Patrick. She let it go to voice mail.
“The timing between the Jones shooting and Susan’s disappearance was close,” she pointed out.
“I remember,” he said. “That’s part of the reason I hated you.”
“I’d like to think I’d do things differently now.”
He surprised her. “Me, too.”
She was allowing herself to think aloud for the first time in two days. “The big debate was whether she left voluntarily or something bad happened to her. But if she’s still alive? And if she has some kind of tie to Scott Macklin? You were the lead investigator. What do you think?”
He shook his head.
She was looking down at her gin, feeling the fatigue of the last two days. There was nothing she wasn’t willing to say right now. “Look, we only got this far because I was willing to tell you that I basically saw a ghost. You have no idea how good it felt to talk about all of the insanity that has poured down in the last two days. And I’m not talking about therapy or purging or anything like that.” She leaned forward intently and realized what a clichéd, intoxicated gesture it was. “But you and I are the only ones who know anything about this. You know about Susan. And Scott. We have to tell each other everything. Because you know things that I don’t know. And I know things that you don’t know.” She was aware of the couple next to them, eavesdropping. She recognized that shared look—yep, she was wasted.
Scanlin was in the same zone. He needed to talk. To unleash. He was spinning the edge of his empty Scotch glass against the table. “After you called me last week, I asked for the cold-case files on the Hauptmann case.”
She put down her gin and switched to water. “You did?”
“To tell you the truth, I wasn’t my best back then. Family stuff.” He waved a hand as if she’d know what he meant. “In retrospect, there were things I missed.”
“See? This is what I meant. We need to work together.”
“I didn’t get anywhere.”
“What is it they say about opting for the simplest explanation for multiple problems? Pretty much since I left the DA’s office, I’ve lived in a world where every single day ends the same way it began. My world just happens to be falling apart at the same time Susan Hauptmann is running around on the New York City subway system wearing propaganda from a group involved in bomb-making, and when Scott Macklin just happens to decide to kill himself. There has to be a connection.”
Her thoughts moved back to her husband. Patrick knew she’d been considering writing a book about the Macklin shooting. Patrick had been closer to Susan than she had ever allowed herself to recognize. But why would Susan care about the Macklin shooting? Her head was cloudy. Too much speculation. Too much gin.
Scanlin turned his glass upside down and slapped it on the table. “I got bupkes.”
Her cell phone rang. It was Patrick again. She turned it off. She was on her way home. She was finally ready to talk things out in person.
“
And
I’m going home,” Scanlin added. “Let me kick it around in my head some more. I’ll check in with you tomorrow if you want.”
“I’d like that, Detective. Thanks. And I’m really sorry to hear about Mac.”
He started to throw cash on the table, but she insisted on paying.
She should have answered the phone when Patrick called. Or maybe it would have been enough had she checked her messages once she was alone in the bar. If she had, she would have called him back. He would have known she was okay—that she was on her way home, ready to talk to him. Ready to tell him that he needed to trust her with the truth. Ready to hear his side of the story and find a way to understand whatever role he had played in a ten-year lie.
But she didn’t answer.
So he left a message, left their apartment, and walked into the night to meet a stranger.
I
t wasn’t until she got back to their empty apartment that she checked her voice mail.
“Call me as soon as you can, if you can—if you’re okay. Dammit.” His voice cracked. “I got your message earlier and thought you were fine. But—I should have known. I should have told you. I should have—I’m so sorry. Fuck. I’m—Fuck!”
She listened to it again, and it made no more sense the second time.
She played a second message, assuming it would be from Patrick. It was Bob Vance. “McKenna, hi, it’s Bob Vance. Um, I know things aren’t good right now, but I thought you should know—Patrick just called me. I guess he’d been trying to get ahold of Dana with no luck, but he wanted to know whether you were out with the magazine crowd again like you were last night. I told him I didn’t know what he was talking about. Dana quit, and—Sorry, the magazine’s lawyers are requiring every employee to notify them about all contact with you. Anyway, I don’t know what you told him about where you’ve been the last couple days, but I thought I should let you know he called me. I hope things work out for you. Sorry, I’m rambling. And now I guess I’ll have to tell our lawyers about this stupid message. Bye.”
Patrick had caught her in a lie, too. What was happening to them?
She tried his cell. Straight to voice mail. Either he had turned it off or was somewhere without reception.
She finished a quick walk through the apartment. The Susan box still open in the living room. The blankets pulled hastily over the bed, the way Patrick did it on weekdays. Not exactly hospital corners. Not exactly unmade.
Then she saw the note on the kitchen counter.
Phone call from unidentified man claiming to have my wife. Meeting him at Grand Central.
Patrick’s signature, followed by today’s date and the time, half an hour ago.
He had left the note behind in case he never came home.
She called Scanlin. She’d never heard her own voice sound like that before. Loud. Shrieking. Hysterical. “It’s Patrick. He left. Someone said they’d kidnapped me. He’s gone—a meeting at Grand Central Station. We have to find him.”
“All right, just calm down. I’ll call it in. They’ll have someone there to look for him.”
She was already out the door.
M
cKenna let out a groan in the backseat of the cab as the light at Thirty-fourth and Park turned red once more. She could have subwayed it faster than this. “Can we go around or something?”
“Your noises don’t make the cars move any faster,” the driver said.
“You don’t understand. It’s an emergency.”
“Everyone believes everything is an emergency these days. Turn on the TV if you’d like. Some people find it makes the time pass more quickly. Or take deep breaths and count. That’s what I do.”
Great. She had the only yoga-practicing cabbie in New York City.
“Please. Go in the right lane. It’s faster. And if you take the next turn, we can go over to Third. I’ll pay you double the fare.”
“You have to let me do my job. I hear it on the radio. Big protest at Grand Central. It’s a traffic jam all the way around.”
“Fine. I’ll go on foot.” She tossed him a twenty through the window of the plastic partition.
“Wait. You can’t get out here. I need to pull to the curb.”
She stepped out into the middle of the street, weaving her way to the sidewalk through the gridlocked, horn-blasting cars. She could jog to Grand Central in five minutes.
She noticed the first protestors on Thirty-sixth Street. She could tell from their signs. One said: H
ONK IF YOU’RE IN DEBT.
The other was: S
AY
N
O TO
T
RADE
D
EALS,
Y
ES TO
U
.
S
.
J
OBS.
By the time she hit Forty-first, protestors outnumbered regular commuters, many dressed to make their point. Union workers had come in factory and trade uniforms. Others wore red, white, and blue to emphasize patriotism. McKenna spotted one couple dressed in full business attire but with makeup to create white faces, black undereye circles, and bloody mouths. Handmade signs around their necks identified them as Corporate Zombies.
By far the most common accessories were masks. Halloween masks with dollars taped over the mouth holes. Black bags over heads to simulate images from Abu Ghraib. And the most popular staple of the Occupy crowd: the pale-faced, rosy-cheeked, soul- patched masks of Guy Fawkes from
V for Vendetta
. In typical New York City fashion, an entrepreneurial street vendor was selling the masks on the corner. Apparently the irony of purchasing a mask licensed by a multinational media conglomerate to participate in a 99-percenter protest was lost on some people.
As McKenna tried pushing her way north through the crowd, she realized that just as many protestors were trying to leave Grand Central as were heading there. As she got closer to Forty-second Street, the individual comments became more specific.
Forget it, too crowded.
They’ve got it blockaded. That’s bogus. They can’t keep us from gathering in a public place.
This is getting crazy.
It’s got to be the cops, man. They’re probably beating on people again.
Holy shit. People are, like,
running
out of there.
I just heard there were gunshots. We’ve got to get out of here.
Oh my God, people got shot.
They’re saying he was in a
Vendetta
mask. You know they’ll try to pin this on us.
As the words rippled through the crowd—gunfire, gunshots—a consensus built to move south. She pushed against it, turning sideways as necessary to press between protestors. She could see Forty-second Street now. She was almost there.
A wall of police officers behind barricades greeted her at the corner.
“I’ve got to get in there,” she said to the nearest one.
“Not gonna happen.”
“My husband’s in there—”
“Well, he won’t be for long. We’re evacuating the station. You need to leave, ma’am.”
“There was a shooting?” She said it like a question, then realized there was only one way she was going to get past this barrier. “I got a call that there was a shooting. It’s my husband, Patrick Jordan. My husband’s involved. I need to get in there.
Now!
”
The officer disconnected two of the barriers, allowing her to pass. An older officer, also in uniform, wasn’t happy about the development. “Mario, what are you doing?”
“This lady says her husband’s one of the guys got shot.”
More than one person shot. More than one male.
The two officers led her through the press of people being cleared from the train station. She found herself praying. Please don’t let it be Patrick. I’ll do anything. Please not him.
The older officer seemed to be the one who knew where they should go once they were inside Grand Central, heading directly to the stream of yellow crime tape that formed a large right triangle from the west balcony staircase to the circular information booth and over to the escalators. She spotted a huddle of three people in the center of the marked-off scene. One was crouched on the ground.
She cried out when she saw the puddle of blood behind them.
The huddlers turned toward her.
“I thought we were clearing this place out.” The man wore plainclothes. Badge on belt. Shoulder holster. He had to be a detective.
“This lady says she got a call. Said her husband was one of the shooting victims.”
The detective walked toward her and stopped at the crime tape. “What’s your angle, lady? You with the protestors or something? Because we haven’t called anyone.”
“It’s my husband. He got a phone call telling him to come here.” She handed him the note Patrick had left in their apartment. “I think he’s in danger.”
The officer who originally let her through the barricades sighed. “Dammit. I’m sorry, Detectives. She told me
she
got a call. I swear to God. I should have confirmed it with you before bringing her back.”
“Get her out of here,” the detective said.
“My husband’s name is Patrick Jordan.” McKenna fumbled for her phone and showed him the screen saver—it was a picture of them together at the High Line. She was kissing his cheek. There was a rainbow over the Hudson River.
“Hold on just a second,” the detective said. He walked toward the balcony staircase. She watched as he made a call. She couldn’t hear the conversation, but she could imagine the words. Because she knew. She already knew. The way he looked at that picture. The way he stopped the officer from walking her out of the station. He must have recognized Patrick.
When he turned back toward her, something in his face had changed. Serious. No longer annoyed at her presence. Even sympathetic.
Oh my God. Not Patrick. Please, God, no
.
M
cKenna’s shoulders began to shake as the detective delivered the news. “Two men were rushed to the hospital with gunshot wounds. One was dead on arrival.”
She felt one of the uniformed police officer’s hands grab her under the arm as her knees gave out beneath her.
“Because they were rushed by ambulance,” the detective continued, “we didn’t have identification on either man. But I just phoned the hospital. One of the men had a wallet in his back pocket. According to his driver’s license, his name is Patrick Jordan.”
“No. Oh God, no.”
“He’s in critical condition. They’re operating on him now, but he’s alive. Your husband’s alive.”
The prayers started all over again. Prayers that surgery could save him. Prayers that she would see him again. Prayers that they would have a chance to fix whatever they’d gotten themselves into.
“We’ll get you to the hospital right away.”
“Thank you.”
“Of course, it would help if you could answer some questions we have. You said he got a phone call instructing him to come here? Was he part of the protest?”
“Please, Detective, I need to get to the hospital. I need to be with my husband.”
“Mrs. Jordan. While I sympathize with your situation, another man is dead. And we’re looking at some very strange facts. The deceased victim had a gun in his waistband. We have witnesses who saw him reaching for it. And here’s the thing—the reason your husband’s alive and the other man is dead? Your husband came here with four thick law books strapped around his torso with duct tape, like a makeshift bulletproof vest.”
She would have laughed at the ridiculousness of the image if this weren’t really happening. In the ongoing negotiations that determined their household TV-watching schedule, he’d tolerated her passion for a show about a burned spy. In one episode, the main character wrapped himself in books from the law library to protect himself from a knife. Patrick had known what she was going to ask before she’d even opened her mouth.
Yes, that would work.
She couldn’t imagine how desperate Patrick must have been to try something so haphazard.
“This doesn’t appear to have been a random incident. We need information.”
She knew now that Patrick had been lying to her. He’d known that Susan was still alive, and he’d known for perhaps the last ten years. She also knew from his note that Patrick had come here expecting to face danger. And he had come in a rush. No time to go to the museum for the gun he stored in a locker there. No time for real body armor, just stupid books. And he had done it not for Susan but for her.
Ten years. If Patrick had lied to her, to the police, to Susan’s father for ten years? He must have had his reasons.
“What did you say your name was, Detective?”
“My apologies, ma’am. I’m Tim Compton.”
“I hope you won’t take offense at this, Detective Compton, but there’s only one police officer I’m willing to talk to right now. His name’s Joe Scanlin. I can give you his number if you need it. Now, are you going to help me get to the hospital, or do I have to get there myself?”
S
he woke up on a chair in the corner of the waiting room outside the Intensive Care Unit at Lenox Hill Hospital. Someone had placed a man’s sports coat over her body. She recognized it as the jacket Joe Scanlin had been wearing earlier that night.
Or was it last night? Was it morning now?
The clock above the double doors into the ICU said 6:20. Light seeped through the waiting room blinds. It was morning.
She was at the nurses’ station trying to get someone’s attention when Scanlin walked in with two Styrofoam cups of coffee. He handed her one. “Hope black is all right.”
She nodded her appreciation and took a quick sip. “Where’s Patrick? Any news?” She remembered being awake in the same waiting room chair at one-thirty in the morning, when the doctor emerged from the double doors. Patrick had two gunshot wounds. One in the torso, one in the neck. The damage was severe, but the surgery had gone well.
“What does that mean?” she’d asked. “He’ll make it? When can I see him?”
Everything the surgeon had said was straight out of the bedside-manner handbook. Have to wait and see. Up to his body to determine how he responds. Not yet conscious. She wanted to punch him in the throat when he used the phrase “cautiously optimistic.”
Scanlin shook his head. “Nothing new. Sorry.”
“When did you get here?”
“Just a couple of hours ago. I’d passed out at home by the time Compton started calling. He said you wouldn’t talk to him without me? Not a way to make friends with the police investigating your husband’s case.”
“Compton told me that Patrick had taped some of my law books to his body like a makeshift protective vest. He has a gun, but it stays in a locker at work. Obviously he expected danger but didn’t have enough notice to get to the museum. And he didn’t call the police. Patrick is the bravest person I’ve ever known.” The kind of person you’d want in charge of the planet if it ever got invaded by aliens.
That
kind of brave. “He had to have his reasons for not calling the police.” She suspected the reasons were related to Susan’s decision to fake her own death.
Scanlin cut her off. “All right, I get it. But Compton wants some answers. And maybe you and I have reached some kind of truce, but I’m still a cop. I’ve got to tell him what I know.”
She nodded.
“By the way,” he said, “those law books you mentioned? Compton says they saved your husband’s life. The torso shot would have been fatal, but it was barely a puncture wound by the time it passed through all those pages. If it hadn’t been for the neck shot, he would have walked away from the entire thing with nothing more than a bandage.”
She remembered the surgeon telling her the same thing. How many times had Patrick asked her to throw out her old casebooks? Every time she’d moved, he’d said it was like lugging around six boxes of bricks.
The books may have protected his body, but they hadn’t covered his neck. A gunshot in the neck. They were talking about it like it was something he could live through, but she could tell they were hiding the truth. Was there any part of the body that was more vulnerable than the neck?
“Did you get any information from Compton?” she asked.
“He showed me a photo of the man who was DOA. Not just a bystander. He’s the same guy who wiped out your video of Susan on the subway platform.”
The Cleaner. “So who was he?”
He shook his head. “No cell phone on the body. No ID. So far his prints have come up
nada
in the databases.”
“Is he the one who shot Patrick?”
“No. Based on what Compton knows for now, Patrick and the mystery man were standing in the same vicinity, which was packed with Occupy protestors. Gunshots rang out. The shooter was in the crowd wearing a Guy Fawkes mask and cape. He got lost in the ensuing chaos. I saw some video footage. Trying to track the guy on the tape was like keeping your eye on one bee in a hive.”
Her husband’s shooting was on tape. At some point, she would see a man in a mask walk up to her husband and put a bullet in his neck.
“I know you need to brief Compton,” she said. “But he won’t be any closer than we are to understanding what’s happening. There has to be some connection between Susan’s disappearance and Scott Macklin. There’s no way around it. You worked Susan’s case ten years ago. And I was the one who basically ended Macklin’s career. You knew him, and I knew her. If anyone’s going to figure out the connection, it’s us. You said last night you had the case file on Susan’s disappearance. Where is it?”