J.D. Trafford - Michael Collins 03 - No Time To Hide (26 page)

CHAPTER SEVENTY
SEVEN

Vatch was about thirty percent through the documents after two hours. He had to admit that he wasn’t looking particularly closely at any of them. They were all mostly SEC disclosures or some other corporate report. Once Vatch reviewed the first page, he’d quickly scan through the rest and move onto the next.

There was nothing new.

Vatch had seen most of the documents before. They appeared to be duplicates of past disclosures. Perhaps Tad Garvin had merely sensed the end of the case and wanted to squeeze out a few more billable hours by making up some work for his law firm.

Vatch clicked to the next file. A new document popped up on his computer screen, and then his cell phone rang.

He dug into his pocket, got the phone, and answered.

“Yeah.”

He had half-expected it to be Brenda Gadd, checking on him. But it was Anthony’s mom. She rarely called unless there was trouble.

“Slow down,” Vatch listened. “Is he hurt?”

She rambled. Anthony’s mom sounded drunk or high or both.

“Wait a second,” Vatch closed his eyes. He tried to be patient as Anthony’s mom talked in circles. “Listen to me, okay? Slow down. Where is he?”

She strung a coherent answer together. Vatch nodded. His chest tightened. It was the phone call that he had been expecting for months.

“Well, I can’t do anything for a few more hours. I’m still at work.”

She cried harder and screamed at him, something about losing her baby boy.

“Just wait.” Vatch turned off the phone, put it away, and tried to refocus on the documents.

He reviewed another three. They were more of the same. Then he looked at another half-dozen, and then finally he couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t concentrate.

For nearly five years Vatch had hunted Michael Collins. He had stayed with the case, even when others had told him to stop.

When Agent Pastoura had died in an alley, she didn’t have backup because of him. Vatch couldn’t get out of the car on his own to help her, and so he had to pay off that debt, make amends. Now the Collins case was over. He needed to move on. He needed to care for himself and the only other person that meant anything to him.

Vatch took out his cell phone. He pressed the “call log” button, and the phone number from Anthony’s mother was listed at the top of incoming calls. He pressed another button, and waited for her to answer.

“It’s me.” Vatch looked at the computer screen. He shook his head, clicking the document viewer closed. “Be there in fifteen minutes. Don’t answer the door unless it’s me. Don’t talk to anybody else. Don’t let Anthony call or talk to anybody. Nobody. Don’t do anything. Don’t let anybody inside without a warrant.”

Vatch ended the call. Then he logged off and shut the computer down.

###

There was confusion and too much activity in the neighborhood. Vatch stared out the window of the cab as the cab driver wound his way around police detours. There were small crowds of people — huddled and sharing gossip. 

Two NYPD cruisers blocked an intersection near his apartment. The street corner was lit up by large, temporary lamps on poles, like the kind
that photographers use on photo shoots. Vatch, however, knew what these lamps illuminated. He knew what the cops were all staring at, even though he couldn’t see it.

“Doesn’t look good.” The cab driver pointed. He pulled over in front of the apartment building.

Vatch took out a twenty, handed it to the driver, and then waited for the driver to get out of the cab and fetch his wheelchair out of the trunk.

The cab driver unfolded the wheelchair. He put the brake on, and then opened the back, passenger door. “You need any help?”

“No.” Vatch grabbed the rubber handle above the door. “I got it.”

Vatch pulled himself up and out, lowering himself into the wheelchair. He took another quick glance down the street, and then rolled inside his apartment building, unsure of what he was going to do.

Anthony wasn’t a little kid anymore.

Vatch had clung to the idea that Anthony would remain the little boy who had crawled through his window to talk and play chess. Even though Vatch had resisted the idea that Anthony would grow up, he had seen the change. Anthony was definitely not an innocent boy, but that didn’t mean he should be thrown away.

###

Vatch knocked.

“It’s me.” He shouted at the door and knocked again. There was movement on the other side, some rattling. The deadbolts and chain were unlocked and undone. Eventually the apartment door opened. Vatch rolled inside.

“Where is he?”

Anthony’s mother didn’t say anything. She looked away, and Vatch rolled past her toward the back bedroom.

Vatch didn’t hesitate at the door. He opened it, went inside, and closed the door behind himself.

Anthony sat on the bed, staring at the floor. He had his headphones on, some monstrosity of molded plastic and foam. The headphones were supposedly designed by a 1990s rap star. Vatch heard the drum beat, and he was thankful that he couldn’t understand the rhymes.

“Anthony,” Vatch rolled closer to the bed. “Anthony.”

He reached out and shook Anthony’s leg.

“You need to talk to me.”

Anthony’s movements were slow. He looked up from the floor, turning to Vatch. Anthony had been crying. His eyes were puffy. He was scared.

Anthony pressed a button on his iPhone. The music stopped. He took off his headphones.

“What did you do?” Vatch stared at him.

Anthony bit his lower lip and looked away. It was all that Vatch needed to know. He rolled over to the window and looked outside. There was the fire escape that Anthony had used to come up to Vatch’s apartment in the past.

Vatch had to make a decision. He hesitated, but not for long.

“Take off your clothes.” Vatch turned around. Anthony looked confused, and so Vatch repeated his command.  “Take off your clothes,” he said. “You want to live? You want to stay out of prison? You want a second a chance? You need to listen to me. Now take off your clothes. All of them.”

CHAPTER SEVENTY EIGHT

Vatch tossed Anthony a towel. The boy wrapped the towel around his waist.

“Listen to me, Anthon
y,” Vatch rolled toward him, holding the boy in a hard stare. He wasn’t yelling, but his voice was sharp. “You’ve got about five minutes, maybe less.”

Vatch paused. He studied Anthony.

“I’m trying to save your life. Understand?” Vatch waited for Anthony to agree, and then continued. “But now I’m going in deep with you. So you have to listen to me. We’re in this together.”

“I will,” Anthony nodded.

“Go to the bathroom and clip your nails as short as possible. There can’t be any dirt, blood, or anything else underneath. Then take a hot shower, use soap, and scrub every part of your body, especially your hands.”

Anthony looked a little confused and Vatch started to explain about gun powder residue, but stopped. There wasn’t enough time.

“When you get out of the shower,” Vatch said. “I want you to pick out an outfit that is exactly the opposite of what you were wearing tonight. If you were wearing baggy clothes, find something tight. If you were wearing a white shirt, find something black. Understand?”

Anthony, a little shocked, understood.

“You’re not lying to anybody. You’re not saying anything to anybody. Do you understand? If they want to know your name and date of birth, give it to them. Tell them the truth about that, because if you say you’re somebody else, they’ll charge you with obstructing legal process or giving a peace officer a false name or some other bullshit charge. You should cooperate with that information, but that’s it. Then you ask for a lawyer. Ask for a lawyer over and over. Do not say a word, not one word beyond your name, date of birth, and asking for a lawyer. No matter what they say or how much they threaten or how much evidence the cops say they have, do not say a word. Don’t speak. You want a lawyer. Say you want a lawyer.”

“I got it,” Anthony said, but there was hesitation and Vatch pounced on it. At this point, he had too much at stake for Anthony to mess up.

“No, Anthony,” Vatch shook his head. “You need to be confident. You have to do this.” Vatch spun his wheelchair around and saw a garbage can in the corner near Anthony’s closet. He rolled his wheelchair over to the can, dumped the small amount of paper out onto the floor, and removed the plastic liner.

“Put your clothes in this.” Vatch handed Anthony the plastic bag. “And your shoes and socks, everything.”

Anthony picked his clothes off the floor and filled the bag. Then he went to his closet, picked up a pair of red Adidas, and put the shoes in the bag, too.

Vatch followed him. He took the plastic bag from Anthony and started to
leave. Then he stopped. “What’s on your cell phone?” he asked.

“Cell phone?” Anthony was confused.

“Any texts, any emails about this?”

Anthony told Vatch that there weren’t any.

“Give me your cell phone anyway.” Vatch held out his hand. “Don’t tell them your cell phone number, don’t tell them anything. Just ask for a lawyer.”

Anthony went to his bed, disconnected the iPhone from the headphones, and gave it to Vatch.

“Okay,” Vatch took a deep breath, still thinking about where he would search and what he would do if he was running the investigation. “I think that’s it. Go get in the shower. Then when you’re done, climb up the fire escape to my apartment. You’re going to sleep on my couch tonight.” Vatch decided to clarify, just in case Anthony didn’t understand. “I’m your alibi. You were in my apartment the whole night.”

“Okay,” Anthony turned. He took a few steps and stopped. “Frank?”

“What is it?”

Anthony looked away. “There’s one more thing.” He walked back to his bed. Anthony lifted up the pillow. He picked up a 9 millimeter Smith & Wesson.
It was Ms. Finkel’s gun. “Gotta get rid of this too.”

CHAPTER SEVENTY NINE

Vatch watched a rookie patrolman in the alley below through his window. The patrolman put on a pair of gloves, and much to the delight of the older supervisor, the patrolman climbed into a dumpster. His assignment was to pick through the garbage and find evidence. It was evidence that wouldn’t be found, because Vatch had it all in his little plastic bag.

They had come for Anthony about thirty minutes after Anthony had finished his shower, changed his clothes, and climbed up the fire escape. He was
already gone, and his mother had lied. She told the police that she didn’t know where he was and that she hadn’t seen Anthony all night. She let them search the apartment, and then they had left.

Vatch turned away from the window and l
ooked at Anthony, sitting on his couch and watching his television. Vatch felt sick. He worried about Anthony, and he also worried about himself. If either Anthony or his mother said anything, he could be charged with a crime. For the first time in his life, Vatch wasn’t the chaser. He could be the person being chased.

The only positive was that the victim was a gang-b
anger. Anthony had shot him in the small, nearby park. Nobody was around.

It was questionable how much effort the New York Police Department would actually put into the case. Dead black kids didn’t generate a lot of news coverage in New York City or much demand for accountability and justice.

Vatch looked down at the plastic bag in his lap. He needed to get rid of it. He rolled over to his closet. He found an old, empty backpack. He stuffed the plastic bag inside and zipped the backpack closed. His plan was fairly simple. He would dump the clothes at one of the large metal Salvation Army donation bins on the other side of the city. The cell phone would be smashed and put in a dumpster far away, and the gun would be wiped clean, taken apart, and tossed into the Hudson River.

“Anthony, you need to sit tight,” Vatch started toward the door. “I’m going out for a little while. Don’t answer the door for anybody.”

Vatch was almost out of the apartment when his phone rang. He rolled back over to his desk. His cell phone had been charging. He disconnected the cord and picked up the phone.

Vatch looked at the caller ID. It was Brenda Gadd, and he figured that he didn’t have any choice. He had to answer.

Vatch pressed the “receive call” button.

“This is Vatch.” He listened, and then, “Yeah I looked at it all. It’s reviewed.”

Vatch took a breath and lied in response to a series of other questions.

“It actually went pretty quick,” he said. “Mostly securities documents, federal filings, stupid stuff that I thought we already had.”

Gadd complained about Tad Garvin and the last minute document dump.

“Well it’s taken care of,” Vatch said. “It’s good to go. Just send it over to Collins’ lawyer and go to bed. That case is done.”

Vatch hung up the phone, and he realized how much he didn’t care anymore. He had obsessed about Michael Collins for years. He had lost sleep. He had hunted Michael Collins as if it was the only thing that mattered in his life. And now …

Vatch looked down at the backpack in his lap. Then he looked over at Anthony, and Vatch decided that Michael Collins didn’t matter so much.