Nantucket Five-Spot (14 page)

He pushed her away a little, smiling now. “Oh, you like that?”

“I love that.”

“You don't even know who I'm fighting.”

“But I do. All fights are the same. All revolutions. You fight the ones who push you down, who laugh at you because they think they are better, who think they deserve to own the world because it came to them wrapped in pretty paper under the Christmas tree.”

It was so easy. She had listened to her brother talk this way for years. The American stared at her for a few seconds. She held his glance without moving or even blinking, as if the pressure of her gaze could push the conviction into him, a stake into the dirt. Finally, he decided. He wanted to believe her and so he did. She could see it.

The tension left his face, pushed aside by a new urgency. “We've gotta get out of here. Come on.”

He took her hand and started out of the kitchen. They had gotten half way to the front door when they heard the car. The engine growled to a high pitch and then cut off. In the chilling silence afterward, Tyler gripped her hand so hard she cried out.

“What the hell is he doing, coming home at this hour?”

Vika felt her mind clearing. She knew what to do, how to convince Tyler of her loyalty and get both of them out of this ridiculous situation.

“Go,” she whispered. “Out the back door. I can take care with this. Wait for me at the 'Sconset Market.” She pushed him. “Quickly! Before he comes in!”

Tyler walked back the way they came, taking light steps, and Vika dodged into the bathroom. She turned on the faucets in the sink all the way, and ladled water onto herself, drenching her hair, plastering the thin t-shirt to her breasts. The bathroom floor was wet, but she didn't have time to dry it, and there were no towels on the racks anyway. What kind of person had no towels in their bathroom?

She stepped out into the hall just as the front door opened. Vika listened for the back door, and heard nothing. Tyler could have slipped out while she soaked herself, but somehow she was certain he was still in the house, taking more crazy chances, listening to her, testing her. She thought of the gun in his waist-band. “In case anything goes wrong,” he said. Her spine shrilled with tension. She could feel the barrel of that gun pointed at her back. But perhaps it was just the water dripping down. It did not matter. She had to perform now.

She smiled as the man walked in.

“Hello?” she said.

He stared at her, with no arrogance, indeed with some regret. She knew it was quite a sight. Grigor often said her breasts were perfect and if he was truly an expert in anything—

“Who are you?” the man was saying. “Where did you come from? What are you doing in my house? How did—?”

“The door was unlocked,” she said, stepping toward him, into the slab of summer daylight the open door had dropped on the floor boards of the front hall. “I was crossing someone's lawn, just walking to the market, and the sprinklers came on! Just like that. They must be on timer, yes? But now I am soaked, and I thought…perhaps this person would have a towel, or a dry shirt, so I knock…but the door is open. I look…but you have no towels in your bathroom. This is funny, no?”

He couldn't take his eyes off her. This was good. Distraction was the secret to every magic trick.

“They—they're all…in the wash. Sorry…Listen…let me find you a towel from upstairs—and a dry shirt. Hold on—“

He scrambled up the stairs and Vika listened for Tyler. She heard no sounds, just the footfalls from the second floor. Was Tyler gone? Then she caught the snick of the back door lock engaging, the cough of the door against the jamb. She let out a breath. He was out. It was almost over. She liked the man who lived here. He was confused but kind. And he had lifted his eyes to hers when they spoke, which she knew required an honest effort.

He came down with a military green t-shirt and a big towel.

“Here you go,” he said.

“Thank you so much…let me—”

She backed into the bathroom, stripped down, patted herself with the towel, and then used it to blot the floor. It came up dirty. What would he think of her? Or would he suspect something? And what if he did? She had nothing to hide. She was going to the police now, anyway. There were letters on the shirt, but there was always writing on American t-shirts—Americans were never happy unless they were advertising someone's product. Land of the logos, that's what Grigor said. He sneered at capitalism, but he did very well at it. The system suited him. He liked his Nantucket five-spots.

Vika stepped out of the bathroom, went up on her tiptoes to kiss the man's rough cheek, thanked him, felt his startled pleasure, promised to return the shirt very soon, refused a ride, and slipped past him out the door and into the hot steady late-morning sunshine.

She felt smart and shrewd and resourceful, but she had failed to notice a couple of small details. The letters on the t-shirt were NPD: Nantucket Police Department. And if she had needed some confirmation that the man was a cop, she could have checked the blue and red flasher lights concealed behind the front grill of his unmarked Ford Explorer. If she had paid attention in those critical moments, she could have turned back and told Haden Krakauer everything. Instead she hurried up Morey Lane. She would hitchhike to the big police station, talk to someone in charge, tell them her story, convince them to help.

Someone would stop for her, people always picked up pretty girls.

She broke into trot, feeling the heat of the day press against her. She was dizzy and out breath by the time she reached the Milestone Road. She started walking backward with her thumb out. It felt like a more open, more committed way to ask for a ride, facing the driver, subjecting yourself to the physical awkwardness of not looking where you were going.

The first two cars sped past. Did she look frightened, or crazy? She felt that way. She must be wild-eyed and disheveled, scarlet cheeked. She needed to compose herself. Tyler would be growing impatient, wondering what was keeping her, perhaps already climbing into his car to investigate.

Finally she saw another car. A quick flare of hope, then it was as if the man himself had grabbed her, reached into her body, clutched her heart.

It was Tyler's car, slowing down to pick her up.

She had to run. But where? Should she scream? There was no one on the road to hear her, and they would probably take his side anyway, the charming rich American trying to calm the hysterical immigrant girl.

No, no, all she could do was keep up the act somehow, get him to drive her into town, that much closer to the police station. But it was impossible, he had seen her hitchhiking, how could she explain that? She felt tears coming, the sting of despair pricking at her eyes.

The car pulled up next to her. “Get in,” he said.

Hadn't she always heard that you should never climb into the bad man's car? But what choice did she have? He still had the gun in his waistband. She took a deep shuddering breath and wrestled herself back under control. She could do this. She was clever and strong.

She climbed in, assembling her story.

“What the hell is going on?” he shouted.

“I thought the man might have see you, you waited too long in the house watching us. I thought—he would be suspicious if he see you. Better—better we should get away, not together. Police would be look for a man and woman together. Apart we are safe. Did I do wrong?”

He seemed to relax a little, accelerating to pass three men in tight spandex on racing bikes. “Use the bike path!” he barked, but to himself. The cyclists were already gone, swept back behind the big SUV. “They're too good for the bike path. Too special. Assholes.”

“What do we do now, Tyler?”

“I don't know. If he saw me we're both fucked. We'll know soon enough. This island is crawling with cops.”

“I am very—with nerves. Nervous. Silly. I'm sure he saw nothing.”

“Yeah, probably.”

They drove along. He started speeding and then slowed down. No sirens in the distance, no police cars.

“That was quick thinking,” he said. “You can think on your feet.”

“Thank you.”

“Game any situation, play the players, fool anybody. That right?”

“I'm not sure what you—”

“Tonight we improvise!”

He sounded crazy “Tyler—”

“So you're my partner in crime now?”

“I—”

“Bonnie and Clyde, that it?”

“I, excuse me? Who are these Bonnie and Clyde?”

“I was going to give you a cell phone back there, so you could call me if there was a problem. Jesus, that was a close one! You would have dialed 911 from that basement so fast! Then up and out the bulkhead doors, am I right? You'd have been gone like a rabbit in the bushes.”

“Tyler, I don't know what you are talking now. This is not right for you to say. I only want—”

He could hear the tremor in her voice, she knew it.

He didn't answer. Instead, he yanked the steering wheel to the right. The big car skidded off the asphalt onto a narrow dirt road. Vika had to grab the plastic handle above the window to stop from being thrown into his lap. She could feel the car teeter. For a mad gleeful second she was sure it was going to tip over. But the American righted it, and they plunged into heart of the island, bouncing over the ruts, tearing past the dense shrubs that crowded the track.

She knew what he was planning and the knowledge burned off her panic. She was calm, now, staring ahead, waiting for her opportunity. She couldn't grab the gun, she would have to reach across his body and pull it free. She could lunge at him, make him lose control, cause a crash. But they would still be in the car together. And he was wearing a seatbelt. She wasn't.

She watched the American. His jaw worked, but he said nothing. Talking was finished.

Her moment came as they banged over a deep rut, swerving through a turn that kept turning, much sharper than it looked. Suddenly there was space between the car and the bank of undergrowth.

Now!

Vika punched the unlock button, yanked open her door and flung herself out into the brambles. The thorns tore at her arms and legs, cut her face. She didn't feel them. The big car skidded to a stop as she thrashed to her feet and started sprinting back toward Milestone Road and civilization. She cursed her sandals. Tyler was right. They slowed her down. They were foolish. She heard the car door slam, then his heavy footfalls. He was gaining on her. She heard his breath, then the impact pitched her forward into the dirt.

“Bitch,” he croaked. “Fucking bitch.”

He was on top of her. His hands closed around her throat, thumbs squeezing the air passages. She flailed and kicked. Her knee connected with his groin, and he reared up off her with an outraged whimper of pain. She kicked him again as she scrambled to her feet.

She had run a few steps when she felt the bullet sizzle past her ear. She heard the boom of the shot at the same second. She turned and he blundered into her. The gun went flying. She clawed at his eyes, but she was falling backward and those hands were around her throat again.

She thought, I will not die this way, I will stop him. She clawed at the big hairy hands uselessly. They were like wood, like two halves of a vise. She couldn't breathe. She thought don't let this happen to me, please don't let…

***

Vika went limp under Zeke's hands and he staggered backward. His feet ran out from under him. He landed ass first, sitting down in the dirt. The silence echoed, full of the sharp smell of spent cordite.

She was dead. Oh crap, she was dead and he had killed her. He was shaking. He twisted around and vomited into the scrub.

He couldn't think, he had to think. He had to get her out of here, get her into the car, cover her with something, get the shovel out of the rental house garage, bury her somewhere—

And then he had to run. He had to get away from this place, walk away from this crazy plan, bury it with the girl. He was through, it was over. He just needed to tell Scooter. This had gone too far.

Scooter would release him. Scooter would understand.

Chapter Twelve

Search and Seizure

I let us into my apartment and turned on the lights. I hadn't cleaned Caroline's mess before we left the house. Couch pillows littered the floor along with discarded clothing, shoes, books, a school notebook, some pens, and the iPod she didn't use any more since it only held half a million songs. I started straightening up.

“My daughter creates chaos around herself. It's her mutant power.”

“I was the same way at her age.”

“Thanks, but I doubt it.”

Franny sat down on the couch. I got a beer out of the fridge, tilted it toward her. She shook her head. “I need to keep my wits about me tonight,” she said.

I sat down next to her. “Hey, it's a national holiday.”

“Not for us.”

I set the beer aside unopened. “Okay, what is it?”

She took a breath. “Maybe just a sip.”

I twisted off the cap and passed her the bottle. She drank and passed it back to me.

“Come on,” I said. “How bad can it be?”

“Pretty bad, Hank. The e-mails on Billy Delavane's computer didn't originate there. I traced them back to another ISP. The service provider gave us all the details. There were firewalls but we got through them. Those messages were sent by Haden Krakauer.”

“Wait a second—”

“I'm sorry, but—”

“How could he do that?”

“Easy. He probably used a spoofer with Billy's digital signature.”

She talked for a while, about /files/12/16/20/f121620/public/private key pair encryption systems, extracting the hash of an e-mail password with brute force cracking. “We run every combination of computer characters that could make up the password—upper and lowercase, numbers, and special characters—and compare the generated hashes to the one for the password until we find a match. It can take a while. It depends on your computer. With the setup they have at NSA, you can crack most passwords in about twenty minutes. With a regular computer it can take weeks—especially for longer passwords. That's why places always want you to use long ones with numbers and weird combinations of special characters. But they're hard to remember. Someone like Billy, who's not that comfortable with computers anyway, probably wouldn't bother. For him Haden probably used a ‘dictionary attack'—that's running birthdates and pet names and that kind of stuff. It's a lot of work, but it's doable. Especially if you know the victim personally.”

“So Haden wrote those e-mails.”

“Well, he doctored them. Billy admitted to writing a lot of that stuff. Haden tweaked them a little. The best lie is mostly true.”

“You're sure about this?”

She looked down. “I'm sorry.”

“There's more, I can tell. Come on Franny. Get it over with.”

“Okay. I used his cable Internet port for access and searched his hard drive. He keeps a diary. He tried to protect it, and he did a pretty good job but—well…let's just say he was overmatched. I printed out a piece of the diary for you.” She pulled a folded sheet of paper from her purse and passed it over to me, with the feral pride of a cat leaving a dead mouse on my desk.

I love the bomb. More now then ever before. The sheer surprise of it, the light and the noise, the dislocation. It's the perfect metaphor. Things go bad in an instant. You are never safe. Everything is inevitable in retrospect, but you can't prepare. You expect the worst but you can't imagine it. All memory is ironic. You never knew then what you know now. You scarcely even know it now.

The bomb makes things fair. You think you're better then me? You're not. I've lost everything. What makes you think you deserve to survive the blast? No one survives the blast. It's a war and the losers will always be tried as criminals. They will always be shunned.

She said to me once, “I hate it when you're sick. I can't stand to be around a runny nose.”

She was honest in those days. I loved that about her.

Billy never got a cold.

“He's a genetic immune,” she told me once. As if that explained everything.

But no one is immune to what I have in store for him.

I folded the page, pressed my fingers along the crease to tighten it. “Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah.”

“And there's no chance…”

“The digital signature is a positive ID, Hank. Better than a fingerprint.”

The word gave me a chill. Literally. The way you feel when you have a fever and someone lets a draft into the house.

Franny put a hand on my knee. “What? What is it?”

I stood. “I have to show you something.”

Moving felt better. I walked to the peg board by the front door and took the plastic bag out of my jacket pocket. I returned to the living room and handed it to her. She took it tentatively, with a raised eyebrow—she could raise just one, like a parody of skeptical curiosity.

“I found it behind the clubhouse at the golf course. It was in the moors, along the best covert approach to the club. It's from a HALLS cough drop. Haden sucks them all the time.”

“When did you find this?”

“That night.”

She pinned me with a level stare. “And how long were you planning to hold onto it?”

“As a matter of fact, I was hoping to throw it away.”

“I'm sorry, Hank.” She stood and hugged me awkwardly, still holding the plastic bag. “This is bad. I didn't expect this. I didn't want this to happen.”

I eased away from her. “It's okay. Let's do our job.”

She smiled. “Protect and serve.”

“Yeah.”

She stepped away a little, and held up the bag. “Jack has a micro X-ray fluorescence setup at the station.”

I knew about this technique. It used computer analysis of X-ray photographs to construct fingerprints out of the salts in sweat. It could detect potassium, for instance, which was a prime indicator for explosives. It picked up prints on surfaces that normal dusting didn't, like the wax paper of a cough drop wrapper. It was an expensive array of hardware. I'd never actually seen any of it up close. The NPD was lucky to get ninhydrin.

“Let's go,” I said.

The streets were empty as we drove out to the rotary. Everyone was watching the fireworks. We could hear the finale stuttering and popping, muted by the distance. It sounded like the island was under attack—Gibson was right. The impression was particularly unnerving at this moment. I had reassured the kids that the actual bomber was safely in jail. Now I wondered.

Apart from a skeleton guard detail, the cop shop was deserted. Franny badged some drowsy night-shift statie and led me into the ad hoc computer room. We stood behind a lead barrier like dental hygienists while the X-ray scanned the little square of waxed paper. I waited while Franny booted the computer. I was looking over her shoulder when the image came up.

No prints. Nothing at all. Not even a trace or a partial.

“He must have been wearing gloves,” Franny said.

“In the summer?”

She shrugged. “There's something else, Hank. No one looked at the blocked calls to Billy Delavane's house the afternoon of the bombing. Jack figured he was lying and it didn't matter. But I traced them today. One came from Haden Krakauer's number. And the timing fits.”

“So what are you saying? He faked Debbie's voice somehow?”

“Why not? Come on, the thought must have crossed your mind, Hank. The call came from his number, Billy said it was the girl—and now we know he had no reason to lie. But Debbie knew nothing about it. She was with her mom that afternoon and we know she didn't call him. So what's left? It's like a dorm room at college—there are only so many ways to arrange the furniture.”

I nodded. “I actually did think about this, but some ideas sound too ridiculous when you say them aloud.”

“This isn't ridiculous. It's diabolical. He bugs her phone or hacks into it, and then pastes a recording together, like those ransom notes cut out of magazines. He plays it back to Billy and hangs up. Done deal.”

I blew out a breath. “Do you really believe this?”

“The judge did. I got a sneak and peek warrant just before I came to the party.”

“Judge Saunders?”

“Ted Saunders, yeah. Why?”

“How did you find him?”

“Jack has his personal cell number.”

“So you went to Jack?”

“Not yet. Not until I'm sure. I know where to find the numbers.”

Of course she did. “So you called Judge Ted out of a Yacht Club party to get what he basically believes is an unconstitutional warrant against a police officer he's known for thirty years. And he did it?”

“He looked at the evidence.”

“So that's what this was about. You want me to do a B &E on my assistant chief.”

“I'll go with you.”

“Warrants are supposed to be presented to the subject, before you set foot on private property. That's the law.”

“It was. Things are changing, Hank. I'm not saying for the better, but—they are. Cops learn burglary techniques at Police Academy now. It's standard practice.”

“And we can seize tangibles if we can prove legal necessity.”

“You know the law.”

“I know it. I don't have to like it.”

“Come on,” she said. “Let's finish this. One way or the other.”

I shrugged. It wasn't as if we had a choice. Either we went in there tonight or Tornovitch would sack the place tomorrow.

I looked at my watch, 9:15. “Haden gets off duty in forty-five minutes,” I said. “We don't have much time.”

We got to Haden's family house on Morey Lane with half an hour to spare. The place was dark behind its rough hedge, the door was unlocked. Franny gave me a contemptuous eye-roll at the clueless hicks who left their houses open. Inside, the peeling vertical bead-board walls displayed a clutter of family photographs—beach scenes and sailing races—dating back to the twenties. A threadbare Persian rug ran the length of the passageway. The place smelled faintly of that morning's bacon. A narrow staircase on the left led up to the second floor.

“I'll check upstairs,” I said.

We both had flashlights; Franny had grabbed hers out of her car before we left, along with a leather wallet that held her superfluous lock-picking tools. She nodded and moved off toward the dark kitchen. I climbed the creaky stairs. Bedrooms lined the corridor beyond the second floor landing. Two of them connected to bathrooms, and there was a half bath at the far end of the hall. Haden used the master bedroom. Across the hall was the guest room. The last two served as office and storage locker. They were cluttered and chaotic. Searching them was a daunting prospect.

I started with the master bedroom.

I felt under the mattress, pulled out all the drawers. All I found was a little silver key, the kind Caroline used to secure the lock on her diary. I set it on top of the dresser between a lamp and a dish of coins. I checked behind the drawers, in case something was taped there. I almost tipped over the lamp, shoving the big cherry wood piece back against the wall. I moved on, testing the floorboards, examining the back of his mirror and his headboard, paging through the books on the low shelf under the window. I glanced at the armchair. I didn't want to slash the cushions, or cut open the mattress. Jack's boys would do all that tomorrow, if we didn't find anything tonight; and probably even if we did. They were nothing if not thorough.

I sorted through the clothes in the closet, shone my flashlight into a pair of vodka boxes he used for storing papers: tax returns, bills and cancelled checks—nothing sinister. I began to feel a tentative sense of relief.

Then I found the leather watch case on the closet shelf, tucked behind a wooden box full of photographs and a jumble of out-dated floppy disks, a blue plastic zip drive, a tangle of cables that Haden had never gotten around to throwing away.

The box was locked. A silver hasp, a tiny key hole. I held it for a long queasy moment, hoping I was wrong, manufacturing alternate possibilities. Anything could be tucked in there—cuff links, combat medals, rings. But Haden never dressed formally. He'd never mentioned any service decorations. And I knew him, he wouldn't wear a ring, even if he won the Super Bowl. Maybe the box was empty. But it had an ominous heft.

The key was on the dresser. Delay was pointless.

The key fit and the box opened easily on tiny silver hinges. Inside was a Patek Philippe watch with roman numerals. The watch that Barnaby had described, the same watch that Billy wore. The watch that Haden had reported stolen three weeks ago.

Haden, I thought, what are you doing? Who are you? Maybe I said it out loud. I don't know.

Franny called from downstairs. “Hank! Look at this!”

So there was more. I walked downstairs. Franny had turned the lights on. She didn't care. There was no reason for stealth now. She stood by the refrigerator in the kitchen. The gray linoleum held years of dirt. There were dishes in the sink, crumbs on the checked oilcloth cover on the table. Haden presented a meticulous façade, always clean shaven, his hair trimmed short, his uniform pressed, his shoes polished. But this jumbled house was a glimpse at the real Haden Krakauer. I felt chastised by it. I presumed to know my friend, but I was surprised and a little shocked by the state of his house. What other surprises did he have in store for me?

Franny was holding the first one: a little electronic recorder. “This was inside the baking soda box in the freezer. Check it out.”

She pushed a button.“I need to see you today,” said Debby Garrison's voice. “I'll be…at the golf course, behind the clubhouse…You have to help me. I'm in trouble. My mom is such a bitch. Please come right away. Just come.”

Franny turned off the recorder. “If you don't mind a little federal law enforcement jargon, holy fucking shit,” she said.