Authors: Alafair Burke
If You Were Here (18 page)
M
cKenna knew her suspicions were right the second the transit agent saw her. He recognized her. And her return trip to the video monitoring center for the subway system had him very nervous.
“Hi, Frank. Remember me? I was here last weekend looking for camera footage of that kid who fell on the tracks at Times Square.”
“Yeah, sure. Sorry about the glitch. People want low taxes. Want to keep the fares down. When crap starts breaking, they act like they’re all surprised.”
“Back up and running again?”
“Last I heard. All set to go.”
“Good. So if someone gives me a bribe on the platform down there today, you’ll catch the whole thing on film?”
“Umm . . . yeah, sure, I guess. Something I can help you with?”
“I mention the possibility of a bribe being caught on film, Frank, because that’s basically what happened to you.”
“I think you better leave, lady. I’ve got work to do, and you’re obviously under a mistaken—”
“Don’t. Just don’t, okay, Frank? That man who paid you to wipe out the footage from that day? He was an undercover reporter.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about—”
“He’s a bit of a lowlife but fancies himself an investigative journalist. An amateur Geraldo Rivera type. He doesn’t actually have the
ethics
of a legitimate reporter. See, most reporters—if they’re going to do a story about corruption among low-level city employees, people like you—they actually need to
know
about the corruption first. Not Hank the Tank.” No clue where the nickname came from, but she was rolling with it. “That’s what he calls himself. Because he’s sort of a tool. Anyway, Frank, reporters like me are pretty sick of tools like Hank running around making up stories. Not to mention that this time around, he fucked me by wiping out the subway footage I needed for my Superwoman article.”
“What kind of story is he making up?”
“Well, he didn’t really make it up, did he? But he did entrap you. You were just sitting here minding your own business until he came around making an offer no reasonable person could refuse. Like you said, people want low taxes. They want cheap fares. That leaves hardworking guys like you holding the bag, working more hours for less pay. He played you, Frank. He took advantage of you, paid you off, and now he’s going to use you as the centerpiece of a story—like
you’re
the big problem in this city.”
“But that’s— He can’t. I’ll get fired.”
“And that’s why I’m here, Frank. I’ve always suspected this hack of pulling the strings on his stories. This time I figured it out. He’s already bragging that he got a city worker—on tape!—to wipe out security footage from one of the biggest terrorist targets in the world. Well, I put two and two together, and I want to reverse the sting on him. I’ll show that he set you up. That he overcame your resistance by upping his price over and over until you relented. That’s what happened, right?”
“
If
it happened, then yeah. But, um, does my name have to be used?”
“Nope, not at all, Frank. If everything goes to plan, my story—no names—will be the end of Hank, and that will kill his story about you.”
“Okay, let’s do that, then. He entrapped me. Just like you said. He came in saying that he was married to the lady in the tape. That all she was trying to do was help a person, but after the fact, she realized reporters would make a big deal out of it and everything, and she just wasn’t interested. I told him there was nothing I could do, but like you said, he kept pestering me. I figured she was a hero and all. What was the harm in protecting her privacy?”
“Okay, and to be clear, Frank, this is the guy we’re talking about, right?”
She showed him a still photograph from the parking garage’s security camera. In her head, she had started thinking of the man as the Cleaner.
“Yeah, that’s the guy, all right. Can’t believe he played me like that.”
“And he gave you”—she took a guess—“five thousand dollars?”
“No. It was only a grand. He’s telling people
five
?”
Frank was cheaper than she would have expected. Someone needed to explain to him the value of a union job these days.
She was no closer to identifying the Cleaner, but she was now sure of two things: he was thorough, and he did not want anyone to know Susan Hauptmann was alive.
T
wenty-two minutes.
Scanlin knew, because after calling 911, he waited by himself on Scott Macklin’s porch for what seemed like an eternity before checking his phone log to see how long it had been since he’d made the call. Then he heard the sirens. Then he saw the ambulance turn the corner.
Twenty-two minutes for someone to show up to the scene of a dead cop.
Scanlin had seen a point-blank head shot before. He wished he hadn’t, but he had. He’d even seen a self-inflicted one—another cop, in fact. That image might have been what saved him when things got really bad with Melissa. He couldn’t stand the thought of someone finding him like that.
But that was how he’d found Scott Macklin. His friend had been sitting in the recliner. The bloodstains on the chair and the wall behind it made that much clear. His arms had probably fallen to his lap. The gun was in his right hand. The movement of his head backward had pulled the weight of his body forward in the chair. He eventually slid onto the floor, where Scanlin discovered him.
By the time Josefina pulled up in front of the house, the ambulance had been joined by a fire engine and two marked police cars. She recognized Scanlin standing at the curb and greeted him with a smile. She was wearing what looked like a yoga outfit. “Oh my goodness. You weren’t kidding when you said you wanted to see Scott. What’s all the commotion?”
“It’s Scott. I’m so sorry, Josefina.”
She dropped to her knees when he told her.
S
canlin stayed with her through the entire process. The moving of the body. The questions from responding officers and detectives. The call to Tommy who now wanted to be called Thomas. The clearing of the house for entry, even as Josefina realized there was no way she was going to spend the night there.
They wound up at a Denny’s, where they waited for a church friend whom she was going to stay with.
“I don’t know why he’d do this.” She used her fork to push the scrambled eggs of her Grand Slam to the edges of the plate. “I didn’t even know he still had a gun. He seemed so happy about Tommy going to college. Maybe it was because he was out of the house? Maybe the idea of just the two of us—”
“Aw, don’t start talking like that. Mac was crazy about you.” Scanlin had no way of knowing whether that was still true. Hadn’t the most bitter, unhappy couples been wild about each other at some point? But he couldn’t imagine Mac falling out of love with the woman who had brought him to life back then. Scanlin could think of only one reason Macklin would have been so desperate, and he wasn’t sure how to broach the subject with Josefina.
“I know Scott tried to protect you from the details, but I assume you know something about the shooting he was involved in before he took early retirement.”
“I was a new immigrant, Joe, but I wasn’t illiterate. Of course I knew the basic facts. That boy reached for a gun, and Scott had to shoot back. But the boy was black, and Scott was a white cop, and so—That’s how this country still sees things. Maybe it will always be that way.”
“The DA’s office took it to a grand jury. The lead prosecutor was all set to steer the grand jury to uphold the shooting as justified, but then a younger prosecutor claimed that Scott had used a drop gun. That’s what it’s called when a police officer takes an extra gun and plants it—”
“Yes, I knew all of this. It’s ancient history. They cleared Scott, but all that digging around in his past exposed other problems. People he arrested from years ago came out of the woodwork. He eventually cut a deal to leave the department and keep his retirement.”
He was tainted goods by then.
“You’re right,” Scanlin said, “it is ancient history. Or at least it was. I called you yesterday because that same prosecutor—the one who started the whole scandal—was reviving the story for the ten-year anniversary. She’s a reporter now. She wrote a big article in a magazine, trying to get attention.”
“Ay, ay, ay. The reporter lady. She was out here yesterday. I come home from getting the oil changed, and there she is in my living room.” Josefina was speaking more quickly now, her Mexican accent more noticeable. “I told Scott, ‘What are you doing talking to some reporter?’ He thinks he can be nice and charming and show her how we live a normal life, how he raised a good boy, maybe she’ll leave him alone. Oh my God, do you think that’s why he was so upset? Is the
reporter
the reason he would do this?”
He hadn’t answered the question when he saw Josefina’s attention shift to the sound of bells ringing at the Denny’s entrance. A plump middle-aged woman walked in and spotted Josefina immediately. He saw tears begin to form in both women’s eyes.
“That’s my friend. She’ll drive me to her place. I need to lie down for a while.”
“Of course.” He walked Josefina to her friend and waited while the two exchanged a hug. “Call me if there’s anything I can do to help. Anything at all.”
She nodded, but he could tell she would be more comfortable relying on people who had been a part of their lives more recently. As the friend backed her MINI out of its parking space, he watched Josefina place her face in her hands and begin to sob.
He dropped a twenty on the table and headed to his own car. He was surprised at how hard he slammed the car door. How tight his grip was on the steering wheel. How he could almost hear the blood pounding through his veins.
A good man was dead. This wasn’t right.
He found her business card crumpled in his jacket pocket. McKenna Jordan. Cell number scribbled on the back. As he listened to the rings—one, two, three—a lump formed behind his Adam’s apple. He tried to swallow but felt a gasp escape from his throat. Dammit. He was not going to cry. He would
not
allow this woman to hear him cry.
I
t was amazing how much a hot shower had done to calm McKenna down. Being here, in her own apartment, surrounded by the little reminders of her everyday life—her life with Patrick—was helping, too. Patrick was gone, presumably off to work, which meant her phone calls had reassured him that everything was okay.
The contents of the box that Adam Bayne had sent over seemed to be just as she’d left them. Granted, she hadn’t memorized the exact placement of every item, and she had taken the picture of Patrick and Susan that had gotten her so worked up. But if Patrick had really been as anxious as she thought he’d sounded the previous night—
Is there something in here that could be an issue?—
surely he would have torn through the belongings, searching for whatever it was he thought could be so damning.
In retrospect, it was the phone call that had set her imagination running wild. What had she really heard? She mentally replayed his side of the conversation.
She’s got a bunch of your old stuff scattered all over our living room floor.
He had said
your
stuff.
She had assumed the “you” was Susan, but maybe he’d called Adam when he saw the messenger labels on the box.
Is there something in here that could be an issue?
Okay, so he didn’t want her to know that he’d had a fling or whatever with Susan. McKenna was mad—pissed—that he hadn’t told her, but she could see how it would happen. They met. They liked each other. It wasn’t like “Hey, I used to sleep with your friend” was a great pickup line. A lie about a past lover was nothing compared to the scenarios she’d been playing in her head.
And then there was the last part of the call:
I have it under control. Problem solved. Just take care of yourself.
He could’ve meant “Fine, if she found out about me and Susan, we’ll work through it.” And
Just take care of yourself
could have been a jibe, as if to say “Take care of your own house and mind your own business.”
Her thoughts were interrupted by the trill of her cell phone.
She didn’t recognize the number. She hesitated. Every moment of the last two days had brought nothing but more horrible news. She didn’t think she could take any more. She was also screening incoming tips about Susan. Maybe someone had gotten her number from the magazine.
Three rings. She had to decide. “Hello?”
“You’ve got blood on your hands, Jordan.”
There was something familiar about the voice, but she couldn’t place it. “Excuse me?”
“You’re like a one-woman wrecking ball. You should come with a warning label: human destruction will follow. Do you even
stop
to think about the way your choices affect other people? Killing his job wasn’t enough, was it? It’s all just publicity to you, but you cost a good man his life. His
life
.”
She should have known that a public call for information about a decade-old death would bring out the nut jobs. “Who is this?”
“It’s Joe Scanlin. That stunt you pulled going to Macklin’s house? I hope it helped you with whatever story you’re trying to publish, because you pushed him over the edge. I just found him. He ate his gun.”
She felt a lurch in her stomach at the imagery. “Oh my God. Scott Macklin?”
“He’s dead. You pushed him over the edge. Are you happy?”
“Of course I’m not happy. He was—I
knew
him, whatever you might think of me. And I don’t know what you mean by any stunt. I didn’t go to his house. I haven’t seen him since I left the district attorney’s office.” She pictured Macklin, beaming as he described the strategy he used to teach his stepson the perfect spiral football pass. That sweet man killed himself?
“His wife told me everything. She saw you there yesterday in the living room. He just wanted to be left alone. Why’d you have to—”
“She said
I
was there? I wasn’t. I swear to God, Scanlin.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Yeah, well, I’m getting used to that these days. Did she say me specifically? Maybe it was another reporter. It’s the ten-year anniversary, after all.”
“She said she came home and saw a woman in the living room, and that it was a female reporter. Of course it was you. What other female reporters are going to bother a cop who left the job a decade ago?”
A woman. An unidentified woman asking questions about something that happened ten years ago. It didn’t make any sense, but she could think of only one person it could have been.
“Are you there? Fucking bitch hung up—”
“No, I’m here,” she said. “And it wasn’t me at Scott Macklin’s house yesterday. But if Scott Macklin is dead, I’m not sure it was suicide. I need you to meet me. Right now. I promise I’ll tell you everything.”